Dot Dot Dot...

I have all kinds of fun things that you just have to know about here in the new year, but today the only thing I want to show you is something simultaneously satisfying, soothing, and highly addictive.

I am speaking, of course, of dot-to-dot.

Remember dot-to-dot puzzles?  Or... I don't even know if they qualify as puzzles, as there's nothing particularly puzzling about them, unless you struggle with number order.  They're those things you did when you were little, where you started at the dot labeled "1," then drew a line between that dot and the number 2 dot, and on, and on?  Possibly they helped you learn to count to ever-higher numbers, or at least enabled you pretend you had the tiniest smidgen of artistic talent?

Well, this is one of those for grown-ups.  Derek's mom got this book for me for Christmas, and it was one of those things I didn't know I wanted.  It is so fun and entertaining and ruinous.  Why ruinous?  Well, you open up the book, and you pick a not-a-puzzle, and all is going well because you purposely sat down to have this ten minutes to yourself, then five minutes have passed and you think, Okay, I'm just going to go to dot 201, and then maybe if I have time later I'll do a bit more, but then something happens and you find yourself muttering, "Dot 835, where is dot 835?" and waaaay more than ten minutes have elapsed.

Click to embiggen, please.

As a now-veteran dot-to-dotter (why no, I haven't ever been in danger of being voted "Most Popular" in any school I've attended; why do you ask?), allow me to make a few suggestions before you embark on your first, sweet dot-to-dot experience.

• Light.  You are going to need good, strong, bright light.  Daylight is what I've found I prefer, which is a bit of a shame as it's at such a premium this time of year.  It is helpful that the dots are printed in different colors 100 at a time (1-100 are blue, 101-200 are yellow, etc, etc), at least in this book, but still, those are tiny dots with tiny numbers beside them.  It's possible that if you have younger, stronger eyes than mine you'll need something less than surgical theater lights to complete these, but otherwise, let there be light.

• A sharp pencil, unless you're the reckless type who eats danger for breakfast but also enjoys a calming indoor activity in the afternoon.  The rest of us need something with an eraser and plenty of fiber.

• A straight edge, because it's possible that four dots into their first page one might discover that one is a monkey whose monkey fingers cannot draw a straight line to save her monkey life.  Or, you know... so I've heard.

And see?  Just like when you were young, you can make-believe your monkey fingers are capable of something even remotely artistic.  Which is fun, if misleading, but I'm pretty sure I've looked at any number of pieces in museums that would fit neatly into the "fun, if misleading" category.  

Attempts at Festivity

Today is our first day of Christmas vacation.  School is closed, the library is closed, and the kids have been guilt-tripping me all year about how we didn't make gingerbread cookies last winter, so today:  Gingerbread cookie day.

They only took three hours to make, are pathetic to behold, and taste like one of my least favorite desserts!

Now, to be fair, I had a certain six-year-old sous chef helping me with the cookies, which explains the three hours and the section of butter wrapper found while cutting out the dough, plus my insistence upon trying a new recipe that includes zesting citrus fruit didn't exactly cut down on the prep time.  

Caedmon likes to use a toothpick to extract every last bit of orange from the zester.  This did not take forever or cause me to age one hundred years while waiting.

Those are the eyes of a kid hopped on the demon gingerbread.  I am, sadly, his dealer.

In other Christmastime news, the little town nearby goes a little crazy over Christmas.  The library I work at is just off Main street in this town, where they plunk a live tree right in the middle of the street,

but also thoughtfully (or perhaps their motivations are more of the legal nature) leave enough space to swerve around it so you can still, you know, drive down Main street.  They also have speakers mounted along Main, and they've been playing Christmas music for the last two weeks.  It is marvelous.

Yep.


We don't put a tree down our house's main thoroughfare- or even have a live tree, for that matter- but we do have a kitchen pig all decked out, and that has to count for something, right?

