well OF COURSE Santa brought me a drumset...
why did it never occur to me that my four-year-old never expected NOT to get his desired drumset from Santa? (Is that too many negatives to follow?)I was anticipating joy, shrieking, maybe even tears of joy - however, early this morning he nonchalantly took note of the drumset next to the tree and picked up a wrapped present to rip open. It's not that he was ungrateful or didn't care - he just never in a gazillion years thought Santa would not bring a nice little boy such as himself the drumset he so wanted, and the only thing he'd asked for for the past 6 months. Santa did not, however, bring Mama the requested extra-large bottle of valium and professional-strength earplugs.
Simon went to his first church service yesterday - his first Christmas Eve service. Now he knows all about the baby Jesus and even volunteered during the homily (appropriately, when asked) that there were sheep in the stable when Jesus was born. He dug the stained glass windows of grown-up Jesus preaching to the crowds, and the Ascension, which he actually thought was Jesus taking a quick dip in the ocean. He tolerated the carols but seemed a little bummed that the only one he knew was Away in the Manger, and that they didn't sing Rudolph (which we had sung at the Christmas singalong at the church last Tuesday). Thank God Episcopalians don't go in much for crucifixes, I didn't have to go down that road with him, which is one good reason I did not take him to the church his dad attended while growing up since Catholics really love all that grisly imagery. Well, so do Baptists, to be fair. I vividly remember participating in grade school in a Christmas concert entitled, Born to Die. Those Baptists, they sure know how to do sweetness and light and love. To wrap up the service nicely, Simon threw up all over the vestry and the outside steps of the church. It's a good thing it's a church or we'd never be asked back.
So in yet another Christmas miracle, I got to stay home with my boys. Jude was in bed asleep by 7, Simon pretty shortly thereafter, bravely trying to not throw up, and to stay awake to catch Santa Claus. He did help me put out cookies for the man. Thank God my friend Debi brought us Christmas cookies (may I point out the irony of my Jewish friend delivering bags of Christmas cookies on Christmas Eve?) since I was too sick Thursday to bake a damn thing. And let me tell you, those cookies were good. I need to get Deb to get the recipe from her cookie exchange people, they were light and soft and very lemony. Yummy.
My husband nicely brought home dinner from his mother's (no, Gina, he left the tuna salad there). But he did drag home some horribly lemony crabcakes (good in cookies, not so much in crabcakes), some broiled-to-death salmon. Dan even pointed out that the crabcakes tasted like very strange fluffs of bread, an apt description. Have I mentioned that my mother-in-law is the ONLY Italian woman I have EVER met who can't cook worth a damn? Which is a shame because that might have been the only thing we potentially had in common, was the love of food. Only I love it so much I cook it well.
So we wrapped gifts and assembled the drumset and made a nice sausage-egg casserole thingey for brunch today, and here we are at 11 a.m. Two of my guys asleep, Simon downstairs playing with Jude's toys, and I am about to go conk out on the couch with the new Nick Hornby book Polysyllabic Spree which is all about books, and who reads what why. Not to mention that if you check previous posts, you'll see that syllabic is one of my favorite words. Polysyllabic is even better. Ah.
posted by BabelBabe @ 10:50 AM
2 comments
2 Comments:
I'm sorry to hear there was so much vomiting in your Christmas. Though it makes for a much more entertaining story. Who wants to read about the perfect church service?
I just keep thinking of Simon, dutifully holding back the hurl long enough to point out that there were sheep in the manger. That's a lot of pressure to put on a little kid. What if he'd blown it? Quite possibly no one but Simon knew that the sheep were even there. Without Simon, those sheep might be unsung, forgotten even by Santa.
Only two things would get me into a church: little kids throwing up at exactly the wrong moment, and the restoration of ancient fertility rituals to their orgy-in-the-catacombs splendor.
Was it The Davinci Code where the heroine's parents were involved in some bizarre pseudo-religious sexual rituals in the church? Or am I thinking of some other equally awful but incredibly readable book?
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