Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, probably because I am age-inappropriately attached to my family and prone to nostalgia. And, isn't it incredible and so strange, when you think about it, to have a tree in your house, an enormous just-cut one, the breadth and the smell of it? The other night I babysat Ty (who, at twelve, let's be honest, doesn't really need babysitting--it was more an excuse to make holiday crafts and watch Elf. The main character is Christmas-obsessed and Ty teases that it is really a documentary about me.) 

Every year we set up the creche and arrange all of the little creche figures so that there is some sort of narrative, which over the years has become entirely unbiblical. We do, however, get pretty competitive when unwrapping the figures: everyone wants to get the baby jesus, though any of the other main players (Mary, Joseph, Gabriel, the three Kings) are secondarily desirable. This tradition did not strike me as odd until I told Ali about it, who immediately thought we were Christian fundamendalists. 

Ty got the baby! He's been on a four-year streak. Mom unwrapped the bandit, a one-armed lone wolf with a dagger and a red cape, who is all of our next-favorite. I got a few miscellaneous barn animals, the single mother and two-thirds of the Kings. 

Ty with the Jesus figure (and me, jealous but trying to be supportive):

Hm, what else? Tonight I am going to a belated birthday dinner. I chose the restaurant because they've got nice lighting and really good mac and cheese. 


nora said...

did you make shrinky dinks

Chloe said...

hell yeah