Making It Work
The weary world rejoices.
I am starting this edition off late and without a proper essay, and I’m sorry. How I hate to under-deliver. I didn’t write an essay because I have been absolutely swallowed up by work in the past month. I committed to a freelance project that ballooned in scope, and so I have spent many waking hours and some that shouldn’t have been waking hours working to hit the big deadline.
This work intensity coincided with the arrival of the holiday season, a six-week stretch that brings its own special workload, especially if you happen to be the mom in your household. As the unbudging obligations of the last few weeks crashed headlong into my own ideals about the Christmas season, I began to despair. Every morning, I’ve stumbled downstairs at 5 am and opened my laptop to work by the light of the Christmas tree before the kids wake and the day starts. The juxtaposition of the glowing laptop and glowing tree has felt so….wrong.
Here’s what you need to know about me and Christmas in one short story: after spending my entire young life opening presents in pjs on Christmas morning, my family decided we would not be doing that anymore. My older sisters were newly married by then and, understandably, didn’t want to show up with their new husbands in pajamas at noon for Christmas dinner. I was outraged that we would so casually toss aside tradition. I wore my pajamas all day long in protest, a passionate seven-year-old determined to preserve what felt sacred.
My vision of Christmas is formed by the truly magical memories I was given in childhood—and then further romanticized by my own ideals and aesthetic preferences. I do not expect Christmas to be perfect, but I do expect it to be special. However, you rarely stumble upon special. It is usually created, or curated, or commemorated. And someone is doing that and now I am waking up to the reality that someone is me. I don’t remember ever associating fatigue with Christmas before now, even in the first years of parenting. Instead, every year was another opportunity to feel our way into our own holiday traditions, further cementing What the Davés Do at Christmas and I took great pleasure in reliving the rituals each time. So this year when I first felt a flicker of exhaustion at the thought of all the bright and merrymaking ahead of me, it seemed like a betrayal of who I’ve always been.
The weariness has also left me in awe of the people—let’s be honest, women—who have gone before me and poured countless hours of effort into making my experience of the holidays celebratory. My mother, most significantly, but also my MIL, my grandmother-in-law, my female friends who host the same Christmas party every year, etc., etc. Someone plans, and shops for, and coordinates, and cooks your Christmas dinner. Someone sets the table. Someone makes sure that guest bed sheets are freshly changed and kid Christmas jammies are clean for school Polar Express day and this year’s Advent candles are ready for that first Sunday. Someone buys your presents and hides them and wraps them. Someone remembers the neighbors, the package delivery people, the teachers. On and on.
In shouldering this privilege and responsibility myself, I am reliving my past holidays like the gift they were. A gift I couldn’t even comprehend at the time. My love of Christmas has not faded. But I think I am seeing the backside of it — the crisscrossing threads that must be stitched together, the knots that don’t get unsnarled just because it’s the most wonderful time of year. This view is far less magical — ugly even. But perhaps this view is a more accurate one. After all, Advent is a season of darkness while we wait for the light.
The fatigue I feel as I struggle to meet an impossible deadline and plan my Christmas hosting and keep all three kids alive and fed and clothed and carve out moments of tradition and order everyone’s presents and still be present doesn’t feel like the Christmas magic I idealize. The anger that flares up at my husband in the midst of a too-familiar fight or the peevishness that seeps into my voice when my child refuses to get dressed yet again defeats my Christmas spirit. The tree is decorated, but the Christmas bins haven’t been put away. The pandemic is still here with us, and so are our problems. It is all unfinished and imperfect, despite my very best efforts. It is Advent — a reminder that this world is fundamentally broken. A reality check that no amount of candles or Christmas traditions can disguise. We can’t manufacture the joy or peace we seek because their source is the One we’re waiting on.
I’m nearing my work deadline now and our life will soon settle into a more regular rhythm. I’ll be able to restore some of the order I crave. But only some. Only Jesus can take away the pain and sin of the world. He has and He will again for good one day. Until then, I join with the weary world — rejoicing.
current status
reading :: The Year in Vibes (The New Yorker) // I can’t improve upon this retrospective with any commentary, so read this and click through for the rest: “At some point during the course of 2021, the word “vibe” became utterly ubiquitous. I tried to count but would lose track of how often it was deployed in conversations with friends. I couldn’t stop myself from using it, either, the way you can’t stop yourself from yawning after someone else does. It caught on like the Strasbourg dancing plague of 1518, spreading long past the point of semantic satiation. What did it mean? What didn’t it mean? “Vibe” was a placeholder for an unplaceable feeling or impression, an atmosphere that you couldn’t or didn’t want to put into words. You didn’t like a bar because the vibe was off. The new Netflix show has kind of a “Sopranos” vibe. The two of them didn’t vibe as a couple. It’s a linguistic shortcut for the ineffable. Maybe we used the word so much because 2021 itself has offered an unplaceable vibe. It is a year that feels as though it does and does not exist, a hangover from the depths of terror in 2020 that provides a significant improvement and yet remains vacuous and unstable….”
