December 26th always finds me battling melancholy.
After about five days of magic, the Real World comes roaring back in. I come down off my sugar high to find that my pants are a little tighter and my counters are sticky. There are piles of toys pushed against walls, and I have no idea where they will live. The children have that glazed look of overconsumption. Somewhere, under all these stray bits of wrapping paper, I think I might have carpet.
My family is back at their respective homes. Hubs is back at work. I turned on the news just now for the first time in five days, and they’re still fighting in the Middle East and hollering in Washington D.C. My city’s parking lots, which yesterday had a breather from the crushing weight of holiday traffic, are once again bursting at the seams with shoppers waving gift cards.
And I’m a little blue.
I want to shout at the world to Go Back! Life stopped momentarily, all because of a tiny little baby in a dirty barn. I want to stop and think about that a little longer. Do we really, really have to return to Life As Usual?
We do. Of course we do. Life marches on. The Gift of Christmas requires it. I could curl up in my new Christmas jammies and mourn the passing of the magic, or I could roll up my sleeves and jump back into a world that is still hurting, still confused, even after tasting the Holy.
Come on. Let’s jump back in.