Rich To Us

Have just come back in from assembly and mounting of twinkling snowmen in front yard, bringing with me frozen fingers and strange sense of accomplishment.

Twinkling snowmen, though there are many of them, are dwarf-like. They are bound to be the laughingstock of my Wysteria Lane-ish neighborhood, competing with the likes of fully-lit lamp posts and hula hoop-sized mounted wreaths.

But did I mention, they twinkle?

Several neighbors passed by while I was out there. Neighbors in possession of fresh-cut trees. Neighbors with large families to visit and parties to throw. Neighbors who, I'm certain, get a good kick out of me and my little snowmen and my garland-strewn, unpowered lamp post.

Back inside, my children eagerly inquire if the twinkling snowmen are ready, if they are twinkling yet? No, not until dusk, I tell them.

Mom has gone a little automatic timer crazy this year. Dusk has become quite a flurry of excitement for the three of us. Tree and mantle and staircase - and now, twinkling snowmen - come to life all at once. We ooh together. The glow around them is so warm for those few moments, I can almost touch it.

Life has been tricky these past few years: lots of loss, lots of adjustments. Not a lot of twinkling on the outside. Not a lot of twinkling on the inside, either.

But we're a tough little bunch, the three of us, and we're bouncing back. We have a lot to be happy about: warm beds. Plenty of food. A strong probability that Santa will stop by to bring a little something.

And we have each other - a fact that I am known to occasionally lament as Too Much of a Good Thing (particularly when bedtime is at hand) - but one that makes all the difference in the grand scheme of things.

And we are starting to twinkle again - inside and outside.