Last night, I was up until 1 a.m., addressing Christmas cards and watching White Christmas. I got through the "F" section of my address book. I was absolutely exhausted by the time I crawled into bed.
This morning, it was church. Choir practice before and after. During the service, I worked on my Christmas poem, which has to be done and ready-for-framing by Tuesday evening. That's right. I said Tuesday evening.
This afternoon, I went Christmas shopping with my daughter. It was good spending time with her. The beginning was a little rough and sulky, but, by the time we went clothes shopping, she was in a great mood. Trying on and discarding dresses and sweaters and leggings. Rack after rack after rack. And then, right after I had paid for her chosen dress, she found another dress that she liked better. So, we made a little trip to customer service at the back of the store to do an exchange. The lady who did my return said, "Hopefully, she won't see something better on the way out."
And then, this evening, I did a little Amazon ordering. Took care of four people from my Christmas list. After I'm done typing this post, I will go back to addressing Christmas cards, and, tonight, I will return to my Christmas poem.
Life is just a holly jolly mess.
Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty aired four years ago, during my It's A Wonderful Life phase.
December 20, 2011: Can You Sing, Daddy?
"Can you sing, Daddy?"
|How can you get mad at this face?|
I've been where George is at this point in the movie. Many times when I come home from work, I'm out of sorts. Crabby. Tired. Fed-up. I look around our small house (which is bigger, probably, than 99% of the houses in the world) and see clutter and failure. And then I have kids who want my attention, want Daddy to give them some love.
Last night, I was in a frenzy when I got home. I was late. I had a meeting at church to get to. My wife and daughter had to rush off to another church function. My three-year-old son came rushing at me, throwing his arms around my legs. I kept moving around the house, getting things ready for the babysitter, who would soon be arriving. Then, in the middle of all the chaos, my son walked up to me with a book in his hands. It was The Night Before Christmas. He held the book up to me and smiled.
I stopped what I was doing, sat down, and read to him. And then I read it to him again. And a third time. It turned out to be the best part of my day. George doesn't learn that lesson until Clarence the angel visits him. I didn't need an angel. I had my son.
Saint Marty sang with Tommy last night.
Ho, Ho, Uh-Oh...