Christmas Failure

It’s beginning to look a lot like…summer in Los Angeles. The balmy breeze and high sunshine make it hard for me to don my pointy green felt hat and showcase my elf prowess in an assortment of delicately painted sugar cookies. All I want to do is jump into a bikini—stretch marks and all—and tan on the makeshift rooftop of my apartment complex. Or not.

I so desperately wanted to make things feel like Christmas I’ve been bundling King up in his reindeer jumpsuits only to discover his excessive sweating makes his feet smell all grown up…like vinegar.  And then I hear stories about peanut butter thumbprint cookies, molasses bread, chocolate haystacks, and…wait, did I miss something? Did you want me to bake something for you, too?

But I don’t bake, much to Patrick’s disappointment, and I unabashedly slept in for Black Friday shopping so I’m starting to resemble someone who rhymes with “finch” because although my list of people I’d like to get things for this year is pages long, I’ve crossed off precisely none.

This holiday season is rapidly going down the path of EPIC FAIL but that green scowling face is not a good look for me—it’s really not—so I wake up this morning with steadfast vengeance to finally get in the spirit of paper snowflakes. And a certain Mr. Claus.

“But I’m not sure King will grow up thinking there is a Santa Claus,” I matter-of-factly inform Patrick. “I don’t want to play make believe with my child when he’s inevitably going to find out one day we lied to him.”

“Yes, but having cookies and milk out for Santa Claus is still one of my favorite memories of Christmas,” Patrick tells me as he rolls out of bed. “Even though it’s not real anymore, for a good five years it was the most magical and exciting time of the year for me.”

So for King’s first Christmas, will there be presents under the tree from Santa Claus? Yes, no, yes…I think I’m choosing to believe so YES.