Sarah Says Things: Post-Holiday Debrief (From an Exhausted Parent)

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.

Sarah Says Things: The Wrapping Paper Nightmare

Every December I convince myself—again—that this is the year I’ll wrap gifts like a competent, Pinterest-adjacent adult. You know the vibe: crisp kraft paper, perfectly tied twine, a sprig of evergreen tucked in at a whimsical angle, maybe a tasteful tag done in my “natural handwriting,” which of course looks nothing like my real handwriting.

And every December, the wrapping process reminds me who I actually am: someone sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by paper scraps, tape stuck to my socks, and a dull sense of betrayal that YouTube tutorials lie.

Let’s start with the scissors—the single most important tool, and the first thing to vanish the moment you need them. They were right there. You just had them. And now? Gone. Replaced by a backup pair that can’t cut warm butter, much less a straight line through thick paper.

Then there’s the wrapping paper itself. I always think I have “plenty,” but somehow every roll is either (a) down to its final 11 inches, (b) creased beyond repair, or (c) a pattern I must have liked in a moment of seasonal delusion. And why—WHY—is no standard gift ever the same width as the remaining paper?

Enter the glitter paper, which looks beautiful on the shelf and then immediately attempts to exfoliate your entire home. You try to cut it and the scissors respond with a firm “absolutely not.” You try to tape it and the tape says, “Yeah, no.” And afterward you find glitter in your hair, on your dog, and somehow inside your purse.

Twine and kraft paper are supposed to be the “simple” option. Rustic, minimal, charming. Except twine is basically the holiday version of headphone cords—it tangles instantly, forms a knot with no visible beginning or end, and mocks you while you try to look effortless. And kraft paper? Gorgeous. Until you discover it’s the least forgiving material on Earth. One wrong fold and now it looks like you wrapped a gift using a brown grocery bag in the dark.

Let’s also acknowledge the tag situation. Every house contains exactly 237 leftover tags from past years, and none of them match. Some are shaped like mittens. Some say “To: Grandma” even if Grandma has been gone for a decade. Others look like they belong on a very fancy gift you are not giving. And yet, you use them anyway.

And of course, there’s the inevitable tape crisis. Halfway through wrapping the most awkwardly shaped gift in the universe, the dispenser runs out. Now you’re rummaging through drawers like a raccoon, praying for a fresh roll that isn’t the cursed off-brand kind that tears diagonally for sport.

By the end, you’re sweaty, questioning life choices, and sitting next to a pile of wrapped presents that somehow look both overworked and underperforming. The corners poke out. The seams don’t line up. One of them has a suspicious bump you swore you smoothed. Another gift looks like it lost a fight with a toddler.

But you know what? It’s wrapped. It’s done. And it’s absolutely going under the tree like that.

Perfection is for magazines. I’m just trying to make sure the tape sticks.

Sarah Says Things: The 6–7 Enigma

At some point in the past year—no one can pinpoint exactly when—America’s youth collectively decided to communicate exclusively in inside jokes that adults are neither meant nor allowed to understand. Chief among them: the inexplicable, omnipresent phrase “6–7.”

If you don’t have teenagers, congratulations. You probably still speak English. The rest of us? We’re just out here trying to decode why two random numbers create an atmosphere reminiscent of a frat party.

What does it mean?
Absolutely nobody knows.
And that’s the point.

We have asked.
We have begged.
We have Googled things we will never un-Google.

And the kids? They just smirk. Because nothing delights a teenager more than a joke with no punchline, no explanation, and no connection to anything happening in the room.

It is, apparently, comedy.

Teens are treating “6–7” like it’s the new “fetch,” except this time it actually is happening. They say it at school. In group chats. While playing sports. At the dinner table. At church youth group. I’m convinced someone yelled it during the national anthem at a basketball game.

Ask them what it means, and you get the same response you’d get if you asked for the launch codes:

A shrug.
A grin.
A whispered “you’re too old.”

Perfect. Love that for us.

Meanwhile, parents everywhere are standing in kitchen doorways like confused Victorian ghosts, wondering if this is a secret code, a cult password, or the modern equivalent of Pig Latin. We’re out here deciphering hieroglyphics while the kids are congratulating each other for saying two numbers in ascending order.

And don’t even THINK about trying to use it back at them.

Say “6–7” to a teen, and they stare at you with the same expression you use the same expression you use when your mom texts “Is this TikTak?”

“Stop. You’re ruining it,” they say, which is hilarious because there is nothing to ruin. There is no joke. The joke is that there is no joke.

Teenagers have invented an inside joke about not having an inside joke.

In all honesty- I’m impressed. It’s the most diabolical form of comedy they’ve come up with since “Deez Nuts.”

So here we are, in the era of “6–7,” a phrase so meaningless, so context-free, so stupidly funny to them that it has fully replaced normal human conversation.

Maybe someday the kids will reveal its meaning.
Maybe it’s an elaborate social experiment.
Maybe it’s an accident.
Maybe they forgot why they say it, too.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Until then, we’ll continue wandering around our homes while teenagers shout “6–7!!!” at the refrigerator, at their siblings, at TikTok, at the dog, and occasionally at thin air—because apparently the real punchline is us trying to understand it.

But whatever. Fine. Let them have their mystery.

Because when they’re adults someday, their kids will shout, “88–13!” and they’ll have absolutely no idea why either.