So this happened about five minutes ago. It's fifty degrees outside, and Zoomboy is standing in front of me, doing the pee-pee dance, asking me if there really is such thing as Gravity Falls, Oregon. (He likes the show on Disney-- as do I!)
Anyway-- I look from his Perry the Platypus shorts and his exposed knees and back up to his face. And back down to his knees and up to his face. And down to his knees and up to his face.
Finally, I interrupted his monologue.
"So why am I doing this?"
"Uh, because I'm wearing shorts?"
"What should you be wearing?"
"OKay okay okay!!!" And with that he goes tear-assing down the hallway, his hands above his head like a wild man in a gorilla suit.
Yeah. That. That is our Christmas right now.
And the Christmas cards get done.
Oh! Except while we're doing the cards, we have the kids involved in "Santa's Little Sweatshop"-- a process of folding, stuffing, stamping, and label-affixing that usually happens in sort of an assembly line fashion.
And then Mom tells the kids, "Sign these cards, "Amy Lane and company."
Mate says, "Some of those are going to people who don't know who Amy Lane is."
Mate: Did I just make your head explode.
Me: Splodey out my ears….
And that's just Christmas cards. It gets worse!
"So what are we doing for relatives?" (me)
"When you've got the kids at the mall, and I can lie and say I'm baking but I'm wrapping gifts instead." (Mate.)
"Okay… so we need a car to do that, and we're getting your car serviced so that it might not explode and die, per my car last week." (me)
"So I'll start the baking now. While the kitchen is still a mess." (mate)
"I'll be here, editing. LIke I've been for days." (*sob* me)
"AUUUUUUGHHHHHHH!!!" (Mate, trying to repair the damage Big T has done to the kitchen over the last year, when Mate last baked.)
"We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas… from Gravity Falls…" (The little kids, who have completely ducked the entire rest of that conversation.)
And of course, Chicken is here, stealing my stuff.
"Hey, mom. Where'd this hat come from?"
"A friend sent it to me. (Thank you Rhae from FB!) It has a matching--"
"Look. It fits. I know it won't fit you. Your head is too big."
"She made it just for you. You know she adores you!"
"Yeah-- tell her thanks for me. It's awesome!"
And there she is. Wearing my, uhm, her hat.
And in the middle of this, we have puppy!
Chicken: She's photoshopped from another universe of cuteness. I'll call her Photoshop from now on. (And so she has.)
Mate: Actually, she's sent from Satan to distract us from all sorts of things we should be doing. Like baking and putting together Christmas cards. That's her function. Now we know.
Me: You guys don't even know. I was walking the dogs tonight and a woman comes tear-assing out of her house to squee over the damned puppy. It's not even the first time it's happened. And what's worse? Her husband was cuddling the puppy and melting all over her-- that's what got the woman's attention in the first place.
Geoffie, the impossibly cute puppy: *******CUTE***********
And of course, none of that even covers the damage done to our gift wrapping time when the dogs are on the bed at one in the morning, wondering what in the hell the humans are even doing.
This just in…
Our one remaining car needs a brake job.
Because that is just our life.
Christmas is when?
We're doing what?
You'll get your cards when?
They'll be signed by who?
We're giving what as a present?
Which kid is cleaning what part of the house for me at what time, and who's making sure the puppy hasn't escaped??????????
We wish you a Merry Christmas, We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas…
And a shiny new brain!!!!