For the past couple of years, P. and I have spent Christmas at his parents house. This year, his family is coming here. I thought it was a great idea at first. It’s our first Christmas in our house and it means I don’t have to get on a plane. I can entertain with cookies and festive drinks and cook a Christmas feast and … wait a minute.
When we’re at his parents house, we’re far from our own house, full of laundry and remodeling and cleaning. And work. And all we have to do all day is eat and drink Godiva liqueur-spiked hot cocoa and cuddle under warm blankets in front of the fire. We are interrupted only by snacks and wine, and possibly gravy stirring.
What were we thinking?