Even when it's bad, it's so good

As we embarked on our trip to South Dakota two and a half weeks ago, I set aside all practical notions and settled on romantic ones instead. I new it would be a long journey and arduous. I knew there would be bickering, boredom and whining, but I'd handle it all with patience.

The truth is, I kind of like road trips. I like having the kids tucked snugly in the back, and Mark and me up front, enjoying a rare opportunity to talk as we conquer the miles before us.

We had it all planned. We'd rouse the boys as gently as possible and leave at 4 a.m. so we could cover two or three hours while they slumbered. We realized quickly that our plan had backfired, and all three boys and Ben's friend, who joined us for our trip, were excited and wide awake as we began our sojourn.

Mark and I took the setback in stride, buoyed by anticipation and can-do attitudes, and those took us pretty far. I really do love road trips ... until I hate them. That sentiment set it in right around Mitchell, SD.

After stopping for a picnic lunch and taking in Sioux Falls, we made a stop at Mitchell's majestic Corn Palace. We'd been forewarned that it was kind of lame, so I expected that, but it still managed to underwhelm us spectacularly.

We bought obligatory trinkets for the kids and were on our way, eager to get to our cabin. I can pinpoint the moment of desolation. It's when I saw the first mileage sign for Rapid City, shortly after leaving Mitchell. It read something like 280 miles. We'd already driven eight and a half freaking hours. We felt like we'd accomplished something, crossing into South Dakota. And we had more than four hours to drive (plus more to reach our actual destination of Spearfish).

After enthusiasm wore off, things got challenging for a while. The boys' devices had long since lost their charges, and they were getting restless. It began to set in that this was a really boring drive that really didn't begin to get interesting until we saw the Badlands.

Finally, we reached Wall. We'd seen one or two billboards advertising someplace called Wall Drug, but we were tired and decided to skip it. We did, however, stop in the city for dinner.

Stick racing

Mark sagely decided to eschew the familiar and pedestrian Subway in favor of an authentic South Dakota dining experience. We popped into a joint called Fat Boy's BBQ. The place was crowded, and the two waitresses were frazzled. I scanned the menu for something healthy or healthy-ish. Nothing doing. I settled on what I thought was the safest choice: tacos, and Mark ordered the barbecue pork sandwich.

The food the waitress brought us was filled with small errors, all of which we overlooked. For $8, I was presented with two paltry-looking tacos, but Mark's meal was the most hilarious. His "barbecue pork" was a giant piece of breaded pork on a small bun. We laughed and ate ice cream to make up for our lackluster meal.

We finally pulled into our cabin 16 hours after we'd begun our trip, exhausted and bleary eyed. In the morning, though, we saw how tranquil and idyllic the place was, mountains as our backdrop and a stream running through the grounds.

We soon realized that the beautiful little place we'd selected was set farther away from most attractions, and we drove a minimum of an hour and a half to see any of the sights. Our first day had Ben feeling ill, and visions of the greasy burger he'd eaten at the diner haunted him throughout the day.

Soon, the boys discovered their favorite activity at the cabin: racing sticks in the stream. This resulted in wet, stinky shoes, skinned knees, and much joy. The proprietor told us about a rugged hike we could take. It had three tiers, the first was the easiest, the second more challenging, the third, she'd never actually attempted. Just don't go at dawn or dusk, she warned, lest we encounter mountain lions.

Ben and his friend, also named Ben, took it upon themselves to set off on their own and hike all three tiers. It's a good thing I didn't know what it was like, because I never would have let them go. Later, they invited us to hike the first tier. It was steep and completely ungroomed, and I could barely make my way up.

The Black Hills were ridiculously beautiful, and I didn't tire of the scenery. We saw so many deer that I joked they were as ubiquitous as squirrels in Wisconsin. "Squirrel!!" I'd bellow whenever we saw one.

As we racked up the miles on our minivan, however, my tolerance for spending time in close quarters with the boys began to wane. The presence of Ben's friend meant he was always "on" and cracking jokes (the same ones ad nauseum), Paul couldn't help provoking Gus, and Gus incessantly sang the song, "If You Like Pina Coladas," from Guardians of the Galaxy.

On Thursday afternoon, after we'd spent a lot of time in the car exploring Custer State Park, I began to snap. We were supposed to go out to dinner for our last night in South Dakota. "If you like pina coladas, and you're calling my name, if you like doing yoga ..." Gus belted these nonsense lyrics from the backseat for 50th time. "What are we doing for dinner," he whined.

