After three whole days of gluttony, unnecessary and often misguided gift giving, and complete displacement of our typically normal (depending on your definition) routine, we have managed to make it home alive. Christmas is rough. Too much food, too much drink, too much spending, too much company, too much...too much...too much.
Surviving Christmas with a small child may require us to get a little creative, at the very least, firm in our expectations and loose with our obligations. Ideally, post-baby Christmas' would be enjoyed in warmer climes with family and whatever friends are brave enough to shirk expectations and opt for sand between toes instead of wrapping paper. We're not so very good with infringements upon our independence (and for all of you people who laugh and make some ridiculous comment about lives changing and baby's demands etc...you can sod off. We're making that statement well aware of the natural demands of a newborn child and then are placing that knowledge in context within that remark...so stop laughing or stop reading, one or the other). We want what we want and when we want it, not unlike anyone else, with one shimmering exception in that once this child is born we're holding tight to the reins of our lives. Babies can be portable, be walked down distant city streets and sleep on blankets in the sand...that's all very possible despite the bulk of unsolicited opinions out there. We understand that sixth row seats at "Who" concerts is a phenomenon much less possible now than it may have been previously but we're also quick to understand that there are plenty of babies crawling through the grass in Central Park too. Anyway, we've gotten a little sidetracked here. Back to the ghosts of Christmas future.
The plan, barring any odd circumstances is for our stockings to be hung by the palm tree with care next year. Come or stay, your choice, but we're packing our flops already. Next year there'll be three stockings instead of two...giggle...and Elli can get a bikini for her first Christmas gift ever. There are worse things.
Start saving folks...'cause next Christmas will more closely resemble a Jimmy Buffett song than any Burl Ives baritone.