The sound of a downpour outside is beckoning me to find my bed, crawl under the warm covers and drift off into a peaceful sleep. The soft glow of the lights on our tree downstairs echo the lights decking our bannisters and stair railings. The sound of Josh Groban crooning "The First Noel" wafts out of our bedroom where my husband, with his swollen sprained ankle, is sound asleep.
My 5-year old is also deep into his sleep after a barrage of questioning at bedtime. His first and last question was: "Mommy, does Santa Claus live in Utah?" The question led to a deep discussion about the travel patterns of Santa's sleigh and a probe into why China gets to have Christmas before we do.
As I type, I notice all the streaks of paint on my hands. These swatches of paint are the result of wooden letters spelling "J - A - C - O - B" being painted for a baby boy's nursery.
A veil of exhaustion falls over my eyes as I struggle to type these last words.
A new week begins tomorrow and we will be down to 12 days until he comes home.
12 days... think we can do it? Think we can be ready?
Ready or not....here he comes!