The Fucking Tree Fell

So here we are, mamas. Christmas is banging down the damn door like Jack Nicholson. The fat man in red is lurking like a crackhead at the gas station, the reindeer probably took a shit out back, we have 397 more stores to go to, but Christmas has arrived. We always complain that there’s never enough time to get it all done, but let’s be honest. Even if I magically woke up tomorrow and had three extra weeks before Christmas to prepare for the shitstorm that is about to rain down on us, I’d still procrastinate until the last minute. Because that’s who I am as a person. I will rush

around right up until go time, chucking amazon boxes in the garage, while my kids leave smashed candy canes in the bottom of their backpacks until March.

We have to stop right here for a moment. Because I had a cute, witty and sarcastically motivational blog all ready for you guys. I wrote 97% of it last night. Today I was planning to finish up, edit grammar, make sure I don’t sound like too much of a lunatic and post with a cute Insta Reel. Wasn’t going to be too busy with work today, so I was excited to finish decorating the tree (we just got our real tree on Wednesday night) and tackle some wrapping. Yea, cute of me to think the day was going to go just as planned.

Cut to me, around 11am, placing the last ornament on the tree, stepping back and thinking, hmmm, that’s not Good Enough. It’s leaning a little and it’s too far from the window. Let me just get under here and push this 10ft tree and its stand full of water towards the window. And let me try and shove a few books under the front leg of the stand so its perfectly straight. Sure, this is going to work out perfectly.

Nope. I’m now under the tree. The whole, horizontal tree. The whole fucking tree fucking fell on fucking top of me. The sounds of crashing glass balls, the mini screams of all that’s left of my sanity and the vibration from a text from school asking me if I can be there by noon to help with 4th grade lunch, are all I can hear.

What to do in this situation. Obviously cry. Loudly. Also scream and curse. Loudly. Call Pete. Cry to him. He’s “on a barricade,” whatever the fuck that means. Doesn’t sounds safe, but I’m literally under a tree right now, so there’s only so much I can do to care. Yes, I’ll be at 4th grade lunch, since I can’t get the tree back up by myself anyway and I have to get out of this house before I die or burn it to the ground.

Pete calls, he’ll meet me home in an hour, when I’m done lunch momming. He does. We strategize, argue and finally get the tree back up in the stand. I look at the dozen or so ornaments that broke. Nothing too sentimental, thank sweet baby Jesus. He goes back to work. I throw an epic pity party for myself. Then I clean up the mess, fix the lights that pulled from their branches, add some filler garland and curse and scream a little more.

It’s 7:40pm right now, the tree is back in place. It looks really pretty. It’s lit, I’m lit. But I’m still not over it. So you know what Pete says? What’s wrong babe? The tree is back up. It’s fine. And with that, I began to plan his eulogy. Why don’t men understand the details and time that goes into these things? Why is it so easy for them to bounce back? Because he wasn’t the up until 1:52am twisting the twinkle lights around each individual branch so that the lights are equally distributed. He wasn’t up this morning, planning his whole day around FINISHING the tree by 11am so he can then go finish all the wrapping. To him, the tree is back up. What’s the big deal? I don’t have the energy to explain it to him, but you get me, right?? I’m devastated. But we must endure, because it’s fucking Christmas in like an hour and we don’t have time for this.

  Christmas is going to be fucking magical, dammit! So put on Mariah, spike your coffee, tell your husband to get out of the fucking way for the six thousandth time and let’s get into exactly how we’re going to make this Christmas GOOD ENOUGH for your spoiled, little darlings.

Now, most of the time I talk out of my ass. Why do I say that? Because with all the millions of things to do, (did I mention both Eve AND Day are being hosted at my house?), I decided to throw an Ugly Sweater Party for our friends and ALLLLLLLL their kids. Because we totally have the time and budget for that, but this is what I do. I overextend myself, I plan all the get-togethers and I host all the friends and all the parties, because I love it. I love having everyone in our home. Also, full-disclosure, I love being in charge. So, we’ll have everything at my house, I’ll get the show tickets and plan the Easter egg hunts and make sure everyone comes for Trunk or Treat. One more indication of who I am as a person…there’s a theme here. It all centers around me being in control of all the things. All the things except my husband’s work schedule. Did I tell you he’s a cop? Yes, so that means you can’t actually ever plan anything with any guarantee that he will actually be there. Because we live in Gotham City, I mean Philly. But being a cop wife is a rant we’ll save for another day.

