It’s been a rough couple of days out in my neck of the woods. Boo has been facing a worrisome health scare (he is fine), my dad’s new teeth make him puke and I fell on my ass in front of a bunch of handsome men, and not one of them volunteered to pick my sorry ass up off the ground. Not only did I bruise my pride, but my ego took a beating too.

Then there was the Christmas concert from hell for Fric. An hour and a half of listening to grades six, seven and eight students butcher various Christmas melodies. It was like listening to a cat screech – in stereo, for a really long time. And the school didn’t provide liquor to dull the pain.

The next day was the concert for my son Frac. His class had a lovely performance and the only butchered melody at this school was when the grade three’s whipped out their recorders. I, however, wept like a grieving war bride when they trotted out the kindergarteners for their class production. Most people chuckled and laughed at the requisite fidgeting, butt scratching and nose picking, but I couldn’t stem the flow of tears when they started singing “Away in A Manger.”

Bug was supposed to be in that Kindergarten class this year.

Sigh.

But the shopping is done, the gifts are wrapped and the only Christmas task I have left to perform is to supervise the assembly of the gingerbread house tonight. While not getting frustrated because I can’t get the walls to stand up and stick together. Of course, it will probably help if I didn’t supervise while slightly tipsy, but where’s the fun in that?

I’m signing off on a holiday break now. I plan on spending the next few days alternating between various stages of drunken debauchery, and full on crying. Perhaps both at the same time. I have already stocked up on the red wine and the kleenex.

I will be back sometime after boxing day. Hung over, I’m sure, and loaded with embarrassing tales of Christmas woes.

Until then, have a Merry Christmas everyone!

Unlike my children, I believe in quality over quantity (with the exception of alcoholic beverages) so as my Christmas gift to you, I dug up a fabulously stinky pun for my friends.

Enjoy the cheese!

And like a little gift found in the toe of your stocking, I give you this:

Who hides in the pantry at Christmas time?

A mince spy.

HO!HO!HO!

With all the merriment of the Christmas season upon us, it has been easy to overlook the fact my darling hubs and I are expecting another member to our family. After all, I’m not pregnant and thus, I am not suffering from weight gain, hormonal mood fluctuations and odd cravings. (Well, I have been jonesing for some smoked oysters, but I am most definitely not pregnant.)

So when my adoption case worker contacted me and informed me she needed to do an informal home visit before the formal home assessment could be done (gotta love bureaucracy!) I was taken back. I panicked. I didn’t feel ready to take on the responsibility of a new child. But I am smart enough to realize that a lot of this is due to holiday stress. I miss my son, and it’s hard to think of anything but Christmas morning with no Bug to cuddle with. So I agreed to the meeting and set up a time.

Which was this morning. Of course, that meant hastily running around, stuffing things into closets and doing a quick once over with a duster. I just prayed she wouldn’t want an inspection of the kids rooms or my laundry room. All three of which look like a tornado blew through them.

She didn’t. No, she was more interested in my parenting techniques. How I discipline the kids (where’s my wooden spoon), support them in crisis (suck it up, buttercup), provide them with adequate nourishment and stimulation so that they will grow into healthy and productive members of society (Chef Boy R Dee, I love thee). Imagine her surprise when she discovered the Worm, just hanging out.

Kidding. That isn’t my nephew. Just some random neighbor’s kid whom I duct-taped to the wall. With her ducky.

After her shock of learning this redneck’s technique for time-outs, we quickly settled into a groove discussing our grief, our hope and our goals.

The conversation quickly turned to child matching and what type of child Boo and I hope to adopt.

It’s hard to put into words. Sometimes it is just easier to show somebody a picture.

He or she should fit right in around here.

***No children were harmed in the makings of this post. As for the kid in the pic, I couldn’t tell you.***

My husband phoned last night to inform me he would be arriving home this afternoon, instead of tomorrow night.

I want to be excited, but I’m falling a little flat. He should arrive home before the children get off the school bus, which means….Well, in theory it means there is time for a little afternoon delight. It’s been several weeks since I have had to pick up his dirty socks, sleep in the hollow of the bed, or watch him scratch his boyish parts. I should be ravenous for a little man-love. But I’m not. Because the moment he gets home, my honey-do list will be calling his name. After all, I have weeks of garbage bags out on the back deck, no wood for the fire place and most importantly, so much freaking snow in the yard that people are starting to think I am an abominable snow woman. (And they haven’t even seen my legs to prove their theory.)

The reality of my hubs homecoming is more likely this:

Boo: ” Honey, I’m home. Come give your man some love.”

T: ” Shhhh, you’ll wake up The Worm. He’s teething and acting like Lucifer himself this afternoon.”

Boo: “Well, then we’ll just have to have quiet love,” said as he paws at me.

T: “Did you just walk on my clean floors with your muddy boots still on?”

Boo: “I’ve been saving myself for you ….”

T: “Wait, did you walk up the drive way? Did you not notice my car parked at the bottom, by the road, because our driveway has over two feet of snow in it? Do you know how hard it is to pack The Worm up that driveway with his diaper bag and food bag. He’s over 25 pounds now!”

Boo: ” Come here, let me give you a massage, I’ll work out your kinks…”

T: “Could you please go blade the driveway so I could actually, oh, I don’t know, drive up it.”

Boo: “Now? I just got home?!”

T: “Even better. You’re still wearing your boots and your jacket…”

Boo: mutters as he heads outside “Well, I’m fucked, but somehow it just doesn’t feel right…”

Don’t get me wrong, I plan on rewarding his good behaviour with a little naughty behaviour of my own. But a woman has her priorities. And nookie with the hubs, while still delightful, falls behind her nephew’s afternoon nap and plowing the driveway, but still comes before oh, say, scrubbing the toilets and folding the laundry.

Now, if you will excuse me. I have to locate a chainsaw to hack away the forest growing on my tree stumps legs. I wouldn’t want the hubs to know he married a Yeti.