So I'm checking my friends' blogs, and... nary an update for wayyy too long. And then I realized, I have been even worse about writing recently. Well it's HARD! My new job doesn't come with regular breaks!
Okay, so also I'm trying to write my stupid Christmas letter. "But Meg!" you say, "You don't have to write a Christmas letter! I don't write a Christmas letter, and I manage to sleep at night! I'm a good person!"
To which I would respond: Think again, buckaroo.
I do like providing the complete package in my Christmas card (which, by the way, is probably why I didn't send any out last year): 1. photo of the whole family, 2. letter, and 3. something short and handwritten. I have a rating system for Christmas cards, not unlike my rating system for weddings. It's a system. It's very scientific, and I would be delighted to regale you with it at some point in the future. If you buy the coffee.
Speaking of coffee! I have a story. I'm going to fudge the chronology of it because it will be funnier this way (I think), also because it all happened in the middle of the night so, you know, minutes feel like hours and all that rot. But I assure you, there will be no exaggerations, nor stretchings of the truth. These are the facts.
Thursday night: I played volleyball with a team I am sometimes on, but usually not, in Apple Valley. Afterward I helped Jean with her arts-and-crafts project for work and returned home around 11:30 PM. Joel was, to my dismay, up with Eddie, who'd been crying intermittently. I took out my eyeballs, nursed Ed, and retired to my bed around midnight.
12:45 : Lucy is crying. Joel goes down and apparently she is inconsolable, because he brings her back up to bed with us. She has never slept in bed with us, and this night is no exception -- except that on previous occasions of never sleeping in our bed, at least she wasn't physically in the bed at the same time. So she's wide awake, wiggling, wrestling our pillows, wringing her bankie, flipping and flopping and causing great disturbance. I'm wide awake too, and at 2:30 she says something like "Mommy, my bed" and I take her downstairs and retuck her in, resing "mommy's song" and rekiss her little nose. I return to bed.
3:30 : I awaken and open my eyes to the sight of a little blond head staring right at me. "Lucy!" I say. "I go downstairs!" she replies, proudly (she has "up" and "down" confused). "I need water." She says. So down we go again.
Joel follows. He can't sleep, he claims, and rightly assumes that I won't let him watch "Cops" in our bedroom at 3:30 AM when I haven't had more than 30 minutes of sleep yet. Something about the constant siren background music to that show, I don't know, call me crazy, it's not conducive to sleep.
About 15 minutes later, I hear thumping and, um, maybe jumping? And a little crashing and for sure some stage-whispered obscenities. Well, one stage-whispered obscenity, repeated. Joel saw a mouse. I come running downstairs (again) and sort of watch as he sets six traps up in the living room. I go back upstairs and 20 minutes later the various mouse-viewing noises start up again. He caught one! He asks if I want to see it. I politely decline, but peek a little as he carries it by. It was bigger than I expected and had a longer tail. But it was still relatively small. If there is one thing I am grateful for, it is that my husband is not the type to pick up a dead mouse and then waggle it in my face, or fling it at my head, or put it under my pillow.
I'm having 17 people over for Christmas dinner next weekend. Any brilliant thoughts on how, exactly, we're all going to eat? Where are the people who lived in this house for 52 years --
I want to talk to them and see how they did it (even if all they did was avoid hosting Christmas for 52 years). Because, I'm telling you, it's not going to be pretty.