It's a Wrap

Although I could have sworn that Christmas beat me up and gave me a nuggie/wedgie combo before stuffing me in a smelly locker this year, this is what I remember of it now:







Funny what three days and a photo editing software package can do.

The jagged edges of Christmas 2007 are already turning soft and blurry in my memory. It's just like childbirth! I might even work up the courage to do it again next year.

The 24th and 25th were a hectic couple of days for the Rama family.

We played the usual game of musical houses and transported an ever growing pile of toys and candy from location to location while attempting to keep tantrums at bay before finally collapsing onto the couch with mugs of tea and hot compresses when the family left on Christmas night.

The P-dog woke up on Christmas morning with a Sinus Infection to End All Sinus Infections. I was prepared to find the V-meister at my bedside at the crack of dawn, but when I skipped into her room at seven-thirty to report that the long awaited Santa had indeed swung by during the night, my four-going-on-fourteen-year-old daughter pulled the covers up over her head and announced that she was sleeping in.

The extended family were sleep-deprived and irritable at my parents' annual Christmas luncheon. And there was some (muffled) swearing when the in-laws showed up at our house an hour early for dessert and libations on Christmas night.

But this is what I'm going to remember:

• The upturned and smiling faces of the people in the pews below as our choir, accompanied by trumpet, clarinet, flute and drums, sang the closing hymn at Midnight Mass.
  
  
• The post-Christmas dinner song circle I organized and directed for the toddler set that will surely live on in Rama family lore for years to come. There is nothing like a rousing round of "Jonas turi viena plaktuka" (John Has a Hammer) or "Pasejau Dobila" (I Planted a Clover) to redirect sugar-fueled toddler energy and give the folk something to smile about.
  
  
• The proud look on the V-meister's face as she helped my mother bring out Jesus' birthday cake, complete with lit candles.
  
  
• My Uncle Vic feeding an adoring J-dog, his new BFF, plum pudding icing straight off the butter knife.
  
  
• The V-meister's unbridled excitement at the fact that Santa ate the cookies (He ATE THEM, Mama!) and the reindeer left only a few gnarled carrot nubbins in their wake. (No one questioned why a mere three shriveled baby carrots were left as offerings for twelve globe-trotting reindeer, or how a fat cat like Santa ever made it down the chimney.)

Oh, yes, and for those of you who are wondering: despite the initial confusion, our not-so-secret Santa gift exchange was a hit. When the dust settled, everyone was accounted for and in possession of a respectable gift. The P-dog, (if you recall, he drew his own name) went the gracious route and bought a bottle of dessert wine which we promptly unscrewed and passed around the room shared with decorum.

But as I turned out my light and cranked up the white noise machine before finally going to bed on Christmas night, I may or may not have said, "Thank God it's over!"

Ah, Christmas.

You hurt so good.