|Jingle Mingle—Velociraptor in the Nativity|
“I am not feeling a lot of joy or peace this Christmas season,” I told my mom after several days (weeks?) of crappy watch schedules, nights up with a newborn, barfing kiddos, snotty colds, and general discomfort with the extra 20 pounds that is persistently hanging on. She assured me that’s to be expected and encouraged me that those things won’t last forever.
The velociraptor has approached the manger and is drooling over the Christ child.
“Honestly, the third present he opens Christmas morning can’t even compare to that first end-of-school present,” my mom counseled over the phone this week. “You guys would always come home from your class parties more excited about that present than anything else because it’s the first one. After you’ve opened 10 presents on Christmas there’s just no way you can keep up that enthusiasm. It’s just present overload.”
|[I hadn’t figured out how to remove the cheesy labels in my photo app yet.]|
“I’ve told you my story of great shame, right?” she continued.
“You seemed fine,” she said. Until bedtime, when each kid prayed.
“Thank you for all my presents, even though I didn’t get the Barbie thing,” prayed five-year-old Mari. My parents’ eyes met in shared guilt. My mom said she felt so bad, but the reality of the tiny house and long winter was just too much.