The Christmas Tree lighting event had ended and we were mobilizing the kids for the walk to the car.  They had seen Santa, visited with Mrs. Claus, ate numerous cookies, and drank their share of hot cocoa.  It was time to head out and call it a night.

On the way to the car, we were chatting with some folks and the boys launched into an excited stream of banter.  Barely taking breaths, barely taking turns, barely understandable.  This intensity was topped by our 8-year-old son Ben describing in a swirling blend of words and motion how if Santa were ever stuck in a tree, Jolly Old Saint Nick would slash his way out with a candy cane.

As Charlene and I looked exhausted by the show, our company turned to us and asked, “So, is it always like this?”

Yep, pretty much.

The Holiday concert was in full swing and my child kept talking.  Over the sound of the band, I could only hear every fourth or fifth word he was saying.  It was really no use, the band kept playing, my child kept talking, and my ability to hear remained minimal.

Rather than lean close for the twentieth time and explain that I could not hear him, I resigned myself to the situation.  I looked at my dear chattering child, smiled, nodded, and put my hand on his shoulder.

In my child’s mind, I remained a loving parent.  Paying full attention.  Hearing every word.

In my mind, I had gained a new life skill.  A default that I will use for years to come.  Diminished hearing will most certainly come, but a smile, a look of care, and a gentle touch.  I could keep doing those, no worries there.

So keep talking my boy.  Let your imagination run wild.  For the band will keep playing with your dad “listening” at your side.

How can you tell that you have authentic photos from an 8-year-old’s birthday party?

They will be blurry from the speed that the presents are unwrapped.

Note the right arm.  Blurry.

That my friend is the real deal.

One of my co-workers was delivering candy canes from cube to cube.  It was a delightful little delivery of Christmas joy.

I immediately broke my candy cane in two.  The sharp edges burst through the plastic wrapping, while throwing tiny bits of Holiday hard candy high into the air.  I proceeded to break the candy cane into smaller and smaller chunks.  With every break, more and more candy cane dust drifted into the air.  I really should have worn safety glasses and a breathing mask for this activity.  Finally, the candy cane was in bite sized chunks.  Success.  I cleaned up my mess and proceeded to enjoy my tasty winter treat.  Plus, I now had fresh breath.  Oh, the joys of Christmas.

Later in the day, I stopped by the restroom.  Looking into the mirror, I saw something strange.  My hair had a large chunk of white in it.  Reaching into my hair, I found a hard shard of candy cane rubble perched upon my head.  Turns out I had spent the better part of the afternoon with a very minty noggin.  Impressive?  No.  Festive?  Yes, festive.  At least that’s a start.

At the first site of it, my wife began to devise a plan.  The freezer was full of frost.  The seal appeared to have broken.  The meat was thawing fast.

The family was mobilized and soon we were packing coolers full of frozen food, as Charlene researched both repair and purchase options.  Behind this organized emergency response, however, was a dark cloud.  We really did not want to purchase a new refrigerator for Christmas.  None of us wanted to see one stuffed under the tree.

On all fours, I continued clearing out some random cuts of beef and frozen bananas.  At this point, kneeling and considering how undesirable this appliance purchase would be, I saw something askew.  A kilter.  Just plain wrong.  The bottom drawer had come off its track and had been shoved back into place.  It was keeping the door from closing.  Sudden relief!  Pure joy!

Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!  Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter!  The fridge would see another day.  The year’s gift would not say Maytag.

Our office Christmas party has three major components:  themed potluck (this year’s theme is “Christmas in July”), ugly sweater contest, and a white elephant gift exchange.

After a quick search on the internet, I thought I had found a real score.  An ugly sweater that also fit the summer theme.  “Santa Jaws” the sweater.  Perfect!  A bit over my $20 impulse purchase threshold, but so worth it.  Enter credit card.  Click.  Order.

I sat by the mailbox and waited.

Then the magical day arrived, the package sat waiting for me in the mailbox!  I ran inside, fumbled to open the packet, took out the contents, and… sadness.  Great sadness.  My wonderful sweater, the one that would check all of the boxes, the one that would make Christmas great was actually… a sweatshirt.  Yep, not a sweater, but rather a sweatshirt.  Big difference.  Actually, the kind of difference that makes me want to walk around totally in sweats, unshaven, and lacking any will to carry on.  It was indeed ugly, but a sweater it was not.

Sadness filled my Christmas heart.  I was broken inside.  No Holiday spirit left.  Might as well bring on December 26, because all that glittered was not gold.

Then a wonderful suggestion was offered up.  A thought so pure and sincere.  Fear not “Santa Jaws,” you can still come to town.  You will be my White Elephant gift this year.

My wife had provided me with specific instructions.  When I arrived home, I needed to heat up dinner and have it ready around 6 PM.  Easy peasy.  No problem.

As I got the stove top and oven started, I turned on the radio.  The familiar voice of Prince spilled from the radio, “You don’t have to be beautiful to turn me on…”  Oh what a blessing, the song had just started.  “You just leave it all up to me, I’m gonna show you what it’s all about.”  I turned up the radio.  Loud.

Really?  At this point, how could anyone resist singing along, while dancing around the kitchen?  “You don’t have to be rich to be my girl…”  My 13-year-old son, who was relaxing on the nearby couch seemed to fain indifference, as he was torn between asking me to stop and wanting to see the clown show continue.  “You don’t have to be cool to rule my world.”

Just then the door burst open.  My wife was home.  Early.  5:45 PM.  Fifteen minutes early.  “Ain’t no particular sign I’m more compatible with…”  Somewhat startled by the pre-dinner show in the kitchen, my beautiful and punctual bride looked at us and noted, “Now, I know what party takes place, before I get home.”

