Every year when I was a kid, my family would drag multiple boxes of Christmas decorations out of closets and the basement. Knickknacks, candles, decorative towels, and napkin holders would highlight surfaces in each room. When I became an adult and moved into an apartment after college, I began to collect my own pile of seasonal ornaments. My ex-partner is Jewish and didn’t understand the need to switch the oven mitts for ones with snowpeople. She thought it was a little over the top to place a ceramic Santa on the bathroom sink.
Over time, more stuff was collected, kids were added to the mix, and my sense of what it meant to be festive was combined with anxiety and dread. I began to realize the boxes of decorations weren’t sentimental or what I really wanted. I wanted order, clean spaces, and less stuff. I and my obsessive-compulsive brain were fighting with what we thought we should be doing and what we wanted to be doing. The over-the-top decorating was performative and did not bring me joy. I was causing my own irritation by cluttering my mind and home with holiday tchotchkes.
When it comes to holiday lights, either indoor or out, the more the merrier, because those I can hang in even lines and patterns. They stay static while on display, and besides dealing with a few tangles, twinkle lights don’t come with a mess. The box of wrapped Christmas ornaments, on the other hand, comes with tissue paper, knotted hooks, and three children who want to “help.” Toddlers and their services are rarely helpful, and now that my three kids are 9 and 7 (twins), this was the first year that I didn’t want to punch something or rip my skin off while trying to enjoy watching them decorate the Christmas tree.
My kids do everything with an underlying competitive spirit, which means they rush to remove ornaments from the bin in order to get to their favorite ones. They throw paper, scatter hooks, and step on or drop ornaments. My kids are having fun — I am not. I tell them to be careful and slow down while wishing I was more relaxed about their excitement.
I know I stifle some of my kids’ uninhibited celebrating because I get anxious by the clutter, the change, and what feels like a lack of control. They dig into boxes and pull out dancing and musical displays, festive mugs, Santa hats, garland, and trivets. It’s really hard for me to embrace their joy, because I see crap on the floor, piles of clutter, and the work I will have to do to turn the chaos back into order. I recognize this and try to internalize my feelings; it’s not their fault I have OCD and feel like my skin will crawl off my bones. They’re not the reason why it feels like my brain is a spinning top on fire. I want to embrace the joy of the season, but it takes work.
To help me balance my mental health with their uninhibited enthusiasm, I establish boundaries and expectations while partaking in holiday festivities. I see my triggers and set up workarounds to mitigate them. Because I know my head will explode if my kids dump flour on the floor, I give them premeasured bowls of ingredients to add to the mixing bowl. And because I see germs before cuteness, I make my kids wash their hands before, at least once during, and definitely after they bake cookies. I also give them their own bowls of frosting to use while icing their sugar cookies. They each have their own tray of cookies and piles of sprinkles and candies, too.
This way, we have little cross-contamination, fewer reaches over others’ work, and less mess to deal with because they are less likely to accidentally dump a whole jar of Red Hots onto their Rudolph. And if they want to lick their fingers or butter knife and then finger and dip into their frosting while icing sugar cookies, then have at it. The cookie quarantine has already been established.
By the time Christmas morning arrives, the air is electric with anticipation, tension, and anxiety. Most of this is my own; my kids are just off-the-wall bonkers knowing Santa came. The frustrating rub is that I’m as excited as they are. I love surprising my kids, and reliving the magic of Christmas through their eyes is what parenting is made of. But the chemicals in my brain struggle to accept the messy part of the magic. I bite my tongue instead of telling them to calm down, and I have trash bags and recycle bins ready to clean up the packaging and wrapping paper that is thrown in the air like confetti. I acknowledge my struggle and quietly scoop up the litter so that I don’t put my anxiety on them.
Being a parent with OCD isn’t ideal, and on some days, I wish I was more relaxed and able to go with the flow. But I am also proud of my ability to be able to take care of myself while not taking away my kids’ qualities that make them kids. Yes, I see clutter and chaos, but I also see happiness.
