In my house, I wage a never-ending war. And every now and then, I fool myself into thinking I’m going to win it. I roll up my sleeves and turn up the music, and decide that this is the week I’m finally going to do it.
I’m going to master the clutter.
No more toys in every single room of the house (including the closed porch and both bathrooms); no more drawings and art projects haphazardly strewn about every available surface; no more Monopoly money littering the floor like dead leaves.
Sometimes the clutter allows me my foolish fantasy. I’ll clean an entire room, moving couches to retrieve missing game pieces and long-lost library books, organizing the bookshelves and putting every single item back in its rightful place, down to the tiniest Lego. Then I’ll stand back to bask in the glow of what I’ve achieved.
But of course, by the time I’ve moved on to another part of the house, the clutter slowly creeps back in, like vines of invasive kudzu. Taking over. Taunting me as I persist in the Sisyphean task.
~
The playroom is always the worst.
My kids have so—much—stuff. As I take in the grotesque amount of toys, wondering where to start, I feel myself getting angry. The never-ending clutter is a thief of my time. If we didn’t have so many things in the house (why do we have so many things in the house?!), there wouldn’t be so much clutter. My time could be spent in pursuit of loftier goals. Writing. Playing piano. Organizing my river glass collection. All the things that make me feel like myself again instead of the cynical, exhausted mom with frayed nerves.
Yup. This pretty much sums it up. (Image by Willgard on Pixabay)
(I know what you may be thinking because I would have thought it myself, not so long ago. Yes, I do teach my children to clean up after themselves. The three-year-old almost has the hang of it.)
Standing there, my eyes roving over the mess, I decide to get rid of some toys—especially since the kids are going to receive more toys under the Christmas tree in a few weeks. Sometime after we eat the turkey I’ll have to sit them down to write letters to Santa so they can ask for more stuff that will take the place of the stuff I’m now going to get rid of.
Okay, then.
~
The Christmas catalogs begin appearing in the mailbox before the Halloween pumpkins have fully rotted. At the kitchen table one year, my then-eight-year-old started flipping through the most recent arrival, its shiny pages filled with playthings and gadgets and the latest “must-haves” for children.
“Ooh, maybe I can pick out something from here to put on my Christmas list. Because you’re right, Mom—I really don’t need night vision goggles.”
“You don’t really need anything in that catalog either,” I said, stirring spaghetti sauce into the ground meat in the skillet.
“What do you mean?”
Image from Pixabay
“Well, you know why companies send us these catalogs, right? They just want us to spend a lot of money buying their stuff so that they can get rich.”
“But Santa doesn’t have to pay for anything!”
“Well…actually, you know what? Why don’t you go tell your brother that it’s almost time for dinner.” I was too tired then to explain to him the difference between generous gift-giving and mindless consumerism—something which for us Americans tends to fade into oblivion during the holiday season—not to mention how Santa fits into the whole picture.
As I finished up the spaghetti, I worried. How am I going to ensure my kids don’t fall into the clutches of that mindless consumerism as they grow up? That they don’t rely on possessions to fill the inevitable emptiness in their souls we all sometimes feel? Am I doing a good enough job of teaching them moderation and gratitude? Of keeping the wanting at bay?
Whenever I remind my oldest that Christmas is about so much more than shiny gifts under the tree, he tells me he knows.
But does he? Does he really?
~
I turn on the TV. A morning talk show is on with the following headline:
GET GIFTING. Kicking off the holiday season with big bargains!
Image by Debora Bachesch on Unsplash
On a different morning, my toddler’s Polish Peppa Pig episode is interrupted by a commercial. A beaming family in matching Christmas onesie pajamas gallivants over to their tree to dig into the enormous stack of presents.
Tick-tock. The shopping must get done.
My stomach clenches.
~
Children are constantly inundated with the message that they need more stuff. More stuff will make them happier, they’re told. They sit there on Christmas morning, tearing off wrapping paper in a mad frenzy, ecstatic over each novelty, but then what happens? That high of getting something new wears off. Stuff gets shoved into a corner and forgotten. Until the next big occasion, the next birthday, or the next playdate, when a friend’s toy becomes the latest obsession.
Yet studies suggest that consumerism negatively impacts children’s well-being, as well as their relationship with parents; some even point to serious emotional and social deficits resulting directly from a high number of possessions. Child behavior experts state that playing with too many toys can reduce children’s focus and hamper their creativity. Not to mention the fact that too many possessions in childhood can pave the way right to adulthood addictions.
Image by Angel Balashev on Unsplash
Fabulous. My kids appear to be well on their way there—during the past ten years of birthday parties, Easter baskets, Christmas stockings and presents, our house has exploded with an overwhelming, insane amount of toys.
