That One Time I Spent Christmas Eve Sobbing in the McDonalds Drive-Thru
Two years ago, I spent Christmas Eve crying in the McDonalds drive-thru.
(I’m going to let that visual sink in for a moment.)
(This is 100% a true story.)
Let me back up. The year is 2018, and I am 8.5 months pregnant. My husband, who hates change, has just started a brand new job. My four-year-old is scheduled to have eye surgery next week. Did I mention I am 8.5 months pregnant?
There is a lot going on in our world. Because I am the Mother, I take it upon myself to ensure our Christmas season remains magical and unphased by all the transitions whirling around us. Thoughtful Christmas shopping: check. Make our house a winter wonderland: check. Printable advent coloring sheets to do each afternoon: check. Buy a red sweater for “red and green” day at school, pick up snowman cookies for preschool party, give money to room moms for teacher gifts: check, check, and check.
I send the Christmas cards and wrap the presents and keep water in the tree dish. I select stocking stuffers and make arrangements for us to view Christmas lights in a horse-drawn carriage. Every box on our December bucket list has a tidy check mark next to it, thanks to me. With our third baby’s due date looming, I am also nesting. And by nesting, I mean vacuuming—every single room, every single day. As if our baby will be born allergic to dust.
Right around December 23rd, I start to feel … tired.
If I may be completely honest, I start to feel resentful, too. Bitter. Angry. Disappointed. Frustrated. Invisible. Under-appreciated. Take those emotions and pile on some pregnancy hormones, and you’re in for a real treat.
By Christmas Eve, I am done. Put a fork in me, get this baby out, if I have to vacuum under this kitchen table one more time, SO HELP ME, I am going to lose my mind.
My husband and I are fighting, again. Everyone in our house has a head cold. We are supposed to host Christmas Eve, but at the very last minute, my husband calls it off. “We’re sick” is what he says on the phone; “We’re not in the mood to pretend to be happy” would have been more accurate. He calls Whole Foods and cancels our dinner order. A family of four (one of whom doesn’t eat pizza, let alone ham) doesn’t need a feast for twelve.
Did I mention I am 8.5 months pregnant? I am hungry. I am ravenous from all the vacuuming. We have no food in the fridge because I had passive-aggressively protested grocery shopping earlier this week.
So, I do what any other rational, mature pregnant woman would do in these circumstances. I put my jacket on over my pajamas, grab the car keys, slam the door, and drive to McDonalds.
I pull into the drive-thru practically salivating. I can already taste the hamburger, the fries, the M&M McFlurry. Whole Foods has nothing on the $6 I am about to drop here.
I sit at the speaker for thirty seconds, wondering what is taking so long. I review the menu, mentally confirm my order, drum my fingers along the steering wheel. Seriously: what is taking so long? There is a car behind me, and while they aren’t honking (yet), I can feel their impatience creeping up on my bumper.
Finally, I decide to pull up to the window. Maybe the speaker is broken?
The second I pull up, I know. They are closed. The lights are on, but nobody is inside. No customers, no workers, no hamburgers, no fries.
I start to cry. And not just a little, not just a few tears delicately falling down my cheeks. I’m talking the type of ugly cry where you’re heaving, gasping for air, snot smearing all over your face. It is the most epic pity party I’ve ever thrown, sobbing in the McDonalds drive-thru on Christmas Eve. I don’t know where to go or what to do, so I just start driving. I drive and drive and drive, blaring Christmas music in my car, soaking my pajamas with my own tears.
I’ve actually never seen a Hallmark Christmas movie, but I imagine this is the stuff they are made of?
After twenty minutes of wasting gas, I finally venture home, hamburger-less. I escape to the bathroom and cry some more, feeling both gigantic and invisible at the same time. Brett attempts to console me; I refuse his efforts.
An hour later, I collect myself enough to walk into the kitchen. If I can’t have a McDonalds hamburger for Christmas Eve, I will at least have a bowl of cereal. My stomach has been growling for hours. I grab a box of Kashi cereal from the cabinet and pour myself a generous helping.
(Do you know where this is going?)
Would you even believe me if I told you I opened the refrigerator and we had no milk?
There I am. Standing in front of the open fridge with my bowl of dry cereal, 8.5 months pregnant after a failed trip to McDonalds, on Christmas Eve, like some kind of sick Got Milk commercial.
(I’m going to let that visual sink in for a moment.)
(This is 100% a true story.)
I start crying again.
This is the part where I wish I could tell you something extraordinary happened, like a pizza appears on my porch or Brett and I magically make up just as the clock struck midnight. A Christmas miracle. Unfortunately, neither of those things happen. I go to bed feeling both hungry and sorry for myself. I’m pretty sure Brett comes to bed confused, and perhaps a tad worried that my due date is six whole weeks away.
I don’t think I have ever in my whole life needed new mercies more than I did that Christmas morning. Thankfully, they arrive—in the form of hot coffee, an apology in the middle of the kitchen, sunshine streaming through the windows, and kids who are genuinely grateful for their presents. I make mimosas and belgian waffles, our Christmas morning tradition, and all four of us pile on the couch to watch Elf.
It is, for all intents and purposes, a redemptive morning.
The following year, at the start of December, I pull out our art supplies so the kids can paint pictures of Christmas trees. I put on a playlist, lay down butcher paper to protect the table, and draw tree outlines on thick cardstock. Not five minutes into the process, one of my children makes a mistake. His very tiny error turns into a not-so-tiny tantrum and next thing I know he is storming away from the table in tears (only after scribbling all over his paper, of course).
Eventually, he comes back out and we talk about it. We talk about how it’s okay to feel frustrated. We talk about what it means to be an artist, and how everyone makes mistakes. We talk about not giving up. We talk about trying again.
And then we talk about how nothing in this world is perfect, and that’s why Jesus came.
It is now Christmas 2020. Of all the years—I think it’s safe to say: some part of your Christmas isn’t going to be perfect this year. You might not get to see some of the family members you usually see. Some of your fun traditions might be closed or canceled. Your kids might throw some tantrums. Maybe you’ll throw one, too. You might be in the middle of your own transitions, preparing for a new baby or unpacking moving boxes. You might be dealing with bigger hurts and aches, grief or waiting or loss.
All of this pain, these shattered expectations are real. But even still, this much we know: there is no imperfect part of Christmas that isn’t covered by the Perfect One we’re celebrating in the first place.
In all of it—you are seen. You are known. You are loved. And whatever evening goes awry this month, I promise you: God’s mercies are new every morning.
Until then, please know McDonalds is closed on Christmas Eve. This is a good time to stock up on cereal and milk. Merry Christmas from my imperfect home to yours.
These words originally appeared in the Coffee + Crumbs newsletter. Sign up here to get encouragement in your inbox once a month!
