endswith8741 dropped me an email to inquire “where the arctic tundra are you!?” Valid question. Arctic tundra indeed: we’re in northern Iowa. Very rural Iowa. I’m actually quite surprised I haven’t been blog-outed yet by one of my sons. Then again, we’re here for two more days and who knows what might yet happen.
We made it through our interstate trip, traveling between two nasty storms to hit the area. And if we’re lucky we’ll have clear sailing when we leave on Friday. Because we’re leaving on Friday.
I miss my dog.
I miss my coffeepot and the way Tom makes coffee.
I miss my electric blankie.
But, most of all, I miss my bed.
It’s not the greatest bed. It’s the third mattress in our 12 year marriage. Apparently we’re hard on sleeping apparatus (apparati? Is there a plural?). It has two deep, person-shaped divots; amazingly enough, Tom’s is on his side of the bed. He usually takes his half of the bed from the middle, so for his sleep hole to actually be on the other half is…inaccurate. But it’s our bed. And it’s comfy, unlike the mattresses we’ve been sleeping on for the last 10 days. My parents have a futon for us: soft but short. Tom’s parents have the bed he slept in when he grew up in: short and akin to sleeping on woven, knotted barbed wire, over a nest of lava rocks and thistles. It’s not terribly comfortable, is what I’m saying. I’ve had one wild crick in my neck for the last two days. It’s no problem, I suppose. Looking to the left is overrated.
And so, on this Christmas Eve, as I celebrate the holiday with Tom’s family at church, I am left to wonder many things, including but not limited to:
- Did the pastor just do a google search on “bad Christmas Eve sermons” and pick the cheapest one? ‘Cause phoning it in is so awesome.
- Was it a bother to tune the piano and organ to the same pitch? Was that extra?
- Can I please have seconds on the Communion wine?
So I exit now to tuck my sons in bed, visions of a Wii dancing in their heads…and I’m girding myself for the screaming onslaught when they realize that Santa left the gifts in Colorado and there’s nothing in Iowa to open. Sidelong glances or no, I may be spiking my coffee in the morning. Sweet Baby Jesus, what were we thinking?
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