Henry was a wee six months old the last time we were at home for Christmas. Not that we have been sleeping in our cars or working each Christmas since then. We have been doing the rounds though. Exotic locations like Portland, Chelan, Issaquah. (I know!)
Still... home. Where I can be awakened by little people jumping on the bed and know that I can simply push them into the hall, lock the door, and know that they'll only rip into the stockings for fear Santa will remember whatever they do wrong when next December comes around.
Where I can make my own dang coffee. (Unless someone brings me some.)
Where I can wander around without clothes on. (As long as it's really dark.)
So, hurray! Home!
My naked adventures were delayed due to the arrival of NanaPapa and out of respect for my poor children's future psychotherapy bills. And Papa brought me coffee so I didn't have to do that. We did use the lock on the door, though.
I'll skip over the presents because that's boring stuff. More important was the turkey. None of that crappy ham or roast beef. TURKEY! That's a real meal. And it was done perfectly from the moist meat to the cranberry sauce still showing the ridges from the can.
By the time the turkey was all put away (and the pies were half consumed, too) the kids were asleep on their feet. Amy and I had a quiet evening getting ready for the next day. As we all know, after Christmas comes Boxing Day!