Is it Over Yet?

This holiday has been one of the most challenging, funny, infuriating and wonderful holidays on record.

It was challenging in that all, yes all, my guys were sick. Strep throat, flu, and gout all conspired to keep my active family down for the count. I have remained the lone bastion of health in the midst of all the tissues, vicks and antibiotics. It is possible for humans to subsist on jello, milkshakes, ginger ale and juice.

It was funny in the memorable moments. My son, running about like a loon when spying his holiday loot under the tree. My toddler, running around like a loon because, well, it's what he always does. My father and husband looking forward to getting their welding gloves so they can really burn some stuff. My son screeching, pooping and splashing so loudly and broadly at the Children's Museum that we had to leave. Funny in watching my mother in law grow increasingly festive for Margerita Mexican Night.

It was infuriating to navigate the holidays with no budget and little income. We've set aside the comfort of the credit cards and in turn are at the mercies of circumstance. We are on public assistance for health care. Public assistance. Ain't that a kick in the pants? It was infuriating as well to never-get-a-break. Ever. From cranky, incapacitated husbands to cranky demanding children to creating some kind of holiday fun in the midst of it all.

It was wonderful to watch my son's eyes light up with each new treasure found. Wonderful, too, to share the day with my brother via webcam. I watched our video footage and it's classic.

It is wonderful that it is now over. As if I have some promise that tomorrow will be easier. I delude myself into thinking the next week, next weekend, the next moment will bring some kind of breakthrough, some kind of release. Some relief.

It may or may not. The question remains. Is it over yet?

Santa Clause Is Coming To Town Redux

Santa apparently visits my Dad at work. If he needs a body bag, he sees Pappy. Oh, by the way, my dad runs the warehouse and supplies for a large hospital conglomeration.

Pappy and my first born were having this conversation. I silently sat. My dad would glance at me to see if I would do my usual, "Santa isn't real honey. He was real. But now he's dead and mommies and daddies and pappies and nanas work real hard to buy you the Christmas surprises you like so much."

Merry Christmas kid.

I might as well give him a pack of smokes and yell at him for spilling paint in the garage. (Blatant Breakfast Club reference. Sigh, a moment of admiration for John Hughes.)

A friend, my sister/mother/faith/home school goddess, suggested bridging fantasy with reality by having santa work with mommy and daddy. This way we share the credit.

I'm still struggling. Stay tuned.