Merry Belated Everything!

ARGH so I have no time to actually post anything substantial because I have a second wave of family arriving today and I have to mop floors and buy more booze but that last post is bumming me out especially because Christmas was absolutely 100% non-bummer-like in the slightest EVEN THOUGH it involved one teeny tiny little harmless emergency room visit and no I'm not joking but I'll tell you about that later because TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY COUGH AHEM COUGH so here:

(Pro tip: Forget holiday cards. New Year's cards are the last-minute procrastinating SHIT, y'all.)

Peace in Brain, Goodwill Toward Self

I can't tell you how many first sentences I have written and deleted in the past couple days. "So here's the thing," I'd start, then be unable to put the thing into words.

Other times I'd try skipping the pointless preamble and just say it, but then would be irritated by the unpoetic obviousness: the well-duh-ness of it.

Then I'd think that I didn't really want to publish anything that might bum people out right before Christmas ANYWAY, so maybe I'll just go do something else until a different, funnier topic occurred to me. And yes, the Star Wars snowflakes were Exhibit A of "doing something else", along with baking. So much baking. I don't even particularly love baking, but I did it anyway. Batch after batch of cookies, until I finally up and ran out of sugar yesterday. 

So it's either finally sit down and post something or vaccuum. 

We're hosting Christmas this year, for the first time ever. This is not the thing, of course, because I'm happy to do it. We bought this particular house with holiday hosting in mind -- albeit that was waaaay back before we went and filled every bedroom with wall-to-wall children and reached a toy-and-baby-gear occupancy level that also is approaching deadly stadium crush levels. I knew my mom wouldn't be able to host Christmas much longer so I figured we could step up and take over at some point. 

That point is now. You know, because my dad's dead.

Aaaand: Pall. Cast. 

And also, I know, right? Holidays are hard after you lose someone! Especially the first holiday! Because that person won't be there and they were an important part of the emotional fabric of that holiday and so the reality of your loss gets to punch you in the chest a little bit more than usual. My goodness, Amy, that's quite an astute observation there. Has science been notified of your shocking findings?

My children are beside themselves with excitement. Presents! Santa! Cookies! Nana and aunts and uncles and COUSINS TO PLAY WITH!  Despite family-wide agreements to not go overboard with the presents, the floor-to-almost-ceiling stack of Amazon boxes in my bedroom suggest that we all pretty much failed spectacularly at not overcompensating and buying our feelings or anything. I'm actually massively relieved that the only traveling expected of us is a couple trips to the train station, and am super excited about Christmas morning and Christmas dinner and omg, the toy parking garage we bought for Ezra is going to MELT HIS FACE OFF. 

And it's Ike's first Christmas! Probably the last "first Christmas" we'll have with a baby. I bought them all ridiculous coordinating Christmas pajamas and I'm going to let them all eat cookies all damn day and watch A Christmas Story 14 times in a row while building Lego sets and it will all be so wonderful, I just know it. 

And yet, oh. I just wish he was here too. 

Merry Geekmas

(Sorry, Star Trek! Mama's bringing things back to her fandom this Christmas.)

(Even though she's usually about as crafty as your average garden slug.)

(So please don't look too closely at R2D2. He was tragically maimed in a freak gasoline fight accident.)

(Though Boba Fett turned out pretty badass, I think.)

(Printable DIY Star Wars snowflake diagrams are here, though I'm serious: the R2D2 one will make you want to punch kittens in the vagina.)

(I still need to make Yoda and C3PO, but decided a little break was in order after I started seeing the face of Darth Vader on my parchment paper while baking Christmas cookies.)

(RIGHT?)

(Totally.)

(Thanks to Jackie for the snowflake link! It's not I had anything productive to do during all those hours.)

(PARENTHESES!)

BABY WANTS BRAAAAINS

At some point, Baby Ike moved past that phase where he would attempt to latch on to anyone who happened to be holding him right when the milk cravings hit. Oh hi, General Chestal Region Of Random Human! I am hungry. Your shirt angers me so much. 

Now he seems pretty clued in to the fact that I, alone, am Milk Lady, and that my General Chestal Region is special and magic and all that.

And also this:

WHY DOES MILK NOT FLOW OUT OF YOUR FACE ARGH NOM NOM GRRR

This is Ike's special Milk Lady greeting. If I'm holding him, chances are he will be attempting to suck on my cheek, lips or nose while squeezing whatever else he can get his fists around AS HARD AS HE CAN. I believe it is technically done out of love and affection, but if you're feeling a bit left out, you can easily recreate the sensation at home by attacking your own face with a vaccuum cleaner attachment.

