Boxing Day.
One of the two days a year when nothing is open and my obligations stretch only to include driving the kids to and from work.
The other day: Easter Monday.
My plans for today: marking.
In my pjs.
And definitely not cooking.
As Stephen remarked a few minutes ago: today is a day for reheating, not cooking.
I'll second that.
The day before Christmas in this house is always anything but peaceful and calming.
More like crazy and chaotic.
Up first thing in the morning to stuff the turkey and put it in the oven.
A stock pot full to the brim with stuffing.
Stock pot.
That was how much bread Stephen and Em prepared for drying that would eventually find itself into the turkey.
Or the overflow container.
I did manage to get the turkey into the roaster.
In spite of the fact that the roaster wasn't really big enough for the turkey.
I got it in there.
That was all that mattered.
Until the fat from the turkey literally bursting from the roaster started dripping onto the element and smoke started pouring out of the oven.
After about a half hour of trying to come up with solutions that would prevent the calling of the fire department, I did what I should have done from the beginning.
Cut the legs and wings off the turkey to cook separately, while allowing the remainder of the turkey to rest in the roaster and lessening the likelihood of a visit from the fire department.
Because we didn't want that, did we?
And while this turkey trauma was unfolding, I was becoming more and more anxious over Tikka.
She hasn't been herself the last few days.
Laboured breathing.
Difficulty walking.
Green discharge coming from her right eye.
Not eating.
Not drinking.
Not willing to eat any of the treats I was giving her in an effort to get her to eat something.
Anything.
After I sorted out the turkey, I did the only thing I could do.
Called the vet.
On Christmas Eve.
When they're not open.
Thus resulting in the emergency services fee that was automatically attached to the fee before we even walked out of our front door.
I didn't care.
Whatever the cost, she was going to be looked at by someone who had some semblance of what may have been wrong with her.
The eye infection was easy to treat: a steroid enhanced eye drops three times a day.
Her hips.
She is 13.
I get that.
But up until the last couple of days she has been fine.
The vet indicated that she was in some pain (d'uh. . like I didn't know that myself) and gave her some anti-inflammatories.
And suggested some glucosamine with chondroitin.
Feed her several smaller meals a day.
And then wait for Tuesday when they reopen.
The last two days have been difficult.
Even doing everything the vet suggested, her breathing is still laboured.
And the movement isn't much better.
Still, I am hopeful.
She is 13.
I get that.
But I want to see her digging under the tree next Christmas.
On the beach with me in July.
She and I have talked about this. She seems to understand what I am saying.
And at the end of the day, if something happens to her, I cannot even fathom my reaction.
So hope for the best.
A happy, healthy, mobile enough to enjoy a walk at the farm Tikka.
Please hope.
I've been with Tikka longer than I've been with Stephen.
She holds all my secrets.
She never asks for money or drives.
Lots of love and attention are all she really wants from me.
So please hope.
While I was at the vet, Stephen was cleaning the oven enough to insert the bird back in to hopefully cook.
Because I was destined for the nursing home, the usual Saturday night fare of baked beans and homemade bread.
Not going wasn't an option.
So like it or not, the turkey was on it's own.
After the visit with Mum, I returned home to make 200 shortbread cookies.
Not because I wanted to, but because Stephen was nagging me to do it.
All day nagging, as a matter of fact.
Why?
Because he wanted to take cookies and a jar of homemade Ukrainian pickles to our neighbour's house.
Not because he wanted to spread the love and joy of Christmas.
No.
He wanted to find out how come the front bumper of the neighbour's car was no longer affixed to the car.
Hence I stood at the counter and made the cookies.
But not willingly.
I just wanted the nagging to stop.
Imagine that.
And finally, at 9.00 pm on Christmas Eve I did the thing I had been trying to do all day.
Wrap gifts.
While all three children were in the living room tee-heeing and taa-hawing at whatever they were watching, I was upstairs wrapping Kobo e-readers, footie pjs, underwear, grocery gift cards.
By 10.30 pm, presents for Mum and Dad waiting for their glossy Christmas covers, I finished for the night and fell, exhausted, into bed.
Only to awaken every two hours from then until I finally got up Christmas morning at 9.00 am, to Frankie.
Or more precisely, Frankie's bowels.
In an effort to get Tikka to eat, I gave her a smitch of homemade turkey soup.
Frankie was feeling more than neglected and left out at the thought of Tikka as being the sole recipient of such largess, so I gave him a little.
Which resulted in a lot.
Of diarrhea.
So that every two hours he launched himself off the bed, went to the bedroom door, emitted a "Rowwwrrrr" which caused me to jump out of bed like a scalded cat to get him outside before any fecal explosions occurred.
Christmas morning our front yard, once pristine with white snow, looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
The lesson: turkey soup isn't good for dogs.
No matter how natural and organic it is.
Christmas Day you ask?
That'll have to wait for later.
Just reliving Christmas Eve has been enough to require a nap.
After all three children are safely taken to work.
NOW that's a Christmas holiday!
And these smiling, happy faces post-present unwrapping, makes all the exhaustion worth it.
If only they would remain this way.
Yes.
Keithie is getting a haircut next week.
Or I'll be hauling out the cat clippers.
Title Lyric: Chaos by Mute Math
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