the wily ways of a wet and weary christmas

There's something extraordinary about the ordinary, especially when it comes to Christmas. Ordinary for us means curling up on the sofa to open a couple of stocking stuffers before breakfast. It means pampering our precious pup with gifts on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and often for the day or two following. It means relaxed, frequently hilarious, family time where there is no rush to travel from one home to the next and so on, no rush to rip through the presents all at one time, no rush to prepare an elaborate feast. In fact, we didn't even make our traditional spiced pumpkin ziti this year, and our planned custard dessert--a Christmas movie snack for later that evening--is still an untouched array of ingredients stacked upon the shelves. The only rush to our holiday is typically contained within that giddy childlike high when we awaken and discover the big occasion has finally arrived.

Of course, for Dennie, that didn't happen immediately. Disoriented and half asleep, the tallest of our household elves stumbled out of bed, certain that workday tardiness was inevitable when, from downstairs, in the glow of the Christmas tree, one boisterous, decidedly shorter elf declared, "It's today! It's today!!!" (Spoilers: that elf was me.) No other words could have been so joyfully received. (Dennie's grin might have broadened to its limits if sheer grogginess hadn't blinded barely open eyes to the realization that the town crier was donning a festive Stitch sweatshirt and bellowing her happy greeting at precisely 6:26.) The only thing better than a school snow day is being struck with the sudden epiphany that magic awaits, that there are no obligations, no expectations, no metrics, no pressures on this one very special day of the year.

This Christmas, however, did not feel ordinary in that extraordinary ordinary way. The day was wonderful, as it always is, yet it seemed to exist within the depths of a thick fog, the kind of fog that, if you squint very, very hard and really concentrate, you might just make out a few wispy, nebulous hints of the scene around you. We opened a couple of stocking stuffers before breakfast. We spoiled our sweet Maisie for days on end. We took things slowly, savoring the moments, yet it all went by too quickly--the entire season. Every year, we've started decorating, preparing for the holiday on November the first, leaving us, by the time we're finished, with at least a full month to enjoy the anticipation and our enchanting environs as we coast into Christmas, worry-free. Only this year, illness delayed our early start. Once our home was nearly ready, our enthusiasm was replaced by our ongoing worries for Maisie's health, which would soon be accompanied by the distress and dread surrounding the relentless deluge that dumped what is currently estimated to be more than five-trillion gallons of water on this region. That amount was the tally, not for the entire duration of the storms, but for one December week alone. The floodwaters are finally receding, but reconstruction of the worst-hit communities has barely begun. These concurrent concerns weighed so heavily, it rarely felt like our jolliest of holidays was nigh. Even now, it is only when I spy the emptiness beneath the tree that I am certain Christmas has, indeed, come and gone and was not, as it presently seems, a hazy, flickering dream.

Our Christmas carried on a few extra days, days that disappeared, too, like snowflakes melting upon an outstretched hand. Maisie loved the surprises that awaited her, though she tired more easily than she had in the past. Some of her symptoms persist, and she didn't appear to be feeling very well as Christmas afternoon arrived, so we saved a few of her presents to be opened at a later date. Within a span of only a few days, our pampered pooch had blissfully discovered two tasty bags of treats--maple-glazed bacon and coconut snowballs--and five plush toys (thirteen if you count every removable plush bone from inside her Tyrannosaurus Rex, aptly named Bones). In the days surrounding Christmas, she also modeled her brand new sweater (gorgeous!), her ear-warming snood, two festive plaid bandanas, and two adorable hand-knit scarves, one in warm autumn hues and the other in a perfect Christmas palette of red, white, and green. What can I say? Santa really LOVES our dog. (As do we, but you were probably already getting that impression.)

As I continue to upload photos, I find myself trying to push aside the weighty worries that regularly gave us pause, committing to memory, instead, the smiles and the laughter, so many beautiful moments that--thanks to a lack of adequate lighting--I won't be able to revisit in our digital albums, not with any clarity, that is: the priceless faces of Dennie and Maisie as they opened their gifts; the way Maisie grabbed hold of the paper and pulled, no matter whose present it was; the temporary relief of our previously lethargic girl's flying, pouncing excitement when we asked her if she wanted to go for walkies; the dawning comprehension that the words Dennie had scrawled on every gift tag to me created, as a whole, a heartfelt love letter, making the collected tags as precious to me as any of the presents. It's not that I didn't snap photos of these merry interludes, but the stormy skies outside and low lighting within meant that any blink, any tiny flutter of movement caused the image to blur beyond recognition. Only the stillest seconds are preserved, so I will do my best to simply remember the laughter and the playfulness of an all-too-fleeting holiday. Even a wet and weary Christmas, it seems, can be filled with extraordinary wonder. One just has to peer through the fog in search of the twinkling light.

And, on that note, I leave you with wishes for a bright and bountiful new year. May no amount of rain dampen your spirits. May no obstacles stand in the way of your dreams.