Happiness just can't be bought and boxed up. . .

December 24, 2010


Now where did I put those elves????

Lazy mugs are probably in the basement liquored up on egg nog thinking they're done for the year.

So, so wrong.

Today is turkey roasting time, and not one turkey but two, because leftovers seem to be more important to my brood than the actual Christmas dinner it takes me an entire day to prepare.

Garlic roasting in the crock pot.  Yes. The crock pot. If anyone wants the recipe, send me a comment with your email and it's yours.

Groceries need to be procured, as soon as Stephen can get himself out of his pjs.

He may well be in the grocery store with his pj flood pants and full-of-holes sleep shirt if he doesn't hustle it up.

Christmas cards to be mailed. . .finally

Chicken bones to be discovered somewhere in this city. . .

Why do I feel a visit to Scoop and Save in my day?

Stephen loves Scoop and Save.

Really loves it.

One, because its overpriced and two because it has things no other store in Fredericton has.

Meaning I'll have to remember my electric cattle prod with remote collar for the particularly challenging.

Food donations to take to the Community Kitchen when we do our usual Friday volunteering.

In addition to the almost 250 shortbread cookies I made and am taking along to the Kitchen.

Gifts purchased yet to be wrapped.

Supper to make.

And I have committed to watching It's A Wonderful Life with Em at 9.00pm.

I actually don't mind doing that.

But you can just imagine how excited I am about going to the grocery store and Victory Meat Market on Christmas Eve.






No longer able to put off Christmas shopping any longer, Stephen and I made our way to the Regent Mall yesterday around 5.00 pm.

Not on purpose but because all three children were working.

It seemed as good a time as any.

Oddly enough, the mall wasn't as psychotic and chaotic as I had anticipated.

But it was bad enough.

First we started with food.

Cause Dawne does not shop well, ever, but even less so on an empty stomach.

And my stomach was empty.

This new eating lifestyle makes many things easy.

But eating out isn't one of them.

The choices were limited: Mrs. Vanellis, Taco Bell, A&W, Manchu Wok, KFC, Subway, Teriyaki or New York Fries. 

I wanted New York Fries, the biggest container I could get, slathered in ketchup and salt with malt vinegar.

I got Teriyaki. . .chicken with brown rice, no sauce and a Diet Coke.

In solidarity Stephen, who wanted Taco Bell the way a salivating dog wants cheese, had shrimp and noodles. 

At least neither of us got what we wanted. 






We then buckled down and started shopping.

In an unusual burst of organization, I asked the kids to make lists.

Which made the process infinitely easier, but no less tiring.

We managed some of the things on their lists.

Nothing short of Loto 649 winnings could have managed the rest.

And we got my parent's gifts.

Stephen, who INSISTS on pushing the cart, only left it on its own a half dozen times, with my purse, money, all our Christmas gifts, and most importantly my jump drive

But the most eventful part of the evening had nothing to do with shopping. . . .

I had to go to the bathroom.

For some reason, perhaps marking and grading stress, family issues, Christmas pressures, I had a flare up of my IBS.

Leading me to move as quickly as appropriately possible to the new bathrooms at the mall.

In the stall, doing my thing, looking over the kid's lists (because I will read anything in the bathroom) I am sitting there minding my business and thinking about how loud this bathroom is, when the door to my stall opens.

With lightening reflexes I didn't even knew I possessed, I leaned forward and SLAMMED that door, yelling "It's occupied!"

I thought I locked that door.

But when you're in the throes of an IBS attack, who knows?

I waited, obviously, for the stall stalker to leave the bathroom before I emerged.

Because I have waited all my life to go to the bathroom alone.

It rarely happens at home.

For some reason, our dogs think that Mummy  in the bathroom = Lots o'lovin.

Stephen inevitably wants something, and wanders around the house asking the kids, "Where's your mother????"

Or the kids figure they should grab me while I'm sitting still.

Either way, in public,

I.

Go.

Alone.







Most people love Christmas Day.

Mother's love Christmas night.

How come?

Everything.

Is.

Done.

Gifts are unwrapped and nestled under the tree.

Christmas Dinner at the Nursing Home is over.

Christmas Dinner at Dawne's Home has been prepared and consumed.

Leftovers contained.

Dishes washed.

And washed.

And washed.

Parents are on their way home or back to the nursing home.

Finally, mothers get to do what every one else has done since they got out of bed and opened their booty.

Rest.

Tomorrow evening I know exactly what I'll be doing.

NOTHING.

The first NOTHING since September.

Jammies on, under a blanket on the couch, a cat perhaps resting on my hip, I will watch The Polar Express with Stephen if he so desires.

And if he doesn't, I'll be upstairs, in my jammies, under a blanket in my bed reading The Birth House by Ami McKay, and dreaming of all the books I'm going to buy should Santa be kind enough to direct any Chapter's gift cards to me.

But between now and then???

Let's just say those lazy elves lounging in the basement are in for one hell of a surprise.



Title Lyric: Next Christmas Eve Alex Goot