‘TWAS THE MONTH BEFORE CHRISTMAS
By Robyn Hall

Do you want to commit Holiday Hari-Kari?  I used to until I discovered my own secret Santa stress reliever, a tradition which now takes place every year, once I have closed up the workshop around Dec. 15th.  Read on, in my Clement C. Moore-inspired poem!

‘Twas the month before Christmas
And all through the house
The only creature who was stirring
Was Mama and her mouse.

The stockings had to be ordered online with care
And the house and tree decorated with not an ornament to spare.
The presents were to be nestled
Wrapped in bold green and red

While tons of sweets needed baking
As well as the bread.
With Mama in her sweatpants
(And Papa in his paddle tennis cap)
No way could she settle her brain for a nap.

Because out on the lawn there were still lights to scatter
And the car was full of large packages that clatter.
She needed to get to the post office in a flash
But she still had to put out the recycling and trash.

And then she must make teachers’ gifts to go
To school for the assembly tomorrow, don’t you know.
Tears sprang to her exhausted eyes with sheer fear
She would not get everything done in time this year!

There were still holiday cards – to order and mail quick
She knew in a moment that she would be quite sick
From the rapid heavy breathing with panic it came
As she whistled and shouted and called out a bad name!

“Oh Damnit!  Freakin’ Holidays!  Why can’t I ever hear
A kind and small “thank you” just one time a year?
Come on, when will they ever appreciate me?
When does Mom get a break from holiday misery?”

As dry heaves that before the wild meltdown do fly,
Mama’s eyes went wide as she looked into the sky.
Up to the housetop she hurled the wreath and it flew.
She marched inside and kicked the plastic St. Nicholas too.

And then in a twinkling was heard on the desk
The tapping and typing of a woman with no rest.
As she bent down her head to keep it from spinning ‘round
From the computer her answer came as email in-bound.

She was dressed all in red, from her head to her heels.
Her name was Elizabeth Arden – and she could do magic peels!  
With a hot stone massage just for the back
And manicures and pedicures and a facial and wax!

Her eyes would again twinkle, her dimples turn merry
Her cheeks would be line free and her nose a pert cherry.
Her droll little mouth would have a Restylane glow,
And the champagne in her hand chilled as cold as the snow.

The answer had stumped her until she grinded her teeth
But now she could rescue herself and bequeath
To her fellow moms who were run ragged in December
Take yourself to the spa for a day – and remember

Even though they don’t say it in spite of themselves
Your family could never live without its #1 elf!
So with a wink of the eye and a click of the mouse
Give yourself an “appreciation day” out of the house!

She spoke no more words and kept on with her work.
And filled all the stockings then turned with a jerk.
And pinching her eyes shut by the bridge of her nose
From her lids tumbled tears and the sobs they arose.

She sprang to her car, to her dog gave a whistle
And away she flew like her son’s new Nerf missile.
But I heard her exclaim ere she drove out of sight:
“Happy Christmas to all – and say thanks to your mom tonight!”