There’s nothing quite like having a small apocalypse for Christmas. I’m not talking about world-wide devastation.
No alien attacks.
No melting ice caps wrecking havoc with our weather and lives.
No exploding bombs and heat seeking missiles.
No. I’m talking about the small apocalypses that tend to happen this time of year. Like, the time my older brother Fred decided to cut his own hair. With the electric razor. Two hours before midnight mass. And he wound up with a half-shaved head.
There was also the time my kid brother Henry came down with a bad blood infection. Mom spent Christmas Eve and all of Christmas Day in the hospital with him, leaving Dad and the rest of us to fend for ourselves. All of us were too worried about Henry to open our presents. Dad had no idea how to cook the turkey. He gave up after a couple of hours. We had cookies and chocolate milk for supper that night. And then the power went out. And Mom was still at the hospital with Henry.
Then, there was the Christmas where Mom tried to make chicken soup from scratch. It was her first time and she was following her old great grandmother’s recipe. She was all excited about it. She was convinced that it was going to come out perfect. We all got food poisoning and had to spend Christmas in the emergency room, hooked up to IV’s.
Now that I’m married and have my own kids, I still worry about what sort of apocalypse is going to tsunami us. And we have had our fair shares. Some were unavoidable mishaps. Others were acts of sheer stupidity.
But I consider myself blessed. All of our apocalypses have been small.
No world-wide devastation.
No aliens attacking.
No melting ice caps.
No bombs or air raids.
Just the small, ordinary apocalypses of every day life.