The Christmas Baby

Originally published December 2004

Preface: At the end there’s a reference to “Grand Ma,” or the orange liqueur Grand Marnier. Turns out, there’s more consumed on Hilton Head in one month than anywhere else on the planet. At the time this was written, South Carolina was still using mini-bottles. So if you were to order a shot for you and a friend you would say “give me one Grand Ma two ways.” That should explain everything. 

Here comes Christmas. Ho, ho, ho and all that crap. You guessed it, not a huge fan of Christmas. But it’s not your typical bah humbug attitude. Yeah, the carolers and those people who wear stupid sweaters with bells and red noses on them drive me berserk, but what really gets me is my birthday. I’m a Christmas Baby (and when I say “Christmas Baby” I mean born within a week). It is the single worst time of year to try and celebrate a birthday because the baby Jesus steals our thunder every damn time.

That’s right. I said it.

I can’t compete with the baby Jesus. People start celebrating His birthday just after Halloween. I’m only one person, not a savior, and only a handful of people on the planet know about me. Now, listen, I’m not expecting anyone to erect and decorate a tree in my honor, but it’s a tough shadow to live in. Not to mention His birthday comes complete with wise men, a manger, the Grinch, all of Whoville, a guy in a red suit and 8 tiny reindeer—one of whom is a bona fide hero because he saved Christmas thanks to a physical deformity that made his nose the perfect headlight. Way to overcome adversity, Rudolph.

Yes, there’s stiff competition for attention around this time of year, and I don’t do second fiddle well. My “special day” falls four days after Christmas. Everybody’s partied out, broke and no one wants to be hungover the day before New Year’s. Christmas is my rock, New Year’s my hard place.

It wasn’t so bad when I was younger. There was always a sprinkling of kids around who didn’t go away for Christmas break. I had the requisite bowling parties, movie parties, etc. But even at the age of eight, we were all too pooped to party after all the hoopla surrounding the baby Jesus.

The bane of the Christmas Baby’s existence is to receive an inordinate amount of white elephant presents. Don’t like what Santa brought you? No sweat. Rewrap it and hand it off to the Christmas Baby. And just to add insult to injury, use Christmas wrapping paper (Christmas Babies abhor red and green, although in an ironic twist, at this time of year we revel in anger and envy). Give me a birthday present that says “Merry Christmas!” all over it and I’ll smile politely while gnashing my teeth. That’s His birthday, not mine.

And when performing white elephant tricks, be sure you remember who gave you the gift you’re re-gifting. It’s a bad idea to give a gift back to the person who originally gave it to you. Yes, it has happened, and it makes for some pretty awkward moments around the cake and ice cream.

Pairs are also the enemy of the Christmas Baby. There is nothing wrong with sending two boxes, one marked “Christmas,” one marked “Birthday.” Where we run into a problem is when a pair of something has been split up between the two boxes. If it’s a pair of iceberg-sized diamond studs, sure split ‘em up. But for a pair of sox, gloves, chopsticks or run-of-the-mill earrings don’t do it. Because honestly, had I been born in June would you have held on to that stupid silver hoop for six months? I seriously doubt it.

And now as I approach the 7th anniversary of my 25th birthday my perspective has changed. I’ve stopped counting for one thing, but my birthday has turned into a Christmas spectacle. My friends have made me appreciate my birthday in spite of myself by making it a grotesque parody: everything red and green; forcing me to wear a wreath around my head hung with Christmas ornaments; red and green birthday cake and ice cream. It’s nauseating—the strawberry and mint chocolate chip ice cream, I mean—but it does put a new spin on things.

I guess, all I’m asking is that you be sensitive to the feelings of the Christmas Baby, and to that end I will leave you with this final thought:

‘Twas the week after Christmas and all through the night

Christmas babies could be heard bemoaning their plight:

“White elephants be damned, on one earring I’ll pass!

Shop the after Christmas sales, it’s my foot in your ass!

“Enough with the baby Jesus, Santa and Cindy Lou Who!

Tonight it’s about me—on with the Grand Ma, one bottle for two!”