And it has occurred to me that that entire poem is kinda bullshit, because it’s 8:30, all but two of the presents are wrapped and under the tree already, and whatever my wife and I are about to settle down to it is sure as shit not going to be a “long winter’s nap,” because we both know good and goddamn well the boy is going to wake both of us up before seven. There’s no way those children were all snug in their beds. They were waiting.
I, of course, in my role as Chief Troll of the household, have told the boy that he can’t open any of his presents until our small coterie of guests arrives at 4:00 tomorrow. We won’t hold him to that– and he knows it– but it’s still fun to say. I probably shouldn’t enjoy crushing my son’s soul as much as I do but at least he knows me well enough that he never believes a single thing I say any longer.
End-of-year posts will start soon; I usually do my Best Books post a couple of days after Christmas, but I feel like my book choice over the next few days is going to be really important to my timing. I know I just finished one today that might make the list, and there’s a couple that are high up in the rotation right now that have been really positively received. We’ll see what happens, I suppose.
So… four years ago, maybe? my son contracted the nastiest case of hand- foot- and mouth syndrome I’ve ever seen. This isn’t saying much, as I know so little about the disease that I keep insisting on sticking the word hoof in there whenever I have any reason to bring it up. The boy, to be clear, lacks hooves. But whatever he had, it was Goddamned horrible– there were scabs all over him, particularly around his face and his eyes, and he was basically a giant ball of horror and misery for a week and a half or so before it finally cleared up.
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