Today, Christmas Eve, started out rough. It was raining, the boys were bored, and I fought an ugly battle with worthlessness... my old, familiar enemy that always seems to launch a surprise attack when it's time for me to step up and do something important. Today's task was to salvage what was left of this holiday season and make one last hail mary attempt at creating some Christmas magic for my family.
I seemed to fail at every turn. I slept late. I cried. The house was a mess. The trip with the boys to buy their daddy's gift was far removed from any Hallmark commercial I've ever seen. But in the end, it was they who brought the magic to me.
A jog at the park with my husband, after which he insisted on making his homemade jumbalaya.
My older son making sure that reading the Christmas story was on tomorrow's agenda, before opening gifts.
My younger son's beyond-precious letter to Santa letting him know that he'll be grateful for whatever he gets.
And my little sister's text telling me how much she loves and appreciates me.
How nice that Christmas came this year in spite of me, and without my help.