Surviving the seven stages of Christmas
There are seven stages of Christmas.
The first is wonder. In South Ozone Park where I grew up, the neighbors came by to help us screw in branches to our tree, and we in turn screwed in the branches of theirs. Ornaments migrated from one home to another, and toasts were made. All us children went to bed, and the next morning, under the tinsel and next to the papier-mache villages were Flintstones play sets, GI Joes (even Santa refused me a Barbie) and View-Masters.
The second stage is doubt. Sixth grade. Brother X had gone off to Marist College; XX had joined the Navy. I wondered whether our family Christmas would ever be like the Waltons’, or even the Bradys’. Turned out it was like the Bunkers’.
This led to the third stage: cynicism. This is the point when you rewrite the lyrics to carols. “Walking in a winter wonderland” becomes “Walking round in women’s underwear.” And “It’s the Most Wonderful Time to Drink Beer.”
My stage three coincided with the first Christmas I didn’t spend at home, in graduate school at the University of Michigan. I worked as a security guard in downtown Ann Arbor. Around midnight on Christmas Eve, I checked the roof and saw that the Chemistry and Economics Building was on fire (never mix ethyl alcohol and monetary theory). But it matched my mood. Three days later, I did, however, drive to Chicago to celebrate the last night of Hanukkah with Danny, the guy I was semi-dating at the time.
The light of those eight candles showed this Catholic boy that cynicism doesn’t really work when all these holidays are about hope. For 12,000 years, we’ve celebrated the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, not because the darkness is so long, but because the light is returning.
The fourth stage is Flaming Rum Punch. Brian and I proposed to each other the first Christmas after we met, logs burning in the fireplace, antique saucer Champagne glasses in hand, gifts within gifts. It must have taken, because it’s lasted for at least 36 years, and in those first Noels without children, we had the time to concoct clever cocktails and needlepoint ornaments and serve the fatted goose.
This led to the fifth stage: Zuzu’s Petals. Christmas is not about adults but children. On Christmas Eves, we read “The Grinch” to our adopted sons Zane and Aidan, tucked them in, then wrapped gifts until 3 a.m. to help out the jolly old elf, who apparently made his last stop the Outer, Outer, Outer, Outer Excelsior.
The sixth stage: Bah, humbug! Our family has had its fair share of disasters, but the zenith of our nadir was the year I asked my husband Brian to take the boys out on Christmas Eve so that I could help Santa wrap the gifts. Zane had a meltdown in Target, which led to Aidan having a meltdown, which led to Brian having a meltdown. He came home and said, “Why bother? Take the tree down.”
We were supposed to be the family that carried the Christ Child to the creche at Most Holy Redeemer that year. That didn’t happen. Neither did dinner at the Sausage Factory in the Castro. Around 9 o’clock, I walked the boys down to Cordova Market and let them pick out Flamin’ Hot Doritos for their holiday dinner. During this, our Hard Cheetos Christmas, I discovered that my sons cannot discern the difference between cinnamon rolls where I let the yeast rise twice and the ones popped out of the Pillsbury canister.
The seventh stage is wisdom. If you’re not as old as me, let me give you this truth for free: The holiday is not about what you get, but what you do.
This year it would be easy to go back to the cynical stage. as A good friend of mine has cancer, Buddyboy’s on his last legs and Brian has one less reason to wear toe shoes. Omicron looms, and Zane almost missed the Christmas picture.
But now the daylight begins lasting longer.
And in that spirit, Brian and I, instead of getting yet another building for our Christmas village, donated to a friend of mine whose wife needs both a lung and heart transplant. We’re taking it easy. We’ve even bought Pillsbury rolls. Poppin’ Fresh saves Christmas!
We’ve put up a tree, and our neighbors come by. Not to screw in branches, but just as they did in stage one, ornaments migrate from our tree to theirs, from theirs to ours. In this way, our home becomes part of theirs. And vice versa.
The meaning of Christmas is not the belief that miracles happen. The meaning of Christmas is that we each need to do our part to make those miracles happen.
May your days be merry and … light.