The boys had a stomach bug the other day. We were woken at 5am on Sunday morning to the pleasant sounds of Monkey Boy screeching at the top of his lungs because he had just vomited all over himself and his bed.
I should include the background. The previous night we had a recreation of the boy who cried wolf story. If for any reason either of the boys do not fancy whatever we give them for dinner they immediately develop a pain in their tummy. I wasgiving the boys spaghetti on Saturday night and Monkey Boy started complaining about such a pain. I duly ignored him and kept shovelling spaghetti into his mouth. After scooping up said spaghetti (half digested) off his sheets I had a long chat with Monkey Boy about how important it is to only say you have a pain when it is true.
Anyway, Sunday morning we cancelled our plans to visit Aunty Lemons and settled down for a day of quarantine and starvation. It wasn’t long before Fat Chops was begging for breakfast but I couldn’t give it to him and he wasn’t at all happy about it. I gave them a drink and set them up in front of the TV to distract them and sat in the kitchen because I felt horrible for denying them food – even though the rational part of my brain knew that it was the best course of action for someone with a tummy bug.
They forgot about food as they entered the TV trance and I was left alone for a good hour until the DVD ended. Then the pestering started in earnest. They begged for breakfast, or something nice or toast or anything and eventually I agreed to get them a cup of tea. They love tea and I thought it would keep them quiet for a while but I couldn’t put milk in it because of the bug. I brought them two cups of black tea and Monkey Boy started protesting straight away saying the he didn’t want “red tea” but Fat Chops took his, said thank you and smiled. He didn’t taste it though.
I went back out to the kitchen and sat down. Not long afterwards Fat Chops came out, stood in front of me and GLARED. Hannah gives a great dirty look and having had my fair share over the years, I am somewhat desensitized to the effects. This was a dark, dark look though. He was very clearly wishing great pain upon me at that moment in time. He then went and placed his cup, very gently, on the table. He went back, stood in front of me, looked at the cup with withering disdain and then gave me the GLARE again. He didn’t say a word but the message was clear “F*** you! I can’t f**king believe that you tried to pass off that sh**ty tea on me!!!”
Then he walked out having not said a word. I felt terrible!
Friday, September 28, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Fat Chops' Revenge
Fat Chops has a little bit of a temper. Nothing major but when things aren't going his way, he will make sure that you (and anyone else with a 50 metre radius) knows all about it. Even knowing that he doesn't suffer fools I was surprised by his outburst on Friday.
I picked them up and when we pulled up outside the house the boys asked if they could play on the green area outside our house with some of the other children that were out there. It was a lovely late summer evening and I thought they should make the most of it so I sent them across the road. Then I went to bring my bag into the house and when I came out Monkey Boy was crying as if he had been shot by a sniper and Fat Chops was hurling abuse at the kids that they wanted to play it not two minutes earlier.
I assumed that one of the kids had pushed Monkey Boy and Fat Chops was fighting his corner. I ran over to console Monkey Boy and when Fat Chops had finished venting he started bawling crying too. Eventually I calmed Monkey Boy down enough for him to tell me that the kids had told them they weren't allowed play with them because they were babies. This was all it took for Monkey Boy to be completely heartbroken and for Fat Chops to be alternately heartbroken/furious. Well, mostly furious.
I brought them inside and told them not to worry about it we were going to go out somewhere nice anyway. Monkey Boy soon calmed down and started to play something else. Fat Chops began to plot.
"I'm going to punch them bold boys in the stomach!"
"I'm going to squeeze them until their blood squirts out!"
"They are bold $%^&"! ^%$$£*!!!"
I don't even know what names Fat Chops was trying to call them but the tone was clear. They were not on the Christmas card list any more.
I will often play a game with the boys where I ask them to show me their angry/happy/sad face and Fat Chops has always done a good angry face but this was different. He meant every word of those threats and given half a chance would do his best to follow through.
