Part of it is my fault. I stay up too late puttering around, there's a myriad of things to do: last minute presents must be wrapped, the house must be rigorously cleaned (more than usual, for who doesn't want a fresh house on Christmas morning?), and as I've recently learned, there's no better time to prune the toys, as they'll never be missed once the new ones arrive.
But the late hour is often compounded by the fact that I've also probably stayed up late a night or two before that, for it's the holiday season and I'm prone to overextension. So by the time Christmas Eve rolls around I'm completely overtired, and when I'm overtired, I can't sleep. Throw in a little residual Christmas spirit from my childhood—where somewhere in my unconscious I have one ear cocked for sleigh bells on the roof and rustling under the tree—and I'm pretty much screwed.
Not in the morning, mind you. Adrenaline and my child's unadulterated glee gets me through that part, not to mention the excitement of presents and spiked coffee. But when the booze and caffeine wear off, and the work of the day begins (picking up the explosion of wrapping paper, starting dinner prep, corralling an overstimulated toddler) I start to fade. I have to will myself to remember that exhaustion is my number one trigger for anger snaps, so I voluntarily busy myself in the kitchen for an hour or two, doing my best to steer clear of anyone likely to provoke me. Because no one wants that kind of Christmas, least of all me.
But as dinner gets well underway, and my child becomes wholly occupied with his new amusements, a few glasses of wine later and I'm back to floating on serene contentment, loopy if not completely happy. My partner's holiday cheer has rubbed off, the day is deemed a wild success, and sure, maybe I'm a little tipsy, too. A delicious feast ensues, cleanup is put off till morning, and I'm primed for what I know is perhaps the the best feeling in the world: collapsing into bed, fully spent, on Christmas night.
But as dinner gets well underway, and my child becomes wholly occupied with his new amusements, a few glasses of wine later and I'm back to floating on serene contentment, loopy if not completely happy. My partner's holiday cheer has rubbed off, the day is deemed a wild success, and sure, maybe I'm a little tipsy, too. A delicious feast ensues, cleanup is put off till morning, and I'm primed for what I know is perhaps the the best feeling in the world: collapsing into bed, fully spent, on Christmas night.
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