I’m leaving later this week for a blogging conference. I don’t travel for work very often, and I would like to tell you that this is because I’m so utterly devoted to my family that I can’t bear to be away from them.

I do love them. And I miss them terribly. But honestly? I rarely leave because it’s just requires so much work.

Over the last month or so, we’ve been transferring all our old family video onto a digital format. I have no idea how we’re doing it, so please don’t even ask. I simply know that there are numerous cables and buttons involved, so I happily back away, leaving the work to my technical support department, also known as my husband.

I understand enough to know that, in order to make the transfer, we need to let the videos actually cycle through the recorder. As a result, the last several weeks have been an intense walk down memory lane as hours upon hours of family video have played through my TV. There have been some surreal moments – it’s disconcerting to be chopping ingredients for dinner and suddenly hear the sounds of yourself giving birth in the next room.

My four-year-old daughter loves the game Candy Land.

Let me say that again for emphasis: my daughter really, really loves Candy Land. As in, I’ve played so much of it in the last several weeks that recently I found myself consciously observing that Queen Frostine has a lovely complexion and I wonder what she uses on her face. It was at this point I realized that A) I’ve been playing too much Candy Land, and B) I may just generally be in need of a night out (and maybe some moisturizer).

My oldest son, Adam, sits happily at the top of the heap right now. He’s a fifth grader, which is the last year of elementary school in our district. He and his fifth-grade cohorts rule the school, getting all kinds of additional privileges (which Adam loves) and additional responsibility (which he often doesn’t).

I love Christmas. I love everything about it, even when the demanding schedules and self-imposed expectations occasionally send me into a momentary tailspin. The week leading up to Christmas, I feel like I could pop right open with the anticipation and joy of the whole big event.

The day arrives, and the world (or at least my living room) explodes into a frenzy of gift wrap and candy-cane-shaped M&M containers and (give-those-to-me-RIGHT-NOW-so-you-don’t-lose-them) gift cards. And socks, of course. They don’t especially have anything to do with Christmas, but where two or more of my children are gathered, there will be mismatched sock explosions in their midst.

And then it’s over.