He knows how to hold a grudge too, we were coming home a couple of hours later (a lifetime to a three year old) and he was still bemoaning how those kids had "ruined his life" and what he was going to do to teach them a lesson.
I'll be sleeping with one eye open if I ever have occasion to upset him!!
I picked them up and when we pulled up outside the house the boys asked if they could play on the green area outside our house with some of the other children that were out there. It was a lovely late summer evening and I thought they should make the most of it so I sent them across the road. Then I went to bring my bag into the house and when I came out Monkey Boy was crying as if he had been shot by a sniper and Fat Chops was hurling abuse at the kids that they wanted to play it not two minutes earlier.
I assumed that one of the kids had pushed Monkey Boy and Fat Chops was fighting his corner. I ran over to console Monkey Boy and when Fat Chops had finished venting he started bawling crying too. Eventually I calmed Monkey Boy down enough for him to tell me that the kids had told them they weren't allowed play with them because they were babies. This was all it took for Monkey Boy to be completely heartbroken and for Fat Chops to be alternately heartbroken/furious. Well, mostly furious.
I brought them inside and told them not to worry about it we were going to go out somewhere nice anyway. Monkey Boy soon calmed down and started to play something else. Fat Chops began to plot.
"I'm going to punch them bold boys in the stomach!"
"I'm going to squeeze them until their blood squirts out!"
"They are bold $%^&"! ^%$$£*!!!"
I don't even know what names Fat Chops was trying to call them but the tone was clear. They were not on the Christmas card list any more.
I will often play a game with the boys where I ask them to show me their angry/happy/sad face and Fat Chops has always done a good angry face but this was different. He meant every word of those threats and given half a chance would do his best to follow through.
He knows how to hold a grudge too, we were coming home a couple of hours later (a lifetime to a three year old) and he was still bemoaning how those kids had "ruined his life" and what he was going to do to teach them a lesson.
I'll be sleeping with one eye open if I ever have occasion to upset him!!
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Fat Chops and Monkey Boy go to playschool.
There were no tears. It was quite the opposite. They got out of the car and walked to the
playschool chanting “Gynnis, Glynnis” (the name of their teacher). I like to think that it’s because they are
well adjusted boys that were brought up in a loving environment but it might
have something to do with the fact that we regularly leave them with anyone who
will take them off our hands for a couple of hours.
Once they got inside the door, they
vanished from Hannah’s side and went to play with the other kids. The school sent out a letter with advice for
the parents on how to reduce the potential trauma of leaving your children in a
strange place. One of the tips was to
make sure that you said goodbye before they left and reassured them that you
would be back to collect them soon. With
this in mind, Hannah went searching for them in the melee. Again there were no tears, no worrying. Fat Chops response can be roughly paraphrased
as “whatever!” and Monkey Boys’ was something along the lines of “you
interrupted my game for THIS???”
I think their childminder took it the
hardest. Hannah took a couple of days
off to bring them so the childminder was at a loose end. She was so curious to see how they got on
that she arrived at finishing time to say hello. I think it shows how lucky we are to have
someone who is genuinely interested in our children and not someone who is just
doing it purely for the money. If anyone
ever asks what our child minder is like, the best way that I can describe it is
that our boys have three grannies.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Outmanouvred
We went to visit Nana Sheila the other day. The boys had just got a present of some new toys from Aunty Lemons and they were looking forward to showing them off. They are great toys, chunky cars that transform into a dinosaur and back. Well, they would be great except the constantly make noise and no matter how many times I turn the volume down, they always seem to be on full blast.
Their cousin, The Big Show, was already in the house and came to meet them at the door. They love playing with her, she is one of the most imaginative people I have ever met and she is scary smart. Especially considering that she is only 4.
"Hi boys, do you want to play with me?"
They are normally excited just to go to their Nana's house but the presence of The Big Show had taken the hyperactivity up a notch. The answer of course was an emphatic "YES!!"
"OK, come with me", then she paused as if she had forgotten something important.
"Which one of you two like sharing with me?"
