It
was a rough Christmas. To be honest, the entire holiday season has been a
whirlwind of furious activity. When September arrived, I finally started
feeling better. After one week shy of a year from the time my heart went
haywire, I was finally starting to feel like my old self.
My
old self took a look around and discovered my home was a mess. I spent several
weeks scrubbing, cleaning, spackling, painting and barking orders at the rest
of the household. New furniture was ordered and the place reorganized just in
time to feed the multitudes for Thanksgiving. It took a week to prepare the
food that would be devoured in less than two hours.
The
next day I rested. Then it was time to prepare for Christmas. The days flew;
the husband injured his shoulder at work. He needed care. He needed meds. He
needed a doctor but convincing him of such is like trying to pull teeth on a tyrannosaur.
We argued. I threw up my arms in surrender and tried to carry on.
The
project this year was bath stuff—you know, soaps, oils, gels, salts, powders—all
the stuff needed to enjoy a decadent bath, complete with chocolate truffles.
What’s a luxurious bath without amazing chocolates? All of it had to be
formulated, made by a caring hand for the women in the family. I turned my
dining room into a laboratory.
Men
don’t really care about luxuriating in a hot bath with fragrant salts and oils.
For them it would be baked goods. The kitchen was turned into a bakery. I had
to spend hours creating goodies and slapping the husband’s good hand every time
he tried to sneak a treat.
Treats
are a favorite of most men. They wander through life looking for some tasty
confection to shove into their mouths. Grandma always said, “The way to a man’s
heart is through his stomach.” I think some women should aim their culinary
weapon more carefully. Some of them tend to cook for the wrong men and end up
with broken hearts and fatherless children.
Oh,
yeah—the child. In the midst of flurry and mayhem, the princess fell ill. She
came back from the annual cookie baking at Grandma’s with a stuffed head and a
slight fever. On Monday, I left work early to take her to the doctor. The poor
kid had a sinus infection—or so they thought.
Missing
time at work, behind on the gift projects and still trying to find time to do
the shopping, Christmas was just a week away. The work week ended, the child
was not improving. I was in the final push when she began crying in the night. Fortunately,
I was still up furiously working away at getting things finished. At this
point, I was no longer looking at the calendar, but at the clock.
The
husband was pressed into taking her to urgent care. They sat there for three
hours while the smoke hissed from my furious hands. The oven fired non-stop,
with the aromas of various cookies mixing with the scents of lilacs, lavender, jasmine,
oranges and cloves.
The
salts spilled all over the floor.
I
love my floor, durable hardwood that shines as highly polished wood should. I
believe I wrote about the odyssey of having it installed. Home repairs always
come with their own special problems. No matter how well you plan, how
organized you are, something always goes wrong.
I
have yet to paint the kitchen and dining room. Kitchens need fresh paint
regularly, at least in homes where kitchens are used. I cook. I cook a lot. My
walls are a mess. I really must get them done. Maybe I should paint them green.
Green is a nice color for kitchens.
Where
was I? The phone rang and the husband informed me the princess had strep. She
was indeed very ill. That’s just fabulous. As I contemplated this new
development, I set my bare foot in the spilled bath salts. Oh, yeah. Clean up
the salts.
The
timer went off and I couldn’t remember why I’d set it. Was there something in
the oven? Butter cookies.
My
husband loves butter cookies. He’d eat his weight in them every day, if I could
bake that much. I would have to hide them if I wanted any left for Christmas
presents. I had yet to wrap things and the daughter would be home soon.
So,
I wrapped. Still working furiously, I had paper and ribbons strung across the
living room floor. When she got home, she found a pile of packages covered in
pretty paper. I told her she could decorate them with all the ribbons and
trinkets from the wrapping box and turned her loose.
The
husband returned to town to fetch meds and toilet paper. Antibiotics have an
adverse effect on the digestive tract. I also asked him to get yogurt. It’s
essential while taking antibiotics.
The
day ended, the child tucked in and the next day was a mess. Not a surface in
the main part of the house was clear. There were still cookies to bake, soaps
to make, gifts to finish and a kid who was up in the night with an ear ache.
Ear
pain is the worst. The poor kid has dealt with this since she was three months
old. There is nothing more crazed in the world than a mother with a sick kid.
When she’s in pain, I’d kill to have her healthy again.
