F🌀CK SANTA. LONG LIVE THE MOTHER

By Mama Tiff

Let’s get real.

Santa didn’t build Christmas. We did. The mothers. The women. The grandmothers. The Queens.

We are the ones with tinsel in our hair and grocery lists in our dreams. We are the ones who create magic out of thin air and Amazon. We are the ones who’ve been erased, even as we hold every single thread together.

I start planning Christmas in July. Six kids. Three grandchildren. In-laws. Every Christmas Eve they come home, and Grandma’s house becomes the most magical place on earth... because I built it that way.

I pick the menus. I wrap the gifts. I think through every child, every personality, every detail. Jack decorates the tree and the banister for me... it’s beautiful. I decorate everything else. The smells. The sparkle. The warmth. The food. The wonder. The nutmeg in the air. The fudge on the plate. The Santa blanket. The pine branches. The cheese balls. The cookies. The banana bread. The lists fill up more than one notebook.

And somehow, in all of it… I forget myself. Not this year.

We’ve all been trained to say, “Santa did it.” To point to some man in a red suit... it was created for a Coca-Cola marketing ad back in the day. Then the world made him the hero of the season. It is the woman who made it all happen who stands in the kitchen, exhausted, unthanked, and forgotten.

I’m watching the movie Oh What Fun with Michelle Pfeiffer... and it hit me hard. It’s not just that we’re forgotten. It’s that we forget ourselves. Because we’ve been told we’re not the story. Santa is.

Well, I’m calling bullshit. The jig is up. The veil is lifted. And I’m crowning every mother who’s ever made a holiday out of her own damn blood, sweat, money, and love.

And let’s stop pretending this is about Jesus. We know he wasn’t born on December 25th. This isn’t sacred tradition. This is consumerism with tinsel. It’s emotional labor in a red velvet cloak. And it’s women... always women... who make it happen.

So this year?

Fuck Santa. Celebrate the Mother.

Write her a card. Bring her a gift. Make her breakfast. Tell her you see her and appreciate the hell out of her because she’s the reason your life carries memories of joy. And if you’re the mother... then for God’s sake, celebrate yourself. Stop erasing the one who made the magic.

We are not elves.
We are not background characters.
We are not Mrs. Claus.

We are the fire.
We are the feast.
We are the goddamn miracle.

The QUEEN’S PATH.