Beyond the window, mist blankets the garden, yet the children pay it no mind—they’re curled up on the sofa, eyes fixed on Gumball. They nibble on toast slathered with melted butter. I sip my coffee. They’re still in their pyjamas, and for the first morning since last August, there’s no rush to change. No swim practice, no hockey, no football, no school. No destinations, no schedule.
“Mom, why are you this thrilled over a day with zero plans?” my oldest inquired yesterday. Because scarcity makes things valuable, I guess. Because exhaustion has set in. Because I’m not sure I can recall the sensation of truly disconnecting.
And maybe that’s Christmas’s greatest gift—it offers many of us a pause in the middle of winter.
I’m aware it’s not universal. And the respite is frequently fleeting. Medical professionals will be on duty throughout; retail workers might have only a single day of rest; bartenders will start early on St. Stephen’s Day; those in finance will be back at their desks on the 27th, grinding straight through until New Year’s Eve. (This goes unnoticed by most, except the ones who limit themselves to two drinks on Stephen’s Night because the markets reopen in the morning.)
I also recognize the parents who will rise at 5 a.m. every day over Christmas because infants never take a holiday. The caregivers who provide round-the-clock support. The grown children tending to aging parents. The wives who will cook and clean endlessly because their husbands belong to the group that doesn’t pitch in. And the husbands who will do the same because their wives are the ones who don’t (in theory, such a situation exists, doesn’t it?)
Yet amid the chaos of presents, decorations, turkey, stuffing, scrubbing, peeling, and accidentally skipping the sage, I wish that everyone can snatch an hour or two just like this. Pyjamas. Toast with melted butter. Cartoons. Coffee. Fog is optional. Wishing you a happy midwinter pause.
