There should be a bittersweet symphony trumpeting from the heavens on the morning of December 1, a cadence of sorts motivating the tired, weary, and those facing social calendars that will unavoidably lead to small talk fatigue syndrome.
Yet there isn’t. The beginning of the attend-, do-, match-, give-, and sometimes drink-it-all season sneaks in like a thief in the night. Awakening to the sounds of obligation, the aroma of Fraser Fir, and sights of all things coated in glitter signals the beginning of the month best left to the experts.
Every single day we find ourselves apologizing for arriving late, possibly at the wrong address, in inappropriate attire, proclaiming the incorrect greeting while feigning a holly jolly grin. Tis the season of poetic apology.
Parents wander from Christmas plays to board meetings, while promptly and wittily responding to the party planning group text. Screams of disbelief from alert mini-adults disturb fitful slumber at realizing the Elf hasn’t left the shelf in four days. Time can be as tangled as the Christmas lights we have yet to hang and as rare as a Silent Night.
It is by the grace of persistent digital reminders that we remember the family photos. Christmas would be no more if we failed to master the essential steps to a new profile picture. Many nights we sacrifice sleep in search of coordinating sweaters and an open field with perfectly placed foliage. After all, we must wrangle an entire family with differing schedules and hostility towards plaid, or our friends on social media will riot with heartfelt concern.
What would we send to our Aunt we never speak to if not for our picturesque Christmas card? How can we spread Joy to the World without filtered exuberance beaming from family members impersonating wrapping paper?
When we are ready to throw in the garland and claim defeat, a Christmas miracle brings moments of joy, calm, and an Amazon package arriving only three days late. We look around us at all the hidden blessings in the chaos that is Christmas. Our pets have abruptly found their youth as they enthusiastically rearrange our tree; we meet our neighbors while apologizing for giant inflatables crossing boundaries and finally discovering the presents we hid three years ago.
Meanwhile, Googling the lyrics to 12 Days of Christmas, researching how many eggs the geese laid sends us down a rabbit hole of conspiracy over milking handmaids and informs us that cabbage can clean silver bells, fa la la la la.
It all fuses into one day; we sit among the wreckage of wrapping paper, gazing at those we love, acknowledging even the most stressful day was worth it. The night bears peace when all that is left is the twinkle from the tree, allowing us to appreciate the reason for the season. Moments of kindness, joy, and laughter outweigh the demands of chasing an impossible ideal, as the stress seems to fade.
To survive, let’s be kind to one another, hold the door for strangers, lend a parent grace over forgotten cookies, and share smiles instead of judgment. The pressure to be everything while doing everything and being everywhere dressed flawlessly is as unrealistic as expecting children’s gifts to come with batteries.
I wish you all more carols than crazy, more fun than frustration, and praise for the partridge in a pear tree. Merry Christmas, Beaufort, may your days be merry and bright.
Cherimie Crane Weatherford is the owner/founder of SugarBelle, a long-time real estate broker and a lover of the obscurities of southern culture. To contact her with praise and adoration, email CCWIslandNews@gmail.com. To complain, call your local representative.
