Jesus and Santa Clause are stealing my thunder.
Every Christmas, good ol’ Saint Nickolas is the hero. The excitement of Christmas Eve is palatable as my children eagerly await to see what the jolly good man may have brought them. He knows just what my kids want and he grants their wishes. Their eyes light up as they see what Father Christmas has lovingly bestowed upon them in toy generosity.
Chris Cringle had been watching my kids throughout the year, making his creepy good boy and good girl lists and checking them twice. He huffed and puffed and squeezed his jolly self down the chimney to lavish my children with gifts they’ve wanted all year. He’s a freakin’ hero to these kids and he only has to work hard one night a year. Even after all this time, my son still talks adoringly about what Santa brought him this year.
Well, what the f*ck about me? Shouldn’t I get some credit? It’s me that slaves over breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. It’s me that washes clothes, bottles and dishes every day. I’m the a-hole scrubbing toilets and bottoms and nose crust every day. I’m the sap who cries when their feelings get hurt, when they are sick or unhappy. I’m the one that has sacrificed my body, my hair…my good shoes.
But Santa get the credit and the recognition. And he isn’t even real!
Today, my son brought this craft home from preschool:
And now I have to compete with Jesus? Of course of all people, there’s just no competition with Jesus. Hands down Jesus loves you more than me son. He’s just absent in the toilet scrubbing, breakfast making, grocery shopping department. Cause for his own names sake HE DIED ON THE CROSS FOR YOU.
However, I’ve decided that Santa is no longer going to give awesome presents to the Eaglin children. From now on, he’ll be giving socks and underwear. Mommy (and mommy alone!) will be giving the good sh*t that is worthy of appreciation and love. Not Santa.
Santa is done stealing my thunder in this house.