My aunt was in a car accident a few weeks ago. One of those car flying through the air monstrocities that left her Jeep totalled and sent me running to my car with an overnight bag while screaming Winston's care instructions to my husband as I pulled out of the driveway. I spent the evening hunting the vending machines for the Sprite she was craving, ordering takeout with the IMCU staff, making all the necessary phone calls to my family, and joining the 3 AM pilgrimage the nurses made to the surgical ward, where they had the "good coffee." And I was grateful that I got to be close by.
But I'm mostly grateful for this, a few weeks later:
Then, of course, there was this little surprise...
Anyhow, Christmas was exhausting, but quiet and sweet. My son has inherited the Christmas Scrooge gene from me and his father. He wanted nothing to do with presents. In fact, he kept escaping into the kitchen to play with the Mountain Dew bottles on the tile floor. And in the end, we gave up, let him play, and enjoyed opening our gifts. It was a beautiful, fun, memorable first Christmas for our son.
Today's Lesson: You can lead a kid to toys, but you can't make him play. Or focus on what you think he's supposed to be doing, for that matter.