I Am Christmas

and I'm telling you why

Kids,

Mama was not kissing Santa Claus because Santa Claus does not exist. Perhaps what you saw was your mama explaining to a man who is your dada who those gifts were for. It might’ve been the fourth time your mama told the man who is your dada about those gifts that she bought in between work and picking up your little brother from nursery. She might have looked like she was kissing the man who is your dada but it was shouty hissing because your mama is tired and done. She’s the only one who’s been checking your list twice, thrice, whatever the word is for four times. 

Someday, kids, your mama will show you the magic of her spreadsheets.

For now, all your mama wants for Christmas is for the man who is your dada to listen the first time when she explains which gifts are for whom and from whom. That and a solo holiday in a monastery. 

On the first, second, fifth, sixth, seventh, tenth, twelfth days of Christmas season, your mama searched for stocking stuffers, including her own to keep up this ruse that a man comes to your house with nice things he’s made for everyone in your house, even your mama. It would be poor taste for this imaginary man not to bring for her, too. So the Nivea glow sheet face mask and Victorian cardstock and fuzzy socks, those were her purchases. She bought them and wrapped them herself for herself.

The 12 days of Christmas which has doubled to 24 and now involves an elf wandering the house at night, is also, you guessed it: your mama. Elves don’t put themselves in cute positions. And when the man who is your dada whispers to your mama in the morning “did you move the elf?” it is his way of feeling responsible and being a part of your Christmas magic, too.

There’s more. I’m sorry. Vixen and Blitzen are not reindeer. They’re your mama’s friends who chose not to have children and look really awake when they come over to play. Sometimes they slip your mama a little time-consuming puzzle to gift you kids later because they are very kind, more like Rudolph really because on foggy nights, they definitely guide your mama’s sleigh.

On the night you leave out cookies for the man who does not exist and carrots for the magical reindeer who do not exist, it’s cute when the man who is your dada takes bites out of the cookies your mama made—with your help—and then a big horsey bite out of the carrot, pretending to be the magical reindeer. (The man who is your dada is not the magical reindeer either but this is his big Christmas moment.)

While you will soon learn, kids, that the ideal woman is a mother and a virgin, a virgin mother—which was impossible until recent science—your mama is not a virgin though she is a mother. Despite the fact that she is not a virgin, she would also like a silent night. Or at least one more hour of heavenly peace than last year.

You should know that the man who is your dada is a 21st century man dada who made the cut to procreate because he is kind, secure, and he cooks. But let’s be clear: your Father Christmas is, and always was, your Mother Christmas. The magic is your mama.

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Friends, I leave this here should you also like to try it this holiday season. Charles Dickens’s punch recipe:

“Peel into a very common basin (which may be broken in case of accident, without damage to the owner’s peace or pocket) the rinds of three lemons, cut very thin and with as little as possible of the white coating between the peel and the fruit, attached. Add a double handful of lump sugar (good measure), a pint of good old rum, and a large wine-glass of good old brandy—if it be not a large claret glass, say two. Set this on fire, by filling a warm silver spoon with the spirit, lighting the contents at a wax taper, and pouring them gently in. Let it burn three or four minutes at least, stirring it from time to time. Then extinguish it by covering the basin with a tray, which will immediately put out the flame. Then squeeze in the juice of the three lemons, and add a quart of boiling water. Stir the whole well, cover it up for five minutes, and stir again.”