Welcome to the Funny Farm

by Karen Scalf Linamen

  Two examples that come immediately to mind are “stress” and “guilt.”

  Not that stress and guilt can’t be festive. They can be. In fact, we probably wouldn’t recognize Christmas without them.

  Indeed, if we had a completely stress-and-guilt-free Christmas, my guess is that somewhere mid-January we’d find ourselves asking: “Did we even celebrate Christmas last month? I remember a flawless dinner and beautifully wrapped presents and well-behaved relatives, but for some reason it just didn’t FEEL like Christmas. Something was missing, but I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

  Of course, it’s possible that everything would feel more normal as soon as we got our credit card bill in the mail or discovered those holiday pounds reflected on our bathroom scales. At that point, we’d undoubtedly burst into a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells” as a result of all that new-found Christmas spirit suddenly welling up inside of us.

  The weird thing about stress and guilt is that, even though they tend to arrive hand in hand, they come from completely opposite sources. We feel stressed because we’re doing too much, and guilty because we think we’re somehow not doing enough. You’d think they would somehow cancel each other out, wouldn’t you? (Of course, I used to think the same thing about drinking Diet Coke with pepperoni pizza, or adding fat-free ice cream to pecan pie. Oh well. Live and learn!)

  Naturally, there are other Christmas traditions besides stress and guilt. Take baking, for example. One of my traditions is to make Christmas cookies from an old family recipe.

  My other tradition is to lose the recipe.

  To date, my mother has given me the recipe on at least nine different occasions, sometimes more than once for the same holiday.

  Another favorite holiday tradition is sending cards. For three years running I kept the tradition of writing a Christmas newsletter, addressing dozens of envelopes to family and friends, and then letting the whole project sit on the den coffee table until March. Two years ago I finally gave up the dream of sending Christmas greetings to loved ones. Of course, I still experience guilt at not keeping in touch, but at least I can take the time I once spent addressing envelopes and use it for something more constructive. Like calling my mom for that cookie recipe.

  In theory, I think traditions are a great idea. After all, there’s nothing I’d love better than to lovingly, year after year, craft a Martha Stewart Christmas for my family, complete with beloved traditions that seem to glow with a rich patina bestowed by the passage of time.

  In reality, however, traditions are a bit more complicated. They are complicated because they require a lot of planning (“Let me check my calendar”) . . . props (“Has anybody seen the box with the Christmas decorations?) . . . and cooperation from family members (“What do you mean you have a date with Jason on the night of our Annual Christmas Caroling Extravaganza!?!”).

  Of course, I’m not saying we shouldn’t strive to create meaningful traditions for loved ones.

  I’m just saying we shouldn’t beat ourselves up when our “Martha Stewart Christmas” turns out more akin to “Holiday Mayhem with Larry, Moe, and Curly.”

  We shouldn’t beat up our friends and family over it, either.

  How do we know we’re taking this tradition thing a little too seriously? I think a big clue for me is when I hear myself bark the following phrase to my kids: “I realize your legs are going numb, but no, you cannot leave the kitchen table. There are still twelve dozen cookies left to decorate, and we’re going to sit here and have fun and create a warm memory by decorating every last one of them whether you like it or not!”

  You know, there’s a great story in the Bible that says a lot to me each December. It’s found in the Book of Mark, where Jesus’ disciples were criticized for “harvesting” on the Sabbath because they ate a few wheat grains while walking through a field. Jesus responded to the criticism by reminding everyone that “the Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath.”

  Likewise, I try to remind myself that holiday traditions are here to serve me and my loved ones, not the other way around. I never want to compromise peace of mind or harmony in relationships for any given tradition.

  Relationships, after all, are more important than ritual.

  This is great news. Getting my priorities straight certainly relieves a lot of the pressure I tend to put on myself during the holidays. In fact, in honor of my new commitment to put relationships over ritual, I think I’ll call someone I care about for no other reason than to say “Hi” and “I love you.” I could call one of my girlfriends . . . or either of my sisters . . . or—I know—my mom. I think I’ll call my mother.

  I needed to call her anyway. I’m going to a Christmas potluck this weekend, and I’ve been asked to bring the cookies.

  8

  Name That Tune

  I LOVE TO SING. I couldn’t sing my way out of a paper bag, but I still love to sing. And since I have yet to be held hostage in a paper sack for lack of a song, I’m confident that even though my warbling deficiency may be annoying, it is hardly life threatening.

  Especially at Christmastime. Everybody sings at Christmas whether they can carry a tune or not. Christmas hymns, songs, and jingles fill the air. Even animals get in the act. Indeed, the Chipmunks’ Christmas Album remains a holiday best-seller, and even the “Jingle Bells” barking dogs have gone on to develop their talent. I hear they’re doing Handel’s Messiah this year.

  So I’ve been thinking about Christmas carols.

  Actually, I’ve been thinking about some of the lyrics of Christmas carols.

  I realize that thinking deeply about the lyrics of songs we love is not exactly necessary, and sometimes it isn’t even advisable. After all, some very beloved songs have hit the top of the charts and enjoyed huge financial success despite the fact that they contain lyrics that, if you study their Latin roots, appear to have been written by blondes. (And if you think I’m blonde-bashing, think again—these savvy women are bizillionaires by now. They have not only amassed tons of songwriting revenue, but think of all the royalties from those blonde jokes they’ve been ghostwriting for years!)

  Look at any genre of music and you can find double-take lyrics, phrases that demand a second listen despite the fact—or maybe because of the fact—that they don’t make a whole lot of sense. Remember the song “Witch Doctor” by David Seville? Trust me when I say that more immortal lyrics beginning with the phrase, “Oo ee oo ah ah” have not been penned in our generation or any other.

  But we’re talking about Christmas carols here. The main problem with Christmas carols tends to be, not that they were written by savvy blondes, but that they were written, most of them anyway, by Joe Isuzu.

  Certainly you remember Joe, the former spokesperson for Isuzu automobiles. He made Jim Carey’s truth-impaired character in Liar, Liar look like Honest Abe in comparison. When it came to Joe, the reality check was in the mail. And even after it arrived, it bounced. Many people thought the clever ad campaign featuring this reality-challenged spokesman was a spoof. I’m not so sure. I have reason to believe that before he got a job peddling cars, Joe eked out a living by writing many of our Christmas carols.

  How else could we end up with lyrics like, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth”?

  This is obviously a lie.

  The truth is that children will NOT settle for their own teeth for Christmas. Neither are they satisfied with oranges in their stockings or an American Flyer wagon as their coveted single gift. No, today’s children want the moon, creating holiday wish lists that require not only a table of contents but thumb tabs as well.

  I also have to wonder about the phrase “All is calm, all is bright.” It may have applied the night Jesus was born, but Christmas at my house is anything but calm. Between baking cookies, hunting for white-elephant gifts, hosting the neighborhood cookie exchange, shopping, assembling the artificial Christmas tree (and wondering why there are four branches left over), sewing Christmas pag
eant costumes, and writing the family holiday newsletter, it’s not unusual for me to find that the word “calm” has been deleted from my vocabulary. It has, in fact, been replaced with words and phrases like “Rolaids,” “nervous tic,” and “I NEED CHOCOLATE AND I NEED IT NOW.”

  Now, “Laughing as we go, HA HA HA!” isn’t bad. Maybe Joe had help with this one. Maybe from Jim Carey. Because laughter isn’t a bad way to approach the holidays. Sometimes, when the season takes a particularly chaotic turn, it’s best to throw up your hands and laugh about it. Did you burn the snowball cookies? Forget where you parked your car at the mall? Get your Christmas cards in the mail the day before Washington’s birthday? Then take two belly laughs and call me in the morning. The truth is, laughter reduces stress, pumps up the immune system, diffuses squabbles, lifts the spirits, broadens the perspective, and feels great. Best yet, it has no calories and can’t make you pregnant. Feeling stressed? Don’t buckle. Chuckle instead!

