I am hanging on by a thread, people. I have two days left until Christmas break, and I'm hoping my sanity holds out that long. I've been fighting a cold and an ear infection, and trying to tie up loose ends for the holidays. Got the packages mailed, but not the cards; got the presents (mostly) but they aren't wrapped (mostly); the kids at school, God Bless 'Em Every One, are sending me over the fence into the Crazy Yard. and I just want to take a long nap.
And have sex.
And drink a beer.
The thing that is keeping me tethered to my life and honestly, still in a fairly elf-ish mood, is, of course, Joe-Henry. He hasn't needed to be reminded too many times about Santa, and as I watched him sleeping tonight, his gorgeous face so soft and sweet, I started to cry. He's so much older this year than last - his humor is more sophisticated (meaning knock knock jokes are BEGINNING TO MAKE SENSE, but he still thinks farts are hilarious), and his reasoning is clearer.
But he still believes in Santa. And it struck me today: what is the ratio of Santa is Magic to Santa is Watching? How often have I just listened and encouraged him to marvel at the nicest man in the world who brings every child a present on Christmas morning, and how often have I threatened him with "You know Santa's elves are looking RIGHT NOW, don't you?"
Did I miss out?
Did I blow it?
Do I deserve a lump of coal?
I hope not.
I'm missing the sing-a-long at his school this Friday, and it is chewing a hole in my heart. He's being so sweet about it, and honestly I don't think it's a huge deal to him. But it is to me. I want to be there. Holding his hand and singing those songs, and storing away just a few moments more of the magic you have when you're seven and old enough to know better than to NOT believe in Santa.