Just don't talk to Derek about the pig, okay?  He may or may not have said something about what is clearly a CHRISTMAS WREATH resembling a crown of thorns, instead.  Never mind that this is a pig and Jesus was Jewish.

Although I don't remember reading anything about Jews being at odds with pigs doubling as chefs, so it's probably fine.  I mean, our kitchen pig probably keeps kosher, right?  He's not going to cook or serve up his own kind!  Thank goodness pigs aren't known for being savages who will eat absolutely anything, including other pigs.

P.S.  This post did not end up in a place any of us were expecting.  It is not just you.

So Misunderstood

Last Sunday we awoke to our first real accumulation of snow this season.  It was only a few inches, but it was still enough to excite our children and have Adelaide exclaiming, "Finally!  I was beginning to think we weren't going to get any snow this winter."  It was December 4th.

Because it's December, I've been venturing outside of my usual stores (Aldi, Fareway, and Aldi) to do some Christmas shopping.  This is always a highly entertaining time, because since I'm not used to visiting such a vast array of stores, so many of their contents are a novelty to me.  Behold:

Derek's mom gave me three small, conical foam trees a few years ago, and I'm just now getting to doing something with them, because our children are finally all old enough that I can do things like get out the hot glue gun without fearing for anyone's lives or digits.  I've hot glued pennies all over one (the effect is cooler than it sounds), but what to do with the other two?  I saw these and Hello, Inspiration!  A tree covered in eyeballs!

And another in hair!

Fortunately I walked out of the store with neither eyeballs nor hair, and with the fresh air returned my sanity.  Still looking for ideas as to what to cover those foam trees in, though, if you care to share.  Not strictly opposed to body parts.  (Oh, to be a fly on the wall when Derek reads this.)


In addition to such exotic stores as Target and Hobby Lobby, I'm on Pinterest more often this time of year (Christmas crafting, huzzah!), and for some reason Pinterest seems to be under the mistaken assumption that I'm one of those higher level, crazy-super-healthy eaters, so it keeps grossing me out with "Suggested Pins" like this one.

I mean, really, Pinterest, isn't the fact that I pinned this

and this

and this

 enough of a clue?

Now, I won't be eating all of those in the same week, but make no mistake, I will be eating them.  I'm not interested in your ocean witch's brew, Pinterest, even if it would prolong my life by five (sad and hungry) years.

Away, Off We Go!

Adelaide had her winter vocal concert last night.  I can tell our kids are getting older, as the times of their activities are getting later and later in the evening.  Unfortunately, I am an old lady at heart, so my response almost always elicits an eye roll from Daughter.

"What?  You have to be there at 7:15?  This concert doesn't start until 7:30 PM?  But... but that's so late!  We probably won't get out of there until 8:30!"

*Adelaide rolls eyes, wrestles internally over whether or not she should dignify her mother's histrionics with a response*

*Her mother writes a blog post, shrewdly guessing at Daughter's internal monologue*

*Adelaide reads all this at school, gets yet another chance to roll her eyes at her mother*

And now you're up to the present.



But going back to last night, after Adelaide came downstairs, dressed and ready, Derek kept observing how grown up she looked.  He said this in an unemotional, here-is-a-fact kind of way; this did not stop me from growing increasingly emotional each time he said it until I wailed, "Stop!" because he was right.  She did look grown up.

I purposefully put the above photo at this point in the post, not just to brag about how good-looking my husband and daughter are, but also because Adelaide looks much younger when she's next to her father.  Maybe I should just hog-tie the two together.  (Note to self:  Google "How to hog-tie people together" ASAP.)


We arrived at the concert early, as Adelaide had given us very specific instructions on where she wanted us to sit, and if you want to be in the front two rows, you have to get ahead of a couple hundred people to secure your seats.  We sat right where she wanted us to, which turned out to be nice, as she saw us and we saw her and I got to take pictures of a bunch of my friends' kids to send to them.

There were cute little presentations between each song, and one of my favorites was two boys pretending to be reindeer telling each other really terrible jokes.

