My dining room table is Piled High with ribbons, Scotch tape, scissors (three pairs), packing tape, gift wrap, and an assortment of pens. The advent wreath is fairly buried somewhere in the middle.
My coffee table is cluttered with mail and opened envelopes, a pile of blank envelopes, and a stack of our Christmas letters, unsigned. Also, I can’t find my address book.
My kitchen counter is crowded with fudge, cookies, scones and a tub of pretzel/chocolate/m&m thingies that my children made and are eating too fast to use as gifts.
My closet is bursting with unwrapped presents, all of which need to be pulled out and accounted for before I make my major and hopefully only Big Shopping Trip tomorrow.
Meanwhile I continue to fight a cold and returning headache, all of which lure me to bed. I have the sure promise of experience telling me that all of the above will wait until tomorrow.
But it’s an empty bed waiting, as Bill had an untimely business meeting in New York tonight. His absence adds to my confusion; a part of me always feels dislocated when he’s away.
All shall be well, right? I mean, in six days it’s the Big Day, and then it will all be over until next year.
Is this what Christmas means when you’re a grown-up?
