It's vacation,
time for fun and games and
running around and gingerbread
cookies and presents and candy
canes.

We spin around the room,
me feeling giant,
like a monster hanging her from my
arm, and she squeals in terror and
in glee.
We dance and the music
blares and she comes to a rest just
above me, suspended in mid air on
my feet before returning to the
ground.

When did I last get my
coffee?  How long did I
sleep for last night?  Six hours?
A record of late since I stopped
liking sleep.

"You're going to drop her on
her head," says a far away voice from
the top of the stairs, and
we ignore it, falling over
laughing before leaping back up to
try a new move.

My room reeks of nail
polish (my favorite paint) and
is full of wrapping paper.  "Done," I
send with a picture of the presents, wrapped
in their pretty bows and glittery
paper, the exciting facades for the less
than thrilling contents.

iTunes picks the next song, a
Chumbawumba that matches my mood
exactly, and I feel bad because I
spin a little too fast and her
head whips around and narrowly
misses the railing of the couch.
But she grins and says to
do a different trick so
I do and it's fun.

This book is interesting but
not enough to be
entertaining.  Do I have
a headache or a caffeine
buzz or am I just too tired to
continue?  I slept two nights in a row
how is this happening?"*

"Can we dance again?"
"Sure, go find some Christmas
music."
And then we danced, her
eight year old frame spinning and
flipping and leaping and
running around the tiny room that
is our basement.