Before the wrapping on a single gift was shredded and chucked, my heart was full.
This last week had been a sketchy one with crumbling health and too little sleep for the weary. At which time I realized I wanted nothing…needed nothing…hoped for nothing but my kids to rise from their covers alive.
When my son’s fever broke at 4 a.m. Christmas Eve, I melted back into his bottom bunk more grateful, more joyful, and more wiped out than any other Christmas.
We had each other. Mostly whole. Swaying on our own two feet. Ready to ingest more than water.
This was Christmas.
We spent Christmas Eve with my in-laws, where there was simple happiness in receiving an ornament.
Where a pair of night goggles were a hit.
Where even those who’d done their hair, shoved on a head band and played along.
And where those whose hair takes no thought at all, forgot to take their head band off.
On Christmas morning, Santa came through for the second year with stockings hung in the vacuum closet.
The Christmas story was read…
While these two tried not to burst from the chair to the tree.
Then it was a dog hat for him.
A dog hat with glasses for her.
A sweatshirt with sparkles.
The most exciting gloves ever.
And an empty syrup jar washed out and crammed with beans and wrapped with too much paper.
A gift from him, which then elevated the recycled jar into something she’d always wanted.
If I can read between the lines, this little card says, “Merry Christmas, Mommy! I love you.”
And if it doesn’t, well…I like it just the same.
Our hearts are full.
Merry Christmas, friends!