How was your Christmas?
It was amazing. It was wonderful. We are so blessed, beyond what we deserved. My heart is full. Or at least, that’s what I am supposed to say. And I take my role seriously, so of course, that's what I say.
But how was Christmas, really?
It was exhausting.
Since the turkey from Thanksgiving cooled, I’ve been in my excel spreadsheets making lists. Making budgets. Checking them all twice. And twice more.
I’ve been browsing, ordering and sending back. I’ve been answering the never-ending requests of, “Do you have any ideas for...”
I’ve been cussing at missed deadlines for the custom things and praying for delivery of the late-things.
I’ve been cooking. And baking. And shopping. And searching. And wrapping.
No really, tell us how Christmas was.
It was a little disappointing. The reactions to those “perfect” gifts I found was nonchalant.
The dip I found on Pinterest that promised to make this the #BestChristmasEver was just OK.
The Christmas trip I planned for weeks that was sure to make this the most unforgettable Christmas ever? At times it felt more like a visit to an overcrowded nuthouse run by small children.
And then, on December 25, it was all over by 8:00 a.m. and left me in desperate need of a nap.
As a mom, I wanted everyone’s Christmas to be perfect. I wanted everyone to get just what they had hoped for. I wanted the meals to be amazing, the games to be fun, the company to be perfect.
Because, growing up, that’s how Christmas always felt to me – it felt perfect.
So the day after, when my oldest woke up and said, “Yesterday was the best Christmas ever,” I was confused.
When I quizzed him about it, he replayed Christmas from his eyes. “Mommy, remember the water slide I went down with Daddy and I wasn’t even scared? And then remember at church I got to sit with baby Beau? And when our friends were here and Papa won that game and it was so funny? And we both got new boots which was exactly what we told Santa we needed! And we played games all day and even Daddy got to stay home with us?”
My youngest, also wanting in on the recap added, “And it was Jesus’ birthday. And we had fun for Jesus’ birthday. And we watched that movie when Aunt Bethany says the pledge instead of praying!”
Their little voices carried on over breakfast, remembering all the fun they had over the last few days. In their eyes, maybe it was perfect.
Even though, we didn’t get the family picture. Even if they opened gifts in their underwear instead of Christmas pajamas. In spite of the fact the jeans I picked out myself, as a gift from my family, still somehow didn't fit.
I know in my heart, that Christmas is perfect with or without my help. Because Christmas is the celebration of Jesus coming here, to save me. And you, when none of us will ever be good enough to deserve saving.
Even knowing that truth, part of me, the mom part, still wants the experience of Christmas to be unforgettable. To be perfect. Like it was when I was a kid.
But maybe now, looking back, I can see that behind those perfect Christmases, there just might have been an exhausted Mom, in desperate need of a nap.
Kate Lambert grew up in northern Illinois, not on a farm but active in FFA and showing livestock.
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