The other day we put up our Christmas tree. It’s the first tree that my daughter’s been old enough to actually realize its there. She played with all the boxes, the lights and especially the ornaments. She likes the red shiny ball ornaments best. She grabbed each of them and watched her mother put them on the tree.
At the end of decorating the tree, her mom gave her a small ball ornament and watched as my daughter walked over to the tree and nestled the ball in the ribbon. When it was firmly in place, she sat back, admired her work and clapped in celebration. Her mom and I clapped along with her.
This is such a neat age. She’s putting things together so quickly. Like a giant puzzle that’s coming toghether piece by piece. Later that night, my wife and I watched The Family Man, which we love. Toward the end Nicolas Cage utter’s this line. I couldn’t be think of my daughter when I heard it.
And Josh, he has your eyes. He doesn’t say much, but we know he’s smart. He’s always got his eyes open, he’s always watching us. Sometimes you can look at him and you just know he’s learning something new. It’s like witnessing a miracle.
This evening I pulled the Christmas decorations down from the attic and got them ready to put up Friday. To do so, I pulled the cars mostly out of the garage, but left one of the car radios playing Christmas music. After I put all the stuff in the house, I went back to the garage where a version of Silent Night was playing.
The strength of the song was amazing. Fittingly, it was a silent night in my neighborhood and the message of the song slashed through the night. The message of Christ’s birth pierced the darkness in a fitting way.
It was wonderful. I love Christmas. Is it too early to already be writing Christmas posts?
My daughter’s been fighting what her doctor calls a stomach virus for about 5-6 days. It’s turned my sweet one-year old into an ominous volcano. The child that’s normally sweet baby talks has been transformed into a constant reminder of impending doom.
Her stomach gurgles. Next it rumbles. Then it tumbles. Sometimes she burps. Each of these incidents by themselves would be innocent enough. Together, they’re a sign the volcano could blow any moment, spewing vile material all over those standing in the vicinity. She is something to be feared.
It made for an interesting Thanksgiving. There were no eruptions today. We can only hope that the same can be said after tomorrow.
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It started out like another Sunday School gathering. Our class got together at a friend’s house to celebrate Thanksgiving. All the usual fair was there — turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, etc. We’re were laughing with friends and my daughter was being as cute as can be. She even ate a little dressing.
And that’s when the night took a wrong turn.
The dressing decided to make another appearance, as did all the milk that my daughter drank in the four hours before the party. All I could do was try to catch the vomit before it hit our friend’s beautiful table and rug. By the way, I need bigger hands because my daughter’s stomach apparently holds quite a bit.
It didn’t help that she spewed in the center room of our friend’s house where everyone could see. The table, the rug, her and me all were covered in vomit. My wife and I couldn’t clean it up fast enough. Or good enough. It felt like the entire room froze and stared.
We left shortly after. The smell may still be in our friend’s home. I know it was still there when we left, despite our best efforts.
We didn’t go to church the next day. We didn’t want her spewing there too. My wife’s calling our friends today to apologize again and volunteer to get their room cleaned.
But does this mean we’re going to have to change churches? Are we forever the people with the vomiting kid?