(That also has teeth.)

(I think Dyson makes one.)

(Thanks to Tracey for taking the above picture on Friday, but not for laughing hysterically while my face-sucking amoeba baby yanked out handfuls of my hair and I struggled to prevent a festive holiday hickey.)

WE'RE GONNA NEED A BIGGER LAP

(Photo from 2010, and all the years that done come before that.)

While waiting in an absolutely-ridiculous-for-a-Wednesday-night-are-you-kidding-me-with-this-nonsense line for Mall Santa, I realized that I am officially becoming That Mom: Things that were once a magical part of parenthood that I was so excited to participate in are now mostly just a colossal pain in my butt. Like taking the kids to see Mall Santa. 

Can you believe we've been doing this for six straight Christmases now? That we used to do it completely voluntarily and unnecessarily when Noah was a baby and didn't give a rats' ass about seeing Mall Santa?But no matter! You are seeing Mall Santa, small turtle-like infant! MAMA WINS AT MEMORIES.

Now, of course, there's no getting out of it. Traditions have been established! Myths have been perpetrated! Lists have been written!

Well, okay. That right there warms my grinchy heart a little. (ALSO A LOT.) After close to four years of fine-motor occupational therapy and handwriting help, plus six months of "Noah is demonstrating some red flags for dyslexia, let's keep our eyes on that" (BECAUSE THE FUN JUST NEVER STOPS), it completely thrills me to see him pick up a crayon and just...write, sounding out letter after letter, making the more non-phonetic aspects of the English language his adorable, chicken-scratchy bitch.

(Thing #1 is a "SHUTTLECRAFT." From Star Trek, of course. But those are not actually readily available these days, since the cool kids are all into...I don't even know. Battle hamsters? Isn't that an actual thing? I also bought my nephew some of those Beyblade whatevers, which was a frightening and disorienting experience because I STILL HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I JUST PURCHASED. AM OLD AND EASILY STARTLED. But Jason was able to track down an acceptable die-cast shuttlecraft that's actually older than Noah himself, so now we just have to shake the guilt we feel over purchasing some collector's beloved mint-in-original-packaging life's work in order to indulge our six-year-old's current obsession du jour.)

(Things #2 and #3 are both Lego sets. Because we have 4,593,029 Legos in our house, which is not! enough! Legos! Even though my College Anxiety Dream [I have a final for a class I never attended and don't even know for sure where it is] and my Waitress Anxiety Dream [my section suddenly fills up with dozens of tables and no one is ordering from the menu and my pen doesn't work and the manager tells me I also have tables at the restaurant's other location so quick get on this bike and pedal on over before people get mad and leave] have both been replaced with the Lego Anxiety Dream [I'm trying to board a flight at the airport and Legos start falling out of my luggage, and as I frantically pick those up I realize there are actually hundreds of Legos scattered everywhere and I can never get them all and I wake up in a panic because DON'T TELL NOAH I LOST THE HARRY POTTER LEGO FIGURE'S HAIR OMG.])

Ezra has no such list, or even any specific requests besides "PWESENTS!" Sometimes he'll say "ZOMBIE PWESENTS!" but most of the time I sense he'd be thrilled to unwrap a giant box of those air-filled packing pillows that Amazon uses. Those are a good foot-stompin' poppin' time, you know. He's getting a baseball glove, a karate uniform and a first aid kit. 

And Baby Ike? Well, he's getting a couple hand-me-down baby toys that I plan to lovingly dab at with an antibacterial wipe and then wrap up nice for the photos. Sorry, kiddo. But this is ain't my first rodeo. I put you in a ridiculous vest and dragged you through dirty, contagious crowds of strangers and plopped you on some random old dude's lap while a woman in an elf costume waved bells and squeaky toys in front of your face. Clearly, I have more than fulfilled my holiday duties to overwhelm and bewilder you at every possible occasion. 

Christmas Carnage

Okay, let's go over this one last time.

I am not a toy. I am not an action figure. I am a 2004 Frodo Baggins Hallmark Keepsake ornament, currently going for $6.99 on eBay, which is...definitely some fraction of my original purchase price, not that I'll ever go for $6.99 on eBay because some wretched child was all, "MY FRODO TOY!" and broke my sword out of my hand no less than 30 seconds after I was out of the box and unwrapped from last year's newspaper. 

