Can’t Santa Put Some Simplicity In That Sack?

“So is having your Christmas tree topple over in the living room a sign of bad luck for the new year?” I ask my sister, who reads her horoscope daily. “It no way toppled over,” she insists. I was serious. “All seven furry feet--lights, ornaments, tinsel--smack across the living room floor. It has to be a bad sign.”

This year, I swore it would be different. I’d shop early. I’d convert our address book to Mail Merge. I’d just say no. No more special ornament hunting. No more eggnog casserole competitions. Phooey to the frenetic fussing, fretting and fa-la-la-lahing. Instead, this year we were really going to celebrate the season. Sit back and smell the cider.

“Corporations downsize, why can’t I,” I explained to a fellow mom friend, who was dubious about a simple holiday.

“How can you get away with . . . won’t your kids be disappointed without . . . what will your mother-in-law say . . . ?” she continued.

“Just watch me,” I told her. Besides, she was going for the medal. The blue ribbon for Orange County’s Most Stressed-Out Mother of Small Children During the Holidays contest.

It’s awarded every January in the parking lot or drop-off section of any school. She who attended the most parties in the same day, baked the largest variety of holiday no-no’s and held the smile perfectly affixed to the face the longest, was the winner. Those recounting the most abominable family war story made honorable mentions.

I should have seen things coming back in September, when an innocent trip to a craft store for school supplies turned into a one-hour “just looking, sort of” spree. The halls were already decked . . . just in time for Halloween.

Forgetting all about my “we’re simplifying our life” declaration, I slowly started grabbing items off the shelves. Within minutes, my empty basket turned into two overflowing shopping carts. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with buying a few seasonal items, and besides--it’s all marked down.” It was only when I found myself thumbing through a “Grow Your Own Holly Farm” magazine that I came to my senses, and headed for the checkout.

It grew worse with the family wardrobe. Originally, I swore that if my kids donned anything even resembling green or red, I’d be happy. But the temptation to complicate crept up on me during a routine visit to my favorite coffee shop on Balboa Island.

Hugging my mocha and feeling the holiday spirit as I soaked in the local charm, I casually strolled past a children’s clothing store. The display stopped me dead in my tracks. Before you could say, “Remember how fast they’ll outgrow it,” I was knee-deep in miniature velvet dresses, bow ties and any other overpriced ensemble for my 4- and 2-year-olds.

“Well, they really do need special outfits this year,” I rationalized. “After all, the grandparents from Europe will be visiting.” Simplicity Violation No. 3: inviting relatives from out of the country who have never seen your house, and who don’t speak English. What was I thinking?

With the arrival of les parents came the very unsimple need to fast-forward the home-improvement projects started this summer and left unfinished once school started. Again, rather than doing it the easy way, we insisted on the kamikaze route. Don’t paint one bathroom at a time--redo all three simultaneously. Oh well, at least the fumes are consistent.

And what stress-fest would be complete without the obligatory tree and trimmings? Whose idea was this? Sitting in a room somewhere, far away from Orange County and overtired moms like me, must be the god of breakables. He is experiencing total devotion this time of year, as nothing that ever remotely resembled a tree ornament was made child-proof. Whatever touches the tree must be small, dainty, delicate and made of something breakable. Throw in the Charles Dickens Light-Up Village and it’s smash city.

Finally, moments before the in-laws arrived at our home, fresh off their 11-hour international flight, down came the tree: TIM-BER! My cozy living room, finally adorned for the festivities, was going back to the drawing board. As were my bright ideas about simplifying the season.

The fun is just beginning. I’m told I have to glue-gun 30 feathers to a T-shirt for my daughter’s school Christmas show. And just for the heck of it, Christmas brunch will be at my house--a “simple” meal no doubt with only seven courses.

Who knows, at the rate I’m going, the power will probably go out, knock on wood. No, wait. I don’t want to tip the tree again.