One week until Christmas.
Which means one week and one day before Boxing Day.
I have my priorities straight.
Marking continues.
With help.
I am actually contemplating making potato stamps with letters on them, taking them to the nursing home, plunking papers in front of my mother, and saying read the first page, make a decision, stamp it, and let's move on.
She's probably do a much better job than I am.
As soon as I opened my eyes yesterday I knew I was going to spend the entire day slogging through each and every second until I was able to crawl back into bed.
Exhausted.
I did make my lunch with my TA.
Lovely, it was.
Uber yummy.
Great company.
It was the most awake I was the entire day.
Marking, marking, marking at my office until it was time to see mum for dinner.
Visits with my mother are always relaxing.
Calming.
Usually my one opportunity in a week to re-orient myself.
Mum is the great stabilizer.
And she knows exactly what I need when I visit.
Not much.
A meal, some conversation, just watching television, like Hoarders if we're lucky.
Mum likes Hoarders. A guilty pleasure, I suspect.
Last night, however, my mother's room was transformed into Ground Zero and she was the center of attention, just as she likes to be.
First, her oldest and dearest friend, who lives an hour a way from here, had her Christmas present dropped off by her daughter-in-law.
Married to her son.
Who I hadn't seen since I was a teenager.
And didn't want to come in because of some long term mental health issues.
So I went to him.
He certainly looks different than I last saw him.
So did I.
I was thrilled to see him, but sad at the same time.
One of the reasons for his feeling the way he does is rooted in something he knows, but isn't willing to accept.
Nothing I can do about it.
But it doesn't mean I can't be sad about it.
Back to Mum's room, pleased with the quick visit.
And while washing the feet of Mum's stockings, their neighbour-from-across-the-street-whose-wife-and-my-friend-works-at-the-nursing-home appeared.
Mum thrilled again.
And Dad.
Who was also there.
Me stressed about marking, and honestly, really stressed.
I try not to become stressed by it, knowing I'll get it done, albeit not on time, but it will be done.
But, burdened by a conscience, I am overcome with guilt about how long it takes me to get through these papers.
All the excitement of people visiting my mother.
Mum's room warmer than usual.
Dad there.
I had to go.
Exhausted, warm, stressed all I wanted to do was take myself home, crawl into my jammies and sit at the kitchen table and mark papers.
All of which I was able to do, while surrounded by the glorious scent of brewing borscht.
Prepared by Stephen for today's Quaker potluck.
And almost quiet.
Cooking with Stephen automatically means listening to the oldies.
As luck would have it, Saturday nights, from 6-midnight, is Retro Saturday Night on 106.9.
Stephen wearing my apron, wooden spoon in hand, detritus of the cooking process littering the kitchen counters, cats cavorting amid the bits and pieces of shredded beets and carrots, all the while dancing and singing to whatever golden oldie was wafting through the air waves.
I did say almost quiet.
Tired or not, I am always on the watch for a new Simon's Cat video.
Finally, my patience was rewarded yesterday and a new one appeared.
Just what I needed.
A laugh.
Because who doesn't?
And it reminded me of a scene from one of my favourite Christmas clips.
Mr. Bean.
Wearing the turkey.
Right now, our radio is blasting some pop tune, in a futile effort to wake Stephen from his deepest of deep slumbers to continue our preparations for Quaker Christmas potluck.
Emphasis on futile.
How could he possibly hear it over the clamour of his own snoring?
Title Lyric: Turkey by Lemon Demon
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