Happy Christmas (War is Over)

Christmas is a holiday. This was posted Monday, December 18, 2006

So, it's December 2006, and nobody but Stephen Colbert and Laura Evans are bitching about a "War on Christmas." Which means it's officially over. A moment of silence for all those brave Christian soldiers who gave their all for the cause. Wal-Mart is like a charnel house, it's all over but the mopping.

What worries me now is that, in fact, they aren't pretending there's a threat to the official US government religion. If they aren't using that to distract us from the fact that we're killing Middle-Easterns by the thousands (and losing our own troops by the hundreds, at least), then exactly what surprise are they going to spring on us this year? Two years ago, it was "look, there's Saddam in a spider-hole!" Last year it was "chain stores and the Democrats hate you!" (Which, in fact, is the truth, but it doesn't have anything to do with religion.) This year? I like to hope that the mid-term elections made them decide to give it up. But it doesn't really seem likely, does it?

I'm not a fan of this time of year. It's not the weather -- unlike most Texans, I like winter, I spent two years in Kansas, and while there's no end of reasons to hate Kansas, the winter's not one for me. Hip-deep snow drifts are my idea of fun. And besides, it's not like it's winter here anyway, calendar be damned. Might as well be Easter, for all the chill in the air now.

No, I'm afraid it's the obvious. I really dislike these holidays. (And yes, Laura, there are more than one.) The lunatic materialism. The lunatic crowds. The lunatic family.

Mostly the family. My mother was sort of obsessive about Christmas when I was a child. Everything had to be just perfect. When I was living with them, the dread began in early November. I never even got to enjoy a Thanksgiving for the anticipation of what was coming at the end of the meal. The house would have to be transformed, and dramatically so. When my parents moved to a new house (after I'd packed out to college), Mom had to have the one with the enormous picture window that opened on a room with cranberry-red walls and ceiling and white trim. She even paid extra to make the previous owners leave their furniture -- all white, naturally. She packs that window with all the tinsel and garlands and trees (that's right, plural) that will fit. (Little wonder they're burgled every few years, the insurance company probably has a folder with my parents' number prepared by every December 10.) A friend's wife once walked in and rudely blurted to my mother the phrase we'd all thought but avoided saying: "it looks like Santa Claus threw up in here!"

Mom's lightened up a bit in recent years, thanks in large part to her discovery of certain prescription chemicals that will take the edge off. (Which she doesn't know I know about, and would deny vociferously if I brought it up anywhere she could hear it, so I don't.) And I've tried to ease up a bit myself -- I can't say I love the decorations, but I tend to keep my trap shut about it. But like all families, we've all been put into certain categories and are stuck with them until we die, and mine is "the guy who wants to destroy Christmas for us all!" My siblings are wary around me, always ready for me to say something that'll light a fuse. And so I can't be comfortable with them. Or Christmas.

Now that I have a child who's old enough to dig it, I'm doing the Christmas thing. I have a tree, as always -- Lisa's understanding, but she's insisted on a tree every year, and she's kind enough not to make me work too hard on it. And there'll be gifts under it come Christmas morning (the boy wants a new bicycle). We went to the school Christmas play the other night (the reason I missed the SA film mixer). I'm enjoying his reaction to all of this (except when he sees a toy commercial on TV). I watched the Pee-Wee Christmas Special the other night (Grace Jones singing "the Little Drummer Boy"!). I'm being good. I know Santa's watching.

But I'll be glad when it's over.