Hiding behind screens made of silver.

The world belongs to the meat eaters, Miss Clara, and if you have to take it raw, take it raw.

Something about sleeping in so late the past few mornings have completely wrecked my routine. This is supposed to be a good thing, I am told, to keep me out of my usual set of tasks each day that lead me down that well-traveled path to the pantry door and then back again, stopping every now and again in a patch of light to warm myself.

I'm all Christmas and discombobulated and ever so slightly behind today, and so a chance to stop late this afternoon and have a cup of coffee and watch a little bit of an old movie on the television while Ben took the kids to the river to sled was perfect. A recharge, if you will and now somehow I wound up with an errand list for tomorrow as long as my arm, but it will all get done and in good time and then maybe there will be another chance for another breather tomorrow late in the afternoon, with another old favorite on the screen that I can quote by heart, and maybe, if my luck holds tight just a little longer, a few more days of this thing they call Not Thinking.

It's surprisingly regenerative. And not at all near the pantry doors.

What you wish for.

Merry Christmas to you all, again. Even though I told you yesterday and I'll probably tell you tomorrow too.

I'm taking a few minutes to breathe, somehow we are eating lunch and dinner for a dozen is only three hours away, but this is what happens when your children sleep in, and your husband wakes you up by climbing on to you and making sweet, sweet Christmas love to you before the day even begins.

And do you remember this post? I got everything I listed.

Even the tictacs, and most especially, the music.

There is sand all over my living room. What fun!

Have a wonderful day. Are you still warm?

The Christmascrumb Tinies.

B is for Bridget, smothered with attention.

What's nice about right now is that I have been kept busy for most of today, and now as I struggle to shimmy into my black church dress, which is far more puritan than you're probably imagining right now, and my knee high Doc Martin boots because they aren't the least bit puritan and it makes for a really great outfit, I'm excited. I'm excited to go to church and see the candle lights and the tiny white lights and the darkened church and the single hot spotlight for Sam, the readers of the Christmas story and each soloist in turn. I'm excited to see Ben sing at church mostly to win the bet that this kinder, gentler Ben will not get struck by lightning for doing so.

I'm excited that my Christmas dinner table is filling up faster than an airport departure lounge eleven minutes before the flight is supposed to leave. What was going to be an intimate meal for just us four plus a handful has now swelled into a small crowd, and maybe my army is going to stay together just a little longer, just to get each of us through some of the hardest, and the most beautiful times of the year.

I'm excited that Jacob is somewhere waiting quietly for me to approach him first, like the wounded bird who lives in a shoebox that I am and I'm excited that Cole has made a little space for him at last in that silly memory room choked with its locked and overfilled file cabinets and I never seem to have the right set of keys.

I'm excited because it's Christmas and the spirit is contagious and the children are just about losing it and shortly they will turn the corner and quiet down some, eat a hot supper and then go and watch their stepfather sing, surrounded by their honorary uncles who love us more than anything in the whole wide world. It isn't a sad Christmas or a difficult one, just one that is, so far, going very well indeed. I will sit in the middle and be kept warm and be held gently because that is my place in this holiday, like most others and I wouldn't trade it for all the frankincense and myrrh on the planet.

Merry Christmas to all of you and the ones you love.

I hope you are warm.

Oh and for the record, I will continue to grace your screens right through the new year, for unlike everyone else signing off and disappearing, I have nowhere I would rather be this year. To me, writing a public journal (because I really hate the word 'blog') is less of an endured chore and more of a welcome requirement, a chance to report from the front lines of the biggest war I've ever fought in.

The one inside my head.

So while I will of course wish you a Happy Holiday, it isn't actually here yet so be patient, dear readerlings.

Here, have a cookie.

Black and green and read all over.

I once read a Neil Gaiman book too. It was a nonfiction paperback about Duran Duran that came out when I was a preteen with access to my best friend's stereo and all of her vinyl. I was the youngest child in my house and no one would give me access to the record player, let alone a drive to A&A Records and Tapes so I could have my own music. I had an FM radio in my room. This was approximately one year before life exploded and I was suddenly old enough to be permitted to walk to the record store and I was given that handmedown RCA portable tape player with headphones and I proceeded to have headphones glued to my head up until the day my first child was born. Said child is now almost ten and I can sneak the headphones back on for running, extreme groovy dishwashing, and the like.