My sword! The famed short sword Sting, gifted to me by Bilbo Baggins and carried throughout my quest across Middle Earth, magically warning me of nearby orcs by glowing blue!

I mean, it was like, totally important! I needed it! Goddamn.

Oh, cry me a fucking river, halfling.

Look at me. My goddamn arm's off.

Because YOU try explaining to a preschooler that a small plastic TOY-like version of a TOY cowboy from a movie called TOY Story is not actually a toy. 

And shut up, Buzz. For the last time, I am not the wind beneath your stupid wings, so stop singing that. We're posed awkwardly enough as it is.

EEEERRRGGGH. ARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH. 

Oh god, what is that? I can see directly into its chest cavity! Kill it, Frodo! Hurry! It's moving closer!

BRAAAAAAINSSSSS. DEATHSTARRRRR.

I DON'T HAVE MY SWORD ANYMORE, YOU JACKASS. BUT THANKS FOR BRINGING THAT UP AGAIN OH SHIT IT'S RIGHT THERE AAAAAAHHHHHHHH

(muffled, ongodly screams, assorted zombie munching sounds)

MEANWHILE, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE TREE, TALKING BORG CUBE ORNAMENT IS PRAYING:

Please don't let the tall one be into Star Trek yet. Please don't let the tall one be into Star Trek yet. Please don't let the...

FIN

Weekend Things From All The Things

Weekend Thing One:

Another three months, another belt test.

Another hilarious ("HILARIOUS") and obligatory video of the board-breaking moment and belt ceremony, during which Noah was specifically, personally warned -- upon penalty of FAILING -- not to touch his board or bring it up to the front, which he always does, because...well, have you ever broken a damn board with your foot? Me neither. I imagine I'd probably glue that thing onto a fascinator and then never take it off, just to warn people not to mess with me, I WILL BREAK YOUR ARM OFF AND USE IT AS A CHIN STRAP FOR THIS HERE HAT, M'KAY?

Anyway. Noah obediently placed his board next to him and put his hands back on his knees while other students were called up to receive their new belts. And then Jason and I watched as he sl-o-o-w-ly started losing focus and succumbing to the siren call of Shit To Fidget With and picked his board back up.

"NOAH, NOAH!" you can hear Jason and I frantically hissing from behind the camera. "PUT YOUR BOARD DOWN. NOAH, NOAH! NO BOARD DUDE, NO BOARD!"

Our whispers got increasingly desperate (read: loud) with each kid's name and finally he turned around and heard us, just in time to put it down and head to the front for his belt. 

"OH MY GOD," I groaned, even though I really meant "HOLY FUCKBALLS." But I did not say that, because honestly? Noah's karate teacher scares the hell out of me, too, so I try to stay on my best behavior.

***

Weekend Thing Two:

So babies are, obviously, born with the ability to somehow KNOW that their parents have bragged about what good sleepers they are. Even if it's nothing more than a Facebook status update, they KNOW that you have broken the code and invited the wrath and eaten something from the table with That Thing With Eyeballs In Its Palms From Pan's Labyrinth. They will wake up seventeen dozen times that very night and there's nothing you can do about it. You asked for it, you big dummy. 

I was totally betting it might work in the reverse when I called Ike out for being a crap sleeper last week. Maybe, JUST MAYBE, his instinct to Prove Mama Wrong All The Time could be tricked! "Oh, you think I'm a terrible sleeper? Well, look at me! Look at me sleep! Don't you feel silly now?"

(Or alternately: "Oh, you think THAT was terrible? HA HA HA I'M GOING TO WAKE UP EVERY 15 MINUTES FOR NO REASON AT ALL.")

Back in the days when Ike was a mostly pretty good sleeper, his bedtime originally settled around 9 pm. Late, yes, but it was nice because I could help get The Other Two into bed before getting called up to Boob Duty, and Jason could squeeze in some baby cuddle time that didn't involve The Other Two dive-bombing Ike's face over and over and over because Baby Ike! Baby Ike! Baby Ike! He's so cute! We want to hug his neck with a vengeance!

Eventually it was clear that 9 pm was entirely too late and he was going to pieces by then, so we tried edging it up. But then there was his tendency to take a late, short catnap around 6:30ish, which yes, YES I KNOW, was not a good idea but it allowed me to get the stupid mac n' cheese on the table and the cocktails in the shaker, so I went with it. But the nap wasn't long enough to really count as sleep and yet was just enough to take the edge off for a few hours, at which point Ike would lose his shit when he went from zero to massively overtired in a span of a few minutes.

