The Axis of Festive Evil... or, How Chocolate Has Ruined our Holidays

Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny. Old Witch. Once such beloved friends, sparking glorious imaginative flights of fancy, giving life to the otherwise mundane and filling my childhood with much-needed joy.

And now these former beloved friends... these stalwart allies and trusted chums... these absolute utter bastards... have turned on me.

I first became aware of their corruptive influences during Pre-Schooler N's first Christmas in our own home (the previous one being at Professor D's parents). Oh, I had such high hopes, such excitement at sharing my most beloved of holidays with my son. I shopped. I decorated. I shopped again. I baked. I decorated again. Until our home looked as though tiny wizened elves had snuck in during the night and jerked off all over the walls with Yuletide glee.

(Not My Actual House)

At last count, there were 36 miniature Santa Clauses gracing our home throughout December, along with 29 snowmen and a healthy smattering of reindeer and other woodland creatures.  I knew that our son -- then Toddler N -- would love this explosion of colour and texture, and glean as much innocent enjoyment from the holiday as I always have.

Goddamn was I wrong.

Oh it wasn't that he didn't love the whole thing.  He adored it. He loved it so much that he spent every damn moment racing around, destroying my careful preparations and generally making that once-precious week between Christmas and New Years an exhausting marathon of Don't Touch That!!! and Oh My God The Tree!!!

(Not My Actual Christmas Tree)

Okay so in hindsight it was ridiculous to expect much self-restraint from a two-year-old. But the worst wasn't even the physical destruction he wreaked on our home. It was the advent of Whining.

Now every parent knows that Whining is the auditory equivalent of water boarding, destined to reduce even the most patient and compassionate of us to a snarling, intolerant dictators of Stalinesque proportions. And there's something about a bunch of Christmas presents, Easter chocolate or, god help us, Hallowe'en candy that catapults it into overtime.

This past Christmas was slightly better, with Pre-Schooler N finally able to understand that there is a beginning and (mercifully) an end to gift-opening, though the onslaught of goodies proved an ongoing supply of fuel to the whining engine. Still, it gave me hope for the future.

(Definitely not my living room. Nice mirror though)

Which, naturally, was then smashed all to shit with Easter last weekend, with the fresh hell that itty bitty chocolate eggs and brightly coloured jellybeans bring into our well-ordered lives. I guess it's like childbirth, where some latent bit of the human brain blocks out the memory of past horrors, allowing the massive denial centre to kick into Hallmark-generated overdrive.

How else could I forget that any stash of chocolate (a very rare treat) known to my kid will mean that he whines frequently and volubly until said morsel has been deposited into his keening mouth. Unfortunately for him, I'm also bloody stubborn, which means I won't give in to whining, which means the whole thing goes on until the carefully-meted-out chocolate supply has finally dried up.

(And not my actual child)

I know this is the right way to do things. I know it's good that his main treats are a baked good, or some lovely fresh fruit, or a nice flavoured applesauce. And I know that giving in to whining now would prove a disastrous down-payment on a child who is spoiled and completely lacking in self-discipline.

My conscious, reasonable brain (shivering and cowering from shell-shock somewhere behind the amygdala) knows that these days of structure and rhythm will contribute to a well-balanced kid with a sense of how to behave. And I know that these holidays will soon be a lot more manageable as Pre-Schooler N gets more under his belt. They may never be Hallmark, but I do sincerely believe they will be more harmonious.

But in the meantime, if I see that fucking bunny or a fat guy in a red suit, all bets are off.