Santa – Why That Fat B*#%*>d Isn’t Getting All the Credit

****Language Warning****

I’ve been physically hurt while trying to make the holidays frickin’ magical for my offspring. Have you? If not, you’re doing it wrong! Christmas can be a Ho Ho Horrific experience, trying to perfect a whole season for the little schmoopies, starting with hanging lights. If I wanted to spin around the tree, I’d just drink a bottle of vodka, sit down on the sofa, and stare at it. Then it’s time to pull out that little shit, Elf on the Shelf, so I can throw him around the house every night. I mean move, not throw. :/ Meanwhile some damn unicorn in a red suit gets all the thanks. Nope. Not in my house!

We do things a little bit differently up in here. You may know about my Big Book of Mommy Lies I created years ago, if you read my post about the guardians. It’s an ever-changing rule book to everything bull we let our kids believe in because, well, the innocent looks of wonder are totally worth it.

So let’s start with the dreaded Christmas Wish List. Well, as stated in the former post, I work with Santa, so I keep a copy that they are aware of. It can be added to or modified. But, I’m the one who actually has to decipher a 4 yr old’s ramblings, then explain if something doesn’t exist or is too expensive, so don’t get your hopes up. This year’s gems: A mini fridge that has fake food in it but real drinks, his own set of luggage with Superman on it, and his own real motorcycle that he’ll ride on the sidewalk because he knows he falls down a lot. His siblings gave me vague items, or a never-ending list. Santa was probably having a beer with some elves while I worked all of this out. Thanks, a**hole. I’m doing this crap sober.

Now, the shopping. I hate shopping! I do it mostly online, but have to keep in mind budget, and general appearance of “evenness” so feelings don’t get hurt. Calm down, they’re little, so gift values/fairness we’re still working on. That and keeping them from being shitasses. If you think this means we are coddling too much, read our Family Suck-It Bucket. So what’s Santa doing while I’m hating life through this chore? Probably has his big-a** feet propped up on a desk like an effin’ CEO, while his elves do all the work.

The gifts are here. Where do they go? Well, since the kids know we help Santa and some are kept here, I can store them in the basement. Away from their play area. In Mommy’s sacred, organized area that she can’t get into the whole month of December. Let me just move 12 boxes so I can get to my spare envelopes. Awesome. Pretty sure Santa has a warehouse. You know, where the elves work, wrapping everything for him. How I used to love paper and ribbons long ago! Four kids later, I’m stuffing crap in gift bags. Screw it. I’ll wrap presents when they’re older. Sure.

Christmas Eve. Here’s where the game really gets stepped up. Poor Santa has to deliver billions of presents to billions of kids, blah, blah, blah. WAAH! I have to run around to 20 places with 4 kids 8 and under, making sure they’re not getting boogers on their fancy clothes, trying to force feed them a single protein and healthy carb to soak up all the sweets (while I do the same for the wine), and making sure they’re not just phoning it in by the 10th “thank you”. Then we get home and I have to get these hopped up crack heads to bed so I can get to work. Thirty trips up and down the stairs, while Santa rides around like a damn rock star in his pimped out sled. Oh, but poor thing, he has to get his fat a** down all those chimneys. Well, I have to get my fat a** through the basement doorway with my hands full of gifts, hoping I don’t fall and break a hip. I’m sure his insurance is better than mine. Let’s finish the night with some sh*tty cookies. They’d be okay, except Thing 3 went to the bathroom while they were being decorated, and I can never be positive he washed his hands. Literally, sh*tty cookies. Sure, I could just throw them away, but then I’d be up the whole night (what’s left of it), picturing them digging through the trash, ready to scream “LIAR!” at me as soon as I get up. Santa is probably back home eating a steak by now.

So, I eat the cookies, finish my case of beer or box of wine – whatever got me through the night- and head to bed. I can relax now. Until I’m awakened in 2 hours by 4 sets of elbows and knees, screaming “Santa came!” They know I helped. I’ve made sure of it. But, as bad as I have it versus Santa’s easy-as-sh*t life, he can lie all he wants about elves reporting back to him. I’m the one who actually gets to see their lit up faces, as we’ve managed to keep a little of the magic alive for one more year.

Now on to removing all the stupid packaging, with the twisties made of steel.

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