We,ve been pushing the sharing thing lately so Fat Chops was literally bouncing when he announced "ME!!" the looked around to bask in our approval.
"Oh good" said The Big Show and she promptly relieved him of his new toy and walked away. Fat Chops stood, slightly bewildered, staring down at his empty hands.
It was a masterstroke. Not only had she taken his toy but she had somehow made it seem like it was a good idea for him to hand it over. If she can pull this kind of stunt now, I feel sorry for her parents when she hits her teenage years.
Friday, May 18, 2012
The Long Drive Home
My nephew (and godchild) made his first communion last Saturday so we packed the family into the car and travelled down to my sisters house. Despite the high potential to do something blogworthy during the ceremony, the boys were impeccably well behaved. Even as the ceremony dragged on past the hour mark they stayed quiet and relatively still throughout.
My sister had organised a bouncy castle to entertain my nephew, his friends and various other kids who were invited to the celebrations and it worked a treat. The boys were unseen and rarely heard for long stretches as my niece and nephew entertained them and included them in their games.
I have to give my brother in law a lot of credit at this point. He did the work of an entire team of caterers by himself. There was lasagne, tikka massala and roast chicken available depending on personal tastes. He cooked, presented and cleaned up everything refusing all offers of help. I would say that he had earned a couple of cold beers by the end of the night but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had two beers and fell asleep in his armchair after the day he had.
We had planned to stay until late afternoon and then head home so that when the boys inevitably fell asleep in the car on the way home we would still have time to wake them, run them around a little bit and get them back to sleep at a reasonable time. The plan changed for a couple of reasons. Hannah was enjoying a nice glass of wine (a real rarity to get some daytime drinking in!), we had just finished eating and a dine and dash would have been a little rude but mainly because the boys were having a great time playing on the bouncy castle and it would have been a shame to interrupt them. We had brought their pyjamas with us and the plan changed to leaving at around eight (when they would normally go to bed), letting the boys sleep in the car and just lifting them straight into bed when we got home.
It should have been a picture book ending to the day. The boys had played all day and their eye lids were starting to get heavy. Myself and Hannah had been fed and watered and had really enjoyed the family day and there was a beautiful sunset off to the west.
Then we got a puncture.
The car wasn’t sounding great so we got out and checked the tyres but everything seemed fine. We got back in, drove a little further and I noticed that the car was pulling badly to the left. This time when we got out the front tyre on the passenger side was very clearly flat. No problem I thought, I will just change the tyre.*
I worked on the tyre while Hannah entertained the boys.** To my dismay, the spare was one of those tyres with a large warning on it not to exceed 80kmph. This meant I was going to be one of those people I despised that chugged along the motorway going 40kmph below the legal limit. I found this incredibly frustrating because I habitually drive too fast and use the speed limit only as a guideline. Very quickly my mood went from full and satisfied to tired and cranky.
Then the interrogation began.
“Daddy, why are you using that baby wipe on your hands?”
“Daddy, why is the sun still awake?”
I figured that I would answer a couple of these and then they would doze off, after all, by now it was nine o’clock and they are usually in bed by eight. Not to mention that any car journey longer than fifteen minutes induces narcolepsy.
80kmph is pretty fast. Unless you are on a motorway where everyone else is driving by at 120kmph or faster. Then it feels like you are driving a hearse. Or that you would be as quick getting out and walking home. In that situation, 80kmph feels like 8kmph and like I mentioned, I am not the most patient of drivers. Most importantly, we discovered that car induced narcolepsy only occurs at speeds in excess of 80kmph.
“Daddy, why are those trees there?”
“Daddy, why are we losing the race?”
He was of course referring to the fact that the cars easing past us gave us the feeling of being parked. The cherry on top was when Fat Chops chose this moment to ask me if I could show him how to tie his laces. I gritted my teeth, bit down the first answer that sprang to mind and let Hannah field that one.
Obviously, Fat Chops didn’t fall asleep until we were five minutes from home and Monkey Boy managed to stay awake the whole way. And, in case you were wondering, no, they didn’t sleep later in the morning after their late night. They were just grumpy all day Sunday instead.
*Interesting aside, to entertain herself while I was changing the tyre, Hannah took a picture and sent it to a couple of my siblings who had been at the party. Without exception they all expressed shock that I could change a tyre. I fully accept that I am more in touch with my feminine side than the average man but I would expect that any woman could change a tyre either. You loosen the nuts, jack up the car, remove one wheel, put on the spare, tighten the nuts and lower the jack. I have no idea to dry line my shed but changing a tyre is not one of the last existing bastions of machismo. I can’t get over how helpless my family think I am.
**In hindsight, this was probably a turning point in the evening. Entertaining the boys consisted of answering questions like “why are we stopped”, “what is Daddy doing?”, “why can’t I see daddy?” and so on. They were obviously just getting in the mood for an in depth interview.
My sister had organised a bouncy castle to entertain my nephew, his friends and various other kids who were invited to the celebrations and it worked a treat. The boys were unseen and rarely heard for long stretches as my niece and nephew entertained them and included them in their games.
I have to give my brother in law a lot of credit at this point. He did the work of an entire team of caterers by himself. There was lasagne, tikka massala and roast chicken available depending on personal tastes. He cooked, presented and cleaned up everything refusing all offers of help. I would say that he had earned a couple of cold beers by the end of the night but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had two beers and fell asleep in his armchair after the day he had.
We had planned to stay until late afternoon and then head home so that when the boys inevitably fell asleep in the car on the way home we would still have time to wake them, run them around a little bit and get them back to sleep at a reasonable time. The plan changed for a couple of reasons. Hannah was enjoying a nice glass of wine (a real rarity to get some daytime drinking in!), we had just finished eating and a dine and dash would have been a little rude but mainly because the boys were having a great time playing on the bouncy castle and it would have been a shame to interrupt them. We had brought their pyjamas with us and the plan changed to leaving at around eight (when they would normally go to bed), letting the boys sleep in the car and just lifting them straight into bed when we got home.
It should have been a picture book ending to the day. The boys had played all day and their eye lids were starting to get heavy. Myself and Hannah had been fed and watered and had really enjoyed the family day and there was a beautiful sunset off to the west.
Then we got a puncture.
The car wasn’t sounding great so we got out and checked the tyres but everything seemed fine. We got back in, drove a little further and I noticed that the car was pulling badly to the left. This time when we got out the front tyre on the passenger side was very clearly flat. No problem I thought, I will just change the tyre.*
I worked on the tyre while Hannah entertained the boys.** To my dismay, the spare was one of those tyres with a large warning on it not to exceed 80kmph. This meant I was going to be one of those people I despised that chugged along the motorway going 40kmph below the legal limit. I found this incredibly frustrating because I habitually drive too fast and use the speed limit only as a guideline. Very quickly my mood went from full and satisfied to tired and cranky.
Then the interrogation began.
“Daddy, why are you using that baby wipe on your hands?”
“Daddy, why is the sun still awake?”
I figured that I would answer a couple of these and then they would doze off, after all, by now it was nine o’clock and they are usually in bed by eight. Not to mention that any car journey longer than fifteen minutes induces narcolepsy.
80kmph is pretty fast. Unless you are on a motorway where everyone else is driving by at 120kmph or faster. Then it feels like you are driving a hearse. Or that you would be as quick getting out and walking home. In that situation, 80kmph feels like 8kmph and like I mentioned, I am not the most patient of drivers. Most importantly, we discovered that car induced narcolepsy only occurs at speeds in excess of 80kmph.
“Daddy, why are those trees there?”
“Daddy, why are we losing the race?”
He was of course referring to the fact that the cars easing past us gave us the feeling of being parked. The cherry on top was when Fat Chops chose this moment to ask me if I could show him how to tie his laces. I gritted my teeth, bit down the first answer that sprang to mind and let Hannah field that one.
Obviously, Fat Chops didn’t fall asleep until we were five minutes from home and Monkey Boy managed to stay awake the whole way. And, in case you were wondering, no, they didn’t sleep later in the morning after their late night. They were just grumpy all day Sunday instead.
*Interesting aside, to entertain herself while I was changing the tyre, Hannah took a picture and sent it to a couple of my siblings who had been at the party. Without exception they all expressed shock that I could change a tyre. I fully accept that I am more in touch with my feminine side than the average man but I would expect that any woman could change a tyre either. You loosen the nuts, jack up the car, remove one wheel, put on the spare, tighten the nuts and lower the jack. I have no idea to dry line my shed but changing a tyre is not one of the last existing bastions of machismo. I can’t get over how helpless my family think I am.
**In hindsight, this was probably a turning point in the evening. Entertaining the boys consisted of answering questions like “why are we stopped”, “what is Daddy doing?”, “why can’t I see daddy?” and so on. They were obviously just getting in the mood for an in depth interview.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Happy Families
I love to think that I am a good writer, that I take reasonably mundane situations and highlight the humour in them. Then other times I re-read what I have written and realise that I am just taking notes on what has happened. This post is one of those other times, this conversation happened exactly as I have written.
We were sitting having dinner tonight and Monkey Boy spontaneously looked at me and said, "I love you Daddy." My heart warmed, I smiled and said "I love you too." Fat Chops, never one to be outdone chipped in with "I love you Daddy" and I returned in kind.
We ate for a few more minutes and then Monkey Boy decided he liked the good vibes his last statement had created so popped up with "I love you Mommy." Before Hannah had a chance to return the sentiment, Fat Chops was jumping on the bandwagon with his own "I love you Mammy".
I was curious to see how far this would go so I asked Monkey Boy, if he loved Fat Chops and he muttered yeah with a shrug of his shoulders that suggested he wouldn't be all that upset to have a room to himself instead.
I asked Fat Chops if he loved his brother and he turned around and said "I love you Monkey Boy". His brother said "good" and went back to his dinner.
We were sitting having dinner tonight and Monkey Boy spontaneously looked at me and said, "I love you Daddy." My heart warmed, I smiled and said "I love you too." Fat Chops, never one to be outdone chipped in with "I love you Daddy" and I returned in kind.
We ate for a few more minutes and then Monkey Boy decided he liked the good vibes his last statement had created so popped up with "I love you Mommy." Before Hannah had a chance to return the sentiment, Fat Chops was jumping on the bandwagon with his own "I love you Mammy".
I was curious to see how far this would go so I asked Monkey Boy, if he loved Fat Chops and he muttered yeah with a shrug of his shoulders that suggested he wouldn't be all that upset to have a room to himself instead.
I asked Fat Chops if he loved his brother and he turned around and said "I love you Monkey Boy". His brother said "good" and went back to his dinner.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Sleep Deprivation II
We put the boys to bed on the other night and went downstairs to watch some TV. All was quiet and we were enjoying a glass of wine until we heard Fat Chops call his brother over the monitor. His calls got progressively louder and more irritated until I ran upstairs to see what the problem was. Fat Chops was not content with just telling me what was wrong, he provided a full re-enactment. Monkey Boy was breathing heavily [he was nursing a slight cold] but to his brothers mind, he was snoring like a train. “He snoring Daddy, he going…”
I got stuck here when I was writing this. Fat Chops was making a theatrical and comically loud snoring noise. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to write that down. I’m sure you know the noise but do you know how to spell it? Answers in the comments section below!
