I am deep sighing about Christmas.

I deep sigh a lot. I’ve always done this. It’s what I do when I’m faced with literally anything that requires effort other than reading a book or looking at my phone. I deep sigh when I think about a giant project I need to tackle at work.  Or when reading Trump’s Tweets. Or when thinking about picking out paint colors.  I deep sigh before I pick up my hair dryer, load the clothing in the washer, or put on my children’s shoes for them (when will they put on their own shoes? WHEN?!?!?!).  I especially deep sigh when I’m downstairs writing and my youngest wakes up in her crib and I have to walk upstairs to pat her on the back and hand her back her paci (which just happened).

Anyway, in typing the word “Christmas,” I just sighed.

It seems like so much, doesn’t it? So many things must be done.

So. Much. Money. Must. Be. Spent.

My husband never, ever spends money during the year. Ever. But what he doesn’t spend during the year, he makes up for it at Christmas. Friends. you should see the amount of Amazon packages that are currently at our house.

Me? I’m of the Dickens variety in buying Christmas gifts. I have a glorious fever dream where I will only give my children some sheet music and an orange for Christmas and they will gather around my skirts, thanking me for such a glorious present. “Mama,” they clammer. “You are the best Mama. AN ORANGE! We have never known such generosity!” (In reality, they don’t know how to read music, I only wear yoga pants at home, and we are able to buy oranges by the crate at Costco.)

It will be fine. We’ll get through it. We will hopefully not go bankrupt.

And we bought a tree. And decorated it. And it’s glorious. It’s almost embarrassing how much I love our Christmas tree. It really does set the tone, doesn’t it? It makes me blush that a week ago I wished I were Jewish.