However, this does bring up exactly why it was so very important that I throw the Ugly Sweater party this year. It’s our last Christmas in Philly. We’re moving to Florida this summer. We’re moving for a bunch of reasons, but warm, safe and South are the 3 biggest. I don’t have the emotional or mental stability to be a police wife or a mom to police kids in a big, dangerous city for another 15 years. So, we’re leaving our home, our family and our friends. That hurt to say out loud. And now I’m ugly crying again, so that’s enough of that!

I’m going to guess everyone reading this knows me well enough to know that I’ve never left South Philly. Look at me pretending I have followers that didn’t go to St. Nicks. Anyway, that means that you’ve never left South Philly either. Washington Township and Wildwood do not count! You understand what a big deal this is. My entire family lived within 4 blocks growing up. That’s not an exaggeration. I have had the same friends since I’m 6 years old. Literally. We’re Godmothers to each other's kids, maids of honors, ride or die, take that shit to the grave, soul-sisters. We’re co-dependent and we don’t let anyone in. I’m old and set in my ways and there’s zero chance of me making new friends now. So, I’m going to miss them. We’re going to miss everyone, so I’m hosting all the holidays from now until we move and throwing an extra party whenever I can. Wait, wasn’t I talking about Christmas? Why am I still ugly crying? Focus, back to the bullshit…I mean the magic of the holidays.

Usually, when I announce that I’m planning the next shindig, I have everyone saying Amanda, you’re crazy. It’s too much. Why are you having another party? This is after it takes us 65 group chats to find a date that works. I can feel, even now, the instant regret I have as soon as I text, “when is everyone free?” But we finally nailed down a date, I purchased an obnoxious ugly Christmas jumper from Kohls (two actually, because I’m extra like that), and the party is Sunday. It’s Friday right now, by the way, and my husband just informed me last night that he is working mandatory overtime on Sunday, and will not be in attendance. At the party, I’m hosting in our home. So, excuse me a moment, while I go light his ugly sweater on fire out back and remind myself that we’re sad to move, but it’s necessary. I’ll have to report back on how the party went once it wraps, but I’ve got peppermint-Prosecco’s, reindeer ring toss, and a hot chocolate bar ready to go.

As I began planning for the party, and really every year as we get sucked into the vortex of warp speed that happens once Thanksgiving ends and we’re thrown into Christmas, I started thinking about all we have to get done and just how much of it is Good Enough. First one that comes to mind is that damn Elf. I never wanted one, swore it off. Not in my house! And then Jackson comes home from Kindergarten asking why everyone has an elf but him. Fine, but I’m not doing flour footprints down the hallway and swinging the little asshole from the tree lights or any other elaborate crap. And like allllllllll the other shit I talk, of course I do. Most days, anyway, there’s some unique and Pinterest-worthy Elf scene hiding somewhere for my kids to find. And then there’s the days that I forgot, and it’s thrown a few feet away from its last adventure. An elf’s day of rest, if you will. No s’mores, no surfing, no snowball fights. Just sit there, you shifty-eyed little prick. That’s Good Enough.

Another event happening this weekend is my daughter’s Christmas dance recital. She loves gymnastics. It’s not as big of a production as the end of the year recital, so costumes are just a logo T-shirt from the school, which you dress up however you want. What did she wear her first year? Think Cindy Lou Who’s cuteness meets Marilyn Monroe’s glam and wrap it in a big red bow. It was that good. Four years later? I cropped the T, fringed the sleeves and we’re pairing it with a green tassel skirt from Amazon. It’s cute, but it’s not 1st-Christmas-recital-cute. It’s Good Enough. This logic can be applied when it comes to Santa photos and posed Christmas portraits throughout the years. Nine+ years ago my son was Frosty. Literally. Black silk hat, carrot nose and coal buttons painted on his naked belly. See below for photos. We had to go to frolic through the real tree farm for the perfect photo op. Outfits with cohesive color pallets and my kids posed against the merriest, wintery-est wonderland backdrop my sister could create. Photos framed to be forever frozen in time. Now? Stand in front of these lights and smile, please. I need something to put on the card this year. We still look good, but the effort is lacking for sure.

