The Dangers of Christmas

After using a small crane to lower myself onto the floor this morning in order to wrap the only gifts I've managed to purchase so far this holiday season, I've come to the realization that Christmas is dangerous, ya'll.  And not for the reasons you might think.

Sure, we hear about the folks who slice their finger or hand open on a blister package that requires a nuclear reaction to open and heading to the emergency room for stitches.  There's the unfortunate Turkey Fryer accidents. There's the dissolution of marriages and disowning of children by parents who were up until 4am assembling the tiny plastic parts of a Barbie Malibu Dream Castle.  But for pregnant kindergarten teachers, there is even more peril.

First of all, there's the hormonal issue.  I cried the other night because the pork chops I had in the oven weren't browning the way I wanted them to because they were thicker than the ones I usually buy.  I collapsed into a bewildered heap of sobs over that disaster. That has nothing to do with Christmas, of course, but how can you expect someone who cries over pork chops to be able to drive while you're playing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" on the radio, Light 98?  Or "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch?"  I mean, these songs are FILLED with emotional triggers like "Your soul is an appalling dung heap overflowing with the most disgusting assortment of garbage imaginable."  Sobs, I tell you.  I carry mascara in my purse so that once I get to school I can somewhat reassemble myself.

  Of course, that doesn't last long.  And why?  Pants.  They keep caring if I'm wearing pants to school. Yes, I wear a dress as often as possible and recently made the foray into leggings and longer shirts, but I haven't found a way yet to wear my ACTUAL nightgown or a pair of sweatpants to school without escaping notice.  And with a baby belly roughly the size of the unexplained object orbiting Mercury:

They're COMING FOR US

Pants are seriously dangerous.  As a matter of fact, on Thursday I was a mere moments from taking my scissors into the stinky peed-on bathroom in my classroom and cutting the waistband on the maternity pants I was wearing so that I could stand to wear them for another moment.  I had a whole plan to extend them involving duct tape and my stapler, but luckily the Husband showed up with my sweatpants just in time for my pants to escape Mythbusters style rigging.

   THEN this morning I got the proofs of The Squirt's 2 year old photo shoot with a talented photographer friend.  The kid is spectacular, I must say.  Even the dogs look cute in the shots they invaded.  Me, not so much.  I look like a whale. An actual, verifiable, World Wildlife Association Profiling Endangered Species. There is only one of my kind: The Central Virginian Mommious Colossus.  I am SNL's Land Shark's Whale counterpart.  And this is particularly troubling because I've really not gained that much weight at all (nneighborhood of 10lbs, sometimes as much as 15 depending on when you weigh me).  So this served to completely destroy the picture of myself in my head that I have where I am a Whole Lot Thinner Than I Actually Am. Tears.  Oh yeah. Tears. 

   And now I'm trying to plan some merriment for my kindergarten friends for next week, and it's frustrating because I have a Jehovah's Witness in my class. They take the fun out of everything and replace it with Watchtower pamphlets.  This is the first year I haven't spent the whole month of December playing my collection of Robert Shaw carols and such on the CD player in my classroom instead of my usual "Piano's Most Relaxing Hits" albums. 

  On the slightest end of positive, this week I only had ONE unexplained pee puddle appear on my classroom floor, and only had to make one awkward phone call home to a parent because his son was masturbating on his rest mat during naptime.  Oh yeah, baby.