(There are heads in the foreground of every photo; we were in the second row, but there were people in the first row and I am not tall.  Just look past the black blobs, please.)

Two reasons these jokes were the best:  First, Daughter's face.

She is in the center, there, in the red.  She made this face every time a corny joke was told.  Everyone in the auditorium was chuckling.  Adelaide was wearing the expression she has when she feels one ought to know better than to do something, but don't worry, she'll just be embarrassed for you.

The other reason these jokes were the best is that for us in the second row, they were in stereo:  the family of one of the reindeer comedians was sitting right behind us, and apparently he had been practicing these jokes frequently in their home to prepare for the big night.  His little brother was directly behind me, and recited each joke, word perfect, along with his big brother up on the stage.  It was hysterical.  

Atticus did not share in his sister's reservations; he enjoyed every groan-worthy punch line.

Adelaide also had a small speaking role.

She performed it admirably, and looked so grown up!  *keens*

Our children are in three more winter concerts in the next two weeks.  By my calculations (meaning I've looked at all their song lists), we'll have heard large groups of children sing Over the River and Through the Woods four times by Christmas day.  If you find me wandering the aisles of our grocery store, repeatedly muttering, "The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh," while my left eye tic rages, don't worry, it's just because I have listened to these darlings of ours debate whether it's "over the river and through the wood," singular, or "over the river and through the woods," plural, ONE MILLION TIMES in the past month.  Happy holidays, indeed.

Gifts Beyond Price

We don't make a huge deal out of presents at Christmas- or ever, really- but we do exchange a few things here and there.  This year, some of our favorite gifts were... well, they were interesting.

You know how, every so often, you receive an item that you didn't even know you needed?  I remember my mom giving me my now-treasured Better Homes and Gardens cookbook shortly before I got married, and I had no idea at the time what a great gift it was, how it would turn out to be the cookbook that contained some of our family's very favorite recipes, from Oven Roasted Potatoes to Peanut Butter Cookies to French Silk Pie.  It is simple, and it is the best, amen.

I'm assuming this gift from my sister and brother-in-law will turn out to be very similar.

No doubt in ten or so years Derek and I will be saying to each other, "What did we ever do without our beloved poo pillow?"  Our older two children lose their minds in hysterics every time they see it, while Caedmon still valiantly maintains that it is a chocolate chip with a face.  I should probably mention that we received this gift because when I joined the 21st century a few months ago and finally got a smart phone, I may or may not have insisted on sending a stream of poo emojis (must... resist... the puns coming to mind... do not sink to toilet humor... resist the urge...) to my sister's husband Aaron.  I will say it is very soft and squishy (OH HERE WE GO AGAIN), and perfectly supports my neck while I am typing this.

Speaking of hysterics:

Please note Derek's Christmas gift from one of the boys:  A neon green plastic foot on a strand of twine, which he wore all day with pride.

Yes, they do still make Rock Em Sock Em Robots, and yes, they do still delight boys of all ages.  I'm assuming there are girls our there who also enjoy them; however, our own Adelaide seemed to find little point to a toy whose only goal is to make a plastic head pop up.  She was much happier with her own gift:

This was what she wanted more than anything this year.  Included were verbal instructions from Derek and me to resist any urges to yell "This is a stick-up!" or "Put the money in the bag, and nobody gets hurt!" while wearing it.  Side note:  Do crooks still say, "This is a stick-up?"  Did they ever?  Or is that a phrase that only ever existed in old movies?

We also got the gift of time with various members of our extended family.  At Crisler Christmas, a few of the older girls were helpless against the lure of twin baby girls.

Adelaide and I had similar responses when asked if we wanted to hold one.  Well, kind of.  My response was something along the lines of, "Yes, please!"  Adelaide's was more like, "Is it my turn yet?  How about now?  Now?  Are you done?  When are you going to be done?  When is it going to be my turn?  I want to hold her, too!  How about now?  Gah, Mom, you are such a baby-hog!"  

