Finally!

Exactly one week ago I was *supposed* to meet my newborn baby cousins - newborn baby TWINS to be exact.  But then I couldn't, because I was exposed to my  husband mere hours before he started vomiting in manner of The Hulk.

And I don't mind telling you, I was devastated.

Because did I mention? NEWBORN! And also? TWINS! One of which is FOUR MEASLY POUNDS.  Four pounds of baby!  OHMAHGAHHHH. 

So today (after a one week self-imposed quarantine) I finally go to meet them.  When I put the smallest little baby in my arms I just died.  Dead.  Right there.  BECAUSE OMG FOUR POUNDS!  It was like holding a baby squirrel.   The palms of his hands were the size of A NICKEL.  A nickel you guys!  Go dig in your purse and find a nickel.  Now imagine adding fingers the circumference of matchsticks.  That. 

I cannot get over it.

And this is where I would normally post a photo of the nickel-handed baby and his "gigantic" (he's 5lbs) brother.  But alas, there are all sorts of rules when it comes to pre-adoption children - some of which involve privacy.  So? No pictures. 

You know this is killing me, right? 

Instead, I will show you a photo of the gift I brought.  I put together a Newborn Survival Kit.  And since they have twins, I bought two of everything. 

.

What?  Every new parent needs Redbull and chocolate, Vodka and granola bars.  And also tissues for those inevitable breakdown moments when only sobbing will do.

Neighbor Susan says this basket would also be excellent for the mother of a teenager.  Harharhar.

Going to the Chapel

My precious baby step-sister got herself hitched this weekend!  Oh my, I wish you could have been there, the wedding was spectacular.  Every single detail was perfection.

It almost made me want to get married all over again. 

Ok, not really.  We all know planning a wedding is hard damn work.

Disgust

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Look, fine, I phoned it in yesterday with the post about banana peels.  The truth is, nothing AT ALL interesting happened to me.  Nothing.  Nada. Zip.

So I wrote about fruit.

Today, sadly, I'm in the same boat.  I went to Walmart.  And then to Target because Walmart does not sell the specific organic bunny-shaped crackers that my children have grown to love and...

OMG SO BORING.

Nights like tonight I feel I should tell you a story.  You know, dredge something up from the past so that you will feel entertained. Like the story about the time I was forced to bathe in a shower that was so completely moldy that it was SOLID BLACK.  I should tell you that at the time (I was in my early twenties) it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.  THAT I CRIED ABOUT THE BLACKNESS OF THE MOLD.  That the shower haunted my dreams.  Literally.  I HAD NIGHTMARES.  The slimey-ness! OH!

But now I can't tell the story with all of its details because it just doesn't seem that bad anymore.  The Black Shower Incident happened before I wiped asses for a living.  Before I buried one of my parents.  Before I had to send a child back to surgery.  Before I had to fish a lego out of a toilet with my bare hand.

Somehow letting my feet touch mold just doesn't seem that awful.

Now there *was* that time that I had to sleep in a bed whose sheets were so filthy that there was an faint outline OF A HUMAN on the sheets.  Presumably made of sweat and grease and dirt and dead skin.

*shiver*

Which is why someone should invent a body condom. 

Well!  This has been fun!  Got any disgusting stories of your own?  Go on.  Spill it.

Not Just in Cartoons!

Did you know banana peels really ARE slippery? Like, in real life?

Dude! I had no idea until Dave proved it to us last Sunday.

Next he's going to tell me onions really make you cry.

Armageddon!

So here's what's been going on here - shortly after the Pine Wood Derby on Saturday, Dave commented that his stomach was "a little off".  He decided it was because he'd consumed more than one Dr. Pepper earlier that day.  Which is, you know, utterly ridiculous.  But I didn't tell him that at the time.  I just let him wander around the house holding his stomach and groaning.

And then he vomited up everything he'd eaten since he was twelve. 

Folks, let me just tell you - the man is an aggressive hurler.  There will be no pansy-assed vomiting!  No!  There will be the kind of vomiting that makes you sore for DAYS afterward. Rib-cracking vomiting!  The kind of vomiting that has the children wondering if a monster is downstairs (seriously, they asked).

All that hurling (among other things) meant that Dave was out of commission for the remainder of Saturday as well as all day long Sunday.  Thankfully, he'd *ahem* cleaned out the pipes by midnight Saturday and just needed time to recuperate on Sunday (Hulk-like vomiting requires serious recuperation, don't you know).

