My sink is full of dirty dishes. The house is not Santa Spotless as is my usual. I have tons of gifts still to send out and even more missing from under my tree. I lost our magic Santa key so I told the child I texted Santa the code to the lockbox we save for dog sitter. I didn’t bake one christmas cookie. I only sent out 15 christmas cards.
My usual is 50.
It’s hard work dragging your ass out of bed when there’s no other place you’d rather be, what with missing friends and autoimmune hell running the show.( I got an answer, by the way: psoriasis. The rest of that story will have to wait for another post another day.) But it’s work that must be done when you’re not the star of a one woman show. And my costars demand Christmas cheer and holiday magic.
This is good, because I am doing Christmas even though I’d rather be binge watching bad movies and eating too much ice cream. Pretty sure that depressive, self-indulgent luxury is one every person who agrees to cohabitation loses as soon as Yours becomes Ours. I’m even telling myself the cluttered mess of a house and the dirty dishes are progress because Instead of staying up until 4 am to scrub the house clean just so I could say I did, I’m leaving them as they are.
My plans include wrapping a forgotten gift, writing a tiny goodbye note from her Christmas elf in sparkly gel pen in teeny tiny writing, and climbing into bed with The Husband and the child who was too excited to sleep, because Obviously Mom, Who Can Sleep On A Night Like This?
She can, Obviously and Thankyouverymuch, tucked up between heartbeats that sandwich her own. Its the only sound loud enough, I think, to soothe her into an instant dream.
The dishes can wait. I’ve got sleepy hugs waiting. This is progress.
Santa, like chocolate, understands.