My mom tips her head in a way that causes her to teeter even more precariously from the top of the stepladder. With a length of garland gripped between her teeth and a Christmas wreath looped around her neck, she looks like she’s putting on some kind of bizarre Yuletide performance.
“Can you help me out here? Just hold the ladder steady and let me know if the garland swoops are equally spaced.”
She hitches onto her toes and reaches toward the ceiling in a way that makes me fear for her safety, but when it comes to decorating for Christmas, my mom’s all too willing to test the theory of gravity.
Other than a few minor edits, it’s pretty much the same decor every year. And while I guess it looks nice enough, I’ve never understood her insistence on the fake snow and icicles when there’s usually no shortage of the real thing right outside the front door.
“How was school?” she asks, the words muffled by the tack she’s now placed between her front teeth, sharp side in. Another dangerous move, but to my mom, it’s all about the craft.
“Terrible,” I say, mostly to see if she’s really listening.
“That Josh Frost was there today, wasn’t he?” she asks, proving she’s not really listening, just making small talk. Her voice brightens when she adds, “How’d that go?”
“Awful.” I free up a length of garland, watching as one of her feet completely loses contact with the ladder as she stretches along the wall, veering way past my comfort zone.
“That must’ve been exciting for you.” She rights herself again and climbs back down to survey her work, pulling at the sleeves of a Christmas sweater that’s more embarrassing than mine, then pushing a hand through a cloud of shortish dark hair that’s best described as practical.
“Mmmm” is the best I can manage. No point in saying anything more when, yet again, we’ve come to that most wonderful time of the year, when I, Nick Dashaway, my mother’s very own Christmas miracle, am rendered invisible.
I glance around the room, taking in the three red felt stockings hung by the chimney with care, including one for our dog, Sir Dasher Dashaway*2; the jars crammed full of chocolates and candy canes; the tinsel draped over just about every surface that’s not covered with a garland, a poinsettia, or an icicle; all the way to the enormous plastic bins stuffed full of ornaments, all lined up and ready to go, just waiting for the tree to arrive.
Oh, and did I mention the continuous loop of Christmas carols that plays in the background? It’s pretty much the Dashaway sound track until January 2.
Tinsel Madness. That’s what this is.
Everything in my life leans to the extreme.
My sister is extremely annoying.
My mom is extremely Christmas obsessed.
My dad is extremely stressed over his business ever since The Depot opened in the town next to ours.
My dog has an extremely bad case of flatulence.
My friends are extremely nerdy.
And the extremely cool life that I dreamed of is extremely over before it could actually get off the ground.
“So, what do you think?” My mom looks between her holiday masterpiece-in-the-making and me.
“Looks like you’ve done it again,” I say, not wanting to hurt her feelings. When I see the way she grins in response, I feel better for trying. Just because my day sucked doesn’t mean I need to take hostages and make everyone else miserable too.
While my mom fusses with decorations that don’t require the use of a stepladder, I eat a microwaved dinner alone at the counter. The table is reserved for decorating the hundreds of cookies the oven will begin regurgitating on a regular basis within the next hour so my mom can package them as gifts for neighbors, the postman, and pretty much everyone we know, including people we barely know. Then I grab the microwaved meal my mom packed for my dad and head out for the first night of my unofficial (and officially unpaid) holiday job at the Dashaway Home and Hardware.
Even though I sometimes complain about not getting paid, for the most part I really don’t mind. I’ve been hanging around the shop since I was a kid, though it wasn’t until last summer that my dad gave me an actual schedule and taught me how to run the cash register. My dad’s a good guy, and I like spending time with him when he’s not totally stressed, which these days is practically never. Then again, it’s always kind of hectic around the holidays. Christmas is the busiest time of year on account of the Christmas tree lot my dad runs in the back, so it’s good that I’ll be there to help if he needs me.
The usual routine goes like this: I ride my bike to the shop, showing up more or less on time, then I hand over the food and cover the register while my dad eats in his office. Then, when it’s time to close up shop, we toss my bike in the back of his truck and he drives us both home. It’s an okay arrangement, I guess, but this year I’m hoping we can change it up a bit.
For the longest time I’ve been begging to help out on the Christmas tree lot, which is so much cooler than ringing up lightbulbs and toilet plungers for the parents of the classmates who refuse to acknowledge me.