Listen, I love Christmas as much as anybody.

Probably even more than most, since I will absolutely tune in for Hallmark, TNT, AMC or even XYZ Christmas movies in December or July or mid-March or any ol’ time a given network decides “we need a little Christmas, right this very minute.”

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: I concur with the notion (and song!) that it’s the hap, happiest season of all, a’ight?

But I gotta tell ya, it wasn’t even yet Halloween yet when I began seeing houses beaming with holiday lights this year. What in the heck?

Now, you know how I feel about Halloween and all (it is SO not a real holiday!) but I must admit that candy canes in trick-or-treat bags are a bit over the top, yo.

My good peeps, why are we rushing not only seasons but also life, in general?

Sure, I’d love to see the home of that New York family who topped their own Guinness record with 687,000 Christmas lights last year — though it might take me awhile to adjust my corneas back to normal — but even so, why the hurry with the hanging?

I mean, in the blink of an eye, my son went from a baby bottle to boasting a beard.

Boy, oh boy and hmpf.

Just so all you twentysomethings out there know, it hurts a Mom that her kids become independent and self-sufficient and all grownup and whatnot — all so very fast.

I swear that it was a mere few years ago my baby boy (who is actually 22 and a legal adult, natch) was the best butterflyer on his 8-and-under team, wasn’t it?

How I miss those sun-soaked, steamy, sweltering swim sessions — seriously.

Yes, it was hot and stuffy in all those natatoriums. I mean, my hair looked like Roseanna Roseanna Danna’s by each event’s ending. It was big and triangular and fluffy, OK? I digress.

Yes, I got suckered into timing nearly every meet in which Kyle swam because no other parent wanted to. Instead, they spent their time socializing and sipping iced teas et al. No judgment but I’m fairly certain some of those cups contained the hard variety?

Just sayin’.

Yes, I got burned to a crisp during those summer meets as I squinted and shuffled and sun-blocked so as to have a front-row view of the action.

Yes, I screamed louder than anyone on the third rock from the sun (and maybe even any potential Martian swim moms?) anytime my kid hit the water.

So, sue me if I acted like each meet was an Olympic medal event.

What’s your point, people?

As many a soccer mom knows, when your kid falls in love with a sport, you suddenly sprout serious solidarity to it. Seriously.

For instance, did you know Kyle’s signature stroke — the butterfly — is the hardest one there is? And don’t let all those breastroker moms convince you otherwise, you dig?

Hmpf.

My point is this: Enjoy each one of your child’s meets or games or outings to the fullest extent (no matter how painstaking it may be to sit through!) because just like that, you’ll be driving them to college; trust me.

And sooner than you think, you’ll be praying for them to make it home for Christmas dinner, capisce?

Happy sports-supporting and happy Sunday, y’all!

Kimerer is a columnist who misses the smell of chlorine. Send her goggles and nose clips at pkimerer@zoominternet.net.