The last of the chocolates have only three corners and the final drop of wonderful thigh-expanding eggnog is gone. Gone also is that familiar nostalgic feeling that begins in September when the stores display such gems as the endlessly entertaining singing monkeys, shuffling penguins and hip-swinging Santas.
We have so much to be thankful for at my house, namely: the end of the Holiday Season. On Christmas morning, after Spongedad Grumpypants finally made an appearance in all his bah-humbug, morning-breath glory, the wrap-ripping carnage began. Soon we had three bulging plastic bags of re-fuse that my husband re-fused to take out (he stretched the excuse that the dumpster was overflowing for almost three days).
The ringing in our ears from piercing shrieks of excitement hadn't begun to fade before we regretted the vast majority of "Santa's" gift selections for our son. It wasn't just that I needed a crowbar and flame-thrower to get the packages open - I spent more migraine-inducing time putting the toys together then my son spent playing with them.
I still catch myself humming "Jingle Bells," the song I painstakingly taught my four-year-old for his preschool stage debut in which he completely ignored the teacher and instead ran around in circles and tried to "accidently" kick over a pile of gifts. More than any other holiday blessing, I'll be mourning the passing of the "Santa can see you!" threat...
Happy New Year! (sigh)