‘Twas the day before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Obviously this poem was written by a man. Scratch that, it was no doubt written by a father.
I just looked it up. Clement Clarke Moore was, in fact, a father. It all makes sense.
While I’m obviously a procrastinator, even my non-procrastinating friends will be up to all hours tonight preparing tomorrow’s breakfast, baking pies, nibbling on cookies while telling ourselves we’re doing Santa a favour and wondering why tradition doesn’t dictate a nice glass of wine for St. Nick. I’m finished, more or less, with the wrapping. I am only missing a few things that will be put in gift bags after the general craziness that is Christmas morning ends and the lull of Christmas breakfast stupor eases into Christmas dinner preparation.
Even now, celebrating the second Christmas post-separation, I still find myself frantically wrapping, taping and be-ribboning Christmas packages well into the night while my ex – who still comes over to spend Christmas night – lays on the couch snoring in an odd flashback to our marriage. At least, that’s what happened last year.
As much as I promise myself next year will be better, next year will be easier, and next year I’ll start earlier, I know that’s not going to be the case. I just have to remind myself that at least I didn’t decide to do a “Homemade Christmas” the way I did when Elizabeth was a baby and hormones were effecting my sanity.
I do want to take this moment to wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas. And I hope you will decide, as I do every year, all the madness is worth that single moment of magic when the kids race into the living room and spy their gifts.
Merry Christmas, dear readers!