It's December 20th. Pencils down.

A little arrow of joy sailed into my heart this morning to realize it is the twentieth of December. 

Because. When you are in the twenty-somethingth of December, you are not close, but really close to Christmas. And, in my blue exam book of what holidays should really mean, this means pencils down. 

This means it's time to do stuff that matters. If you're a list and task freak, all stressed out over what you haven't done yet, it's time to realize that if the only holiday plates and napkins left at The Paper Store have toys and snowmen on them, that's fine.

Ever since I was a wee me, there has been something magical about December 20. 

Back then, it meant the start of classroom parties and school vacation and the long awaited (and single showing) of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and Frosty the Snowman. 

Afternoons started to turn dark before the bus finished dropping us off, and little homes with candles in the windows made every neighborhood look like villages in a snow globe.  

For me, December 20th starts a short stretch that is not about undone tasks on the real list, but stuff that you've been adding to the spirit list like this:

Thank someone for making a difference in your life. You know someone did.

Pick up a simple sugar cookie mix, make many of them, and only use green and red sprinkles.

Say something encouraging to a stranger who looks like they're making an effort.
Change the whole day of someone who is off, or down, or anxious with a heartfelt compliment.
If someone needs space, give it to them. If someone needs attention, give it to them. 

For me, in these last days, have-to's become hope-to's which eventually yield to want-to's as time, blessedly, runs out.

I was hoping to receive and wrap the balance of gifts I've ordered by now. I was hoping I'd find a new centerpiece for the Christmas Eve table. It would have been nice to replace some of the linen and towels before everyone arrives. I should buy new candles. 

But it is December 20th now and my "want to's" are here.

Handwritten cards - meaningful ones - will be composed  for best friends and others.

There will be a date with my husband in a quiet place where we will likely have a conversation about life; how it changes, how it doesn't, and how it should, and what memories that we'll embrace in the future have yet to be made.  

There will be a reunion with our other-coast daughter who just got married and is bringing her new husband into our mix of festivities and traditions for the first time.

There will be meaningful conversation with another daughter and her husband about career dreams and marriage and life goals and raising children and other stuff that matters.

There may be attempts on the part of both of our sons to teach me about football again with diagrams on post-its of tiny figures and directional arrows. I will not understand them a week from now, but will add them to the others that I keep in a box near my bookcase.

And as this day fades into tomorrow, marking exactly two years and one month since my father's death, I will focus on a memory I've gone back to a few times over the last four weeks.

It was Dad's last Christmas Eve with us, his nineteenth.  At the end of the night, he said the same thing he said every year. "This was the best one ever. I don't think you can top it, next year."

In a few days, when Christmas is finally here and we raise a glass, I will think about that and offer a special toast to Dad, the best one ever. 

Happiest of holidays to you. Make them the best ever, surrounded by people who know what they mean to you, because you've told them.