After twenty-one years of being forced to compromise my artistry and stem my superior creativity when I am forced to dress the Christmas tree with the kids, I’ve finally found the solution of how not to give a shit.
Drink copious amounts of Captain Morgan beforehand.
Why this strategy never came to me before is beyond me. Probably, because, typically we plan the ritual of dressing the tree. It usually takes place on the morning of the Saturday closest to the 1st December, when with Buble crooning on the Bose, I attempt, (once again), to re-enact what I perceive is the perfect family Christmas scene of unity.
‘Remember this beautiful pasta decoration you made at school?’ I imagine myself saying to Nerd Christmas in my role of Mother Christmas.
‘Where did you manage to find this wonderful mini glass bong for the tree?’ I say to Krazy Christmas.
And during my perfect family dressing of the tree, I don’t measure the distance between each decoration afterwards, or get up in the middle of the night to rearrange the Lametta, or even put all the fugly school-made decorations to the back.
And I allow Scrooge Christmas to stay in the bedroom watching golf without bitching at him for the being the worst father in the world, because I AM the perfect wife.
But this year was a little different, I have to admit. Krazy Christmas had broken the seal of trust again and so the old man and I went off to the pub in a parental huff to get shit-faced and console ourselves that at least our son wasn’t Oscar Pistorius, (even though, like him, Kurt will most probably spend a Christmas season or two in jail if he carries on the way he’s going…).
But Krazy, being Krazy, and no doubt wanting me to feel some parent guilt as well as anger, must have felt some twinge of regret while were were out. So while we were merrily being the perfect parent role models drowning our sorrows rather than trying to ‘understand’ him or booking his next ten therapy sessions, he got the tree out of storage to set up as an apology/surprise – even though I’d refused this earlier on the grounds of punishment, and because I can be truly evil like that and…well… frankly nothing other than spite really makes me feel better.
And so upon our return, chilled by the Captain, Krazy and I finished dressing the damned tree with a newfound freedom and fervour this year. And the creativity truly flowed. I allowed the red tinsel on our silver-tinsel-only tree for at least five minutes and I even let Krazy believe that I would allow him to put his favourite tree decoration, which is made out of a green kitchen scourer, at the front.
And the tree really does look like someone stood in front of it and projectile vomited. And it might be my higher dosage of meds, but I really don’t give a shit. It’s our tree, and although it has evolved over the years, it is a mish mash of mismatched decorations that the kids enjoy tormenting me with. I never did get around to changing the ghastly bright white energy-saving lights that I bought by mistake in the Target sale and which make the perfect torture on New Year’s Day, and I still haven’t found the balls to stop moaning about the fugly homemade decorations and just chuck all the fuckers away when the kids aren’t looking.
One day, I will have my white, silver and glass, perfectly-poised Home and Garden Christmas tree that I dream about.
But not this year. And when I do it will probably made me a little sad.