(With my deepest apologies to Dr. Seuss)
Every kid
Down in Kidville
Liked Christmas a lot
But the Kvetch,
Orchestrating much of it,
Did NOT!
It wasn't the gloom or the rain that were troubling;
T'was the number of urgent tasks darkly bubbling.
This Kvetch wasn't hot on December, truth be told;
Three birthdays, plus Christ's, made her heart almost fold.
So the problem was more that she wanted to shine,
Make of birthdays and Christmases all, the divine.
(Huh!
Perfection is not
Found in the trappings
Despite the assertions of experts on wrapping.)
Where others might sensibly keep birthdays spare-ish -
A small, cheerful meal at a venue they cherish -
The Kvetch early on chose to gild every lily
And make even plain plans remarkably hilly.
Then Kvetch watched in envy as the smarter folk chilled
And asked, "Why does December leave me unfulfilled?"
Her standards were high, her abilities low-ish.
Where others liked dashing, her m.o. was slow-ish.
Never a student, athletic, or too saintly,
Her praises had never been sung more than faintly.
It was rare for the Kvetch that "ideal" was the goal;
All her childhood stockings usually merited coal.
Why, lazy and careless was Kvetch's usual creed!
So why, in December, the "accomplishment" need?
Who was the judge here; who'd care one way or t'other
Whether birthday cakes came from a box or from Mother?
And wouldn't a cheque signed by dear, sweet, old Pop
Be ranked by young celebrants the pick of the crop?
(Still.
Why break with tradish
At this time of the year?
It's the last thing retailers are dying to hear.)
"Ah, no!" cried the Kvetch in her most heart-wrenching tone.
"I can't give up now, while they're still living at home!
Some day they'll move out, and they'll look back in wonder
At birthdays and Christmases without a blunder.
Where friends crowded in and the vittles were smokin'
Where guitars were played and warm tributes spoken."
(Strange! The Kvetch could have bailed,
Salvaged December.
But then what would there be for her to remember?)
So Kvetch launched the month in a state of mild panic
That quickly approached shades of "loony" and "manic"
Buying and wrapping and mailing countless gifts
Her complaints creating some continental rifts.
But mothers worldwide know exactly what drove her.
They've done it themselves - sometimes over and over.
They polish the silver and decorate the tree
While wishing Christmas dinner could be KFC.
When holidays come we're all trying to excel
And the seasonal consequence? Feeling like hell.
But our brains will not cease with their constant demands,
And Kvetches seldom find too much time on their hands.
Bold ideas - like snowshoeing, dining with friends -
Seem crazy; is leisure an admirable end?
If excess and pomp aren't the reason this season,
Then who are the Kvetches so intent on pleasin'?
Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!
Where's the goodwill? Where is the cheer?
(Argh!
Kvetch re-considered.
Was her thinking flawed?
She certainly suspected it might have been odd.)
Then Kvetch recalled holidays with children a-feared
Of a mother whose mood went from wicked to weird,
Whose demands got more strident each day that went by,
Who nixed all ideas that rose on the fly,
Whose favourite day came when it was all over,
Who made even pets wish that they were less sober.
(Voila!
An epiphany.
Could we cope without one?
Probably, but it wouldn't be as much fun.)
"Slow down!" said the Kvetch, to herself, if not others.
"Try to enjoy this, since you don't get no druthers!
Relax with your children, watch the classics, trade jokes
Don't rile everyone up with gratuitous pokes."
And so said the Kvetch, with the best of intentions,
Hoping her family would brook her pretentions,
For no one believed that she'd stick to her scheme:
A relaxing December - can't a woman dream?
