Though we spent Christmas very quietly this year, with just me, Oliver, Craig, a motley tree, and minimal presents, Christmas was still … that day you’ve been waiting for, preparing for, and knowing you should somehow behave and feel differently on than all the rest of the days of the year. In other words, it was a slightly weird day per usual—parts of it wonderful and parts of it overwhelming and underwhelming all at once. I’m a Boxing Day kind of girl myself, I realized this year.
This Boxing Day, Mr O woke up with a brand new front tooth, which is a source of pride today as opposed to a source of agony yesterday. He is obsessed with wrapping his tongue around it and along his gumline, sending great gobs of spittle in every direction. We are constantly wiping his face and our … everything.
After several bib changes and much wringing out of our own clothing, Craig and I finally got us all out the door to face the blizzard that has enveloped Vancouver this holiday. We popped O in his stroller, mushed through slush and stubborn snowbanks, and made it as far as the IGA before O mounted serious protest. We released him, heaped the groceries onto the stroller, and took turns carrying him to our next destination—lunch at Earl’s with James and Monique.
At lunch, despite the fact that we were noshing during naptime, O was adorable if massively drooly. He stared long, hard, and enviously at Craig’s beef dip sandwich, so we broke of bits of the buttery meat and popped them into his mouth. Between bites, O alernated between gazing adoringly at James and hugging me, cooing contentedly (and wetly) in my ear.
We broke from lunch to face the elements again—the snowfall was only intensifying. I ploughed the stroller along, and Craig carried O, who yelled meaningfully and constantly at the snow—he feels very strongly about it. People smiled and gaped at our babbling (and very loud) boy as they walked by. The stroller threatened to capsize but didn’t, O could have begun crying from tiredness but didn’t, and we all made it home intact and pleasantly whipped from the weather and exertion.
We freed O from his snowsuit, changed him, and plopped him on the bed. I hopped in on the other side, pulled him into me, tugged the flannel sheets and duvet up around us, and breastfed him into dreamland. Above us, snow covered our skylight, letting in only soft, blue light. I looked down upon O—whose cheeks were still flushed and cool from the snow, and who snored lightly and rhythmically—and felt deliriously happy and lucky.
Merry, merry Boxing Day.