Proof that we’re only ok parents

First let’s begin with the extreme obvious:

I love the holidays. I listen unapologetically to Christmas music, I like the lights and all the sparkly stuff, I love all of the smells and the 10 bajillion calories and getting to dress up and the sounds of bells ringing and the process of thinking about gifts for people and wrapping them and the fact that checking the mail is actually exciting for one month and the pervasive sense of unity that abides. I do, I love it.

Having a child has made me think more about the magic of this time of year, of creating traditions and knowing that there’s comfort in the love that goes into this attentiveness. I am already cooking up plans for celebrating the solstice with a dark house and candles to drive the darkness away, we will read the story of Joseph and Mary’s trek, we will bake cinnamon buns from scratch and throw reindeer food on the roof, we will write letters to Santa that will begin with all that we’re thankful for and conclude with all that we wish for–not just gifts. I’m telling you, my brain has been going at hyper speed thinking of all of this.

And yet.

 

We did this:

And I’m thinking that maybe I need to give some of my plans a wee more thought.

I’m pretty sure that “New Parents” might be at the top of Asher’s Christmas list this year. For obvious reasons we’ve refrained from telling Asher that this man will be coming down our chimney in the dead of night to touch our things and eat our cookies. We’ll cross that bridge in a couple of weeks.

This whole Christmas thing is looking a little funny from this side of the coin.

falalalalalalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa