I would give my heart.

Today is my boy's first Christmas. Before anyone else was awake, he and I crept into the living room where the tree was lit up and bright in the dark morning light. Jude turned to me with a huge grin and a squeal and we basked in the glow for a few minutes. I love Christmas. I love being with family. I love reading on Christmas Eve about angelic visitations and women, cousins, suddenly, unexpectedly full of divine life. I love the sweet baby Jesus lying in hay. I love quiet Mary with her hand over her heart and steady Joseph leaning on his staff, watchful. I love singing old english carols around the piano, my father cutting us off at the end of each verse. I love working on impossible puzzles and playing silly games. I love wrapping presents (terribly, by the way). I love it all.

And last night, I couldn't help but listen for the hooves of reindeer on the roof.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

One-handed

It turns out that Jude's fussy time of day is just when I am trying to make dinner. When fussy, he does not like to be reclining, but upright and looking around. He is a big boy, after all. This means I have to carry him around. I have learned in the last week that certain cooking tasks are difficult to do one-handed.

1. Peeling garlic. Imagine me trying to flick off the crackly skin with my thumb. Teeth may have been involved.

2. Making a roux. Whisking constantly and pouring milk in the saucepan in a steady stream is nigh impossible one-handed. Which is why it boiled over and ended up in a steady stream all over my stove. Scorched. End result: lots of scrubbing after dinner. (Luckily, Mike cleaned up. Bless him.).

3. Chopping anything. Onions. Avocado. It doesn't matter. Wielding a knife with a baby in one hand is not brilliant, no matter how hard you try.

So, the point is this: I can basically cook anything that only needs to be stirred. I'm at a loss as to what that item might be.