The babies and I went Christmas shopping today. As we strolled through the mall, listening to festive music, watching children stand in line to meet Santa, I was overcome with an all too familiar, terribly Scrooge-like feeling.

Christmas (or more accurately the entire winter season) has never been my finest hour. I don’t eagerly anticipate family gatherings, never count down the days until I can break out my boxes of family heirlooms and never, ever, find myself “getting caught up in the spirit.”
 
Ever since I can remember, Christmas has been a time of angst for me. I used to despise being forced to Christmas Eve services, I hated trekking over to my aunt’s to deal with what I perceived to be my insufferable cousins and I hated, no rather, abhorred, the act of opening presents in front of other people—something which can be readily attributed, as so many things can, to a impossibly high level of social anxiety.
 
I looked forward to marrying someone that was close to his family and who enjoyed holiday get-togethers. I dreamt of the day when I would have children and their unbridled joy would get me through the season unscathed by my persistent negativity. I thought that I would become a mother/wife who would readily welcome the holiday season, using it as an outlet for my impressive hostess skills and my enviable levels of domesticity. I envisioned greeting my guests at the door, roast in the oven, bow in my hair, graciously welcoming them into my impeccable home, where we would then gather round the fire singing carols and watching our children showcase their countless talents.
 
Unfortunately, this did not happen as planned.
 
I did in fact marry a family man, and my children love Christmas, but my idyllic scene has never been realized. What the holiday season instead brings is endless stress and running around, making sure that we stop at all family gatherings as to not alienate anyone, timing our arrivals and departures just right as to avoid meltdowns of children (or parents…), and the constant, horrendous nagging of children that are the recipients of an obscene amount of gifts.
 
Now, I realize that my vision of Christmas is a grand collaboration of the schmaltziest parts of movies available, but I would love one that focused on our own tradition rather than what we’re getting, what we’re giving and where we’re going.
 
I would love to eliminate the stress that is caused by purchasing gifts for people that we can in no way afford. I would love to be able to show my appreciation and love for my family through a green construction paper hand wreath, but alas those days are long gone. I am now an adult and I must join the cultural revolution of consumerism, going out and buying tokens of appreciation, furthering myself into debt just to tell friends and family, “Here’s a sweater, can you tell I like you?”
 
Maybe while I’m out I can purchase some enjoyment for the ridiculous nature of the season, for it has faded each and every year, and it is currently reaching embarrassing, possibly detrimental, levels of Bah-humbug.
 
Until I find this magical purchase, maybe a gift will cheer me up…