Liam believes. He hears the jingle. This is probably his last Christmas, believing. And we made the most of it, reading The Night Before Christmas, cuddled in bed with Phoebe and Chet, while Daddy ho-ho-ho-ed, threw whiffle balls on the roof, rang sleigh bells in the deep darkness outside, and wolfed down cookies by the fireplace. Chet barked his head off and tore to the foyer window to bust Bill, but Liam was rooted to the spot, pure belief. His eyes were bugging out of his head. He was silent, mouth agape. And then he breathed, "Saint Nick!" Poor Bill never gets to see that; he's too busy being Santa outside. It is pure magic. Phoebe knows, but delights nonetheless. We exchange looks over Liam's head.
'Twas the night before Christmas, the children all tucked in their beds, and Bill and I sat before the tree and the fire and drank the beauty in. One guess who the giant red stocking, the one bulging with chew toys, belongs to.
Chet's toys were wrapped in kraft paper. Phoebe helped him a little. He reduced a $15 "chew-resistant" Booda dog Frisbee to tatters in about twenty minutes. It won't wobble, much less fly, now. A Doggie Hoots skunk was demolished, headless, in ten minutes. This is getting expensive. What do we give him now, cast iron chew bones?
When we were all done unwrapping at our house, I suddenly remembered the birds. They were waiting for their suet dough. I put out a double measure as a Christmas present to them. This pretty male redbelly must have stood under the mistletoe last night; he has lipstick all over his cheeks.
Jeez, have some suet dough, Mr. Reddy! Leave a little for your blue neighbors, how about?
More Christmas revels to come. Hope yours was merry and bright, as ours was. This is as close to a Christmas card as we're going to come!
Best wishes from Zick and Bill of the Birds!
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