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well thank christ that's over with

Santa: just one more guy who likes to sneak around my house.

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Ah, Christmas. It was wet and it was green. I wore my t-shirt inside-out (which C said was very 80's), went for a run, nearly died (see: run), got called a grinch because I wanted Oona to actually *look* at each toy she was given, yet the mad wrapping-paper-ripping continued, watched Oona's eyes quickly empty of all meaning and comprehension, presided over her (completely expected) consecutive meltdowns, ignored C's attempts to make me look at the IKEA catalogue, planned supper, made supper, we had stuffed turkey breast and baked butternut squash and peas (for C, these must be from Quebec) and extra stuffing and cranberry sauce and gravy, and it all came out fine and lovely and we sat down to eat, and Oona melted down again, and refused to eat any supper, and C and I tried to ignore her, and we talked about how awful Christmas music is, and I said I didn't understand why most of it is made, because it's being made by people like Bryan Adams, and does he really emerge from the recording studio and think, Well, I've really added to the musical legacy of Christmas with that little ditty, because if he does then he needs his fucking head examined, and don't say word one about money because that guy has more free cash than a dozen British bankers, and if he *is* only doing it for the money then that should tell you more about "the season" than anything else you need to know, and then we had dessert, and Oona licked out the filling of her pumpkin pie, and then I'd had enough of that so I took her upstairs where I got to watch her sit on the potty and poop ("No, you can't get up -- I know you have another one in there"), and then she had a long bath, and then I took her out and wrapped her in towels and dried her off on the bed, and then she got to look at her new books, and she melted down one more time, and then I put her to bed, and then that was it, Merry Christmas.

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Here's a *non*-melting-down moment, from the middle of the day, before I started to cook. More to follow (mom).

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Comments

  1. Jon3:41 pm

    Seconded

    ReplyDelete
  2. Eryl5:11 pm

    What is it that makes peas from Quebec stand out, I wonder, is it that same soil plus climate thing that wine connoisseurs talk about?

    ReplyDelete
  3. Kay12:57 am

    ahhh the meltdown child..someday you will look back and wonder how she lived through this time and you didn't end up in jail!!!!
    BTW I loved the book and the wonderful little stuff you sent along. Terrific writing, I can't decide which is my favorite!
    Happy New year

    ReplyDelete

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