Not enough sleep to form a coherent post today (it took me four tries to type ‘coherent’ properly) so bear with me. Tristan shared his cold with Simon, and because he couldn’t keep his soother in his mouth for the stuffiness, Simon was up and down all night. And so, therefore, was I. Been up, in fact, since the last soother hunting expedition at 4:29 this morning. WHY can’t I sleep when I’m tired? Gah!
Nothing says Christmas around our house like a sick kid. Tristan’s first Christmas, he had been battling an unknown malaise for a couple of days before Christmas. On Christmas Eve, his fever spiked over 104F, and after a sleepless night we spent his first Christmas Day in the ER. Turned out he had a urinary tract infection, poor wee thing. The next Christmas was relatively uneventful, but last year we were in the ER again when Tristan had a febrile seizure the week before Christmas. Keep your fingers crossed for us this year, will you please?
I haven’t lost my child-like love of Christmas, nor have I lost my child-like inability to focus on business with the holidays looming so close. My brother arrives with his family today, and tomorrow the boys come into my office for a children’s Christmas party. Only a few more hours until I can give myself over to the holidays!
A propos of nothing, did you see the debate in Britain on what to call Elton John’s new Canadian husband, David Furnish? If you missed it, the celebrity couple were among the couples married yesterday, the first day that gay marriage was legal in Britain. Since Sir Elton is officially a knight, courtesy dictates that his consort be given a title as well. The peerage has proposed “Laddy David” which makes me snicker with glee every time I read it. I have no idea why it tickles me so, but I do hope they adopt it.
See, I’m really not focused this morning. Too much excitement on the horizon, too much minutia to slog through to get there.
When in doubt, hand the microphone off to the peanut gallery… got a funny Christmas story? Here’s one to get you started.
My dad was a musician when I was growing up. One year he was playing a gig for a company Christmas party (sorry, Dad, if I slaughter the details), complete with a visit from Santa at the end of the party. The problem was that the fellow who would don the Santa suit had been into the Christmas cheer throughout the party. By the time he was supposed to greet the kiddies, he was three sheets to the wind.
It took them a while to get him suited up, during which time the audience grew more and more excited. Finally, the original Bad Santa stumbled up on to the stage, grabbed the microphone and hollered this most festive holiday greeting: “Ho Fucking Ho!” My dad said there was the briefest moment of shocked silence, followed by the whooshing sound of every mother’s hands closing firmly over every child’s ears.
It’s become a traditional family greeting around our place.
ho fucking ho…cute.
the christmas eve when i was axiously awaiting my sixth birthday (oh, yeah, and the arrival of that santa fellow), my brother and I were tucked all snug asleep in our beds as my parents ran around like crazy trying to get the stockings stuffed and the presents wrapped and all the finalities finalized. They were just about finished when my mom heard the cat at the front door and let her in. the cat streaked by her, but not before she saw the backside of a rat sticking out of the cat’s mouth. she screamed, the cat dropped the rat, it started to run, the cat pounced, and caught it again. Mom was still screaming for my father while chasing the cat, trying to corner her so they could avoid having a rat loose in the house. Dad went around slamming doors shut to aid in the cornering of the cat. finally, they coaxed Smokey to give up her prey, which dad swiftly tossed outside. as they returned to the living room to finish up by the tree, they were greeted by a little almost six-year-old in her red pajamas, holding her dolly and rubbing her eyes. The commotion had woken her and with her voice brimming with excitment she asked, “was that santa?”
I love Christmas stories!
Our family favourite involves our nephew. He was sent home from school a few years ago because his Christmas letter started “Fuck You Big Fat Santa…”
ROFL Too funny, Dani.
Ha! That’s hilarious!
Was just reading your entries at mommybloggers and was lead here by the “Canadianess” of your answers (is that a word?).
Just wanted to give a shout out to a fellow Canuck…great blog, I’ll be reading more…
Merry Christmas!
Well then, Merry fucking Christmas from our house to yours!