The Wine Grinch Almost Steals Christmas

I won’t do it, not this year. There is absolutely no way in hell that I will do it. F*** those kids. Their snotty little remarks, the punches thrown, the endless – and I mean ENDLESS – calls from the school office. I will not do it.

Sure, the kids will be upset. When they bounce down the stairs on Christmas morning, sugarplums from their dreams forgotten in the excitement, they will all stop mid stride and stare at the tree. “Why?” Joey will ask, excitement replaced by nervousness. “Where did you hide them?” Trinity will shriek as she starts searching behind the couch, behind the television, in the garage. “What the hell, mom!” Ash will start raging.

I will sit there, waiting for Trinity to catch on to what is happening. I will sip my wine and turn the television up a notch to drown out the noise of Ash flipping out and calling their friend to tell them what a bitch their mom is. I will roll my eyes as Joey starts crying. When they start getting louder, when they start telling me that the holiday being ruined is all my fault, I will simply walk over to the tree and burn it down with the flick of my finger on the holiday lighter and I will watch the fire flicker against the remaining glass of the ornaments.

Yes, that Christmas tree. The same one that Trinity decided to climb and instead ended up breaking the top half off. Yes, that holiday lighter. The same ones Ash used to burn down the porta potty with the next-door neighbor, Jimmy, still inside. Yes, those decorations. The same ones that Joey decided to use as ammunition when my ever so loving and patient husband, George, told him that we wouldn’t be able to afford a PS5 this year but maybe next.

I am completely over it. I am over the endless remarks about how George isn’t their real dad. I am over being treated like shit because they blame me for their real dad deciding that marrying an eighteen-year-old bimbo was better than raising three kids with his average looking wife. I am over the dramatic shouts that ring out when it is time for them to go to their therapy appointments, to school, to anything that isn’t video games and weed. I have tried, I have failed, and I am over it.

It has been ten years since the divorce, and the children are now fifteen, sixteen, and almost eighteen, but they will not quit using it as an excuse for their shitty behavior. So, this year they are going to learn the hard way. Santa has checked his list twice and the kids are on the naughty list. If I were to be honest with myself, which I really try not to do now-a-days for my own sanity, the kids would have been on the naughty list for the last few years. This year, though, has really been the shit frosting on the crap cake.

I will still cook a semi-nice dinner. There will be mashed potatoes, a reminder of November when Trinity smashed them into all the spaces in my Mazda. I will throw together a green bean casserole, a reminder of last Easter when Ash told my mom, their grandma, how disgusting hers was before spitting out oatmeal as fake vomit. I will cook up a ham, a reminder of when Joey took his brand-new BB gun and shot the neighbors - yes, same neighbors, pig over ten times before I caught him. Lastly, I will make an apple pie, not for any heinous reasons, but just because George and I really love apple pie. The kids won’t get a single slice of it.

George knows of my plan, or lack thereof. He does not support it, but he does understand. He says, “Christmas is the best time of year for kids!” The thing is, though, every other day give or take one or two this year has been complete hell for me. They don’t deserve the joy this year, they deserve to suffer like they have made me suffer. They used to be so good! They used to be happy and get their homework done, and wave at people on the street. They used to be decent human beings…

I sit down at the end of the table in silence. They talk about the rest of their plans for winter break. The conversation starts calm but soon they are yelling at each other. I sit in silence throughout the whole meal and then stand up to wash my plate. They leave theirs on the table and get up without so much as a “thank you” towards me. I pour a glass of wine and stare at our half tree, I flip on some sitcom but quickly turn it off, not wanting to see what my life could have been like if I had controlled my children better. George comes home and gives me a kiss. He asks if I’ve been shopping and I say “no, I am sticking to my guns this year.” He sits down heavily next to me and pulls my legs into his lap and my tears start to pour out. He does not get upset, he doesn’t tell me it’s my fault, he simply runs his fingers up and down my legs while whispering that everything will be alright and waits for me to be okay again.

When I wake up in the morning, I smell the bacon and eggs cooking on the stove. Sleepily, I walk down the stairs into the foyer and my eyes go wide. Ash is cooking bacon, shielding their little sister from the grease that pops out as she cooks up the eggs. Joey is making coffee that smells delicious and best of all, no one is arguing! On top of the tree is a cardboard cutout of the top half with little decorations drawn on it. The ham is already in the oven and the mashed potatoes are in a bowl waiting to be mashed. I catch a glimpse of tin foil on what I can only guess is green bean casserole. I creep silently back up the stairs and sit at the top step, taking it all in. I now fear the tears that are coming on, I fear the tears my kids are going to shed when they realize we didn’t get them anything.

“HO, HO, HO, Santa is here!” I hear George come in from the garage and pull myself together. I make my way back down the stairs, eyes dry and smile on, and my heart leaps at the sight of him. My burly man strides through the house in an adult Santa onesie, beard neatly trimmed and with white spray paint shinning in it, a comically large hat slipping down over his eyebrows, and a sack of toys is on his shoulder. He gives me a wink and pulls out my favorite bottle of wine.