Your Advent Permission Slip
and our Advent plans
Last January, I have a visceral memory of asking my mom-friends how we were doing post Christmas. All of agreed in a collective sigh that we were glad we’d “made it through”. The presents were finally unwrapped; the tree finally taken down; the cinnamon rolls finally devoured. We were done. High fives. Naps all around, please.
But this wasn’t said with the joyful freedom of someone who’d run the race and run it well. It was usually said with a touch of aggravation—a bitterness at the holiday season, and a frustration of how much of it was on our shoulders.
Reflecting on that, it reminds me of the springtime, when I had a teary conversation with my mom. My phone was pressed up against my ear while I drove my clunky minivan, my 3-year-old in the backseat shrieking for Elsa music to be played. I was explaining to her that I was exhausted—the end-of-the-school-year rush of concerts and class parties; the madness of Easter celebrations; a work trip to New York; all three of my children’s birthdays within two weeks of each other; and now, a first communion party. And while I was obviously thrilled that my eldest would be receiving the Eucharist, and while I was committed to having friends and family over to celebrate one of the most important days in my son’s life, the thought of hosting 50 people and cooking for them was putting me right over the edge.
“What would make it easier?” she asked. And I told her the honest truth: if she would come help me clean my house, and if we just had it catered. Everything. I didn’t want to make the cake. I didn’t want to make the appetizers. I didn’t want to make the sandwiches. Hell, I didn’t even want to use real plates. I wanted to pay people from Potbelly’s to show up at my door with food and I wanted the clean-up to involve walking around with a garbage bag.
“So do that,” she said, as if it were obvious.
“I can’t,” I bemoaned. “Paying for sandwiches to be catered?! Grandma would have never.” This is a frequent phrase I utter, in deference to my much-beloved grandmother who died in 2011. My mom’s mom was as salt-of-the-earth as they come. She made my American Girl doll’s clothes. She sewed blankets. She made baskets. She patched jeans. She cooked everything. Some nights when I give my kids canned spaghetti sauce and frozen meatballs I wince, thinking about my grandmother, who viewed a 3-dollar Culver’s milkshake as the height of luxury. Dry your eyes and roll up your sleeves was one of her favorite sayings. Her family lost her farm in the Great Depression; her sister was sent away to be a maid at the age of thirteen. This woman tolerated no fools.
And here’s the thing: I love to make things from scratch. I really do. Baking is something that helps me stay mindful, and I’m of the opinion that there’s nothing tastier than fresh sourdough pulled from the oven. I’ve baked almost all of my children’s birthday cakes. I really do view feeding my family as a vital part of my vocation and it brings me joy, even on days when it feels more like a to-do list item than a gracious task.
But my mom rolled her eyes. “She would have catered it if she could have, you ding dong. Don’t be a martyr. Buy the damn sandwiches.”
What are your sandwiches this Advent?
Some of these middle-class-mom-liberation-essays start to sound a bit—well. First world problem-ish, for lack of a better phrase. Kim, there’s people that are dying while you’re sobbing over a lost pearl earring. It’s sort of like when people write long, waxing essays on taking a two week break from Substack. It gives ma’am, this is a Wendy’s vibes. Does the internet really care whether or not your kids have matching gingham pajamas? Is anybody going to lose it over unfrosted sugar cookies? Do people really think it’s worth yet another ramble about not having to do everything for every Advent while kids in the Middle East are scraping together a Christmas under piles of rubble?