And here's where I come in - because I happened to have shared those Dr. Peppers with Dave on Saturday.  Yes!  I drank from the same soda can MERE HOURS before he started the Hulk Hurling.  Which, in my mind, meant that I was surely destined AT ANY MOMENT to begin vomiting myself. I. was. doomed.

Have I mentioned how much I hate throwing up? Although, now that I think about it, does *anyone* enjoy it?  But I would argue that women who've given birth have the added pleasure of peeing their pants WHILE vomiting.  Whee! THAT'S fun right there!

So since I just KNEW I was AT ANY SECOND going to hurl, I decided there would be nothing in the world worse than hurling in a dirty house.  So instead of going to bed on Saturday night, I stayed up UNTIL MIDNIGHT doing laundry and cleaning the kitchen.  You know, just in case.

Oh don't sit there and shake your head at me.  You knew I was crazy before today.

But then I woke up Sunday morning just as healthy as I was the day before.  Only Sunday, I had to set the house on fire bleach the bathrooms to rid them of the vomit, scrub the floors, and wash the full-of-sickness sheets in boiling hot acid.   By the end of the day yesterday, my house was cleaner than it had been in, well, ever.  I'd even cleaned the doorknobs and light switches.  I used so much bleach that my house now glows ever so slightly in the dark.

And I still didnt' get sick.

So today I ran errands like a mad woman.  I stocked up on groceries.  I AM SO READY TO SUCCUMB TO THE VOMITING!  I am so prepared!

Tomorrow I plan on doing situps to strengthen my stomach muscles.  And then maybe I'll do some kegels, you know, for the peeing.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

Have you heard of The Pine Wood Derby?  No?  Yeah, I hadn't either until a few weeks ago.  But apparently I was in the minority.  Because anyone who is either a) a boy, or b) the parent of a boy knows that the Boy Scouts have an annual competition wherein they carve a little car out of wood (pine wood, to be exact), and then they race said cars in The Pine Wood Derby.

Doesn't that sound adorable?

I thought it did.  But then I noticed that the competition was run BY MEN.  Men, who love nothing more than a) competing for trophies and b) making up eleventy bajillion rules and regulations for the competition for said trophy.  HOLY COW WITH THE RULES.  The cars not only had to weigh a certain amount (not a drop over 5oz.) but the entrants vehicles had to be subjected TO A WEIGH-IN the night before the race. 

ALL THIS FOR A TOY.  A toy car that "the boy" was supposed to make all by himself.  PEEESHAW!  What it REALLY is, is a chance for all the dads to compete with EACH OTHER while pretending their boys did most of the work.

First, the block of pine had to be cut into the shape of a car.  Easy enough, right?  OHHHH NO, the men from William's little den all went to one man's house - The Man Who Knows The Secret Shape, and HE cut out the cars for the boys.  Then William got to paint his newly shaped block of wood.  And then he painted a racing stripe down the middle.

And that's where William's contribution ended. 

Dave, meanwhile, added a nice shiny coat of poly to the car ("it had to be shiny!"), attached the wheels, ADDED SPECIAL  WEIGHTS to the bottom of the car for maximum velocity, and then? HE PUT GRAPHITE ON THE WHEELS so that they would spin real, real fast.  Oh and he brought the graphite to the race TO REPLENISH after all the competitive heats.

And lest you think my husband is out of control, please know that every single car at that race had The Special Weights and The Special Graphite and The Special Secret Shape.  Well, almost every car.  You could totally pick the boys who live with their mothers.  Because their mothers ACTUALLY LET THE BOYS DO THE WORK.  What the hell is wrong with them?

You guys, it was HILARIOUS to watch these dads lined up next to "the track" holding their breath while their car raced.  HILARIOUS.

And guess what? Dave's William's car WON!  First place in his little den of first graders, and second place OVERALL (beating out much older, more experienced dads boys). 

Dave said he was thinking of taking the trophies to work and putting them on his shelf.

Double Lovable

Oh, Internet, today is a glorious day. 

Here's the deal: My cousin and his wife have been trying to have a baby forEVER.  Ever.  They've tried all the ways you can imagine, and some I bet you can't imagine.  And they've had success a couple of times, followed by agonizing miscarriages. 

