Two of them were given the name Befrin, which meant Snow White, after the beautiful snow flurries that were filling the air.
Traditionally a day when servants and other members of the working class receive their annual tokens of appreciation to insure reliable service throughout the year, Boxing Day is also a day of leftovers. We probably aren’t going to invite anyone over to share our leftovers, though we’ll send some home with my parents when they go. One, we’re all companied out, and two, we don’t have all the much in terms of productive leftovers. We do have lots of unproductive leftovers—cookies, rum balls, macaroons, fudge, wine, and hot artichoke dip. If you are having a craving for any of these things, let me know and I’ll leave you a box on the porch. But don’t knock. We aren’t in any shape for visitors.
I took the boys to the skate park this afternoon and when we got home, M said, “Luca thinks you’re exhausted.”
“He said that?” I asked.
“Luca said, ‘Mommy seems exhausted.’”
Kids amaze me. Forever they seem like creatures who only know you as Mom Who Untangles Shoelaces and Drives Kids To Places and then they surprise you with insight. Yes, I’m exhausted.
I’m an introvert. I’m always exhausted after large gatherings of favorite people, no matter how jolly we are, no matter how much love strings us together like bulbs on a wire. I love you all, but I’m tired. I need to not speak for several hours. And then I’ll be fine.
And that’s why I’m going to go to bed very soon and read one of the books I got for Christmas. I got a lot of books for Christmas. I am grateful. As I tell Michael, it could be worse; my addiction of choice could be, you know, cocaine, or something equally expensive and damaging. Books are pretty cheap. And healthy. Like kale.
Oh, and the snow? Not from this year. Digging into the archives for evidence of our northern exposure.
Happy Boxing Day, dear ones.