~Dickens
It’s a sunny, crisp, December Sunday, perfect for relaxing on the sofa with a cup of steaming coffee.
Ah, peace.
For me, not to be.
Instead, I’m feeling stressed. Behind.
Harboring a case of holiday hopelessness.
It started earlier this week when I went to book club for the first time in months. (We read American Wife. Thumbs up from me, but I, as usual, digress.) The other book club moms were comparing notes on who was hiding what gifts in whose garage, etc., etc. I took a sip of my Diet Coke and sat in failed silence.
Secret confession: so far I’ve purchased two (count them two) Christmas gifts. Hiding, wrapping and planning are so far beyond me. When the book club moms started talking recipes I knew I was screwed.
Sigh.
But the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, right? I determined then and there to at the very least get my act together and get my holiday cards out pronto.
Which leads me to this morning.
Amy and Jack were strategically dressed alike in the red plaid pj’s I ordered online last minute from Gap. I’d also ordered some cool holiday cards from Exposures just screaming for a poignant black and white of my two little elves. Those in receipt of the cards, I envisioned ripping open their envelopes, their mouths agape as they simultaneously teared up upon seeing such an elegantly sweet holiday photo.
With visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, I pulled out my trusty Canon and started shooting.
And shooting.
And shooting.
Reality hit when Jack began to roar and Amy started referring to him as
Fart-face.
Pa rum, pa pum, pum… (Seriously, I hate that song. I really do.)
So yeah, I'll admit it. My gifts aren’t purchased. And correct, I don’t have the perfect stockings- hung-on-the-mantle-angelic-children-beaming-at-the-camera Christmas photo.
And yes, five year-old Jack has peed on the rug twice today. His IEP is tossed on the ottoman, waiting for Andy to review. Amy is currently at Sibshop, hanging out with other sibs of kids with autism. She’ll come home and roll her eyes when I ask her how it went, reminding me that “what’s said in Sibshop stays in Sibshop Mom…”
It’s not the life I expected.
But somehow, on most days, all is calm. And all is bright.
We’re together. We’re safe and warm and dry. We love each other in a comfortable, familiar, quirky sort of way.
There's more than one recipe to a truly wonderful life.
Now forgive me as I dash away…
Fart-face just pooped on the floor.
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