In our family we really do try to keep things modest; both my husband and I grew up in the eighties in communist Poland, where Christmas meant a crinkly, rustling bag filled with oranges and walnuts and chocolate, and maybe pencil erasers or wool socks knitted by Babcia. (Or day-of-the-week underwear!) But with three children receiving gifts not only from Santa and us but from extended family as well, even when we try to keep the number of presents reasonable, they still have a way of spiraling out of control.
The toys are everywhere. Legos and Hot Wheels and dump trucks, fake food and markers and stuffies, blocks and trains and puzzles and shape sorters and so much plastic that will only end up in landfills someday.
Sometimes I think, How did this happen? How did I get here? I should have known better, been more vigilant. I go around telling everyone that if there were one thing I could do all over again, I’d be much more intentional, from day one, about what toys I allow in the house. Heck, I’d forbid guests from bringing my kids gifts for any and all occasions.
But then November rolls around and I find myself in the toy store, trying to decide what to buy my three-year-old for Christmas. My three-year-old, who has no expectations or any awareness whatsoever of the bearded guy in the red suit who’s supposed to squeeze down the chimney to bring him presents. My three-year-old, who, being the youngest of three, already has an entire houseful of toys. But it doesn’t matter. He has two older brothers who would notice the lack of gifts under the tree. There’s no way out. I have to get him something.
Image from Pixabay
In fact, I have to get him three somethings. A gift from us, a gift from Santa, and—because my mother has taken to giving me money to buy gifts for the children instead of shopping for them herself—a gift from his grandparents. (Believe me, I tried one year to use that money to buy the kids an “experience” instead. When she found out I’d gotten them tickets to a science museum, she decided to brave the toy store after all. In her eyes, a piece of paper under the tree simply would not do.)
So I stand there with shelves of toys looming over me, trying to stave off a panic attack. Feeling stuck in the hamster wheel that Christmas has turned into. Understanding, finally, how it’s possible not to be filled with joy and light every flipping day of this magical season.
~
A couple of years ago I read an article about how some families have done away with Christmas presents altogether, opting to spend more quality time with loved ones instead of on shopping sprees at the mall. Now, I’m honestly not sure I could ever forego the tradition of presents underneath the tree completely. While holiday obligations revolving around the acquisition of things no one really needs are quite depressing, there’s nothing inherently wrong with the act of gift-giving itself. In fact, receiving that perfect present into which someone has put a lot of thought is pretty cool. Gifts like this say, “Yes, this person knows me. This person cares.”
Besides, it’s not like I can take Santa away from the kids now. For the time being, I’m stuck. This is the world we live in. There’s no way out but to buy the things and to wrap them and then smile on Christmas morning at the light in the children’s eyes, before realizing that it’s not the light of joy I’m seeing but rather their dopamine high.
My own inner child observes in horror as I become increasingly jaded each year.
~
My middle son, who is six, recently said, “Christmas is Jesus’s birthday but we’re the ones who get gifts? That’s sooo weird!”
He’s also been plotting what to put on his Christmas list since July.
Balance. There has to be some kind of balance.
~
One holiday season, I thought I had the perfect solution. I was going to have my oldest child write a different kind of letter to Santa. Sure, he’d request his usual three things, but beyond that, I wanted to have him tell Santa about his own plans for being generous during the holidays. We’d brainstorm together thoughtful gifts for family and friends, teachers and neighbors—not just things from the store but things he could make, or even do, for others. This is what the bulk of his letter would be.
Yeah, that didn’t happen. My anxiety and seasonal depression got the better of me, and I didn’t have the energy to cajole a child who hates writing into producing something that would serve, mostly, as a way for me to pat myself on the back for solving the evils of Christmas consumerism.
~
Maybe one day I’ll get there.
Maybe one day when all the kids are older and no longer believe in Santa, and the pressure to have toys under the tree is gone, things will be different. Maybe one day, when the clutter in the house no longer keeps sprouting back like mushrooms after a rainfall, I’ll look forward to picking out thoughtful gifts for my grown sons. Maybe we’ll even be one of those families that does away with Christmas gifts, after all.
For now, I’ll keep trying to rein in the clutter, and get those boxes on my porch to Goodwill before the kids tear into them and the discarded toys start making their way back into the house. I’ll continue trying to keep the Christmas gifts modest; I’ll do my best to teach my boys as they grow to be mindful consumers.
And I’ll try to go a little bit easier on myself. I’ll keep trying to let go of perfection.
Because really, that’s what it all boils down to, doesn’t it? Not the need to have a perfect, Pinterest-worthy Christmas, but rather that insidious pressure we of my generation face: to be perfect parents who raise perfect human beings who go on to lead perfect lives.
Nope. Enough.
I’m going to learn to trust that what I’m doing for my sons IS enough. Some days less, some days more, but in the end, I have to trust that it will all balance out.
Photo by Melissa Ortendahl Photography