Ah, ‘tis the season—the season of more. And more, and more still.
The holidays are designed for excess. Glittering, shiny, sparkly, over-the-top, where else can we put more twinkle lights, there are 453 ornaments on the tree, I have to get matching wrapping paper and bows for all of the gifts, oh my god, I used the mortgage payment on Christmas presents, excess.
We drunkenly fall into it starting with the Thanksgiving all-you-can-eat weekend, when we find ourselves hopped up, or rather, sedated, on tryptophan, alternating between gorging, sleeping, and shopping—online or daring to brave the mall—and we don’t stop until after the New Year, when suddenly, we wake from our stupor and realize how we’re desperately in need of a purge, so we gather up everything that so entranced us a mere month before, and stuff the whole glittering sack of ka-ka back in the attic until next year.
Or, maybe, that’s just me.
Actually, it used to be me, every single year while my kids were growing up, when I took it upon myself to create the perfect Griswold family Christmas, complete with some annual disaster or another, all in an effort to create warm, wonderful memories for my children, which I’d someday pass on through the lovingly collected decorations—nutcrackers, light-up houses, collectible figurines, and on and on—until I realized that once my kids grew up, they didn’t really give a damn anymore.
That’s when I beheaded Saint Joseph.
It wasn’t intentional. Really. I’m a big Saint Joe fan. Unfortunately for him, however, I was in the midst of cramming a giant nativity set back into a box while on my third hour of re-storing Christmas crap, when I got a little rough with the guy. And off came his head.
Being a suspicious Catholic, and assuming this at least meant partial damnation, I raced frantically for the glue gun, and with shaking hands, reattached St. Joe’s body to his noggin. It took a few attempts, and it was hardly a clean job (to this day, there is evidence of the St. Joe hatchet job around his neck in the form of a yellow glue choker), but I managed.
Gently returning St. Joey to his resting place, I looked around at the Christmas carnage and thought, “What the hell am I doing?”
My kids, now fully grown, didn’t even live at home. And while we certainly spent time together over the holidays, not one of them walked through the house, admiring the recreation of their childhoods while lovingly saying, “Thanks for doing all of this, Mom. It means so much to have every single bauble in the same exact place you had it for decades when we were little.”
So my Epiphany came early that year. (It’s January 6th for we Catholics, when the three kings…oh, never mind.) At that moment, I decided that the next year would be different. And it was.
Last Christmas, I simply refused to again be a victim of my own insanity. I still decorated for the holidays but with only a third of the stuff I usually hauled out. Guess what? No one cared. I also opted out of shopping, settling instead for a single gift for each kid to open, accompanied by a nice check.
Not only did no one care, they were thrilled. I toned down Christmas baking, a task I loathe, and again, no protests. The holidays ended up being a celebration of what they are intended to be—time spent with family, enjoying each other.
I’d like to formally thank St. Joseph for issuing me a cosmic slap when he lost his head. By forcing me to stop what I was doing, and reattach him to his body, he effectively showed me how I’d lost my own head, emphasizing stuff over the season.
The giant Nativity set, along with the permanently disabled St. Joseph, is still lovingly unwrapped and placed on the windowsill during Christmas, although most of the other stuff has been donated or passed onto my kids. I’m grateful to the guy, and his slightly crooked gaze reminds me always that my Bontempo family Christmas, though without 20,000 twinkle lights, still shines bright.
MARY FRAN BONTEMPO is a speaker, author and humorist who teaches audiences to control their most powerful influence: Self-Talk. Author of “The Woman’s Book of Dirty Words” and “Not Ready for Granny Panties,” Mary Fran proves small changes in self-talk yield big life changes, allowing individuals to redefine their lives both professionally and personally in a rapidly changing world. Her books are available on Amazon and BarnesandNoble.com. Contact – Website – Books