Christina M. Currie: Naughty mom |

Christina M. Currie: Naughty mom

I know that my girls can sing “Jingle Bells” 14 times from City Market to my house.

It takes another two hours to get that cursed song out of your head. That is, until you’re lying in bed, just drifting into that haze between awake and asleep, when it pops back in.

I didn’t say anything when we went shopping for Halloween costumes

amid Christmas trees.

I didn’t say anything when the girls were making Christmas ornaments in November.

Now, now, I’m feeling a bit of the Grinch sneak in when I think of Christmas.

Someone just told me that you know you’re getting old when you’re not counting the days until Christmas, you’re counting the days until after Christmas.

I think I’m in the between stage where you’re still counting the days until Christmas, but more out of panic than excitement.

Every day my kids ask me, “How many days until Christmas?”

And every day, I feel a little more overwhelmed.

A friend of mine told me she was done shopping, had wrapped all her gifts and had mailed those destined for family far away.

I hate her.

I’m the one woman in the sea of men at the convenience store the night before Christmas looking for stocking stuffers.

And now this Christmas song thing is putting me over the edge.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to hear my girls sing.

I even love Christmas carols. I remember fondly the days of singing Christmas carols on the bus from the time we boarded until the time we stepped off.

It’s a wonder we weren’t thrown off.

I cannot imagine now how that lovely woman survived the holiday season.

Two kids limping their way through “Jingle Bells” is enough to wear a layer off my teeth. Who? Who can withstand 47 off-key non-teens singing “summer” instead of “shimmer” and doing it 23 times?

How many times can the average human bear hearing the shout “like Pinocchio?”

Don’t you just want to scream “Blitzen!” The damn reindeer’s name is “Blitzen!”

Do you ever just want to point out that reindeer, lacking opposable thumbs (or any digits at all for that matter) can’t play Monopoly?

We went Christmas shopping last night. It was a fairly miserable experience. The girls, knowing that Santa is listening, thought it a chance to directly order everything they’d ever given a passing thought to having.

I finally exploded and told 7-year-old Katie that if she said “I” or “me” one more time, that she couldn’t talk for the rest of the night.

I know, I know. I am not that bad of a person. I really and truly enjoy the holidays.

It’s just stress that’s making me act this way. On Christmas day, I’ll hear those sweet little voices and my heart will swell back to its normal size.

I will not care about the words.

I will not care about the tune.

I will not care about the obscene displays of gluttony.

I will care only that I survived and that on this day, we are all together in celebration.

Until then, I think I’m going to leave the mp3 player in the car. I just can’t take knowing that Santa Claus knows if I’ve been bad or good and is judging me as more naughty than nice.


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