Wouldn’t it be nice?

Christmas is a wonderful thing. Well, it’s supposed to be, anyway.

I did my research for this blog before I began writing; I typed “what is Christmas” in my internet search bar, and this is what I found:

Christmas is the annual Christian festival celebrating Christ’s birth.

Random side note: One trickster had their fun on Wikipedia, by adding that it’s not only the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ but also Brian Cohen; someone took it down minutes later, but not before I got a screenshot.

Anyway, back to what I was saying. Christmas is supposed to be the celebration of the birth of Christ, but it’s been turned into something completely different. While it would be nice to point fingers and blame the big retail conglomerates, I feel like most of us have to shoulder at least a little of the blame, because we allow ourselves to get sucked up in the black hole of commercialism; shoot, if we’re being honest, the truth is that we practically dive into it like we would a cool pool of water on a hot summer day.

I can’t count the number of times I stressed over whether I’d picked out the “right” present for someone, often spending much more than I could afford to in an effort to please people. If I had known then what I know now, I would have understood that most people don’t care what you give them, but simply appreciate the fact that you thought about them. I say “most” because there will always be exceptions. The cause of my former stress over these sorts of things was never an outside force—it was all me, allowing myself to believe that things like this matter. I can’t tell you how freeing it was to realize that they don’t.

The belief that buying the “right” stuff for people isn’t a measure of how much you care about them was reinforced yesterday, when I heard it come out of my own mouth. My son was almost on the verge of panic because he wanted to get me more than he had already gotten me. I told him I wanted a calendar for Christmas, even going to the store with him to show him which one. He bought it for me, but yesterday, he decided that it wasn’t enough.

“You got me exactly what I asked for,” I told him.

“But it’s not enough,” he said. “You’re my mom, and I love you, and you do so much for me.”

I think I was successful in talking him out of buying anything else for me. I don’t care about things, I care about him, and at the risk of sounding sappy, he already gave me the best gift I could ask for: he insisted on us hanging out together for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

I hate that he feels like that . . . that he thinks there’s some invisible Care Meter that moves up or down according to the price tag on a gift; but I think we have all been in that mindset at one time or another.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we would allow ourselves to celebrate Christmas without worry or stress?

We put so much undue pressure on ourselves that we cannot truly enjoy the holidays; we’re too busy trying to make sure that everything is just right. I’m here to tell you (as any bride probably would agree), trying to make anything perfect makes it practically impossible to take delight in said thing. I would think after watching The Grinch all of our lives, we’d get it, but we really don’t, do we? Or maybe we get it, but we refuse to allow ourselves to put this concept into action.

So, this Christmas, here’s my gift to you:

I give you permission to not worry about getting the perfect gift. I give you permission to sit back, relax, and laugh with your friends and family. If your family stresses you, you’re allowed to take some quiet time alone—shoot, you can even excuse yourself and go take a nap.

Who am I to give you permission to do anything, you ask? Well, nobody, really, but that’s not the point; I’m just here because I understand that sometimes we (being the silly creatures we are) feel like we need for someone to give us permission to do things for ourselves, and so, I hereby grant permission: Have yourself a merry little Christmas, my friends, and take comfort in remembering that the only perfect person is the whole reason we’re supposed to be celebrating Christmas to begin with.