It's been heartbreaking to watch.  I get weekly updates from my (favorite - they're no denying it) Aunt Susie, who is my cousin's momma.

Recently, my cousins begain toying with the idea of adoption.  They were fearful, as I imagine most of us would be, of all of the "what-ifs" of adoption.  What if we never get a baby.  What if the adoption process costs a fortune.  What if the birth mother comes back and takes our baby away.

What if what if what if.

And then, as if by "magic" (read: divinity), someone suggested they speak to a certain person.  That certain person put them in touch with an attorney.  The attorney put them in touch with the proper authorities.  It was like a domino effect.  And one-by-one everything fell into place.  Their fears were abated.  They were ready.

This fall they "registered", which means they got themselves approved to adopt (background checks, home visits, interviews with friends and family - I'm sure there's WAY more to it, forgive my ignorance).  Once they'd gone through the process of registration, they were told to ready themselves by preparing a room for a child.  But they were warned that they were not guaranteed a child.  And that if they DID get a child, it could be anywhere from birth to two years old.

The registration part was finalized in the last couple of weeks, and my cousins hunkered down for what was sure to be a long wait.

And here's where it gets crazy.

Monday (THREE DAYS AGO) they got a call.  The department wanted to know if they were ready.  FOR TWINS.

Yes!  Newborn baby twins.  OMG CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE???

They brought their babies home from the hospital today.  TODAY! THURSDAY!

I'll stop here while you weep and wait for your goosebumps to subside.

Now let's just imagine: Monday morning, they woke up to a "normal day", and by nightfall, they were expecting twins.  They had exactly 60 hours to prepare for their delivery.  Most of us get nine months to prepare for ONE baby.

CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE?

Tonight, as I type this, they are juggling bottles and formula and diapers and and and....

Oh if you could spare a prayer, may I ask for one tonight?  For their sweet boys who have been placed in their loving arms, and for my cousins - brand new parents.  Oh how I wish I could wrap my arms around their entire house and just hold them.

They don't know it yet, but with parents like that, they're the luckiest babies in the world.

Zzzz's

So Paige vomited every hour between 11:30pm and 4:30am last night. I am so tired that I'm alternating between weeping and laughing for no discernible reason. Of course SHE was able to nap today. FOR THREE HOURS.

Me? Not so much.

And tell me, Internet, why is it that children never begin vomiting during the daytime hours? Is there some universal law that says all minors must delay being sick until all adults are in deep deep sleep?

There MUST be, because my children are never sick during the day when I am at my best, most sympathetic self. When I can think clearly. When, if necessary, I can easily contact the appropriate medical professional.

I say it's a conspiracy! We must rise up against these young robbers of REM! These thieves of dreams. They're trying to kill us one dry heave at a time!

Or maybe I'm a little too tired to think rationally. Probably.

Zzzzzz.

Words with Friends

This photo was taken in Oklahoma City.
Also, it really has nothing to do with this post.

We had a friend once who had lived most of his life in France.  His accent was heavy, but we were always so impressed with his firm grasp of the English language.  He almost never slipped up. 

Almost never.

Once when we were discussing a baby kitten, he off-handedly referred to it as a "puppycat".  Only he said the world with such a casual (and heavily accented) tone, that we had to ask him to repeat himself several times.  Turns out, he had reasoned that a baby dog is called a "puppydog", so why wouldn't a small cat be called a "puppycat"?

We liked to never stop laughing at him.  When we finally calmed down, we decided that if we ever started a garage band, we were totally naming the band "PuppyCat".  Because how cool would it be to tell someone "Yes, I play lead guitar for PuppyCat."

Along those same lines, I listened to a podcast all about misunderstood words today.  I was telling our dinner guests this evening about a woman on the show who believed up until recently that the word "quesadilla" meant "what's the deal" in Spanish.

I laughed out loud when I heard that one.  Also, I plan on using "quesadilla" to mean "what's the deal" from now on.  Consider yourself warned.

My dinner guests, not to be outdone, told me that they have a relative who believed (all her life!) that when you receive outgrown items from an older sibling, that you were receiving "hammy-downs".

Which is so much more fun than hand-me-downs, don't you think?

Assorted Mental Illnesses

It's Clean Sheet Day! I looooove clean sheet day!

Sadly, I HATE changing the sheets. This is where you tell me I need a maid. And then I laugh at you.

