The Camaraderie Of Christmas

Let it be known that the Christmas season is not my favorite.  It's not that I particularly dislike the holiday, it's just that it all seems so overwhelming: the jingling bells outside every store entrance, the blasting of Christmas cheer on speakers everywhere, the holiday ads that scream at me to buy more more MORE, the magazines that shout about making this my Best Christmas Ever, the displays of red and green that begin in late September when I am still taking my kids to the beach to enjoy the late summer sun, and the endless pressure of finding the perfect gift.  Something about all of this...extravagance?...over-the-topness?...commercialism? makes my mind feel all fizzled out.  This year has been especially trying because we now have an almost three-year-old, wonderful little soul who tags along on our outings and notices every rendering of Saint Nick, every cardboard cutout of a snowflake, and every single toy that is on display.  There have been shouts of "I waaaant thaaaat!" in a whiny voice, and there have been many, many patient discussions on the grace of giving. 
I don't like taking my kids out into the madness that is Christmas shopping.  I don't like seeing them fall easily, without hesitation or misgiving, into the traps set for them by marketing specialists.  I try to leave them home or with a sitter when I have to shop, but there are certain big box stores that are best visited early in the morning on a Monday, before the crowds gather and the aisles dissolve into chaos.  We made a concise and complete list of items to be purchased, we dressed in layers to avoid the freeze-then-swelter issue of shopping in a hot store on a cold day, and with our brave faces on Harry, Emma, and I set out to shop.  Though the parking lot was filling up as we pulled in, we easily found a good spot next to a cart corral, the secret jackpot of parents with small children everywhere.  I plunked the kids into a cart and then tried to push it toward the store.  It wouldn't budge.  After yesterday's snowfall, the parking lot had a layer of icy slush 3-4 inches deep and the cart wheels were frozen.  After all of the effort it took me just to bundle up my children and get them out the door I was not going to let a little winter get in my way.  I pushed and heaved and shoved that cart through puddles and snowbanks and eventually through the automatic doors of the store, where a wall of heat melted the wheels and blew my hair into a fine mess.  We were in. 
The aisles weren't very busy, and we were able to quickly find the items on our list as we dashed through the store.  It's not a place I like to linger because if it is quiet when you enter there will surely be lines 30 people long when you try to check out, but if it is busy when you enter you'll be able to check out in five minutes.  It's Murphy's Law of Wal Mart.  We had entered at a quiet time, so I had to rush in order to beat the crowd at checkout.  Also, if you pass the toy aisle at a near-run, the kids have less time to beg and point and melt into puddles because I won't buy them anything.  It's a win-win plan.  But just to reassure you that I am not the Scroogiest Mom in town, I did stop at the fish tanks for a good five minutes so my littles could gaze at the fish and frogs, which they adore (once they are slightly older I think we'll be adding a tank to our menagerie) and for the few minutes that we stood still I noticed that I wasn't the only one racing through the store.  There were other moms and dads doing the same thing, with rosy-cheeked, bundled-up babies and toddlers in tow.  We all seemed to know that the one and only way to survive the trip to this particular store was to go as fast as possible.  It was comical to stop and see what I must have looked like only moments before: one hand on the baby, trying to soothe her quietly while calmly addressing the toddler in the basket in an effort to make his little bum adhere to the bottom of his container, my eyes not on my children but scanning the aisles and products for the items on the list, which is gripped by my other hand.  My feet in constant motion, my face flushed with determination. 
Tired of the fish and starting to whine, my kids needed to go.  We started toward the front of the store, walking quickly of course, when suddenly another cart started to cross our path.  I had to stop and pull my cart back to avoid a collision, and as a sharp comment formed in my mind I saw that the driver of the cart was another mom, her cart filled with children, too.  We both stopped, looked at each other's slightly crazed expressions, and laughed out loud.  We joked that we were too short to see over the racks of clothing for oncoming traffic, and we smiled and waved to each other's children.  The exchange lasted only a moment, but laughing had melted, for the moment, the anxiety and frustration that Christmas shopping builds in me and I walked away feeling much better.
The checkout line was empty!  I breezed out of the store and found that the temperature had risen just enough for the ice to melt slightly, and pushing the cart wasn't such a chore.  Kids safely strapped into their car seats, heat on full-blast, we motored out of the parking lot and on to the next stop.  Harry noticed a McDonald's, and I quote: "Mommy, may we please stop at McDonald's and have some lunch and apple juice box?  I have hunger in my belly."  He didn't whine, he didn't cry, and he was delightfully polite about his request, so I pulled in.  Sometimes you really have to choose your battles, and we were a half hour from home, with many stops left on our to-do list. 
As I waited in the drive-thru line for our food I saw a familiar-looking figure leading her children across the snow-strewn parking lot.  Her face wore the shadow of the overwhelmed, but she saw me sitting in my car and smiled and waved as if we were old friends: it was my near-collision pal, the other mom.  I waved back as if she was an old friend, too, and saw some of the fatigue leave her face.  Maybe, just maybe, we all feel slightly edgy and crazed by this season, but I know with absolute certainty that strength can be found in the simplest of human-to-human connections.