Christmas is for children

So, you know, I have been actively working on hating children and I have gotten much better at it. Where my first impulse used to be to coo over oncoming babies now I sneer at them. I used to play peek-a-boo with toddlers and now I ask to be moved to a part of the restaurant that is kid free. All was going well until stupid Christmas showed up and Santa, Rudolph and all the other reminders that we are permanently kid free. For the last two years we have not celebrated Christmas because we had been going through relentless rounds of IVF and I didn't have the emotional energy to do anything but get injections, go to doctors, and be a hormonal egg producing lump of bloating, longing and crying. No tree, no cards, no gifts and no ho-ho-ho of any variety.

This year we have no advent calendars of ovulation, festive progesterone shots, merry Follistim, or the always delightful yule tide pelvic ultrasounds to mark the season so we have decided to go with the more traditional tree, a few presents, and some eggnog. We even watched a few Christmas shows that did not have me sobbing by commercial number two that we don't have a baby and we will never have a baby and that we are cursed, so that was good.

It all changed when I was sitting and blogging and He-weasel started flipping channels and he landed on PBS and they were playing an old Andy Williams Christmas special and then he had to go to the bathroom and left me alone with Moon River man waxing nostalgic about his days when he sang with Donny Osmond. That is the last thing I heard until I heard Andy talking about how Christmas is for the children. This is when I started to sob. I was sobbing the kind of sob where my chest was pounding and my neighbors heard me. I sobbed a sob that made He-weasel run out of the bathroom with his pants down.

"What's wrong?" He asked avec drop trou.
"Christmas is for children." And then I wailed.
"No it's not." He argued.
"Yes it is."I countered.
"No it's not."He begged.
"Yes it is."I screeched in an escalating tone.

By the fourth time of yes/no ping-pong I think I left the room and went into the bedroom slammed the door behind me and I actively planned on projecting all my disappointment onto He-weasel and being mad at him instead of being mad that we don't have a stupid baby.

Because he is a good and kind weasel, he came in and apologized for trying to take away my feelings. Because I am not a good and kind weasel I stayed mad at him and I broke the rules and I went to bed angry at him and I punished him for my pain. Nice, huh?

I am feeling a little better now. I am trying to be careful about what Christmas shows I watch and I stay away from the Santa section of the mall unless I can really channel my inner Grinch and walk by with a bubble of protection that comes from pretending I hate all the mothers and their stupid kids and tell myself that I can buy Prada shoes and drink champagne while the mothers are changing diapers and cleaning up baby shit and having to go stand in line at Toys R Us. Pampers, pablum, and prams or, parties, Prada and La Perla? If I had a choice between the two I know which ones I would choose.