For the record, she did get a turn.

Since tomorrow begins Epiphany, the tree will finally come down, and all the Christmas things will finally be put away.  Then I'll have the rest of winter to enjoy my paperwhites that are about to bloom, not to mention beautiful snowy runs that look like this at first glance:

Ah, so pretty.

Serene, too.  Don't forget serene.

But actually look like this.

Note the eyelids almost closed to protect against blowing snow.  Not pictured is almost falling every few minutes.  Yay, winter!

Melchior, Gaspar, and Caedmon

Caedmon had his first ever Christmas program last Friday night.  Before we left the house, we had a stern talk with the other two offspring:  "Listen, your little brother has sat through your concerts and programs and junk for years, and it is finally his turn, so you are going to sit there and you are going to listen and you are going to LIKE IT."

Not that Atticus and Adelaide needed much prodding; it was obvious that Caedmon was attaching a large amount of importance to this little preschool program when he began rehearsing his line two weeks beforehand.  "And myrrh,"  "AND myrrh," "And MYRRH."  This from the boy who has entire monologues memorized from the audio versions of Hank the Cowdog and The Jesus Storybook Bible, both in the narrators' Texas and English accents, respectively.  I don't think he was really worried about forgetting the words he was responsible for, exactly, he just wanted to nail them.

Ours is the wise man in the middle.

And my gosh, nail them he did.  He projected "AND MYRRH!" clear to the back of that church, after helping the first two wise men remember their own lines, of course.  Well, I don't think he was helping them remember, exactly, as much as making sure they delivered them in a fashion acceptable to our son's high performance standards.  There was whispering and prodding and I've decided that if Caedmon were a dog he would be one of those breeds that herd and nudge other animals into place.  Maybe a sheepdog.

He was this happy the entire time he was up there.  

Although you can't see them, underneath the wise man getup are his fancy duds (oxford shirt + sweater vest bought at a garage sale last summer for this exact occasion, $1.50 for both thankyouverymuch), which he was so smugly pleased with he wore them to bed post-program.  Then, after I woke him early the next morning because we had a bit of a drive to get to Crisler Christmas (which, yes, is a thing), he stumbled out of his room, all warm and rumpled and still in his Christmas program outfit, and asked if he could wear it to Crisler Christmas, all while rubbing his eyes sleepily.  Because Derek and I both have a functioning hearts, we told him he could, but to brush his teeth and wash his hands, or something.

See?  Cute as a dang button.

I did make him take them off that night, because I am a cruel mother with an unnatural penchant for washing dirty clothes, or so goes the tale of woe Caedmon is currently telling.

Sad Faces and Newsletters

It's the week before Christmas, which means I've stopped in between each word of this sentence to add something else to my grocery list.  A forgotten ingredient for the chili we're bringing to Crisler Christmas this Saturday, a can of frosting for Atticus's Polar Express party next week, ground ginger because Adelaide reminded me we haven't made any kind of gingerbread concoctions so far this year and that is a hanging offense in her book.  She tends to moderate her requests so much that when she asks for something, I jump to accommodate her.  Hang on, was I just outsmarted by Daughter?  Again?

This week has also brought things like cookie decorating day at Caedmon's preschool.

Parents were invited to stay and help decorate the creations, and it was fascinating to get a glimpse of Caedmon's time away from me.  It turns out Cade is an interesting mix of Derek and myself, which has somehow turned him into an early reader who isn't afraid to shout out the answers to every question the teacher asks, not giving anyone else a chance to answer anything.  This is why I sound like a Catholic nun anytime I'm around his teachers, constantly saying, "Bless you," and patting them in solidarity.

