A Christmas Mum Rant

Santa's Sack.

It’s a heavy load to bear.

It’s only the first week into December. During what, according to films, stories and adverts, is meant to be a glossy, magical time of year.

I pause and look at myself.

I’m a mess. Inside and out.

Instead of being a break from the mundane, this so-called wonderful time of year is leaving me frazzled. The workload is tripled. The mental load is quadrupled.

My head hurts and I’m crying.

The problem is, each festive season I seem to take on a number additional full-time jobs.

I am Santa. Delivering Christmas cheer and gifts.

I am an elf. Decorating the home, planning activities, juggling schedules, attending performances and organising socials.

I am Mrs Claus. Buying in provisions, cooking and baking, tidying and cleaning.

I am a fairy. Responsible for the wishes of the whole family, for sprinkling that Christmas magic and making memories.

On top of everything else I have to do. Juggling a job and home and the weight of constant expectation.

In all honesty? It’s a bit much. 

And that is why I’m sitting on the floor sobbing. 

My mind feels like it’s about to explode from having to think about everything. Not only what I need to do but what I need everyone else to do. What nobody else seems to be doing.

This is not magical. It is not a time of wonder and cheer. There is no time for quiet Advent contemplation. 

Even when everyone else’s demands fall silent, my mind is shouting at me constantly.

I need to finish the shopping. Buy gifts for friends and extended family. Clean the house. Wrap the presents. Bake biscuits and mince pies. 

Like Altogether Andrews from a Discworld novel, there are multiple personas jostling for space in my tiny, shrivelled brain.

At this point, another role enters, that of the Grinch. 

I’ve had enough. Christmas sucks. It’s just a ton of work for an already overworked Mum. 

I am tired of being this magical Christmas fairy, smiling serenely on the outside whilst falling apart internally under the weight of expectation. That sprinkling of magic? It’s the crumbs of my broken Christmas spirit.

Instead I am embracing my inner green monster. 

Christmas is cancelled. I refuse to wrap a present, I’ll just chuck them under the tree and cover them with a blanket. 

I will not shop for, or cook, Christmas dinner. My husband can cook spag bol, that will do. 

Who cares if we miss yet another Christmas event anyway?

There will be no more magic sprinklings from this Christmas Fairy, no planning or researching the best fayres and attractions, no baking and filling the home with the smell of cookies and mince pies, no Christmas crafts and carol singing.

I am the Grinch. Fed up, disillusioned and grumpy.

Is there anything that can bring me back from the brink of impending Grinch-ness? Probably not. But if someone could pop over, hand me a glass of Baileys and start cleaning my house, then that might help.

Just a little.

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