First.... a few words from Kate. (Yes, the picture is dark.... sorry!)
And... a picture (or two) of the girl waiting somewhat patiently to open her presents.
Just a few words about Christmas in general. Well, Christmas and Kate in particular.
This was the first Christmas that Kate was really into the whole Santa Claus thing. (I have to be careful about what I type here.... her reading skills are improving with each passing moment and I think soon she will be able to read words before they are even written... she's learning that quickly.)
She wrote two letters to Santa. (Just in case one didn't make it... never know about things like postal strikes!) As mentioned perviously, she just HAD to go see Santa to emphasize which things on her list were REALLY important.
She worried and fussed about making sure that we had mince pies in the house for Santa to eat. (Santa does mince pies, not cookies and milk over here.) Technically, he's supposed to get mulled wine as well which caused a bit of concern.
"Mum, what is mulled wine?"
"Do we have any?"
"OH NO! What is Santa going to drink!? If we don't leave him "mud" wine he might not come back again! EVER!"
After a conversation regarding the foolishness of leaving more wine out for him after he has had sooooo much already and will need to be able to steer the sleigh, it was finally agreed that before I went to bed, I would leave him a nice, hot cup of tea. It would warm him AND hopefully, help to sober him up and reduce the chance of him flying into the side of a building.
So, having gone to bed and gotten up and gone to bed and gotten up and gone to bed and gotten up.... until about 10:30pm. (And after many discussions about Santa not minding if Gran was sleeping in the same room as the Christmas tree and if he woke her up she would pretend to be asleep so that he didn't go away before leaving the presents AND she promised NOT to eat the mince pies or drink the tea no matter HOW hungry or thirsty she got....) Finally, the kid was asleep.
Jeff was awake around 7am and was demanding that we go downstairs even if Kate was still sleeping. (Did I say I wanted another child? Silly me. I have two already.)
Kate woke up at 8:15am.
It was easy to spot that she still wasn't 100% yet.
(To recap.... Saturday after visiting Santa, Kate slowly started going downhill until she was running a full blown fever if 103 by Monday/Tuesday. Bad cough. Stuffed nose. Even managed to have some wicked hallucinations at one point.
Kate crying.
Me: Honey, what's wrong?
Kate: I thought there were two of you.
That would be enough to give ME nightmares!
Anyhow, by Wednesday she was back on the upswing again and Friday morning, she was feeling much better... just not all the way there yet.)
Where was I? Oh, yes... easy to spot. Her present opening was much less frantic than it had been in previous years. Each present was examined thoroughly before she requested the next.
And she loved them all. Even the pajamas that Santa brought.
Now. I don't remember if I mentioned the puppet she got for her birthday from Gran. It was this obnoxious pink parrot-y looking thing that she saw in a toy shop and practically drown herself salivating over it. It's all I heard about for weeks.
"Mum. I really want that parrot."
"Mum. Remember that parrot we saw in the toy shop?"
"Mum. I really hope I get that parrot for my birthday."
You get the picture.
Well, she got the parrot for her birthday and I've been greeted by an obnoxious squawk every morning since. (The bird has a squeeker in its big fat birdy beak.)
"Mum. Fred is saying good morning to you."
"Mum. Fred wants breakfast."
"Mum. Fred wants to go to show and tell."
"Mum. Can I take Fred to church." (I almost said yes just to see the vicar's face when Fred either sang a hymn or chose to clear his throat during the sermon.)
"Mum. Fred's lonely. I think he needs a friend."
A friend.
I'd shoot Santa before I let him bring another one of those things down my chimney.
Fortunately for Kate. I would never shoot Gran.
Meet Fred and Bubbles.
And now my life is Hell. (Not really, but it wouldn't be any fun for the rest of them if I didn't at least pretend to be annoyed by the whole chain of events.
So, present opening commenced and finished. (I got a waffle maker! Yay me!) Everyone was well gifted and generally jolly.
So, Gran and I headed to the kitchen where we used an amazing amount of teamwork to prepare Christmas dinner. My goal for this Christmas was not not be STRESSED OUT by the whole Christmas Day thing. I wanted us all (myself included) to enjoy the day.
Which explains the time table and agenda and strict discipline when it came to the pre-prep.
"Nein! Those potatoes will be peeled before your head hits the pillow!"
"Jawohl, mein Fuhrein!"
I shocked even myself.
So, on the BIG day. Everything ran like clockwork and we even had time to sit and enjoy a cup of tea in between maneuvers.
The table looked grand. Kate helped set the table like the helpful little bunny she is. She was just SO proud of it.
And then.... when we thought we had everything under control.... disaster struck.
I somehow managed to fall out the back door.
Yes, you read that correctly.
I was heading outside to feed the remaining rabbit... Jean (Poor Bonnie... RIP.) and somehow... fell out the door. Gran caught the motion from the corner of her eye and as I fell.... in what from my point of view was in very slow motion... I was accompanied by a soundtrack of "Chip! Oh, Chip! Oh! Oh! Chip!!"
