We were hosting dinner on Christmas Eve, so I chased the kids around with Windex, making them wipe the windows before company arrived. "Everything has to be fresh and clean," I explained, "in case baby Jesus shows up." I was raised in a place where people frantically painted their homes in the week before Christmas so that it looked nice and fresh, just in case the infant savior dropped by for a dram of whiskey. I've always thought it was a nice idea, even if it is all a bit concerning from a child welfare perspective.
At that moment, a stray cat meowed outside the window. "BABY JESUS," the kids yelled, and ran outside with a bowl of dry cat food.
"Wait!" I yelled after them, "If that is the Christ Child, you should give Him wet cat food!" Kids, I tell you.
It was a nice Christmas. The roasts were enormous, the Yorkshire pudding was a foot high, the pies were perfect, and I only caught one dish towel on fire. Weeks of living off cookies and candies have reduced my iron levels to barely-living, and I have been falling asleep on armrests and face-down on my desk at lunch. I am ready for everything to get back to normal. If we could find a way to skip New Year's Eve and just head right into 2019 without having to stay up late and listen to drunk neighbors blow their fingers off, that would be great.
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