As the night of yule approaches faster than Blitzen with a nitrous kit it's becoming near impossible to conceal the fact that I haven't yet fully prepared my Christmas bestowal. The family and I are frantically putting together many batches of assorted delicious Christmas cookies to give to our loved ones, one of which required a special expedition to the store for supplies today. The three of us bundled up (Fred is off today enjoying some quality time with his dad) and ventured out braving the fiercely cold winds and fiercely eager Christmas shoppers (I've since forgotten what it's like to stress about the holidays and trying to find that "perfect gift" for everyone...this is one of the only benefits of having neither a jobby job nor a disposable income).
During the outing, both tots took the shortest nap in the history of babykind and decided that it would be sufficient enough to face the remainder of the day. Anyone who knows babies knows that it is pointless to argue with them, so I just went with the flow and employed their assistance in making rum balls upon our return. Sure I may have violated several baby labor laws, but hey, if Santa can have his elves, why can't I have mine? *
*This is what is often referred to within literary circles as satire evident mainly in the fact that every single ingredient in a rum ball is a huge no no for babies even in a full haz-mat positive pressure suit. In addition, Mr. Steve stands firm on his position of discouraging elven labor exploitation.
When the elves lead, the Santas will follow.
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