Tell Me You're Not

Please tell me you're not planning on having a perfect Christmas? You are, aren't you? Somehow I just knew it. Oh dear, so am I.

Does your Christmas look something like the one I read about years ago in a long forgotten book?

It is Christmas Eve and you are ready. That just about says it all and I could quit right now, but I'll continue so you will think I can read your mind.

Your cozy home in the country is full of charm, the oyster stew is keeping warm on the stove beside a pot of hot chocolate awaiting the return of your husband and children who are out delivering beautiful tins of your homemade goodies to friends.

Your house is tastefully decorated, and carefully chosen gifts are wrapped and under the tree cut from your own land. The table is set with your best china on a tablecloth that is a family heirloom. Christmas carols are playing softly, and the Christmas feast is ready to be served as soon as your family returns rosy-cheeked from delivering the cookies and putting the matching Clydesdale horses up in the red barn.

Grandparents will be arriving any minute now with their bundle of educational toys and books to put under the Christmas tree for the children.

You have just enough time to take a bubble bath before slipping into that slinky new dress from the quirky little boutique you discovered.

Ahhhh.............

Excuse me, wake up! You're dreaming!

Hopefully, you're not having this nightmare.............

You're scraping the dried up spillover of fudge off the stove with a razor blade when your husband and children return bearing paper plates still full of store-bought cookies. Just as you're ready to jump all over them for not delivering them all, one plate slips out of your husband's hand and a dozen cookies covered in powdered sugar bounce on the floor. At the same time your husband's younger brother yells from the den where he's watching Wrestle Mania that he needs another beer if it's not too much trouble, and the doorbell rings stridently.

Your mother-in-law bursts into the kitchen squealing, "Come here, kiddies! Come see what I bought you." Despite your protesting that it will ruin their appetite, she immediately gives them each a foot-long candy cane before spilling out a mountain of toys on the floor. You know without looking that each will have at least a dozen tiny parts and that batteries needed will not be included. You decide to overlook it and go ladle up the oyster stew, which has scorched by now. You dish it up anyway and carry the plate of cold cuts, Jello salad and potato chips to the table. You yell, "Dinners ready."

Nobody comes.

Ha! Which Christmas Eve would you choose?

We have 18 more days to pull it all off. I'll race you.