It is day seven hundred and ninety two of Christmas break. I have put six hundred miles, at least, on my car driving Smalls to and fro. When I’m not driving I stand next to the dryer in the back hall and swap out towels and suits for snow clothes, everything smelling of ambition and chlorine. I have made more lunches for more kids than I can count. I made soup last night in a sixteen gallon pot. This is no joke. Everyone over 8 has had at least 2 sleep overs, so we’ve ticked that box and we are done. We’ve only taken two mystery trips because there are only small pockets of time between driving. but we have crafted until our fingers are numb to make up for it. There are Perler beads in every corner of our living spaces and in cleaning out the art cupboard last week I found twenty pots of paint I won’t let anyone use and several small children, who I have sent on their way with twenty dollars and our address so they can write when they get work. No one got geranium red finger nail polish on the counter in the kitchen. No one also drew a smiley face on the bedroom wall and fed the dogs a cookie.
My Shipt shopper asked if I was having a party this morning when he delivered nearly four hundred dollars worth of resupplies, stepping over dogs and boots. At this point I would gladly let almost anyone take over. You want to start a snap streak with Kim Jong Un? Go for it, but only if the next sleep over can be at his house. I leave everyone under 15 for a few minutes each morning to get teenager to practice, which they have every day of break because they hate parents. During this time I turn the radio off and listen to myself breathe. Smell the soup, blow the soup, smell the soup, blow the soup. My favorite jeans ripped up the crotch this morning when I bent to pull kleenexes out of Baxter’s mouth because no one throws their used Kleenexes away if they can help it. I intended to be buried in those jeans and since break is prolly going to kill me, you can see why this is problematic. I ordered a new pair and then texted dan to let him know he can now bury me in my bathrobe and long johns because it’s nine degrees outside. But he has to include a bra because I don’t want to meet Jesus without one.
By the time dan gets home tonight I will have brought kids to and from three sleepovers to practice twice, home from Cannonsburg and to the barn and back. There will be nothing for dinner because I only have the energy to make nothing. It’ll be fantastic and everyone will love it. They will instagram about how good it tasted and how amazing their mama is. Kim Jong Un will see and invite them for a visit and I will say yes because they will learn how to work and have respect for authority. They can come home when we have a new president who doesn’t brag about how big his button is. In the meantime I will be sleeping and ignoring the dryer which will be empty and will smell good.
Next week everyone will be back at school and I will be rattling around in this house with just the pups and I will hate it. Ok, mostly I will like it, but by Wednesday I will be missing my people and these sweet days of long johns and cousin chatter and messes made by happy Smalls. I will ache to hear Abe’s voice speaking “Netflix” (net-palicks) into the remote and having it tell him no comprende. I will try to make time to lay on the couch each afternoon for a bit and will miss little people asking if I can snuggle them. I will make what I want for lunch and eat it alone. Ok, this I will love but still. These days, they are so long but fleeting. We have three more days in which to suck the marrow out of Christmas break. Bring it.
this is me being real.