Perhaps I should preface this tale with a story of what shall forever more be known as Christmas-Gate 2000 and something. (Am I the only one who has no concept of time other than about how old my kids were at the time and what country my husband was temporarily calling home?)
Anyway, it’s 1:30 in the morning and I’ve got a good 3 or 4 hours before little ones shuffle around in their footies with all of their Christmas morning glee. Nothing’s wrapped because heck, it’s nothing short of miraculous that their gifts have even been purchased what with the they-are-with-me-every-second-of-every-minute-of-every-day-always.
Because I’m seriously convinced that the big guy has the world’s most ironic sense of humor, now seems like a good time to contract the stomach bug that the wee ones have been kind enough to share. The holiday loot is hidden in the basement and Mama takes turns sneaking down there and then running to make it to the bathroom in time. For the entirety of my 3 to 4 hour window of bloody magic making.
After about trip number six of this fun, with Christmas gift wrap scotch taped to my pants and toilet paper trailing on my shoes – I collapse in a heap of ugly cry on the bathroom rug. And if the bearded guy was in the neighborhood (although we wouldn’t be having this conversation if he HAD been), he’d have heard me muttering, “But I’m Jewish!”
Okay – so now that I’ve caught you up, cue the Hippity Hoppity Easter’s On It’s Way. And another deployment. Oh, and did I mention that it’s also simultaneously Passover about now? Because, go big or go home, right?
There’s no less than 20 boxes of matzah on my kitchen counter right now (gotta love my Catholic in-laws who keep me in stock when it’s free with purchase at our local grocery store). And hidden by the cleaning products (safest place really to keep a secret in my house), is the bucket-oh-Easter treats waiting for basket filling.
I’m tired just typing this.
Someone under the age of twelve just casually threw around the words “stomach ache.” All I can think of now is that maybe I better plan to have them clean that toilet a little better. Just in case I find myself curled up on the bathroom rug this weekend with Easter basket grass stuck to me and Manishevitz stains on my shirt humming “Let My People Go” to myself.