I am staggering to the finish line that is Christmas Day. Wait, staggering is a bit generous. I think I’m crawling.
I am utterly, completely, bone-numbingly exhausted from this season of festive joy. That’s because somehow I’m responsible for making sure everyone else is experiencing the festive joy.
I don’t think I can handle any more kids’ Christmas parties. I’ve been told to “bring a plate” so many times that I’m now just taking it to mean “bring a paper plate and a box of Cheezels”. Who are these people who bake home-made sausage rolls, or prepare individual desserts of Freddo Frogs set in green jelly? How do they find the time?
I can’t choose another present. So much time and effort went into getting the right toys for my kids (starting early so I could order Slugterra toys from overseas online, finishing late when my son decided his new obsession was Plants vs. Zombies) that I have no mental energy for other people’s gifts. I’ve got to the point where I’m buying candles. Candles. The gift equivalent of throwing your hands in the air in defeat. Candles basically say, “Hey, you’re female and I feel compelled by social convention to buy you a present.”
I feel a bit shaky about the idea of going to my local Westfield for the last few things I’ve forgotten. I don’t know if I can withstand the sweaty crush of humanity – not to mention the despair in other parents’ eyes as they see the empty Hatchimals shelf. The queues at ToysRUs are something like the queues for bread in Soviet-era Russia.
I’m worried if I try to leave the car park on Christmas Eve, I’ll still be stuck there on New Year’s Day. I saw one mum post online that Kmart is not too crowded at 6am on a weekday at the moment.
Maybe I should give that a try.