The Ghost of Christmas Presents

I hope your celebrations were all wonderful and joyous. I hope the spirit of the season gave you a hug, even if the season of being fuck-all broke visited you. This was a good Christmas for me, but not an easy one.

Christmas Eve, I rolled out the door with Wifefish and Little Danger to stay with my in-laws, whom I hold quite dear. I won the in-law lottery.

As the Eve progressed, the TV rotated between White Christmas, Sirius Christmas Music, A Christmas Carol (both Muppet and not), and of course A Christmas Story. There was sledding. There was festivity, happiness, and love.

Santa came to visit, a fantastic member of the Santa Corps whose sleigh is a beaten pick up, but who brings the magic of the Claus with great aplomb. From deep within his sack, he brought forth toys and candy, and held Little Danger in his arms for a photo with my niece and nephew. It is the most precious and adorable thing ever, and if I send the picture to Kim Jong Il, North Korea will fall apart tomorrow. I may be in consultations with the government on whether or not to do so. There are conditions of regional stability to consider.

After a bit of a visit, Santa told the younglings that he had to go meet the elves with his sleigh, and set his massive pocketwatch on "North Pole" to begin his magical journey. I read The Night Before Christmas to the kids in my best basso profundi, and off to bed they went.

Unfortunately, like Scrooge, I was about to be visited and tormented in the night. Alas, it wasn't Marley that came to call at the bell's tolling of 1. It was a dreaded nemesis indeed, the stomach flu that Wifefish had already suffered through 3 days hence. Yes, my Christmas was blessed by the same virus that fucks up entire cruise ships. I would rather have had to fight off Magneto without any of the X-men to help. With a butter knife.

As I hobbled from the bed to wrap my loving arms around the porcelain altar of Christmas Dinner Yet To Return, I came to dread the day. Yet, the day was going to come, and presents would be opened, and Little Danger would have his first Christmas. It was time to greet some Daddy Toughness.

As morning broke, I dug deep. I found the iron of my will, wrapped it around my oh-so-tender gut, and took a sip of water. The iron bent a bit, but remained. I took Little Danger up the stairs to greet Christmas Morning.

Through a foggy haze and a few more trips to the loo, I made it through stockings. I took pictures of Little Danger with his stocking stuffers, but Wifefish tells me they were blurry. I'm sure they looked clear when I snapped them, but alack, I was evidently hallucinating from Montezuma's Revenge of the Sugarplum Fairy. The iron gave out, and became something less Herculean by far. "The sponge cake of my will" doesn't sound near as determined, I imagine, but ended up being far more accurate for the rest of the day.

Christmas Breakfast had begun, and so back to bed I went. I was assailed by the scent of bacon, normally a siren call of impending ambrosia but now a vicious mugger beating my digestive system up for loose change.

I was awakened when it was time to open the rest of the presents. Little Danger got an assortment of awesome things, including a stuffed Yoda plushie that talks (first Star Wars toy FTW!). I gritted through as best I could, disappearing from time to time as needed. The boy had a good haul, and now has plenty of toys to play and learn with.

As for me, the rest of the day was spent mostly in a fog in bed, curled around the lump of cramptastic agony my belly had become. I am a notorious wuss when it comes to illness, but this thing had my number.

A quick aside: Spike TV was running the Star Wars trilogy on Christmas day. Now, I can appreciate the target clientele of Spike, but I have to take a bit of issue with the decision to run condom and vibrator ads during every commercial break. To hear my 8 year old niece comment "that looks like a vibrating lipstick", while fuck-all hilarious, was perhaps something that the nice folks at Spike could have given a bit more thought to avoid causing.

I slept through Christmas Dinner, a piece of toast serving as a reluctant substitute. It fought me for the privilege for about an hour, and I persisted in a fugue state on the couch. Eventually, Wifefish drove our chariot home, Little Danger in his seat and her poor, pitiful wretch of a Dangerboy in the passenger seat. She's a goddamn saint.

Somehow, even having to deal with the Plague, it ranks up there as one of the Best Christmases Ever. And that's all about a tiny little gift, hugging his new pal Yoda and doing his best Han Solo smirk. I know in years to come, I won't remember the Ghost of Christmas Presents...I'll remember that precious giggle, that charming smile, and the love inspired by my Little Danger.