A Christmas Classic.

The only way I can sum up a wonderful Christmas is defined by the best Christmas movie in history...  "A Christmas Story".  It oozes warm nostalgia and it's brilliant story telling by Jean Shepard never gets old.  FX has it right when it plays the classic for 24 straight hours on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  It's so relatable.  His story-telling brings to life the wonder that pulses through children on that special morning.  It was also my dad's favorite Christmas movie.  I remember he loved the film.  It is with his memory and his humor that I watch it each season.  For me, the movie draws me closer into the depth of the holiday each year.

Christmas around our house is delightful and it is a quiet holiday for us, other than the recurring battle for CF treatments with Dylan.  He is a bull and trying to get this child to do anything against his will, is well, a MAJOR task.  Most times it's about gently steering and redirecting Dylan, but we have always towed the line in our house that we are doing treatments...  on birthdays, on holidays, on every day.  They are part of our routine and we have decided to teach our boys that we do them.  PERIOD.  We have had to on ocassion teach them that we will do them nice or we will do them mad if we have to (forceably), but we will do them.  It is for their health and well being.  The key is consistency and firmness.  And with Dylan sometimes it takes a mack truck to make this point.

The days leading up to Christmas he fights us and argues with his menacing growl that he is not doing his "vest and mask".  His ferociousness doesn't quite mask his two year old lisp that is so completely adorable.  We battle through on Christmas Eve night with treatments, and in Dylan's sleepless exhaustion, he passes out during the rhythmic hum of the machines.  Some days parenting is tough and some are easier.  We find the blessings in the Christmas season that although defiant, the boys do their treatments and other than the season's expected sniffles...  they are healthy.

Michael is ecstatic that it is Christmas Eve when all the lights twinkle a little brighter.  He hurridly keeps asking where Santa Clause is and how much longer.  Thanks to modern technology, an iPhone app can geo-locate the fat elf with a bazillion toys.  So, we keep Michael apprised of Santa's ETA.  The Christmas season has thrown me a few curve balls trying to get shopping done, gifts wrapped, and surprises hidden.  There is the time when Michael strolls down the stairs at midnight one night when I am wrapping gifts.  Coming downstairs after falling asleep is very uncharacteristic for him, so I am shocked to see him with his fleece jammie bottoms and white undershirt standing there rubbing his eyes.  His little pink toes are poking out from the bottoms of his pjs.  He looks at me standing at the kitchen table in brash lighting.  I am wrapping his gifts.  His SANTA gifts.  Luckily, I can quickly whisk him away in his fog and he doesn't remember a thing the next morning.

And then there is the time that Dylan calls me out.  YES.  Calls me out.  It is a night when Michael, Dylan and I were reading books at bedtime.  It is a little out of the season's ordinary pre-bedtime audio reading of "The Polar Express".  I am convinced this gift set from a neighbor years ago is not only super special each Christmas season, but is the best gift for exhausted parents.  It is a set that includes the book, a CD narration and the silver bell.  Michael, since before he was two years old, would bolt out of the bathroom after his bath (often still wet and completely naked) at bedtime during Christmas and tee up the CD and clutch the bell.  We'd have to squeeze the jammies on over his tiny balled fist bursting with the bell.  Usually with me in a heap of weariness on the floor at the bedtime "book" hour.  He loves the CD version.  Frankly, so do I.

But on this particular night, we have stacked four books high and read each of them together.  And in the pile, there are humorously four different versions of "T'was the Night Before Christmas", but whatever.  By the end of December Michael could narrate the beloved verses by memory.  Somewhere between "not a creature was stirring" and "the prancing and pawing of each little hoove", and during a break when Dylan isn't jumping on Michael's full size bed, he looks at me and laughs.  I wonder why my adorable two-year-old has paused and started laughing.  Michael and I look at each other and shrug our shoulders.  We are clearly not in on Dylan's little thoughtful joke.

