Jungle Diary: Christmas Hangover
Falling Off the Wagon and Delusions of Alcoholism
We had a truly wonderful Christmas morning, though Lee and I were up until 2:30am wrapping presents, helping Santa Claus, and drinking far too much—not whisky, as was the tradition in our early years, but coffee and sparkly water—while listening to audiobooks like old people—David Sedaris’ Holidays on Ice, of course, along with a guilty pleasure court procedural—and chatting intermittently. It was very cozy.
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I remember a time (though it seems like someone else’s story now) when I truly believed that life would be less fun without alcohol. I couldn’t even conceive of Christmas without booze.
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As it was this year, Lee and I felt hungover simply on account of sleep-deprivation, especially given that we were rudely (yet lovingly) awakened at 5am by the kids, who informed us that they were going to open the stockings now, with or without us. We begged for another two hours of repose and finally agreed that everyone could have at it with the stockings, but not to touch any of the wrapped presents until we were up and the first pot of morning coffee had been made.
We hauled ourselves out of bed at around seven to find, unsurprisingly, that the living room had been dismantled. As promised, however, the presents under the tree were still intact. We soon discovered Margaret, a year and a day old, sitting in the midst of everything, naked, covered in what at first appeared to be mud, but which we quickly realized was chocolate. She had evidently consumed nearly her weight in chocolate covered almonds—a new discovery after an entire lifetime of purity up to this point. What an initiation.
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Unlike past years, I had managed to keep the gifts to a reasonable, even modest quantity this time. There was actually a point while Lee and I were wrapping, when I felt a pang of guilt—would the kids notice that the pile was less voluminous this year? Would they be disappointed? Surely not. In any case, we wrapped every tiny object meticulously, and each book individually, and we still managed—especially with our hoarde of eight, and in accordance with the general rule that one person opens one present at a time—to draw the festivities out until late mid-morning. There were no complaints at all.
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Somewhat tragically, my gifts to Lee included a package of socks and sneakers that were too small—along with my lifelong devotion.
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Lee gave me a beautiful silk shirt which I truly love and fits perfectly.
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The piece-de-resistance, however, was my pigeon certificate—a coupon for one baby pigeon, to be redeemed sometime in 2025 or beyond, from Felix and Cosmo, and a beautiful hand-painted Nicaraguan bird-mask, all of which made me cry (and yes, I will, very soon, be writing about the heroic life and death of Augustus, the most wonderful pigeon and one of my favourite beings ever). I do feel ambivalent about the idea of deliberately kidnapping a baby pigeon, but it is immensely comforting to know that at least my boys are on the active lookout for any rescues.
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Additional Christmas morning highlights include:
Baby Margaret receiving a beautiful cloth doll and some books, all of which she ignored in strong favour of more chocolate
Horus emerging from his man-cave of a bedroom and actually hanging out with us for the day (and showing genuine gratitude for the many books he received along with two enormous practice broadswords which he waved around triumphantly, reminding me of when he was so little and earnest and sweet)
Cosmo’s delight at receiving the metal detector he had been requesting incessantly for months, along with a machete, prompting Horus to laconically observe, “You’ll be slaughtering capitalist scum deep in the jungles in no time.”
Felix showing some blessed signs of enthusiasm for life after his protracted healing, and taking his blow-gun and bow-and-error out to the field for target practice
Xanthe’s evident thrill at receiving a kindle (which, yes, I have very mixed feelings about) then watching blaze through three chapter books on Christmas Day alone
Iggy’s exhilaration over the $15 remote-control car and his generosity of spirit in allowing his little brother Helio to play too
Helio appropriating a stuffed monster that was gifted to Treva, which he immediately dubbed “Tom,” which, incidentally, is my father’s name.
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Historically, in my family of origin, the caesura between Christmas and New Year’s was the real hangover time. Christmas Day dinner would be the apotheosis of my father’s debauchery, with Boxing Day a continuation of the festivities.
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He would then spend the subsequent week—the twelve days of Christmas— lolling around the house, listless and forlorn, pretending to be “sick,” drinking hot toddies and bloody marys and eggnog spiked with brandy to feel better, along with popping pills and eating far too much, ostensibly to absorb the alcohol. The excuses were multi-layered and endless. My poor sad bad dad.
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My father’s drunkenness made him less irascible, but my mother more so, and she