Here's the problem: I like FRESH from the dryer sheets. And blankets. And pillow cases. Which means that, instead of owning two identical sets of sheets and just using one set while I wash the other, I have to wash everything and put it right back on the bed. Why? Because I don't like the way the spare sheets smell after they've been folded in the drawer for a while.

I have so very many issues.

I also hate the way the bathroom rugs look after they've been trampled down by feet. Which means I wash the rugs often AND THEN AVOID STEPPING ON THEM for a period of time. Because the un-stepped-on rugs are so pretty!

And I am so crazy!

And do I even need to tell you about my love of vacuum lines? Oh how I love them. Which is why I was a tiny bit crushed when we moved into our current home - which is completely devoid of the sort of carpeting that shows vacuum lines. I mean, WHY EVEN BOTHER VACUUMING AT ALL?

I'm glad we had this talk.

Please email if you have the name of a good therapist. Clearly I need help.

Your Regularly Scheduled Blog Post Will Return...

This picture has nothing to do with this post.  You're welcome.

I'm sorry folks, but I am unable to blog.  You see, I'm consumed.  Absolutely CONSUMED with the following things:

This blog*.  This post in particular.  Oh. MAH. GAH.  I am drinking in this woman's words.  DRINKING THEM IN.  If you are a momma of young children, RUN don't walk to her blog.  You have my permission to like her better than you like me.  Hell, *I* like her better than I like me.

And then there's the matter of a little book I'm reading.  My little brother finally (FINALLY!) after much persuading, got himself a Kindle.  He then shamed me into buying The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  I've been avoiding it because I've heard it's rather violent, and I am a total ninny about violence. But, when your baby brother wants to read the book together and then discuss, well, how can you refuse?

HOW?

So tell me, what are you reading?  Any good blogs?  Books?  Have you read The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo?  Should I be skeered?  Because I am.  Eeep!





*super mega thanks to Monica for sending me the link to Glennon's blog. 

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Be Obscene

Friday evening I overheard Paige telling another little 3 year old about the peacocks at the zoo. Except instead of peacocks, she called them "pink cocks".

Which is,um, something else entirely. Yes it is.

When I told my sister-in-law about the pink cocks, she reminded me that when her son was Paige's age he would often refer to woodpeckers as pecker woods.

Oh kids. Whattayagonnado.

All She Needs is a Pole

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Tonight we attended a professional basketball game.  Oklahoma City now has its own team - The Thunder.  The team is really good, which makes the games all the more fun.  And Sunday nights are "family night", so lots of kids are there.  We've been a couple of times before, and Paige is always THRILLED about it.  She loves the crowds and the excitement (as does her father). 
William and I tolerate it all for the sake of the family.   Ahem.

The Thunder has "cheerleaders" (or maybe they're pompom girls?  I don't know.)  These gals carry pom poms and run onto the court at various times during the game to dance.  The rest of the time, they're seated on stools at the ends of the aisles.  They sit there bouncing along to the music and cheering at the appropriate times. 

Oh, and did I mention they do all of this NAKED?  Yes!  (ok, no).  Really they're wearing, uh, some clothes.  Imagine an amount of clothing juuuuuuust this side of pasties and a g-string.  Now add knee-high go-go boots.  And a spray tan.  And false eye lashes. 

That.*

So it just so happened that our aisle was one of the aisles that had a jiggling Thunder Girl seated on her stool.  The men all around were having trouble focusing on the game, what with all the breasts and eyelashes and hairspray.  I kept noticing little girls coming up to the Thunder Girls.  Some would ask for an autograph, and others would just stand there, mesmerized.

I started to get worried.  I mean, is THIS the sort of thing I want my BAYBEE girl to see?  Naked, bouncing women?  Oy.

Sure enough, Paige asked if she could go talk to the stripper the Thunder Girl.  I agreed, and watched Paige make her way over to the cheerleader.  She leaned in and said, loudly, "Hi, I'm Paige, I sure do like your sparkly panties!".

And then I died.  Dead.

The end.

.

*Am I old or WHAT?  I'm certain if my ass looked that good I'd probably put on a g-string and wear it in public too. 

Heartstrings

Folks, my boy is a smart cookie in so many areas.  For instance, his homework yesterday included the following problem:

"Label the congruent quadrilaterals red."