Let’s talk wrapping paper. How do your gift-wrapping skills hold up after the 39th oblong box? Why are so many sticker price tags gorilla glued to the front of items? Who decided to put normal shaped items in not-normal shaped boxes? Let me tell you, my wrapping skills may start off strong. But mid-way through, when I’m gliding the scissors up the wrapping paper roll so effortlessly, and then it gets caught, I have to stop myself from launching the whole roll, the scissors and the gift through the front window.

I do feel very strongly about having a festive and welcoming table scape for Christmas Eve dinner. Give me the deep green garland, red velvet bows, gold chargers and lots of candles. Now ask me why I insist on having real cloth napkins and napkin rings, but we use plastic forks and spoons. Because the thought of washing 25 forks and 25 spoons just sends me over the edge.

If I bake, it’s going to taste good, but it’s only going to look Good Enough. I have three life-size reindeer out front. Only 2 light up and I can’t figure out why. Two lit deer are Good Enough. There are also several boundaries that are pushed during the holidays season. Most notable include my diet (one cookie for them, one for me), my gift budget (one gift for them, one for me), my kids’ bedtimes (Fine, watch one more Henry Danger, just stop fighting!) and the amount of trash bags our cans outside can fit. Side note: why is it that a husband’s favorite thing to is complain about how much trash his family makes? The amazon guy is here eleven times a day, everyday, for the last 75 days, Pete. What’s the big surprise that the cans are full again? Just put the boxes outside.

Now, with all the bitching I do, you can rest assure that we will be smiling together under the tree in matching pajamas on Christmas morning. I may walk the line between hot mess express and the hostess with the mostess daily, but I do it with a Gucci bag and a scalp full of dry shampoo. I’m the human representation of the tree that’s perfectly decorated in the front and a disaster in the back, before it fell, of course. We have to balance out the madness of the holidays. There’s always another party to get ready for, another gift you forgot to buy and another day your kids need to be dressed like Gingerbread men at school. The house is staying a mess, no matter how many times you try to organize, your family will continue to aggravate you around the clock and a set of lights in the middle of the tree is going to go out. Look, Christmas is coming either way, and I’ve just had to deal with the harsh realization that I do not need any batteries this year. Ain’t that some shit? I remember, in advance to get batteries, I look at their gifts from Santa and realize that my kids are growing up. They asked for clothes and accessories and big kid crap. Make up and ice cream sliding mitts, IYKYK. No toys to put together, no stickers to put on a Barbie’s dream house and no having only C batteries in the junk drawer when you really need Ds. Enjoy that madness mamas, because it’s so fleeting.

The best we can do is the best we can do. And that’s Good Enough. Just remember, drink wine before you even serve the appetizers. It will make you a better host. Your kids won’t remember what you forgot, they will only remember the magic you created. Your husband will carry all the boxes and look like the hero, even though we know who really made it all happen. AND LEAVE THE FUCKING TREE ALONE BEFORE IT FALLS. It’s Good Enough!

Now let me let you go. It’s probably Grinch day at school tomorrow, you owe a Venmo to 6 different fundraisers and you have no idea what you’re making for dinner tonight. Somehow, even after 46 nervous breakdowns, daily threats to cancel Christmas all together and 91 trips to the grocery store, it will all get done. The seven fish will be prepared, the charcuterie boards will be instagrammed to death and the kids will grow bored of all their gifts in an hour.

Santa— if you’re listening, take your boots off when you come in and wash your cookie plate before you go.

Merry Christmas, y’all.

 Call your mom, say your prayers, thank a cop. XO