Christmas is a jello race. From beginning to end, it is like trying to nail jello to the wall. You get one piece nailed up, but when you get back with the next piece to nail up, the first piece has disappeared.
Only the kids have energy at Christmas. The parents and grandparents are overdosed on carbohydrates and shopping. So while we all lay around like slugs after pulling ourselves together to watch the kids open gifts, the kids are nonstop. Kids also don't eat for at least 24 hours at Christmas, and they only sleep when they can't stand up anymore.
Which means that Christmas dinner is really for the adults. It is our way of drugging ourselves into an apathetic mind blur so that we don't have to watch the kids tear the house down.
Waking up the next day is like coming out of a coma. You aren't sure what has happened, but you know it had something to do with a holiday, gifts, kids and enough food for a small army.
The good news is we have tricked my oldest daughter into letting us use her house because it is the largest. My theory is that the farther the toys are spread out, the less messy the house looks. But it really doesn't matter anyway, because it isn't my house.
I get to go home and leave Jen with the mess. And the kids. Do I feel guilty? Not at all. Being a grandparent at Christmas is the best part of the holiday at my age, and my reward for surviving the jello race for years with three small children.