Tis the season! I am soaking up the recovery. The house is all fa la la. I mean it is f-ing tinseling in fa la la la. There are ribbons, bows, reindeer, santa hats, lights, candles, cinnamon spiced smelly stuff in jars, peppermint hand soaps and Christmas towels, colored lights on the house, wreaths and snow drift placemats. I have stockings, nutcrackers, snowflakes, and candy canes. I have paper cuts from wrapping and damaged taste buds from licking envelopes (nah not really I made the kid do that). There are chocolate advent calendars and promises that SANTA IS WATCHING! I made some Christmas owl cookies. They looked so cute going into the oven. But they came out all angry and shit. Why must everything be so dramatic? Just stay CUTE! Anger management still tasted really gingerbready good so there were no set backs on my progress of my Christmas off season layer. Tis the season! Oh, I already said that.
So there I was having some wine and my daughter asked if she could eat all the chocolates from the Christmas Chocolate Bowl. Christmas Chocolate Bowl? Oh like you don’t have a Fuck It Bucket? Well, maybe you should.
“Sure baby girl,” I waved my hand deeming approval, “Go ahead.” My five year old proceeded to amaze me as she chipmunked all the sweets into her cheeks. Amusement ended when a foreshadowing thought would have been appreciated my son discovered the destruction of precious rarities. While he staggered around the house crying like a shot seagull, my daughter salted his wound with, “Mommy said I could.” Thanks Girl MacBeth.
My son wants to be a gold miner. My daughter mimicked his entrepreneurial desires, “I want to be a gold miner too!”
“No, no dear,” I corrected, “That’s gold digger.”
I took my kids to the Nutcracker ballet.
They were really good up until ten minutes from curtain. My son began to lose it. He slouched into his seat with spastic leg kicks and with a Golem like voice stammered out repetitively, “Nut-Crack-ER! NUT-CRACK-ER! Nut—CRACK–EEEEEER!” Thankfully the clapping began before there was a full head rotation. Next up, Trolley of Lights! What could possibly go wrong in 90 minutes?
They made their Santa letters. Brilliantly, I did all the shopping before they made their requests. I’m just gonna roll with, “You don’t really know what you want. Santa, HE knows what you want.”
My son keeps declaring that he wants to marry a Jewish girl. He anticipates celebrating both Christmas and Hanukkah like the Bare Naked Ladies trying to cash in on songs about both Bethlehem and Dreidels.
I haven’t explained to the Gold Miner the economics on being the Daddy on that operation yet. Ah magic.
It really is the most, wonderful, time of the year.