Dylan blurts out, "Mommy, are you Thanta Cwauth?"  DID HE JUST ASK ME THAT?  Did this sweet little boy ask if I was Santa Clause?  Awww, c'mon!  "What did you just say?" I asked him in astonishment.  Michael is snickering and then quiets with keen interest to listen.

Dylan says again very clearly, "Are you Thanta Cwauth?"  His eyes glimmered.  And he belly laughs heartily.  "That would be funny!  baaaahahaha" he laughs in delight.  I laugh too and sarcastically reply, "Do I look like I have a big fat belly?"  (well, maybe)  "And do I look like an old man with a long white beard?"  (not really)  "And do you think that I have a million elves doing things for me every day?"  (gee, I wish).  "Of course, I'm not Santa, you silly goose!"  Now we are all laughing at such an absurd throught.

That was close.  My cover was almost blown.

We make it all the way to Christmas morning without any more "incidents".  And it is pure joy for Michael.  I race down the stairs and grab our camera to capture his priceless expression.  He pauses on the steps and views the loot in the family room.  He slowly makes his way to the bottom.  He puts his hands on his cheeks in amazement.  "This is unbeweevaboe.  I can't beweeve it," he mutters over and over.  (He has trouble with his "L's").

Santa.  Had.  Visited.

And there were the authentic North Pole Gift Tags to prove it.  He scans the packages.  I have him start going through his stocking which has now become tradition (my thinking is enjoying the small things in life, the big things will come in good time.)  He is thrilled at every bit of candy and every trinket in his stocking.

Dylan on the other hand couldn't really be bothered.  He is just psyched about the Lifesaver Gummies that were left in his stocking.  I guess with this kid it's all about SIMPLICITY.  He partakes in the festivities and enjoys the candy.  For Dylan, candy is the treasure of the day.  By afternoon three-quarter of his gifts still sit wrapped on the sofa, begging to be opened.  Michael would later do the honors.  Michael never passes on opening a present.

We have a quiet Christmas where we build LEGO ships in between salivating over our delicious roast tenderloin courtesy of an awesome recipe only Emeril Lagasse could dream up.  We wear jammies most of the day, except when the boys don their Chicago Bears jerseys for the Christmas day game.  Like true die-hard fans.  Ahh, it's Christmas.

I relish each moment, even during our exhaustive CF treatments that day.  I realize that my sweet boys enjoy the wonders of the holidays and they are playful and excited even during the draining, routine of the CF breathing treatments.  They take it all in.

As I assess the day as I sit on the sofa and to enjoy on of the final runs of "A Christmas Story", I notice a moment not to be forgotten.  I am about as overtaken with joy as Michael was this morning in the moment of seeing his presents.  My heart swells.

My two little boys are standing in a dead stare watching the TV.  Amongst the lights and candy, shiny trinkets and busy toys, they are transfixed on glowing screen.  In this moment I realize that Jean Shepard's heart-warming narrative about a boy and a Beebe gun has captured my boys' hearts and wonder too.  I stop.  And I swoon.

Somewhere nearby, I also just know that my father is beaming and laughing alongside of them as they watch "the boy with the glasses and gun" as Michael would always refer to Ralphie.  I snicker and wish my dad a Merry Christmas knowing this was one of our gifts to him.

Christmas Magic.

Somewhere between my thankful Thanksgiving and my sinus-busting winter cold, I performed a motherly miracle.  I believe that every mother manages a few miracles at some point in her earthly life.  I am not being sarcastic or snarky.  Honestly.  I realize that those truly holy miracle-workers and the saints are on an entirely other level, but the every-day mothers of this world also have their small miracles or at the very least, magic.  And sometimes these special instances are just so necessary.  This one is mine.

Thanksgiving definitely just our speed...  a lovely conjunctivitis bug floating around, which would later visit the house weeks later again.  But this first round of "pink eye" brings nothing but the typical holiday commotion.  Monday morning of the week of Thanksgiving, I wake up a tad later than usual.  My husband is kind enough to get up with the boys and get the day underway before he needs to head out.  I greet the favorite men of my life at the breakfast bar where the two littlest ones are sloshing cereal around, some of it actually getting into their littlest mouths.  Their pajamas have a spattering of liquid where the milk has dribbled onto their chests.  My husband is brewing a cups of coffee for us.  I rub my eyes and yawn.  As I refocus, I notice Michael has one eye that is considerably bloodshot.  A waive of ruination comes over me.  "Oh no," I gasp as I lean in to examine his eye more closely.  Smooth mom move, I know.  I sometimes have a hard time with subtlety.  Especially at 8 am and no coffee.

"Michael has pink eye."

My husband, a professional skeptic replies, "That's not pink eye."  He shrugs.

Pffft.  Like he knows.  His doubt aggravates me.  His words hang in the air over me.  I know he is wrong and I am right.  I punctuate my opinion with a sip of my fresh cup of coffee with an warning eyebrow raised above it.  I send him off on his day wishing him a good one.  I know I am calling the pediatrician's office as soon as they open.  This is not the way Michael's eye normally looks at this time of day or any time of the day for that matter.  Surely I am not willing to mess around with highly contagious pink eye and visitors arriving this afternoon!

Our friends are making the long trek from Chicago and are scheduled to arrive by late afternoon to celebrate thanksgiving with us.  They have a three-year-old daughter and I just know that pink eye is the LAST THING we need in this house.  I think through the ways I can locate HAZMAT suits before they arrive.  Or more a possibility than that, if I can get the coveted antibiotic eye drops in this kid immediately he will be fine.

I call the doctor's office at 8:30 am SHARP.  I explain the situation to the receptionist and am told politely that a nurse will be calling me shortly.  The time passes.  It's excruciating.  I clearly explain to Michael that he cannot share toys with Dylan and should either stay in his room playing or sit nicely on the couch and can watch a movie.  He is a really good little boy and understands the nature of "contagiousness".  He follows my directions.  "No, no, Dylan.  I cannot play with you.  You can't play with my toys.  I have PINK EYE."  Michael wags his finger at Dylan as if a stern warning.  He is loving this authority.

As time passes, both of Michael's are now bloodshot.  Worse yet, both eyes are now starting to shed goop.  I am panicking.  Two hours later, I still have not heard from the nurses at the doctor's office, so I decide to call again.  I explain the situation, again, and ask that they call in a prescription as soon as possible.  I am politely told a nurse will call me.

By 11:30 am, I am full-blown anxious.  I call again, knowing that they will be going on lunchbreak soon.  If so, then I am COMPLETELY screwed and Thanksgiving will be a total mess (as if it isn't already?!).  I am transferred to someone I assume is a nurse.  Instead they take the information down and tell me they will call me.

I am frayed by this point.  I look at Michael and his eyes are swollen and red.  There are rings under his eyes that are red, and the are streams of green ooze creeping onto his cheeks.  I wipe, rewipe and wash my hands diligently with soap.  REPEAT.  Over and over.

FINALLY, I get the call that eye drops are being called in at the pharmacy.  Like a maniac, I throw the boys in the car and tear over to the drive-thru pharmacy.  Dylan has fallen asleep and now I am racing to get home and get these drops in Michael's eyes.  I can't bear the wait.

I pull over in a Starbucks parking lot, throw the car in park, and get out.  I rip the medicine out of the bag, out of the box and tear off the seal.  I explain to Michael gently to tilt his head just so and to not rub his eyes.  He is brave.  The eagle has landed.  The kids is medicated.  But not in the 24-hour window that I had hoped so he wouldn't be "contagious" and now can't attend his Thanksgiving feast tomorrow at school with his friends.

Our visitors arrive and Michael looks like a total and complete mess.  But we are so happy to see them and have a ton of fun and laughter.  Oh and some jolly good handwashing too.  My hands are cracking from the insane handwashing.  But the kid is medicated.

Within days, our friend's little girl's eye is swelling and she starts with medicated eye drops.  We are all staring slowly at each other through out the days, waiting to catch a glimpse of the next victim.  There are countless comments...  "Here look at this."  "Does this look red to you?"  "I think my eye is itching."  And my favorite, "Don't touch your eye."

Thanksgiving itself is fun.  A good meal with good food and good friends. We are grateful to be with them and that they made the 12-hour journey to visit us.  We say our blessings for our family and friends near and far.  And one last prayer of thanks that we haven't had a complete breakout of the contagion for the Thanksgiving holiday, just a minor one.

The time passes much too quickly.  Our friends depart the day following Thanksgiving.  Just in time for Dylan's sweet little eye to start swelling.  By 4 pm, it looks at though he has been punched in the eye by a heavy-weight boxer.  His eye is tearing, bloodshot, and starting to goop.  Oh great.  And here I thought we dodged a bullet with only one of them getting pink eye.

Tis the Season.  GROAN.

While many others decide to raid the stores for Black Friday and the weekend, I find myself in bed.  I feel cruddy, exhausted.  No pink eye for me...  instead, I start a sore throat that is evil and wretched.  My husband gives me the rest I need and handles the busy boys through the weekend.  But Monday comes and slams me in the face.  It is a painful reality, when my husband heads out the door for work and and I feel like roadkill.  I probably look like it too.  And to make matters worse he is leaving town for three days.

With all that comes, it too goes.  At least Michael returns to school after the holiday, too.  So in theory I can get a bit of rest while he is at school.  Only problem is that Dylan doesn't nap.  This two-year-old has argued and fought naps for months.  He is exhausted and either collapses at 4 pm doing his CF treatments or he is wired and can't fall asleep until late at night, in which case is he is a total mess.  To get my sweet little boy to nap, is a delicate, complex set of variables, usually which is never quite the right balance.  I am convinced he has very hard time turning off his brain to rest...  more over, it's hard for him to sit still.  Usually when he does, that's when he'll pass out.

In my sick state, Michael excitedly lectures me on getting all the Christmas decor up.  I battle through and try to enjoy the time hanging up the shiny ornaments and the sparkling stars with him.  I really love Christmas, I only wish that I could feel better.

Upon Michael's return to school, there is a day a thought occurs to me, even in my gray haze.   I know that I have a limited window of Christmas shopping with my husband's travels and as awful as I feel, I think, "Well, at least I will be out of the house.  I haven't left the house in days..."  I know that I can drop Michael off at school and get to Toys R Us for a quick trip with Dylan.  Heavens knows, I refuse to go within 5 miles of that store during the busiest hours.  I have dodged the Black Friday crazies and hope to avoid the working parents shopping after they wrap up business at their offices.

I figure that even if I don't actually make purchases at least this way I can peruse options.  Thankfully, Dylan is not a gift kid.  He is not a whiner, he really could care less about getting something new at a store.  I figure at the very least, I can tell him no, but can get my bearings for Santa's treasures.

As I pull away from the school, I watch Dylan's heavy, drowsy expression.  His little eyes blink slowly fighting off Mr. Sandman.  His blinking becomes longer each time until his eyes don't reopen.  Great, my inner monologue snorts.  Now, what I am going to do?  Again, I figure I can put him in the stroller and take inventory of gift options.

I head off to the toy store.  A cool nasty drizzle comes in drifts and I just know Dylan is going to wake up when I take him out of his car seat.  As I park the car, I hop out and grab the stroller and set it up.  I rustle around the back of my SUV looking for the visor.  It is nowhere to be found.  If I am going to put him in the stroller, I don't have the one major prop that I need to shield him from the misty rain.  Cars whoosh past and horns honk in the distance.  Dylan doesn't stir.  I slowly hold my breath, and unsnap the buckles to his carseat.  Then I jostle his arms loose of the harness and carefully lift him out of the seat.  As I set him in the stroller, flecks of rain land on his forehead, his nose and his cheeks.  He doesn't even flinch.  Huh.

A car flies by on the busy mall road and stirs a loud sloshing sound of rainy pavement.  Dylan doesn't move.  I let my breath out that I was still unintentionally holding.  No point.  Nothing is waking this kid up.

I quickly shove the stroller into "go" mode and head into the store.  I am met with the glaring overhead warehouse lighting and the Christmas mania of Toys R Us.  Every kind of toy within view.  The first few displays are bustling.  Red and green paint the shelves and the toys.  I see hula hoops, LEGOs, boardgames, and stocking stuffers.  My brain is on overload.  I see dolls, cars, trucks, blocks and more.  Since 75% of my brain power is being sucked up by this nasty virus and my sinuses are my worst enemies, I have very little cognition to work with.  I fight the visual overload, press my thumb into my throbbing forehead, and grab a hand basket.  It is a precarious exercise a juggling my hold on the basket, lugging my purse on my shoulder and steering my 37 pound child in the stroller with requires both hands.

Dylan is slumped and laying back in the stroller in dreamland.  His mouth is open and his eyes locked shut.  I start the mission.  Go!

I head to the LEGOs I reason through in my brain what sets are appropriate, I do the mental math of the buy one get one half off deal of the day.  Turns out it is the same that would go on every day until Christmas, so I am no fool.  I re-evaluate what is on Michael's wishlist.  I grab a couple small boxes and then  I head to the other goodies.  I find a couple interesting puzzles for Dylan.  I mentally scan the options and review the puzzles Dylan already has.  I quickly grab 3 and shove them in my basket.  I then turn to go to the display for the toys Michael has set his heart on this Christmas.  His beloved Star Wars action figures.  I had researched and found an age appropriate version of the Star Wars famed Millennium Falcon and action figures.  As I stroll up, I am greeted by an empty shelf.  WHAT????

The preschool version of the Star Wars toys are all gone.  I don't think there was a deal on them and have no clue that they were popular.  Or maybe I am just unlucky.  Probably the latter.  I take a deep sigh and realize that I need to head back to the front of the store to talk with someone at the customer service desk.  As I wheel the stroller around I am met with countless other parents whose kids are presumably at school and are loading up their carts or coming right at me.  I just love going against the incoming traffic of other carts.  I dodge and swoop past them.  They got nothing on these stroller moves.

As I make my way to the front of the store and Dylan is still sound asleep, other parents laugh and snicker as we pass.  They know that I am pulling off a daring attempt at a holiday task...  a three-year-old asleep in a toy store, while Mom is doing the stealth Christmas shopping.  They make eye contact with me and chuckle or turn to each other and comment and point.  I realize in my haste that they think this is really funny.  And it is, I just don't have time to think about it.  I am frantic to have it be over.  I just want to wrap up and get out of here.

I firmly push forward on my mission.  The hour-glass is fading and I am certain he will wake up.  I am now in it up to my eyeballs and there's no turning back.  I am officially putting things in this basket and if he wakes up the magic will be lost.  The well-being of Christmas's future for our family hangs in the balance.  All could be lost.  I cannot have my last born never truly believe at Christmas time, because I am a schmuck of a mom and ruined it for him when he was two years old.  I am greeted by a line at the customer service counter.  I feel myself self start sweating from the stress and panic.  A trickle of sweat drips down my neck.

A little girl is sitting quietly in a cart in front of us with her mother next to the cart.  She is probably about four years old and has a prominent frown across her face.  She is sulking.  The little girl spots Dylan sleeping in the stroller and decided to yell something indiscernible at him.  My heart seizes and I glance with fear at her mother.  Her mother smiles at me firmly and whispers something to hush the girl.  I shift hard and try to wipe the sweat that is forming along my brown with some body part.  I don't know which one since my hands are holding toys, my purse and still navigating my sleep angel.

When it's our turn we arrive at the counter where a young girl greets us.  She is immediately helpful, spying Dylan and realizing the coup that is taking place.  She calls to the stock room to locate the toys I am looking for.  I feel the Santa inside me giggle.  I just might be able to make this happen.

Within minutes a teenage boy plunks a nondescript box down near the counter.  He rips the box open and places it directly in front of me.  Jackpot!  I shuffle through the figures nd I find the large spaceship that I am certain Michael will love along with the important characters.  As I dump the  items in my hand basket, my arm starts to quiver and shake.  The toys are piled up and even though I have strategically placed them in the basket they are sliding and starting to fall all over the place.  I whisk the overflowing basket with the Star Wars toys and shove the stroller to the check out aisles right next to the customer service desk where I am standing.  I wheel over and, begin dropping scattered toys on the counter.  I walk back to the customer service desk where a few items had fallen on the floor.

The cashier rings me up swiftly.  I am shaking I am so worked up.  My heart rate is racing and I can barely scribble my signature on the receipt.  Dylan is still fast asleep.  I know that I am close to victory.  So close...

As we walk outside, the ground is still wet and rainy, but there is now a tiny break in the clouds and the sun is beaming through.  The rays are directly on Dylan's face as I unload the packages into the car.  I heft him out of the stroller and place him gently in the carseat.  Like me, he is sweating uncontrollably.  I unzip his jacket and slip it off.  As I start to buckle him into his carseat, he opens his eyes and looks right at me.  He blinks away the sun with a grimace.  I fear the tantrum is coming.  But I am fine with it.  He has never been a happy child after napping.  Usually after a minute of sweetness he tantrums through is groggy fog after nap...  which is lucky these days since at least he got the nap.  This kid NEVER sleeps naps anymore.  So I will take a nap followed by a tantrum any day over no nap.

After I strap Dylan snugly into his car seat and pile the loot in the back under a blanket, I hop in the car and peer back at him.  He is angry, but still staring blankly into space.  I am shocked when I see his droopy gaze soften and then slowly blink back into a slumber.  He is asleep again as I rev the car and pull out of the parking lot.  I am stunned.  I am not getting caught afterall!!  I have accomplished the impossible.

Christmas magic.  And Sneaky Santa.

I laugh quietly and turn on Christmas music.  I am humming along with the jazzy tunes softly...  "Santa Claus is comin' to town..."  My stomach growls loudly over the music.  I realize in all my Christmas spirit, miracle Christmas shopping and brutal headcold, I have forgotten to eat lunch.

I am starving.  Minutes later, I find myself slamming a Wendy's combo meal and slugging the Biggie Coke down.  Crumbs adorn my shirt and the fizz from the soda is somehow reassuring.  I begin laughing as I look back and Dylan is still in a sweet toddler slumber.  The sunlight floods the car as he continues his long rest.

I would later have to stir Dylan and wake him up when I picked Michael up from school.  Dylan tallied a grand total of a two and a half hour nap all considered.  I couldn't have planned that if I tried.  Had I just gone home chances are he would have toddled around, played, cuddled with me and then been a disaster by bedtime.

This, well, I have no idea how I just pulled that one off.  The only explanation of the feat is a Christmas shopping miracle.  A miracle that only a mother can pull off...  filled with jittery nerves, sweat, the right touch, and a little bit of magic.  The kind of magic that only happens this time of year.

I just know Santa would be proud.  Now, next mission... to figure out how to make them go to sleep on Christmas Eve.  Where did I put that magic Elf pixie dust?  I know I laid it around somewhere...

All I want for Christmas.

This week, the Christmas prep is underway at our home.  The lights all twinkling.  The pretty gifts starting to hide under cover of beautiful papers and magic ribbon.  And the yummy scented handsoaps are now out the bathrooms.  We no longer light candles, at least like I used to.  I fear my boys inhaling some invisible soot.  Ridiculous, I know.  But there are certain things that are just different.  I miss scented candles, so the antibacterial handsoaps will have to do.

This is also the first Christmas without nuts.  Dylan was diagnosed with nut and peanut allergies earlier in the year.  No chestnuts roasting on an open fire, around here.  Uh huh.  Nope.  No peanuts.  No almonds.  No traditional family coffee cake littered with crunchy accent pecans.  None of my mother's famous peanut butter fudge that I could eat a whole tin of as a child.  None of it.  Having to rethink traditions and navigate the holidays with a new insight...  or at least dodge the landmines.

Earlier this week, Michael helps me wrap some Christmas presents.  He is good company and in a bossy tone keeps telling his little brother who is playing a round of golf in the kitchen and family room, "No, no Dy-Dy.  This is a big boy job.  I am helping mommy with tape.  No, no Dy, you're not big enough."  If anything it does give me a good laugh.  And Dylan could care less, as he is repetitively practicing his golf swing.

But it is clear that Michael is excited at the completion of each package.  Each one wrapped in shiny gold or red striped paper.  He helps me choose the heavy fabric ribbon and tie each one on with impeccable precision.  I hold the pretty satin among my fingers, wrap over and around the first wave of ribbon, and then his little finger would, SMACK, hit the first tie of the bow to hold the ribbon in place for the final knotting tie.  He knows his job and he is going to do it with the intent of one of Santa's elves on Christmas Eve putting the final touches on toys for good children all over the world.

Then he helps me pick out the special gift tags.  I use pictures and greeting cut-outs from this year's extra personalized Christmas cards.  He is thrilled by the personal touches these add to the gift...  He continues to persist that each gift should have a picture of him...  just him.  For the record, I have never claimed that my kids are not narcissistic.  Evidently, Michael is comfortable with everyone's love for him.  Then Michael eagerly runs the package into the other room with urgency and care to place it gently with the other packages.  His joy and thrill of Christmas tasks is palpable.

Yesterday, Michael announces to me that he wants to write his wishlist.  He is intent on documenting for Santa Claus exactly what he wants...  an orange remote controlled car, a candy cane, and a space ship.  He asks that I write the words out on a separate sheet of paper so he can copy them onto his paper independently.  We sit together as he lets his wishes be know.  His letters are skillfully done and he is quite the artist by drawing the car and the candy cane he wants.  But to be sure that there is no room for Santa's misinterpretation, he asks if we can give Santa my version also, which he has adorned with Christmas ornaments along the bottom.

All of this on a day that my two sweet kids are featured in the Chicago Tribune.  Our story was shared with thousands of people.  Our fight with CF every day.  The lovely family picture of the four of us on the cover of the Pediatric Health Report still makes me laugh.  The facade.  No stains on anyone's shirt.  No one fully scowling.  And everyone looking at the camera at the same time.  A Christmas miracle in itself.

A better insight into our world is me trying to get dressed after our gift wrapping session. With the kids downstairs in the family room doing treatments while watching TV, program of choice, clearly, A Charlie Brown Christmas.  I decide to look presentable for the day...  a big deal on any given weekday.  I throw on jeans and a casual shirt and head for my unorganized make up drawer.  I shuffle items around quickly since I know the clock is ticking.  I pull out my basic black eyeliner of the drawer and delicately start to line.  POP!  Amazingly, over the ear-shattering TV volume of a Charlie Brown Christmas, I hear a tube pop off the vest and machine Michael uses airway clearance.  I run down the flight of stairs and to the family to put the tube back on.  Then, Dylan's nebulizer mask slides off his little head.  I put it back on.  Then, run back up to my bathroom.  As I rummage around the drawer for perfume...  POP!  Oh brother.  I run down replace the tube to its proper position and run back up.  Then I hear it give again.  Tubes are off of Michael's vest.  I fix them.  And this time, Dylan is pulling at his mask.  Dylan is smiling his brilliant, lovable smile with his dark glittering eyes.  "All done."  He makes the "safe" motion with the focus and certainty of a major league baseball ump.  Oh brother.  He fights me the rest of the treatment.

Then, I get the added joy of cleaning up after the dog that is eating cinnamon crumb muffins out of the trashbag.  Typical.

But a wishlist, huh?  Gosh, my Christmas wish is obvious.  Anyone who knows me wouldn't even ask the question.  The answer is there, before the words are asked.  Just spend a day with my family, actually an hour or two with us, and it is answered in kids' endurance and regimen.  It is answered in the daily struggle with what's normal and what's not because of CF.  And it is answered in my heartache.

All I want for Christmas is a cure.  A cure.

A CURE.

My head is pretty fuzzy this morning, but I awake to realize that none of our nebulizers had been sterilized last night.  32 stupid plastic pieces my boys' breathing relies on.  EVERY DAY.  I am frustrated that I can't ever truly rest my weary head.  I can't ignore that task.  Even if I am exhausted.   Most days I can barely keep up.

CF doesn't care about the nebs not being sterile.  Or an important meeting.  Or a busy day.  It's always present.  Always in the way.  It's a matter of maneuvering the best path each day.  And on top of it, dealing with, well, everything else that comes along with life.
This could be perceived as an annoying rant.  But, CF isn't about me.  I am not ranting out of selfishness.  I am ranting about much more than that.  It's about my kids who are fighters.  I am just the bystander in awe of their strength and their will.  But it *is* about the quality of life for them and for our entire family.

Yesterday, as we did evening treatments, Michael picks up a stuffed animal that he had found around the house.  Though he doesn't have a particular attachment to it, I watch him as he pretends to strap it into a vest and mask.  "Oh oh, Mommy, he has 20 more minutes..."  Then he continues, "Ah ahhh, Mommy," as he wags his finger in my face, "he forgot his sprinkles."  And then he motions as though he is delivering pills to the the furry animal.  The he hugs and cuddles it, "My baby."  He rocks it.  Outside, I smile at Michael and laugh with him that "Uh oh, he better take his medicine" and commending Michael for doing such a great job caring for his little baby.  But on the inside, my heart hurts.

It is one time that that I can see with crystal clarity that our normal is heartbreakingly NOT NORMAL.

Late yesterday, as we drive to get the boys' haircuts, Christmas music is pouring through our car.  Michael sweetly says over the melody, "Mommy, can I be you when I grow up?"

I am stunned.  I am almost unable to get a response out.  I am clearing my voice through the first words of my retort, "What?!  What do you mean?  Why do you want to be like me?"  I am expecting a contemplative answer, because that's just the kind of kid Michael is.

"I just want to be you when I grow up."  Simple.

I start crying.  A complete torrential downpour of tears.  It's the nicest compliment my kids can give me.  How sweet.  How wonderful.  And then the terror sets in...  seriously, I can never let my kids be as neurotic as me!  But what a truly special, thoughtful gift of words.  I am laughing and crying as Michael's little face shows confusion directed toward me in the rearview mirror.  "Mommy, why you cry?  Are you sad?  Why you sad?  It's okay, Mommy.  No cry, Mommy."  He continues to console me.

Although, I really want that cure this Christmas, rumor has it that I might have to wait a few years.  Possibly even a decade, but it's not that far off, at least that's what the experts say.  And I really believe that some Christmas, I will in fact get that wish.

Instead, this year, I will simply take my son's love and adoration and be thankful for all that I have.  EVERY DAY.

Oh, and if you happen to see Santa or write to him this year, would you mind putting in a good word for that cure?