I ate a huge dinner yesterday cooked by my 72-year-old Mom, who is still an amazing cook. My wide-eyed five-year-old daughter described how she heard Santa's reindeer on the roof on Christmas Eve. My 18-month old son crawled onto my lap with one of his dozen board books and stabbed his little index finger at pictures of tarantulas and dolphins and panthers and told me what they were -- or what he thought they were.
The sun broke out after several days of rain, and everyone was glad for the brighter skies. It was nice to be on the leading edge of a long weekend. I've got a few around-the-house projects to occupy me and a leak I'm watching (the joys of owning a house built at the end of the Roaring Twenties). I think water may be dripping from the shutoff valve under the main kitchen sink. I just finished wrestling off the corroded, leaking faucet on the prep sink and replacing it, so this isn't a project I'm looking forward to.
So there's plenty of stuff to think about. But one thing I'm not thinking about: my knees.
They work fine. They have been working pretty well, in fact, since I published Saving My Knees. After I made the book available, I had a little nagging doubt: "What if the knee pain returns? Will I be some kind of a fraud, peddling a story that doesn't really have a happy ending? Will I have to contact everyone who bought the book and refund their money?"
But that never happened, thank God. My knees just kept getting better.
So my holiday wish to all of you is don't give up hoping. I made it through. There is a way.