My husband, Garth (NHRN) worked the last 2 weekends and spent Black Friday putting out one fire after another at the bank.

By the time he got home, well, you know that saying about getting away with poking the bear once?  Nope.  They lied.  I just hope my eyebrows grow back by Christmas.

So, on penalty of dismemberment, I asked the kids to...please, for the love of all things holiday...let their father sleep in, this morning.

The kids insisted I wasn't telling them the truth.

"What's wrong with him?  Is he sick?  No, really, did you even check if he's still home?"

Because, they know he is the early-riser of their parental units (annoyingly pleasant, too) the fact that mom was up before dad, feeding the pets, making the coffee AND unloading the dishwasher...just...does...not...compute...before 7:00 a.m., even...wth?!?

After nearly 22 years of marriage (I know, we've been together longer than some of you have been alive and unromantically symbolized by copper, btw) I can't remember the last time he slept past 9:00 a.m., either.

Until, today.

"Good afternoon!"

So, of course, I spent the rest of the day reminding him how nice of me it was to allow him the 240 EXTRA MINUTES, to himself, all comfy cozy, while I put out one fire after another (in between dismembering teens and tweens, of course) and, you know, Merry Christmas early!

Besides, we were having company for dinner tonight and, considering EVERYONE is pretty much sick of turkey, by now, we decided to tag-team the food shopping.

Then, we put up our Christmas tree (who knew they would keep quiet long enough for me to keep my promise, DAGNABIT!) so, by the time I finished putting dinner in the oven, I was pretty much running on fumes.

BLEEP!  BLEEP!  BLEEP!  BLEEP!  BLEEP!

The smoke alarm went off while my 12 year-old son was playing Xbox with some of his friends.

"Dude, is your house on fire?!?"

[one beat, two beats]

"Nah, that just means dinner is ready."

It's been a loooooooooong day, my friends. 

Tomorrow, we're off to help my parents put up their tree and only then will our holidaze be complete.

Or, as we like to say here in Jersey, "Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-friggin-la!"

In the meantime, if anyone needs me, I'll be upstairs, replacing the smoke alarms and trying to remember why in the hell I had children, again?!?

© 2003 - 2011 This Full House

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