Did you ever have one of those weeks? The kind where you’re just waiting for Friday, starting Tuesday?

That was my week. I’m in the ‘less than seven days to release’ slump, where I question every word I wrote, every sentence I tweaked or reorganized, every choice I made as the plot unfolded. It doesn’t help that this story was written in a mad jumble of stops and starts, during hospital visits, at home, in the palliative care department.

People tell me it’s a sweet, low angst Christmas story. A nice little heartwarmer. And I immediately think, “So, there’s not enough tension. Dammit!” And now I’m questioning that choice too.

But it’s done. The baby has grown up and is hopefully off to college. Or has a job. Something. At this point, it’s kind of on its own, much the same way adult children are on their own. They handle most of the job themselves, but Mom is still there to help out getting them started.

Well, Christmas Goes Analog, you know what? You’re a good kid. I like you. I did my best for you. Time to stand on your own two feet.

I promise I won’t chase after the school bus to hug you one last time. We both know how much the Kitten hated that.