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It’s that nagging feeling I have, that I haven’t done enough. The list of all I didn’t do is by far the longest. It would be easy to define the season by that, and feel less because of it.

I didn’t bake those cookies to give away. I didn’t get that wonderful package of goodies together for the bus driver or the school staff. I didn’t make special Christmas ornaments or decorate a Joshua Tree or light Advent candles. Honestly, I haven’t even read the Christmas story. Not once. Not to the kids and not to myself.

Boo, me.

I could redeem myself a little by telling you I’d spent the time really being present with my family, or taking long walks, or meditating, or planning the Christmas dinner menu. But none of that is true, either. Not really. I haven’t been intentional about much of anything, this Advent season.

Truth is, I’ve kind of crashed this month. Not in a depressed or overwhelmed or dog-tired kind of way, although, can I just say menopause and leave it at that.

I’ve thought about Advent. I’ve baked butter tarts and made cups of hot chocolate and listened to Christmas music in the bathtub, and we watched Elf together one night.

And I have had some sweet moments with my kids and my husband, it’s true. But mostly, it just happened. I didn’t plan anything very special. I’ve just lived through the month, doing the ordinary business of home life, and thinking a bit, reading a bit, writing a bit, and resting a bit.

Maybe, for this year, it’s enough.

Maybe I don’t feel so bad about it, after all.

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