You know, for the last several years (pre-kids even, so like 10 years) I have vowed that Christmas would be about family, not gifts. I maintain that it truly is the thought that counts - but oh, how I love the sight of excited children standing at my bedside crowing "Santa came! Santa came!" and seeing the wonder on their faces when they behold the gift-wrapped and beribboned atoll that now surrounds our glittering tree.

Sigh. I loves me some retail therapy, and really, it's like, so fun this time of year. Oh no! I just admitted it. I broke out of my holiday funk by spending money. I didn't find my holiday spirit by volunteering at a food kitchen, or by decking my halls. Me? I found it at Target. 60% off, even.

I decided that this year, since my oldest had finally gotten her own room, that we would surprise her and pimp her ride, so to speak. My mom gave me a end table and small desk/dresser and a headboard, all of which I decided to paint glossy white.

So yeah. I watch HGTV. I just painted some walls in my house. I can paint. Except NOT. Picture me painting on a cement slab floor in a 40 degree garage with a foam brush, on furniture that has darling turned spindle legs and lots of cubbies in the desk. Picture me trying to steal moments during the day when I'm supposed to be with my kids, trying to keep the surprise, and discovering to my horror and dismay that I SUCK at painting.

Want to make me even crazier? Tell me after I've botched two coats that it would have totally been easier to spray paint it. Don't. Want. To. Hear. It.

I don't know if I ever fantasized about refinishing flea market finds, or what made me think that it would be a piece of cake. Duck soup, just slap on a coat, right. Or eight, you know, because it looked like hell the more I tried, and it wouldn't dry right. Streaky, globby, runny - and then there were the stains from some ancient wax job that kept surfacing. I finally threw up my hands, and poured a big glass of wine. I'll redo it this summer. Or not. Hah!

Fisher-Price apparently employs some deeply sadistic people who enjoy making parents undo twist-ties, only to discover that the twist-tie secures more cardboard, sealed with packaging tape, that leads to another twist-tie. I have blisters and papercuts and calluses, people. I curse the twist-tie!

Christmas Eve turned into a very early Christmas morning, and included furniture moving and bed-making, as well as train assembly and gift wrapping. We enjoyed a nice visit with my parents, and returned home by 8:30, but the baby didn't drop off until almost 10:30! We finished our frantic activity around 1:30, and I managed to squeeze in about 2 hours of sleep before the boy tried to get up and see if Santa had arrived.

I lied like a dog. "Oh, no, honey. Santa hasn't been here yet. I was just out there, and until you see the Christmas lights, he hasn't come." He totally bought it. Yea, me - I totally forgot to turn the tree lights on before I went to bed. Of course, I had to get up later and turn them on, but still...

I got him back to sleep and the newly minted two year old decided that she needed to fart and scream. And fart. And scree-hee-heeam. When she finally dropped off, I curled up in my bed and as the clock glowed with a not-so-brutal 6:00 in red, my eyes and ears were assailed by excited children who breathlessly reported that despite their incessant misbehavior, the eleventh hour appeal had been won, and the sleigh made it, so get up already, MommyDaddy and come see, eh?

We followed the troops to the living room, where my son discovered his new GeoTrax train set, and my oldest tried on her roller skates. The baby? She lay on the couch and picked her nose. And I have it on video, because I was so groggy that I didn't realize what I was taping until I got a good long shot of it.

We got through Mount Saint Presents in pretty good time. We had a little bit of time to play before we had to drive two hours to visit the hubs' family. We timed it well, and had a nice, three hour visit. Once les petits monstres started winding up, we loaded them in the car and hit the road home. Driving across the Golden Gate Bridge, the weather was sparkling and clear. We were treated to glorious night views of San Francisco.

As we drove, we listened to Victor Vito, and now every member of my family has that song stuck in our heads. Hilarious stuff.

Also, as we passed through our town, we saw several signs that read "Peace on Earth, Goodwill to ALL" which cracked me up. Not the sentiment, of course. Just the phrasing. I know the phrase from Christmas carols - "goodwill to men." We live in a very liberal, very politically correct area, so the use of ALL generally encompasses men and womyn, as well as all animals, plants, and pretty much everything else down to rocks.

I got off on a big tangent about goodwill to womyn and then ended up paraphrasing Life of Brian, the part where Stan decides that he wants to be a woman, and wants everyone to call him Loretta. There was much eye-rolling from my hubs, but I had myself a good old time. Hee!

So, to summarize - spent lots, ate lots, drove lots, sung lots, and slept not lots. In fact, I think I've officially used up any reserves I had left in the energy department, so it's off to my warm bed in my new fuzzy socks.