It's the season for being busy and doing all the season things.
I'm laying low. Still on a regular schedule of going to work and coming home. But the shack is twinkly, and the festive music plays, and the classic Christmas cartoons and movies are on, but my insides are busy. My head is crowded. I feel like I should do more, but I have no idea what that would be. I weird out every year on the matter of not wanting to miss anything. I want to squeeze every drop of Christmas I can, and I do.
Mostly the skies have been a muted shade of gray, except for one day they were blue, and the night was black with a quarter moon suspended low enough for some stars to throw a glittery trail around as they zoomed by.
The tree has been up for several days already and it smells SO GOOD. I know there are sprays and candles that say they're going to smell like a Christmas tree, but no, I don't think this aroma can be duplicated. And if I'm wrong, please tell me where to find such a thing.
Lucky for me that we've got a three person family living in a two bedroom shack, and that means that my little bed is nestled in close to the tree in the living room. It works. Sweet scents for slumber.
The tree is wilting a bit already. Some of the limbs are in a downward drift. But it's still the most beautiful tree we've ever had. And yes, we say that every year. But every year it's true. And again, the smell. It's nose candy. Not that kind.
The little elf, Buddy, is back to flying around, back and forth all over the house. I love this elf. I know a lot of people hate it, but I love it. I love having magical things for kids. The world is full of reality, I say more magic for kids. For us all. Even when some of our kids and some of us understand the magic, when our eyes have grown more mature to see around the magic, the magic can still be there. It's still fun.
I mentioned to the kids that maybe we could make each other gifts this year instead of buying them. I didn't get much of a response. I think that they didn't really think I was a little bit serious. They hoped I wasn't serious. They laughed and ignored me. Let's just say... they've seen the things that I've tried to make in the past. I knew that pile of reindeer shit wasn't going to fly when I brought it up.
I can't craft. I draw stick people. I can't sew. I don't love to bake.
I can color, though. I can blend and shade some colors to a masterpiece. Crayola should really be paying me. Also, I'm pretty good with a knife. I'm thinking arrows. I could make arrows. A stick with a point. I'm golden.
Laying low isn't a bad thing at all. We're soaking in the best of gifts on the daily. We're together, my boy, my girl and I. We laugh and talk and we argue. Sometimes there's dancing and singing going on, and sometimes I hear it coming from the shower. That always makes me smile.
Part of my weirdo mind expects everything to go down like old Hollywood. Glamour and glitz and sparkles lights, and food on trays and song and dance, and Bing Crosby, Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and while that may not be realistic, it is, and it's totally, really already happening. Except for instead of evening gowns, tuxedos and tap shoes, we wear layers of hoodies, hats and boots.
We munch on nuts, chocolates, cheeses and crackers, and popcorn and all that good stuff. We make platters of nachos, or hot wings that bring the heat and will make you cry. It's all good here at the shack.
And we listen to this...