Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Follows their leads.
Has them calling the shots even when it’s clear he hates the decisions they’re making.
Like now.
“Floss?” Wes adjusts his hold on Brae who is reaching for one of the branches near the top. “Are you trying to tell Santa he needs to visit the dental hygienist for a cleaning after all the cookies he eats?”
“That’s a bold message,” I playfully add to their conversation while tapping the chicken tangled in Christmas lights wrapping paper – that the kids picked out this year – around the pillar closest to the door. “Should we leave out mouthwash instead of milk?”
Board – who is holding my tape dispenser – tilts his head in what can only be called sarcasm.
“Don’t give me shit.” Kicking my chin across the room is instantly done. “It was her idea!”
“You know he has no clue what you’re saying, right?” Mom thoughtlessly accuses between bites of a cookie prompting our brown fur ball to whip his head over his shoulder and snuff.
“I believe our grand dog objects to that statement,” Clark chortles in the distance where he’s adding colorful candy canes into Wes’s Batman mug that usually only stores his pens.
“It’s not dental floss, Dad,” Brae dramatically sighs, calling our attention back to her. “It’s a violin string.” She lets her crystal gaze find his mismatched one. “I want him to remember it’s me that wants a new electric violin for Christmas.”
“I don’t think Santa needs a reminder, mini maestro.” Wes lets the corners of his lips warmly kick upwards. “He has a list, that he checks twice.”
“And Mom has a list that she checks twice but still forgets to pack me a pre-rehearsal snack.”
“Don’t throw me under the Enterprise,” I swiftly scold on a mirthful glare. “It’s not my job to pack you a pre-rehearsal snack. That’s Temps.”
“Unless you give Temps the week off because you’re on vacation,” Mom reminds on another cookie bite. “Then it’s your job.” She sassily smirks in my direction. “The next Jeri Lynne Johnson really needs proper fuel before she rehearses.”
“You’re supposed to be on your daughter’s side.”
“Why? You weren’t on yours when you sold her out to the dog.”
Board snuffs in agreement redirecting my glare to him. “You were so not invited into this conversation.”
“Mom may be a little forgetful sometimes,” my husband begins only to receive a less than clever flashing of my middle finger, “but Santa isn’t. Mr. St. Nick has everything covered. Dotted all his I’s and crossed all his T’s.”
And we have.
All Santa gifts are good to go!
“Promise?”
Wes uses the edge of his index finger to lift her chin up a little higher. “I promise.”
This.
This is what I wish the fucking media would capture.
Him being the great dad that he truly is.
Engaging with our kids.
Encouraging them.
Comforting them.
Being there for them the way a dad should be versus simply shouting at them like the monster they’ve captured him being these past few days.
Not once have they snap a shot of him laughing with the girls or fixing their bows.
Nope.
Just shot after shot after shot of him scowling at Wy.
Wy frowning at him.
Them, yelling in the parking lot of our charity play event like they were competing to be Krampus’s successor.
Yeah.
Lots of photos of that nonsense two nights ago has led to lots of demands from Evie for us to flood our personal feeds with lots of “sweet” posts from our day-to-day activities insisting that the world needs to see us spreading cheer not misery.
An undeniable grunt of disagreement leaves Wy who’s lounging in the cushioned seat next to me, not decorating.
Not drinking.
Not eating.
Not participating in anything other than being in the room.
And even that in itself is a bit of a miracle.
He slept ‘til almost noon, skipped lunch, and would’ve opted out of this if it weren’t for the fact he can’t say no to the twins.
I truly appreciate that they use their powers for evil and good.
“Dad, Dad,” Blake excitedly jumps to her feet, abandoning the box she was digging in as well as knocking into the ornaments on the lowest branches prompting Betty to use her nose to carefully nudge them back into place. “Can we put this old megaphone thing on the top of the tree?!”
“That’s an old microphone,” Wes explains at the same time he puts Brae down.
“Why’s it weird shaped?”
“That’s how they used to be shaped.”
“When you were a kid?”
The unintentional dig gets me giggling under my breath.
“When Gami and Gramps were kids.”
“Ohhhhhhhh,” she drags out during her being lifted into his arms. “So a lonnnggg longggg longggg longgggggg time ago.”
“She could just ask for coal in her stocking,” I mutter to Mom enroute to the other pillar.
“Seriously,” she whispers back in amusement.
“You want this on the very top?” Wes politely inquires in tandem with inching into a better position for her to reach the area. “Isn’t that where Wy’s gonna put one of his Batman tree toppers?”