HUH?  The only words I understand in that sentence are "the" and "red".

And yet he was able to answer the question with no help from me.  Which, I have to say, sort of freaks me out.

And then he and I had a serious argument over diagramming the following sentence:

The quick mouse ran across the floor.

He SWORE the word "across" was an adverb because it tells "how/when/where", whereas I said it was a preposition.

In the end we had to call in reinforcements.  Neighbor Susan has her master's degree in English for heaven's sake, SHE would know this answer, yes?

Um, no.


Susan even had to look it up on the Internet.  Turns out the word "across" is both an adverb AND a preposition. 

William, although not right about his homework problem, outsmarted two grown women.  One of them a very smart woman.  HE'S IN FIRST GRADE PEOPLE!

I'm telling you all of this, because I want you to know that my kid, in many ways, is freakishly smart.  However, when it comes to anything involving the use of his HANDS, well, he's a bit of a buffoon. 

I say "buffoon" with all the love in my heart, you understand. 

And this, uh, LACK of hand coordination has meant that things like cutting, and writing, and even buttoning have been HUGELY difficult.  To this day, he'd rather squeeeeeeze himself into his pants rather than face the daunting task of buttoning them. 

And don't even get me STARTED on tying shoes.  The mere mention of shoestrings around this house sends a shiver down my spine.  I often imagine myself dashing up to tie his shoe before he walks across the stage at graduation. 

Which is why today is perhaps the most exciting day I've had in a really long time.  Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you my boy, who, as of today (after many, many, many SOVERYMANY lessons), can independently tie his own shoes.




Now where the hell is my trophy?

Soul Shaping

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Dave and I attended a parenting class last night.  A 13 week course on "how parenting has raised YOU".  The room was full of new and old parents.  Some were bopping tiny babies on their laps, while others were bemoaning the trials of teenagerdom.  The rest of us were somewhere in-between.  The first assignment was to break into groups and tell everyone something that surprised you about parenthood.

The answers were typical.  "I had no idea how impatient I was."  "I was so selfish before children."  "That I'm so controlling".  And the best answer: "That I immediately turned into my mother".  (Hilarious.)

The consensus was that parenting tends to shine a light on our biggest frailties and flaws.  It shows us our weaknesses.  Which is so true.  But for me, becoming a mother also showed me how very strong I am.  Before giving birth, I don't think I had any idea.

I was an grouchy child.  Constantly complaining and whining.  I voiced my every emotion - and most of them were negative.  My cheerleading squad used to call me (with fake affection) "Rita the Wuss".  Because I moaned all the time.  (Side note: cheerleading really is HARD, y'all.  I had black eyes... REGULARLY, and I lost count on the number of sprains and breaks.)

And my parents were always happy to point out how VOCAL I was.  They would tell people that when it came time to make family decisions, sometimes it was easier to just do what I wanted so that they wouldn't have to listen to me gripe.

Isn't that awful?  I want to punch Kid Rita square in the face, don't you?  I don't know how they didn't sell me to the gypsies.

So I grew up thinking I was 1)a total pain in the ass (because I was) and 2)I was weak.

Rita the Wuss got married, and eventually had a baby.  And I guess I thought I wouldn't be able to handle it, because I had always been such a complainer.  Rita the Wuss a MOTHER? No way was THAT going to end well.  Except guess what? It turns out, when you're a mother at home with a young baby THERE'S NO ONE THERE TO HEAR YOU COMPLAIN.  And for some reason, I liked that.  I liked that I had to sort of suffer in silence.  I had to be strong when no one was watching.  When no one was there to hear me complain.

Nowadays when I'm schlepping grocery bags while weaving amongst traffic with two children in tow, I find myself feeling like I'm earning a secret badge.  One that only I will know about.  Because no one is watching when I zip coats ever so carefully so as not to catch hair or skin.  No one is taking notes when I cover that pointy part of the car door just before Paige walks by so she won't bump her head.  But I know.  I know I've earned that badge, baby!

Good Thing I'm Flexible! (Not Really)

This morning was our first semi-normal day after the long Christmas break.  The day that Dave went back to work.  *sob* Gone are the days of staying in our pajamas until noon while eating leftover cookies and sipping coffee laden with eggnog.

Side note: My GOSH eggnog is good in coffee.  I will miss it so.

