The Madness In Photos

The joyful tearing of paper is the soundtrack of Christmas Day.

The only photo I got of everyone, in which half of the family look as if they've been caught doing something illegal.

The future Band of Brothers: Cubby on guitar, Charlie on drums, Jack on tambourine.

Cubby practicing his rock star face, and Jack displaying his rock star flourish.

All that's left now is to play with all the gifts. (And read them, because the most popular gift in our families for our children is books, mostly non-fiction about animals, and they received a total of fifteen new books yesterday. We have a lot of reading to do.)

This Is Gonna Be Awesome

The tree is locked and (over) loaded . . .

Within those packages are a guitar for Cubby, a drum for Charlie, and a whole percussion band-in-a-box for Jack, courtesy of my parents. I actually requested these items on behalf of my children. The cacophony--I mean, the sweet music--should be really impressive tomorrow morning.

The stockings are filled . . .

And I don't have a picture, because my camera needs batteries*, but they're filled with a truly festive collection of office supplies. What, Santa doesn't bring your kids tape and pencils? That's too bad.

T minus 10 hours before the wrapping paper explosion. I can't wait.

* I have some, I just didn't put them in the camera yet. I will, though. Don't you worry. There will be sufficient blurry photos to document the mayhem in the morning.

The Excitement Runs High

One of the things I most enjoy about having three small boys is telling people that I have three small boys. The reactions are always amusing. The less tactful just say, "I'm sorry." (This is kind of offensive, by the way, and you should never say this, even as a joke.)

The more diplomatic say something cheery like, "Wow, you're a busy lady!" The other day, someone replied, "It must be exciting at your house."

Well, yes, I suppose it is. Also, it is very loud.

Also also, there are a lot of improvised weapons.  Like that missile launcher behind Cubby there that is taking aim at the stuffed puppy suspended from the rocking horse.

No puppies were harmed, because Jack managed to liberate Puppy before the missile could be launched.

A Gift for Words

Cubby slept unusually late this morning. He doesn't have school this week, so there was no reason to disturb him. When I finally went in to check on him about 8:45 a.m., he opened his eyes, but made no move to get out of bed. A few minutes after that, I went back upstairs to put Jack down for a nap and found that Cubby still hadn't moved from his bed. So I asked him if he was planning on getting up and dressed anytime soon.

"I can't," he said, his voice muffled by his down comforter. "I'm suctioned to my bed."

Son, I know exactly what you mean.

When You're Up, You're Up and When You're Down, You're Down

Charlie's down. With the latest craze in colds, that is. Probably the same one that I had and that Jack had, which means it's a bad one. I thought we had gotten it from him and Cubby, but maybe not. Who can tell? It's a big, snotty cycle of illness.

As my children would say, "Christmas and illness rhyme!"

Well, not exactly, but close enough that I bet I could compose a very amusing ditty on the subject. As soon as I'm not swiping snot off an upper lip for the millionth time or making yet another cup of tea with honey that will go untouched.

It's kind of like Christmas sickness roulette. Who will be sick on the big day? Who will be healthy? Who will be mostly well but still drippy? Lay your bets now! The winner gets . . . well, nothing, I suppose.

I don't know where I'm going with this. Par for the course these days. Happy Holidays! WHEEE!