I'm sitting here in a house full of FOOD. My goodness gracious, there's a lot of it! Leftover trifle enough to bathe in, enough plum pudding to sink a largish sized ferry, cold pork and turkey to disgust a whole commune full of vegetarians, and enough lollies and chocolates to make my dentist a very, very wealthy man. So why don't I know what to have for lunch?
This blog comes to you from the relaxation of the All Food No Responsibility Festival otherwise known as Boxing Day.
Christmas day is all about the kids - following through on their traditions that they love, opening their stockings before church, whining "when will Dad be home?" until he finishes church, and then the orgiastic gift opening ceremony accompanied by the "where's MY present??" chorus. Serving up their favourite lunch, only to have them turn their nose up because they've been pigging out on Two Dollar Shop Christmas lollies since they opened their stocking (see above). Driving long distances to relatives' houses to the next-favourite Christmas carol called "Are we there yet?". Driving home to serve up yet more Christmas tradition in the shape of trifle, Christmas cake and bedtime tantrums. Lots of I Love Yous and promises to get batteries and put things together tomorrow. Fishing pieces of Christmas cracker out of the baby's mouth before he chokes to death on Christmas cheer.
Boxing Day, on the other hand, is a clean house (thanks to my wonderful dinner guests last night who insisted on tidying up before they left - the best kind of guests of all!). A stash of chocolate that I have hidden after yesterday, as well as my favourite confectionary, fruit jellies. Fatigue that allows me not to care enough to nag the kids about their bedrooms. Lots of cups of tea for Beloved and lots of shoulder rubs from him as a show of gratitude for the last few industrious days. A fallow week ahead of lying around and recuperating. Children who are so well entertained by novel piles of fresh toxic plastic that the words "I'm booooored, what can I dooooooo," won't pass their lips for at least another week.
Boxing Day is about forgetting obligations, and just wallowing in it all. It's a bit like a post partum period in some ways - sitting up in hospital letting the midwives take care of everything, since you've done all the hard work.
I wonder what sort of post-partum period Mary had? Her post-Christ's-birth day certainly wasn't characterised by a fridge full of cold meat and Inspector Clousseau movies playing on daytime TV. I wonder who helped her feed her baby, or provided clean cloths for her tiny child. I wonder who kept them warm, once they were turfed out of the stable?