This time of year is Merry Important! (New phrase, courtesy of Z.)
My version of holiday decorating–especially with the Small People. This kind of magic is important to them– they have no idea what all the social implications are behind a Made In China Snoopy ornament, or the amount of money and fossil fuels that are wasted in the name of Griswald. They don’t conceptualize the vomitous greed that is stabbing someone with an ornament. Or that the current Occupy movements across the country are fighting the corporate greed of the credit cards that are underwriting everyone’s holiday cheer (and January antidepressants).
Now, as the adult, I do know about all of that crap. And as the adult, I get to decide how much of that crap comes into my house. Knowing about it is how I ended up on this crafting ride to begin with, you know? Because while I can’t craft a Batman Geotrax train (no really), I can craft something to offset that purchase.
It’s the crafting version of carbon credits.
And making new decorations after copying becoming inspired by more expensive options makes me happy. Case in point– this Christmas tree shaped advent calendar from Pottery Barn, for which they charged $69.
I started this last December… somewhere around December 6th, because that’s how a scattermom does things. I used felt because I have an abundance of green felt (situation NOT improved by a husband who thought briefly of being Gumby for Halloween this year).
As I tried to coax my aging, and damn cranky, sewing machine into cheerfully sewing 3 layers of felt last night, I realized that I didn’t care enough about the finish work on this particular project. You know– decorative zig-zag stitch around the pockets, quilted batting, etc. Ahem… numbering the days. (okay, I will add the numbers).
My husband– always my biggest supporter *sarcasm*– critically pointed out that mine wouldn’t ever look like the pottery barn one anyway, so why bother? I choose to take it as a compliment that he looked at my version against the picture of theirs and replied, “I stand corrected, that’s not too bad.”
Where the felt tree monstrosity secures its position in our tradition is what was left behind from last year. I had spent the evening up to this point sort of wailing and complaining about the testosterone in this house. Sometimes I feel as if I’m the only one here that makes any sense. Probably as often as they mumble about crazy mom.
As I had finally calmed down about the injustice of my force-the-constipated-three-year-old-to-graciously-accept-the-suppository kind of day, I noticed a piece of paper in one of the pockets.
*Love* my short-hand on the word complaining. Adds to the appeal? I have no recollection on when/where/why I wrote this down- but it’s my handwriting so I claim it.
A not-so-subtle reminder that *my* life is also a carnival, compared to many others. And even my day, fraught with sibling bickering and general domestic nonsense
wasn’t that bad. After all, it was a suppository, not an enema.