The pressure to supply our kids with a “magical childhood” comes at a price we don’t talk about: completely depleted mothers.
I have a secret shame that I can no longer keep buried: I am a mom, and I … don’t like Christmas.
This is a controversial statement for a woman with two young children. I’ll no doubt be renounced by the religious right and the moderate left and moms across the country who tell themselves that all their hard work in December was totally worth seeing the joy on their kids’ faces on Christmas morning. But I am not that mom. Don’t get me wrong—the joy on their faces can melt my tiny Grinch heart—but is it worth the stress that starts piling up on Nov. 1? I can’t, in good conscience, say yes.
My complicated feelings about the Yuletide season are not due to a lack of trying. Every year, I do my best to embrace the holidays. I ask Alexa to play Christmas music by Dean Martin. I eat a lot of peppermint bark. I overcompensate my disdain for old St. Nick by covering the house in copious amounts of decorations. I quietly mumble, “I fucking hate this shit,” while taking on the impossible task of untangling lights to string along the outside of our home so our neighbors know we’re festive. I admire our beautiful Christmas tree … while suppressing thoughts about how it will be a huge pain in the ass to take down.
I go into December with Mariah Carey’s energy and come out like Emma Thompson, crying in her bedroom while listening to “Both Sides Now.”
Growing up, my husband had a mom who busted her ass to make Christmas magical for him. And so, the cycle of exhausted mothers gets passed on from generation to generation.
Growing up, my Iranian immigrant family didn’t celebrate Christmas with the zeal of so many of my American friends. My parents bought the tree and got us presents because they didn’t want us to feel left out. On top of that, we weren’t raised in a religious household. So as an adult, I vacillate between atheist and agnostic.
Maybe if I was actually celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ on Dec. 25, the holiday would take on greater meaning. Or maybe I would be even more tired because I’d be required to get my kids dressed in their Sunday best and sit through mass. We’ll never know.
What I do know is that I spend much of Christmas texting other mom friends, who are also suffering from extreme fatigue.
Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more emotionally wrung than I did last year on Christmas—which says a lot because when I was 14, my grandma died on Christmas morning, and our house caught on fire the same night.
Thirty moms sent us cards this year. I look at their lovely families and wonder: Did anyone’s husband take on this monumental task?
Lately, it seems like the pressure to supply our kids with a “magical childhood” comes at a price we don’t talk about: completely depleted mothers. Women are already doing too much year-round. December takes our mental and unpaid labor to excruciatingly new heights.
Don’t believe me? Here are a few more items off my holiday to-do list:
- hot glue-gunning broken ornaments
- buying the appropriate outfits for my kids’ respective winter performances
- attending those winter performances (My favorite reason for the season—I’m not a monster.)
- organizing a class holiday party
- coordinating holiday travel
- buying Secret Santa gifts
- booking tickets for that Christmas light show we go to every year
- texting/emailing my family and my in-laws with links to gifts for my kids
- coming up with more ideas so that my husband and I have something left to buy our kids
- getting presents for our nieces and nephews
- purchasing gifts for four teachers and our crossing guard (No complaints there—they deserve to be showered with infinite gratitude. Again, I’m not a monster.)
- buying stocking stuffers for my kids and our dog
- wrapping gifts
- shipping gifts
- realizing that my youngest has more gifts than my oldest, and braving Target on Christmas Eve to avoid what could have been a major fissure in their sibling relationship
- wrapping more presents and quietly dying on the inside knowing I have to give most of the credit to an old white man (Santa)
Not to mention the guilt that comes with consumerism: Am I speeding up climate change? Am I raising materialistic children? Am I just giving Jeff Bezos more money?
…. All while balancing a busy writing career.
If you noticed that I left out holiday cards, I’ve opted out of that one. A family photo, a Minted template, ordering cards, gathering addresses, stamping envelopes—who has the time? Apparently, the 30 moms that sent us cards this year. I look at their lovely families and wonder: Did anyone’s husband take on this monumental task?
I don’t know why holiday labor isn’t equally divided among men and women. I know I have a wonderful and caring spouse who wants nothing more than to make my life easier but doesn’t take on half of the work—because he doesn’t intuitively know what needs to be done. And I’m too overwhelmed to delegate because the act of delegating also takes time and energy. For most men (I feel it’s safe to generalize here), the holiday requires battling with a Douglas Fir and a box of Christmas lights.
Think about it: When we were kids, how many times did we thank both parents for our Christmas presents, when we knew full well our mom picked out and wrapped everything under the tree?
My frustration with Christmas is a source of contention in my marriage because it’s my husband’s favorite holiday. You see, growing up, he had a mom who busted her ass to make Christmas magical for him. And so, the cycle of exhausted mothers gets passed on from generation to generation.
I realize that my kids will get older soon, and I will miss their ardent belief in Santa and their inability to sleep past 6 a.m. when presents are being opened. And I will wish I savored and enjoyed this era of my life more. I will hate that I complained even for a second. These thoughts stir up the mom guilt, big time. But I’m also not ashamed to admit that I don’t feel the merriment all month. It’s not healthy for us to suppress our inner Scrooge.
So, if the Ghost of Christmas Past feels the need to drop by on Christmas Eve to teach me a lesson? I will tell him I only want to go to one place: the Kardashians Holiday Party—where all the work has been done by paid professionals. The joy on my face would make everything worth it.
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