This picture encapsulates the stark terror I am feeling as Christmas approaches. Christmas must be "perfect" or a larger-than-life judgmental figure will show up to peer into your window and take notes. And tell all the other moms, especially your own, about your shortcomings and general lack of organization skills. No, Santa, no! I beg of you! Don't do it! Meanwhile that ultra-loud, ultra-deep voice that characters get when they become oversized bellows out a resounding, pitiless, mocking laughter. "Naughty!" I hear Santa say. "I see papers strewn about! Your laundry room should be condemned! Your office is a pigsty! You still don't have all your decorations out! Santa is displeased!"

See, Dilf's travel has gone so horribly that I want everything to be perfect, a model of domestic harmony, and oozing with Christmas spirit. Songs like "There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays" fill me with anxiety that I will never get everything in place to give my loved ones the Christmas they deserve. Will Dilf be happy to be home, or want to turn around and go back on the road? And, I am responsible for both girls' school holiday parties next week.

I'll do it. I'll get over my paralysis-by-analysis and everything will be fine.

Right? Right.