This week- this morning, actually- I've also been sure to brush off Caedmon's fears to go downstairs by himself, especially when he cites "the sad face in the kitchen" as the basis of his worry.  When I finally sigh in resignation and hold his hand as we go down the stairs and into the kitchen together, this is what greets me:

That is indeed a sad face in the kitchen.  It's also the back of the toaster oven, which I'd forgotten I'd moved in order to make room for our demon printer that refused to print the Christmas newsletter I finally finished last night.  Something about needing both ink and paper to work.  I'm sure once I've replenished our supply of both, it will still refuse to work simply because my IT guy won't be here.  (Note:  My IT guy is Derek.  He's also the Information Technology guy for various family members and at work, despite the fact that he is not an actual IT guy.)

At this point I'm just thankful the dang newsletter is written, because it is tortuous to write.  Scratch that; it's fun to write, but tortuous to read.  Derek asked me to read it aloud to him last night, and I got three sentences in before I thrust the laptop at him and told him to please, please, please read it to himself, silently.  I knew that if I read one more word aloud I would no longer be able to fight the compulsion to delete the whole thing because it's all TRASH, UTTER GARBAGE.  

I love reading the holiday newsletters that come in our mail from our loved ones.  It's one of my very favorite things!  I don't put any of those newsletters through the interrogation that our own has to go through:  Is this thing too braggy?  Boring?  Overly long?  Cutesy?  Too detailed?  Am I making our imperfect lives seem too perfect?  The structure seems off.  My syntax is a travesty.  When did my vocabulary disintegrate?  WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER WITH ANY OF THIS?

Then I remind myself for the millionth time that reading these same things from our friends and family is ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS, and trust all the recipients to be gentle and forgiving of any flaws, because that is what relationships are about, and why we do silly things like Christmas cards:  To build and continue relationships.

Except for that one family whose photos and letter and very lives seem like one flawless package, delivered specially to our mailbox every December.  They suck.

A List for Monday

• I miss a bunch of things about the traditional Lutheran church I grew up attending, but this time of year, it's probably the advent wreath that I miss the most.  Unless, of course, it's the hymns; at the church we're a part of now, it's apparently against, well, their religion to sing christmas carols the way they've been sung for hundreds of years, oh no, they have to be tweaked and revamped and messed with until everyone is struggling to sing along even though we all know all the words.  Not that this bothers me.  Everyone knows I am very flexible and easy to work with.

ANYWAY.  

Somehow it never occurred to me that I could have an advent wreath of my very own right in our house, heck, smack dab in the middle of our kitchen table, if I wanted.  Which I did.

Our children evidently wanted to give you a good idea of how things normally look around these parts.  But also note the advent wreath!

I found the box of advent candles at a garage sale a few years ago, which is the moment that made me pause and say to myself, "I'm pretty sure the Lutheran police aren't going to come to our house and smite me if I use these outside of a church," and fifty cents later they were all mine.  There's no doubt they languished in that box for years before I adopted them; the pink candle is maybe 1% pink now and 99% white.  The wreath is one that I found at Goodwill years ago for $1 and then stashed in a cabinet, sure that I'd use it someday.  Its day finally arrived, after I'd made it a little more naked, of course, as is befitting an advent wreath.  Or something.

The carnage

• The mother of one of Caedmon's preschool classmates spent some time talking to the class about their family's celebration of Hanukkah, which made a big impression on our son.  We hadn't yet reached home afterward when he began brandishing a small object at me, informing me that "This is a Hanukker!" to which my response was, "Do you mean 'dreidel'?"  He acknowledged that yes, it was a dreidel, then asked why we didn't celebrate Hanukkah.  A series of questions and answers followed, ending in Caedmon gasping and saying, "Does that mean Max is one of God's chosen people?!"  I confirmed that he was, and our Cade was in awe.  Easily one of the best parts of my week.

• Those caramelized stars from the previous post are made by pouring the molten sugar into metal cookie cutters placed on a cookie sheet covered in aluminum foil.  I greased both the foil and the inside of the cookie cutters with cooking spray.  You let the sugar cool and harden for a couple hours on the sheet, then gently tap the shapes out of the cookie cutters.  

The Season of Our Discontent

I love- LOVE- this holiday season we're in.  You may have gleaned this before due to the fact I have casually mentioned it a time or two thousand.  I'm aware that there are people who harbor more Scroogely feelings than my own, but by and large those people are to be pitied and/or fed gingerbread cookies until they crack and admit that Yes, this IS the most wonderful time of the year.  (Singing optional.  Well, singing encouraged.  Preferably in a stagey, karoake-type voice.)

But then, last month, I began to have the strangest feelings.  Feelings entirely foreign to me this time of year.  (Nobody panic- I'm not about to go all Judy Blume on you.)  Instead of joyful and shivery and just this side of manic, December 1st found me unsettled and discontent and out of sorts.

I wallowed for the space of a morning, then took action.  My weapon:  An imaginary red pen.  My victim:  The calendar.

Most of the year, I have little problem saying No Thank You Very Much to requests and snares of my time.  I am very protective of our family time and my own mental health and know that for me, that means not overbooking, and our children are still at an age where I wield most of the control of our family's schedule.

But at Christmas time?  Everything is fun and festive and worthy so why not do everything? Cookie-Exchange-Christmas-Cards-Tour-Of-Homes-Clothing-Pantry-Advent-Bible-Study-Caroling-Favorite-Things-Party-This-Kid-Needs-A-Donation-To-The-Animal-Shelter-This-One-Needs-A-Girl-Gift-This-One-Needs-My-Spare-Liver-ARE WE FEELING JOYFUL YET?

So I decided a bunch of it needed to go.  I could either do all of it in a way that made me an absolute jewel to be around and made everyone around me speed-dial Kevorkian for a good old-fashioned mercy killing, or I could hop off the crazy train, because the only one keeping me on there is me.  So I said NO THANK YOU VERY MUCH to myself a bunch of other people, and it felt incredible.

Then I found the Christmas lights I lost and couldn't find for THREE DAYS (because I'd put them where I always put them, SO CONFUSING), which is probably what really started the whole holiday identity crisis in the first place- a sad, unlit Christmas tree- and everything got a lot better, because Christmas lights are LIFE-GIVING.  I'm pretty sure Kierkegaard said that.

OH THANK GOD

But I'm not putting down my mental red pen.  Slashing through wide swaths of our schedule while cackling (in a festive, Christmas-y way, of course) is pretty much the best thing since the holiday sugar cookies that I will not be making this year, because this December I'm channeling Nancy Reagan and Just Saying No.  I'll use the resulting salt from my children's tears to flavor the Christmas ham, because my gosh, something has to sacred.

Not a Gift-Giving Guide

Because I sometimes like to pretend I have my act together, I have begun Christmas shopping.

Really it has more to do with the fact that gifts are not really my thing, so if I want to enjoy the month of December and my very favorite holiday, I need to get as much of the shopping done as I can now.  Then all I have to do is the gift wrapping- which I LOVE- and somehow tuck it all away without forgetting just where I stashed it.  I am not so good at this.

If you're any store other than the three where I do my regular grocery shopping every week, you only see me a few times a year.  I don't dislike shopping, exactly, but unless I have a specific need, I don't really see the point of even walking through those doors, unless it's to waste time and money, both of which I tend to spend very carefully.  This means I am overly impressed by the things I see most places I go this time of year; displays and items that don't even register with other shoppers have me going "Wow!" and "Neato!" all over them while shaking my head in wonder at all the amazing things that exist these days.  I'm like the Beverly Hillbillies for the first twenty minutes, excited by all the novelty- before becoming overwhelmed by the same and suddenly morphing into Gollum, just wanting to get me and my precious back to my cave.  It's exactly as endearing as you might imagine.

Here's what I got excited over last week while shopping before I scurried back to my hole:

Isn't this neat?  The back is flat, so you can attach it to your wall or ceiling, and plus you'd forever be able to claim that you had quasi-literally given your loved one the moon.  Perhaps also get your recipient a small fish tank that you could gently slosh around so you can pretend your moon exerts gravitational pull.  Just make sure whatever animal you put in the water is hardy enough to take a bit of a beating.

