It really is the most wonderful time of the year. The sights of twinkling lights as they shine throughout my neighborhood. The scent of winter in the chilly air. The sounds of children rattling packages as they exchange excited ideas of what might be wrapped inside.
And then there’s the stupid baking, the annoying Christmas-card addressing, the endless wrapping of gifts, the constant switching of packages since my kids keep changing their lists and I keep running back to the store minus receipts I no longer possess.
I can’t even remember what I wore to work yesterday. What makes those clerks think I can keep track of a tiny slip of flimsy, white paper?
I’m sure.
But back to the baking and addressing and wrapping. Lately I’ve been doing some figuring in my math-challenged head, and I think I’ve come up with a plan. One that just has to work.
So this week, two friends have delivered tins of cookies and fudge and bread to my family. And I didn’t even have to threaten them! So…I figure if this continues along the same pattern, I should be able to multiply this number (2) by the two-and-a-half weeks we have left until Christmas, then divide it by the many “please-oh-please-oh-pleases” I’ll shout at anyone unfortunate enough to pass across my sidewalk, and by Christmas I should have a whole stash of cookies and fudge and breads and Milk Duds (oops, minor slip-up) piled by my front door.
If my friends actually care about me, that is. I guess only time will tell.
Then, I figure this is the best time of year for bribery (I’m pretty sure I remember a Christmas song about that somewhere). So…if I spend the next week threatening tell-all letters to Santa, or–for my older two children who no longer believe—no gifts other than socks and underwear and cleaning supplies if they don’t shape up, I should have those card addressed in no time. Neat handwriting not required.
So if you get a card in the mail with some sort of scribble you can’t read, go ahead and assume it’s from us.
Then, oh!, THEN…if I go buy one of those little elves that supposedly fly around the room at night, maybe…just maybe…I’ll wake up one morning and find that—not only has he moved to another spot—he’s also enlisted all the other neighborhood elves to wrap my gifts. But only mine, because I’m special.
It could happen.
But if my figuring falls short…if I have to do it all myself…I will. Because it’s Christmas. Time for family. Time for togetherness. Time for baking and addressing and wrapping and returning.
‘Tis the Season…and I secretly love it.
Fa La La
Amy