Scenes From a Holiday

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Hey.

I am now regretting taking off so much time from blogging/philosophizing/writing-a-book- in-place-of-a-real-job because now, shit gets real. Life flips back to the same ol’ same ol’ of school and sports and non-splurgy, much-lower-calorie dinners and I have to decide what to do with my book.

Honestly, I’m feeling a bit joylagged and a lot depressed.

No more mimosas for breakfast* or wearing sweatpants on repeat or pondering all those questions that you can only wonder about over a holiday break: How many days in a row can I get away with wearing these sweatpants? Do I really have to shower? What day is it? When WAS the last time I changed my underwear?

After three glorious weeks of a house full of all my kids, one is back at college, the other two back in high school and middle school and even though it wasn’t all decorating sugar cookies and playing games (yeah, No. 3, I’m thinking of your biohazard-level room and your half-planned science project that involved me drinking energy drinks into the evening hours and the fact that your school backpack spent the ENTIRE TWO-WEEK BREAK out in the open of the family room) and now I’m left with the usual, unfestive mess of dog hair and dust with the added annoyance of two nonfunctioning ovens. Holiday highlight: The door fell off of one and the other stopped working mid toffee coffee cake. Also, something weird is going on with my skin and it’s super inflamed and sloughing off. I look like Dead Pool — except my complexion isn’t quite as luminous.

Yup, the party is most definitely over. Blah humbug.

Back to the grind. Although, there was always a bit of a grind-y element to mine because of our stupid dogs. There’s a reason they’re called man’s best friend and not woman’s. I’d like to sleep in, just once, and not get up multiple times in the wee hours of the morning for potty breaks and to pull toilet paper and slippers and whatever other non-food item seems like good chewing for the dog who’s raring to walk at 5 a.m. This canine behavior is even more annoying than usual because of one particular Christmas gift I received: a weighted blanket. It’s all the more impressive because it came from my husband and it meant that he not only read the post in which I waxed poetic about such an item but that it sunk in and HE REMEMBERED. I spent years, YEARS, circling items in catalogs and leaving them strategically placed on our coffee table hoping he’d catch my not-so-subtle hints (I even wrote the recommended sizes in red Sharpie). Never got a single gift that way.

So, the blanket. The use and care sheet that came with it ticks off a list of conditions that the bedding is supposed to alleviate in alphabetical order: ADHD, anxiety disorder, agitation…. I guess with three kids and three dogs, I would say check, check and hell yes.

Christmas afternoon, I flexed my biceps and hauled that 50-pound** sucker out of its plastic cocoon, draping it across me while we fired up the TV. It did feel vaguely hug-ish, like the most perfectly sized dead body flopped over me. Maybe we shouldn’t have watched so many violent mob movies over the break? Anyway, I promptly fell asleep. One kid has reported hearing some serious snoring coming from across the hall and that’s either me or the heaviest, loudest dog.

So while I’m still getting woken up in the middle of the night because a dog always wants out, at least I fall right back to sleep afterward, thanks to my security blanket. Added bonus, I am pretty sure I am burning calories just by performing the very simple act of rolling over at night.

*I never had a mimosa for breakfast, but I did drink one once at dinner.

**An exaggeration. I’d guess it weighs maybe 15-20 pounds.

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