We are keeping our fingers crossed that all of our children, who are recovering from head colds, ear infections and rashes due to teething, will be feeling good this time next week. While they were all as booger-free as they could possibly get, we decided to take them for a visit with Santa. The picture with Santa is something I like to do every year. I know that the odds are slim that the photo will actually come out with all children looking at the camera, let alone smiling -- that would be a real pipe dream. Ideally, the best time for a picture with Santa is the earliest photo op of the day, since all children tend to be on their A game at that point. We were hoping to get the boys out on Saturday morning first thing, but Owen had a high fever and we didn't want to risk it. SO, we decided to go on a weekday after work, as we did last year. The mall is four miles from home. It took us a half an hour to get there. (And this mall is considered the "small," "tame" one.) By the time we did, it was ten minutes to five. Apparently, Santa takes his dinner break from five to six. We were the last ones that Mrs. Clause allowed in line. Santa was looking at his watch and giving his wife the hairy eyeball. While this was slightly uncomfortable to endure, having to wait an hour for the next sitting would have been way out of our comfort zone. There are trade-offs.
Owen has not yet asked why Santa, who should be very busy at the North Pole, has spent the week before Christmas riding up and down streets in a fire truck and posing for pictures at the mall. It is a rather bourgeois existence for the man who needs to deliver toys to, well, the whole world. On Sunday evening, Nicholas took Peter's bottle which I had left on the dining room table. He started running with it, and I started to chase him. Silly me. He threw it on the floor, where it burst open and splattered. "Uh-oh," Owen said, "Santa is not going to be happy." I don't know how many times this week I have said "Do you want to go on the naughty list?" but I am SO grateful that Owen can understand its multifaceted implications.
Nicholas is learning the names of all the Little People Nativity figures. It's kind of cool to see him say "Balthasar," "Gaspar" and "Melchiore." We're trying to teach him all of their names, not only so that he learns a greater respect for the true meaning of Christmas, but also so he just won't throw the angel across our living room. Now, when I ask him "Who's missing?" he can actually answer "Baby Jesus." Except, given the day, any other figure might be missing, too. Right now, one of the donkeys is missing, as is Joseph. The camel, who disappeared last night, has made a reappearance. And the animals are starving because the hay bale is gone for the time being. I would search beneath the couch cushions or behind our dining room server, but that would involve getting up right now.
Peter's diaper rash is finally healing up, thanks to three key things: bananas, rice starch infused formula and a hairdryer. Yes, in these cold winter months, I cannot leave Peter bare bottomed for too long, so to dry out the rash, I take him out of the bath, pat him dry with a towel, then put the hairdryer on cool setting and blow away for a minute or two. I'd put it on video, but who has a free hand?!
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