A Child's Christmas in Canada

With Pete's added years comes an added understanding of what presents are, and therefore what the true meaning of Christmas is: unwrapping stuff in a frenzy.  He was aided and abetted by his mother and grandparents, and so my rule of no presents before church was roundly flouted.  Stereotypically for a toddler, the boxes were often more exciting than the things they contained.

Hannah pulled all the stops out for Christmas lunch, and the turkey would be happy to know how moist and tasty it was after its expert roasting.  All the trimmings were there, even brussels sprouts, although done California-style (pan roasted in balsamic) rather than boiled to within an inch of their tasteless lives, then a mile beyond.

After that I tried to whip up enthusiasm for a game of charades but everyone else wanted to nap.  I took advantage, spending a happy hour helping Peppa Pig pilot her aeroplane around the penguin slide before serving her a play dough ice cream sundae.  Then the baby woke up and I had to give him his things back.

The sun's not up, but the present openers are.

Grandpa reads Pete a new book.  For the sixteenth time.

You mean the humiliation of a silly paper hat is going to happen annually?

Chef and sous-chef.

Ooohhh yes.



Non-traditional creme brulees for pudding, though alcohol and flames are a standard Christmas mix.



Grandma was allowed to share select toys.

And after all that...