If you are reading this as it is posted, you are the first on your block to spy the annual family Christmas Epiphany Card photo.  Some years cards have gone out as late as Easter, and once, as late as the following Christmas, so we aren’t as behind as we could be.

From Top to Bottom & Left to Right:
Mr. Boy, age 7; LP age 5; the Bun, age 3; myself (Jennifer); the SuperHusband; and SB, age 1.5.

The pink house behind us is not our house, it’s the neighbor’s house, the green castle being tucked between the two yards, out of view in this photo.  We’re standing under the Other Maple, the one that is neither the Syrup Maple, the Miserly Maple, nor the Sickly Maple.  Mr. Boy is shown somewhat lower than his preferred position in the tree.  The Bun is wearing her usual attire of late. 

(Readers who are familiar with the Bun’s many name changes will be interested to learn she has a new name as of this morning: "Cow Jumped Over the Moon".  To those who were not aware, her previous names have included Winnie-the-Pooh, Baby Einstein, Bunny Blanket, Fishie the Bird, and Sweetie Pie Amby-Lewis.  With occasional forays into "Derlin" when her preferred name was put into time out for bad behavior.)


Pretend tree is up (and has been since, ahem, the week before Advent — a certain Protestant in the family was chief-of-decorating this year), and presents are acquired.  Egg nog and stollen are queued up for feasting purposes.  

An assortment of GI & respiratory illnesses may be eased enough to get away with going to grandma’s house for Christmas eve.  Or not, we’ll see.  One does not, generally speaking, consider bronchitis to be the most appropriate of gifts for one’s favorite 80-something relatives.


In holiday intrigue, rumors abound that a certain popcorn-addict has warped the Good Pot with her popcorn-making.  Evidence is purely circumstantial, and no reliable witnesses have come forward.  The only  expert witness has been shown to have a marked anti-popcorn bias.

Nonetheless, as we acquired a glass-top stove this fall (when the original 1983 Harvest Gold stove arced the second time, after the attempted repair — but gosh, the oven was still good, we could have just put a hot plate up top and called it good . . .), warped pots are very unpopular here.  

So it may happen that the three kings will be obliged to bring the SuperHusband a shiny new popcorn-free-forever pot.  Which would involve some brave, selfless person going out to the least objectionable national-chain mass merchandiser the day, or so, after Christmas.