In my head, decorating the Christmas tree with The Beast, The Good One and their father was going to be a Christmas moment that would warm my heart and fill me with so much joy and Christmas magic that I was going to burp tinsel and glitter.
It was going to be a scene right out of a movie. I was thinking “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “Miracle on 34th Street.” Apparently the wine I had with dinner that night had some sort of reality-altering effect that transported me to a land where things are calm and peaceful in my house, because in spite of the fact that The Beast is a supervillain, I did not anticipate that it would end up looking like “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”
It was a beautiful, cool night in Texas. My husband got home from work early so we could decorate the tree as a family. I pulled out the ornaments, put on some Christmas music and made some hot chocolate for the boys.
We all gathered around the Christmas tree. The lights were dimmed. The music was peaceful and we were happy and in love.
It was beautiful. For 3.7 seconds. Then it was ugly and angry.
Do you know what a round ornament looks like to a toddler? A ball.
Do you know what a toddler does when he gets a ball? He throws it. Hard.
So there we were, singing Christmas songs as The Beast hurled my ornaments across the room. I started screaming about how he was going to break them. The sound of my screaming is like Red Bull for his nefariousness. He ran around the living room with increased vigor. He threw ornaments. He tried to knock over the tree. He kicked the dog.
At one point I made him sit on the couch and drink his hot chocolate so that we could decorate in peace. He decided it would be fun to shake the hot chocolate out of his sippy cup all over the couch.
I screamed some more.
Where did my Christmas cheer go? Where was the tinsel that I was supposed to be burping. Why was my flipping radio singing to me about peace and cheer and goodwill when all I wanted to do was tie The Beast to his train table?
After 10 minutes of family togetherness and crap, we were all too irritated and short-tempered to deal with this memory-making drivel. We put The Beast to bed and decided that we’d try again next year when he’s older and better behaved. Or when I buy a leash and can tie him to the furniture.
Since the initial tree-decorating incident, we’ve had to move all of our Christmas ornaments to the top of the tree because The Beast systematically dismantled every ornament within his reach. He pulled off all of my styrofoam-ball-filled ornaments so that he could make it snow in the living room. My angels are missing wings and my reindeer are without antlers. I cannot have a Nativity because Baby Jesus would undoubtedly end up in the toilet. I don’t even know what kind of karmic crap would be hurled at me for allowing Baby Jesus to be thrown in my toilet.
This attempt to create a Christmas tradition has made me realize that all of those heartwarming Christmas movies that make us feel so happy and magical likely employ child actors whose parents drug them with enough Benadryl to drop a horse.
So now, instead of basing my Christmas expectations on those sappy movies that make me wonder what the hell is wrong with my child, I’m going to base my expectations on movies that more closely resemble my reality.
Has anyone made a movie called “Chucky Destroys Christmas” ?