12- 2017

Tis the week after Christmas, and all through the taxable real estate:

I’m finding peace and pieces. Pieces of cookie, pieces of game, pieces of Max (fur), pieces of (drawn on) paper.

I’m lonely. So are the small mateless socks that got left. And right.

It is no longer possible to curdle yoghurt in the house at 2 AM, because:

The (night) thermostat is set again to just above freezing , just the way we like it.

(and) The hot water heater is no longer set to just above freezing, just the way we don’t like it.

The cyclops gingerbread men are piled up in their Ziploc (body) bag on the counter, like so many casualties of the Baking Storm - with raisins (pressed in by little fingers) asymmetrically pocking their tummies.

There are little trucks under chairs, under bushes, in walkways - waiting to skid us into the ER with broken bones.

Blankets lie unfolded in big glumps.

Used diapers plump up the trash… just like 23 years ago.

The cats sidle sideways with nervous tics.

Grandma’s keyboard space bar has Levi prints all over.

The gates are open again.

The toy box is closed again.

Bath towels are all in the laundry. And I do mean all.

Grandpa’s paper piles are back on the office bed -where they don’t belong.

We are hoarse from howling: “EMMA! WHERE ARE YOU???” over and over and over. and over.

We sat through a WHOLE Sacrament meeting without drawing a single smiley face on our hands.

The word “NO” is now only heard in response to Grandpa’s questions that start with, “Have you seen my…”.

There is an available ripe avocado.

There are no plastic plates in the dishwasher.

We can take a nap anytime we want.

There’s nobody to NOT take a nap, whenever they don’t want (but their momma does).

The kitchen floor required a spatula.

The mirrors have nose pressings on them, 3 feet up.

The carpet represents a two-bag vacuuming job.

We miss patting thigh-high fuzzy heads.

Those useless decorative pillows remain on the beds.

The neighbors miss cool Miz Jenna and her Power Fitness BOOMbox. (or not)

There’s no longer anybody who can run nonstop all over the premises 23/7. (OK, 22/7).

Adios, Rodeo theme: We miss the pounding herd of “cattle” running down the hall, those deafening noise levels, the dirt-filled “arena”, and the urge to practice our hog-tying skills – on some little piggies.

Our sport court looks like a scene from Monk with all those chalked body outlines.

We will no longer have to eat mashed potato sandwiches for a month to pay the ‘lectric bill due to constantly charging the electric car battery.

We can’t wait for next year. (Ok well maybe for a little while.)