Son: Daddy you're a stinky mistake.
It's been snowing like a twat over the last week or so. Which I hated last winter. This year though my son is far more mobile and delighted to be out in it - so I've liked the week or so of it so far. He pretty much just wanders off into the woods, finds a spot he likes and then pokes around in the ground like an arctic truffle pig. Add he's still only three - so he's shit at throwing snowballs at me, so I always win that game. That is until five minutes in when I can tell he's getting annoyed at being battered with snowballs and I have to lie down while he forcibly shoves fistfuls of ice down the neck of my coat.
Being the third day of December means having to endure wall-to-wall Christmas songs. Every parent knows the horror. I like Christmas songs. There is something innocent and breezy about most of it. Christmas songs in moderation are pretty nice actually. But hearing Dominic and his stupid fucking donkey every ten minutes is mental torture. Now my son is three he's got his own list of must-repeat favorites as well. Primarily I'm Gettin' Nuttin For Christmas. At least at his age it's still cute how hilarious he thinks it is. I do recall years back my old mother-in-law repeatedly playing a steel-drum novelty CD on repeat of Christmas favorites. I couldn't tell any of the songs apart at all - it all sounding like an utter mess of white noise. At least though with my kids replaying the same bloody seven or eight songs I don't have to endure the turgid, shit of Bruce Springsteen's horribly out-of-tune grunting, or the utter mind fuck that is The Christmas Shoes that was beautifully dismantled by Patton Oswalt.
What isn't hilarious is what a little fucking demon he's been. He's such a good boy. But when he loses it he goes full bore. It doesn't help that his favorite toy of late is a plastic sword and his favorite activity is stabbing people. Although I admit it was fun when he filled with rage and told his mother, "I'm gonna cut your eardrum." But of course being three means he's emotionally demented, so after she asked him what on earth he was banging on about he carefully explained that he'd been going to a, "rice cutting class" and just wanted to demonstrate that. But on her eardrums - which he'd just learned about on a Cat In The Hat episode.
Still - this is infinitely better than when he started screaming, "my penis is blue!" down the stairs after his bath yesterday. I assumed it wasn't. After all it hadn't been filled with orange juice, hadn't eaten a meatball nor had it magically turned into a mushroom - all of which he's yelled indiscriminately lately. I did have a fleeting worry that either he'd got some localized hypothermia or been rubbing his bits on the weird people in Avatar.
His sister is equally as marvelous lately too. On the plus side she came top of her class for all the metrics. Her reading is astounding. As in she can read everything without skipping a beat to think about it. She's also frighteningly good at maths. Still - I did have to watch her pick up a meatball covered in sauce with a spoon yesterday, before plunging it into her glass of milk and then happily drinking her, "lumpy milk" with glee. More importantly though she turned the television on yesterday morning and it was on a weird channel that was showing a religious show called Mass For Shut-Ins. She took one look at it and then asked over her shoulder, "Daddy - what's wrong with them?" I responded that it was hard to diagnose from this distance, but I think it's called Catholicism. I did quickly turn it over before I got to uppity when she started loudly laughing at one of the people on stage she thought was a wizard.
Over the weekend my kids saw Santa twice. Once in Old Forge and once at the fire hall down the street. They were not only impressed with how quickly he could get about, but also at the astounding weight gain he'd managed in just twenty four hours. Which is a bit odd because he doesn't look particularly portly in any way. Which presumably means the Santa they saw with their mother was disturbingly thin.
Helpfully my son also remarked that, "Santa smells different." There's all kinds of awfulness I could assume with that, but instead I just sat and watched my kids stuff their fat, little faces with donut-dots while other kids tried not to sniff Santa too much.
And of course I'm biased but every time I look at this photo of my daughter with a rogue polar bear that broke in to Santa's grotto I can't help but laugh. She's not convinced at all.
Right - I'm off to snarf chocolate mini eggs before anyone notices that I bought them.