Sunday and the house is quiet. Paul has taken the kids to my office Christmas party. I kind of wanted to go - kept weighing my options: if I pop strong pain killers, put on a clean pair of pajamas and just sit while all the activity swirls around me...well that wouldn't be so bad. And I could have one of the latte's that I have been so desperately missing.

Anyway, I'm here at home in my dirty pajamas, listening to Blue Rodeo on the stereo and enjoying the solitude.

We were blown off again on Friday by the contractor - the plumber and the doors were supposed to come. Paul didn't want to call but he's going back to work on Monday and I'll be up to my own devices. And I'll call, constantly. Between naps anyway.

I was helping Jakob write his letter to Santa yesterday and wanted to share a part of his letter:

Dear Santa,

My name is Jakob. I have been very good this year. I take good care of both my cats, if I hurt people I say sorry and I hug my parents.

Please try to bring the whole family presents, and all the houses...Except for one house: Callum's.

Then he continues with his never ending list of desires. I put the pen down after getting a hand cramp.

I also have to tell you that I weigh the same as what I did in 1991, the year I got married. And my stomach is ridiculously flat with a gigantic smile - a bit old happy face. The verdict is still out on the breast.