Last night I had a series of dreams that woke me up at six o’clock this morning, drenched in sweat and clutching my chest. Deep breath. Deep breath. Okay, you’re okay. I splash cold water on my face and curl back into bed with Mason.

The omnipresent list of things I need to get done today starts its march through my head, but I stop it. I remind myself that it’s a holiday. I did all the cooking yesterday, Mason’s gifts are wrapped and under the bookshelf. Today there is nothing pressing. Today is just for breathing, for loving, for peace.

I pay special attention to the part of me that says, “Go, go, go.” The part of me that keeps trying to argue I need to be doing something. Everything. Anything. That tells me to write thank you notes to the in-laws right now. That tells me I have the day off so I should be cleaning. The part of me that keeps chattering about a million little things that need to be done before Monday. Before January. Before next spring. I pay attention, I hear it, I soothe it, but I give it no traction.

Instead we take a walk through the city and I drink tea. I plant hundreds of kisses on Mason and soak up all the sunlight I possibly can. We curl up on the couch, watch The Sopranos, eat leftovers, and ignore our phones. I soak up the stillness.

Merry Christmas.