Wow. I haven’t blogged three times in one day since…well, I don’t think since right after Chris died. I blogged an awful lot then.
It’s 2230. I just chased Hope to bed for, I hope, the last time. She’s determined she’s going to meet Santa. I’m determined she’s not getting out of that bed again.
She showed me the letter she wrote to Santa. She claims to have been very good this year (ha!) and asks him for a ‘fur real’ pony. And a hermit crab. And a ferret, if he thinks she’s ready.
You’d think two cats, a dog and a bird were enough. Sheesh. Can tell she’s her father’s daughter…
I want a publishing contract, Santa. I want an agent and a publishing contract, and not to lose any ground. I’ll take peace on Earth if you’ve got it handy, a reversal of global warming if you can manage it, but I’ll settle for a publishing contract, an agent, and not to end up going backwards.
Damn, I’m a killjoy of the first order tonight, aren’t I?
A friend gave Hope an Easy-Bake Oven. It was the gift she chose to open tonight, as we always open one gift on Christmas Eve. So she then made a hard-as-rock little cake for Santa. It wouldn’t come out of the pan, so she chipped it out, dipped the pieces in chocolate frosting, dipped apple slices for the reindeer in frosting, and set out a glass of eggnog. She wanted to put out water for the reindeer, but I told her reindeer drink a LOT, and it was better just to give Santa instructions on how to find the hose.
I cleared the damn table off. I’m too sick to edit, but I DID clear the table off. Now I’m reading random fanfics, waiting for Hope to fall asleep. I don’t want to start another book. I finished On Writing. That’s two books in the last week (I haven’t found time to read in quite a while) and both of them I started and then read till I finished, without doing much of anything else. I don’t want to keep doing that. I want to work on editing while I’ve got so much time.
Except right now I’m so sick and tired I can barely keep my eyes open.