To all a good night

April always leaves me with a million thoughts milling about in my head. Usually they are literary with some social commentary thrown in for good measure. Tonight they are completely personal.

I had a panic attack tonight when Aaron was reading Rilke. I suppose that's a poem in and of itself. But I haven't had a panic attack for a little while, and though I'd like to think it was brought on by my possibly overdue library books, of which there are 30, I had to consider the situation in order to calm down.

I adore april. I love the way we interact and communicate and write. But even with a roomful of friends, I think--I know--I function best one on one, especially when I'm playing hostess. This isn't a mandate to april that we find a new meeting place, it's just me thinking. Promise.

On the flip side, and combining Trent's accusation that I really love Christmas and Aaron's statement that he was going to be breathtakingly honest on his blog, I have a confession. I love Christmas. The whole season, from sledding to hot chocolate to caroling, if anyone ever convinces me to go. But I love Christmas my way. I love the Christmas tree that stands in my parents' front room, perfectly decorated by my mother, with at least one present under the tree addressed to "Sarah Elizabeth." I love the porcelain nativity that we put up in our front entry way, the one that I've been responsible for every year since I was eleven. I even love the four foot elf/gnome/hobbit that my brother named Lars who stands guard over our front door. My favorite place in the world--to write, to read, to think, to kiss--is in the front room when the only light comes from the white lights on the tree. Every year I spend at least one night on that familiar uncomfortable couch just looking at the tree and the lights. I am passionate about white lights, placed in a tight line around the ceiling--not too fond of the draping action going on in my apartment this year. I even have the first two lines of a poem complete with white lights. My only problem is that it's a love poem and I don't know what comes next yet.

So there you have it--editorgirl is a peculiar kind of Grinch who likes Christmas, but likes it her way. I suppose that's terribly spoiled of me. But I can't wait for a good snow and a silent house and the night before Christmas, when I'm the one who can't fall asleep, even though I threatened my youngest siblings that if they wake me up before 7:00 I won't get up until 9:00. And the next morning Seth will send Maryn in at 6:30 to say, "We've been up for hours. Can we please go get the others?" And I'll get up, because I've been awake since Maryn climbed off the top bunk at 4:30. We'll get the others and then wait for Mom to line us up in the hallway for another dreadful Christmas morning picture--by height instead of age now that Sven is taller than I am--and then we get to see what Santa brought us. Because he really does exist.