One of my favorite things about Christmas morning is opening the gifts that my kids, painstakingly, pick out at their school’s Santa Gift Land. I remember shopping for my own parents when I was a child, usually deciding on anything with a candy-cane stripe; pens, candles, shoestrings…you get the picture.

Though my daughter is about to turn 13 and is, therefore, too mature to shop at Santa Gift Land *place hand on hip* *insert eyeroll*, she does win a blue ribbon for the best item ever purchased off of a folding table in the art room. When she was in one of the lower grades and attended Santa Gift Land, she bought my husband a wolf-clock.

I’m not sure where we have it stored, but it looked sort of like this:

A fine clock specimen if you love a good mini-wolf. Plus, nothing says, “What time is it?” like an animal’s ribcage.

I don’t know why there aren’t many good choices for dads at Santa Gift Land, but this was about as good as it got. Until this year.

Last week, after shopping at school, my son came home with a coffee mug for his dad. Perfect! My husband likes coffee, he needs to drink it out of a mug and there wasn’t a wolf on it! I was actually pretty excited for him to open this gift on Christmas morning. It would be such a pleasant surprise!

The other night, my two fellas were sitting together on the couch when my nine year old suddenly asked, “Hey, Dad. What do you want for Christmas?”

My husband said, “Oh, I don’t know. I need some socks and a new pillow.”

My son nodded. “Do you want anything else?”

“Well, you know I love the Dallas Cowboys. I’d like a new Cowboys shirt.”

Then my son looked up at his dad and said, “Oh, those are good ideas. But, how do you feel about coffee mugs?”

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My daughter brought home a poem today that she wrote about herself.

I am energetic and creative.

I wonder how many stars there are.

I hear the wind blowing.

I see the sun glowing.

I want to travel the world.

I am energetic and creative.

I pretend to always know what I’m talking about.

I touch the grass.

I worry about money.

I say God Bless America.

I dream of going to Stanford.

I hope to have a good future.

I am energetic and creative.

From this I can gather three things of which I was not previously aware. First, when she says, “I know what I’m talking about” I will no longer believe her and, second, we need to not discuss money problems in front of the kids.

Third, my heart broke a little when she said, “…Stanford.” I have never imagined her anywhere but right here, at Ohio State.

Because if she leaves town in six years, who the heck is going to help her brother with his 9th grade math homework?

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I felt the need to tell my son that, no matter what the problem,

“Sharts” are never the answer.

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My son has been sick for over a week. I took him to the doctor on Saturday and he was diagnosed with pneumonia (again) and a sinus infection (he is prone to them, even with a sinus rinse every day). Sigh.

Because he is also prone to gagging, the congestion and post-nasal crud he has can cause vomiting in a split second. One drip in the wrong spot down his throat and he’s heaving.

Since my new, amaze-bed has an adjustable base, he’s been sleeping with me and his dad for the last week. We can prop the head of the mattress up with the push of a button…you know, so his crud can drip properly and I don’t have to wash vomit-laden sheets. You’re welcome.

So, yeah…he’s been in our bed. Oh, hey, have I ever mentioned that I’m an insomniac?

He’s finally improving, but having him in my bed, just inches from my face, with his sinus-infected snoring and feverish shivering, plus the fact that bacterial infections are always scary for us, means that I haven’t had much sleep in the last seven nights. I’m exhausted. Talk to me wrong and I’ll burst into tears. Just try it.

This morning, my almost-teen daughter came downstairs to find me staring into space and sipping my coffee with one of our dogs, Daisy, next to me on the couch. I had just seen my reflection a few minutes prior. It wasn’t pretty. Let’s just say there was some epic bed-head going on.

My daughter sat down on the couch and asked, “Are you tired?”

I replied, “Yeah. I’m beat. Your brother has been keeping me awake, so last night I tried to sleep in his bed, but it’s all springy, which is fine when you’re 45 pounds, but I AM SO NOT 45 pounds. I’ll be drinking coffee all day to stay awake and tonight? Well, tonight he has to go back to his room no matter what. I have GOT to get some sleep!”

A few minutes passed. I watched the news, sipped more coffee and we both petted Daisy, who was still laying between us on the couch.

Then Daisy yawned.

And, my daughter again asked, “Are you tired?”

This time I replied, “Wait, when you asked me earlier if I was tired, were you talking to the dog?”

Yeah, that’s right.

She’s so lucky that I didn’t burst into tears.

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