Ben, very serious, enunciating every word to every song, not getting a single one wrong, with a slight lisp and a shower of spit, looking for approval and grateful for Mom and Dad in the audience with their thumbs up. Not a hair out of place. Some things never change.
Katie-kins, meticulously hand-sewn clothes perfectly suited for the occasion, shyly smiling, and singing about every third word correctly ("Joy to the Girl....," "All I want for Christmas is my two front feet..."), and flopping her long gorgeous hair diva-style on the annoyed boy behind her. I never did tell Ron Burgundy I spent $80 on a luscious forest green velvet and imported white eyelet to make her dress the year she was 3. Sorry dear. But you're the one who thought she needed the "fur" coat. Can we call it even?
Luke, squirming, not singing, but screaming words of his own choice, hands over his ears, eyes darting to make sure everyone's watching, elbowing the person next to him, and rolling his eyes back as if to say "I am Luke and you're not." And giving Sweet Baby Jesus a kick in the manger on the way off stage. Our baby, the only child to ever be banned from the church nursery before he was 2.
It just wouldn't be a Christmas program without some family providing the riff-raff, would it? And there were not lots of parents there with video cameras, just like Ron Burgundy always was. Those videos will be awesome to watch from our rocking chairs.
I was not tired back in those days. And I couldn't even blog about it. Neither the word "blog" or the home computer were invented. I am, however, not still tired.
This post would not be complete without an out-take of an old Christmas card photo, circa 1983.Nope, I did not cry for days gone by. Tears of emotion and love, not sadness.
I did not give up the idea of Christmas cookies, and order them from a local baker last night. Who would be so unambitious? Not me, with no tree up yet. Or shopping....no, wait!
I did not do the first of my Christmas shopping! From my lazy-boy. Online. Two down, dozens to go....
My oldest baby boy does not turn 32 on Tuesday. Not mine. I'm only 39 (again), so it's simply not possible. And every year at Advent I don't think about that restless baby I had in my belly accompanying me to Advent services (he was supposed to arrive mid-November, and has been late ever since), and think about Mary - her full and faithful heart. She was most certainly a better woman than I. I whined about being overdue, and certainly wasn't traveling by camel.
I did not open the pantry Saturday to find the milk on the shelf. This has not happened once before, only with the cereal to be found in the fridge shortly thereafter. This time the milk was simply. In. The. Pantry. I did not do it, and Ron Burgundy drinks milk all the time. Yeah, right.