🎄

The calendar is not a calendar. It is a psychological thriller.
Each square a fresh horror.

Monday: “Wear red for reindeer day.”
Tuesday: “Bring cookies, don’t forget the nut-free, gluten-free, emotionally wholesome ones.”
Wednesday: Picture day. Except not just a normal picture day—“the special snowflake backdrop” picture day.
Thursday: Christmas singalong, themed around a candy cane morality tale.
Friday: Pajama party. But make it stylish. And coordinated. And somehow matching across species, because even Pookie’s being dragged in.

All of this is layered on top of regular parenting chaos:
Two boys. One glued to Minecraft. One glued to my spine.
One spills yogurt on the cat.
The other is crying because Santa only got four stars on Yelp.

I’m wrapping gifts at 2 a.m. like a caffeinated elf in a hostage situation.
I’ve used duct tape.
I’ve emotionally bonded with a roll of ribbon.
I’ve hidden three presents in the oven and now I can’t make dinner.

The family photo was taken after a meltdown, a bribe, and someone biting someone else in protest of a sweater. Jack looks like he’s plotting something. James looks proud of it. I’m smiling with the dead-eyed expression of a woman who’s been holding in a sneeze since October.

The Christmas show looms. I will sit through nine renditions of “Jingle Bells,” filmed sideways on a phone that’s definitely mine. James will shout the wrong lyrics. Jack will mouth “help me.” I will cry.

And yet—
I keep going.
I keep decking.
I keep baking.

Because somewhere under the exhaustion, the over-scheduling, and the cinnamon-scented despair… is the magic.
And a Mom.
Wearing jingle earrings.
Running on caffeine and delusion.
Making chaos look like tradition.