Pamper Guests - The Parklander Magazine

MOM’S PERSPECTIVE: BY CHERYL PANGBORNSkipping a PerfectChristmasI HAVE A SPECIAL BOOK TO READ at the beginningof December. No, I’m sorry, it’s not AChristmas Carol by Charles Dickens. It’sSkipping Christmas by John Grisham. This isone of the funniest books ever written. If youhaven’t read it, you may have seen the movieadapted from the book, which came out a fewyears ago. Christmas with the Kranks is a funnymovie, but the book beats all.The premise is that this forty-somethingcouple with a grown daughter out of the nestdecides, based on the wad of cash they blewlast Christmas, that it would be more economicalto take a cruise this year. The catchhere is that, after some cajoling on thrifty Mr.Krank’s part, they would completely skip allof the holiday festivities right up until theyleave for their cruise the day beforeChristmas.Poor Mrs. Krank is horrified. She is practicallyhyperventilating over not putting up atree, buying presents and sending outChristmas cards.The poor duo is harassed bytheir wacky neighbors who think they havelost their minds. Naturally, they never make iton the cruise because their daughter comes inunexpectedly at the last minute.I can relate to this idea. Just thinking aboutall the extra stuff that will be thrust on myplate come mid-November, yikes! I love thebustle of the holiday as much as anybody. Butif I stop romanticizing it and think of all themoney, time and energy spent, I can definitelyside with the Kranks. Christmas will be lessthan perfect.One of my favorite parts in the book iswhen Mrs. Krank begins to get Christmascards in the mail. She is mortified by this andis hardly able to stand the idea of not sendinga card in return. I can completely feel herpain. I am one of those Christmas card freakswho will stop at nothing to make sure mycards are ready for delivery right afterThanksgiving. Why is this? It’s quite simple.I know some sneaky card cheaters who sendno cards until they get a card. Then theyreturn the gesture by sending their own card.This really bugs me.I have to know that my Christmas cardrecipients are fully aware that I send my cardsunprovoked and not under any pressure,based solely on the idea of brotherly love atChristmas. Most of my friends just roll theireyes when they go to their mailboxes onDecember 1, as they are reminded that I amback in full holiday looniness.This card crazeis the opening act to my adventure called“quest for the perfect Christmas.”I dream that maybe one day I’ll wake upand all of my presents will be wrapped, thetree in place and decorated and lights and decorationshung. Then I can proclaim for all tohear, “It’s a Christmas miracle.” Not that Idon’t enjoy the fun involved in the process. Ithink the key word is “romanticizing”how theprocess will go. I get caught up in the fairy taleof how I think things will transpire, say, forinstance, while putting up the Christmas treewith everyone happily drinking cider, talkingpleasantly, chuckling while they string popcorn,with a fire shimmering in the corner.The reality is that Mom and Dad are inthe driveway, fighting the tree into a stand,covered in tree sap, then dragging it into thehouse only to find it looks like the LeaningTower of Pisa.Then the inevitable commentsstart: “I asked you to tell me if it was leaning!”The facts are that it’s 105 degrees outside andwe are shrouded in complete darkness. Thenwe start all over again, shifting and pullinguntil the Christmas tree is pretty straight.That’s all we can do in one night. We have todeal with the tree business in shifts.A few days later, I whip out the decorationsand lights and think I can handleanother battle with the tree. It never fails. Icheck each and every strand of lights by pluggingthem in individually before puttingthem on the tree. It never fails that once thestrands are on the tree, one of them does notlight up! This just makes me go from zero to100 on the irritation scale within seconds.Then I have to check every bulb...one...at...a...time. This is not fun. No one ischuckling and no pleasant words are beingpassed around. Last year my husband foundme on the floor in the middle of a big pile oflittle tree lights, literally at the end of my ropeor, shall we say, electrical cord.Pesky outdoor lights are another difficulty.Funny thing is, if I see my neighbors puttingup their lights before me, I stop whatever I amdoing and, no matter where my husband is, Icall and tell him. Oh, sure, I play the friendlyneighbor, casually waving and giving my(continued on page 54)52DECEMBER 2010