CREEK ROAD GANG
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Ho Ho Whoa!
Mary Porth
copyright 2009
The best of winter holiday seasons can take a lot out of a person. As a young wife and mother, I was nearly done in by Christmas of 1988. My husband and I had just celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. The previous summer he had successfully defended his doctoral dissertation and I had decided to temporarily leave my banking position to be an at-home mom to our two small children. With the demands of full-time employment no longer an issue, I had visions of creating a traditional folksy holiday season for my young family.
We baked and crafted and decorated and wrapped. We sent out Christmas cards with photos of our children adorably dressed as the Holy Family. (Go ahead, laugh.) Social engagements dotted our calendar throughout the month of December. We went Christmas caroling to our shut-in neighbors and brought home-made treats to the ones who lived on either side of our house. We strung popcorn and cranberries for our tree and remembered to leave acorns with peanut butter and seeds outside for the animals. We put together booklets of holiday songs and prepared to entertain at family gatherings. But with an hour to go before we left for the annual Christmas Eve party at my sister-in-law’s house, I found myself completely depleted of energy.
It hit me in the shower when I found I could barely lift my arms to shampoo my hair. I stumbled out of the bathroom clad in a puffy orange terrycloth robe, my hair wrapped turban style in a towel, and collapsed into the nearest chair. My husband leaned over me, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“What’s the matter, Mary? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I’m just so… so… ” my voice grew thin and high pitched, “exhausted!” Sobs began to shake my body and tears poured down my face. “I guess I just didn’t pace myself. Oh my gosh, how could I have done that? It’s Christmas Eve and I can’t move!”
My husband straightened up with a relieved smile on his face and reached for a nearby afghan. He put it over me, tucking it in tightly around my shoulders and said in a reassuring voice, “You’re going to be fine. You just need to rest.”
“I know,” I sniffled, “but there’s no time!”
“Sure there is. You take a little nap. I’ll get the kids dressed and load up the car, then we’ll come get you. Everything will be fine.”
And, somehow, it was.
More than two decades have passed and I’m older and wiser. Now I don’t collapse until at least noon on Christmas day. There is no more panic, no self-recriminations. I just wave a sleepy good-bye to my family and go to bed. I know the kids will amuse themselves and each other with their new gifts. They’re not surprised when I take my leave. They’ve come to expect it. They know I consider their cooperation with my Christmas nap the best gift I receive every year.
Many constants remain with our holiday traditions, but we try to be less rigid and go with the flow. We have simplified gift giving and streamlined our holiday social schedule. We bake if there’s time and decorate on a modest scale. Our older kids tease us about our minimalist approach to outdoor lights, but I don’t see them jumping in to help or anything. We still provide the music at family gatherings and at the 7:30 A.M. Mass at our parish church which we attend before opening any gifts. Our oldest son then directs the cooking of a big old Irish-American fry-up for breakfast. (“No more turkey scrapple, Mom! It’s only once a year. Get the real thing!”)
And when breakfast is over I get to catch up on my rest. I’m not talking about those bogus five or ten minute power naps either. I’m talking a full sleep cycle (about ninety minutes), sometimes two sleep cycles. Shocking, isn’t it? Occasionally, I sense my husband has joined me, but he doesn’t really sleep. He just gets horizontal for a little bit and then plunges back into the day’s excitement. Sunny Christmases are the best. There’s nothing like the guilty pleasure of napping in broad daylight, knowing you have temporarily ceded your supervisory role to some other qualified person. Anyway, there’s plenty of holiday left in the day when I rejoin the family.
Don’t get me wrong. My preference would be to stay awake and actively involved throughout the day. But I’ve yet to figure out a way to fit the extra demands of the holiday season into the same twenty-four hour days that stay full all year long. Of course, my children are growing up. The oldest ones are fairly independent and the youngest, at eight, becomes more and more self-sufficient all the time. Perhaps the day is coming when I don’t have to push myself to the limit to make “Christmas” happen for my family. When that day comes I can give up the nap.
