Mommy's Christmas Carol

Twas the week of Christmas
The holiday was drawing near
Mom just finished cleaning
But Dad already drank the last beer

The laundry was washed, the groceries bought
The random fruitcake from a neighbor
Was beginning to rot

The children were wrestled, finally, in bed
While threats of "Santa's watching"
Still rang in their head

More wrapping! More baking!
More parties to go!
More mittens, more hats!
Who's gonna shovel that snow?

Alas, Christmas morning arrives
Brimming with holiday cheer
Thank your lucky candy canes
This only comes once a year!

Happy Holidays!

Sprinkles Anyone?

As I wade my way through what is probably the most difficult week of my life to date, I am amazed at the simplicity of what can make an otherwise tidal wave of grief ebb back a bit.
I started with a way past necessary grocery run (we're talking almost out of diapers, milk so sour it was on the verge of walking out of the fridge itself and if I didn't get lunch meat, my daughter would have been forced to take a can of garbanzo beans in her lunchbox.)
I weave my way past the pedometer wearing, fast walking moms on a mission drinking their half caff/non fat/soy/no whip fake coffee and ordered my full fat/peppermint/highly caffeinated happy thought, complete with whipped cream. Because sometimes, you just got to have whipped cream.

Later that day, I was begrudgingly mixing the sugar cookie dough for the holiday cookies I had promised my kids we make; I kept thinking of excuses I could make up to get out of decorating.
The cookies burned (no good, would stink up the house and possibly set the fire alarm off.)
The dough's no good (feasible, believable, and relatively easy to pull off.)
Spatula in hand, I debated the cookie con with myself and decided that my own funk was not my kids' funk to bear and decided that 7-9 minute baking time wouldn't infringe on my funk too much. I could be funky later.

Then something miraculous happened. Two year old perched atop a stool, frosting spread (however unevenly) on the cookies (some that looked more like internal organs that ornaments), we started shaking on the sprinkles.
Red sprinkles, green sprinkles, gingerbread man sprinkles, confetti sprinkles...
The squeals of glee from my kids combined with the unsolicited compliments on my frosting abilities multiplied by the explosion of sprinkles on my counter top and suddenly...
I was smiling.

So, even when if you're feeling so blue, you're nearly "Smurfy" - you don't necessarily need a weekend in San Diego or an all day spa appointment (although, if my husband ever reads this, those things are great too.)
All you may need is a little whipped cream, maybe a few sprinkles, and I dare you not to grin.