My name is Molly, and I've had enough. Looking around our lounge room, you would have been forgiven for thinking a bomb went off. I have been up since five am. It is now nearly midnight, and for me, Christmas day has gone by in a blur of chores and total chaos.
The responsibility for everything, it seems, as usual, was solely delegated to yours truly.
I haven’t stopped for a moment, making sure it was perfect for everyone else. It isn’t only the day itself that’s exhausting, it’s the weeks leading up to it. There is so much to do. As if we women haven’t got enough on our plate already, you add on preparing for the festive season.
‘Mum, can we open our presents please?’ ‘Honey tell the kids to wait another hour please, it's five am for god’s sake. I need more sleep.’ So, I dragged my arse out of bed and made myself a much-needed cup of coffee, while my offspring made as much noise as humanly possible, in order to wake their father from his slumber. I did not know why he was so tired, mind you. I was the one doing all the bloody work.
Would Christmas even happen if I dropped the ball? I doubt it. My eyes are hanging out of my head. I was up until 1 am, wrapping said presents, while my husband napped on the couch. Well, slept really. He had remained in that position since 10 pm.
Why was I still wrapping presents at 1 am? Our new puppy ripped half of them open when I turned by back for a whole thirty seconds. That dog works fast. He is always into something. Trying to put up the Christmas tree was fun.
You know what? I bet my bottom dollar it’s Mrs. Claus who does all the work behind the scenes to prepare for the big worldwide drop off on Christmas Eve, while her husband gets all the god damn credit.
I am sure she takes care of every single detail. Cleans the workshop, feeds the reindeer, packs the sleigh, researches the naughty and nice list, washes and irons the elves' clothes, polishes her husband’s shiny black belt, pre-sets the GPS, and falls in an exhausted heap once he takes off on his much expected journey around the world.
Well, you know what? Next year, I am going on strike.
Unpublished Work (c) Hayley Walsh 2021