Tuesday, December 29, 2009

The Denouement

For me, the period between Christmas Day and New Year's Eve is irremediably sad. All the hoopla, preparation, and scented sentimentality fades to black and we're left with a shedding pine. I suppose one should feel renewed after The Big Day, ready to venture forth armed with goodwill and peace toward all. That certainly is the goal. Perhaps because my personal Christmas has become, unintentionally, increasingly secular, I feel a noticeable absence in the wake of the baby's birth. A sort of post-partum depression sets in; the build-up has climaxed, festivities go quiet and bills find their way back into your mailbox instead of colorful cards.

When my children were younger, of course, I experienced the holiday anew, alive with excitement over the marvelous journey of Advent, and heady anticipation of Santa's arrival. However cliched, it's a universal truth that the wide-eyed wonder in a believing child's face on the Ultimate Morning is worth a million. But today I have two adults and one teenager who no longer nestle close to me while reading The Polar Express on Christmas Eve. Now it's time to undress December's gilded mannequin, time to de-trim the tree. Much like the great satisfaction one takes at the sight of a plate full of favorite foods, the aftermath--a bloated stomach--is not so pretty. Taking each of those memory-laden tokens off O Tannenbaum, branch by branch, is a task I dread.

There are at least a dozen receptacles devoted to housing my seasonal trappings, having expanded over the years with art class mementos in triplicate. Photos of my then-elementary or pre-school boys adorn various ornaments and other yuletide trinkets, from bells and reindeer to laminated placemats and luminaria. It's an exercise in facing the aging process, among other things, lingering over frosted stained glass more than a half century old. I remember hanging that fragile fixture when I was a kindergartner. Today I remove a cloth bearing the foot and handprints of my youngest son, designed to approximate, with it's bauble red nose, the unforgettable Rudolph. Snowmen, St. Nicks and silhouettes, stamped with their signatures, abound. All to be taken down and buried in boxes labeled stockings, calendars, wreaths. Virtually an entire room of my basement, along with a moldy refrigerator, is earmarked for this purpose. There is so much stuff that in recent weeks we couldn't find vital Christmas chachkas till the last minute.

Perhaps it was Martha Stewart, that diva of all things decorative, who suggested leaving some items untouched each December, so as not to unnecessarily clutter the Magi motif. But I suspect I'll continue to drag out every last vestige of the Nativity and its accompanying glitter for decades to come. After all, it's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year and we only go around once, right?