Yep my dear, now you know our antics.  Why don’t you come on over, because the truth is “I just want your extra time and your…  kiss.”

Our beagle Kirby loves car rides.  I also love to give him rides in the car.  He sort of serves as my little traveling companion.  All happy and ready to go on any adventure that comes to mind.

There is however a major problem, when Kirby sees another dog outside the car, he freaks out.  I mean total and absolute freak out moment.  It’s unpleasant.  It’s actually kind of dangerous, as Kirby runs around the car jumping from seat to seat barking loudly.

The other day, I took Kirby for a ride to run a brief errand.  Sadly, we passed a dog and Kirby began a major freak out event.  Then summoning the fury of a thousand tempests, I turned to my little dog and yelled, “Kirby!  Stop it!”  Startled, Kirby immediately stopped and turned to me with a very sad, “What did I do wrong?” look of innocence and fear.

I felt bad, although Kirby really did deserve it, but on the bright side, it made me realize something.  Something very good.  I could not remember the last time I had yelled.  I mean really yelled.  Yelled out of anger or discipline.  Yelled out of frustration or sadness.  It had been a really long time since I had lost my temper.

[Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a “yeller,” by any measure.  Just the normal sort of dude getting really upset and getting loud type of moment.  That’s what I am talking about here.  Good, now that we all understand each other, let’s continue.  Remember, this is a safe place to share.]

I think this big gap in yelling is due to one factor, our new home.  One year ago today, I pulled into the garage of our new home, turned to my boys, and with a wry smile said, “Chewie, we’re home.”  Not that we had been through some type of Star Wars saga, but 2015 and been full of lots and lots of drama (click here for easy access to the 2015 drama).  Lots and lots of stress.  Lots and lots of change.  We had finally moved.  Life was starting fresh.  A family reboot of sorts.

So, I’m not saying that I won’t yell again and Kirby cannot run rampant throughout the car with total abandon, but it’s nice.  It’s nice to see a sign.  It’s nice to see tangible proof.  Proof that you have arrived at a more peaceful place.  A place where your body experiences less stress.  A place where you are permitted luxuries, such as forgetting the last time you yelled.

Sitting on the couch, I could see the backs of my three boys sitting at the kitchen counter.

They were intently watching Brother J playing a game on his tablet.  They were all sitting about 3 inches apart from each other.  Brother J mentions that he is thirsty.  Brother S offers to get him water.  I assume that the game required all of Brother J’s energy.  Why else would he be unable to get his own water?  Hum, perhaps Brother S was willing to help in order to curry favor with Brother J.  Perhaps a way to get inline to play the next game.  Perhaps.

Brother S then climbed up the back of Brother B’s chair, in order to open the cabinet located only about an inch above Brother B’s head, and retrieve a cup.

All the while that Brother J and Brother B were under Brother S, they were in danger.  Brother S teetered on the back of the chair, while never looking away from the screen.  He opened the cupboard and barely missed Brother B’s head (Brother B was staring at the screen, as well, and never noticed).

I stared on.  Uninterested in intervening, but curious as to what would happen next.  The boys had also mentioned earlier in the day that my default look is “staring” and that it creeps them out.  I would not want to creep them out, but other than staring, how could I experience the tragedy about to unfold?  I guess I could have looked down at my feet and waited to hear the loud crash.

Any who, Brother S retrieved the cup from above Brother B’s head (thankfully a plastic cup), Brother S continued to teeter, but Brother S eventually closed the cupboard door and safely left his perch on the back of Brother B’s chair.

As Brother S went to retrieve Brother J’s water, I thanked the guardian angels that must be watching over them constantly, because their dad, well he just stares.

[My advance apologies to you, my eight loyal readers.  This post is being written while under the influence of post-minor surgery painkillers.  You see, I had an ugly toe that needed attention.  I believe this ailment is commonly known at UTS or Ugly Toe Syndrome.  Any who, nothing to worry about, but if this post is a little more “off” than usual, I have a good reason.]

Waiting in the hospital to have my ugly toe surgery, I sat there in my open back surgical garb, while my wife patiently waited for her opportunity to wait some more in the appropriately named “Waiting Room.”  Lots of waiting, sort of like flying with powerful sedatives, which by the way may lead to flying, if not taken in the prescribed dosage.

Waiting, with my paper garb and lovely behind in constant danger of saying hello to the world, a nurse passed by and said to my wife, “I really like your outfit.”  Sure, she was dressed up all professional and stylish for work, but what about me?  I’m the dude who is about to get dissected, plus I looked all hospital sassy in my breezy cover up.

A few minutes later, another nurse passed by and complimented my beautiful bride on her choice of apparel, including this time, her shoes.  Ugh.  I stood no chance.  I needed to switch tactics.  I needed attention and my uber fit spouse was trouncing me in that category.  I needed to turn to verbal charm.  Not a strong suit for me, but I would give it a try.

Nurse number 46 entered the room to ask the same questions for the 46th time, just in case I changed my name, birthday, or medications within the last four minutes.  Nurse number 46 got to the “Do you drink alcohol?” question and I was ready.  With a sideways smile, I responded, “Only when needed.”  Nurse 46 smiled, gave a small chuckle, and wrote “Smartass” on her chart.

Given a dose of much desired attention, I waited for the next nurse to arrive.  I had to wait about 15 seconds.  The next nurse (#47) introduced herself and launched into the same questions, again.  Fortunately, I was ready.  “Do you drink alcohol?”  “Only when needed.”  Another smile, soft laugh, and smartass notation.

All in all, a good day.  Pain meds, independently verified saucy looking wife, and smiling nurses.  Winning, surgery prep room style.