The waves of adventure, mayhem, hilarity and moodiness have been washing over me so quickly that I have been spending all my free energy catching my breath and Christmas shopping. There hasn’t been much time for writing.
I get a little anxious when my cup gets full. I know I shouldn’t be anxious, and I’m pretty good at letting the big things go, open handed. It’s the little things, the things that I should be able to manage, that send me spiraling into the sea. For example, there is a Pirate Skeleton in my clothes closet. He has been lurking in there since Halloween, thanks to my beloved husband.
I forget about him until I need a clean shirt. Then I have to push his pirate parts out of the way and I think to myself, “WHY oh WHY is he still in my closet? My life is a perfect graveyard of buried housework. Nothing will ever be right. I’m a bad parent. My sons are going to grow up expecting their wives to leave pirates in their closets all year, and I want so much MORE for them.”
Seriously. This happens.
I should just go take that thing down, now while I’m remembering him, but I will probably forget after I finish this post, and the pirate will continue to haunt my socks and jeans.
The point is, I’m teetering right now. Holidays can do this to a person. Especially an absent minded, day dreaming perfectionist like myself.
The thing is, there is no sin in leaving Halloween decorations up all year long. I don’t think. Probably.
NO. There isn’t! If I don’t get around to moving Pirate Bones McGee it’s okay. If I don’t bother to fold underwear and throw them in to the drawer in a organic mass, that’s okay too. If I never learn to sew, if I never make my boy’s bed, if I don’t paint my toe nails and let them chip their way into oblivion, it is OKAY.
Not all of us are Martha Stewart. SOME of us don’t even own a glue gun. It is NOT WRONG TO WRITE directly onto the wrapping paper in a permanent marker instead of making a cutsie gift card.
Life is more than gift cards and crafts and timely holiday decoration removal.
There are some things I may have MISSED if I had been worrying about Martha standards. Things that are important. Things that are hilarious.
Behold, a recent conversation with my 4 year old:
“So, what is your favorite kind of dog?”
“Uh, A BULLDOG!”
“Oh really? I didn’t know you liked bulldogs,” I say as I sip my coffee.
“YEA! But I want my bulldog to have really big HORNS!” he continues and I start to choke on my coffee, “BIG HORNS TO STAB SNICKERS WITH!”
Snickers is our dog. She is a small, tortured soul in the body of a neurotic Yorkshire terrier. And no, I did not break the news to my son that Bulldogs are hornless. Let him live the dream a little longer.