“Do I need to go Christmas shopping?” this husband of mine asked me.
“No.” I said.
“The kids are all done?”
“Of course,” I assured him.
“But what about you?” he persisted.
“I have stuff,” I said, vaguely casting my mind about to recall what that might be. He would feel terrible if I wasn’t the very last person left opening presents on Christmas morning. My pile has to be the biggest one. I think I took care of that.
But I don’t really care. The snow has been wonderful, and the kids are all hyped up about that, but that’s all they seem excited about. How many more days until Christmas? Most years, it seems, the kids are losing it at this point: four.more.days. And moms, too. That long to-do list: cookies, cleaning, shopping, wrapping, stamping and mailing: only four more days!
But in this house, Christmas is already here. Not the gifts. We’ve not had a single present exchanged, not even little things Daddy might have brought home from overseas. The cookies aren’t made yet. We’ll get to it eventually, I suppose. The tree isn’t decorated: that’s for Christmas Eve anyway. Only a fraction of our house decorations are up, and I really don’t care.
We’ve been drinking eggnog and playing carols on iTunes. We’ve been relaxing and enjoying days off work and school. We’ve been eating lovely meals and snacking on candy.
We’re together. Our hearts are full.
What thing could he possibly buy that would make this better?