Tis the season to be angry.
The list of people to buy presents is long, kids are filled with sugarplum fairy fantasies of what the holiday should mean for them, and expectations for perfect relationships — beautiful laughing families around a phenomenal 10-foot tall tree — run high.
Every year I say I’m going to set up that Peanuts-style Lucy booth on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Ninth Street to offer injections of something relaxing for perfectionist Park Slopers (like me) who drive themselves mad making the holidays fit the image fed to them by Bon Appétit or the New York Times Styles section.
This year, like others, I am intent on enjoying the journey and not getting mired in doing so much that I make Hanukkah and Christmas days of dread instead of the celebrations they are supposed to be.
I sigh inwardly even as I write it. Is it possible, do you think, to put all outer-limit expectations aside, and just have fun? When the world is rushing around buying up stuff to wrap and put under a tree grown and cut solely for the purpose of shading presents, is it possible to steer clear of the hype? Can’t I just remember that this wasn’t supposed to be a supermarket-sweep style set of days, but rather a period meant to savor family and friends, to be grateful for the year behind and set some goals for the year ahead?
All I can do is try.
First things first is to clear the vision of perfection.
I can remember a number of years standing with my boys in front of lit menorahs when an overwhelming surge of panic coursed through me that we were somehow doing it wrong. Maybe we should have dressed up, or maybe they should know those prayers by heart that we have to find every year on that food-stained printout. Maybe I should have bought them better, more educational presents instead of plastic crap from the Toys ’R’ Us. Maybe my extended family should all be together, with us, instead of scattered singly across the country. The panic, of course, often morphs into anger, which gets translated in communication into yelling. So, there I am, yummy latkes on the stove, delicious chicken in the oven, cookies in the shape of Stars of David and dreidels drenched in sugar on the counter, standing with my adorable children, and I’ve turned into some kind of bitter shrew.
Not this year. Nope. No. I’m putting my foot down. I’m not doing so much that I’m bitter. I’m going to get a few things, give them with love, and breathe deeply. I’m going to throw a party and really enjoy the food and the people. I’m going to hug my children to me in front of the menorahs (and, a few days later, in front of my in-laws’ Christmas tree) and remember that they are growing up way too fast and that I will soon look back on these days with longing.
Whatever it takes — writing, meditating, playing the piano, hitting the boxing bag at the Y with force — I need to relax this season and offer my kids the holiday version of their mother that I want to be: a calm, smiling, hopeful person, happy to be in their company, happy to give and receive small tokens of appreciation, happy to have all that I have (not the least of which is them), their soft still-innocent faces stretching upward (only slightly now, but still) for a kiss from their mom.
Little else really matters.
