When your own mother says Bah Humbug
My mother has basically outlawed presents this Christmas. Not for the children, I should quickly add. She’s not that off her rocker. But for grownups. No giving no getting allowed. “I hate” she announced the day after Thanksgiving “I hate giving presents. I hate getting presents. No presents.” Well, boo to that.
Thing is, my mother hates holidays. As children we would plead to be allowed to put the artificial tree up before Christmas eve. Please please please, let us bake some cookies, we would beg. No way no how. Christmas began on the 24th. Maybe the 23rd if we were seriously annoying. And then down again before we went back to school. Christmas was doled out in little handfuls, reluctantly. Despite her Scroogeyness, my mother is fundamentally a lovely woman. A kind, giving, basically cheerful woman. She just doesn’t like holidays. Lots of people don’t. It’s just a thang.
But when this thang includes outlawing presents, it is going too far. I’m not too bent out of shape, though, since it has had a rather interesting effect on me. You see, I’ve tried, over the years, to be respectful of my parents’ preference for low-key holidays, even though I’d have liked to be more sparkly about the season. I’ve not inflicted egg nog on anyone. Not forced them to listen to Bing Crosby. Not insisted on wearing a Santa hat and saying Ho ho hello as soon as Thanksgiving is over. No longer. The fact that my mother has clearly gone up the pole without a paddle means that I’m pretty much free to do what I want since there’s no point in being reasonable any more.
So the Christmas music is out, the lights are going up and I’ve made Delia’s homemade mincemeat (as well as the Christmas cake which is hiding from the mice in the safety of the microwave). I’ve already drunk (with some help, honestly) a whole bottle of Stone’s ginger wine (yum yum) and am off to buy more. I am mulling, nogging, baking and wreathing as much as I like. We will make ornaments with pipe cleaners and pom poms, sing The 12 Days of Christmas and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas as often as we like. No rationing of Christmas in the Stuntfamily, no sirree bobby magee.
Gingerbread baking will commence shortly and if you stop by, you may just have to eat some.
I wish my family would outlaw presents. Not that I don’t like receiving them…I just don’t like to buy them. Everything else is okay though–the tree, the Bing Crosby, the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack. But the presents ruin just about everything.
Oof. I mean, granted, it’s a personal thing when one does not like the consumerism of Hallmark days, but still.
I mean, gosh.
For a moment, I thought those were Nazi santas hailing Hitler. Shew. I was looking for Mel Gibson.