We tried an 8:30 bedtime, then 8, and even a 7:30. Still hideous. I tried getting him to take a nap earlier, at a more appropriate time. Swaddling, no swaddling. Adding an extra, post-boob bottle. Same result: A screechy, exhausted baby who would not put himself to sleep without maximum sturm und drang, and who would, at best, sleep fitfully all night, with lots of wakings and irritation, until finally conking out good and cold at...oh, 5 am? Maybe 6? HOW'S THAT WORK FOR YOU? 

But now it's looking increasingly like we just hadn't moved his bedtime up early enough. That 6:30 "nap" was actually him trying to tell us to knock that shit off and put him to bed already. 

So now Ike's bedtime routine kicks off Early Bird style...by 6:15 he's in the bath, by 6:30 he's changed and lotioned and strapped into his Nighttime Battle Armor Diaper, and then we rock and nurse and sing for a little bit and he's out like a light by 7 pm. 

And on four out of the last five nights, I haven't heard a peep from him until 7 am.

Oh the fifth night, he woke up once, at 3:30. I nursed him and he went back down within 15 minutes. I sense that waking was a warning because I think he somehow knew that I was thinking about writing this post. 

HA HA CHILD I STILL HAVE LEARNED NOTHING. I WILL PUT YOU TO BED AT FOUR PM IF I HAVE TO, THEN GO OUT FOR A $6.99 STEAK DINNER IN BOCA. 

Weekend Thing Three: 

Ezra left this for me in my phone's photo library. I...I don't know what it is, but it is oddly reminiscent of a Top Chef Quickfire challenge, no? 

Ezra Storch, your Next Top Iron Chef Food Network Chopped Star From Hell's Kitchen Challenge

Oh No Oh God Not More Cloth Diaper Talk Stop

I had a brief flash of menstrual-cycle panic this week, while Jason was away. I found myself sitting in the nursery, happily contemplating the various ways I could organize the contents of my brand-new changing table, while eating black olives out of the can. 

Good news! I am not pregnant in the slightest, but do seem to have retained a few of my weirder pregnancy habits and compulsions. 

BEHOLD

I know what you're thinking: Who in their right mind buys a new changing table when her third baby is already six months old? 

Well, duh. Obviously I make no claims about being in my right mind, but whatever. In addition to the ruined-by-way-of-wipes-warmer surface on the old table, the crappy particle-board back had completely fallen off, a door hinge was busted and wouldn't close and finally one of the drawer guides snapped off and broke in two, and also I kind of own too many freaking diapers at this point OH RIGHT THAT.

Consider this my cautionary tale to anyone trying to justify spending a small fortune on nursery furniture because you know it will totes grow with your child and they'll use it their whole lives and take the changing table to college as a desk or whatever. If you or your children manage to not completely destroy the stupid thing by preschool, it's a damn miracle, albeit a miracle you may feel slightly annoyed by because ARGH I CHANGED MY MIND AND AM SO SICK OF THAT DAMN FURNITURE.

(For the record, no, I have zero idea how I'm getting the old changing table out of the nursery. Jason's back is acting up again and the table is pretty heavy and awkward even without the drawers. But fiddle-dee-dee, I'll just shove it in the corner and ignore it for now. Or for a few months. And now you understand why I end up living with tires in my foyer for close to a year.)

So I know there are people who like to tell pregnant women that they don't even need one changing table in the first place, that it's a dumb piece of furniture and you can just change diapers wherever -- just toss down a pad! Or a towel! RESIST THE CORPORATE CHANGING TABLE INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX, PEOPLE. 

I'm not going to say those people are wrong or crazy -- but just that they are not my particular brand of crazy. I love changing tables. I need changing tables. A well-organized changing table keeps me zen, peaceful and gives me a sense of control in a world full of chaos. Also, I'd probably get peed on a lot more. 

KEEP THE PEE CONTAINED TO THE SAME GENERAL WALL AREA. THAT'S MY ADVICE FOR THE WORLD.

Mr. Hoot Owl, pictured here suddenly re-thinking his life choices.

Anyway, can I show you more changing table pictures? Please? Oh, whatever. Shut up. You know how I get after trips to Ikea by now, right?

So here's the cloth diaper stash at six months (and 15 pounds) in, which should probably not be used as an example to anyone as anything considered "normal," because it's been well established That I Have A Cloth Diaper Problem. 

