Prep Work

Thursday, A texted the above picture to me. Her and G were baking cookies for Santa. G has begun to understand Christmas traditions and thus was eager to make the best cookies for Santa that he could. The best cookies are seperated from average cookies by the amount of frosting caked onto the cookie and sugar sprinkles generously poured onto the frosting.


Friday, Christmas Eve, G woke early, a day early, but was greeted with the gift of his very own skis. This of course after he broke the yard stick in an unsupervised Warren Miller moment on the basement stairs.

The ski's were a hit and G took to the flat trail easily. "Wow, this is slippery!" was all he had to say. A few hundred yards later he was ready to get into the sled with his crew.



The testing of his athleticism now behind us, it was time for dad to get to work. We made good of two hours and G slept some and ate some. When we returned to the car and I pulled him out of the sled, he handed me the last cookie from the bag once filled with a half dozen or so. "Here Daddy, I saved it for you." The sandwich, apple and granola bar were untouched.

About 20-minutes into our hour or so drive home he said he didn't want to make our usual DQ stop for a corn dog. At the forty minute mark he said his tummy hurt. He usually says this when he's hungry so I payed no attention. Not that I turned the radio up to ignore him. I just gave the comment as much credit as a kid riding down HWY 1 saying he just saw a killer whale jump out of the water with a tattoo that read, BMX RULES on its' side.

A few minutes later as we came into town and were stuck behind a city bus calling on every stop, block after block, G said he was going to barf but was interrupted by his own hurling of way too many sugar cookies.


Now, to digress for a moment, any potential or soon to be parent reading this, I give this golden nugget of advice: Learn how to remove the straps and padding of your child seats BEFORE trying to work around the pool of vomit.

At any rate, later in the evening at the Christmas Eve service, G proudly told everyone who would listen that "Today I skied and I barfed!"

Just before bed, he was excited to leave Santa a cookie but was slightly apprehensive that Santa too, would barf. So was Santa.



As with many times in life, the best way to get over a bad experience is to get back on the horse, have a little hair of the dog, put your nose to the grindstone, or soldier through. Today G and I did all that. We talked in great detail on the drive up the mountain about why he barfed. I reassured him that by not eating cookies for lunch his odds of barfing were drastically lowered. I expanded about sunscreen and skin cancer but lost him. Then I promised him a reward if he in turn promised to be brave.