  There’s another song that comes to mind, and I really hope Joe didn’t write this one, because I want it to be true. The words are, “Let every heart prepare him room.”

  Unfortunately, sometimes I think we put more effort into making room in our refrigerators for Christmas dinner leftovers than we spend preparing room in our hearts for Christ.

  Maybe this year can be different. Since we’ve still got a couple weeks until Christmas, perhaps we can begin today to give Jesus a more prominent role in our celebrations. How? I know, for me, an attitude of gratitude does wonders. Am I shopping for loved ones? Baking cookies? Entertaining holiday guests? What if I thought of every task—every tradition, every labor of love—as a token of my gratitude? An act of thankful worship of the Christ whose birth we celebrate each year?

  There’s another song, and I think the lyrics say it well: “Oh, come let us adore him.” It’s sage advice, written by someone with not only a nice sense of rhythm, but biblical priorities and no small measure of wisdom.

  I’d be willing to bet it was a blonde.

  9

  Christmas, a Labor of Love

  I DON’T KNOW WHY SANTA GETS ALL THE CREDIT.

  After all, what family do you know in real life where the man of the house is the driving force responsible for making Christmas happen? I can’t think of many. The truth is, we women carry the lion’s share of the responsibility—and the privilege—of creating memorable holidays for the folks we love.

  I think women shoulder the bulk of the work because a successful Christmas requires skills that come more naturally to women than to men.

  Like spending massive sums of money.

  And that’s just for starters. Women are also better at manipulating unwieldy pieces of wrapping paper, as well as knowing the behind-the-scenes politics of all our friends so that uncomfortable combinations of people don’t show up at the same Christmas party. We’re also ahead when it comes to remembering the correct spelling of the names of people on our gift list, including distant relatives, bosses and coworkers, children’s teachers, and even our own children. (And I only say this because, several weeks after my daughter Kaitlyn was born, I overheard her dad misspelling her name to a well-wisher on the phone!)

  Pulling off the perfect Christmas also requires an understanding of the nuances of giblet gravy, an ability to whip up an angel costume in twenty minutes or less, and a mastery of the perfect pie crust. (My secret? After I remove the pie crust from the freezer, I make sure I peel off the cellophane and cardboard label before pouring in the filling.)

  Women have these skills. Men don’t.

  This is why you can’t convince me that Mrs. Claus isn’t the unsung hero. Don’t tell me she’s not behind the scenes, coaching her husband every step of the way. I can hear her now, peering over his shoulder as he makes out the gift list: “Santa, honey, don’t even THINK about giving that new garage door remote to newlywed Mrs. Jones. She’s going to be much happier with the perfume. Trust me.”

  I can see her following him to the sled with last-minute shopping instructions: “Target has special holiday hours, so you don’t have to rush. There’s a sale on Pokémon backpacks at Sears, and whatever you do, DON’T go to Bath World—this is Wednesday and senior citizens get a 10 percent discount, so the place will be crowded and you won’t be able to maneuver the aisles for the walkers. Did you remember the list? Your wallet? Good. And if I’m not here when you get home, the Scotch tape is in the top left desk drawer, and wrapping paper’s in the hall closet.”

  I can even hear her coaching her husband as he’s getting dressed on Christmas Eve: “I don’t care if anyone sees you or not. The black dress socks and baseball cap are tacky. Wear something else. And don’t try to tell me your red suit is dirty, because I picked it up from the cleaners just this morning.”

  If you’re like me, you take your role as Christmas-maker very seriously. Indeed, Christmas is upon us and right about now you and I are toting lists of about two million last-minute things that need doin’ before December 25th. It’s not that men and kids don’t help with the planning, shopping, cooking, and decorating but, if women were removed from the picture, Christmas dinners would include tater tots and two out of three gifts would come from Home Depot.