Top Shelf Diapers, aka The Good Booze, are currently one dozen fitteds (including the same Rebel Baby Co. ones I continue to squeeze Ike into despite the occasional glimpse of baby plumber's crack, and a couple Green Mountain Diapers Workhorse Fitteds) and one dozen GMD prefolds, size medium.

As soon as this "Christmas" and "buying stuff for other people" nonsense is over, I plan to buy more of everything you see here. One-size versions of the fitteds and just plain more of the GMD stuff. Do I technically need more of the GMD stuff?

No. NOW SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH. 

10 flannel fitteds and soaker pads. I bought these because Jason was getting a bit weary of diapers/covers with snaps and requested Something Easy With Velcro, But Cheap, Because I Know How You Get, Amy. 

The nighttime box, AKA heavy-wetter big-gun central. Wooly pants, fleece, mega soakers and other assorted doublers, inserts, boosters and whatnot.

This morning a friend emailed me some questions about doublers and liners, and after responding with a 17-paragraph explanation about how oh-so-simple they are, I had to stop and apologize for writing a novel about, essentially, poop catchers and pee sponges.

And then I took a picture of them. And put it on the Internet.

YOU GUYS I NEED HELP I AM SERIOUS.

I "borrowed" this corner shelf from my parents' house back in 1997, and then proceeded to never have quite the right place to put it in any apartment or house I've lived in since. UNTIL NOW, when I dragged it up from the basement, mentally congratulating myself on being such a persistent packrat. I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME.

Top shelf: Wipes (actually cloth, but stored in a plastic container with a little water and wipes solution), diaper rash cream and a container of Snappis. Spray bottle of Bac-Out is hiding out on the windowsill.

Second shelf: PUL/waterproof diaper covers. I currently have six, but half of them are technically too small. Still stubbornly using them, though, for now.

Third shelf: Liners. bummi's Bio-Soft flushables and reusable fleece liners. I use the fleece at night and with cotton/flannel diapers if Ike has a rash or seems chapped. The flushable ones are leftover from Ezra's diaper days but Ike doesn't quite need them yet. (SOON, says the coming solid-food-diet poop. SOON.)

Bottom shelf: Lotions, snot suckers and other assorted infant torture devices.

Oh, and let us not forget about the Box of Shame, currently full of repelling/leaking pocket diapers and a few unfortunate Etsy disappointments that just weren't well made or quite what I hoped for. When I'm reaching for these diapers you know the laundry situation has turned critical. 

Is totes unimpressed with my organizational skills, plotting to delay potty training for as long as possible in order to pinpoint the moment when my love of cloth diapers turns to hate and my spirit is broken. 

Six Months

I believe I mentioned that Baby Ike is six months old already, but I do not believe that I emphasized that fact enough already. 

SIX MONTHS OLD WHAT THE HOW IN THE HOLY SHIT I CAN'T EVEN

To be fair, before I launch into the whine-fest that you know is coming, this has been the easiest first six months I've had with a baby. (Turbohork aside, but we no longer speak of such things.) His birth was criminally easy, my recovery time even more so. Breastfeeding, great. Weight gain, perfect. Developmentally, he continues to chug along like clockwork, doing everything he's supposed to be doing right in the sweet spot of "don't rush me, woman" and "surprise! look what I can do, all of a sudden." Personality-wise, he is incredibly happy, curious, cuddly and smiles with his entire head.

I truly, genuinely enjoy the stuffing out of this wonderful little baby, and am stuck between wanting to hit the pause button on his adorable self right now just like this forever, and being incredibly excited about seeing what he'll do next, because I just know it's going to be awesome. 

So of course, he's a crap sleeper. 

He didn't used to be -- he was fantastic up until four months old or so, when the sleep regression hit, followed by those first two teeth. Everything got kind of messy and blurry at that point, where Everything That Worked Before Stopped Working. But sometimes it still worked! But then it wouldn't again! Bedtime became a total crapshoot, and I go to bed myself never knowing if he'll manage to sleep for an hour or two...or seven, during which I will of COURSE be cruelly awoken by one of the other boys, or by my own stupid boobs. And the slow, horrible advancement of his two top teeth have made a bad situation even worse, if possible.

(And as for naps? Oh, fuck you. And your naps.)

