Digging around in the Christmas stuff yesterday (the lights were at the far back of the shed, all the way through the horrible gloom haunted by many tiny importuning ghosts and my phobic fear of having a mouse leap up my leg) I found these photos, which are framed together in a seasonally red glitterpainted frame and brought out once a year for mantelpiece adornment. These are my kids, each at about a year old, M on the left and A on the right. A totally got the better Santa, although M's setting (inner harbor, Baltimore, while A's was some mall in either Colorado or South Carolina) is better. But still, aren't they adorable? Aren't they just the most wonderful scrumptious babies? It makes me come all over weak at the knees with love and mother bear adoration and I want to go to Toys R Us and buy them something big and plastic and fun and just, oh, squeeze their lovely sweet little selves and rejoice in the Christmas tree and the lights and the wonders of a big cardboard box full of styrofoam peanuts.
Then I remember, oh shit, they're really big now and they want expensive stuff for Christmas. Damn.