It’s that time of year again.
You may think I am referring to the four inches of snow outside, the frozen ice buckets in the barn, and the gas fireplace emitting warmth without a sound of a crackle. You have to love Virginia; we go from 58 one week and in the teens the next. The short cold days are upon us.
This is not what I am referring to when I say, “It’s that time of year again.” At the risk of sounding Grinchy, I mean to bring attention to the fact that Christmas is two weeks away. We are already seeing, “Last minute shopping” advertisements. Last minute? How did that happen? We just waved goodbye to the kids pulling away, after feeding them Thanksgiving turkey.
I know some people who have it all under control, who began shopping back in June, who had their home decorated with garland and a tree before the Thanksgiving leftovers were gone. I am not that person. I never have been.
There are “plotters” and “pantsers” in the writing world. One starts with an idea, spends time mapping out the characters, the overarching theme, and then outlines the whole story. All in advance of writing the first draft. Plotters are planners. Then there are those creatives whose fires are lit by ideas, and then they fly into the first draft by the seat of their pants. The words come fast, tangents are taken, roadblocks are hit, then pivots are made. It’s a bit of a wild ride. My scribbles in my notebooks show how crazy my pantsing can get. Ultimately, ideally, we arrive at the same place with a polished final draft. One way is not better than another. Many wonderful authors enthusiastically admit to being pantsers. Some argue that work will be more on the back end if it is not done on the front end.
But I digress. This post is about Christmas. I am pantsing the holidays once again. Our tree is up (almost decorated). The red and green plastic storage boxes are still in the hallway waiting to be shlepped back to their place in the basement. The snow globes are out, the stockings are hung, and a wreath is on the front door. I have my lists started for festive feast planning and gift ideas. You would never know that I am a pantser to look at me. I’ve pulled out all the striped Christmas PJs and holiday sweaters. Alexa is playing Mariah Carey, Bing Crosby and Alvin & the Chipmunks—the Christmas classics.
So what about this holiday postcard-worthy scene is Grinchy? (That reminds me…what’s our Christmas card going to be this year? Are we doing one? Do I even have a picture of the whole family from 2025?). The little loose ends of not planning far in advance are where I begin to unravel at this time of year.
It starts like this…
Yesterday, I ordered an overpriced backpack from an unfamiliar website, shopping for something on my stylish son’s wishlist. I was not paying close attention and I inadvertently fell prey to a scam. The website had two letters swapped. Think: Wallmert or Lelolemen. Seriously? It was made clear to me when our bank alerted us with a Fraud Alert. This has happened to me twice before in life, right around this time of year.
That could happen to anyone. Maybe. But this also happened. I lost my cell phone yesterday for sixty whole minutes. At the start of my search it was simply me wandering through every inch of our house calling out, “Hey Siri!” Then I’d freeze silently, hoping to hear her familiar reply, “Uh huh?” No response. The dogs and cats followed me in a parade, irritation mounting as I went from room to room. I turned 60 in July; so the idea of losing glasses, car keys, or the remote control (took me 30 minutes to find the other night), or my cell phone is distressing. I used my iPad to Find My Friends. The phone location showed it across the street behind a neighbors barn.
Cut to the chase. When I’d finally given up the search, and gone out to put the goats away for the night, I stumbled upon something black and shiny in the pine shavings on the floor of the goat stall. My cell phone!
I imagine the goats were puzzled every time they heard the bells jingle when I kept instructing my iPad to have my phone “make a sound.” There were bells jingling all right! I had to laugh. Humor is the best anecdote for adversity. We all have little hiccups. There is no need for me to attach these to the holidays.
However, there is something to be said for doing the planning, and then being fully present. It’s no coincidence I fell through the attic that one Christmas, retrieving hidden gifts. If you missed the story, it went like this…
On Christmas eve, while our family of long legged kids sat feasting on the traditional crab, I excused myself. With an idea that popped into my head I flew up the stairs. Time was short as I flipped the switch to light up the attic. Knowing where their toys were, my plan was to carry them down to hide in our closet. I found Molly the doll first, then grabbed Rescue Heroes and Lego bricks. To the far side I spotted the Thomas train box. I took several steps, until all of a sudden “Crash!” My foot broke through the attic floor. One leg was dangling deep inside of a hole. The only thing that kept me from falling through was the wood beam that I painfully straddled. Somehow I pried my leg free and scooted back onto plywood that was strong enough to support me. I brushed the debris of white plaster and pink fluffy insulation from my Christmas sweater. I pulled down my sleeves to cover the scrapes, wiped the sweat off my brow and gathered the toys to take down to our closet.
Quickly, I opened our bedroom door and was met with a carpet littered with white plaster bits and chunks. I looked up and could see right into the attic. Leaving the room exactly as it was, I backed up, closed the door and returned downstairs. After dinner, a story and cookies for Santa, it was off to bed for the children.
My husband and I walked toward the closed door of our bedroom. I caught up to him and squeezed his hand and whispered, “Do not react.” He stepped inside. Quickly I shut the door and explained the reason for the white plaster disaster and the gaping hole above our bed. Wide-eyed, he broke into a big smile, then shook his head in disbelief. I rolled up my sleeves to reveal my scapes and cuts. He kissed me on the cheek, then we swept up the mess.
The next morning was Christmas. The kids came down the stairs in their matching pajamas. Each of them broke into big toothy grins as they recognized the familiar toys from years ago: their dolls, action figures, blocks and trains. I sat down on the sofa with a sigh and started to giggle. All four of our grown children looked over at me as I cried tears of laughter. I stood up and said, “Follow me.” Everyone trailed behind as I went up the stairs. I opened the door revealing the plaster disaster and the gaping hole in the ceiling.
“Santa came down the ceiling!” They laughed.
“Indeed!”
It’s that time of year again, for all of us plotters and pantsers to make Christmas magical. I wholeheartedly believe that even if I planned far in advance I still might have these little missteps.
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