I mentioned the Sleep Thing to our pediatrician on Monday, at Ike's well-baby visit (somewhere in the 10-25th percentiles for weight at 15lbs, 4oz, but in the freaking 90th for height), even though I know we don't exactly see eye-to-eye on sleep methods. (She's hardcore CIO, I'm a softcore pussy.) (Wait. What? That came out way pornier than I intended.)

The conversation went something like this:

ME: He still sleeps best with his arms swaddled, but will kick himself over onto his belly so I don't feel comfortable wrapping him anymore...

HER: Absolutely, he should not be swaddled at this age. He must learn to self-soothe! Have you tried letting him cry...

ME: Yes. (OMG DON'T TELL THE INTERNET.) It didn't work. 

HER: Well you probably didn't let him cry long enough. Did you...

ME: Oh, he'll fuss and cry himself to sleep all right. But then he'll wake up an hour later righteously pissed-off as all ever-loving hell and refuse to go back to sleep again because we are terrible people who must be punished.

HER: Hmm. Does he wake up from...noise? Have you tried...

ME: We have a white noise machine, yes. I'm starting to suspect it's not much more than an electronic placebo, honestly.

HER: Does he like...music?

ME: We have a musical lullaby toy he likes. Except for the nights that he doesn't.

HER: Well, if he's waking up to suck, maybe...

ME: He doesn't suck his thumb. He won't take a pacifier. Please DEAR GOD tell me you weren't just about to suggest I try a pacifier, like that's something that would never occur to me. 

HER: Some babies really need a specific, set routine at night so...

ME: Do you know how many advice columns I've written about sleep on the Internet? Four thousand three hundred and two. Ish. At least.

HER: Sometimes they get overtired at bedtime so you can try...

ME: Earlier bedtime. Check. Tried it. 

HER: (lowered voice) Will he sleep un-swaddled but on his belly?

ME: Tried it. He startles himself at some point and wakes up.

HER: And how can you get him back to sleep?

ME: By bringing him back to bed with me and letting him stay attached to the boob all night. Or by swaddling his arms and trusting the fool child to not flip his fool self over. 

HER: *BZZZTTTT BRAIN OVERLOAD AT FULL CAPACITY OUT OF IDEAS*

ME: Did you hear that Ike? We've completely stumped the doctor! I wonder what we win.

HER: You know, sometimes you just have to do whatever you have to do to get some damn sleep. So I think you should...just...do that.

So. That was helpful. 

Jason is in Chicago this week, so bedtime last night was a crazy, solo affair -- I got Ike mostly ready for bed and then plopped him in the crib while I turned my attention to the older boys. I gave his crib mobile a push and a spin, then braced myself for the sounds of WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, WOMAN? a few seconds later...but they never came. I peeked back in, and lo and fucking behold, the kid had put himself to sleep like a reasonable human being. 

I was amazed. I was thrilled. I was ready to send up congratulatory fireworks because YOU KNOW I'M TAKING CREDIT FOR THAT SHIT, AM OBVIOUSLY GENIUS. Clearly, our problem was that we were simply trying too many things and over-complicating the bedtime process. I went downstairs, poured myself a glass of wine and sent Jason a couple braggy texts about how I had SOLVED ALL THE THINGS.

Uh-huh. I know. I'm such an idiot, sometimes.

You Should Have Seen The Other Guy

We bought our Christmas tree this weekend, which was terribly! exciting! because 1) it was the first year Noah did NOT wig completely out over the idea that we needed to transport the tree on the roof of our car, so we got to all go as a family instead of Jason picking a tree out and sneaking it in while I kept Noah distracted and/or placated with lies about how yes, Daddy TOTALLY let the tree ride inside the car, properly buckled safely in the passenger seat, and 2) Ezra got into a drunken fist fight over a blue spruce and the basket of free miniature candy canes. 

The fist fight was with a slippery, tree-sap-covered patch of pavement.

The pavement totally got his, if you know what I'm saying. He'll think twice next time before messing with a three-year-old and his candy canes, for sure. 

I asked Ezra to tell me his side of the story, just so I could add another movie clip to the now epic-lengthed documentary I'm working on entitled "ZERO FEAR, LESS SENSE: THE COMPLEAT EZRA STORCH INJURY COMPENDIUM EXPERIENCE." (Look for a screening at a wedding reception in the distant future near you!) What resulted was three utterly charming minutes of Life With This Kid as he discussed his injury, holiday decorating and demonstrated feats of strength. 

I'm sorry, but I simply must inflict this on you, Internet. Happy Festivus!