Wednesday, December 7. It’s 2:41 p.m. I have a feeling it’s 7:00 p.m. It’s gray, it’s raining, I can hardly think that Christmas will be upon us in two weeks. I feel like my childhood memories are so beautiful they never existed.
When I was young, at this same time of year, exams at school were more festive when I looked out the window because the sun was beating down on the snow. It was bright. I almost forgot the stress of not getting a good grade.
My mother would pick me up after school and, even though the sun was gone, the snow crunching under my boots reminded me that soon it would be the holiday season. Movies in the afternoon. Unscheduled naps. The real vacation. It was the holiday season, and the word party was right.
In my memories, Christmas dinners were noisy, colorful, and no one seemed frustrated to have forgotten the potato salad on the roof of the car because there was no more room in the fridge. We laughed the next day when we woke up in a good mood to eat what was lying on the table and open the rest of the presents. The music was loud, the lights flickering outside my mother’s house lit up the little stretch of sidewalk in front of her house. The exchanges of gifts did not make anyone sigh, the heavy conversations on the news faded when they came to get us by force to dance: “Aweille, just this song, it’s Christmas!” »
Now I look at my diary wondering if all the dinners on the schedule are worth it. I’m already tired.
However, when I was young, I only asked for that, to go and eat with people. Falling asleep on the couch in the basement at my mom’s friend’s house because the adults upstairs were talking about things that didn’t interest me. I liked being woken up at 11:30 p.m. by my mother, who put my boots on my feet, one eye half open. I couldn’t wait for her to take me in her arms and put me in the back seat of the car so I could go back to sleep soundly.
Now, I often have trouble getting through a full night without waking up wondering what I should go buy for dinner coming up in a few days. If I have to buy presents for my friends’ children or lecture them about overconsumption. Teach them that it’s the moments that count, not the material. I am too conscious of life, of the western magic of things.
To all parents reading this: I apologize for judging you all these years. To have found that you exaggerated with your stress, your too much food in the fridge, with the 300 messages on Facebook to remind you of the arrival time.
I apologize for underestimating the mental load that comes with the holidays you don’t always celebrate because you spend your time having panic attacks forgetting things on your infuriating to-do list. to do and buy.
To be an adult is to realize that Christmas was the fun when we were children. We just had to exist and have fun. Being an adult means having to participate in the creation of beautiful moments. It’s a lot of pressure.
Thank you to all the parents who struggle to please the little ones while forgetting that deep down, the real pleasure lies in your presence and your love.
I wish you a little sweetness with yourselves.
Christmas, even without snow, without gifts, without a large table, is supposed to be a time for loving and enjoying the simplicity that is happiness.
Let’s stop breaking our heads, take advantage of the time that passes and that will not come back.
Happy Holidays to all.