“If I could work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”


The house is clean and quiet.  The littles are tucked into their beds after asking to go to bed so that Santa could come.

Part of me is giddy.  Part of me wants to sleep on the couch so I can be right there when they wake up.  The other part of me is very dark and just wants to skip to February so that we are closer to spring. 

But then I would miss this.  I would miss the only Christmas that they are six and four.  Do you remember anything about being six?  I do.  I remember first grade.  Not every day but I do have some memories of that year.  Ella is going to remember this Christmas, I just know it.  And not because she only asked for one thing (for the longest time) and that one thing is wrapped and under the tree but because she is six.

I am not one for perfection (hardly at all unless we are talking about show running or other professional endeavors and even then I have my limits) but I worked really hard to get it right.  The cookies and the morning cinnamon rolls and the hot chocolate.  The gifts, yes, but the camera is charged.  I even got a few things for myself so I don’t get accused of being on the naughty list.  (I believe that one has to get out of sweat pants to be part of the naughty list.)  There is one thing that I have not gotten right this year.

My attitude is awful.

I am grumpy and weepy and lethargic and restless.  I am angry just a little.  Just a lot.

And when you are six, you remember.  That’s not what I want her to remember. 

What I need is another week.  I need the littles to wind down.  What I really need is a three-day blizzard like we had last year.  Nobody in, nobody out.  Forced isolation.  I suppose it’s too late for that.

Christmas will be here in ten minutes whether I like it or not.  I guess that’s my choice.  Like it.  Or not.

Bah.  Humbug.


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