Christmas is over, which means I’ve entered that feral, slightly delirious phase where I’m equal parts grateful, exhausted, and concerned that my family may never recover from the emotional trauma of assembling gingerbread houses. I love my children, but if anyone suggests a “fun family activity” that involves frosting, sprinkles, or “teamwork,” I’m calling a lawyer.
Let’s start with the aftermath. Have you ever walked into your living room the day after Christmas and thought, “Did the North Pole explode in here?” Because that’s the only explanation for the debris field I’m currently navigating. Wrapping paper in places I didn’t know wrapping paper could go. A pile of gift bags I’m morally obligated to save for the next eight years. A rogue Lego that’s definitely lying in wait to injure me sometime between now and Easter.
I’ve been living on a diet of Christmas cookies, leftover cheese boards, and whatever half-eaten items my kids abandoned after three bites. At this point, I’m convinced my body composition is 40% frosting and 60% warm cheese cubes and regret. Nobody warns you that the real December workout plan is walking from room to room cleaning up snacks.
Also, can someone explain why children lose all concept of reality between December 26th and January 2nd? Time becomes an abstract concept. Bedtimes? Negotiable. Parental boundaries? Optional. They move through the house with the erratic confidence of tiny people who know Santa has already delivered and therefore consequences are merely theoretical.
And then—THEN—you’re expected to transition back to normal life. Work. Schedules. Routines. The audacity. Who came up with this? Who decided the correct order of operations was “complete chaos” followed immediately by “please be productive and emotionally stable again”?
I, for one, am entering January with the same energy as a Target cart with one broken wheel.
But here’s the thing about being a parent: we survive. Heroically. Questionably. Often with caffeine. We show up to life—even when we’re surrounded by 400 pieces of toy packaging, even when winter break threatens to break us, even when we’re still scraping dried frosting off the dining table.
So if your house looks like mine—equal parts festive and apocalyptic—just know you are absolutely not alone. We did it. We made it. And in 11 short months, we get to do it all again.
Lucky us.