Last year we had snow a week into the New Year (we were still living in Nashville).  Braden expects it this year, and I keep having to tell him we will probably not see it.

No matter the weather, we’re enjoying some Christmas spirit in our home right now.  We’ve been tracking Santa already and are currently watching The Polar Express.  I sense there will be cookies consumed later today – along with our usual brunsli and spitzbuben, I made these monsters yesterday.  Hey, at 433 calories a cookie, it eats like a meal! (Better get out my stretch pants.)

It’s been a wonderful holiday season, from the lights to the tree and the anticipation of the big day itself. Braden’s first time sitting on Santa’s lap and talking to him was a rousing success. My heart definitely grew to three times its previous size.

Now it’s Christmas Eve, and before I completely lose myself in:

• trying not to cry at the insanely joy-filled excitement spilling out of my son (already failed)
• The Polar Express, A Christmas Story, Elf, and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
• a pile of wrapping paper, tape, and cursing ribbons
• smoked salmon, crackers, wine and… yeah, really need to put on those stretch pants soon.

I wanted to share a little ditty with you guys that John and I recorded (home studio + talented musician, FTW!) earlier this month for The Fifth Annual Blogger Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert, hosted by Neil.

Just click the link below to listen to our version of Baby, It’s Cold Outside.  And whether it really is cold out for you or not, I hope this warms your heart and spreads a little of our Christmas Joy to you.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

From our family to you and yours, have a very Merry Christmas.

Happy Holidays, my friends!

and i seem to have blinked.

the very next moment, i opened my eyes upon this:

and that is both intensely beautiful and horribly frightening to me.

Last night he couldn’t sleep, and was pulling out one excuse after another to climb from his bed and yell down the stairs to us.  His pleas for us to turn the music on, then off again, to find his toy car, and to turn on the light were all mingled with whimpers and punctuated by cries and sometimes soft, tired moans.  Every request was just code for, “I need you, please come be with me, I’m feeling poorly and I just can’t be alone tonight.”  Mommy is the ultimate translator – all those words and words and words, but a Mommy can see right through them.  They pour off either side of the real request like oil parting and running this way and that on the surface of turbulent water.

But this night it was not just Mommy to the rescue.  Often Mommy has to be the one who answers the call, who throws her hair over her shoulder and dashes off, valiantly. Mommy is so often the one who is here, so Mommy plays the heroine.  But sometimes I get to fold my cape up for a beat.  I write my story, I speak from my point of view.  But he cuts through my view, too.

Daddy.

He listened to the translation of messages Mommy could hear floating down the stairs.  When Mommy came down after a visit with the little sleep fighter, he heard all the things she said about little boys who are  terribly unable to fall asleep because ohhh, they are just in need of togetherness and tender closeness.  Mommy, who was distraught because of deadlines and projects.  Mommy, who felt torn between work commitments and life priorities.

Daddy saw the worry and frustration on her tired face, and even though he had already done the bath routine and the bedtime routine, he smiled kindly, then set his face and stood up.  He dashed off to go sit with the unwitting mini-villian upstairs, who was really just a little boy making too much noise for his tiny, tired body, until he could be tricked (loved) into falling comfortably asleep.  He went in search of hugs and cuddles that would be stronger and more fierce than coughs and sneezes.

He answered the needs of the boy and the needs of the Mommy, all in a single bound.

I briefly saw his brightly colored cape flap at the corner of the stairwell right before he disappeared from view and I continued to tap at the keys, only momentarily wondering who that masked man was.

Let’s say HYPOTHETICALLY that I was sitting on the couch watching TV. I’m watching, ohhhh, let’s say Big Bang Theory.

Then, what if John, my husband, came downstairs, grabbed the remote, and started flipping channels. WHILE THE SHOW WAS ON, NOT DURING A COMMERCIAL.

Would you think that it would be overreacting for me to FREAK THE HELL OUT and start snatching at the remote? How about if he gave me a shitty look and then both refused to let me have it back and did NOT return to the channel and show I was enjoying before he entered the room like some kind of Assholian Dictator?

If this kind of a scenario, or you know, something like it, happened, then would it be kind of over the top if I lost my shit and yelled, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!??” while visualizing myself strangling him until his lips turned blue and fell off? Would that just be too much?

I mean, it is only television after all. What do you think?

You know, I’m just wondering, in case something like that ever actually happens and I had the strong urge to beat my husband about the face relentlessly with the remote once I finally did snatch it back.

This way, I’ll know if it’s justified or not.

Thank you for your time.

When I’m asked what Christmas gift I remember the most, this ring is the first image that surfaces in my mind. One of the most beautiful opals I have ever seen sits like a regal queen atop a shining, golden band. On each side of her, like ladies in waiting, is a tiny diamond, twinkling playfully.

I am not obsessive about jewelry. I appreciate things of beauty, and with these types of decoration I tend to gravitate towards simplicity.

I had never before received expensive jewelry from a lover. I had never really desired it, to be honest. Regardless of that, I found this piece perfect. When I opened the box, I was floored and pleased.

It is beauty, basic and true. I loved it immediately, and still do.

A person special to me worried over the selection of this ring. He had labored over this choice, and this ring had spoken to him.

While it is certainly true that the ring is stunning, that is not why it is my most memorable gift. There is magic in my memory of this gift, but it is not because I received the ring on Christmas day.

The real magic lies in what it later became – an engagement ring. The man who painstakingly chose that gift for me did not know that later I would switch the hand on which the Queen Opal rode, as promise to marry him.

My most memorable Christmas gift was a pretty, shiny adornment that later transformed into a symbol of love, basic and true.

Beautiful.

******

Today’s post is my answer to The Gift, a writing challenge at {W}rite-of-Passage.

The following people took the challenge, too.