Christmas Wishes

My mother is here and things mysteriously get done.  I turn around and the kids' beds are made.  The tea ring is baking and the toffee reached a hard ball boil before I was even out of bed.  The dishwasher unloads itself.   Thanks, Mommy, I'm glad you are here.

At the Kotrba house Santa comes tonight.  That's the tradition and Santa knows the traditions of each family.

Mary wants a bunny.  A real bunny.  A bunny that would be tortured and killed by three furry cats before the last gift of Christmas was unwrapped.  She thinks Santa's yes trumps Mama's no.

Calvin wants an ipad.  Same hope. . . same futile hope. . .

One year when I was growing up Santa brought us a dog.  Grover.  Grover was a good dog and lived 18 long years.

Dear Santa,
Please don't bring us a dog.  Or a bunny.  Or an ipad.  If you do have to bring the ipad--bring it for me. 
P.S. don't waste the cookies. . . . it took a lot of effort to bake them. 
Love,
Sara


My mother and I took time today to go and get a manicure.  Usually pianists don't waste money on manicures that only last one practice session, but today I went in honor of my grandma.  Every Christmas when I came home from college she would judge the quality of my mental health by the shape of my fingernails.  "Let's see your nails. . . "  Gulp.

Mama--(that is what I call my grandma)--I'm happy to report that tonight my fingers are stunning--little snowflakes painted on my stubby nails--and I'm in just as fine mental health.  Miss you.

Peace.  Shalom.  Angels singing in their realms of glory.