To everyone who believes that Heaven is drifting above us in the silvery meadows of the clouds, I have bad news: Hell is at 36,000 feet. Not that our flight was that bad or anything. We lost track of time and had to rush a little to the regional airport. But regional airports are awesome. We parked, walked to the counter, checked everything in and moseyed up to the gate. And, considering the godawful weather of late, we were pleasantly surprised with a 5 minute delay. Unfortunately, the seating arrangements on regional jets are sucky. The agent couldn't find a way to divide us 2 and 2, so the kids sat together. They fought, poked each other, and eventually grew weary of harassing each other, and we arrived at DFW on time. We walked briskly to our gate there, made a pit stop and a fast food stop and walked on to that plane, too. We were in the second to last row. The row where you can still smell the blue toilet goo. The row behind us--kids. The row across from us--kids. The row kitty corner in every direction--kids. The row directly in front of us? A dour faced couple, at least one of whom really hated kids. And dogs.
Clooney was relatively well behaved. He preferred to sit in our laps (in the duffel bag of course) to sitting under the seat. But he drank a little and ate a little, and was relatively non-problematic. Except for the dude in front of me who kept stink-eyeing the dog! Bah, humbug.
We arrived in the O.C. on time, Uncle J picking us up on time (of course, he's very prompt). We rode for all eternity along the jam packed 5 Freeway (of course, it's always jam-packed) and pulled in to my parents' house jam-packed with people. Aunt, Uncle, Grandpa, my sister's in-laws. Everyone. No chance to go wipe that disgusting blue-toilet goo smell from my nose. No face wash. No way to wash the Ebola from the kid behind us off of our bodies before being conscripted into the Merry Christmas Service. Oh, merciful God. I was so tired. M was tired.
The kids were tired.
We ate a delicious dinner. Then there was that kid-stimulant process of opening gifts. The boys received 2 R2D2 robots. Yes, two. Which we couldn't get to work because everyone was barking orders at the poor things, and all they could do (which M and I agreed we sympathized with) was beep, spin, and chirp in confusion. We sent everyone home, and I, bleary-eyed, stayed up to visit with my sister. She seemed a little fried on family time herself.
It's only Christmas Eve. I felt as though I had been trapped in some year-round Christmas village forever. How could it be only Christmas EVE? All the presents yet unopened under the tree...transport them home...R2D2 wars I imagine breaking out in my dining room...Clooney pulling on bows and potentially crapping on my mother's prized floors...just one alarming scenario flitting through my head after another. I need more to drink. More. More. More. Wait. T0o much.
I lay in my parents' guest room on Christmas morning, listening to my kids at 5:30. Listening to the morning sounds of my parents' house: coffee machine beeping, mom unloading the dishwasher, starting the sounds of breakfast. It was all at once familiar and warm, and horrifying and alien. I pulled the covers over my head, imagining teleporting to somewhere tropical and deserted. Clooney crawled under and starting licking my face. There is no room for denial on Christmas. It is all everything. All at once.
I rolled over to see M's face. The temper was already rising. He feels he has been usurped as parent and his children are running amok. He is right. I cede responsibility. I am in survival mode. It's every man for himself.
I got out of bed. Mumbled good mornings on my way to the coffee maker. Hell is now at sea level.
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