A Christmas Miracle
Christmas is certainly different once the children have grown beyond the age of belief in Santa.
"You better be good," I chided Sam the other day. "Santa is watching."
"Santa is sitting on the couch, watching Judge Judy and sipping water," he answered.
"Santa put on a few pounds," Jake chimed in.
Little bastards.
And it's weird, but despite the fact that the entire time when the kids were little goes by in a blur of sleep deprivation and frenzied mind cramps, some of the excitement of the season is gone.
Last year I figured that it was all because I hadn't stepped foot into a store to buy gifts, so I set aside one day to do it this year.
It wasn't that.
Shopping sucks.
They are tracking Santa on the Internet now. I just read a couple of tweets about how the trip started at 2 a.m. and that this year he has a cell phone with him so kids can reach out.
I'm sure that friggin' thing will ring just as he's gliding down a chimney in Afghanistan somewhere.
Yet Christmas shows itself in a lot of different ways these days.
A couple of nights ago we were heading out to North Collins for mass for my Dad. Sam noticed that there was a huge box of milk bones under the tree.
"You think the dogs will get into those?" he asked.
"Just get in the car," I said. "Sleepy and Slappy don't have the ambition."
Four hours later we returned to find the box torn open and half the bones gone. Both Sleepy and Slappy were denying involvement.
"Who was right, and who was wrong?" Sam asked.
About fifty times.
We laughed about it, and it was really funny teasing the dogs until just as I was straining the pasta we heard a yell from the living room.
"Melky's puking!"
I made my way to the living room where Melky was assembling her third huge pile of milk bones and dog food.
I heard a pan overheating on the stuff. I felt the frenzied aggravation of all the Christmas' gone past. Jake was making jokes. Sam was laughing and dancing. The dog was dry-heaving by now.
I grabbed a garbage bag and the roll of paper towels and yelled for Sam to get the dogs outside and that's when the miracle happened.
Matt took the bag and towels from my hand. He handed the bag to Sam and together the two of them cleaned the mess.
A Christmas Miracle.
Jake, of course, never budged from his seat, choosing instead to throw out one funny line after another.
"How come he doesn't help?" Sam asked.
"That's okay," I said. "Santa is watching."
"Santa better get in here and get some food on my plate," Jake answered. "The smell of the puke really made me hungry."
Who says that Christmas can't still be frantic?
"You better be good," I chided Sam the other day. "Santa is watching."
"Santa is sitting on the couch, watching Judge Judy and sipping water," he answered.
"Santa put on a few pounds," Jake chimed in.
Little bastards.
And it's weird, but despite the fact that the entire time when the kids were little goes by in a blur of sleep deprivation and frenzied mind cramps, some of the excitement of the season is gone.
Last year I figured that it was all because I hadn't stepped foot into a store to buy gifts, so I set aside one day to do it this year.
It wasn't that.
Shopping sucks.
They are tracking Santa on the Internet now. I just read a couple of tweets about how the trip started at 2 a.m. and that this year he has a cell phone with him so kids can reach out.
I'm sure that friggin' thing will ring just as he's gliding down a chimney in Afghanistan somewhere.
Yet Christmas shows itself in a lot of different ways these days.
A couple of nights ago we were heading out to North Collins for mass for my Dad. Sam noticed that there was a huge box of milk bones under the tree.
"You think the dogs will get into those?" he asked.
"Just get in the car," I said. "Sleepy and Slappy don't have the ambition."
Four hours later we returned to find the box torn open and half the bones gone. Both Sleepy and Slappy were denying involvement.
"Who was right, and who was wrong?" Sam asked.
About fifty times.
We laughed about it, and it was really funny teasing the dogs until just as I was straining the pasta we heard a yell from the living room.
"Melky's puking!"
I made my way to the living room where Melky was assembling her third huge pile of milk bones and dog food.
I heard a pan overheating on the stuff. I felt the frenzied aggravation of all the Christmas' gone past. Jake was making jokes. Sam was laughing and dancing. The dog was dry-heaving by now.
I grabbed a garbage bag and the roll of paper towels and yelled for Sam to get the dogs outside and that's when the miracle happened.
Matt took the bag and towels from my hand. He handed the bag to Sam and together the two of them cleaned the mess.
A Christmas Miracle.
Jake, of course, never budged from his seat, choosing instead to throw out one funny line after another.
"How come he doesn't help?" Sam asked.
"That's okay," I said. "Santa is watching."
"Santa better get in here and get some food on my plate," Jake answered. "The smell of the puke really made me hungry."
Who says that Christmas can't still be frantic?
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