  Christmas depends on us, ladies. The success of the coming holiday is on our shoulders.

  Yes, women make Christmas.

  It’s our labor of love.

  Which makes me think of another woman, a woman for whom Christmas was a labor of love in a very real sense of the word.

  Because a long time ago, there was a woman who held Christmas, not on her shoulders, but in her arms. Like you and me, she had the privilege of shaping Christmas, but it wasn’t through the labor of her hands. Indeed, Christmas entered the world through the painful rending of her pregnant body, and then she held him in her arms as he slept.

  As I’m rushing through the last hectic days before Christmas, it’s not a bad time to remember that, as well-intentioned as they may be, my efforts don’t “make” Christmas. God did that—through Mary—2,000 years ago. Which makes Christmas complete and perfect, just the way it is.

  If I have any goal this December, maybe it should be to celebrate Christmas the way Mary did: By embracing the person called the Christ.

  Well, that . . . and staying away from Bath World on Wednesdays.

  10

  The Christmas Babies

  A PORTION OF THIS COLUMN IS FOURTEEN YEARS OLD.

  This is because I am including in these pages a letter I wrote to my daughter Kaitlyn in honor of our first Christmas together. She was six weeks old at the time.

  The letter has never been published.

  Oh, I tried to share it with friends and family one year, but there was a minor complication. Remember how, in an earlier chapter, I confessed that I’m such a procrastinator I’ve been known to write Christmas cards, address them to friends and family, then let the pile of envelopes sit on my den coffee table for months on end?

  Well, back in ’91, a copy of this letter was in each of eighty Christmas cards that eventually ended up in the trash. They ended up in the trash because it was May, and I needed the space on the coffee table to write out valentines.

  Christmas is upon us and right about now you and I have To-Do lists that are a mile long. If you’re like me, you’ll get a lot of things done. And if you’re REALLY like me, there’ll be more than a few things on your list that you’ll never actually accomplish. The good news is that life will go on. You’ll discover that just because you didn’t finish your To-Do list, it’s not the end of the world as we know it. (Although if for some reason the world-as-we-know-it comes to a crashing halt on December 26, I may have to reconsider that last statement.)

  It’s amazing all the things that need to be done in the last days before Christmas. Even things that don’t have anything to do with Christmas suddenly need to be done before Christmas. Like fixing the braided rug in my office. The threads holding the braids in a spiral have been unraveling for
months, but for some unexplained, masochistic reason it didn’t feel life-threatening until NOW, one week before Christmas, when I’m so stressed and busy that I don’t even have time to wash my hair and shave my legs during the same shower.

  Naturally, this is when I found myself looking at the rug in a crazed panic and thinking, “That rug must be repaired and it must be repaired TODAY.”

  This is why I was willing to try The Shortcut.

  So this morning I bypassed the needle and thread and went straight for the hot glue gun.

  Actually, it worked great. The rug looks like new. Of course, I’m wondering if I was as careful as I should have been. I say this because our German shepherd walked across the rug as I was working, and he hasn’t moved since.

  But my point is that you and I have a lot to do right now and a lot on our minds as well.

  Which is why I decided to include the following letter. It’s about another woman who had a lot on her mind as well, some 2000 Christmases ago.

  So here they are, fresh from mothballs, the words I penned to my own baby fourteen years ago. Consider them my Christmas gift to you, a small token from one harried woman to another. Merry Christmas to you and yours!

  Dearest Kaitlyn,

  Tonight I put the finishing touches on the Christmas tree—silver ribbon and a garland of red wooden beads. Then I cradled you in my arms and turned on the lights, convinced the smile that appeared on your face was from delight and not by coincidence.

  And I couldn’t help but think of another Christmas baby, born long ago to a mother who must have shared my enchantment with the miracle of birth.

  Did she, I wondered, interpret every smile as an intimate communication, as I do now?

  Did she spend hours memorizing a tiny face, searching infant eyes with her own, caressing soft round cheeks?