It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I know this, not by the wreath on our door or the giant Noble Fir in our living room, but by the color of my son's tongue.
When we went to pick out the tree on Sunday, we grabbed some supplementary lights and ornaments, to replace those that had become lost or trashed since last December 25th. My wife told each of the kids that they could pick out a box - an entire fucking BOX, folks - of candy canes. This, in spite of the numerous sideways "you're killing me" glances I shot her behind our four kids' backs.
The kids bought their canes. They hung them dutifully on the tree. And then, two hours later, the totally expected happened: I found Luka, our three-year-old, crouched in a corner, his mouth dyed green and blue from however many Jolly Ranchers canes he had managed to cram down his gullet before I outed him. I found at least three wrappers, but that means nothing; judging by how long it took to settle him down that evening, three was merely an appetizer. Goddess only knows how many noble canes lost their lives that night at the hands of Canezilla.
Yeah, I know, simple solution: take the canes off the tree. But that's Christmas heresy. You might as well ask me to piss on the American flag while spitting on my mother's apple pie. I don't care how insane it is, those crack-sticks are staying on the tree even if it kills me.
And it damn well may.
