Holiday Dry Heaves

I appreciate (need) order. Schedule. Routine. These words soothe. Wild rides, of nearly any sort, are for someone else.

So the holiday season always sets my teeth on edge: on top of the regular routine-- wait. That phrase, "regular routine" deserves its own sentence. This is no slow pace: three busy school age children--one of whom is an actor with transportation needs that make nuclear physics look easy--two dogs, and two working parents. Still, bathrooms must be cleaned and clutter kept at bay. There are lessons, practices, play dates.

And in December add: planning gift lists; navigating complex extended family dynamics and neuroses regarding gift lists; pen Holiday Missive; assemble gift baskets for those who assemble for you; assemble gift baskets for friends you thought of first, so they can be the ones that scramble; track down Santa; shop, shop, shop; produce and mail Missive; attend so many parties that wine never fully leaves system; gain five pounds; decorate home; trim tree; bake the annual cookies to humor children who realize again why we smell home-baked goods in the house but once a year; build terrible and sticky gingerbread house; purchase gifts our children's teachers may meanly mock one day, and be jolly, generally.

The day we bring home the tree makes me specially crazy. All that mess! Needles everywhere, boxes and bags of shiny trinkets strewn throughout the dining room, lights and glass baubles breaking. Ugh.

Yes, I am that much fun. My kids love trimming the tree with me. "Pick that up!"

So we can't get the darn tree straight. No matter what how hard we yell at each other. No matter how intent the battle over who gets to place what bauble where. I send John to a store for a new tree stand.

Thank GOD Scarlett gets invited to a friend's house. All morning long, she's been in her room, cleaning, so I don't even bother to check it out until she's long gone. Nearly every room in my house looks like hers at the moment.

Then the tree fell.

John's home. No more tree stands at Target.

That's why I'm up in my office, goofing around online. Instead.