Tired Mom Diary – Chapter 11 – Christmas Spreadsheet.xlsx
It’s December.
The most wonderful time of the year.
According to people who aren’t responsible for making it wonderful.
I have a Christmas spreadsheet.
Seven tabs.
One of them is called HIS MOTHER (HIS DEPARTMENT).
It’s colour-coded.
I’m not proud of myself.
Actually, I am.
On Monday, Nora came home with a letter to Santa.
She wanted a dollhouse, a scooter, a puppy, and a baby sister.
I explained that Santa doesn’t bring living things.
“Why?”
“Because he can’t.”
“He has reindeer.”
Fair point.
I told her Santa had a budget.
She asked if he was poor.
I said no.
She asked why he couldn’t afford a sister.
I went to make dinner.
Tuesday, Ben put up the Christmas lights.
Without asking me where anything was.
Without asking which ones went outside.
Without falling off a ladder.
I watched from the window.
It was deeply unsettling.
Then Nora announced we needed an Elf on the Shelf.
“Everyone has one.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
Ben looked at me.
I looked at Ben.
We had survived six years without an elf.
Apparently, our luck had run out.
Wednesday morning, the elf appeared on the kitchen counter.
Ben had named him Kevin.
“Kevin?” I asked.
“He’s an elf. Not a Supreme Court judge.”
Nora loved Kevin.
She introduced him to her stuffed animals.
She told him our Wi-Fi password.
I don’t know why.
By Wednesday night, we’d already forgotten to move him.
At 1:57 a.m., I sat straight up in bed.
“The fucking elf.”
Ben opened one eye.
“What?”
“Kevin.”
“Who’s Kevin?”
“YOUR ELF.”
He got up.
Moved Kevin into the fruit bowl.
Came back to bed.
“Done.”
I lay there awake for another twenty minutes wondering whether elves eat bananas.
Thursday, the school sent an email.
HOLIDAY CONCERT – WHITE TOPS REQUIRED!
I read it.
School was Ben’s department.
I forwarded it to him.
He replied:
Already saw it.
I checked Nora’s closet.
No white top.
I checked the laundry.
No white top.
I checked the online stores.
Found one.
Added it to my cart.
Didn’t buy it.
This was personal growth.
Or a medical condition.
Hard to tell.
At 4:16 p.m., my mother-in-law texted.
Sweetheart, what are we doing for Christmas dinner?
I stared at the phone.
Ben’s family.
Ben’s department.
I forwarded it to him.
Then I replied:
Hi! Ben’s organizing everything this year ❤️
She sent back:
Oh dear. Are you feeling alright?
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my phone.
Then I felt offended.
Then I laughed again.
CHRISTMAS SPREADSHEET STATUS
Presents bought: 14.
Presents wrapped: 0.
Cookies baked: 0.
School concert outfit: Not my problem.
Elf movements forgotten: 1.
Times I’ve checked Ben’s department: 7.
Times I’ve admitted it: 0.
Christmas spirit: Pending.
Friday night, Nora asked if Santa could see her when she was in the bathroom.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Santa has boundaries.”
“What’s the boundaries?”
I looked at Ben.
He looked at me.
“Ask your dad,” I said.
Ben put down his phone.
“Santa doesn’t watch people pee.”
Nora thought about it.
“Good.”
She went upstairs.
I looked at him.
“Excellent parenting.”
“Thank you.”
We high-fived.
It was the most united we’d been all week.
Saturday morning, I opened my spreadsheet.
The tab HIS MOTHER (HIS DEPARTMENT) was still there.
I had entered the gift I bought on Black Friday.
Added the price.
Added the delivery date.
Added a note:
FROM BEN.
Then I stared at it.
I could delete the row.
I could return the gift.
I could tell Ben.
Instead, I changed the cell colour to green.
Completed.
Somewhere upstairs, Nora screamed.
“MOM! KEVIN IS IN THE FRUIT BOWL!”
Ben shouted back.
“I KNOW! HE LIKES BANANAS!”
I took a sip of coffee.
At least one person in this house was managing Christmas without a spreadsheet.