Ahhhh….today the kids went back to school after the Christmas break. I love my kids, and I love having them at home during the summer. But Christmas is a whole other ballgame. My kids are always discombobulated at Christmas time. And not just for the week surrounding it. More like the 6 to 8 week Christmas buffer zone. I remember for 2 years straight Grace had night terrors every night for the week between Christmas and New Years. We had company staying over for New Year’s Eve that first year and they had to make a middle-of-the-night retreat to their parents’ house because the screaming was endless and terrifying.
This year Molly had it in for Grace, and has basically picked on her for 2 weeks straight. We finally began to see the light at the end of the tunnel on Saturday, and I think it’s because she knew that life was getting back to normal.
So today I admit to floating home just a little bit after drop-off. I had another cup of coffee, and some breakfast that I did not have to share. And got to enjoy them while they were still hot. I sorted through the mail that had piled up, and folded laundry, while catching up on old episodes of Criminal Minds. It was glorious.
Finally I had a leisurely shower that did not involve listening for screams, and I wasn’t even greeted with an audience of tiny people when I stepped out of the shower stall. Heaven, I tell you.
Annnnnd then the doorbell rang.
It was the courier, bringing something that Nerdguy was waiting for, so I knew he wouldn’t want to miss it. He works from home, so I ran down the stairs from the bedroom, which of course goes right by the front door, and yelled down the basement stairs. I could hear him on a conference call. Great.
I decided that I would just suck it up, open the door and sign for the package. I was wearing my robe, and I figured that I could kind of hide behind the door, to hang onto a slight shred of my rapidly dissolving dignity.
But because Murphy dictates my life, it was a C.O.D. package, which was going to involve a lot of fumbling around with credit card machines, and further humiliation. When I opened the door, the delivery dude’s eyes looked at my 10 year old ratty robe, and the ever-so-hot Turbie Twist on my head, that makes me look like a fly. There was smirking. And what seemed like a whole lot of unnecessary passing back and forth of credit card machines and that electronic signature clipboard, that always makes my writing look like I have been taking some pretty strong pharmaceuticals.
Which probably was not helped by the view that he got of my front hall when he looked over my shoulder:
|Yeah. See that bag on top of the dresser? That’s a liquor store bag. I’m now an ugly-robe wearing day-drinker who can’t sign her own name. Awesome.|
It’s just a good thing that my robe stayed closed, or he would have been the one who needed a strong drink.
Or eye bleach.