I am missing Christmas.
The ones where they believed. The ones where they wrote letters to Santa and put out carrots for reindeer and wanted nothing but oodles of lego and craft kits and an American Girl doll.
I would actually buy an American Girl doll right now, expensive as it is, if it would wipe my daughters very tween wish list away.
This is our year of adjustment. The year when they do not believe in Santa but still put stockings out regardless. The year when they ask for cool clothes and cosmetics and music. The year when my son wants a cosplay onesie–so he and his girlfriend can be twins.
I’m having a hard time holding on to tree lighting traditions and sitting on Santa’s lap, and all the other benign merriment of Americana Christmas. They of the eye-rolling stage do not want to participate in much.
Have I lost something?
I count what I have left. They still like my baking. Still like my dinners. Hooray for small things.
They sweetly ask what I want for Christmas. I tell them I want them to clean their rooms and declutter the house. No Really, Mom. What do you want for Christmas?
I try to think of something that would work for me. A bottle of scotch? A ticket to Hamilton? A potential administration not trying to actively bring about environmental apocalypse? My book finished?
Shit. I’m as impossible as they are.