Tuesday, December 8, 2009

The end of an era...

At 8:20 this morning, I had in my possession Sam's letter to Santa. He worked so hard on it--because it wasn't just a letter written on normal notebook paper. He crafted (with a little help) a construction paper Christmas tree, which he decorated with tiny Santa hats (also made with a little help from yours truly). In the body of the tree, he wrote his letter, asking for a particular NFL jersey. As I got the envelope for him, he was adamant that HE address it himself... "So Santa really knows it's from me" he said. It was adorable and it made me want to scoop him up in my arms and wallow in the cuteness of it all. After school today, we stopped at the mailbox. I pulled the van up to drop off the letter, but rather than just stopping at the driver's side window, I pulled forward a bit more and hit the button to open the back door--Sam was going to drop this one in on his own. And he did.

By 9:20 this evening, however, he had lost the wide-eyed innocence he possessed earlier in the day. Apparently, while at their dad's house, Sam, Jack and Charlie began asking questions about Santa. And so the cat was let out of the bag, so to speak; now the three of them are that much wiser where the holiday and Santa's gift-giving are concerned. But, if you ask me, I wish they hadn't found out. Not just yet. I knew this day would come, and to be honest, I really thought it would have already happened for Jack and Charlie. But Sam? He's only seven. Make that seven-and-a-half... and I have to say, as I write this, I could just burst into tears. Is it selfish to have wanted just one more year? Especially since I watched him create such a wonderful, creative letter for Santa just last night? I know with Bobby heading into his first Christmas at just 9 months, we're in for many, many years of Christmas magic featuring Santa and his team of tiny reindeer. But for a long time, up until last March, Sam was my "baby." I sometimes feel like he jumped way ahead of things because he wanted so desperately to keep up with his older brothers--like he went straight from Sesame Street to Star Wars. And I have to say... this makes me monumentally sad. Not just knowing how quickly he grew up (and IS growing up), but that this is a huge reminder that he can't stay a little kid forever. None of them can.

I am almost wishing and hoping the Post Office deems Sam's letter "undeliverable," and returns it to us. (I made sure I had the return address clearly written in the upper left corner.) I think I'd like to keep this one, this last one, for a long, long time.

I think with the boys on the "other side" of the Christmas magic now, things will be extra special for Bobby in the coming years. Jack, Charlie and Sam will be able to help pull off special surprises for their little brother, and experience the joy of seeing him wide-eyed with the wonder of the holidays... just as I have done for them for the past 10 years. But I will still miss seeing the magic of Christmas in their eyes.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Toothpicks are next...

All I've wanted today is to go back to sleep for a little while. Right now, I'm about to dig through the cupboard for the box of toothpicks and prop my eyelids open.

It all began this morning, when I dragged myself out of bed sometime between 6 and 6:30am, I looked back at my nice fluffy pillow and sighed. Got everyone up and in the middle of the get-ready-for-school-shuffle, I noticed a dusting of snow on the driveway. How lovely, I thought. Fast forward 25 minutes when we sailed through the second intersection in our neighborhood and "lovely" was the last possible word on my lips for the snow... or the glass-like sheet of ice that was hidden underneath. Driving to school takes 25 minutes at the very most on any given day. Today? It took nearly an entire hour. Wrecks were everywhere and just before reaching school, I heard that a portion of a road in town had actually been closed because it was too hazardous for travel.

And WTH am I doing driving my kids across town to school in such insane conditions? I'd tell you, but the story is long and unbelievable. We'll save that for another time.

Anyway, after making sure the kiddos were on their way to class (a full 30 minutes late, but the secretary said they weren't counting tardies today because of the weather) and I loaded up the baby and myself to venture home. Another hour later, we arrived home where I basically dropped off the baby to Jeff and headed out again to run a few mandatory errands. Finally home again around noon, and all I could think of was perhaps grabbing a nice nap before heading back over to pick up the boys from school. No. Such. Luck. Before I knew it, it was 2pm, and back into the car again I went. Of course, afternoons at our house are generally not conducive to napping (unless your name is Bobby--then, it's your JOB) so I have felt like a walking zombie since about 3:30pm.

An hour and a half left before the boys' bed time. Wish me luck.

I certainly don't mean to be bitching and whining about being tired. I mean,... on any given day, are there really any of us who wouldn't trade just about anything for a nice, leisurely nap? I don't know what it is... maybe I'm fighting off some bug,...maybe I over-did things yesterday when Jeff was at work and I was alpha-parent here with the kids... who knows. Maybe I'm just being a big wuss. Whatever it is, I hope it's cured by a good night of sleep.

On a brighter (and somewhat graphic) note, I got to unwrap the splint I've been wearing since surgery last Wednesday. Someone should've told me that the pain meds were actually meant for use after the splint is removed. Ouch. I seriously don't think my wrist hurt this bad the day of the actual procedure. And before everyone gets all riled up and worried that I've become some kind of Vicodin addict, let me assure every last one of you that is far from the case. Seriously.

The boys were super impressed with the de-bandaging, with which Jeff was willing to assist. The only thing I'm a bit self-conscious about now is the incision closed with five tidy stitches on the inside of my wrist. I have a feeling I'm going to get a few "concerned" looks from well-meaning/nosy strangers. You know the look. The one that says, "Oh-that-poor-woman-must've-tried-the-unspeakable," or "Is-she-really-as-stable-as-she's-trying-to-make-us-believe-she-is?"

I should just look at them, perhaps twitch my eye a time or two and whisper, "All I wanted was a nap..."