I’m never quite sure how we pull Christmas for eight (plus birthdays for two) off each December. There’s no real list. No serious plan. No early start. No wisely set number of gifts. No specific plan on amount to be spent. Between Mike and I, there are just a few haphazard orders made on Amazon. A few uncertain and random purchases tossed in shopping carts. A hectic Saturday or two spent at Costco. A few chaotic visits to Target with kids running about while coats hide items in the cart.
At some point (frighteningly late in the game) everything is pulled from where it’s been tossed in our walk-in-closet (which we keep locked throughout the month [except for when we go in -- tripping, side-stepping, and maneuvering -- to retrieve clothes and shoes]) and divided into piles. There is humming and hawing. Arranging and rearranging. Someone has too much. Someone has too little. A few things might be returned (or stowed for future birthdays). Another frantic order might be made. One last store might be run to. And then another.
When I chat with friends about their planned and orderly methods, I fret, momentarily, that the lack of order in our process surely calls my character into question (if not my eternal worth).
And yet, somehow, this last week always arrives with things mostly figured out, and me wrapping presents late at night while kids are sleeping, and everything mostly really readied for a magical Christmas morning with far more material blessings than anyone has a right to enjoy.