'The most wonderful time of the year, my arse !' What mother doesn't feel like going on strike at Christmas?
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, then 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 an attempt to wake their father from his slumber. I had no idea 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 a.m. last night, wrapping said presents, while my husband napped on the couch, well, slept really. He had remained in that position on the couch since 10 p.m.
Why was I still wrapping presents at 1 a.m? Our new puppy decided to rip 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 all the elves, cleans the toy 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 a heap once he takes off on his much anticipated journey around the world.
Well you know what? Next year, I am going on strike.