I do not like entering a new year. After the bustle and anticipation of Christmas, the New Year is a big letdown. I don’t like New Year’s celebrations much, and I’m perfectly happy going to sleep well before midnight. In January begins the inexorable downhill race toward summer, which is definitely not my favorite season. And there are so few holidays—such long stretches of work.
Christmas was nice, but it didn’t really live up to my grandiose ideas of how it should be. I don’t know how my parents managed to create such magical Christmas days for me, but instead I have my MIL mentioning how expensive or inexpensive a gift is as the girls open them. Speaking of the MIL, DramaQueen and Firecracker have always looked forward to her visits and had a blast when she stays over. This year DramaQueen and MIL butted heads almost every day. “Mom, she’s bossing me,” DramaQueen would whisper. And she does boss. And she makes statements like this: “There are no locked doors in this house.” Whatever my thoughts on locked doors may have been previously, they are now absolutely part of my house. Lock the doors, girls. So I spent part of the time feeling bristly, although I love my MIL very much and enjoyed the visit for the most part. It’s really annoying to have someone else try to set the rules in your own home, and this year I guess I felt together enough to take umbrage.
I spent Christmas morning putting together an enormous dollhouse. This made me very cranky and unpleasant. My dad would have managed such business over the course of a few days in an outbuilding on our property. The only place of concealment for me would have been a closet. I had planned to set it up on Christmas Eve, but I’m glad I didn’t attempt it. It’s still in our living room, waiting for me to forklift the other toys in the playroom out of the way.
Now there is DramaQueen’s birthday party to organize. This year she has chosen a roller rink. I love venues in which I don’t have to provide the entertainment or organize children for games. I can just let ‘em loose, feed ‘em pizza and cake, and send ‘em off with goody bags full of sugary treats. I’m taking bets on how many Polly Pocket play sets she will receive as presents. Close on the heels of that will come Firecracker’s birthday party. Since no one showed up last year, and the families at her current school seem to lack any understanding of social niceties such as responding to invitations (language barriers? cultural barriers? just dropped off a turnip truck?), I’m deliberating on a very small get-together at our house with—say—the two kids from next door.
Over the holidays I got used to having Dear Husband at hand, and now that I’m back at work I miss him. I also miss reading. I had the chance to indulge in two whole books: Shatterglass and The Prestige. Shatterglass confirms my belief that young adult fiction is just as interesting and way more fun than most adult fiction. What luxury.
Ah well, one of my Christmas presents from Dear Husband was season one of Boston Legal. There is hope yet for the new year.