Always Winter

Peel the carrots and potatoes. Chop the onion. Wipe the nose of the kid with the cold. Wipe the butt of the girl yelling my name on repeat from her potty throne. Wash hands without drying. Back to dinner. Scrub the pot. Warm the broth. Remove the bones. Add the veggies. Wipe two more noses and catch a baby from slipping out of her high chair with the missing seat belt. And on it goes. 

The last few nights have kept that rhythm alive. Nose wipes. Cold toes. A hot forehead. Melatonin magic pills for everyone. 

You know this “most wonderful time of the year” isn’t living up to the hype when you watch White Christmas with your family and choose the corner seat and push babies off your lap for a touch break and tears drip mascara rivers down your face while scenes that normally make you swell with cozy now remind you of your childhood that is dead and buried. 

I made sugar cookies with the primary goal of being patient and kind to my “helpers”. I reminded myself it didn’t matter if they wasted dough space or rerolled dough or rolled the dough unevenly. Our food coloring was funky. Blood red and powder blue and the like. Our cookie platter looked like an army of gingerbread-shaped murder victims. I succeeded in not shaming my kids for their cookie-cutter placement or bad frosting skills. But did I enjoy making cut-outs with babies? No, I did not. 

This happens every Christmas. I am angry the mood isn’t right. I look for magic in things like movies and songs and parties with gooey appetizers. Micah often says this line theatrically in our fights to poke fun at what I’m getting at by pointing fingers, “Everything was going fine until you went and ruined it”. Many of the fits I throw when our memories feel forgettable climax with this pathetic sentiment. It’s easy to blame and live in a world of make believe where all would have been cheery and bright if my husband had surprised me with a peppermint latte and my kids would have expressed gratitude after my every act of service. The if only’s feel legitimate, logical. If only everyone else would get on board. 

The truth is, I have presents galore under my tree that I refuse to thank God for. I have pillows for my kids’ feverish heads, fruit bowls of pyramid height on the counter, and enough time to sip a cup of tea with my feet up. The constant folding of clothes and sweeping of crumbs are proof that I’m loaded. Rich with kids who have never lacked a hoody on cold days or gone without a snack for more than an hour (it seems). 

Maybe what I need more than a scolding or attitude change is a word from Aslan. An understanding, “Wait daughter, it’s coming,” as I watch the lights flicker in a world that’s “always winter, but never Christmas”. 

In faith, I’ll stop throwing bombs on my holidays by coddling self-pity and looking for dust to fill my belly. I imagine the barn Jesus was welcomed into was one of the least Christmassy feeling places ever. If Christmas can begin in a place of dirt, animals, and blood, there must be hope for celebrating the Incarnate in my mess of a heart.