The only problem with this one is that I get that Whitney Houston song stuck in my head every time I look at it- you know, the "I believe that children are our future, teach them well and blah blah blah," one?  Well, that and the problem where any of our kids would most likely cry if this was their Christmas present.  But what a great way to teach kids about carbon footprints and living in a way that's ecologically conscious.

This one's just on here because I need someone to explain it to me.  Why would anyone buy this?  It's handing your kids both the tools and a permission slip to terrorize you.  Completely baffling.


As soon as we walked into Barnes and Noble last Friday, Adelaide and I saw a table stocked with adult coloring books.  (And by "adult" I don't mean they had, um, questionable content or anything, they were just more detailed than children's coloring books.  Just so we're clear.)  We rushed toward it and immediately began coveting our neighbor's coloring books.  It was like preschool all over again.  Only way prettier.

See?

I carried The Time Garden around with me for a good fifteen minutes before reluctantly putting it back.  This is normal bookstore behavior for me.

There were other treasures at B&N, of course:

The New Elephant and Piggie!  Long live Mo Willems!

I've had my eye on on that illustrated Harry Potter since it first came out a month or so ago, but forty bucks for a story I technically already own (albeit without supercoolawesomeamazing illustrations) just isn't happening.  For now.

These things get me all jumped up in anticipation for my birthday in a couple weeks, because I have, naturally, requested to go look around the Brass Armadillo for my birthday date with Derek.  There I anticipate coming across a different manner of treasures than the ones above, but treasures nonetheless:  Goat bells!  Creepy old photographs!  Cast iron squirrel nutcrackers!  Ach, the anticipation is excruciating!

"All I Want For Christmas Are Weapons of Mass Destruction"

The title of this post may not be precisely what our boys requested, but it is, in essence, what they wanted.

It is also what they received.  Come, Lord Jesus.  Soon.  Please.

Caedmon got a Batman sword.  

And Batman nunchuks.  And a Batman dagger, which you can just see tucked into his belt there, which was actually one of mine, and is made of soft tan velveteen.  Just like Batman would wear.

Atticus got ninja stuff.

Caedmon also got a little toy rifle, which he likes to use when wearing the paper cape his sister made him for Christmas.  She even curled the end to aid in its fluttering in his wake when he runs.

Our resident superhero also got some awesome screen-printed muscles in the form of Batman footie pajamas, with detachable cape, of course.  Just in time, too; his old, holey, too-small, loved-to-rags Batman pajamas were starting to make him look like homeless PTSD-riddled Batman.  He has now been restored to his former glory, which must mean he's currently in the third movie of whatever Batman trilogy he mentally stars in.

Click to embiggen, for the sake of your eyeballs.

Our children didn't just get materials to stock our household armory; Adelaide got a much longed-for giant artist's kit, Atticus got sports stuff, and Caedmon got tools and a tool belt, and we all got the baby Jesus, plus a few miscellaneous things like much-needed warm, layering clothing and games and a harmonica.  Between several sets of grandparents and great-parents and a few loving aunts and uncles (and Jesus), they're set for the year.  Derek and I only ever get each of them one gift from us, and one gift from Santa.  The gift from us is something they need (this year it was thick, waterproof mittens, which I know work splendidly because after wearing them indoors for several minutes Caedmon announced that "They're too hot; they make my hands slimy!").

Atticus intent upon attaching the net to his basketball hoop.

Caedmon intent upon doing something with this tools.  I don't know what.  

Now that we've got all this new kid stuff in our house, I get to go through and choose what we're getting rid of, which is one of the beauties of living in a house with limited storage space:  Something comes in, something else must go out.  I've got five grocery sacks full of toys so far.  The children have come close to tears; I am gleeful.  CHRISTMAS IS OVER, KIDDIES MUAHAHAHA.



On Christmas Day:

 During Mommy's Post-Christmas Purge: