And so that was Christmas.

As I was saying. Christmas, man. Wow. I am nodding thoughtfully while gazing out the window. Now I am punching my palm with my fist. I don't know why. And I'm biting my knuckles. What am I doing?

Christmas was a roaring success, but on the days leading up to it, I went about 40% too crazy for my physical health. Like, on Christmas Eve, I shouldn't have spent over seven hours in the kitchen preparing Christmas dinner. Four hours, I could have done. But not seven. Seven is too many. It leads to pains in the body and stabby stabbiness in the temples.

I'm biting my knuckles again.

Christmas, though! I was worried that Henry wouldn't experience the heartstopping joy on Christmas morning that I remembered from my long-ago youth, but all my fears were unwarranted. Just the idea that Santa showed up was almost more than he could handle. He leaped into our bed Christmas morning, and I volunteered to go downstairs and see if Santa had come. "Look at the plate of cookies," Henry instructed me. "If the cookies are eaten, that's a good sign that I got presents." Another good sign? Presents.

Anyway, as I am sure you are aware, Santa had indeed visited at some point in the night, leaving as silently as he arrived, and Henry hyperventilated at the sight of his presents in a manner that I found intensely gratifying. "I must have been really good this year," he kept saying. He was pleased with pretty much everything he unwrapped. Just the act of unwrapping was enough for him. I could have wrapped anything. His pillow, nail clippers, a tuning fork. Instant Present! Next year I will wrap each individual Lego piece.

My family came and there were more presents, and drinks, and dinner was actually edible, and best of all, my nephew Paul completed a massive Star Wars Lego project with Henry, helping him build some kind of droid army in a battleship made of over 1300 pieces, and not once was I called upon to assist. Henry would come out once in a while, grab a cookie, and then announce that he had to return to the "Trade Federation." Whatever, kid, as long as it doesn't involve me standing or moving.

One thing would have made it perfect. Scott came up with the idea of dressing as Jacob Marley for Christmas, rattling the chains he forged in life, clutching his head bandage. When someone asked him how his job was going, he was going to wail, MANKIND SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY BUSINESS WAAAIOOOOUUU. I pictured him camping it up as a spectre while my family tried to act nonchalant, and I begged him to do it. But nooo. Something about not having time to construct a costume, and he didn't really mean it, and anyway it would only be funny to us.

Bah.

Anyway, I swallowed my bitter disappointment and enjoyed myself. And now it's two days later and I can barely crawl across the room without wanting to curl up and take a leisurely twelve-hour siesta. I don’t know if it was all the hard work or the many glasses of Amaretto-Cranberry Kiss. Or both! Probably both.