I would love to tell you about my wonderful weekend, except for the fact that it was really pretty sucky with just enough glimmers of joy sprinkled in so as to hold me off from calling the the shrink for more Xanax.

I want to say how thrilling the first snowfall of the season was for us.  Except for the fact that it was accompanied by freezing temperatures, muddy Christmas tree farm fields, ruined Ugg boots and whiny, obnoxious eleven-year olds.

I would love to write a joyful, cheery narrative of the time we spent decorating the beautful tree we cut down ourselves.  Except that we spent an hour just trying to figure out how the hell we would fit an 8 foot tree into our cheap ass tree stand made for much smaller trees.  The tree, now known to us as “Fat Bastard”, had to lose a large portion of its lower limbs, and we had to lose a large portion of our sanity before we got it to settle in.  Did you know that you could get a painful and angry rash on your arms if you shove them into a pine tree and keep them there for extended periods of time?  Did you know you could get a pained and angry husband in the process as well? 

I wish I could say all was peaceful once Fat Bastard was upright and stable, and the family had all gathered to decorate him.  Instead we had bickering over what would be playing in the background–cheesy but mood-enhancing holiday music, vs. the iCarly tv special.  We relented on the cheesy Disney kidtainment in hopes that we would finally have a tranquil family moment of decking the boughs of Fat Bastard.  I wish I could say that is what happened.  Instead we had 4 minutes of “Oooh, I remember this ornament!”  followed by 14 minutes of Sophia crying over the fact that Emma had a “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament and she didn’t (just wait until she someday compares the completeness of their baby books).  This was soon followed by 10 more minutes of sobbing over the perception that we must somehow love Emma more because she had more “photo” ornaments (nevermind that Emma made them all herself).  It was finally resolved when Sophia saw that she had more homemade ornaments than Emma, but it was too late.  The holiday magic was gone.

I wish I could say today was a better day, what with the snow melting, the tree decorated (mainly by myself, as the kids gave up after 20 minutes and one broken ornament later) and me back at work.  Except that my day started with a knock-down, drag out fight with my husband that at this moment (14 hours later) is still unresolved. 

I would love to say going to work helped some, except all I can recall is that sometime between manipulating preschoolers’ handprints into a Christmas wreath design and picking up eleventy hundred matchbox cars, I wrenched my back something FIERCE.  I am in major pain, and adding insult to injury, this is the first time I have been able to sit down for more than 5 minutes all damn day.

I want to be able to say that tomorrow will be better, but at the rate I’m going, who knows?  I’d say it can’t get worse, but we all know what a jinx that phrase can be.  I guess I just need to re-examine that glass and somehow focus on the half-full portion.  Which, right now, is the fact that everyone in the house is asleep, I’m sitting on my arse, pumped full of Advil and there is a box of Lucky Charms with my name on it, in the pantry.   Thank goodness for the little things.  And the xanax.

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