If I were Charlie Brown, my wise-beyond-his-years spiritual philosopher friend Linus would probably sit me down and give me a long speech with his blue blanket about how Christmas isn’t about all that; “Christmas is about Jesus” he’d say. No, it’s not. If Christmas is about Jesus then why did I spend seventy five bucks on a dead tree that I dragged out of my house nine days before Christmas so I could drive 1200 miles across the country with a wreath tied to the bumper, lights wrapped around the luggage rack, and presents piled so high I couldn’t see out the rear-view mirror? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Jesus’ idea to stop every 75 miles to change a poopy diaper either. We’d have to be out of our minds to do all that for Jesus when there is a perfectly good Catholic church fifteen minutes down the road with plenty of Jesus for everyone. No, Christmas is about sanctimonious Christmas letters from people you don’t really even know and 21 days of high octane super concentrated family.
When daddy read a few Christmas letters out loud to me and mommy, I decided I wasn't going to write one this year. At nine months I just didn't think anything interesting has happened in my life. I didn't get a new job; nobody gave me a raise or a bonus; I'm not building a vacation home or fighting with tenants; and no matter how hard I try, nobody has bought me a new car. I can't even write to tell people how many hundreds of thousands of dollars I lost in the stock market because I didn't have any invested. I dismissed the idea completely until, after reading the last letter, daddy insisted that I should write a letter of my own. Let's see if I have the hang of it.
I set down my ice and tip-toed a few inches closer, as if standing on the tips of my toes would protect me from the evil now embedded in my carpet. The texture and color were such that I still couldn't tell exactly what this substance was or where it came from. I looked around, praying for a hidden camera. Please let me be on TV. Please let me get punk'd. Please someone tell me this is not real. That bastard Ashton Kutcher was nowhere to be found.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but in this case I think I’ll stick with the thousand words. Watching this child eat sweet potatoes and carrots is like watching a drug addict looking for her next score. As soon as that spoon hits her lips her eyes get big and she does this little wiggle dance in her chair like you just fed her a spoonful of pure joy. You have about two and a half seconds to get that next spoonful in her mouth or the detox process begins. You don’t want the detox process to begin. The little lip starts to quiver, the eyes get angry, and she starts to wail. While entertaining, that is nowhere near the best part yet. It gets better.
On most Sunday evenings you’ll find my grandfather, a.k.a The Silver Fox, at my parent’s house for dinner in Orange County. Having had success web casting with one set of grandparents I knew it was only a matter of time before I got the disgruntled phone call or the snappy email from my parents—specifically my mom—saying “how come we don’t get to see Kaitlyn on the computer?” I decided to head this one of at the pass and maybe even kill two birds with one stone. While Jen was at work Sunday afternoon, I called my house.
One of my favorite things so far about fatherhood is the hand off. It’s most apparent on weekday afternoons between four-thirty and five O’clock. That’s when I usually come home from earning the money to pay for the diapers and the formula and the dog food (crap, we’re almost out of dog food) and the electricity and the water…you get the idea. As I push the button to open the garage door I utter a sigh of relief, “ah, home sweet home”. I pull into the garage, pondering what stuffed animal my dog will bring me as a welcome home gift today. I get out of the car and walk 
to the door. In one hand are my keys and the mail, in the other, my empty lunch bag. Closing the garage door behind me, I stop in the laundry room to put away my sunglasses, badge, keys, and blue tooth. Look at that, I now have a partially free hand. Hallie greets me with one of her toys. I don’t dare acknowledge her yet, she’s too excited and would pee on the carpet. I walk into the family room, anxious to be kissed by my wife and greeted by my little princess. Pay close attention, here comes the hand off. With eyes on my partially freed hand, my wife, sitting with the child in the lazy boy, holds her high in the air. “Here’s your princess, she has a poopy diaper. It’s your turn!”
to the door. In one hand are my keys and the mail, in the other, my empty lunch bag. Closing the garage door behind me, I stop in the laundry room to put away my sunglasses, badge, keys, and blue tooth. Look at that, I now have a partially free hand. Hallie greets me with one of her toys. I don’t dare acknowledge her yet, she’s too excited and would pee on the carpet. I walk into the family room, anxious to be kissed by my wife and greeted by my little princess. Pay close attention, here comes the hand off. With eyes on my partially freed hand, my wife, sitting with the child in the lazy boy, holds her high in the air. “Here’s your princess, she has a poopy diaper. It’s your turn!”We traveled in late May to California to have Kaitlyn baptized. We returned with an ear infection that earned us a trip to the emergency room with a fever of 104. If you want to see a new mom freak out, show her a thermometer that reads 104. Another way to make a new mom freak out: show her blood. This afternoon Jen was trimming Kaitlyn’s fingernails and accidentally missed one and hit the finger instead. All ten are still accounted for, but there was enough blood drawn to cause a stream of tears and a moment of hysteria. Kaitlyn cried a little too. If nothing else, these little incidents serve to remind mommy that she’s not alone, and she doesn’t know everything.