Bappa, call the Wangsgards. We’re going to need more hay.

In addition to excessive amounts of bouncy horses, the kids got much-asked-for lassoes. 

George and Steve went to the guitar pick store the other day. George is really into guitar picks. He often sleeps with one in his hand. 

As recently as yesterday, it occurred to George that he would very much like a guitar to go with his picks. But he was sure that elves couldn’t make guitars because they can only make tiny things. This morning he was proven wrong. (Though he still claims the elves/Santa didn’t make this…they just had one lying around.)

George also got this Utah sweater. Plus his middle name is Ogden. If we lose him in the airport, the airport people will know where to send him.

Speaking of losing things in the airport, I almost lost my camera there, and I was enormously bereft. I had already chosen a title for the end-of-year longform essay I was going to write on the subject — “On Losing My Camera (and My Mom)” — when my camera was miraculously recovered. Phew. Now I don’t have to write anything.

Meanwhile, Della got this peacock butterfly dress.

She is still singing, loud and a lot.

The Nutcracker, in which there is no singing, is still cracking.

The D.C. metro is still running. Walking. Limping, by some reports.

Our old friend Elliot is still face-painting, but now with street makeup.

George still girlies it up from time to time, but only for beautiful women.

We still have some friends.

Steve still has a job.

And Christmas is as it always was: exciting, excessive, communal, commercial, sacred, and secular. A triumphant end to a rabbit hole of a year.