And So This is Christmas

I managed to get myself up off my ass on Saturday, whipped up some truffles and cheesecake brownies and the pieces of a gingerbread house, though those are still unassembled in the dining room. But who cares? Is there a deadline? Will they turn back into raw ingredients if I don't have them decorated by a certain point? No.

Everything got wrapped (this was a concern) and I even managed to get my mother's present finished (I embroidered a Santa and turned it into a mini pillow/decoration) and Frances's backyard book, a book I made by hand, each page cut out and trimmed, the photos selected to tell a story and then the story printed on top of them, then the whole thing stitched together, covers decorated and glued to the front and back. The stories themselves aren't remarkable, just some funny things that happened in the backyard this past summer, but I thought she might like the visual reminder of what the summer could be, over the winter.

We watched the holiday specials, and I dragged myself up far enough and long enough to celebrate the opening of her Christmas Eve present (a pair of fleece pyjamas, striped like a candy cane and with buttons down the front of the shirt, and a Dora book) and read her several dozen holiday books. Or at least it felt like several dozen, though it might have been only three or four, over and over and over again. Then the stockings were stuffed and the cookies eaten and the presents laid out for Christmas morning, which came too soon because Frances was much too excited to sleep well.

She woke just after six, and by 7:30 I could hold her off no longer. We woke up Daddy and went downstairs. She took it all in, gradually--the new presents, the full stockings, the dollhouse! It's a dollhouse! Look, Mummy, a house a house! Is it for me? Did Santa bring it?

Yes indeed, Santa brought it, with a bit of help from Oma; and Santa also completely furnished it and supplied it with a doll family, because Santa went a bit overboard under the influence of your grandparents. And you were so taken with the dollhouse that for thirty minutes (while the daisy braid cooked and cooled and was drizzled with icing and eaten and while Erik and I opened our own presents) we could not persuade you to leave it and even touch your stocking. Presents? No. You didn't want presents. You wanted your dollhouse. You wanted to open and close doors and put the little girl in the bed and tuck her in and put the Daddy on the couch watching TV and then move him to the kitchen and open and close the windows and make them all go up and down the stairs again. Which is, I think, the definition of a winning present. Santa also stuffed your stocking with playdoh and playdoh toys and sticker books and chocolate Santas and a bridge for your Thomas trains. And Santa brought you a tent for the basement, which you adore, as it is like a little house all your own, and for thirty or forty minutes at a stretch you will enter and exit it over and over again, saying, "It's my own little tent!" Santa brought you a tiny mouse and a Dora game for the laptop which you can play sometimes, and a few books, and another doll--this one talks and has been named Susie, and some clothes that will fit you when you are five or six. And when we got to Mumms and Grandpas we found that Santa also brought you a fairytopia thingie and a stuffed puppy that breathes, which is kind of creepy, but you love it and have named it Hodo. I don't know why.

Santa brought Mummy some workout things and carbon offsets. Which is oddly perfect. For a short while, I can drive guilt-free.

At Mumms and Grandpa's your parents had a marvelous feast, which you disdained (except for the mashed potatoes), silly girl. And you chased the Yorkshire terriers around the living room and laughed and laughed.

Ever since Christmas Eve, you have greeted your sleep and naptimes with tears. No! No sleep! You want to stay awake and play with your bounty; and the only way we can coax you into bed is to promise that it will all still be here when you wake up and we aren't going anywhere, no work or daycare for a week. This mollifies you; but your sleeps are still disjointed and broken and very short, and you are tired and cranky, for Frances, which means you whine and pretend to be Lucy from Charlie Brown's Christmas. "Buy me something!" you say, not knowing what it means, but liking that when Lucy says it on TV the person she is talking to falls over backward. I think you could have chosen a better role model. We've been talking about how it's funny when Lucy says some of these things on TV, but it's not nice and no one should say them in real life, but I don't think you get it yet.

I love you so much, baby girl. Every minute of the last month has been worth it, to give you these wonderful, magical days.

Posted by Andrea at December 27, 2006 2:24 PM under Beanie Baby Brags

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