Thursday, September 12, 2013: Sweet Baby Jesus.

Dear Babies,

“Here, here!” I say, sliding catalogs across the table. And we sit, like royals of yesteryear, oohing and ahhing over the exotic goods. Will someone be bringing the tea?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again proudly: Nothing makes me happier than Williams Sonoma in the fall. Maybe Pottery Barn. Maybe.

And they find me, these catalogs, how do they know! Maybe because I used to work for one? It’s not like I ever buy anything from them (though ever is a strong word). Yet, they come…

Frontgate. Ballard. Land’s End (at which I contemplate the sensible clothing and fur-lined clogs, then hear a voice like Mufasa whispering to Simba, remember who you are, and remember Anthropologie, and quickly recycle).

And now you guys are involved, the next generation. Fisher Price. American Girl. Toy stores I never even heard of.

“Mommy, I want this for my birthday!”

“Mommy {gasp!}, this is so beautiful.”

We three kings.

…Yesterday afternoon a proclamation caught my attention.

“Mommy, you get me Baby Jesus’s house?”

Not something you hear everyday, I looked up from my flipping.

“What’s that, Buddy?” I said peeking over your shoulder and there, in the Oriental Trading catalog, was a Nativity ornament making kit, complete with a popsicle stick Baby Jesus. At first I thought, How does he know what that is? We say “grace” at night, not a regurgitated hymn but our own, going around the table and saying what we’re thankful for. Lots of chocolate milk. Daddy who works so hard for us. Poop. But talk of Baby Jesus? Is Nanny rubbing off on him? Or did I birth Ricky Bobby? 

Talladega Nights

“That’s cool, Buddy, maybe we can make that for Christmas…” When in doubt, there’s always Christmas. For Christmas. You want that? Maybe for Christmas. If you’re good. Santa is watching. Yup. Right now. I think I see an Elf… (those stalkers).

Later while watching the Lion King I fast-forwarded too far. You guys don’t like the hyenas so I skip their parts, as well as the stampede and Simba and Uncle Scar fighting. As far as you know Mufasa is alive and well and just a really cool dad who talks to his son from the sky. “He’s a nice guy!” You say. “Very nice.”

I accidentally went to the credits, and there were shrieks all around. “I’m sorry! Gees!” At your service.

“Mommy,” you said, Baby Boy, when I got it back to the ending with Rafiki, Simba and Nala on the rock. “This is my favorite part.” Normally you exclaim “Baby Lion!” and clap as they hold the future king up, but yesterday you added, with awe, “like Baby Jesus…”

I paused.


“Um, well, kind of, buddy, but not really…”

My son, the holy roller?

I guess everybody is into their thing.



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