Barnabas Monkeypants

We got a package in the mail yesterday from my sister and brother-in-law and inside were several wonderfully wrapped gifts. I mention this only because as of today — December 18 — those gifts are the only thing even remotely resembling Christmas in our entire house.

We have no wreath hanging from the door (although we own a very nice one). We have no lights ringing the windows (white lights would be my preference if they were actually hung). We don’t even have a Christmas tree.

We’ve decided to not to decorate for a few reasons. First is that Cecil (one of our cats) is completely insane. I have nightmares about him breaking everything in the house as it is; I can’t imagine what he’d do with a tree and ornaments dangling from its branches. Second is that while we certainly have time to hang lights and get a tree and pretty it up, we have no energy to do so. After coming home from work and putting Henry to bed, we are barely able to make dinner, eat it, clean up after, and get ready to do it all again the next day. Third is that Henry just doesn’t care. To him, every day is Christmas, where new presents are routine and a fat bearded man dances around the house looking for cookies (that would be me).

There will be a point — maybe next Christmas, probably the one after — where Henry is gaga over the ordeal, and you likely won’t want to come near our place then or feel the wrath of such overwhelming festiveness. But for this year, it will be very subdued, with Kristen and I opening our gifts for each other (and helping Henry open his), and then, hopefully, all three of us going back to bed for a nap.

And here’s a bit of an aside to our seeming grinchiness. The two words that describe a person not enjoying the Christmas spirit are scrooge (for his cheapness) and grinch (for his urge to make all those around him unhappy). Both of those words are based on fictional characters, and both have made their way into the English language seamlessly. And, frankly, I can’t think of another word to describe these types of people.

But here’s a question: before Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol in 1843, was there nobody who didn’t like Christmas? Was it such a universally adored holiday that there wasn’t one person who didn’t go out and get a big goose and roast it? These are the types of questions that keep me up at night.

So, other than the Cheli-family Christmas denial, what have we learned this week?

We learned that after looking like the spitting image of his ol’ dad for the first couple of months, Henry shows no resemblance to me at all any more. Friends who have come over all say how much he looks like Kristen, and when I try and point out his mouth is like my mouth or maybe my chin or I think he may have his dad’s dimples, I just get a look that says, “Stop being delusional.” Now, I have photographic evidence that at one point in his short life he and I could actually be related, but I guess no longer. Hopefully I’ll just have to wait another month and then he’ll change again.

We learned that Henry routinely breaks out of his swaddle at night. We’re starting to wean him off his papoose-wrap, but it looks like he’s pushing for letting it go a little quicker. The problem with him not being swaddled is threefold: first, he falls asleep much faster with his arms tight against his body (when I’ve put him down for naps without being wrapped, he flails them about and it takes a half hour to get him to finally start snoozing), second, the said flailing doesn’t occur when he’s asleep (which would make him wake up pretty quickly),  and third, being swaddled reduces the risk of SIDS (which is something that I worry about nigh constantly). This may mean the impending doom of some sleepless nights as he adjusts to life without our beloved Miracle Blanket.

We learned that when you’re holding a baby, you’re no longer considered insane if you talk to yourself.

And we learned that the realization that I’ll be home for the next two and a half weeks is just plain wonderful. I can’t stress how great it is taking care of Henry, that everything I do — from the mundane like changing his diapers or wiping away his drool to the fantastic like watching him reach out for his favorite toy or try his hardest to roll over — is well worth how exhausted I get by the end of the day. I really love every minute.

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 18th, 2008 at 12:33 pm and is filed under What We've Learned. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.