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Wishlist Wonders and Winter Widowhood: Teens, Tidings, and Maternal Triumphs

Captain's Log,

December 3rd, 2023.

The crew has submitted their Christmas wish lists, and it seems they believe my role as captain extends to running a shadowy enterprise, confusing my respectable "cleaning" business with something far more dubious. The Duchess, for the third consecutive year, has unleashed an astonishing PowerPoint to Santa, complete with links, colours, sizes, and a meticulously ranked wishlist. It's as if she's navigating the treacherous seas of online shopping with the precision of a seasoned navigator. Extra T.P. has been awarded for her incredible thoughtfulness in making sure we know exactly what she wants.

Last weekend, as Relic rejoined the crew, we embarked on a festive adventure to kickstart the holiday season. Taking after Number 2's penchant for holiday theatrics, notched up top marks for elevating the mundane task of hanging lights to a level of grandeur previously unseen. His ingenuity took center stage as he strung the lights not across the ship but boldly up the antenna at the side of the garage.

The result? A display so extravagantly over-the-top that it's now visible for miles, transforming our humble abode into what seems like an air traffic control center rather than a simple holiday light show. The twinkling lights, reaching skyward, create a spectacle that beckons passing aircraft and leaves us looking more like navigators of the skies than mere celebrators of the holiday season. I half-expect passing planes to radio in for landing instructions.

Enter The Duchess, perpetually averse to any form of manual labour, who found herself reluctantly thrust into the absurdity of the holiday preparations. Her reactions to each task took on a dramatic flair as if we were not just decorating for the holidays but subjecting her to the most arduous trials. In protest, she humorously declared accusations of "child abuse" for supposedly forcing her to partake in such strenuous activity.

Amid the laughter, The Duchess, still protesting her alleged mistreatment, begged to be released from her "chains" of hanging lights and offered a compromise. Her solution? To contribute to the holiday spirit by baking cookies inside the ship. It was an unexpected twist, as she attempted to exchange physical labour for a more palatable, oven-centric form of participation. However, I wouldn't be the Captain I am if I constantly gave in to her demands. I can't have the crew thinking I'm a leader who caves each time her womb gremlins complain. I have made notes in her file.

Fueled by festive cheer and the contagious joy of family chores, I took it upon myself to adorn the entire ship, turning it into a scene reminiscent of a Hallmark Christmas movie. The holiday spirit erupted in every nook and cranny, creating a dazzling spectacle that could rival the Northern Lights. Surprisingly, even the crew eagerly joined in decorating the Christmas tree, sharing stories about their favourite ornaments. I must admit, I skipped the meticulous micro-managing this time—perhaps the influence of the holiday spirits (or perhaps the wine). Following our festive endeavours, the crew descended to the lower decks for a cozy movie night. A perfect ending to this chapter of our Christmas tale.

As inquiries about holiday plans flood in, I find myself constantly reminding the crew and extended family that, contrary to their inquiries, we are not preparing for summer festivities. I have officially become a winter widow, with Number 2 heading into ski season with his mistress- I mean job.

Between December 1st and Easter weekend, planning becomes an exercise in futility. It's ski season, and we navigate these winter seas with an adaptable, fast-and-loose approach, always ready to pivot, and forever the "maybe guests."

I love Christmas and the excitement of decorating is undeniable, but reality sets in on December 1st as I realize I have a mere two pay periods left before the grand celebration. The shocking revelation that stockings alone cost $300 sends a shiver down my spine. A gulp, and a fleeting thought—I may need a new profession, perhaps one involving the sale of feet pictures on OnlyFans.

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