December 27, 2018
Oh man, the week between Christmas and NYE. In some weird way, that's the part that actually feels like vacation. I found myself really wound up the weekend before the holiday, trying to get a million things done, wrapping presents, and cleaning and re-cleaning my house because I have a destructive baby and three dogs, and dirt and dog hair everywhere, and then I got sick and started crying on Christmas morning because it wasn't the best Christmas ever.
In the middle of the evening, after dinner, but before presents, I was in the kitchen with my mother-in-law, trading places at the sink and divying up the leftovers and everything was okay again because I was with people I love and listening to nice music, and it was just dark enough that the twinkle lights looked cozy and not bright enough to see my dirty baseboards. I had the very mature feeling that this is the good that I'm entitled to on Christmas and really, it's very nice. A warm kitchen, comfortable conversation, and lighting that's bad for selfies, but great for a messy house.
And then, the day after Christmas, that's when vacation started. I stay in bed three hours later than usual, took a nap with my baby, and only changed out of my pajamas, into a fresh set of pajamas, around 5 in the afternoon. I basically laid around and did nothing all day.
I'm going to wing it for a day or two more, and maybe drum up some energy by the end of the weekend to start thinking and dreaming about 2019. I feel really strongly that I need a complete 180 from 2018 and I always enjoy a good to-do list making session.
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