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THE DIRT

My very merry imperfect Christmas

Christmas

It was well past midnight last Christmas Eve, and I was sweaty and suffering.

While my daughter, Jellybean, was tucked snuggly in bed, dreaming of American Girl dolls, I was hiding in the garage, pacing the cement floor in a panic having realized that the giant inflatable ball — the kind so big that kids can climb inside — which I’d spent the better part of two hours blowing up, wasn’t going to fit in the house.

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