What I won’t be doing this Christmas
There are lots of Christmas post going around the blogosphere these days. Christmas gift lists. Warm musings about favourite holiday traditions. Pinterest-worth Christmas crafts.
This is not that kind of post.
This is a post about what I’m not planning to do this Christmas.
I’m not a grinch or anything. I actually like Christmas in all its cinnamon-scented, snow-covered glory, especially now that I have a child. That being said, there are certain Christmassy obligations that I will be ignoring this year.
I will not:
Take my daughter to see Santa.
- Is not a big fan of strangers (much like her parents)
- Is too young to really get the concept of an old man coming down the chimney to bring her presents, especially since our chimney is blocked off by a remote-controlled electric fireplace
- Can’t actually tell Santa what she wants because her vocabulary is pretty much limited to animal sounds and ‘choo-choo’
So what, exactly, would be the point of taking her to see Father Christmas? I don’t need a picture of my daughter crying on a pensioner’s lap, thanks.
Do Christmas crackers.
Sorry, British people. I’ve embraced a lot of things about your culture, but I draw the line at Christmas crackers. I’m not sure what’s the worst thing about them – the horrible jokes, the tiny bits of crap plastic masquerading as gifts, or the paper crowns that everyone feels obligated to wear because they’re ‘festive’. Look at us, we’re wearing rings of coloured tissue paper around our heads! This is fun, right? We’re having fun! Socially-forced fun!
Buy my daughter lots of presents.
Sure, the Popple will get a few gifts. But she’s only 1 ½ years old, people. Her favourite playthings include a cardboard tube, a balloon and a box that she likes to fill with the cat’s toy mice. I’m not spending hundreds of pounds on more plastic garbage that will clutter up my living room.
Bake Christmas cookies with my child.
There would be flour everywhere. Icing in the Popple’s hair. Sprinkles stuck to the bottoms of my socks. She’d rub her toddler-spit hands into everything, making the cookies completely unappetising to everyone but her.
Plus this girl doesn’t need an excuse to eat cookies – she gets enough sweet stuff at nursery. Every time I pick her up, they say, “She ate all of her cake today!” like I should be proud of that or some s**t. OF COURSE SHE DID – IT’S BLOODY CAKE! STOP GIVING HER SO MUCH F***ING CAKE!
Make any plans for the day.
Adrian and I won’t be hosting a party on Christmas. Or attending a party. Or making an elaborate Christmas dinner. Or, potentially, even getting out of our pajamas. We’ll let the Popple dictate how the day plays out. Want to spend the whole day playing with the boxes your presents came in while ignoring the contents? Cool. Want to chase the cat around while he eats the ribbons that he’ll inevitably throw up on our bed later? Sounds good. Want to have nothing but mashed potatoes for dinner? Of course you do. Mashed potatoes are delicious.
It’s your Christmas, Popple. If it’s anything like last Christmas, it will take an entire day for us to open presents because you’ll keep getting distracted, and your father and I will pass out at 8:30pm after consuming a quarter of a pecan pie.
It will be perfect.