So here I am, at ten thirty on Christmas morning, blogging. My kids are still asleep. I wish they’d get up so the wild rumpus could begin.

Later today we will pile into Hub’s four-wheel-drive truck (an amusing sight, I must say. . . .) and try to navigate the long icy driveway again. Last night, we almost didn’t make it.

Also, we are very worried about Cat; we put him out to poop last night and he hasn’t come home yet. It’s cold out there, and even though he was wearing his fur coat, well, it’s really cold out there. The kids were frantic last night.

I’ve already forgiven him for the poop on the family room floor. Besides Belle cleaned it up so I wouldn’t know it was there.

I knew it was there. I just left it for her.

It’s hard to keep floor poop a secret. It’s the stink factor that gives it away every time.

I hope Cat comes back.

I hope we can get out of the driveway.

Christmas. The season of hope.

Merry Christmas once again, to all of you. May you always find the floor poop before you step in it, may the cat always come back, and may you love each other enough to crowd into the cab of a truck on Christmas day. And, may you love your mother enough to let her sit on your lap in public, because four adults just can’t squeeze into the cab of a truck gracefully.

Hark. I hear stirrings that just might be adult children rolling out of bed. I go now, make blueberry muffins and scrambled eggs for huge babies.

I love Christmas.