There are a lot of creatures living under this roof.
Two little boys.
A little girl.
Two indoor cats.
One gone-wild outdoor cat, who shows up in the evening, yowling for dinner.
An old, stubborn but still incredibly sweet little dog.
Sometimes they get along, sometimes they don’t. They are all very different little beings. In fact, the one and only thing they all have in common is that I’m in charge of caring for them.
Taking care of kids and pets, you guys all know that drill. There’s messy stuff . . . and then there’s MESSY stuff. And by messy I mean those events that require lots of bleach and a promise from everyone involved never to speak of it. Such events usually follow directly AFTER having one’s carpet cleaned.
And so. There are days that I, just like so many of you reading this right at this very moment, go from caring for one creature to another to another to another, feeding and walking and wiping and cleaning and petting and patting and snapping and clapping and begging and commanding and holding and molding and laughing and crying. And laughing and crying some more. And, at times, if I’m being honest, looking to the heavens and asking How did I get here, with these seven creatures depending on me for absolutely everything they need to stay alive? By the way, this question is usually followed by a quick pang of guilt for the two creatures, Pepper the Mouse and Rainbow the Fish, still in the freezer awaiting burial.
But.
The other side of that coin is this. When they do thrive, when they do good, I get to take a little bit of credit for that. Not all of it, of course. Some goes to their dad (a whole lot). Some goes to God. Some goes to the fates and forces at play beyond our reach. And some goes to just pure, dumb luck. Whatever the case, we have our moments.
Cats and dog, living together. And, impressively, napping together.
Also, this.
That was while we were in line to see Santa last month. Zach, teetering so precariously on the edge between what he so wants to believe and what he has no doubt started hearing at school and figuring out on his own. Zach, who pulled me aside while we were in line but before this picture was taken, to say “Mommy, I won’t sit on Santa’s lap.” (And who can blame him? Once you even start to doubt the concept in the least, suddenly you’re potentially just sitting on the lap of some stranger who is really out of shape and doesn’t groom himself too well, either). Zach, my sweet sweet Zach, who still had so much magic of Christmas in him that he said “But, um, you know, I do still want to tell him what I want for Christmas.” And, best of all, as seen in that photo up there– Zach, putting his hand on Eli’s back and telling him “Look, Eli. It’s Santa. RIGHT THERE. Santa Claus!”
This must be a thing, the slightly-older-kids-who-still-want-to-talk-to-Santa-just-in-case, because when we got up the front, they put this little stool out for Zach to sit on so he could be in the picture but didn’t have to be on Santa’s lap.
I’ve wandered all over the place today in this entry, like an old dog who is a little stubborn and won’t stick to the path. But it is the last official day of the Christmas season, so if I was gonna get that Santa-with-my-kids-picture in this blog, this was the day to do it.























