The Cabbage Patch Dolls hit the toy scence, I (and every other girl aged six to 12) wanted one SOOOO bad. I overheard my mom tell my dad they were impossible to get. I pouted and mourned in private and tried not to envy my neighbor, who I KNEW would probably get one because she had two homes, a horse, and a playroom with every toy imaginable. Christmas morning arrived…there she was: Netty Carlene, her arms stretched wide and dimpled-smile permanent. My neighbor? She didn’t get one. In fact, Netty was the only CP in my neighborhood. That was a MAGICAL Christmas.
The year I found out Santa = parents. I know, I know. How can this be a GOOD memory? My dad forgot he put my new, no-training-wheels, Huffy bike with rainbow streamers and matching basket in his closet. While we were cooking dinner he sent me to his closet to get something. “Dad?” I asked upon my return. “Does Santa hide things in our house before Christmas?” To soften the blow, I got the ride my bike through the house all night. It was AWESOME!
Every Christmas morning since I was 11. My mom has a way of making it perfect. From the music she plays, to the cocoa she makes, to the forgetting where she hid a gift, (I get is several days later.), to her homemade pancakes that I can’t make. (I’ve tried. Boy, have I tried.)
Back to present day…This week has been crazy, but I managed to edit about 40 pages of The Collector. So here is your weekly teaser (I know it’s a replay. But I just love this scene. . . .
We simultaneously grab the same balsa wood stick. My grip tightens.
“Your hand is on my stick,” Caden says with a smirk and firm tug.
I jerk it toward me. “You don’t know what to do with it.”
He yanks hard, pulling me toward him and raises an eyebrow. “I assure you, I know what to do with it.”
We stare at each other, his eyes mischievous and mine daring (and hopefully showing no interest in him). His glance drops to my lips. Yes! I lick them slowly. Caden double blinks and releases the stick. I smirk. Boys are easy to distract.
Have a FANTASTIC