We’ve not had Thanksgiving in Mass for two years now, maybe more, and that’s sad. The timing of Christmas and Roby’s birth and the way those things get traded back and forth by adult families with children is a fascinating dance of etiquette that I’m not sure I’ll ever get the hang of. We had it easy in my childhood, we’d go to Montréal for Christmas and a few days preceding it, then we’d stop in Saint Albans on the way back. In retrospect I wish we had spent a little more time in Saint Albans. At the time I certainly didn’t want to. It was boring, and the second Christmas we’d have at home was waiting for us, and there were presents there. That made it difficult to want to spend time talking with grampie and grammie. Presents. 

I wonder what Roby will treasure and what she’ll have liked to have done more of. I suppose I can’t know. Unless she writes a blog about it when she’s grown. 

I’m quite looking forward to Christmas with her, this christmas and next and the next twenty and as many after that as she’ll let me. Christmas is a special, special time, and I like to think it’ll be even moreso because of the fact that we actually believe it’s worth celebrating for reasons far, far, beyond presents.