The following night there was another call through the monitor. For reasons known only to himself, Fat Chops had arranged one blanket on each side of his bed and a third on the end. It must have been part of a game because on the other side Monkey Boy had two blankets on one side and the third on the end because his cot is beside the wall. This greatly offended Fat Chops’ aesthetic sensibilities. He stood up in his cot demonstrating how he had blankets “here and here and here” meaning one blanket on each side and one at the end. He then pointed over to his brother who only had blankets “here and here” meaning two on one side and one at the end. To me that made perfect sense because while FC’s cot was closer the door and only the head was against the wall, MB’s was in the corner and it was difficult to hang a blanket over that side. Fat Chops was really aggravated that his brother didn’t share his sense for symmetry. I tried to explain that Monkey Boy liked it that way so it was ok and that Fat Chops could arrange his blankets any way that he wanted. I was told in no uncertain terms that “IT’S NOT RIGHT!!” I tried to explain the practical limitations because of where his cot was but that wasn’t good enough. It soon became clear that any opinion that differed even slightly for Fat Chops’ was not only wrong but completely idiotic. Fat Chops was enraged that I didn’t move the blankets to the correct formation and I got several repetitions of “IT’S NOT RIGHT!!” until I was not ony afraid that he would wake the kids next door but every sleeping child for a half mile radius. I’m not an expert but I’m confident in saying that my son is showing signs of OCD at this point.
Only a couple of nights after these two incidents we had another variation of the “I’m not ready to sleep yet” game. It was just after New Years eve so we put the boys up early in anticipation of them struggling to get back into the routine after letting bed time slide over the Christmas season. They had little or no interest in sleeping again and appealed for a little drink, a toy to play with, more light and when none of that worked Fat Chops decided that he needed a poo. I was sceptical but not prepared to call his bluff. After much grunting and straining he eventually squeezed a small one out. I brought him back into the room and asked Monkey Boy if he needed to go. Initially he said no and then changed his mind. I decided to play along but had a stern talk to him in the bathroom saying that if he didn’t need a poo I would be very angry but if he told me now that he was joking I would still be happy. [Long may it last that they care whether we are happy with them or not!]. He looked me in the eye and said he needed a poo. If I wasn’t sceptical before, the theatrical grunting made sure that I definitely was by now. I was practising my rant in my head when my reverie was disturbed by a splashing sound. Monkey Boy looked up from his throne and asked “Is Daddy happy?” with a look on his face that was somewhere between “didn’t know I had it in me” and “I told you so!”. Daddy was so happy that he couldn’t stop laughing!
I got stuck here when I was writing this. Fat Chops was making a theatrical and comically loud snoring noise. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to write that down. I’m sure you know the noise but do you know how to spell it? Answers in the comments section below!
The following night there was another call through the monitor. For reasons known only to himself, Fat Chops had arranged one blanket on each side of his bed and a third on the end. It must have been part of a game because on the other side Monkey Boy had two blankets on one side and the third on the end because his cot is beside the wall. This greatly offended Fat Chops’ aesthetic sensibilities. He stood up in his cot demonstrating how he had blankets “here and here and here” meaning one blanket on each side and one at the end. He then pointed over to his brother who only had blankets “here and here” meaning two on one side and one at the end. To me that made perfect sense because while FC’s cot was closer the door and only the head was against the wall, MB’s was in the corner and it was difficult to hang a blanket over that side. Fat Chops was really aggravated that his brother didn’t share his sense for symmetry. I tried to explain that Monkey Boy liked it that way so it was ok and that Fat Chops could arrange his blankets any way that he wanted. I was told in no uncertain terms that “IT’S NOT RIGHT!!” I tried to explain the practical limitations because of where his cot was but that wasn’t good enough. It soon became clear that any opinion that differed even slightly for Fat Chops’ was not only wrong but completely idiotic. Fat Chops was enraged that I didn’t move the blankets to the correct formation and I got several repetitions of “IT’S NOT RIGHT!!” until I was not ony afraid that he would wake the kids next door but every sleeping child for a half mile radius. I’m not an expert but I’m confident in saying that my son is showing signs of OCD at this point.
Only a couple of nights after these two incidents we had another variation of the “I’m not ready to sleep yet” game. It was just after New Years eve so we put the boys up early in anticipation of them struggling to get back into the routine after letting bed time slide over the Christmas season. They had little or no interest in sleeping again and appealed for a little drink, a toy to play with, more light and when none of that worked Fat Chops decided that he needed a poo. I was sceptical but not prepared to call his bluff. After much grunting and straining he eventually squeezed a small one out. I brought him back into the room and asked Monkey Boy if he needed to go. Initially he said no and then changed his mind. I decided to play along but had a stern talk to him in the bathroom saying that if he didn’t need a poo I would be very angry but if he told me now that he was joking I would still be happy. [Long may it last that they care whether we are happy with them or not!]. He looked me in the eye and said he needed a poo. If I wasn’t sceptical before, the theatrical grunting made sure that I definitely was by now. I was practising my rant in my head when my reverie was disturbed by a splashing sound. Monkey Boy looked up from his throne and asked “Is Daddy happy?” with a look on his face that was somewhere between “didn’t know I had it in me” and “I told you so!”. Daddy was so happy that he couldn’t stop laughing!
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The Dying Moments of a Christmas Cynic
Maybe cynic is an exaggeration but I haven’t been very excited by Christmas for a long time. I am by no means a Grinch but nor am I one of these people who want to start the Christmas countdown before the Halloween candy has been digested. I love the break from work, I love spending time with my family and friends, I love Christmas dinner and of course I love getting presents.
This year was the best Christmas since my brother* took me into the attic and showed me where “Santa” was hiding the presents.
There is a magic to Christmas and it has nothing to do with getting the latest iPhone or a new aftershave or whatever this year’s cool present was. I caught a hint of it when we brought a tree into the house and start hanging lights on it and we gave the boys some decorations to hang on the lower branches [which would likely be rearranged once they went to bed] and we hoped that they wouldn’t start throwing the baubles to [or at] each other.
There is a certain look that the boys wore on Christmas morning that made me happier than any of the presents I got. It wasn’t when they came downstairs and saw the presents we had laid out for them. It wasn’t when they started playing with the kitchen that I had spent the best part of the previous night putting together.** The highlight of my Christmas morning was when the boys found the plate where we left two biscuits and a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. Now there was an empty glass, a half eaten biscuit and the stump of a carrot. They didn’t even say anything but there was a certainty in their expressions. To the eyes of a three year old this was conclusive and irrefutable proof that a fat man in a red suit came to their house on a flying sleigh pulled by magical reindeer to deliver presents to them as a reward for being a good boy.
Like my sister in law said, it is worth having a kid just for that moment on Christmas morning.
*I was a late starter because it was my younger brother who brought me hunting for the Christmas stash but that was true in lots of aspects of my life.
**This story may still end up getting its own post when I finally recover from the trauma enough to write it down
This year was the best Christmas since my brother* took me into the attic and showed me where “Santa” was hiding the presents.
There is a magic to Christmas and it has nothing to do with getting the latest iPhone or a new aftershave or whatever this year’s cool present was. I caught a hint of it when we brought a tree into the house and start hanging lights on it and we gave the boys some decorations to hang on the lower branches [which would likely be rearranged once they went to bed] and we hoped that they wouldn’t start throwing the baubles to [or at] each other.
There is a certain look that the boys wore on Christmas morning that made me happier than any of the presents I got. It wasn’t when they came downstairs and saw the presents we had laid out for them. It wasn’t when they started playing with the kitchen that I had spent the best part of the previous night putting together.** The highlight of my Christmas morning was when the boys found the plate where we left two biscuits and a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. Now there was an empty glass, a half eaten biscuit and the stump of a carrot. They didn’t even say anything but there was a certainty in their expressions. To the eyes of a three year old this was conclusive and irrefutable proof that a fat man in a red suit came to their house on a flying sleigh pulled by magical reindeer to deliver presents to them as a reward for being a good boy.
Like my sister in law said, it is worth having a kid just for that moment on Christmas morning.
*I was a late starter because it was my younger brother who brought me hunting for the Christmas stash but that was true in lots of aspects of my life.
**This story may still end up getting its own post when I finally recover from the trauma enough to write it down
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