With the counterpoint of... "Please don't break anything. Don't break anything. Don't break anything." playing in the background in my head.
In a past life, I must have been a paratrooper. I tucked and rolled like a pro. Sadly, I felt more like a deranged armadillo rolling around the ground than a well-honed instrument of death and military precision.
When the dust had settled (figuratively, not literally, the ground was actually kind of wet) I felt and looked like an overturned Galapagos tortoise... and lay there and laughed my fool head off.
After a brief physical assessment, (everything seemed to be working just fine) I continued to perform my tasks and the dinner hour marched ever closer.
Candles lit. Check.
Christmas music playing. Check.
Turkey out of oven and resting. Check.
On and on it went.
There was not a thing that we weren't prepared for. The timing was perfect, everything was hitting the table at just the right moment.
If I may be allowed to interject.... I must mention that THE thing I hate the most about big feasty days like this.... carving.
I hate carving birds.
I'm not good at it. I'm not comfortable with it.
Gran always shoves the knife in my hand. (Her excuse is that she's making gravy...)
I could ask Jeff (who has never carved a piece of meat in his life) but by the time he'd find his tape measure and meticulously carve each piece into equal slices (taking time to even the slices out).... it would be New Year.
Perhaps it is better for the animal kindgom that I didn't become a veterinarian. My surgery skills would probably be considered scandalous and probably do more harm than good. (On the other hand, maybe I'd be a master carver if I had to learn surgical skills!)
Back to the action...
The guests arrived.
We sat in our well-ordered and prearranged seating. (As noted by the handmade bags that Gran made and Kate decorated and filled with bits of candy.)
Grace was said.
Crackers were pulled.
And the meal commenced.
And the phone rang.
Now, before anyone gets offended... I loved the fact that I was called on Christmas day... Christmas morning by US standards. I miss Christmas mornings with the American contingent and it was great to hear the noise and bustle in the background.
Having said that, I'm sure that they would have all understood if I had stayed on the phone a bit longer (being multiple time zones away from my family does have its perks) but I was starving and after having worked my fingers to the bone, I wanted to enjoy my turkey and potatoes and stuffing as they were meant to be eaten... hot!
So, having promised to call later in the day, I quickly got off the phone and sat down to eat.
There wasn't much talking... we were too busy stuffing food into our mouths. Then dessert came about (chocolate chip cheesecake, apple pie, yule log (choc cake roll) or Christmas pudding) and coffee or tea.
It was about then that I noticed something odd happening.
My right foot, which up until I had sat down had felt fine, was feeling a bit... twingey.
And the twinge became an ache.
And the ache quickly transformed into soul crushing pain that left me unable to even look at my foot much less stand on it.
I transferred myself to the couch and attempted to find some position where the pain wasn't grabbing me by the hair and swinging me around like a rag doll. Sadly, it wasn't an easy thing to do.
Which was why I didn't call my family back. If I heard my Mom's voice, I probably would have burst into tears and Kate was stressed enough. So, I sat there in discomfort (using the classic English understatement skills that I am acquiring), downing Advil, and alternately icing and applying heat (heat gave me the best relief) to my foot. (Or begging for an axe to chop the offending appendage off....)
No matter how I sat or where I put my foot (high, low, supported, loose, straight, turned) it hurt. Frighteningly, when left to its own devices, it kept trying to curl up like some reincarnation of Richard III.
(Note: Richard III, though often portrayed by Tudor writers with some form of physical deformity (hunchback, clubbed foot, withered arm, etc...)was actually not. It was simply the "hack writers" of the time period making stuff up as "proof" of his evil nature. Despite all his "perceived" ills and shortcomings, Richard III was nonetheless voted into the 100 great British heroes list in 2002.)
Jeff did his very best to tend to me during the afternoon.... while playing his Beatles:Rock Band on the Wii with whatever musical instrument he got for Christmas. (Perhaps McCartney's bass?). I can now probably sing most of the songs that are on there. Yay me!
Eventually, Reg and Pat (our honoured guests)left for the evening with their well wishes and prayers and we were left to our own devices. Not too much else happened. Gran got Kate off to bed. Jeff played with the Wii. I occasionally crawled off the couch and up the stairs to use the bathroom or once in a fit of stubborn independence out to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. (Which I had to humbly ask my glowering husband to carry into the living room for me since I had to admit that I couldn't carry it and crawl at the same time.)
(He was glowering because I was being stubborn, not because I asked him to help.)
And then... the day was over.
I crawled the stairs for a final time to go to bed.
Gran bedded down in the livingroom.
Jeff gingerly came to bed, afraid to get in because he might jostle me in my sleep and I might rip his arm off (while sleeping) in retaliation.
And the next morning.....?
It was all better.
Honestly.
I could walk. (Carefully.. but a vast improvement.)
The things I do in order to get out of washing dishes on Christmas Day.
Merry Christmas.
From all of us.
To all of you.