Another
dose of meds and a glance at the abandoned vacuum cleaner and I tried to
remember what I was doing. The husband complained of throat pain. I demanded he
see a doctor immediately. He told me to . . . Never mind.
Focus.
Christmas gifts. Cookies? Tinsel is shiny.
The
day sped by. It was a day when I cursed the Mayans. If the end of their
calendar had meant the end of the world at midnight on the 21st, I wouldn’t be struggling
to finish crap up. The Mayans were an interesting people. So much technology,
so much violence. I wonder what they would think of our modern Christmas
rituals.
The
cookies are burning. I don’t even remember putting then in the oven.
There
was a loud crash at the back of the house. I didn’t bother to find out what it
was. It didn’t matter. I still had to clean up bath salts.
Cookie
sheets loaded with balls of raw dough were shoved in the oven. Melted soap had
to be poured into molds.
The
kid was screaming again. The pain was unbearable. Her regular doctor could get
her in right away. Get dressed. Now!
The
strep was drug resistant. They put her on something stronger and recommended
complete bed rest. Well, duh. It was Christmas Eve and Christmas with the family
was just canceled. While driving to the pharmacy, I made all the calls needed
to inform family, blew up at my sister who didn’t want to help get the gifts to
my mother’s—after all the hard work—and got the kid home. The concern now was
her infected eardrum rupturing. It did, later that night. It’s the first time
it’s ever happened.
Christmas
Eve. I’m in a panic. There are things to finish. My brother-in-law generously
offered to pick up the gifts for my mother’s party. I suspect it was because I
blew up at my sister, then called my mother to tell her I would bring the
things myself , then my mother probably called my sister to tell her to
cooperate and now the entire family is angry at me. I don’t care at this point.
I’m still walking in spilled bath salts. I grabbed a broom.
The
broom lay forgotten on the floor while I boxed, bagged, wrapped and tagged. It
was all done when the man arrived. He didn’t look very happy. I’m sorry for
that. Truly I am, but I shoved the thought to the side while tending the child’s
pain. I put a pot of soup on, tripped over the broom and skinned a toe on the
bath salts.
The
husband announced he was hungry. The kid wanted to unwrap gifts. The sausage we
were supposed to share with the in-laws for Christmas Eve dinner needed to be
cooked. Forgetting completely about the soup, I started a loaf of bread to go
with the spaghetti I was now planning.
The
lights on the tree are pretty. It would be nice if I could enjoy it. I sat down
to gaze at it. The kid announced she was hungry. I had to feed her because she
was losing weight from lack of appetite. I just put a tray in her lap when the
husband returned with some of her favorite soup from her favorite restaurant.
Excellent timing.
I
was done. Finally. After stubbing my toe on the broom in a pile of bath salts,
I cursed and began packing all my supplies. The husband complained about the
mess on the floor, but didn’t bother to help clean it up. Instead, he made a
bee line for the piles of cookies I’d failed to hide.
The
sun was shining on the melting ice outside the window. Shiny. The cat ran
through the room and skidded on the salts. I finally remembered to clean them
up, finished packing the supplies, put the centerpiece in place and headed for
the living room.
“Can
we unwrap presents yet?”
The
child was finished with her lunch, patiently holding the tray with its uneaten remnants
of food. Dropping a handful of tissue paper, I took the tray and tried to find
a clear surface in the kitchen to set it on. It was a mess. The cat found something
to bat across the floor and right underfoot. The dog chased after the cat. I
tripped and knocked over a jar of bath salts.
To
occupy the kid, I let her open a gift. It was a sketch kit, complete with
everything a sickly child needed to occupy her hands. She was overjoyed.
I
stepped in bath salts while carrying empty tea things to the kitchen and went
in search of the broom. I found something that needed to be wrapped and went
back to the piles of crap in the living room. Ribbons and bows and tape and
paper—all over the floor. Decorating gifts is a creative talent of mine. I
enjoy it. I don’t use those cheap ribbons available only at holiday time. I go
to fabric stores and buy the good stuff. I use lace and ornaments and candy
canes.
The
husband growled about gritty salt under his feet.
I
abandoned the living room mess and went in search of the broom. The kid wanted
water.
The
sausage was burning.
The
dog was chasing the cat.
The
stockings were hung with great care.
The
last batch of cookies were disappearing down my husband’s gullet.
I
forgot what I was going to write about. Christmas rituals? Insanity. Ooo, that
golden ornament is shiny. Nice.
