A cold Friday night has settled in, calm and quiet, but heavy with the sense of anticipation. Tomorrow, it begins. All of it. In the morning I’ll drag myself out of bed with a grunt and more than a few groans to the sound of starter’s pistol. From that moment, there will be nary a second of peace until the last empty bottle of champagne is rounded up and chucked on January 2nd. The December season of action, heavily laden with grand, hectic, entertaining chaos, official gets under way tomorrow.
This weekend is a great example by itself. Tomorrow we are having a joint birthday party for the Puddinpop and his younger brother, Mini-Me (formerly Puddinpop, the Sequel) at one of those places with the inflatables and laser tag combat arenas. There will be cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents a plenty, plus an assortment of neighborhood kids and school friends on hand partaking of massive amounts of bouncing, shooting, sliding, and otherwise raucous entertainment.
By the time we reach The Attitude’s appointed napping hour in the afternoon, I expect to be beat up, worn down, and sporting a cupcake icing stain on my backside that everyone can see but me.
After naptime, the whole family will be attending a dinner party with a clan of great friends who has been putting up with me since college. The Puddinette and I have a chance to hang with the old friends as a group about as often as I finish the Boston marathon, so we’re excited like a four year-old on Christmas Eve to have an opportunity to hang with everyone. Of course, we’ll all have our full families on hand, and we’ve all be doing our best to pretend we live in a post-apocalyptic society where the Earth needs repopulating. In fact, there will be enough kids around that the only difference between the dinner and your standard church festival is the lack of $3 tickets for $0.25 rides and the noticeable absence of a Ferris wheel.
And that’s just Saturday.
Of course, that’s assuming the forecasted snowmageddon doesn’t have us all dashing to the grocery store for eggs, milk, and bread for fear of being shut-in by 2 inches of powder.
On Sunday there will be the dreaded holiday home decorating. That particular item is of the utmost importance because if the sun rises Monday morning and there isn’t a Christmas tree in my living room, my children are likely to stage a riot that will make a loss by the Chilean soccer team look positively constructive by comparison.
And before anyone out there starts leveling “Bah humbugs” in my general direction, sit down and relax. I love Holiday decorations. I just hate the actual decorating; it’s reason #137 I got married.
After this weekend, there are office Christmas gatherings to attend, shopping to complete, hockey games for the boys will be playing in, delectable foodstuffs to cook, family events beyond count, etc, etc.
Good stuff, for sure, but no shortage of it. By January, I will be plum tuckered out.
So for now, with the night calm and quiet in the expectation of a little snow, I’m going to sit back and relax, and let the evening drift by as it will with a warm fire.
It’s time to take a deep, relaxing breath. Tomorrow, the storm hits.
I can’t wait.