Or not.
We baked and crafted and decorated and wrapped. We sent out Christmas cards with photos of our children adorably dressed as the Holy Family. (Go ahead, laugh.) Social engagements dotted our calendar throughout the month of December. We went Christmas caroling to our shut-in neighbors and brought home-made treats to the ones who lived on either side of our house. We strung popcorn and cranberries for our tree and remembered to leave acorns with peanut butter and seeds outside for the animals. We put together booklets of holiday songs and prepared to entertain at family gatherings. But with an hour to go before we left for the annual Christmas Eve party at my sister-in-law’s house, I found myself completely depleted of energy.
It hit me in the shower when I found I could barely lift my arms to shampoo my hair. I stumbled out of the bathroom clad in a puffy orange terrycloth robe, my hair wrapped turban style in a towel, and collapsed into the nearest chair. My husband leaned over me, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“What’s the matter, Mary? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I’m just so… so… ” my voice grew thin and high pitched, “exhausted!” Sobs began to shake my body and tears poured down my face. “I guess I just didn’t pace myself. Oh my gosh, how could I have done that? It’s Christmas Eve and I can’t move!”
My husband straightened up with a relieved smile on his face and reached for a nearby afghan. He put it over me, tucking it in tightly around my shoulders and said in a reassuring voice, “You’re going to be fine. You just need to rest.”
“I know,” I sniffled, “but there’s no time!”
“Sure there is. You take a little nap. I’ll get the kids dressed and load up the car, then we’ll come get you. Everything will be fine.”
And, somehow, it was.
More than two decades have passed and I’m older and wiser. Now I don’t collapse until at least noon on Christmas day. There is no more panic, no self-recriminations. I just wave a sleepy good-bye to my family and go to bed. I know the kids will amuse themselves and each other with their new gifts. They’re not surprised when I take my leave. They’ve come to expect it. They know I consider their cooperation with my Christmas nap the best gift I receive every year.
Many constants remain with our holiday traditions, but we try to be less rigid and go with the flow. We have simplified gift giving and streamlined our holiday social schedule. We bake if there’s time and decorate on a modest scale. Our older kids tease us about our minimalist approach to outdoor lights, but I don’t see them jumping in to help or anything. We still provide the music at family gatherings and at the 7:30 A.M. Mass at our parish church which we attend before opening any gifts. Our oldest son then directs the cooking of a big old Irish-American fry-up for breakfast. (“No more turkey scrapple, Mom! It’s only once a year. Get the real thing!”)
And when breakfast is over I get to catch up on my rest. I’m not talking about those bogus five or ten minute power naps either. I’m talking a full sleep cycle (about ninety minutes), sometimes two sleep cycles. Shocking, isn’t it? Occasionally, I sense my husband has joined me, but he doesn’t really sleep. He just gets horizontal for a little bit and then plunges back into the day’s excitement. Sunny Christmases are the best. There’s nothing like the guilty pleasure of napping in broad daylight, knowing you have temporarily ceded your supervisory role to some other qualified person. Anyway, there’s plenty of holiday left in the day when I rejoin the family.
Don’t get me wrong. My preference would be to stay awake and actively involved throughout the day. But I’ve yet to figure out a way to fit the extra demands of the holiday season into the same twenty-four hour days that stay full all year long. Of course, my children are growing up. The oldest ones are fairly independent and the youngest, at eight, becomes more and more self-sufficient all the time. Perhaps the day is coming when I don’t have to push myself to the limit to make “Christmas” happen for my family. When that day comes I can give up the nap.
Or not.
* * *
Biographical Note: Mary Porth is a writer who resides in suburban Philadelphia with her husband and five children. She claims as her personal mantra the words of poet Nan Merrill who says, “Keep your heart open and free, make time to dwell in silence, become a peaceful presence in the world.” Although she reached the half century mark in the summer of 2009, she’s still unsure what to be when she grows up. Some of Mary's poetry appeared in our September issue, and her story "Wednesdays at the Clinic" was featured in the October issue.
