jennanddave.com

We're still alive. Everyone is currently not sick (knock on wood), although at this point I'm already counting the seconds until May when the cold season subsides and we can breathe easy for a few months. I'm such a complainer.

We had a nice Christmas in Boston. We hardly left my parents' place at all, choosing instead to sit on the couch, take naps, and eat all of the amazing food my mom and dad cooked up. It was hard to come back home and face having to fend for ourselves.

A couple of days before we left for Massachusetts, Henry started asking a couple of times a day if it was Christmas yet. He had picked out one little present that I had put under the tree, asked if it was his, then stuck it in his stocking. When we got to my parents we hung his stocking up with his one present in it, then hid all of the others. Everyday he said he couldn't wait to open his present. On Christmas morning the pile of stuff that had mysteriously appeared under the tree didn't even register; all he could focus on was getting at his one present. After he tore through his stocking, which had been beefed up with some other small toys, and opened his present (a slinky), he was obviously pretty pleased with his haul. Naturally, though, there were a lot of other shiny boxes under the tree with his name on them. He would open one, get totally excited about whatever was inside, insist on playing with it for a while, and then we would have to coax him to open another one. This went on for about an hour until suddenly something clicked and he just started tearing through his presents, paper and ribbons flying, stuffed animals hugged, helicopters flown, and clothes tossed over shoulder. Christmas innocence lost? The next day he asked if it was Christmas again. I told him there were only 364 more days until Christmas. That answer satisfied him, until the next day when he asked if it was Christmas again yet.

Here's a video Dave took (with one of our Christmas presents) of Henry playing with his new workbench and drill: