By Meg Ferrante
Five minutes. That's when the grandparents get here. Five minutes to finish Jeremy's birthday cake, make the salad, set the table, clean the back hall toilet, write the blog for tonight. Five minutes? Obviously this isn't all going to happen. Six days until Christmas? Obviously, it can't all get done.
I know myself and I knew it was coming. I am starting to panic.
But this year, there is a huge difference. I have committed myself to this blog and that means I am doing all I can to find advent in the ordinary. And it's working.
Last night at dinner hour, rushing, rushing, rushing, I stupidly raced into Walmart at 5 p.m. I needed more icing for the cake and sourdoll rolls for the Italian sausage. There were not a lot of happy people in Walmart. My children were three of them all the way home. Dinner wasn't ready, everyone was whining and fighting, I felt like a gerbil on a wheel; I'm moving as fast as I can but nothing's happening. I could feel the simmer go to a boil. I had to run out to the car and on the way back, I could hear daddy yelling through closed windows. I felt my heart sink. I felt deflated. The facade of a peaceful lead-up to Christmas was falling fast.
With one foot on the back steps, heading toward the house, I stopped. I took a deep breath. Looked up at the few stars in the dark sky. Said a quick prayer. Reminded myself that everything I love most in the world was right there in that kitchen. Adjusted my attitude like I was adjusting a too-tight bra and headed back inside. I wouldn't call it my favorite night of the year, but what might usually get ugly was definitely not.
You can do a lot in five minutes. You might not get the toilet clean, but you can give it up to God.
I like to think I just did.
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