Wow, that was a tangent and a half. This post is not about me dancing while I scrub plates.

(Though, yes, I am a vision in my sudsy, porcelain glory, thank you for your imagination.)

And I admit that with two children and two dead husbands and everything life has thrown at me over the past few years I haven't kept up on all of the lovely writers out there, there are simply too many and I veer toward a select few when I have the time to read. I try to read a lot but it gets away from me quickly and I'll be the first to admit the four-foot tall stack of materials on my nightside table and the post-its with book titles printed on them on the corkboard are a never-ending game of catch-up that I couldn't hope to win.

So I am very sad and incredibly jealous that my cute skull shoes, writer-profession and Victorian gothic house did not earn me one of these boxes.

But I will still go see the movie.

And possibly now, find some new books to read because falling behind has cost me dearly. (Did you SEE #46? That's the one I would want. The wings.)

I'm only sort of kidding. I don't get jealous very often, and I don't even believe I qualify for a box since all of them related to the handmade or Gaiman-fan aspect of the blogs involved but those boxes are really freaking neat.

Such a cozy room.

Oh, we're doing that thing again. Where it's just about the last week of the year and the days are going to get longer again and things will be so much different next time around.

This year I'll leave it at saying I will believe it when I see it, even though I am forcing change with a gentle vengeance all on my own. At long last.

It's Monday. The kids are on their first official day off for Christmas break and I am on mine too, by default because part of the deal was that my work schedule match or fall short of their school schedule. We are entertaining a new family member, a tiny little nine-month old black cat we rescued from the shelter yesterday, a friend for our three-year-old cat since when we're not home she just seems so lonely, so now there are two. She fits in well and is very affectionate. Ben said we should have named her Bridget but we did not.

Today is a wash in pale blue, a snowy-blowy day where we will stay indoors and keep the cats apart. Seth is being taken to the airport as I speak by a sleepy Benjamin, who hasn't had enough coffee yet to be polite but one more cup should do it, and we are on our own for the week. Unchaperoned, unscheduled, unpressured.

Just being.

Kind of almost exactly like last Christmas. I like it this way.

He's back now. Bye til later.

Practical Magic.

You know what funny is to me? Taking the kids to the early service and when the collection plate is passed we fill it to overflowing, having weighed down our coat pockets with silver and gold, trying not to clink when we walk in and sit down. Sam has not caught on yet, even though he winds up spending an extra fifteen minutes each Sunday afternoon sweeping the floor in the sanctuary because it's covered with coins that have fallen. He marvels at how generous his congregation is and the fact that he must collect and redistribute the plates midway through the hymn, they are so full.

Is it not a sad day when you plot a month's worth of practical stunts and the recipient is nothing shy of grateful?

I need better victims.

And I am late for church again.

Disbanding the alpha-bet army.

There are five more sleeps until some strange and magical, albeit chubby man wedges himself down my crumbling, ancient chimney to leave token gifts for the children under our Christmas tree. I wish him luck. What a busy night, what an insanity of a holiday we perpetuate.

It's fun, isn't it?

Giving out bonuses was great fun yesterday. People are always surprised and humbled as their emotions play visibly across their faces like a movie on a projection screen. First thinking there must be some mistake, to disbelief that they now own that much extra, to wondering what they might do with it. And true to form Caleb's investment in the most desperate of charities this year left everyone all around with good feelings and gives him a good foothold in this city and a good foothold up in his ascent from the bitter hell he's existed in my entire adult life. He slides as much as the rest of us, but in his eerily Cole-like perfection, I daresay no one notices him even climbing.

I put my money where my mouth is as well over the past six months, tying up virtually all of it in the children's trusts and then giving a whole bunch of it away because it gives me more in the end.

Not more money. Less. I will return to a simplistic life because it's less crushing pressure somehow and less of an avenue of escape for me. But that's not for you to worry about.

In any case, the family meeting was a frustrating symphony of emotional noise last night and I'm left fairly certain that some of my closest friends no longer have a clue, and so this morning I boiled it down and what's left is this. So read carefully. I think I've condensed it nicely.

Ben is not perfect. We argue more than any other people I have ever met. We each contain more human defects than any other people on earth and we couldn't be less or more alike. Seriously. For every mirrored facet we have there are ones that carve a line between us in black and white.

