On the eighth day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me…..eight hours’ cleaning, seven minutes’ crying, six undone advents, a five seater Volvo SUV…..four Diego drawings, three tasty treats, two U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory
I had a semi-epiphany early this evening. As I gazed at the living and dining rooms littered with various familial objets, and the completely-trashed office, I realized that the problem wasn’t that we were slobs. (Though we are.) It was a complete and utter lack of storage space in a series of rather small rooms.
Square footage wise we have more than enough in our domicile, but the rooms are on the small side. Which means when you put a bouncy seat and a swing in one room, it takes up about half the available floor space. Or when you bring the baby’s carseat inside, there’s nowhere to put the darn thing.
So I decided to purge. Anything that we’re not using and won’t need in the foreseeable future.
I dispatched the professor to Starbucks for some coffee beans. He returned with a bag of Ethiopian Sidamo which I’d dis-recommend based on the one cup I had. But it gave me the necessary jolt to begin the ruthless pursuit of more floor space.
As I raced through the house filling trash bags, and making piles of (borrowed) things to return to their owners, the professor sat in an armchair. ‘Working’.
If looking at a picture of Sarah Palin can be considered working.
Sure, he justified it by saying someone had sent him a link to a story regarding Ms. Palin. But it doesn’t look good, does it? One person cleaning like a banshee while the other sits cozy in a chair, reading about mavericks.
I’d gotten out my supply of felt for some potential ornament and stocking making earlier in the day. With neither task accomplished, I decided to put aside my stash. ‘Did you make the baby a stocking,’ the professor inquired. On account of the plethora of felt scraps everywhere. ‘No, I was going to try to do it earlier today but I didn’t get around to it. I was hoping to make all of us new stockings but I’m guessing that’s not going to happen this year,’ I replied.
‘You just don’t get what Christmas is about, do you?’ he sighed. ‘You’re supposed to keep your stocking…forever. It’s just like the ornaments…how you won’t put any of my ornaments on the tree.’
My decision to keep the Jason Johnson collection of tinfoil ornaments in the bins this year had to do with the size of the tree more than anything else. But it is apparent that I don’t know what Christmas is about, that much I learned when I was at Michael’s with all three of my spawn. The Gort was pointing to various pieces of junk asking if we could buy it. I said ‘no’.
Much as I wanted to get him the vile plastic lizards that were his heart’s desire, it would counteract my purging operation…
Which caused him to wail ‘but I want to get the things I want to get.’
To which I responded ‘that’s what Christmas is for’. And as I heard the words come out of my mouth I had to wonder which neurotransmitters in my brain had just severely mis-fired.
I tried to recover, saying he’d get presents at Christmas, but I doubt it made a difference. Now he’ll forever think Christmas is an awesome toy free-for-all.
Maybe the advent activity for day 9 will be to talk about the meaning of Christmas; how it’s not about ‘getting the things we want’.
One thing I know for sure though is it’s not about listening to Ashlee and Jessica Simpson sing ‘Little Drummer Boy’.
Right Mr. Johnson?