The Velociraptor in Christmas

I managed to make it to 31 years without feeling that Christmas season anxiety I always hear about and read about in magazines this time of year. “So choose not to worry about it,” I’d always thought, skipping to the next page. I had the same reaction to mom-guilt. Then I had Eloise. Now I feel bad about everything at all times, because I am doing everything badly at all times. Except lunch: “Good job, Mom!” Isaac applauded as I cut his sandwich with a round cookie cutter to make it look like the dumb uncrustable frozen sandwiches we’re out of. Because most days I can’t even make a PBnJ. FAILING MISERABLY ALWAYS. See what I mean? 

Anyway, Christmas anxiety: we’re not going to Texas—minor guilt. The presents will arrive late to my parents’ house—minor guilt. I’ve had no days without Isaac to shop for his stocking—moderate guilt. We have more people and zero storage space for more toys, so every additional item brought into this house comes swathed in anxiety, which breeds guilt. Part of me is dreading the influx of toys and mess—what a Grinch. Of course I feel guilt about that, like I’m ruining Christmas for Isaac. 

And THAT is the velociraptor in our Christmas: GUILT. Anxiety. Scroogeishness. I know, I know; true guilt is conviction from the Holy Spirit and leads to repentance and forgiveness, while false guilt comes from the devil and breeds…I forget. More guilt, I guess. 

The star on my tree of guilt is the fear that, in the midst of struggling with two kids, Chris gone a lot, sickness and weariness, I’m ruining it all for Isaac. 

I was excited about the three presents we got Isaac: extra pieces for his beloved train set that 1. he will LOVE, and 2. Chris wanted so they could make cooler tracks TOGETHER. Perfect, right? 

Oh wait, I have NOTHING for his stocking. And those presents are cool, but just wooden pieces in boring white boxes. No ‘wow’ factor for Christmas morning. Then Isaac comes home from his preschool party with a little party favor bag of toddler junkies: a cookie cutter, some chocolate, a tiny thing of playdough. 

“Miss Sara and Miss Kristy gave me a present!” Isaac was smitten. “Miss Sara and Miss Kristy gave Isaac a present!” He kept saying it. 

Guilt. If he’s that delighted with a little bag of crap, am I stealing all his joy forever by not loading up his stocking with cheap junk? Even if I threw it all away a week later, isn’t his joy and excitement worth $10? Ugh, so much waste. I hate all the expense and waste and junk. And our wooden floors—while gorgeous—amplify every noise by a million. It is all so overwhelming. 


The velociraptor has approached the manger and is drooling over the Christ child. 

“Honestly, the third present he opens Christmas morning can’t even compare to that first end-of-school present,” my mom counseled over the phone this week. “You guys would always come home from your class parties more excited about that present than anything else because it’s the first one. After you’ve opened 10 presents on Christmas there’s just no way you can keep up that enthusiasm. It’s just present overload.” 

“Oh. Right. That’s a good point,” I said, feeling better. But she had still MORE encouragement for me. 

[I hadn’t figured out how to remove the cheesy labels in my photo app yet.]

“I’ve told you my story of great shame, right?” she continued. 

I was five or six, and fervently hoped for the IT toy of the year: some Barbie house thing. My parents’ 800-sq-ft house in frigid New Jersey was full with us four rowdy kids, but they still searched all over for the huge toy because I reeeeeeeally wanted it. It could not be found. My mom’s mom found it in California and shipped it to my parents. Success! Christmas Eve, hours went by as my folks wrapped stocking presents and set out everything from Santa. Finally, after midnight, they sat down to put together THE present. They opened the box and looked at the eight million pieces. They looked at each other. And they boxed it all back up to return to my grandmother. 

“We looked at each other and said, ‘We just can’t.'”My mom said. “800 square feet. We just couldn’t. I felt so bad.” Christmas morning, my mom watched me for signs of disappointment. 

“You seemed fine,” she said. Until bedtime, when each kid prayed. 
“Thank you for all my presents, even though I didn’t get the Barbie thing,” prayed five-year-old Mari. My parents’ eyes met in shared guilt. My mom said she felt so bad, but the reality of the tiny house and long winter was just too much. 

“I still feel bad about it!” she said the other day. “Should we have given it to you? I don’t know!” 

“NO!” I said emphatically. “I don’t even remember that! You were actually giving me the BEST PRESENT EVER 25 years in the future—first-hand proof that it’s going to be FINE! The anxiety is unnecessary! THANK YOU!”