I don’t celebrate Christmas. Didn’t even celebrate when we lived in the US.
Merry would be a very interesting way of what’s going on here now. Both kids are sick, and I have to come up with elaborate ploys to distract their attention, say, if I want to go to the bathroom or drink some water. While I am writing, one is asleep and the other is under the coffee table trying to sit up. As long as he doesn’t succeed, I have some peace and quiet.
Back to Christmas. I really managed to put my preschool teacher in stitches once when I mixed up several pieces of information – Ronald Reagan pardoning a turkey for Thanksgiving which is always on a Thursday, my parents discussing the dates on which Hanukkah would work out that year (being according to the Jewish calendar), and the general notion of Santa Claus who I knew full well did not exist – and explained that Ronald Reagan wears a white beard and red suit and made it the law that Christmas this year would be on a Monday.
When I was seven, I performed my first act of civil disobedience by refusing to sing in the school pageant unless they added some Hanukkah songs.
He sat up. Oh, bother.