Today, as Christmas arrives, I hear the pitterpatter—I mean thud—of the lads’ feet as they tromp through our previously quiet house.
I’m glad they’re home, down from New York for a bit. It’s so different now, this holiday. Nobody’s in college; there is no “when do classes start again?” conversation. We’re just here.
Sometimes I forget that they were once pocket-sized humans, that I could scoop them up and throw them over my shoulder (while simultaneously throwing out my back). The door jamb with everybody’s height penciled in seems impossible. There’s four more feet of Clif since 2001?
I don’t particularly miss the days of Santa—of being Santa, I mean. That one Christmas with the Nintendo Wii damn near killed me. There was some game that was The Game. Never forget Super Mario Galaxy, lads—Mother crushed the aftermarket for that thing! The best souvenir from those manic days is to watch those Christmas home movies when David and Clif talked in such little, weirdly articulate voices.
Now they talk in big, weirdly articulate voices, and they wax nostalgic about Super Mario. But the big ticket item these days seems to be airplane tickets and the most elusive thing of all, time.
We still have my copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, circa 1966. We don’t do our annual family reading anymore, but it never stops being perfect. Here’s a reading that includes all the amazing drawings by Dr. Seuss.
It’s easy to let these days slide past in a blur. Be sure to take selfies, even if they’re terrible.