My trashcan overfloweth with the remnants of the annual Christmas ransacking of the living room. The after-Christmas-calm has settled upon my house, allowing me to recline contemplatively, reflect on the months that sped by since last Christmas, and enjoy the tree, humble as it is. This week of unfettered relaxation comes only once a year. Though the thick anticipation has passed, I find peace in my mantra of, "This was a very good Christmas."
I breathe.
Santa sits at the North Pole sipping hot chocolate with his feet propped up on an ottoman. Satisfaction with a job well-done still glows on his rosy cheeks.
From the playroom, children's voices rise and fall, rise and fall, and rise again. Someone yells. Someone screeches. There's a clatter, but I refrain from seeing what is the matter. A herd of angry feet heads my way; a reminder of Christmas cheer and goodwill toward one's fellow man.
St. Nick, that jolly old elf, laughs at his cleverness in spite of himself. There's more than one way to deliver a lump of coal. He wrapped mine in a package of new toys and games for my kids to argue, pout, point fingers, compete and tattle over.
Though I plan to be nicer in 2012, I announce to the approaching posse that Santa isn't the only one who can make a list. And I hand each of them a set of chores and assure them that I'll be checking their work twice. I caution them, above the din of moans and groans, to proceed with joyful hearts and willing hands.
The melee thwarted, I cast my eyes and thoughts again upon the tree, humble as it is. It has been a very, very good Christmas: Three days after the ransacking, my brood is still interested in the toys and games St. Nicholas left.
I breathe.
Santa sits at the North Pole sipping hot chocolate with his feet propped up on an ottoman. Satisfaction with a job well-done still glows on his rosy cheeks.
From the playroom, children's voices rise and fall, rise and fall, and rise again. Someone yells. Someone screeches. There's a clatter, but I refrain from seeing what is the matter. A herd of angry feet heads my way; a reminder of Christmas cheer and goodwill toward one's fellow man.
St. Nick, that jolly old elf, laughs at his cleverness in spite of himself. There's more than one way to deliver a lump of coal. He wrapped mine in a package of new toys and games for my kids to argue, pout, point fingers, compete and tattle over.
Though I plan to be nicer in 2012, I announce to the approaching posse that Santa isn't the only one who can make a list. And I hand each of them a set of chores and assure them that I'll be checking their work twice. I caution them, above the din of moans and groans, to proceed with joyful hearts and willing hands.
The melee thwarted, I cast my eyes and thoughts again upon the tree, humble as it is. It has been a very, very good Christmas: Three days after the ransacking, my brood is still interested in the toys and games St. Nicholas left.
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1 comment:
Three days after the ransacking... I like that!
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