Christmas Happened!

Want to see what Christmas morning looks like in a house of three boys?



Weapons, weapons, weapons, of every kind. 

I had thought it was kind of sweet a couple weeks ago when Vincenzo was writing his letter to Santa and asked, “Mom, how do you spell ‘rhino?’”  I thought he wanted to add to his stuffie collection.  But actually, this is the kind of rhino Vincenzo wanted.


(If you squint hard enough, you’ll see the word “RHINO” on this…this…whatever it is.  Missile launcher?  Gatling gun?  NWMD?

I remember when I was pregnant with Vincenzo and had just found out I was having a boy.  I went for a walk around my neighborhood and saw two boys running around their yard with Nerf guns, making machine gun sounds and looking like miniature terrorists.  I had a moment of panic.  Was this my future?  Violence and bloody deaths imagined and acted out all over my peaceful garden and house?  Was the soundtrack of my life going to be ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch and drdrdrdrdrdrdrdr and BBBBBRRRRRRKKKBOOOOOM?!

Fortunately, by the time I got home I had had a revelation.  I told Kevin what I had seen and then said, “It’s okay, though, because our son won’t be into pretending to shoot people.  Not every boy loves that kind of thing, right?”

Fast forward ten years and…


Much of Christmas day 2015 was spent with five kids manning the Rhino contraption at one of the living room while one cousin stood on the other side of the room with a Rubbermaid tub over his head, being pummeled with bullets.

And you know what?  I thought it was the most hilarious thing they had come up with in a long time.  I laughed so hard I forgot to take a picture, and that’s saying a lot for me.

So at least part of that revelation I had when I was pregnant was correct; it is okay. 

Our sons are no different than the ones I saw playing in that yard eleven years ago.  I’m just not scared of the bang bang games anymore; I understand that it is my boys’ version of playing house.  They’re just imagining, pretending to be someone they’re not.  In fact, this game is even better than playing house because no one gets stuck being the baby every time.

People end up pretend maimed, dead, blown into another dimension, and sometimes real injuries incur along with the imaginary, and the house is always loud and our umbrella stand is now filled with weapons instead of umbrellas…but at least no one has to be the friggin’ baby AGAIN.

And when all this is going on, our house somehow feels like the happiest place in the world.

Fried eggs
Cheese & fruit
Peppermint snowball cookies

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