It Wouldn't Be a Holiday Without a Little Barf

So many people have these high standards for the holidays:  everything must be perfectly decorated, scheduled and enjoyed; so many holiday outings to embark upon, crafts to plan, baking to do.  Me?  All I want to do is survive.  That's all I CAN do; with all these kids, nothing is ever going to go "perfectly" or "smoothly."  Add to the usual chaos the fact that someone is ALWAYS sick around Christmas - well, I just hang on, and pray that I'll at least catch a glimpse here and there of the true yet ephemeral Christmas spirit.

Oh, and I HATE baking.  And crafts.

This year was no different:  once my parents arrived, we drove down for a few days to the Great Wolf Lodge in Texas, a lovely if kid-centric little whirlwind.  On our drive back - the 23rd -  I started feeling what I thought was carsickness.  Boo - it was worse:  once we got home it was evident that I had caught some kind of tummy plague.  And then, a few hours later:  Colette!  And then, a few hours later:  PVT himself, who NEVER gets sick. 


One of my few Christmas pictures: 
 Sylvie trying out her brothers' air hockey table



Christmas Eve we thought we were in the clear, but both my parents caught the Contagion that night.  My Christmas hopes were reduced to two fervent hopes:  1) that none of my kids were sick when Santa came - because how could THAT happen? - and 2) that none of the kids were sick Christmas morning.  Fortunately, my wish was granted:  at 6:30 am on Christmas, I was awoken to a happy clamor and screeches of "Oh!  We are SO LUCKY!"

Phew.  But my poor parents spent the entire day prone in bed - my dad calculated that he had not been sick for EIGHT years.

At least when life throws these little kinks into your plans, you quickly realize that things are good, because hey - no one has cancer; we are all together in a nice warm house; it's Christmas and life is pretty freaking good, an ocean of puke notwithstanding.