Our love will be different and it will work. Why? Because I need to keep him safe and you need to see that his selfishness isn't the same. For everyone else the ownership lies in a sheer and simple need to take something away from someone else. To be on top. To have that upper hand. With Ben it is different. He wants me, wants us, because he is childlike and he wants what he wants when he wants it.

Because it is pretty and fun to play with and suits him perfectly.

There are no ulterior motives with him. Ben's life is different. He just is. Life just is. Take what you want to explore and don't worry about anything else. Wake the fuck up. Let it be. Hungry? Eat. Tired? Sleep. Stressed? Escape. Bored? Do something cool.

There is nothing else. Nothing hidden, nothing underhanded, nothing complicated.

I figured it out finally, why can't you?

I accepted and embraced it. Why can't you?

It's fun. Almost as much fun as waiting for Santa Claus.

There is no more Bridget-army. It's been disbanded. The base is closed. Go home and wait for Santa, you've all been good boys this year.

Anything not to feel so alone.

It's a busy day today, we're leaving shortly to distribute some really pretty little gifts that hold the customary holiday bonus that one comes to look forward to when one is of use to a man like Caleb. His doorman, his accountant, his satellite lawyers, his henchmen, and several other business owners around the city who have gone above and beyond. I make him sound like a mobster.

What?

If I could refute the label, I might.

In any case, he almost knocked me over this morning. With a question and then with an offer.

Firstly he asked me what my favorite afternoon ever spent was. Ever.

Easy.

1991. Halifax. In the pouring rain, Cole and I overslept on a dark Saturday, and then went exploring tiny bookshops and coffee shops and then we went to a double feature in a virtually empty movie theater downtown. We capped off the night by ordering in chinese food and making love. It was the most perfect day of my life because I wasn't worried about anything. Nothing was on my mind except doing fun quiet things. We bought a poster that was a diagram of all the shipwrecks that ring Sable Island. I don't have the poster anymore but I have the memory and I always call it my favorite day ever.

Caleb smiled and asked if I would like to maybe go to the movies with him this afternoon instead of working. We'll play hooky and then I can go home and maybe find the rest of that day with Ben.

I'll take it.

That wasn't the offer, though.

The offer was something else, and you won't really get it but I do.

A pitch to step in and provide emotional support and defence to make up for the continued erosion/side-taking going on between the boys. A deep divide that Cole happily cultivated to outnumber Jacob and now the trend continues only it's me against..well, just about everyone. There's a family meeting tonight to figure out how we are supposed to support Lochlan, who seems to be falling apart in great leaps and strides. Mostly they think I should be supporting him, and it got to the point where I tried to cancel the meeting because it shouldn't be falling to me to make it all better but I was swiftly vetoed and then virtually ignored.

And outwardly I'm sure everyone thinks that I make all the wrong decisions and take all the wrong actions but if I'm going to ever make a stand against things I no longer believe to be right, then the best person to have on my side is...

...probably not Satan.

But it's nice to spend time with someone who has a bigger fear of being alone than I do.

Strawberry shortcake.

You're covered in my skin
I couldn't imagine anyone else
Come up for the weekend
I couldn't imagine why you would save yourself

Good morning. I'm here. I charged in this morning tictactictac across the floor, lunging for the elevator button as if rushing now could make up for not rushing earlier this morning.

Because...well, the food fight didn't end at the restaurant. Ben and I picked it up again around midnight and decided there was time for more fun and it finally ended at six this morning with no honey left in the jar, mascara smudged across my face, my hair sticking up all over, and one stocking mysteriously, completely gone.

I think he ate it. Someone ate it. It's gone.

Actually, I have no idea. I can barely concentrate as it is. Today is mindless organizing before the holidays (thank god, because I noticed my nails are still caked with strawberries and I showered) and tomorrow Caleb and I are going out around the city to give out the Big Cheques to those here who are closest to his evilness. That will be fun.

Maybe between now and then I'll get some sleep but I doubt it because as I was leaving Ben said something about marshmallow fluff and I know I look like the Cheshire cat but you couldn't get this grin off my face with a crowbar today. I needed that. All of it. Sometimes things just need to be taken so far out of control you wind up hoping for the best.

And that is exactly what I deserve.