Lu: “Sometimes Ms. Brunello tells me, Lucy, you are skating on thin ice with me.’ And I know what that means!”

Dad: “What?”

Lu: “It is an idiom that mean she had had it up to here with me and I am about to get a consequence.”

Dad: “That’s exactly what that means. What are you doing when she does that?”

As Lu is describing falling out of her chair for laughs, Jason stifles laughter and proudly mouths, “IDIOM?!”

The first morning of Christmas break did not go well.

First Lu shut Milo’s tiny fingers in her door. There was some minor blood and squishing, and some major histrionics from both smusher and smushee.

Then, well…we have entered what Pie calls the “Poo Paws” phase of development, where one child uses the potty and doesn’t flush, and the other child is fascinated with the contents of the toilet.

So when Milo toddled out of the bathroom, brandishing a Rock Band drumstick with great sop of toilet paper dangling from the end, you can imagine the motherly athleticism that went into stopping him at the door of the bathroom. I wish Bob Costas had been there to describe the whole maneuver.

Good news, readers: it was only number one. And I Clorox-wiped the affected drumstick and area, including Milo.

Am hoping days two and three of Christmas break go better. Oh, and I love you, Trina.

My dear Santa,

I know you and Amazon…er, I mean, the elves are busy with the toys and the cheer and all that, but I just wanted to put in what I realize is a pretty last-minute request.

I need an elf.

Or a wife.

Or a project manager.

Or at the very least, an intern.

That’s why this request is so late. There was no one to remind me to make it.

There was also no one to countdown the number of shopping days until Christmas, which is why until earlier today, I had not bought a present for anyone other than Pie (and her gift was the one I’d intended to buy her last year). Can’t the elves/Amazon even send a reminder email, Santa?

There was also no one to remind me that the Girl Scouts were going caroling at the nursing home this afternoon (some kind mother noticed Lucy milling around and called to ask if she should take her).

There is no food planned for the pre-Christmas gift exchange dinner we’re having with Jason’s family (oh, the gifts).

And these are just the handful of undone tasks THAT I KNOW ABOUT.

So, Santa baby, all I want for Christmas is an elf. You’ve got legions of them. I need a real self-starter. Someone enterprising, young, willing to share a room with Lu. In the event the elf can’t reach the pedals on our cars, I’d need an elf willing to ride a tricycle or big wheel to run errands. We can provide this elf not only a loving home, but lots of opportunities and connections in the world of marketing.

And Santa, don’t give me some crap about cultural mores and the weather and how hard it would be for this elf to adjust to life down here, because I know what kind of sweatshop you’re running up at the North Pole. I hear that at least a couple of times a year, they find elves on ice floes off Greenland, seeking asylum.

So send me an elf. Alternately, send me a Mrs. Claus, because I hear you have several of those, too. And don’t send the one who “knows her way around a Pole.” Send the one who went to Northwestern. Or the one who bakes.

Look, Santa, I’m falling apart down here. You’ve got wives AND elves. Think of someone besides your fat self and the kids for once.

Lylas and Merry Christmas,

Kate

After Lu’s piano lesson Saturday, we went to Upper Crust Bakery. On the way in, Milo made some friends through the window and spent a full minute engaging them in a little game called “I Am Cute This Way? How Bout This Way?” which involves him cocking his head and smiling. As we were eating, the window people came up to tell us how delightful he was.

And he is. He is one of the most charming people I know. Except for the following developments:

1) Knows how to take the lid off a marker. We learned this by discovering him with orange marker all over his mouth a la The Joker. Really makes life complicated with a 6-year-old artist who WILL  NOT BE STIFLED.

2) Chooses violence. The kid is a lover and a fighter, choosing to splash/bang/hit/bonk whenever he can. He hurls his sippy cup to the ground for the joy of seeing it splat. His hug is more head-butt than actual hug.

3) Throws fits. Hurls himself dramatically, face forward, to the ground when you take, say, a Sharpie away from him.

Ah, Milo, I miss your docility. But I love you anyway.

“Potty is a baby word. Big kids and grown-ups say things like bathroom or restroom. Or toilet. Or commode. Or loo.”

Okay, except I am pretty sure I have never said the words “commode” or “loo” out loud in my life.

Dear Lu, if it makes you feel more grown up to sound all contrived/Victorian/British, knock yourself out. In fact, henceforth, we’ll just call you Loo.

There’s a family of three red-headed boys, roughly ages 6-10, who live on the corner about a block down the street. They can frequently be seen in the front yard of their red-brick ranch house, horsing around, brandishing swords, playing in the mud, sometimes in various states of undress, often at odd hours of the schoolday. Jason and I have surmised that they are home-schooled, and they are making it look like a lot of fun.

The notion of homeschooling is thrilling to me: the idea that parents wouldn’t need an institution, or a professional, or some kind of overseer to make sure the learning is right. While it’s clear the learning is not patently right in our current system, I shiver a little at the idea of doing it on my own. The parents of those red-headed boys are brave and strange.

Yesterday I ran past the red-head house during my “lunch break” at 2 p.m., the break I allowed myself after a day in the home office and inside my own head. The dad was standing in front of the oldest boy with a tackle dummy, and the boy, in full pads and jersey, was doing football drills. I couldn’t help but think, “It’s just so weird. Shouldn’t he be in school? Doesn’t he need a team?”

And then I realized, shouldn’t I be in school? I am doing the professional equivalent of homeschooling. No institution, no overseer, no team, just me. Alongside the other brave, strange people who do their own thing during school hours.