"We were going to to a restaurant, but you don't deserve anything nice," I blurted. "You're making everyone in this car suffer!"

Of course, my outburst served to make everyone uncomfortable, but I managed to claw my way out of my funk enough to enjoy our final dinner. It had all passed too quickly, as I knew it would.

As I thought about our trip on the long, long, loooong ride home, I decided that the thing about vacations is that even when they're going badly, they're so, so good. I'm sure that the boys might remember seeing Mt. Rushmore for the first time, but when they reminisce someday, I suspect it'll be about the smaller things. It's all the quirky things and the mishaps that are truly memorable.

Remember that awful restaurant? When we climbed that crazy mountain? Stick racing? When Mom lost it in the car after Gus wouldn't stop singing that stupid song? When we rode horses for the first time and that crazy trail guide who kept railing against "tree huggers?"

I'm thankful for all of it: the glorious and the awful. We're ridiculously blessed to be able to have experiences like these: to see new places, to have best friends, to have one another.

Finding comfort with my own voice

A note from my classmate arrived in my inbox. I'll call her A, and she and I share two classes, and we were placed together for a group project for one. In this email she was asking my advice about an assignment in which we are supposed to interview someone who works in the social media field.

She had mentioned on a discussion board her struggles with social anxiety, and it didn't take powerful deduction skills to guess that this assignment would be outside her comfort zone. After replying to her with some practical advice about finding an interview subject, I couldn't resist sending a postscript offering her encouragement a short while later.

A is young, probably no older than 21, and I felt an almost maternal urge to nurture her. She reminds me so much of myself at that age. I wanted her to know that tasks that seem insurmountable can become doable with practice and repeated exposure.

I ought to know. I've written before about my past struggles with school, both socially and academically. I'm the latest of bloomers, still working on opening up fully.

For so long, I was afraid to make my voice heard. I had a speech impediment (that tricky letter R) that stuck with me through the beginning of high school. The funny part was I couldn't hear it myself (except, to my utter mortification, at the odd time I'd hear my own voice recorded), but my classmates certainly could and teased me for it. In junior high, I wished I could disappear and literally hated to talk.

You can throw me in with the crowd that fears public speaking more than death. I quickly read through my speeches in high school, eyes glued to my note cards. In college we were assigned to give an impromptu speech based on a topic we'd drawn at random. It was brief, but I stammered and panicked through my first attempt. I didn't make the time limit. I asked the professor if I could please just take an F for the assignment. She wisely refused. I made it through my second attempt, though I did little better than the first.

As I began to study journalism, I quickly discarded the idea of ever becoming a reporter, so nervous was I to make contact with new people. What if I sounded stupid or said something ignorant? I accepted, with comfort, that the copy desk was the place for me.

In interviews, I tend to fizzle. How long should I maintain eye contact? How should I hold my hands? I get so nervous, it's hard to act natural. I live in terror that the interviewer will ask me a question for which I don't have an answer. What do I do then? Perhaps my nerves about speaking in front of others have led me to hone my writing skills. If only I could submit my interview answers in writing!

As I've gotten older, a little, but not enough, has changed. I'm a proficient small talker and can chat up strangers with ease, one on one. Icebreakers, oh stupid, awful, icebreakers, still send me into a cold sweat. At our wedding, I wished I could have the nerve to take the mic and thank our guests at our reception, but at the last minute I fell back and left it to Mark.

Just months ago when Gus began kindergarten, I was at a loss as to what to do with my life. A big part of me resisted going back to school, but perhaps I was drawn to it like a Rosetta stone. Even as I signed up for courses, I nursed serious doubts, but maybe subconsciously I knew it was what I needed.

This semester I've grown in ways I couldn't have imagined. I beat back the urge to drop a class that intimidated me, and to my amazement, it has become one of my favorite classes. Each assignment I complete, I feel empowered. I never expected to mock up my own webpage, but I'm working on doing just that, and I'm actually having fun with it.

My biggest test will come in about two weeks when it's time to present my final project to my marketing class. I know that my classmates probably will barely listen to me, so focused will they be on their own upcoming presentations (or surreptitiously looking at their phones beneath the tables, if it's like a typical day). Consciously and perhaps subconsciously, I've been nudging myself toward this final goal all semester, volunteering answers in class, often acting as the representative for my group. I feel nervous yet capable of what's to come. I can do this.

When I was doing speech therapy for my impediment, one of my assignments was to say my exercises into a tape recorder. Even in the confines of my own bedroom, I felt embarrassed. This all came full circle when for my final project for my professional communications course, we had to create and narrate a screen capture.

I sat on the floor of my bedroom, speaking my script into the laptop balanced on my thighs. The sound of my nasally voice still made me cringe a bit (does anyone on earth not hate the sound of their own voice?). The Rs floated effortlessly off my tongue, though. I sounded competent and felt confident in my abilities, and maybe for the first time ever, I embraced the sound of my own voice.

Loving Gilbert Blythe

When I read the news yesterday of Jonathan Crombie's death, a little part of me died, too. Crombie played Gilbert Blythe, destined love of Anne Shirley, in the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation production of Anne of Green Gables. 

No doubt, Crombie launched 10,000 teenage girl crushes with his sensitive performance. I was one of the many who fell hard for Gilbert Blythe.

Full disclosure, I've never read the beloved novel, only watched its miniseries adaptation – many, Anne on PBS, and I was instantly besotted.

It's about time, Anne!

many times. I suppose the fact that I haven't read the book should be embarrassing, but I'm letting it go. I was in junior high the first time I watched

Of course Anne was enchanting, and Richard Farnsworth will forever hold a place in my heart for his tender portrayal of Matthew. I wanted a bosom friend like Diana Barry. I even liked prickly Marilla and fussy gossip Rachel Lynde. However, I loved no one more than Gilbert.

Oh, how I swooned for his beautiful face, his soft voice, his dark hair and eyes. Physically appealing though he was, that wasn't really what got me, nor any other moony teenage girl, I suspect. It was the way Gilbert loved Anne.

Perhaps it spoke to where I was in my life when I watched. I was awkward and unpopular. Gilbert Blythe and Jake Ryan of Sixteen Candles offered me a sliver of hope. Anne Shirley and Molly Ringwald's Samantha Baker weren't the prettiest girls in their class. They were more like me, and Gilbert and Jake, respectively, weren't taken in by pretty and popular. Gilbert wasn't interested in Josie Pye, and that vapid blonde bored Jake. These guys were willing to look deeper.

When Gilbert confesses to Anne, "I've loved you as long as I can remember," I was a goner. It was the most romantic thing I'd ever seen.

In a plot device as old as time, Anne (who, let's face it, really is a little too into highfalutin mumbo jumbo) at first rejects Gilbert. Oh, stupid, daft Anne. How could you? Gilbert, choose me, I and thousands of others thought. I will love and appreciate you as you deserve!

I could watch again and again the scene where Gilbert recovers from his near-death scarlet fever affliction and Anne finally comes to her senses and chooses him, I'd watch all six hours of the miniseries any day for that final scene and long-awaited kiss.

"It'll be three years before I finish medical school," Gilbert says. "Even then there won't be any diamond sunbursts or marble halls."

"I don't need diamond sunbursts or marble halls," stupid Anne finally realizes. "I just want you." About time!

I think the magic of it is that we all dream of having someone love us as purely as Gilbert loves Anne, someone who sees the true us.

I'm pushing 40 now. Perhaps my own story wasn't filled with as much romance, but I've long since found my own true love, one who sees and appreciates the true me. No diamond sunbursts or marble halls needed.

I still watch Anne every few years, and it never fails to transport me. I think I'll sit down and watch again soon.

Goodbye, Jonathan Crombie, gone too soon. Thank you for breathing life into the incomparable Gilbert Blythe and giving a girl like me hope.

Rinse and repeat

Walking into Gus's conference two weeks ago, I felt confident. This would be the one. Issues addressed, ADHD symptoms helped with medication and other interventions, Mark and I could finally enjoy a conference where we'd hear all that's wonderful and amazing about our son rather than what's difficult about him.

Mrs. S. began by asking us if there was anything we'd like to ask or discuss before we began. Mark piped in with something we'd been wondering about for a few weeks: Gus's medication seemed to be losing its effectiveness a bit, but we hadn't heard any negative feedback from his teacher.

"Oh, thank God you brought that up," Mrs. S. exclaimed. "Things haven't been going so well.

Sometimes he's all over the place;
others he shows uncommon focus.

And just like that my hopes for a glowing review of Gus's accomplishments evaporated. It's amazing to me that I can continually trick myself into believing that any one intervention will somehow make Gus's journey through school simple. 

I know that medicating for ADHD is as much art as science, that the meds are unique in that doctors don't determine dosage based on a child's weight but rather on how well they're controlling symptoms. When Gus started meds four months ago, Mark and I were surprised, relieved and a little incredulous that we hit on the right dose, which happened to be the lowest dose possible, with the first try. We expected it to be a bit of a process.

Everything worked beautifully for a few months. Gus's teacher raved about the turnaround. I may still be waiting for that conference with gushing feedback, but for the first time ever, Gus received 3s for his behavior on his report card (oh, how those 2s used to pain me). School was going smoothly, and Gus was still Gus. I was lulled into complacency and magical thinking once again.

The conference brought me thudding to the earth once again. It never stops being painful, hearing that my boy is struggling. It never gets easier to suppress the useless impulse to be defensive of him, to make myself sit and listen to what the teacher is saying without mentally overreacting.

I walked away from yet another conference filled with worry. The next day, we called the pediatrician's office and upped Gus's dose. On one hand, it feels like a blessing to be able to make an adjustment and see quick results – they were quick indeed. Yet, it's not simple to me at all. I know his doses won't be ever-increasing, but the process makes me fretful.

I'm well aware of how controversial ADHD meds are, but I am thankful for them. Still, they're not a panacea. They're complicated. With too high a dose, kids can turn a little zombie-like – losing the real Gus is something I can't accept. Even when the dose is right, you're still up against side effects. Some days Gus won't eat more than a bite or two at lunch. Some nights, it takes him an hour or more to nod off. 

When I think about the next many years, it sometimes feels incredibly overwhelming. I read about all the difficulties, all the risks, all the comorbidities people with ADHD face, and my stomach churns. 

Time and again, I'm reminded that this is a curvy road we're walking with Gus, and oftentimes we can't see what lies ahead. Acceptance is a process. Accept, regress, rinse, repeat. 

Back to Gus's conference, I don't fault his teacher for anything. Though I'd like to hear about how well Gus reads (he's pretty amazing) or his math skills (even more amazing), I know she has a short window to convey to us the most pressing issues.

Since I missed out on reveling in how special Gus is, though, I'll share a bit here.. As we drove to St. Louis on Sunday, he asked how much longer until we arrived. I told him five hours. "So, 300 minutes?" he asked. What kindergartener even thinks about such a thing, much less calculates that five hours equals 300 minutes?

After taking the elevator up to the Arch, we headed to the small theater and watched a 30-minute documentary about the building of it. I worried Gus would be bored. To tell the truth, I was a little bored. I looked over at him, though, and he was enthralled. "I could build that if I had enough gray Legos," he leaned over and whispered to me.

Gus has incredible gifts and potential. Helping him break through his barriers will be part of my life's work.

OWL and proud

When I was attending UW-Fox Valley some 19 years ago (sweet Jesus!), I was introduced to the term OWL. OWL stands for older wiser learner. Every class I took had a handful of OWLs.

I think I recognized even then that the term felt a little condescending. Now that I'm an OWL myself, I can assert that with certainty. Young and cocky at 18, I used to snort derisively at OWLs. An OWL is earnest and takes his or her education seriously. On the cusp of letting you out early, a professor will ask if anyone has any additional questions. An OWL will raise her hand and keep you there for another 15 minutes. Let's face it: an OWL is a bit of a brown-noser.

I see myself now for the brat I was. I should be taking my education seriously. I'm paying for it, dammit, and why wouldn't I want to get the most value out of it?

These days, I snort derisively at the 18 and 19-year-olds who populate my classes (seriously, I have a problem). They are so, so young, the age when they can't possibly conceive of the fact that they'll be my age in the blink of an eye. They pepper their comments liberally with expressions like "like" and "and stuff."

Poor speech habits aside, though, my young compatriots defy my inclination to stereotype them. In my marketing class, the kid with the floppy hair wearing the set-askew baseball cap nods off once but volunteers answers to questions with enthusiasm. The girl who says she's some kind of energy drink representative proffers an apt anecdote about how her employer uses marketing on Facebook.

School is such a different experience in my 30s. True, by the time I got deep into my program at UWO, I began to take school more seriously, but the first two years of my post-secondary education, I did the bare minimum to succeed. I skimmed my readings at best. I studied very little.

Somehow I've morphed into some kind of perfectionist. The old me and the way I operated seem practically unrecognizable to me. I feel scandalized by the idea of skipping my readings and not putting in the hours studying. What can I say? I'm older. Wiser.

The day before school started, I felt apathetic. I wasn't keen on the idea of upending my life. Yet, I couldn't imagine my life staying the same, either. I wanted more, so for better or worse, it was time to begin.

My first week of school, I swung between euphoria and despair. My first two days I felt excited and energized with new-found purpose. I attacked my books, assignments and online discussion forums with gusto. It honestly wasn't my intent, but I'm sure I looked like an insufferable brown-noser when I stopped after class to ask my marketing instructor if she'd like me to bring in some of my old magazines to add to the collection she uses for class projects.

Then came my web graphics class. I scanned the first week's assignment and watched the instructor's introductory video. My stomach flipped as she described the class. She explained that we would be using Adobe Illustrator. She talked using terms unfamiliar: vectors and raster graphics. One week we would be using the software to draw a violin. What? Excuse me. What?!?! I did not sign up for this. This was way outside my comfort zone.I do not draw violins using using software or otherwise. No.

I scanned my reading assignment and could make no sense of it. I panicked, ready to drop the class, put it off for another semester. Instead, though, I used my amazing OWL powers and decided to investigate other options. I was signed up for the online version of the class but quickly discovered that there was space in the instructor's class on campus and arranged to switch to that section.

I attended the class on Thursday. As OWLs often are, I was a little slow with the software, but I sat with my textbook and was able to work my way through the week's assignments. At one point, I wished I'd remembered my glasses so I could better make out the tiny icons. I had to ask some questions and felt stupid when I couldn't figure out how to use my jump drive, but I survived. I will survive.

My feelings about school have moderated. I'm still excited, but it's tempered with the sobering realization that this will be a lot of work. I'm an OWL, though, and I'm ready. Now, any more questions before we wrap this up?

Timidly, tentatively, here I go

I'm about to begin a new chapter, and as usual, I'm dragging my feet. I will start school in about a week, and where I should be feeling bold and nervy, instead I'm overcome with nervousness. 

 

This week I sat down with the chair of the communications department for an orientation. She was the latest and most worrisome voice in a long line of people to raise her eyebrows at the 12 credits I'm about to take, saying, "My, that's a full load."

 

How bad can it be? I ask myself. It can be my full-time job (along with my other jobs of raising the boys, taking care of the house, and cooking, needles the voice in my head).

 

My angst grows as each new person comments about what I'm about to undertake. It doesn't matter whether my cousin tells me I'm brave or a friend tells me she admires what I'm about to do, the doubt persists.

At 37, it dismays me that I still know so little about what I want out of life. I long to be confident and self-assured. This is what I want, and this is how I'll get it. 

 

For a brief period, when I worked as a copy editor at the Oshkosh Northwestern, I was proud of what I did. After a year there, though, it felt as though I was devoting my life to my second-shift, weekend-working job, and I left for an administrative assistant job that offered me the same pay and better hours but much less gratification.

 

Ever since then, I've been in a state of vague embarrassment about the life I lead. When people asked me what I did at Kimberly-Clark: "Oh, I'm just an administrative assistant."

Where did you go to school? "Oh, I just went to Oshkosh," I say. "I really liked it. Great journalism program!" Secretly I'd fret that my education didn't measure up to the one my husband received at Madison.

As a stay-at-home mom, the one job I was always certain I wanted for myself, my insecurity has persisted. "What does your husband do?" I ask other moms like me, as if that defines us in the absence of an actual job. 

Once when meeting with a financial adviser, I wanted to assert my worth and told him about the (very) nominal sum I had been making doing a little freelance work. He was so dismissive, he may as well have patted me on the head and said, "That's nice for you, honey. A little pocket change to add to your purse."

 

Let go of judgment, let go of competition, let go of expectations, my yoga instructor often intones. I try to absorb this into my being, but it's so hard.

Surely I haven't worked hard enough to keep myself in the game. My friend the social worker taught some parenting classes to stay current. Two moms in my book group teach piano, another does regular freelance writing. I tell myself that the one who has a degree in psychology from Madison is better than me, smarter than me. I write a little, clean half-heartedly, cook a lot, but it never feels like enough. We always judge ourselves the most harshly, don't we?

I'm forcing myself to make this change. I'm excited, but mostly I'm freaking terrified. We're putting my family's money on the line. What if can't hack it? What if I'm no good? What if I fail?

 

I know I need to take it step by step and focus on the small picture, but it's hard to keep my mind from running away. Soon a landslide forms. Even if I do succeed, I'll be 40 and starting at the bottom. Will I ever get a job that will allow me to be there for my family in the way I want and do something gratifying for myself at the same time? And if not, will I have wasted thousands of dollars for nothing?

