Dear Santa, I Really Do Believe

I left work in a rush, late as usual, to pick up my daughter from the church.  My husband's youth group was having their Christmas Party that night.  She was enjoying herself immensely, playing Foosball and eating too many ginger-chocolate-chip-sprinkled-whoopee-pie cookies.  The Good Mother in me cringed inside because this would be the second night in a row she'd had a bunch of sweets at a Christmas Party.  The Fun Mommy in me was excited she was enjoying her Christmas.  I'm sure the two will always be at war.
Close to 9pm, I decided we needed to leave.  The kids begged us to stay as Bob, one of my husband's Core Team members, left the room and came back in wearing a Santa hat and dragging a giant blue bag over his shoulder.  He flung the bag down on the ground and bellowed, "MERRY CHRISTMAS TO THE SHEAS!!!"
Inside the bag were many many packages of diapers.  Attached to the diapers, as well as scattered around in the blue bag, were envelopes for greeting cards.  My daughter began to be sleepy and cranky, so I thanked everyone and we left.  She went to bed fairly easily that night and I started opening the envelopes.
Lovely Christmas Cards and New Baby Congratulations Cards, all filled with well-wishes and promises for prayers...  as well as cash, checks, and gift cards for gas, groceries, and our favorite restaurants.
I was alone when I opened these envelopes and felt the sweetness coming out of each one.  My husband was still at church, waiting on the last parents to pick up their children so he could begin to clean up after the party.  I sat on the couch, my giant belly aching and my lower back protesting.  I kind of teared up a bit.  I didn't even know all of these people.  Some woman who's name I had never heard before gave us a $100 gift card to Shell Station so we could afford all the upcoming out-of-town hospital visits.  Altogether, there was over $1000 in cash, gift cards, and diapers.
Only three days later, I was in my hospital room all by myself.  I was scared.  
There was a knock on the door.  I got excited; I thought it was my husband returning with my daughter.  But it wasn't.  It was a florist with a delivery.

The card attached says, "Congratulations.  We love you and we'll miss you.  Merry Christmas."  It was from my employees.  This gorgeous bouquet would follow my family from hospital room to hospital room to hotel over the next two weeks.  It would be our good luck charm and our Christmas Tree.
By the next day, my husband had returned with my daughter.  My sister and her husband and their two kids were there; as well as my Dad and my Grammy and my Mom.  It was the first time in many years we'd all been together in the days before Christmas.
We'd been told that there wasn't any room in the NICU so we'd have to wait another day to deliver.  The immediate benefit of that news nugget was that I could eat, since I'd not eaten anything in 26 hours.  By the time we found out, though, the hospital breakfast boat had long since sailed.  So my husband went below decks to scrounge for food.  He came back 30 minutes later with the Queen's Bounty.  A yogurt parfait with berries and granola, a sausage biscuit with gravy and ketchup for me to choose my preference, a cranberry and orange scone, and a decaf pumpkin spice latte.  He had also found time to swing by the hospital gift shop and pick up these:

His 'n' Hers Christmas Coffee Mugs.  Guess which is His and which is Hers...
In the midst of chaos and fear, my husband found time for giving and laughter.  With the family and our favorite nurse gathered around me in my bed, he presented me with these mugs.  So silly and so perfect.