A sliver of red shrinks in the battery icon as I aim the phone camera towards the nativity scene. The target is a seven-year-old disguised as a sheep. My focus is thrown off by a well-dressed couple in front of me. Their heads move like windshield wipers in search of their child. The wife pivots a full 90 degrees to give her husband a glare that is as sharp as his haircut.
That’s his signal.
Like a SWAT leader, the husband speed walks down the pew in a crouched position. He disappears for a brief moment only to emerge before the whole congregation for a Sports Illustrated close up shot.
Not loving my own child nearly as much, I remain seated and settle for this image right before my phone dies:
After a half-hour nativity presentation, Mass officially starts.
The first reading is Dominic’s cue to remind us he’s a toddler. To move this squealing toddler “away” from the crowd, I escort him to the social gathering area where rows of occupied metal chairs stretch across the room.
In the center of this room is a 15-foot Christmas tree. Lights, ribbons, and shiny glass balls cover the towering spruce branch by branch. Dominic is so memorized he wants to climb it. He sprints to the base of the tree and shoves a few manger scene statues out of his way. I pick him up and restrain him with a bear hug. Peace on earth resumes until his butt vibrates against my forearm and releases the sound of a tuba. Dozens of startled faces turn towards us as we head for the exit.
Rejuvenated by the Holy Spirit, our family heads home for Christmas dinner preparations.
All is initially calm and bright. The kids are playing in the basement, I’m pouring drinks, and Laura is firing up the stove while holiday music plays from the speaker.
Within minutes, Dean Martin’s Let it Snow is trampled by the grinding sounds of kitchen bar stools being shoved to the snack cabinet and my steak cooking ritual gives way to a whack-a-mole game of peeling boys off the shelf. The carefully seasoned T-bone, meanwhile, descends from medium rare to extremely well done. Well done, Dad.
After corralling livestock to the table, I light the Advent candles. They are immediately blown out by Dominic, who thinks it’s his birthday. I light them again and cover Dominic’s mouth as we say grace.
Dinner begins with Laura telling our kids the story of Jesus’s birth. Her melodic voice takes them on a journey to Bethlehem, introducing key characters along the way. To gauge our Catholic progress, we ask the oldest three why the birth of Jesus is so important. They proclaim, “because we get presents!”
Gesturing with a whiskey drink still in hand, I tell the kids they’re being selfish and repeat the Jesus story, this time citing the heaven-and-hell implications of his existence. They respond by asking, “yeah but when can we open presents?”
The Christmas gift tradition in our house is painfully drawn out in two stages: gifts from Mom and Dad are opened on Christmas Eve, followed by Santa gifts on Christmas morning. The Mommy/Daddy presents are stuffed inside our bedroom closet, safely guarded by a sliding door.
One of our kids somehow slides the door open. Word gets out and our children surround the closet entrance screaming like teenage girls at a Beatles concert. We diffuse the situation by telling each child to take one present, place it under the tree, and wait on the couch (parenting experts call this giving them “a sense of responsibility.”).
I remain alone in our bedroom for a breather, scarfing handfuls of Reese’s chocolates. This first aid regimen is abruptly interrupted by Laura’s yelling. I scramble down the stairs and discover that Matthew and David had already ripped open two and a half gifts. Loud enough for neighbors to hear, I order the boys to “sit their butts” on the couch.
We then announce with a simple instruction: “Each child will wait their turn and open one–ONE present at a time.”
I place a present in front of Dominic, who greets it with a smile. Before he even touches the gift, David and Matthew leap off the couch yelling “let’s help him open it!” They proceed to help him open his gift the same way a pack of hyenas “help” each other devour a dead zebra. I pull Dominic from the rubble and bring him to a safe location.
Gradually, the gift frenzy smooths out. Dozens of thank-you screams dance with the swishy sounds of crinkling wrapping paper. The kids take turns running into our arms, practically on the verge of tears. We are in perfect harmony.
Or as it turns out, the eye of the hurricane.
When the kids finish opening gifts, it’s time to play with them. This is the moment elation hands the torch over to hysteria.
Toy companies package their merchandise with the assumption that unless each toy is secured by 20 twisty wires and 30 zip ties, it may come to life and escape from the box. For this reason, removing Matthew’s Paw Patrol truck from its packaging is a surgical procedure. As I’m maneuvering the scissor blades behind the wheels, Matthew loses patience and rips the truck away. My “hold on!” bark hurts his feelings, and he exacts revenge by pressing the truck’s music button. The Paw Patrol theme explodes off the walls, causing tightness in my chest.
Our crisis worsens with another problem: modern manufacturers design toy battery compartments as if every household has a needle-size screwdriver. Using the tip of a nail clipper filing blade, I struggle to rotate a screw on Dominic’s remote control race car. Only 47 more counterclockwise turns and I will have removed one of five screws.
Dominic seemingly thinks I’m stabbing his race car to death, and begins wailing and pulling my pant leg so hard I almost fall. Behind him in line are David and Matthew, arguing over who gets their batteries first.
The next thing I remember is hauling children upstairs for bed. Thanks to their new toy adrenaline, I have to pin their arms down with my knees to brush their teeth. The only thing keeping the boys in their rooms is the threat that Santa will skip our house if they escape. Santa’s gifts make their way to the tree after the lights finally go out.
The lights go back on 90 minutes later. Matthew sprints up and down the hallway ordering everyone to wake up. I stumble downstairs and find him next to his brand new HotWheels race track. The whirring track speed booster feels as loud as a lawn mower, and seeing “1:00 am” on the kitchen clock feels as lovely as the realization that I still have my contacts on.
I peel the dry plastic off my eyes in the bathroom while Laura drags Matthew back to bed. She and I lay back down and fall asleep–but not until after Matthew tries to start Christmas early a second time. His new strategy is enticement:
Mom, guess what, I you got a presen–
GETOUT!!!!!!!
Our slumber resumes until 6:30 am. It’s Christmas morning. What happens from this point forward is largely beyond my recollection. All I have is video footage, which confirms the children are even more sleep deprived than we are:
The following week, Laura and I have our traditional post-holiday debriefing. We discuss everything that went wrong and exchange ideas on how to simplify next year’s Christmas. We’re thinking less presents, less sugar, less shopping; and spending less time on screens and more time on Advent prayers.
Determined to gain control of our future holidays, we go forth and have another kid.
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