I remember nodding my head furiously when someone told me that "it takes a village to raise a child," not because I really understood what it meant, but because I liked the mental picture of the grass hut and the village of people gathered around the child. I imagined they'd all cluck over it, vying for it's attention and offering advice and suggestions to the mother.

People with large families are probably rolling their eyes at my description while they reach for their anti-anxiety medication and turn the ringer off their cell phone to make sure that Aunt Mary isn't calling for the eleventy-fifth time that hour. Whereas I wish anyone in my family gave enough of a shit about me to call and bug my face off.

I've always fantasized about the obnoxiously loud Christmas with Uncle Vernon barfing in the bathroom after chugging half the bowl of eggnog, while Aunt Marge clucked over my children, reminding me that in HER day, children obeyed their elders and walked miles in the snow to school without shoes. I wanted chaos and mayhem and destruction and dogs eating the Christmas Ham to be able to roll my eyes and be all, "the holidays, BLECH!" to my friends.

Instead, my holidays are sedate. The rest of the year is pretty quiet too.