At this point, I'm making myself make decisions. In the absence of confidence, it's all I can do, really, just keep forcing myself out of my comfort zone.

This week when I received from my school an invitation to a department panel discussion about career opportunities for professional communicators, I felt twin sensations of excitement and nerves. It'd be easier to just stay home, I thought briefly. So I quickly signed up without thinking about it. I'll don some heals and dig deep in my closet for dress pants, and I'll go network.

 

I suppose it's sad when my wisdom is gleaned from the likes of Grey's Anatomy, watched while folding laundry, but so be it. In one episode, Bailey is 

lamenting to the chief of surgery that she brought her son to his first day of school, and he let go of her hand without so much as a look back.

 

The character is weepy at this milestone and her son's reaction. The chief tells her that when her son released her hand, it was bittersweet, but it also freed her hand for a while to focus on something else.

 

Both of my hands are mostly free now, and I don't know exactly what I want do with them, but I'm stumbling toward it, and I have to accept the uncertainty. Cautiously, tentatively, here I go.

Holiday hangover

In our earlier, more ambitious years of parenting, Mark and I amassed and wrapped a children's Christmas book for Ben to open each night of Advent. We quickly became lazy and stopped wrapping and instead put the book in a gift bag. One bag featured a picture of a snowman, and somehow a lore developed that the "Magic Snowman" delivered books at night. These days, the Magic Snowman leaves the books on Gus's bed completely unadorned.

The signs of Christmas meltdown are all over Gus's face

A few years ago, Gus went through a "Llama Llama" phase. It's a charming series of children's books that features Llama Llama, who's decidedly kid-like in that he's sweet but has his share of transgressions. His Llama Mama wears cute capri pants and remains mostly patient through Little Llama Llama's little dramas.

Llama Llama Holiday Drama appeared on Gus's pillow a week or two ago. Little Llama Llama bakes
cookies, makes presents, wraps gifts and in general is told he must wait, wait, wait for Christmas. This leads to an inevitable meltdown. "All this waiting for one day? Time for presents right away! Too much music, too much fluff! Too much making, too much stuff! Too much everything for Llama ..."

I can relate to poor Llama Llama, and there's no doubt my kids can. In these weeks leading up to Christmas, I've swung between feeling excited and drained. I must admit to Grinchishly asking myself once in a while if it could really be Christmastime already and must we be called to go all out like this on an annual basis.

Everyone in the house is nursing a festive cold. Paul has been hacking painfully for two weeks now. As he and Gus and I trudged through Target the other day, Paul broke into his umpteenth spastic coughing fit. "OK, enough, Paul!" I whined stupidly, cruelly.

It's not that I don't like Christmas. I do. I love it, in fact. It's just that my favorite parts of the holiday - sharing special times with my family and drawing near to the ones I hold dearest, just seems to get lost in all the frantic preparations. Too much fluff, too much stuff, stretched too thin.

As we gathered at my in-laws' house Saturday for the first of many Christmas celebrations my family will attend, I saw many signs of holiday hangover, and the big dance hasn't even happened yet. "I'm just not feeling Christmas this year," one sister-in-law lamented.

Gus hurled toward meltdown as the wait to open gifts stretched on and on. When it finally arrived, he excitedly went tripping through the packages, threatening to upend gift bags and stomp on boxes. "Be careful, Gus!" a relative admonished. I felt slightly wounded on his behalf. I can remember being little, and I can understand how hard it is to have prettily wrapped gifts bearing your name laid out before you only to hear wait, wait, wait.

After the presents were opened, I found Ben lying on his stomach, his face smashed into the couch. He looked utterly bereft. "Feeling exhausted?" I asked, rubbing his back.

"Yeah, it just wasn't what I'd pictured," Ben sighed. 

I could relate to it all: my sister-in-law's holiday apathy, Gus's restlessness, the relative who was concerned about him making a mess of so much work, Ben's lack of fulfillment. Christmas already? I can't wait to give the boys their presents. Hey, slow down, guys! Is it over already? 

In no time, it will be over. While there's still time, though, I'm going to focus on my favorite parts of Christmas. I'll snuggle with Gus and read a book the Magic Snowman has delivered, share my favorite movies with the boys, try to commit a few random acts of kindness, blast Christmas music and eat way too many cookies. 

Presents are fun, but my family and friends are my favorite gift, and as long as I have them, I'll survive this holiday hangover.