Antichrist-Mas ramble

Well, thank fuck the festive season is over. Let's get on with life! *breathes big sigh of relief*

On Friday, I had not realised that there were Big Expectations that go with New Year's Eve in the Mind of Babes. I was in my usual festive funk and decided that I was fed the fuck up with all the bloody mess in this house (yes, I am a darling dollop of delight around the holidays) so pulled out all the contents of all the drawers, cupboards and storage boxes in the living room and kitchen, and proceeded to reduce, reorder and rehome them.

As much as I claim not to be interested in the pointless celebration of the mere change of a number on all our calendars (the Chinese, Jews, Muslims and probably many other people celebrate their New Year on a different day, underlining its arbitrariness), I do see the symbolism in my deed there: out with the old, in with the new.  It was rather cathartic and went some way towards lifting my most morose mood, which is why I couldn't understand that Babes considered my actions less than festive and in fact not in keeping with the occasion. I don't know why he complained, really, because he got the booze, the bites and the whole TV all to himself. And a tidier house on top of all that. Win-win-win-win!

I haven't stopped tidying since, and I hope the urge won't leave me too soon. I feel liberated and cleansed.

(I did stop tidying for the hour or so before and after midnight - had some champagne and all that. I don't know why he was surprised. I ask him every year can I please go to bed at nine.)
(Also I do do the happy holidays part for the children. Really. Tree, light, presents, even a smile and a song. Yes, a song.)

And - AND - a!n!d! - my lovely people, last night Charlie slept from ten until seven with only a brief interruption around two o'clock for the dummy dance - which is the first time since he was born that I got a decent stretch of sleep so all is well with the world. Truly. I could almost be persuaded to drink some gluhwein, set off some fireworks or send out some Christmas cards. Almost.

Another benefit (apart from the tidier house) to my antichristmas spirit and a fussy baby is that I keep missing meals, or parts thereof, either breastfeeding or pretending to, or running up and down the stairs to reinsert a dummy, which makes me probably the only woman in the world who went down a dress size at Christmas. Only three sizes to go now. (Two, realistically, but I still have that gorgeous pair of jeans that I bought a few years back "to grow into" and a girl can dream, eh?)

There is a point to this post. Really, there must be, somewhere in the middle of all that rambling. Ah, there it is: hating Christmas makes you thin, your baby sleepy, and your house pretty, people! You're welcome.