Today could be my favorite day of the year.
Today could be when I take four kids to go hunt down the perfect Christmas tree, drag out 8 Rubbermaid totes of holiday joy and blare Frank Sinatra Christmas music loud enough for Canada to hear.
Today could be the first batch of Grandma Lee's Gingersnaps.
Or hanging miles of Christmas lights on a roof with questionable accessibility.
Today should be the day I iron out the advent calendar, and fill the pockets with daily ritualistic traditions.
But for right now, I'm in my own bed, with the heated mattress pad turned all the way up, and a very fuzzy wiener dog next to me, all except one of my kids soundly asleep. It's trying to snow outside, which is OK by me for December first, as long as Halle is well on her way out of the snow's reach on her (much dreaded by me) trip to Bend.
Today could be pretty much perfect, if I decide before I crawl out of my warm cocoon to make it so.
Yesterday I was scolding MacKenzie for complaining in the car. Complaining about being sick of Christmas music. Stinky dogs, obnoxious sisters. As if complaining helps. And she reminded me that I'm a complainer too. A bad one. Every day. It's about the 40th time this week that someone has reminded me that my children are what I model for them. Which is saddening and overwhelming. But fixable.
So today will be perfect. In spite of all of the imperfections and worries and aches.
Today will be my favorite day of the year, because I choose it.