So tonight was pretty much the opposite of a Christmas miracle.
We were supposed to go shop for the kids, but the roads got all icy and everyone in Georgia went insane and starting crashing into each other. For no good reason.
Then t.rex woke up crying and continued crying for an hour until everyone had a headache, including the cat. For no good reason.
Then the phone rang, and I was upstairs coloring Grumpy Bear orange just to torture my daughter, so Dr. Krog hobbled over to get the phone, and he knocked down the Christmas tree, and the water spilled on all the presents and ruined them, and the lights and ornaments broke, and there was glitter and glass and pine needles all over the front hallway, and I very nearly cried, because I already felt like I was going to barf, and now I keep getting poked in tender places by rogue pine daggers. For no good reason.
So here's my message to the holidays:
Kurt Vonnegut was right.
It doesn't really matter in the long run, does it?