baking :: These very luxurious chocolate-tahini linzer cookies for a cookie night with friends (dress code: sweatpants), these very easy chocolate sugar cookies for a cozy afternoon baking with my children, and these very special cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning.
contemplating :: “Any Common Desolation” (Ellen Bass) // “…You may have to break / your heart, but it isn’t nothing / to know even one moment alive.”
loving :: Good & Gather Hot Cocoa date & nut bar // Larabars are just one of those annoying features of adult life, like paying taxes or buying new tires for the car. Not your first snack choice ever, but sometimes necessary to keep rolling along. This holiday hot cocoa bar actually delivered a new flavor experience. It’s limited-edition, so try it quick.
reading :: Why Women Still Can’t Have It All (The Atlantic) // I first read the book that this controversial 2012 article eventually became whilst sitting on the beach as a sweet baby 25-year-old with no kids and a solo cup margarita in my hand. It re-entered my life a few weeks ago and whooooo it hits differently now after three kids and some real shifts in my work. What I appreciate is Anne-Marie Slaughter’s honesty about the myths women are sold about work and family: women actually can’t “have it all” or even “have it all but not all at the same time” — at least not in our current societal structure. The article is long and it reflects the 2012 world it was written in, but Slaughter (the former director of policy planning at the State Department) raises some really interesting questions about gender equality and the value we place on caregiving.
giving :: I’m not going to include any 2021 gifts here because duh, but some greatest hits re: stocking stuffers and/or nice white elephant exchanges include: Momofuku chili crunch, Smartwool socks or new undies (roll up each pair & tie with ribbon), Neutrogena Norwegian hand cream (amazing for thirsty winter skin), chunky resin rings (cool enough for teens, a real feat) Ritual chocolate bars (so luxurious they justify their $8 pricetag) OR the big tub of Trader Joe’s dark choc pb cups, a $7 secret for super glowy skin, a single ticket/giftcard to a movie theater, a fresh loofah, the 3-pound bucket of Maldon salt, Everyday body oil, Scotch tape and/or sticky notes (have you ever set a six-year-old loose with his own office supplies???), color pop bandaids (good for kids and adults, tbh), the best tortillas in the world, hot honey, a disposable camera, fancy amaro packaged with the Paper Plane cocktail recipe, a positive pregnancy test (Hi Anders).
listening :: If there’s any link you click on in this letter, I beg you to click this one and experience this beautiful, ethereal, haunting choral rendition of In the Bleak Midwinter. It’s nothing like I’ve any version I’ve ever heard. / In a similar vein, King’s College Christmas has been on repeat around here — best experienced while lying flat on the floor in the dark, staring up at the Christmas tree. / VHS Collection “Sign” — blare this sweeping 80s-ish breakup ballad loudly while driving around. / “Something’s Rattling (Cowpoke)” — look, Ben Gibbard singing over a mariachi band is weird, and compelling, and surreal….much like December itself can be. / C’mon, C’mon — this new instrumental movie soundtrack scored by the Dessner brothers (The National) offers a gentle, emotional, compelling landscape to get lost in.
watching :: The Family Stone (2005) // Every family has their traditional Christmas movie and this one has become mine and Jivan’s. I will always adore It’s A Wonderful Life, but this movie is our tradition, and it makes me laugh and somehow cry every single year. I love the set design—like a Nancy Meyers film, but a bit more accessible. Don’t we all want a snowy house stuffed with memories and our vibrant and bullheaded and beautiful grown children returning for Christmas dinner? Even with some drama. I’ll take it all.
reading :: “On Summer Crushing” (The Paris Review) // I know it’s December, but if you are a certain kind of person, this brief pop culture essay from poet/writer Hanif Abdurraqib may send a thrill of recognition right to your core. What kind of person are we talking about? You’ll have to read to find out. Abdurraqib breaks down Whitney Houston’s famous song “How Will I Know” to muse on falling in and out of love—and on being in love with the idea of being in love itself.
(Did you know space looks like this???? Apparently, space is always this vibrant, but our eyes simply can’t process the color in such dim light.)
the real feel
I’d like to do a find and replace in our national conversation. For every instance of “gifting” I want to swap in the original: giving. Start paying attention and you’ll hear it e v e r y w h e r e. What’s the big deal, you might say. Who cares. But language reflects culture, and when language changes, culture has changed too. “Gifting” shifts the focus from the action to the object. From the emotional to the material. To me, “gifting” smacks of Instagram influencers, of PR partnerships, of corporate brand speak—which is maybe the language of our cultural moment. Gifting can only ever be tied to a tangible thing—do you gift your partner a kid-free afternoon or gift your seat to someone who needs it or gift time to a worthy cause? Gifts are meaningful as symbols for a bigger idea: love, sacrifice, thought, intention. If we sever the object from the verb, maybe we’re all missing the point. Or maybe you’ve read this far and only find yourself thinking give me a break. Sure—I’ll give you anything.
last words from someone else
Until January — make out with someone if you can, treat yourself to new pajamas, and go outside on a clear, cold night without your coat and look at the stars until you can’t take the shivers anymore.