The time for Santa and barns perched quietly under a silent night is upon us and this is the last week of it.
It seems that not only does Christmas come faster and faster each year, but each year I lose more and more interest. So much so that when Baby A. shakes her little collection of jingle bells that Sarabeth stitched together for her, I constantly inquire over the ringing, “You know, we really ought to get you some bells that actually work.”
(Eh? Anyone? Anyone? If you don’t get it, send this post to Tom Hanks – he’ll appreciate the reference. And if he doesn’t, try sending it to Tom Hanks…)
I was driving home from work one night recently and didn’t even notice the bright array of Christmas lights fashioned on our colonial-style houses lining our street until I reached the end of the road and I thought a policeman was pulling me over.
I’m not any nicer to people in December than I am in May. I can hardly stand to bare one more verse of “Joy to the World” and I kinda want to punch the snowman that looks like a circus clown and use his remains to fill my dog’s water bowl.
But I was thinking. Maybe it’s not so bad not getting into the holiday spirit and Fa-la-la-la-laing around the Christmas tree. I’ve got air in my lungs; a beautiful, funny, nearly-perfect wife (who is the true Top Chef); two trouble-making, sunbeam-obsessed dogs; an adorable, messy, loud, and hilarious baby girl; a job that pays the bills; a healthy and diverse library overflowing with priceless books…
So Christmas. Yeah, it’s nice to get presents and sing “Holy Night” at church with a dimly-lit candlestick dripping hot wax on your hand and all that.
But honestly, maybe life’s good enough as is, and Christmas is just an added sidebar.