All I want for Christmas

This weekend, as I sat on our overstuffed green sofa, engrossed in an old episode of the Sopranos, reality jumped up and took a bite out of my backside. In less than a month, there will be sixty of your family members here for Christmas; and what have you done to prepare, nothing. What prompted me to think of it at that moment, I don't know; perhaps the sight of Tony Soprano beating someone senseless brought back some deep seeded memory of my cousins and I wrestling over toys when we were children. I sighed as I ran my hand through my short, wavy hair. Unless you counted the half-eaten peppermint on the stereo, there was not a shred of Christmas cheer to be seen.

I knew the next few weekends would be filled with cooking and cleaning. Better decorate now; this'll be the only weekend free.

"Where are you going?" John demanded as I struggled to get off the couch. We had watched two episodes, back-to-back, and needless to say, my rear was quite numb.

"I'm gonna start decorating for Christmas."

"Now? It's not even Thanksgiving yet. Hey, I know, we'll start calling you Wal-Mart." John quipped.

And I could call you Ace Bandages, cause you might need them, I thought nastily as I tugged and pulled on the Christmas boxes by myself. With the kids' help, I had the Christmas tree branches placed in record time. In a late show of gallantry, John offered to clean the storage room.

"Hey Mommy, let's hope you don't fall into the tree this year." Seth said , chuckling.

Maybe it was just being paranoid, or maybe the swift hand of Fate, but after my son's comment, everything started going wrong. A small curio fell off the wall and hit me in the back; later , Seth smashed the door into my face as I was walking in from outside, almost breaking my nose, AGAIN.

The tree was finished, and stood there majestically, bathing us in the glow of the twinkling lights. "Let's write letters to Santa," Seth suggested. Even though he no longer believes, it's a tradition we still carry out for Robert's sake.

I sank to my knees at the coffee table, my nose feeling like I'd been three rounds with a prizefighter, and the back of my head throbbing. In my neatest handwriting, I wrote: Dear Santa. All I want for Christmas is to stay in one piece, or a free upgrade on my medical insurance.