I sat down last night and carefully planned out my day.  One that would involve school work for William (Yes! He had homework over the break! THE NERVE!).  And yes.  I waited until the very last day before school resumes to start his homework.  This should come as no surprise to anyone who has known me for more than five minutes.  My list also included several errands and a stop at the grocery store.

I woke up this morning feeling prepared for my day.  I had a list!  I was ready to start marking things off!  I even made my bed BEFORE 8am!  My GOSH I was going to show 2012 who's boss!

And then I glanced at my calendar.  The paper calendar I keep in the kitchen so as to provide ease of viewing.  The one I SHOULD consult before planning an entire day of errands and school work.

Turns out I scheduled a trip to the Oklahoma Science Museum with my friend Sarah and her three children FOR TODAY AT 10am!  Guess what time I glanced at the calendar and realized I had plans? GUESS! 

9am.

At 9am the children and I were in our pajamas.  I still needed to shower and pack lunches.  I had to be out the door by 9:45 to make it to the museum by 10am.

And by GOSH I did it!  WHERE'S MY TROPHY?  HUH?  WHERE?

The kids and I ended up having a great day.  William finished his school work after dinner (although with much grumbling and sniping), and all is right with the world.  Well, except for the fact that I accomplished exactly ZERO of the things on my pretty little list.

So, um, TOMORROW.  Tomorrow I will show 2012 who's boss.  Yes.  Tomorrow.  I just know it.

Oh shut up! Yes, I checked the calendar, I do NOT have plans. 

I Am A Cliche'

I spoke to an old friend today.  Someone I haven't spoken with very much in the last year.  But someone who has known me (almost literally) my entire life.  Which means that a year of infrequent contact is forgotten in a matter of seconds and we are able to pick right up where we left off.  She updated me on her life (wonderful! plus a new tattoo! WHOA!).  She said she considered 2011 a good year because she had moved forward - spiritually, physically, emotionally.  She's better today than she was a year ago.

That stopped me in my tracks.

Because for the first time ever, I find myself markedly WORSE in many ways than I was a year ago.  I'm a good 10 pounds heavier.  And my bank account is many thousands of dollars lighter.  And emotionally Dave and I feel like we've been through a war.  Not with each other, but with the world.

Now I realize that being fatter and poorer than I was last year is certainly not a tragedy.  At no time during the last year did I consult a divorce attorney (or even consider it), which is amazing considering the stress in my household.  My children are healthy and happy.  I live in a lovely home.  I have amazing friends. 

And my health!  Let's not forget that I have my health!

But still.  I'd like for things to be better in 2012.

Which brings me to resolutions.

I'm always a little afraid to make resolutions at the New Year.  It feels like a proclamation destined for failure.  Plus, weight loss resolutions are so cliche'!  PLUS? I've struggled my entire life (almost literally) with body image and weight issues.  So making weight-loss resolutions seem especially fraught with heavy emotional baggage.

But I'm going to put my neck out there and make one anyway.  In fact, I'm going to take "before" pictures.  No seriously!  I'm totally doing it!

Oh I'm not showing YOU.  I do have SOME dignity left.

But I am telling you.  I'm going to unzip this fat suit I've been wearing around.  If I change nothing else, at least by this time next year there will be less of me than there is now. 

As for the bank account.  Well, I plan to appeal Google's decision to pull ads from this site (based on some unknown/undisclosed reason).  I realize Google ads will not solve my financial problems, but it's a step in the right direction. 

So there it is.  The typical American resolution.  Lose weight.  Make a little more money. ICK!

I feel bad!  I should be resolving to feed hungry children in Africa and teach homeless children to read and find homes for all abandoned pets!  I should.  I really should.  Instead, I'm going to do something nice for myself.  The children and animals of the world are going to have to get in line behind ME.  At least for a little while.

What about you?  Do you make resolutions?  Are they big and grand or just cliche like me?

De-Decked!

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Every year after Christmas I become frantic about taking down the decorations. As much as I love the twinkle of the lights and the sparkle of the ornaments, by December 26th I'm always feeling claustrophobic. I long for clear tabletops and walkways uncluttered by garland and wayward pine needles.

So when the last box went into the attic yesterday I let out a big sigh and settled back in to my clean house.

It's a good way to start the year.

What about you? Are you a "get it down now" neurotic like me? Or do you hold on to the Christmas magic until Valentines Day?