“Merry Christmas Is Over”

Anyone think there should be a holiday celebrating the end of a holiday? I believe most of mankind would benefit from a mandatory resting period beginning no later than the evening of December 25th, after the kids have been strapped down into bed, their bodies having begun withdrawal from 48 hours of sugar-induced hyperactivity. As part of the post-holiday holiday, parents would be strongly encouraged to drink lots of wine while soaking in bubbly bathtubs and listening to Michael Buble on their iPods. There would also be a choice of replacing wine with beer, bubble baths with football and La-Z-Boys and Michael Buble with, well, pretty much anything else. This will be an equal opportunity holiday and will last as long as necessary to restore a tiny bit of sanity to the world.

I know I could sure use the reprieve. This year has unequivocably been our busiest year yet in terms of Christmas preparedness and general jovial activities. The kids embraced the Christmas spirit with gusto and made what is already an enjoyable experience, magical. But, that “magic” comes at a dear price tag. Energy. Lots and lots of energy. I’ve been sucked dry.

I will have more details to come just as soon as my blood pressure comes down, my left-eye stops twitching and I regain my original vocabulary, which has since been taken over by words like “remember, Santa’s watching”, “our Christmas lights are fine, Avery” and “Jack, get off the Christmas tree!”

I hope you and yours are having a joyous holiday season!


A test of fortitude. God, I hate tests.

Good morning my friends! I thought I ought to take a second to assure those of you who check in on me that I am indeed alive and well, although I suspect my blood pressure might be a skosh high. The reason for my absence and the 130/80 readingyou might ask?

His name is “Jack” and he’s currently the bane of my existence.

This four year-old sweet baby boy o’ mine is sucking me dry of all available energy and will leaving my inner engine on empty and my brain matter resembling a raisin. And not the plumped up kind. I’m talking the bargain bin, ‘oh why did I buy the generic ones’ kind.

I’ve dealt with precocious preschoolers before, mind you. But this is a horse of an entirely different color, folks. This boy is on a different level. This boy is intelligent. And he’s got my number. He runs this house with calculated expediency, his sharp mind running scenarios at warp speeds, asking himself, “How exactly can I wreak the most havoc while maintaining my adorable exterior and reminding my mother that evil hasn’t taken over every part of my being?” He thrashes through this house, destruction in his wake, earnestly asking, “Am I still a good boy?” after every diabolical incident. This little guy is an oxymoron of mass proportions. And, God help me, I love every bit of him. Even the naughty parts.

So, friendly followers, I beg your forgiveness for my absence and pray that you understand my heart is still here with this blog while my mind is otherwise occupied with various wreckage and carnage left behind by the sweet and sensitive, albeit mind-numbingly frustrating, spawn of my loins.

Wait for me.