My eyelids scrape back to reveal the day’s first light scratching its nails on the window. The living room baseboards are politely waving good morning. My tank top kind of smells like puke. Bleary-eyed, I stumble to the bathroom and summon the courage to look in the mirror. I have Cheerios stuck to my temple. I flick them at my reflection and splash some water on my face before surveying the house for damage. I seem to own more dishes when they are dirty. I don’t know where they came from, but here they are stacked like Jenga rejects in the sink and down the counter. There is food ground into the carpet by the couch. Empty bottles from one end of the house to the other. One of my shoes is in the office trashcan. The heat AND the ceiling fans are on. Random articles of clothing create a patchwork of garment lichen across the back of the couch. Crazy party? Nope, toddler. It is amazing how closely yet completely unrelated those two things are.
My baby was a Viking in a past life. When we like something, it gets thrown to the floor. When we don’t like something it gets thrown at the serving wench (me). When we want more we howl at the top of our lungs. We don’t go out to eat much.
This is the best we did with the Santa shots this year…no bueno. Sure, if you deconstruct Santa he is the stuff of nightmares.. breaks into your house.. eats your cookies… sees you when you’re sleeping. I mean really – that’s just not cool. But I really did want Maddi to have fun with it :(
Christmas is the supermodel of all the calendar holidays. Unattainable perfection wrapped in a ridiculous price tag and hung over our heads as if Norman Rockwell painted bill boards. But then I got this in the mail: