This Thing About Christmas

by TheREALCarbyLove

It's Baby Meg's second Christmas!

2. It's Christmas All Over Again

Title: This Thing About Christmas

Author: Andrea

Rating: PG … uh, maybe PG-13 in this chapter. But why the hell anyone under 13 would be reading this is beyond me anyway.

Summary: Christmas with the Carters.

Author's Note: Merry, merry friggin' Christmas, everybody. Here's your gift. I think you'll understand why it took me so long to post it when (if) you read it. Because please be warned: this chapter is VERY, VERY LONG. It's long, detailed, and frankly, not much happens. Some might call it boring. I don't think so or I wouldn't have written it. But hey, to each her own. So if you are looking for quick and snappy, action-packed … this probably isn't the chapter for you. If you are all about some random, overly-detailed fluffy Christmas fuzz, read on. Still, you might possibly want to read it in segments. It should probably have been posted as separate chapters, but since I posted the story of Meg's first Christmas all in one chapter, I felt compelled to do the same for this chapter. It was a good idea in theory … but maybe I should have rethought it when I hit page 48. Oh, well. I'd be posting them all at once anyway, so why go to the trouble? Okay, you've been warned. Read it, don't read it, read it over the course of the next week, skim it, whatever. But no complaints about it being long and boring … after all, I already TOLD you that. And I'm hoping that if you like it and appreciate the effort, you'll take the time to review. In the meantime, enjoy this little Christmas gift from me to all my fuzz-loving 'fans.' MERRY CHRISTMAS!

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Chapter 2: It's Christmas All Over Again

Four weeks 'til Christmas …

"Mommy!" A sleepy, but insistent voice calls out. I look over at the clock. 7 a.m. on the dot. My little alarm clock is right on time. Apparently no one told her that it's Saturday so we would be thrilled if she took the day off.

"Mommy!" She stills sounds happy enough, but even more insistent than before.

"I'll go," John says wearily, starting to push the covers back.

"No, I'll go. She's calling for me. Besides, you got to put her to bed so I should get to get her up."

"If you insist," he says with a yawn, pulling the covers back up. "But bring her back here."

"Well, where else would I take her?" I ask rhetorically as I leave the room. After all, I can't remember the last morning that Meg didn't join us in our bed for a while before starting her day.

"Hi, Baby," I say as I enter her room. She's standing up, holding the on to the rail of her crib and when she catches sight of me, she bounces up and down, a big smile spreading across her face -- around the pink pacifier that's still firmly lodged in her mouth. Still, I can't miss the fact that she seems thrilled to see me. Not a bad reception, I must say.

"Mommy," she says again, but this time her voice is all happy excitement. She pulls the pacifier out of her mouth and drops it on the bed like she knows she's supposed to, and then reaches her little arms up to me.

"Good morning, pumpkin." I pick her up and delight in the feel of her little body snuggling against me.

"Mor-ning," she repeats in that adorable baby way of somehow emphasizing both syllables.

"Mommy's little parrot." I pat her back softly and smile at her little baby voice.

"Parr-ot?"

"Exactly."

"Zacly." She nods solemnly and then smiles suddenly before burying her head in my shoulder. I feel her yawn, and hear the sigh that escapes.

"Aww, you're still tired, aren't you, Meggie? Maybe you should go back to bed."

"Mom-mee's bed." Of course. I didn't expect her to volunteer to get back into her own bed. I'm just glad that she generally makes it through the night these days. Granted, sometimes that night is shorter than I'd like, but I'll take what I can get.

"Well, let's change your diaper first."

"S'wet," she informs me as I set her down on the floor.

"I know." The smell of baby pee fills the room. With a rustling of the wet diaper, Meg scurries across the room to the changing table and pulls out the wipes and a few diapers. She always like to bring several -- just in case, I guess.

"Here, Mommy." She thrusts the diapers at me and flops down on her back on the floor, assuming the position. John always says she knows the routine so well that she ought to be able to change herself. She hasn't mastered that skill yet, though, so I get to work while she sings a little tune composed of mainly babble and something that sounds like 'doughnut.' I figure it's best not to ask.

"There, that's better," I say when I have her changed and her fuzzy sleeper zipped up again.

"Bedder," she agrees as she rolls over and then pushes her way to a standing position.

"Can you put this in the diaper pail for Mommy?" I hand her the diaper and she takes it with a grin, finding dropping it into the mouth of the diaper pail great fun. She comes back to me with her hands held out, waiting for me to 'wash' them with a wipe that I've kept out for that purpose. As soon as that's done, Meg charges toward the door.

"Daddy?" she asks, pausing momentarily.

"In Daddy's bed." She smiles upon hearing that he's home this morning, and then takes off running again. Running. At this hour. Where does she get that energy? It must be from her father, because I'm sure not a morning person.

"Hi, Daddy!" Nice and loud as if Carter were far, far away instead of just a few short feet away. She runs to edge of the bed and then, grabbing onto the footboard for leverage, climbs her way to the top of the mattress. She scurries across the bed on all fours and then throws herself across her father's chest.

"Umph … hi, Meg. Hi, jelly bean. Can you say 'good morning, Daddy?' "

" 'Ood morning, Daddy."

"Good morning, Meg." He pulls her into a hug. "You're so smart."

"Smart." She nods wisely. "Pitty?" She asks, her face lighting up.

"Oh, yes. Meg is very pretty," he says in serious, reverent tone.

"Not to mention humble" I add, getting back into bed. "And you'd certainly never catch her fishing for a compliment."

"Wonder where she learned that?"

"Well, not from me," I say indignantly to which he laughs.

"You're the one who's always telling her how pretty she is."

"And smart. And sweet," I point out lest he think I'm that shallow.

"I know. But now she expects to hear it all the time."

"I just want her to have positive self-esteem," I mumble. "What's so wrong about that?"

"Nothing. I didn't say that there was." I look at him significantly, but the moment is interrupted by none other than Meg herself.

"Mommy." She squirms out of her daddy arm's and makes her way over to me. She curls up next to me and isn't the least bit shy about pushing my t-shirt up and out of the way so that she can nurse.

"You know, Meg, you could at least ask first." But I'm smiling down at her, not really minding that she takes such liberties. For her part, Meg is paying no attention to what I'm saying, preferring to concentrate on the task at hand. Her morning feeding seems to be what coffee is to the rest of us. Mother's milk as a pick-me-up? Of course, Meg doesn't seem to need too much of a pick-me-up in the morning anyway. But she does seem to need the nursing to get her day started. I smooth back her hair and watch her fondly, enjoying these moments of closeness that I know will be coming to an end before too long.

"What?" I ask when I look up to find John staring at us. "Is this criticize Abby day?"

"What?" He looks bewildered. "I didn't say anything."

"But you were thinking it."

"I was? What was I thinking?"

"That Meg's too old to be breastfeeding."

"I wasn't thinking that."

"Wondering when I'm going to wean her?"

"Well … maybe. But it was … curiosity, not criticism."

"She's only a year and a half old."

"I know."

"She's still a baby."

"I know."

"And … I like it. It's fun now. Especially since it's just a couple of times a day these days. And unlike in the beginning, it's comfortable now. And comforting for Meg. And me, in a way, I guess. And I feel so close to her, and it's not gonna last much longer and --"

"Abby?" He grabs my free hand. "Who are you trying to convince? I don't think there's anything wrong with it. You're right. She's still a baby and you're both still enjoying it so what's the problem? Now, if you have to go to kindergarten with her to be her morning snack, that might be a problem."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

"No. Not that I wouldn't mind having them all to myself again, but I don't mind sharing for a little while longer."

"I thought you were enjoying how nice and full the breastfeeding makes them"

"Well, there's that. And of course, just about the time I get them all to myself, I'll probably have to start sharing them again." I give him a blank look. "You know, with the new baby."

"What new baby?"

"The one we're gonna have if you ever stop nursing Meg."

"So you are bothered by it."

He rolls his eyes in frustration. "No, I'm not. Abby, it was a joke."

"Some joke. And just so you know, me still nursing isn't what's keeping us from having another baby."

"I think I know that."

"Besides, who says I want another baby?"

"You don't?" He sounds stricken. Like I just announced that I was giving up sex for Lent or something.

"Well, I didn't say that." I pat his hand. "Let's just say that for right now I'm happy with Meg. Maybe someday, when she goes to kindergarten, and I'm forced to finally wean her, I'll be ready for another one." I smile at him to let him know that I'm joking and not upset anymore. When it comes to my decisions for Meg and my skills as her mother, I tend to get a little defensive, but luckily I usually recognize when I'm doing it.

"Okay," he agrees. "Let's talk about something else. Something more … timely."

"Timely?"

"You know, something that's happening right now."

"Such as?" Uh-oh, I see the glint in his eye and realize too late that I probably shouldn't have opened that door.

"Christmas!"

"Christmas? It's two days after Thanksgiving," I complain.

"Yeah, but you got off easy this year. No big family holiday to recover from. So you should be ready to get Christmas started." It's true that we had a quiet Thanksgiving this year. He worked, so I cooked for the three of us. And then, since we weren't traveling, but other people were, nice guy that he is, Carter worked Friday, too. The quiet holiday was fine with me, but with no family for Thanksgiving, I felt compelled to invite them all for Christmas. I'm kind of dreading it so I'm in no hurry to rush Christmas.

"And how exactly would we … get Christmas started?" I don't know why I ask, I'm probably not gonna like the answer.

"You know -- put up the lights, get a tree …"

"You made us do this right after Thanksgiving last year, too."

"I know. I figured it could be a tradition. We'll always get Christmas started Thanksgiving weekend."

"Do we really have to rush it?"

"Rush it? But it goes by so fast. Just a month until Christmas. And I love the season, don't you? The lights, the decorations, the gifts … and it's gonna be great watching Meg this year, now that she knows what's going on."

"I don't think she'll really know what's going on. And a toddler and a tree … I don't know how that's gonna work."

"Oh, Abby, it'll be fine. And she'll love it. You'll see. And besides today's a great day to do the lights."

"It's cold and windy." I say in a skeptical voice.

"But it's not snowing. And it's not that cold … relatively speaking." He gives me the puppy dog eyes. "Please?" Just like a little kid. But it's cute and endearing.

"Okay," I say with a sigh. I can't put it off forever, might as well get it over with. "What do you say Meg, you wanna go get a Christmas tree today?"

"Twee," she manages to say in spite of the fact that her mouth is still otherwise occupied.

"Meggie," Carter croons, taking her hand and waggling it. "Have you been a good girl this year? Do you think Santa will bring you lots of presents?" He's using a goofy voice that Meg just loves. She pulls away from me to turn and grin at her daddy.

"She has no idea what you're talking about, you know."

"She'll learn, won't you Meg? Say 'Santa.' "

"Anta," she repeats obediently. She rolls away from me and sits up to talk to her daddy. Guess that means feeding time is over.

"Do you know what Santa says, Meggie? Ho ho ho!" She laughs at his booming, full voice.

"Ho ho ho," she says, getting the inflection just right.

"And do you know what Santa does?"

"I'm going to take a shower," I interrupt. I can tell this is going to go on for a while so I might as well slip away while Meg's being entertained by Dad.

"Okay," he agrees without missing a beat in the story of Santa. Even after I'm out of the shower and dressed, he's still prattling on about Christmas, discussing the gifts we might find under the tree this year.

"Shh," he says to Meg in a stage whisper when I appear. "Don't tell Mommy what Santa is bringing her."

"Shh," Meg whispers back, enjoying the game.

"Meg, you want some breakfast?" I ask, reaching my arms out for her. "You wanna eat?"

"Pah-tar!" she yells excitedly. Somehow, in her mind, Poptarts have become synonymous with breakfast. It's what she always asks for. For this I have her father to thank.

"Let's get you dressed first," I suggest, trying to change the subject. Of course, she's not forgetting that easy. She asks for the beloved Poptart at least ten times before we get downstairs, sometimes in a sweet and beguiling voice and sometimes a little more demanding, and at one point putting her hands on either side of my face and making me look at her while she makes her request. It doesn't matter if I say yes, she'll keep asking until she has it in her hands.

"Pah-tar, Mommy?" she asks again as I'm settling her into her high chair. She even bats her eyelash at me and then gives me the big, brown puppy dog eyes look that is identical to her father's.

"Yes. But you have to eat some eggs first."

"No ecks. Pah-tar."

"Eggs first. Then Poptart. And you have to drink your milk-in-a-sippy-cup." Important to make that distinction, lest she try to climb out of her chair and take off my shirt again. She looks at me for a long minute and then sighs deeply, knowing she can't win. After all, we have the same argument every morning and she always has to eat something semi-healthy before she can get her treat. I give her some crayons and paper to keep her occupied while I scramble some eggs. I'm just serving her breakfast when Carter walks in the room. I can't help but laugh.

"What is that? Your lumberjack look?" He's wearing some God-awful heavy flannel shirt that I know I've never seen before and has his watch cap on and pulled down over his ears.

"No, it's my hanging Christmas lights look."

"I hope the neighbors aren't home."

"That's why I thought I'd get an early start."

"Well, at least have some breakfast first," I say plating up some eggs for him.

"Hi there, pumpkin pie," he says to Meg, ruffling her hair as he sits down.

"Umpkin pie!" Meg says, pushing away the plate with her eggs on it.

"Oh no, you shouldn't have said that."

"What?"

"Don't you remember how much she liked the pumpkin P-I-E?" She got her first taste of pumpkin, or probably any pie at all for that matter, on Thanksgiving and fell instantly in love. "She keeps asking for it. I was just hoping she'd forget because I don't know what we'll do when it's gone."

"Buy another one?"

"Because I want to encourage her pumpkin pie habit?"

"Umpkin pie, Mommy!"

"Oh, geez, now I said it. Okay, okay … but you have to finish your eggs first." I push the plate back in front of her. She doesn't look too happy about it, but after a minute of me watching her she picks up a small piece and daintily puts it in her mouth. Maybe she'll even swallow it.

"You're gonna give her pie for breakfast?"

"Well, what's the difference between pie and a …" I glance over at the baby, "P-O-P-T-A-R-T?"

"Okay, but remember that the next I feed her."

"John. You gave her a bag of marshmallows."

"Not the whole bag."

"Enough so that she threw up marshmallows all night."

"She had a stomach bug."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Umpkin pie?" Meg asks.

"Did you eat your eggs?"

She nods and holds her plate up so that I can see.

"Good job, Meg. Okay, Mommy will get your pumpkin pie." And whipped cream of course. Nothing like setting my child up for a lifetime of good eating habits. I watch her run her finger through the whipped cream, then stick her whole hand in it, and finally just drop her face down on the plate to better enjoy it.

"So it shouldn't take too long," Carter is saying when I finally tune into him.

"What?"

"Abby … weren't you listening?" Well, obviously not or I wouldn't have said 'what?' I shake my head. "I was saying that I thought I'd just put lights up along the front of the house and maybe on a few of the trees out front … so it shouldn't take too long. And then we can go pick out the tree and get some lunch and still be back in time for Meg's nap."

"You're gonna put lights up on the house?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"With … a ladder?"

"You're gonna climb a ladder?"

"Well, my Go-Go-Gadget arms are in the shop, so yeah, I guess so."

"So did you want me to go ahead and call the paramedics now?"

"You're not funny, Abby."

"Oh, I think I am."

A sticky-faced Meg takes that moment to look at us and giggle, effectively ending the absurd argument. And somehow, an hour later, Meg and I are in the front yard, looking up at John perched precariously on the ladder.

"Put your hat back on, Meggie." She just looks at me. She's really great at taking it off, but not so good at putting it back on. I pull it back down over her tousled auburn curls, and she pulls it back off with a grin.

"Your hat stays on, Meg."

"No!"

"On."

"No." We never should have taught her to talk.

"Margaret Abigail." My stern voice. "Your hat stays on or we'll have to go inside and let your daddy fall to his death all by himself." I pull it on firmly and try to distract her by playing patty-cake and attempting to entice her with some of the many, many toys she owns. So, naturally, she sits down on the ground and plays with my shoelace.

"You shouldn't say things like that, Abby. You'll scar her for life," John says as he starts back up the ladder, more lights looped over his arm. I look down at Meg.

"She's busy untying my shoe. She doesn't look scarred."

He shakes his head at me in amusement and in the process momentarily loses his footing. One foot slips forward through the rung and he ends up sitting straddled on the rung. Luckily, he's only a few rungs up and the ladder wobbles but doesn't fall or collapse on itself.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" I call rushing over toward him.

"I'm fine." I grab the ladder and hold it steady so he can regain his footing.

"You scared me to death."

"I wasn't that far off the ground, Abby. And I'm fine." He starts back up the ladder.

"I knew you shouldn't be up on that ladder. You should definitely come down now."

He laughs. "I can't come down. The lights are only halfway up. Besides, I'll be extra careful. No sudden moves. If you don't jinx me about 'falling to my death.' Although," he adds thoughtfully, "I'd probably just break a leg or something if I fell from here."

I roll my eyes. "Are you sure you're okay? You didn't hurt your … uh … anything?"

"No, my anything is fine."

"Well, be careful. I want more children, you know."

"You do?" The pleased and surprised grin.

"Sure … just because I don't want another one today … and it would be a lot easier if I don't have to find someone else to help me with that. You know, all because you've had a tragic ladder accident."

"I'll be careful." I eye him suspiciously until insistent tugging on my pant's leg makes me look down. Meg stands next to me at the bottom of the ladder, having watched her father's ascent. I can see her just aching to follow him up it. But then she turns to look up at me instead.

"Carry you, Mommy," Meg says, lifting her arms to me, asking for me to carry her. I guess she phrases it that way because when she waves her arms at us we always say, "Do you want me to carry you?"

"I wish you would carry me," I say as I lift her up and perch her on my hip. "You're getting a little heavy, bug." But she snuggles into my arms, and then I don't mind the extra weight. We watch John closely, but true to his word he's very careful and returns to terra firma unharmed. We are quick to put the ladder away before Meg gets any ideas about trying it out herself. And then Meg 'helps' us wind some more lights around the spruce trees by the front door , and after a little play time in the yard and then a quick pit stop in the house for fresh diapers and sippy cups of juice, we load into the car and head for a Christmas tree lot --by way of our favorite diner. At least Paul Bunyan doesn't have visions of chopping down our own tree. Not this year, anyway. And just visiting the tree lot with him is difficult enough. He runs around searching for the perfect tree while I run around chasing the baby who finds weaving in and out of the lines of trees and hiding from Mommy to be a great game.

"Hey, Ab … can you help me find a tree?" Carter calls from a few rows over.

"Can you help me find our daughter first?"

He appears in front of me and points to a spot to my right. "Just follow the trail of discarded child-sized outerwear." Sure enough, there's Meg's hat and a mitten. She's sitting a few feet away trying to tug the other mitten off. Daddy scoops her up, and I get her hat and mitten back on. We thought it would be fun, not to mention practical, to pull her around in a wagon provided by the tree lot rather than wheel her in her stroller, but we neglected to realize that she'd be able to climb out of the wagon in an instant.

"Let's make this fast," I suggest as he hoists Meg onto his shoulders. I look around at the trees surrounding us and then point to one just behind Carter. "That one."

"What? Abby, you can't just pick a tree like that. What if it has a flat side or a bald spot or it's too big or too small?"

"I want that one."

"Yeah, but … this one?" He asks, inspecting my choice.

"Yep."

"Well, actually … it is pretty good. A nice shape. The right size. I don't see a bad side. Just a few bare spots, but nothing some tinsel can't fix. Okay, this one it is."

"Great, let's go." While John pays and loads up the tree, I hold Meg who is getting increasingly restless and whiney as naptime approaches.

"Down, Mommy," Meg whines, getting tired of being held captive.

"No, you can't get down," I tell her in a sympathetic voice. "Mommy has to hold you."

"Nooo."

"Yes. But don't worry, we're going home soon. Are you tired? Put your head down." I try to get her to rest her head on my shoulder, but she has other ideas.

She pats the front of my coat, and says, "Milky, Mommy?" Her way of asking to nurse. A sure sign that it must be naptime. She knows she can only expect it when she's tired … first thing in the morning, before naptime and at bedtime. And she's mostly not interested unless she's tired or in need of extreme comfort for some reason. Most of the time she's a curious, precocious toddler struggling for her independence. But for a little while a few times a day, she's still Mommy's baby.

"Not right now, sweetie. When we get home."

"Mooommmeee." I reach into my pocket and pull out my secret weapon -- a pacifier. She takes it gratefully and pops it into her mouth, deciding she can rest her head on my shoulder after all.

"You almost done?" I ask Carter. "Meg wants her nap."

He glances over at us. "Aww, she does look tired. Good thing we went for lunch first. And yeah … I'm all done. So let's get our tired little girl home." He takes her out of my arms and gives her a kiss and tickle as he gets her into her carseat. She falls asleep before we get out of the parking lot, but wakes up when we pull in the garage. Luckily, a little 'milky' and she falls back to sleep, taking a long enough nap to let John and I get the tree set up and the worst of the decorating done.

When I hear a little voice calling from upstairs, I turn to John. "You go."

"She's calling for you."

"Yeah, but she always does that. She likes me better, you know," I say with a teasing grin. "But still, you should go. Maybe she'll learn to like you, too."

"Okay, I'll go." He sets the box of ornaments he was working on down on the coffee table and goes to get Meg. The come back into the room a few minutes later, and Meg catches sight of the decorated tree for the first time.

"Oooh," she says, her face registering surprise and delight. "Pitty." She slips out of her Daddy's arms and runs over to get a closer look at the tree. And, as usual, her investigation requires a little dismantling. Within seconds, several of the ornaments we took such care in placing have been yanked off the tree and tossed to the floor.

"No, no Meg," John scolds mildly. "The ornaments have to stay on the tree. See?" He bends down next to her and carefully replaces the ornaments she took off. "Put them on. Okay?"

" 'Kay." She puts the one in her hand on a low branch, laying it on top of the branch instead of hanging it, seeing as her little fingers probably can't handle that type of movement yet. And then she deftly reaches for a ornament on the next branch over and yanks it off giving her daddy a smile, thinking she's done something good.

"Did I say that Christmastime goes by too fast?" Carter looks up at me with a rueful smile.

"Oh, boy," I say. "I think it's gonna be a long month."

Three weeks 'til Christmas …

"Get down, Margaret." Those are the first words I hear as I open the door. And the first thing I think is 'uh-oh, trouble.' It's always bad when Abby is calling Meg 'Margaret.' She only does that when she's at her wits' end. She'll call her 'Margaret Abigail' playfully or jokingly or lovingly … or sternly, to let Meg knows that Mom means business. But when it's just Margaret, it's trouble.

"Margaret Carter." Uh-oh, that's even more serious. "Margaret. Abigail. Carter. What are you trying to do to me, huh?"

I take a deep breath and step into the kitchen.

"Hi," I say, tentatively.

"Hi," she replies, sounding tired. I give her a quick peck on the cheek so as not to disturb her too much while she's trying to cook.

"What can I do?" I ask.

"Can you get the baby? I'm kinda up to my arm pits in chopped veggies."

"Sure. Where is she?"

"In the tree."

"What?"

"She climbed up the Christmas tree. Again."

"Abby," I give her a skeptical look. "Kittens climb Christmas trees. Not children."

"Tell that to Meg," she suggests, gesturing toward the tree in the living room. I venture into the room and walk over to the tree. Sure enough, right in the middle of it, a few branches off the ground, sits Meg.

"Hi, sweet pea. What are you doing?"

"Hi, Dah-dee." She's using a goofy voice and exaggerating her speech, sounding much the way she did a few months ago when she was just learning to talk.

"You need to come out of the tree. Christmas trees aren't for climbing. Your swing set is for climbing."

"Whee?" she asks, her word for the swing set, her swing, the slide, the park. With a rustle of branches, she turns around so that her backside is hanging off the branch and deftly drops down to the floor. She ducks her head under the lowest branches and walks out from under the tree.

"Stay out of the tree, Meg." She gives me a look very reminiscent of her mother that reads something like 'Oh yeah? Try to make me.' "Meg." I shake my finger at her. "Don't climb the tree. You could fall and get hurt. No climbing. Okay?"

" 'Kay," she agrees. Of course, I'm very aware that I could have asked her if she wanted me to set her hair on fire and as long as I ended the question with that 'okay?' prompt, she would respond by saying 'okay' in return. I sigh, understanding why Abby sounds tired. "Daddy." She waits until I look down at her. Then she gives me a beguiling grin. She reaches up and takes me hand. "Ow-sigh?" She starts toward the kitchen and, presumably, then on to the door to the backyard, trying to drag me with her.

"Wait a minute, Meggie," I say with a laugh.

"Ow-sigh, Daddy."

"You have to put your coat and hat on, honey. And your shoes. Go get your coat and your shoes and Daddy will take you outside."

"Meg go ow-sigh?" she asks happily.

"Yep. Go get your coat. And your shoes."

"Your sneakers," Abby calls after Meg who's running down the back hall toward the coat hooks on the wall by the door to the garage.

"Tough morning?" I slip behind Abby and put my arms around her, resting my chin on the top of her head.

"Well," Abby says with a sigh, "She was up an hour early, for some unknown reason. And then spent the next three hours asking for you. 'Where Daddy go?' about 5,000 times. And then she decided to practice her climbing skills on the tree. It's not bad enough that she picked the whole bottom of the tree bare of ornaments, now she's working her way to the top."

"Good thing we put the breakable stuff up high." I step back to let Abby get back to the vegetables, snitching a carrot in the process.

"Probably not high enough."

"She's driving you a little crazy, huh?"

"I hate it when you work nights. You would think it would be easier since your gone mostly while she's sleeping, but … Anyway, how was your night? Did you get any sleep?"

"Some. It was pretty quiet … for awhile. And then there was a ten-car pile-up on the express way this morning. We got six majors and dozens of minors. Not pretty. I'm glad to be home."

"I guess I shouldn't complain about having to chase Meg out of the tree. And having to try to keep her from playing in the toilets. And cleaning up the entire jumbo box of Cheerios that she spilled when she decided to get herself a snack. No matter what, it beats picking maggots off people. Or trying to put a little kid back together again."

"Yeah."

The somber mood we've set is broken by Meg returning to the kitchen, dragging her coat behind her and holding her sneakers. She pushes them towards me, and I take them before lifting her onto the counter so that I can put her shoes on.

"Eat?" Meg asks, catching sight of the food on the counter.

"Lunch isn't ready yet, sweetie. You take Daddy outside to play for awhile and then we'll eat."

"What are you making?"

"Macaroni and cheese."

"You're putting vegetables in it these days?"

"Those are for dinner. Beef stew."

"I wanna eat," Meg says, demonstrating one of the stock phrases she has down pat. She's learned that 'I wanna' followed by any of the verbs she knows usually communicates exactly what she's trying to tell us.

"You want a carrot?" I pick up another carrot stick and hand offer it to Meg. She shakes her head.

"I don't know if she can eat a raw carrot anyway."

As if Meg understood what Abby said and wants to challenge her, she looks at the carrot that I'm eating and says, "Bite."

"You want a bite of Daddy's carrot? Okay, but you have to chew it up good." She does. She's still chewing when I put her coat and hat and mittens on. She stills chewing when we get out to the backyard. She runs to the toddler swing dangling from her jungle gym and lifts her arms up, waiting to be put in.

It's easy to understand why she calls all her backyard play equipment 'whee.' "Whee," she calls out as I push her on the swing. "Whee," as I hold her hands as she slides down the slide.

"Daddy whee." She stands on the platform of the swing set, just behind where the slide starts and looks at me expectantly.

"Whee!" I yell, thinking that's what she wants.

"Daddy whee!" She squats down and pats the slide.

"Whee?"

"She wants you to go down the slide with her."

"I think I'm a little too big," I tell Abby.

"Really?" She shrugs and then climbs up the ladder to join Meg on the platform. Meggie smiles at her mom and moves back to give Abby room to settle on the slide before moving back closer to her mother. Abby lifts the baby onto her lap and then sends them sailing down the slide while Meg laughs riotously. This is obviously a well-honed routine. They land at the bottom both laughing, Abby's arms wrapped tight around Meg and Meg holding tight to Abby. "Goes faster that way," Abby explains as she stands up, still hugging Meg tight to her body. "She likes to go fast. Anyway, lunch is ready. Meggie, you wanna eat?"

"No. Whee." Meg squirms away from Abby and returns to the swing, reaching up for it and making her intentions known.

"Come on, Meg, we better go in. Your cheeks are red, and I bet your little nose is cold." I hold out my hand to her, but she's not interested.

"Whee!"

"No. Don't you want to go in and have some nice, warm macaroni and cheese?"

"Wheeee!" A desperate, whiney tone to her voice.

"Please, Meg?" I ask.

"Meg." She looks up at Abby. "Lunchtime. You can swing after lunch." Abby picks her up and starts toward the house. Every time Meg asks for the swing, Abby tells her 'later'. I trail behind, marveling once again at how Abby has a real way with Meg. I'm every bit as impressed watching simultaneously feed herself and the baby at lunch.

"Why are you staring?" She asks suddenly.

"Huh? Oh, I was just thinking."

"About?"

"Dinner's in the crockpot, right?"

"Yeah …"

"You wanna go out this afternoon?"

"Meg needs a nap."

"After her nap. Meg can sleep. We can sleep … or something. And after we're all out of bed, we can take Meg to see Santa."

"Ho ho ho," Meg says.

"She's so smart," I point out, proudly.

"Today?" Abby sounds … unsure, to say the least.

"Sure. What's wrong with today? Beat the rush, you know. Besides, she seems to be in a good mood." At the very least she's enjoying smearing herself with cheese sauce.

"She's in a defiant mood."

"She'll be fine. She likes going out."

"I don't know …"

"I'll take you to dinner," I offer, trying to sweeten the pot.

"I'm already making dinner, remember?"

"We'll eat it tomorrow. It's always better the second day, anyway. So … what do you say? Please? Meggie, ask Mommy, 'please?' "

"Peeez?" Meg says in the just the right sweet tone of voice.

"Now how can you say 'no' to that?"

"You know I can't."

"I thought so. So while you're in a yes kind of mood … about that nap …" Abby gives me a wicked little grin and suddenly I'm anxious to see Meg take her nap. I clean up the lunch dishes while Abby gets the baby to bed.

"Is she asleep?" I ask in a whisper as I join Abby in the hallway.

"Yeah, she's asleep …" There's that grin again. "Are you ready for your … nap?"

"You know, I think I could really learn to like naptime." She giggles as she takes my hand and leads me into our bedroom.

One very nice, but not exactly restful 'nap' later, and we're on our way to find Santa. We manage to find a parking place that means we have to walk only a few more blocks to get to the store than we would have if we'd walked from the house. Sometimes I wonder why we bother with the cars at all. But at least this way we'll have a place to warm up in between the walk to the store and the walk to the restaurant. We make sure Meg is still bundled up and get her strapped into her stroller.

"She'll probably cry, you know."

"What? Who?"

"Meg," Abby explains. "When she sees Santa."

"Ho ho ho," comes from the stroller. Apparently she's listening to our conversations already. She sounds cheerful though, having woken up from her nap in a happy mood. Although we got considerably less sleep than Meg, Mommy and Daddy were pretty cheerful after our nap too.

"You really think so?" I ask Abby, changing to a one-handed grip on the stroller so that I can slip one arm around her waist.

"Well, he's a stranger. And a man. In a loud, red suit with copious amounts of facial hair. Yeah, I think she'll be a little apprehensive, to say the least. We'll probably get a nice picture of a beautiful baby crying her eyes out."

"Oh well. That's okay. So long as Meg's not too traumatized."

"I'm sure Meg will be fine. But Santa might be traumatized."

"Ho ho ho," Meg says again from the confines of her stroller.

Abby puts out a hand to halt our progress and stoops down next to the stroller to talk to the baby. "Meggie, do you see Santa? Yeah, there he is." Sure enough, we've made it to Santa's village and the man himself is just a few yards ahead. Before we can get to Santa, though, we have to snag a spot in stroller parking.

"Come on, Meg." I bend over and start unbuckling Meg.

"Ow?" she asks, already trying to climb out.

"Yes, you can get out. But let Daddy hold you." I hoist her up high so she can see. Abby and I are pulling off her hat and coat and pointing out Santa to her, hoping to get her used to the sight of him. But Meg doesn't seem particularly interested in Santa at the moment.

"Choo-choo!" The child-sized train running through Santa's village seems to have caught her attention.

"Yeah, there's a train. Just your size, too. Pretty neat, huh Meg?"

"Uh-oh, Meg, I don't know who's more excited about the train -- you or Daddy."

"I think she wants to ride the train." I put Meg down and she dashes toward the train, wrapping her little hands around the gate that is right in front of where the train is stopped, waiting for passengers. Apparently we picked a good time to show up as the village is looking a little deserted.

An older, gray-haired lady with a warm smile and rosy cheeks appears, waving at Meg. If I'm not mistaken, Mrs. Claus is running the train today.

"Hello, dear," she says to Meg, "Do we have a little passenger for the Santa express?" I look at Abby who just shrugs.

"Sure, why not?" Abby says, and Mrs. Claus opens the gate for Meg.

"Come along then, dear," Mrs. Claus says to Meg. Meggie turns and looks at me … and then at her mother. When we smile encouragingly she runs toward the train, ready to explore. "Mama and Daddy, too." Mrs. Claus suggests, waving us into the train 'station.'

"Uh … isn't it a little too small?" I ask.

"No, no it's fine. You might be a little too tall for the caboose, but just sit in one of the open cars."

"Mommy!" Meg calls, clearing waiting for Abby to join her.

Abby shrugs again. "Well, I do love a train ride." She starts toward Meg. I figure that's all it'll take for Meg to be happy so I'm surprised to hear her call out, "Daddy!" Well, if I'm getting a personal invitation from Meg herself, I guess I'd better abandon my plan to stand here and watch. Which is how I find myself folded into a small train car with Abby and Meg enjoying a tour of the village complete with fake snow, Christmas decorations of every description, and robotic carolers, ice skaters, elves and reindeer. Meg is enchanted, ouing and ahhing at everything she sees. We only have to tell her once that she has to stay seated, and she doesn't seem to mind too much since she's got so much to look at. Predictably, when the ride ends, she doesn't hesitate to ask to go a second time.

"Again! Again!" I would have said no, only she seems to have learned the classic, 'magic' word.
"Peez?" She bats her eyelashes up at me and it's magic indeed. So we go around again. It's only the appearance of a group of children that saves us from another trip. We tell Meg it's the other kids' turn and lead her over to the line to see Santa which , luckily, is still short.

When it's Meg's turn, I set her down and Abby and I each take a hand and lead her closer to Santa's throne.

"Ho ho ho, hello little girl," Santa says.

"Ho ho ho," Meg says in the deepest voice she can muster.

"Well, aren't you a cute little thing? Come on up here and tell Santa what you want for Christmas." He pats his knee and reaches his hands out toward Meg who drops my hand in favor of turning toward Abby and wrapping her arms around her mother's leg. I brace myself for the howling that I assume will follow. But instead Meg, in a repeat of last year's scene, sneaks a peek at Santa.

"Oh, somebody's a little shy. Well, maybe Mommy can show you how it's done. Come on up here, little lady." He pats his knee and winks at Abby.

"Uh …" Abby turns and looks at me and asks quietly, "Is he talking to me?"

"Well, I hope he's not calling me 'little lady.'" She gives me a long look. "Go on," I say with a shrug.

"What?"

"Come on, Abby," I glance at Santa who's busy waving and smiling at Meg, trying to woo her, "He's Santa. Besides," I drop my voice to a whisper, "He looks about two hundred years old. Do it for Meg."

"Fine." But she gives me a dirty look as she picks up Meg and deposits her with me. She walks toward Santa tentatively.

"That's it, little lady, just come sit on Santa's knee and tell me what you want for Christmas." Abby perches lightly on Santa's knee and he wraps a friendly arm around her.

"See, Meg," I say, "Mommy's sitting with Santa. You can sit with Santa, too."

"And what do you want for Christmas?" Santa is asking Abby.

"A new husband," she says with a tight, fake-sweet smile. She turns to direct it right at me. What did I do?

"Santa gets that request a lot," Santa is telling her. "But I mostly deal in material goods."

"Oh well, then. I could use a new coat, I guess."

"A new coat. Splendid. Now would you like a turn, little girl?"

"Go see Mommy, Meg." I put her down and she walks timidly toward Abby, cutting a wide path around Santa to get there. Abby lifts her onto her lap so that they are both perched on Santa's knee.

"Ho ho ho, Meg, is it?" Abby nods. "What would you like for Christmas, Meg?"

Meg's staring at him now, fingering his beard which just so happens to be real.

"Um, she likes Poptarts," Abby says.

"Poptarts?"

"You know, the breakfast pastries that you put in the toaster. Iced strawberry is her favorite."

"Poptarts."

"Yeah."

"Okay," Santa agrees. An elf snaps a picture and after waving good-bye to Santa, we're on our way.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," I say as we walk down the main aisle of the store.

"Speak for yourself," Abby grumbles.

"Oh come on, Ab … Santa was harmless."

"Well, Santa may have been harmless, but that elf pinched my ass."

"What elf?"

"The candy cane elf. He handed me the pictures, a candy cane, and pinched my ass."

"You better stop saying that."

"Why? It's true."

"I meant the A-S-S word. Otherwise you-know-who will be saying it before you know it."

"I can't believe this. I was molested in Santa's village and you don't even care. And you're the one who sent me up there in the first place."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have been joking around about wanting a new husband."

"Who was joking?"

"Well, apparently you can have yourself an elf."

"No thanks. His pointy shoes were kinda spooky." I can't help it, it so absurd that I just start laughing.

"I think his shoes would be the least of your worries." I toss my arm around Abby's shoulders and pull her to me. She still has her arms crossed in defiance and irritation, but she doesn't fight the embrace. "So all you want for Christmas is a new coat? I guess it better be some coat."

"Leather."

"Leather?"

"Really soft, supple, expensive leather."

"You want one that's lined, for winter or unlined, for spring?"

"Both," she says haughtily, but with a teasing smile.

"Both?" I asked as if I were scandalized at the very thought.

"An elf pinched my ass."

"Well, I guess that deserves something."

"You bet your ass."

"Abby, Santa's not gonna bring you anything if you don't watch your language."

"I'll take my chances," she says.

"Okay, but don't blame me when you get a stocking full of coal."

"It better be in the form of diamonds."

"What was that?" I ask.

"Nothing. Nothing."

I laugh again. "So where do you want to go for dinner?" I ask Abby, trying to change the subject.

"It's a little early, isn't it?"

"I was planning ahead. When it's dinnertime, what do want to eat?"

I get my answer not from Abby, but from the little voice in the stroller. "Pah-tar!" Meg calls.

"Don't worry," Abby says, "I packed some."

"You're gonna give her Poptarts for dinner?"

"Well, it is Christmas."

"So she gets whatever she wants?"

"Well, that's your philosophy right?"

"I never said that," I point out.

"Yeah, but you're always going on about how it's special and just once a year and there's nothing wrong with indulging her a little …"

"And you're finally taking it to heart?"

"Maybe."

"Uh-oh, I've created a monster."

"Yeah, the monster of Christmas present."

"Oh, that was bad, Abby."

"It could have been worse. I could have said 'Christmas presents."

"Don't quit your day job," I advice.

"Too late. I already did. So about those Christmas presents … while we're here …"

And so it seems I've managed to get myself into an afternoon of Christmas shopping.

Ten Days 'Til Christmas …

"What are you doing?" I ask Abby, finding her and Meg settled on the couch in the upstairs playroom.

"Reading," Abby says, gesturing to the books spread out around them. A bathed and pajama-clad Meg is sitting on Abby's lap, paging through a board book that seems to be all about Christmas, judging by the pictures.

"Did she get some new books?"

"A couple. When we were out doing some Christmas shopping. This one plays music. So Meg's learning Christmas carols. Push the button, Meg," Abby suggests. Meg pushes a button on the book and suddenly the tune of "Jingle Bells" is playing.

"Jinga bez, jingo bez," Meg sings, more or less on key even if the pronunciation isn't quite right.

"That's good singing, sweetie," I tell Meg. Then I turn to Abby. "When's she gonna get here?"

"Well, I told her to come over about seven. It's only ten 'til."

"Yeah, and it's only ten days 'til Christmas. And if Susan only gets her at seven, that's only gonna give us a few hours in the stores. And we need to get this done tonight."

"John, relax. The stores are open late for the Christmas rush. And really, I don't think we'll have to go too much farther than Toys 'R' Us, anyway."

"Shh," I say, gesturing to Meg.

"She doesn't know what I'm talking about," Abby says, sounding a little exasperated. "I could say, 'Meg, Daddy and I are going out to buy your Christmas presents now', and all she'll care about it whether or not she has enough juice in her sippy cup."

"Joosh, Mommy?" Meg asks.

"You want some juice," Abby asks her in a goofy voice, tickling Meg's belly and making her laugh. Meg nods between and giggles. "Say, 'yes, please,' " Abby instructs.

"Yesss, peez," Meg says as she laughs, falling over on to the couch next to Abby. I watch with a smile as Abby leans over Meg, tickling her mercilessly and then lifting up her pajama top to blow a big raspberry on Meggie's belly. Meg howls with laughter and wraps her arms around Abby's head.

"Again," she cries happily when Abby pulls her head away.

"You want more?" Abby's fake menacing voice. Meg knows what she's in for and braces herself for another raspberry attack. After several more rounds of this routine, Abby finally sits up pulling Meg back into her lap and grinning as big a grin as Meg.

"Joosh?" Meg asks again, not to be detoured from her original request.

"Okay, but we have to go downstairs." As soon as Abby sets her down, Meg takes off for the stairs, graciously sitting down at the top of the stairs and turning over onto her belly to bump-slide her way down the steps.

"Uhn-uhn-uhn," we hear as she bumps along the stairs. And when she gets to the bottom we hear the proverbial pitter-patter of little feet as Meg runs down the hall to the kitchen. By the time Abby and I get to the kitchen, she hanging off the handle of the fridge, waiting patiently for her juice.

Abby's still tending to Meg when the doorbell rings, so I answer it. Susan rushes in with a flurry of apologies for being late.

"Sorry," she says, hurrying into the kitchen. "A big trauma came in. Then I had to stop for gas. And the traffic. And --"

"You lost your keys, your alarm didn't go off and the dog ate your homework?" Abby asks.

"Something like that. Sorry, I'm late you guys."

"You're not late," Abby tells her. "It's barely 7 o'clock."

"But we said 6."

"Noo, we said 7."

"We did?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, well … good. Hi, Meg. Hi, sweetie. Oh, look at your little pigtails, they're so cute." Susan holds out her arms and Meg happily goes to her, giving her a big smile. "Her hair's really getting long, huh?"

"I know," Abby says, sounding wistful. "She's starting to look like a little girl."

"She is a little girl," I point out. I get an identical exasperated look from Abby and Susan.

"Your baby's growing up," Susan says.

"I know. It's so unfair."

"I guess you'll just have to have another one. Huh, Meg? What do you think about that? You wanna be a big sister?" Susan jiggles Meg in her arms, eliciting another big Meg smile.

"Oh God, don't you start with me, too."

Susan slides a look at me. "Guess I know what Carter asked for for Christmas, huh?" I shrug with a small smile.

"Yeah, well, not this year," Abby says.

"Unless Santa has different plans," I say, slipping behind Abby and wrapping my arms around her.

"Well, maybe if he leaves you a baby in your stocking."

"Guess I better get a bigger stocking then. Just in case."

"Mommy and Daddy are silly, huh Meg?" Susan says in response to the baby giggling in her arms.

"Okay," Abby starts, shrugging out of my embrace, "You know where everything is, right?" Susan nods in the affirmative, but somehow I suspect that Abby will go through a rundown anyway.

"Well, most of her toys are upstairs in the playroom, but she's got a bunch in the living room, too." I can't help but grin at Abby doing exactly what I thought she would do. "And there are some DVDs by the TV -- Elmo, a couple of those goofy ones with goofy kids singing goofy songs. She doesn't really sit through them, but it'll keep her entertained for a few minutes. She just had dinner, but she'll probably want a snack. And she'll show you what she wants. She can have … whatever, I don't care. She usually asks for pretzels or cheese or raisins. But if she asks for ice cream or cookies or P-O-P-T-A-R-Ts, that's fine tonight. And if she gets upset or something and you can't calm her down, just get out a P-O-P-T-A-R-T. That usually works. That or a pacifier. There's some in this cabinet. The bottles are in there too."

"Ba-ba?" Meg asks, still insisting on using her original word for bottle, even though she could probably say the word correctly.

"For bedtime. When you go night-night," Abby tells her before turning back to Susan. "Just fill it with milk and put it in the microwave for 30 seconds and shake it up. You'll know she's getting tired when she starts asking for the bottle. Or if she starts rubbing her eyes. Or sometimes she'll just start saying 'night-night.' You can just rock her while she drinks her bottle and then put her in bed with her pacifier. I just tuck her in and turn on the nightlight. She might cry a little, but usually just for a few minutes. If you can't get her to lay down in crib and go to sleep, you can bring her down here with her blanket and she'll probably conk out on the couch. Now the diapers--"

"Abby?" Susan interrupts. "I know. I've been here before. We'll be fine. She'll be fine."

"You don't have any questions?"

"I don't think so."

"Well … call us if you need anything. The cell phone numbers are on the fridge."

"I know your cell phone numbers. I'll call if there's a problem. I'll call if I have a question. I'll call if I get bored. I won't hesitate to call. Now go. Go have fun. Buy me a nice, expensive Christmas gift."

"From the Toys 'R' Us? We're shopping for twinkletoes here, you know." Abby reaches out and tickles Meg's little toes through her footy-pajamas.

"Abby, don't say that. Santa is going to bring her gifts," I complain.

"Not all of them. It would be nice if old Mom and Dad got a little credit too."

"Well, Mom, Dad … Mr. And Mrs. Claus, whoever you are … you better get going. The stores won't be open all night."

"See, Abby? I told you we need to get going." I grab her hand and start propelling her toward the door. Meg is happy to stay with Susan until she sees that Abby and I are getting our coats on. Then she struggles out of Susan's arms and runs to us.

"Go bye-bye?" she asks, cheerfully, pulling her coat off a low hook on the wall. Abby and I exchange a glance.

"No, sweetie," I say, bending down to her level and gently taking her coat out of her hands and hanging it back up. "Mommy and Daddy are going bye-bye. Meg will stay here with Auntie Susan."

"No," she says, mournfully, instantly understanding what's going on. "Meg go bye-bye."

"No, honey, you have to stay here," I tell her, watching as big tears collect in her eyes and spill down her cheeks.

"Mommy," she cries, her little chin quivering. She turns away from me to grab Abby's leg. Abby scoops her up and pats her back soothingly.

"It's okay, pumpkin. Mommy and Daddy will be back soon. You get to stay here and play with Aunt Susan. You can show her all your toys. Oh! I know, show her your new Christmas books. You can sing Jingle Bells for her. Maybe she'll even sing with you."

"I thought you were trying to get her to want to stay with me," Susan says, joining us in the hall. "Telling her I'll sing with her isn't any sort of enticement, believe me."

"Well, she doesn't know that," Abby says.

"Meg? Will you show me your new books? Can you sing me for me? Can you sing Jingle Bells?" Well if there's one thing that can tear Meg away from a good crying fit in Abby's arms, it's the chance to show off. "Where's your book? Is it upstairs? Will you show me?" Susan holds out her arms and after a short deliberation, Meg decides to go to her.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells," Abby sings patting Meg's back. Meg joins in the song with a smile and by the time she and Susan reach the end of the hall, Meggie's all smiles again. She stops singing to turn and look at us.

"Bye-bye," she says to Abby and I, waving enthusiastically.

"Bye-bye," I call waving back.

Abby waves but when she says, "Bye-bye," her voice is soft and strained. I put an arm around her shoulders as we head for the car.

"Are you upset because she was crying or because she stopped?"

"I don't know."

"She'll be fine, you know."

"I know."

"She'll have Susan's undivided attention," I point out. "You know how much she loves that."

"I know. I'm fine. Let's just go."

"Okay," I agree, putting the car in gear and starting toward the toy store.

Once we get into the store, Abby looks at me with a smile and a shake of her head.

"What?" I demand. "Look at all this great stuff." I'm sure I'm grinning as I look at around at all the great toys, thinking of the look on Meg's little face Christmas morning when she catches sight of her presents.

"I know this is your favorite place in the world, but let's not try to go overboard, okay?" Abby's reading my mind, again.

"But it's Christmas."

"I know. But soon enough she's gonna be asking for one of everything that she sees on TV. So this year, while she's still young enough not to expect great mounds of toys, let's try to just get a few things that she'll really like instead of overwhelming her with a thousand things she won't know what to do with."

"Okay," I grumble. I have to admit that she has a point. But still, part of what's fun about being an adult at Christmas is getting to splurge on the kids that you love.

"Don't worry," Abby's saying, "It'll still be fun."

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what? Spoiling your fun? I promise we'll still have a good time."

"No, I meant reading my mind."

"Well, then you'd be spoiling all my fun."

"So if you're having so much fun reading my mind, what am I thinking now?"

"Hmm … how lucky you are to have such a smart, practical wife?"

"Close. You forgot beautiful."

She roles her eyes at me. "Santa's watching, you know."

"And?"

"And I don't know if sucking up gets you on the nice or naughty list."

"Does it get me on your nice or naughty list?"

"That's depends."

"On?"

"Whether or not you're a good boy in the toy store," she says in patronizing way. "Come on, let's go."

"Okay, but you better get your own cart."

She stops and looks at me. "In one ear and out the other."

"I meant in case we get something that comes in a big box. And we have to have room for stocking stuffers, you know."

"Fine. Let's start with the big stuff. Got any ideas?"

"Well, let's think about this? What does Meg like? Besides Poptarts?"

"Other than climbing than tree?"

"Climbing." I snap my fingers. " That's it. Meg loves to climb."

"We should get her a tree to climb?" Abby asks, skeptically.

"No, not a tree. I was thinking about one of those playsets with a slide. You know, the kind you can use in the yard or the house. It would be something for her to climb on all winter. Other than the furniture."

"That's a good idea. I think I see some in the back." Sure enough, we find a large display at the back of the store with the 'outdoor' toys. "There's so many," Abby murmurs, overwhelmed at the choice, I suppose.

"Yeah, but some would be too big to use in the house."

"I'm glad you realized that."

"And some are for ages 3 and up, so they might be too big for her. But here's one that says ages 1-4. It even has a swing."

"Yeah, but it's a dinky little slide. Nothing compared to the swing set. And there's not much to climb on. And the swing doesn't swing very far."

"Okay, I guess that one's out. How about this one? Just a slide, but it says it's for indoor use, too. 2 to 6. I think she could handle that."

"Yeah, but it says it's 'easy climb," Abby says, reading the description hanging under the display model. "Meg doesn't need easy climb. She's already mastered the Christmas tree, after all."

"Hmm … well, how about this one?" I point to a triangular shaped climber with a wavy slide and several different ways to climb up to the slide platform. "This looks about right. Not as big as the outdoor slide, but she can probably go down it by herself. And she can climb all over it or play underneath."

"It's not too big. But I think it's big enough to keep her entertained. I like the colors. And it's for ages 2 and up. That seems about right. It doesn't say it's for indoor use, though. Do you think it matters?"

"I doubt it. Let's get it. Look, they'll even assemble and deliver it."

"Perfect. I don't want to be up all night Christmas Eve putting it together. Good, now we have her big gift. Let's go get some smaller stuff."

Just as we're leaving the outdoor section, something catches my eye. "Abby, look at this."

"What? Did you find a better climber?"

"Not exactly. Look at this. It's a little mini Jeep!"

"Power Wheels? She's too little for that. In a couple of years." She tugs at my arm, trying to get me away from all the fun stuff.

"Oh wait, look at this."

"John …"

"It's a train, Ab. A ride-on train. Remember how much Meg loved the train at Santa's village? Wouldn't she have a blast with this? And it's for ages 1 ½ to 3. It's perfect. An electric train to run around the tree. Only one that Meg can ride on."

"Oh, boy. I haven't seen you this excited in a long time. Something tells me I'm not gonna be able to talk you out of this one."

"Nope, I think I need this. I mean, Meg. I think Meg needs it."

"Mm-hmm."

"Oh, come on, think of how excited she'll be when she see it. And I'll bet she can work it all by herself. You might get a chance to do something without the baby on your hip for a change."

"Well …"

"Please?" I stick my lip out and give her the puppy-dog eyes.

"Oh, okay." I'm pretty sure I hear her mumbling something about spoiling the child rotten, but I pretend that I don't hear a thing.

We spend the next couple of hours picking out various books, puzzles and other educational toys for Meg. I manage to talk Abby into a few frivolous but fun purchases, including a butterfly print bean bag chair for Meg's room, a big, pink, floppy stuffed puppy, and even a beginner's tricycle that Meg can push with her feet or, apparently, propel by bouncing up and down on the seat, something she's very good at. We have trouble finding enough toddler-friendly stocking stuffers, but Abby assures me that she'll just fill up the rest of the room in the stocking with Poptarts and the new pacifiers and sippy cups we've picked up while we were here. A quick tour through the small clothing section for Christmas pajamas and a Christmas bib and we hit the checkout. I run back to find some giant bows and kiddy wrapping paper, making sure to get enough different kinds so that the gifts from the North Pole will be different from the ones that Meg gets from Mommy and Daddy. I point this out to Abby who roles her eyes, but refrains from any further comment. I don't bat an eye at the total amount considering it's far less than the cost of, say, a pony. I hand over the gold card without a second though about it. It's my daughter's Christmas gifts, and money isn't an issue for us so … why not splurge? I see how Abby's eyes are bulging out of her head at the amount of money we are dropping on gifts for a toddler, but she'll just have to get used to it.

"What are you mumbling?" I finally ask her after we've loaded up the bags and gotten back into the car.

"One!"

"One what?"

"One child! All that money, all these gifts. And there's just one of her."

"You think we're spoiling her? Because I think we did a pretty good job of restraining ourselves. I mean, most of what we got has some education value. Except the big stuff. But hey, that's good for her motor skills development, right?"

"Yeah. And I don't think we're spoiling her exactly. I'm just not used to being able to spend that kind of money on toys for one child and not think twice about it."

"Abby, we've got more money than we're ever going to know what to do with. And we probably spent less money on our child's Christmas than the average family. People go all out at Christmas whether they can afford it or not. And we can afford it so … why not?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I'm glad that I can give my child a nice Christmas. And I want to give Meg things that will make her happy. I just don't want to give her too much, you know?"

"I know."

"And … well, I guess it's just that I'm not used to Christmas being like this. When I was a kid, there certainly weren't any extravagant gifts under the tree. We were lucky if there were any gifts under the tree. Or even a tree, for that matter. And you could be sure that whatever gift you got would be wildly inappropriate. When I was thirteen? I got an E-Z Bake Oven. So it's kinda weird, although pretty great, getting used to these picture-perfect Christmases. Of course, my family is coming to Christmas this year. I don't know how picture-perfect that's going to be."

"It's gonna be fine."

"I hope so. Hey, this isn't the way home."

"Nope, a little detour."

"John …"

"She's probably asleep by now anyway, Ab. And I'm sure everything is going well or Susan would have called."

"Yeah, but … what if Susan wants to get home? I don't want to take advantage of her kindness. I mean, she watched Meg so we could Christmas shop, not so we could do … what are we going to do?"

"Trust me, Susan is probably asleep by now, too."

"Did you talk to her about this?"

"About not bringing you right home? Yeah. Anyway, it's pretty warm out tonight. You know, for this time of year. So I thought we could stroll down Michigan Avenue, enjoy the lights, maybe get some hot chocolate. Don't worry, Meg can't miss you when she sleeping and doesn't even know you're gone."

"Okay. For a little while. I have to get my beauty sleep, you know."

"You don't need it. But I'm glad we don't have to go right home. I didn't want date night to take place entirely at the toy store."

"Is this a date?"

"It is now," I say as I get out of the car and move around to her side to open the door for her.

We walk and chat for a while, stopping to get some hot chocolate to go. I can tell by Abby's antsy mannerism that she's just itching to get back home and check on Meg. She won't be satisfied until she sees, with her own eyes, her baby safe and sound, sleeping peacefully.

"You ready to get home?" I ask her. She nods gratefully. "Okay. Hang on a minute." I rush over to the curb where a horse-drawn carriage sits to negotiate with the driver. "Come on," I call to Abby, motioning her over. "We'll ride back to the car."

"They're still giving rides at this time of night?" She asks as we settle in.

"I don't know. This carriage is on it's way back to the … stable or whatever. It just so happens our car is on the way so …"

"Ahh."

"Remember the last time we took a carriage ride?"

"How could I forget? That was quite a production."

"Well, it's not every day you get engaged."

"True."

"I can't believe it was two years ago already," I say wistfully, remembering that day fondly. How nervous I was about everything going well, how scared I was that she might say no. Hard to imagine how much has changed since then. It's seems like such a short time ago. And then again, it seems like a very long time ago. "Then again, I can't believe it was only two years ago."

"Things are sure different now. Back then, there was no Meg."

"Well, technically, there was. We just didn't know it was Meg yet."

"It's so weird. I almost can't remember when there was no Meg."

"I know what you mean. What on Earth did we do with ourselves?"

"I don't know. But it must have been incredibly boring," Abby says with a laugh.

"Yeah, I think it was."

"I wanna go home," Abby says.

I laugh and then lean over and kiss her. "We'll be there soon," I promise.

As soon as we are back to the car, I head straight for home and let Abby go right inside while I unload the bags and stash them in our storage closet hiding spot.

"So was she okay?" I hear Abby asking in a whisper as I walk into the living room. The lights are out and Susan is face down on the couch, looking half-asleep.

"An angel," Susan mumbles. "Went right to sleep."

"Good. She didn't give you any trouble?"

"Nope."

"I'm glad. Do you want to go home?"

"Not really."

"Do you want to go upstairs to the guest room?"

"Not really."

"Are you wearing my sweats?"

"Yes. Or Carter's. I don't know. Did you need them back?"

"No, that's okay. Go back to sleep."

" 'Night," Susan mumbles, dropping her head back onto the couch. Abby takes a blanket off the back of a chair and covers Susan who seems to be asleep again already. She turns and gives me a shrug as I start upstairs.

"I told you she'd be asleep," I say quietly when we get to the second floor. "And Meg's sleeping peacefully, too, I'm sure."

"Yeah …"

"I don't hear anything. I'm sure she's asleep." Abby pauses, hand on Meg's doorknob. "Maybe we should just leave well enough alone. We wouldn't to wake her."

Of course, I'm not sure that Abby feels that way. She might be glad to wake her up. She gives me a mischievous smile and slowly opens Meg's door. I trail after her into the room, walking lightly. By the light of nightlight, we can see Meg sleeping soundly. She's curled up in her crib, hugging Pinky, the teddy bear I bought her on the day she was born and rhythmically sucking on her nuk in her sleep. Abby reaches into the crib to straighten out her covers, letting her hand rest lightly on Meg's curls.

"She's so beautiful," Abby says in a whisper. Upon hearing her mother's voice, Meg stirs, her eyes opening briefly. When she sees Abby, she smiles around the pacifier before her eyes drift closed again.

"Good-night, sweetheart," Abby says, leaning over on tiptoe to kiss Meg. I lean down and kiss her good-night, too, before we retreat from her bedroom.

Once back in our own bedroom, I turn to Abby. "Think you'll be able to sleep now, Mommy?"

"I think so."

"Good. I had a good time tonight."

"Me, too."

"Isn't Christmas fun?"

"Ask me again in ten days."

Christmas Day …

"Daddy!" I roll over and see Carter sprawled out on his stomach next to me. He appears to be dead to the world. And why shouldn't he be? He had a hard night of assembling train tracks that wiped him out.

"Daddy!" Meg sounds a little louder and more demanding this time. I could just get up and go to her, but after all, she's calling her father. I know he'll want to hear this.

"John." I give him a shake. "Wake up."

"Mmm."

"John?" More shaking. No response. "Carter!"

"What?" He pushes himself up on his arms and looks at me. "What's going on?"

"Merry Christmas," I say, leaning over to give him a little good-morning kiss.

"Merry Christmas." He flops down on his side. "Is that why you woke me up? To say 'Merry Christmas?'"

"No. Listen."

"I don't hear anything."

"Just give it a minute."

We wait patiently. It doesn't take long because someone else in this house hasn't learned the art of patience yet.

"Daddy!"

"Hey," he says, the smile spreading over his face every bit as apparent in his voice. "Meg's calling me. Me."

"Yep."

"I wonder what brought that on?"

"I don't know. I guess she likes you best today. Maybe she knows who's responsible for all those gifts downstairs."

"She doesn't even know about those gifts downstairs."

"Oh. Then I guess she just likes you."

"Yeah." The pleased smile again.

"Well, you better go get her."

"Oh yeah." He hops out of bed and pulls on his robe as he goes to get Meg.

He comes back a few minutes later with a yawning Meg curled up against his chest, holding a clean diaper in his hand.

"Good morning, honey," I say, waving at Meg.

"Morning, hon-ee," she repeats with a sleepy smile.

"Merry Christmas, Meg." I grab a little hand as she and John settle on the bed.

"M'ismus," she slurs back to me.

John laughs as he lays her down on her back, hiking up her nightgown so he can change her diaper. A nightgown, that's a new one. I had cute little Christmas pajamas for her to wear, but Grandma Maggie insisted she open a present last night and part of her gift was a red and green plaid flannel nightgown. Grandma was so exited about it, I could hardly refuse. And I have to admit, it is pretty cute. And she didn't strangle herself sleeping in it so I guess it's all good.

"Meg, say 'Merry Christmas," her father says to her, enunciating the words carefully.

"Meh-meh Cis-mas," she repeats, getting closer. Those Rs still give her trouble.

"That's pretty good," John tells her. "There you go. A nice dry diaper. You're all set."

She lays where she is, blinking up at us, looking a little dazed. "Mama?" she asks, holding her arms up in the air, but making no attempt to move toward me, making it necessary for me to sit up and reach down for her. Poor little thing is still tired. If I didn't know before, I knew once she called me 'Mama." But why shouldn't she be tired? With all the excitement last night of Grandma and Uncle Eric arriving, and then the big Christmas Eve dinner and opening a couple gifts and putting out cookies for 'Santa,' she fell asleep a good two hours later than usual. Yet her internal alarm clock has her awake and calling us at the usual time. We got to bed a good two hours later than usual so we wouldn't have minded if she slept in. No such luck, I guess. However, she does look ready to go back to sleep.

"You're not ready to get up, yet, are you?" I ask cuddling her in my arms. "Why don't you go back to sleep."

"Nooo." Her whiney, tired voice.

"Go to sleep, sweetie." I twist back and forth a bit, creating a rocking motion. Meg struggles to sit up and get out of my arms, but I can see that she hasn't had enough sleep. And neither have Daddy and I, apparently, since lying next to us, John appears to be halfway back to sleep already. I know I wouldn't mind closing my eyes for a little while longer. I shift position slightly, lying back against the pillows, and then I hike up my shirt. I squirmy Meg is still for a moment, considering her options. And then she flops back down in my arms, latching on enthusiastically, perhaps gratefully. Her eyes close almost immediately, and I know it will only be a matter of moments until she's asleep. I close my eyes as well, figuring that even a few extra minutes of sleep is a good idea with such a full day ahead of us. John's snoring softly beside me, Meg's breathing evenly in my arms, and I'm filled with a feeling of contentment. Not a bad way to welcome Christmas morning …

"Abby. Hey, Abby." I lift my head up from the pillow and look around. Carter's still zonked out next to me and Meg is … where's Meg? I sit up suddenly, turning toward the doorway.

"I found this in my bed," Eric says. "I thought you might be looking for it." Meg grins at me from her uncle's arms.

"Did she wake you?"

"No, I think she heard me in the bathroom. Probably decided I'd be more fun than you and Sleeping Beauty over there, since, you know, I was conscious. I came out of the bathroom and there she was in the middle of the bed. I said, 'hi' and she said, 'Merry Christmas.' At least, I think that's what she said. But it was either that or 'Hare Krishna,' and I didn't figure you guys knew a lot of Buddhists so …"

"Can I have my baby?" I ask him.

"Hey, don't make it out like I came in here and kidnapped her. She was the one crawling around my bed."

"It's her house," I point out.

"You always have to have the last word."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do." Eric is perched on the corner of the bed and Meg is standing next to him her hand on his shoulder, looking back and forth between us with an amused smile on her face. She's used to arguing of this nature, she probably just never realized that it wasn't just Mommy and Daddy.

"Come here, pumpkin," I say, holding my arms out to her. She runs over and plops down in my lap. "What happened? Did you wake up and Mommy and Daddy were sleeping?"

"More like passed out cold," Eric says.

"So you had to go find Uncle Eric, huh? Why didn't you just wake up Mommy and Daddy."

"She probably couldn't." I ignore that.

"I hope she didn't go downstairs," Carter says, lifting his head up from the pillow.

"If she went downstairs," Eric says, "I think she'd still be downstairs, not up here trying to stick her head under Abby's shirt. Why is she trying to stick her head under your shirt?"

"She wants to nurse. She always does first thing in the morning. Of course, she already did when she woke up the first time, but I guess that doesn't count."

"Whoa, she's still on the tit?"

"Don't say 'tit' in front of the baby," I admonish him. "It upsets Carter."

"You just said 'tit' in front of the baby," Eric says.

"And you just said 'tit' in front of the baby again."

"Sorry," Eric says. "I meant to say, 'Oh, I didn't realize she was still breastfeeding.' She's still breastfeeding?"

"Yeees, do you have a problem with that?" I ask in my best 'spoiling for a fight' voice.

"No, I just don't want to see it."

"There's nothing to see but the back of her head, anyway."

"Not now. But what if she suddenly jumps up and runs away?" I roll my eyes at him.

"You can leave the room if you're so worried about it," I point out. "But you know, it's just a boob."

"My sister's boob. I don't want to see that." He does a fake shudder to denote his revulsion. But then he looks at me curiously. "Doesn't she, you know …"

"What?"

"Bite?"

"No, she doesn't bite. Which is more than I can say for her father."

"Abby!" Carter's wide awake now and sounds scandalized.

"Oh, sorry. I forgot. You never see me naked, you don't touch my boobs, and we certainly never have sex."

"Good, that's good," Eric says.

"Would you stop it?" Carter asks me.

"Having sex with you? Okay."

"Talking about it in front of the baby."

"I can't say 'sex' in front of the baby? She's gonna hear it somewhere else, you know. And she's even gonna figure out what it is."

"Around here? I would guess so."

"Shut up, Eric."

"Well, it would be nice if she could at least spell it, before she figures out what it is. And don't say 'shut up' around the baby, either."

"God. Don't say 'shut up.' Don't say 'sex.' Anything else?"

"Well, you could stop talking about boobs, too."

"Why? She's more intimately acquainted with boobs now than she'll ever be. Probably. Unless she grows up to be a lesbian."

"Abby!"

"Now I can't say 'lesbian' in front of the baby either?"

"No, you might turn her into one," Eric helpfully suggests. "You know, if all this boob … feeding doesn't do it."

"Shut up," I say, laughing. "Oh, sorry. Another bad word."

"You laugh now," Carter says, shaking a finger at me. "But wait until we get called to the principal's office because of our kindergartener's potty mouth."

"Oh, well, I'm sorry that me and my potty mouth aren't good enough for you. Forgive me for not going to finishing school. But on the wrong side of the tracks, you know, where I come from, this is how normal people talk."

"But you don't have to say inappropriate words around the baby."

"I don't think 'sex' is an inappropriate word."

"Ahh!" He flops back down the bed, pulling a pillow over his face. Giving up, I think. Meg chooses that moment to pull away from me, sit up and let out an enormous burp.

"What do you say, Meg? Excuse me?" I prompt.

"'Cuse me."

Eric's laughing. "That was pretty funny," he tells Meg. "I like this kid. She cracks me up. Right, squirt?" he reaches over and ruffles her hair. "It's gonna be even better when she starts up with all the dirty talk."

John takes the pillow off his face. "Is this any way to start Christmas morning?"

Eric and I look at each other. I shrug. Eric says, "Seems pretty good to me. You guys are a riot. I'm gonna go downstairs and see what Mom's burning."

"Mom's cooking?"

"Well, I smell bacon, so I certainly hope so." He departs on that note, and I turn to look at John.

"Don't be mad."

"I'm not mad, Abby. It's just … I hate the idea of sitting down to Christmas dinner or being out in public somewhere, or with my parents and suddenly the baby starts talking about S-E-X. What would people think?"

"I don't care what people think. But … I'll try to be more careful about what I say around Meg."

"Thank you."

"Well, Merry Christmas."

"Is that all I'm getting this year?"

"Maybe. You'll just have to wait and see if Santa brought you anything."

"Ho ho ho," Meg says.

"See? She does listen?" John says as I head into the bathroom. She listens. She also follows. She comes crashing into the bathroom after me, happy to watch me pee. I guess watching's okay, but we won't talk about it. After I wash my hands and brush my teeth, I brush Meg's teeth. Then I brush her hair. Then I brush my hair. And while I'm doing all this, John wanders in to take care of his own needs. I won't be the one to point out the incongruity of Meg joining us in the bathroom on a regular basis yet not being able to talk about boobs in front of her. Oh, well.

"I guess we're as ready as we'll ever be," I say to Carter, catching his eye in the mirror.

He puts down his comb. "Okay, but let me go downstairs first. Give me a minute and then bring her down."

"Camcorder?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. We'll get Meg's slippers and then we'll be down."

"See you in a minute." He practically skips out the door.

Before Meg and I stop by her room for her slippers, we have to take a minute to play one of her favorite games called, go-through-Mommy's-dresser-drawers. I think it's best that I don't mention to Daddy how much his little girl seems to like my sexy lingerie. She's partial to soft and silky or anything see through. The red lace negligee she has draped over her head at the moment is a nice addition to her Christmas ensemble.

"Abby! Are you coming downstairs?"

"Uh-oh, Daddy's waiting for us. We better go." I shove everything back in the drawer to Meg's protests and then send her to find her slippers. I'm just finishing up making the bed when she returns. Her slippers, my robe, and we're ready to go.

When we get downstairs, I walk slowly down the hall toward the living room. "You know what Meg? I think Santa was here. And I'll bet he left lots of presents for you. Do you wanna see what Santa brought you?" I hold her up high so she can get a good look at the room as we cross the threshold.

"Merry Christmas!" John, Eric and Maggie call.

"Merry Christmas," I reply. Meg seems speechless.

"Oh," she says finally with a gasp, drawing in her breath. I carry her to the middle of the room and set her down. She stands still, looking around, trying to take it all in, I suppose. John is down on the floor with the camcorder in her face while Mom and Eric are looking on from the couch.

I crouch down next to Meg. "Look at all your presents."

"Pezents?"

"Yeah, they're for Meg. Meg's toys. Look, a slide. And a train. And a … what is that?" I ask, pointing to a corner that was empty the last time I saw it. "Where did that come from?" Now the camcorder is in my face.

"Maybe Santa brought it," John suggests. I give him a look. "Actually, Grandma and Uncle Eric brought it." I turn and look at them.

"Well, you said you didn't want her to have too many gifts so we decided on one big one."

"A playhouse?"

"Yeah. We saw it and thought she would love it. And John said she didn't have one so …"

"So I'm the last one to know about it?"

"We thought it would be a good surprise for you, too," Carter tells me.

"More like you thought I'd veto it if I knew about it."

"Maybe."

"Meg, look. Look at your little house. That's from Grandma Maggie and Uncle Eric. What do you tell them?"

She's hesitates a moment, probably not prepared for this kind of quiz. Finally, she smiles and turns to them, "Meh-meh Cismas!"

"Oh, Merry Christmas, sweetheart," Mom says, holding out her arms.

"Go give Grandma a hug and tell her 'thank you.'"

"Tank tu," she says, as her grandmother scoops her up.

"Tell Uncle Eric thank you, too," I instruct. She leans over, reaching out toward him. He gets a hug, a thank you, and a kiss on the cheek. And then she gives Grandma a kiss. And then she clambers off the couch and runs to give me a kiss. And then her daddy.

And then, as if it seeing it for the first time, she cries, "Choo-choo," and runs toward the train on the track which is circling the tree. Getting it in that position required pulling the tree a few more feet into the room to have enough space, which was a real pain in the ass at midnight, but I have to admit it looks pretty neat. Meg doesn't seem to need any instruction, she gets right on and manages to find the button that makes it run. She looks stunned as the train starts moving, but quickly the startled look changes into a smile. By the time she's traveled around the tree once, she's figured out all the buttons. Start, stop, and all the sound effects.

"I think she likes it," Carter says with pride.

"Yeah, I'd say so. Good call, Daddy."

"Thanks. So should we open gifts now?"

"Well, Meg seems a little overwhelmed with the just the stuff that's already out. Maybe we should give her a chance to check them out and have some breakfast first."

"Good idea," Maggie says. "I was just about to start some pancakes."

"I'll help," I say and we all migrate to the kitchen, leaving Meg in the living room on her train. When I hear it stop and not start up, I look into the room and see that Meg is now exploring her new playhouse.

"She's in her little house," I tell Mom. "I think she likes that, too."

"Good, I'm glad."

"Thank you."

"Meg already thanked us."

"I know, but … it was really nice of you to get it for her. But you didn't have to do that. Get her something so …expensive."

"Nonsense. She's my granddaughter. I want to spend my money on her. Spoil her a little bit. It's a grandmother's prerogative."

"Yeah, but …"

"It doesn't matter how much you have or how much she has … I still want to give her nice things." I nod, understanding.

"But …"

"Abby, Eric and I are doing fine. Certainly between the two of us we can afford to buy Meg a big Christmas gift. Now stir the eggs please, would you?"

"That's not what I was gonna say. I was gonna ask how you got it here. You couldn't possibly have fit it in your car." I take up the spatula and work on the scrambled eggs while Maggie flips the pancakes and John sets the table and mans the toaster. Eric mostly stands around nibbling at the already finished bacon.

"The magic of the internet, Sis." Eric gives me a teasing smile. "You order it, pay for it, and they'll deliver it anywhere you want."

"Yeah, but when was it delivered?"

"Last week," Carter says. "You and Meg were Christmas shopping with Susan. It's been in the guest house all week."

"Guest house? Is that what that useless garage is supposed to be?" I ask as I move toward the living room. "Meg? Want some breakfast? Wanna eat?"

"No," she says, shaking her head as she scales the side of her new climber.

"Say, 'no, thank you.'"

"No, tank tu."

"Okay, but you're missing out on a feast. There's pancakes," I say in a sing-song voice, trying to cajole her with one of her favorites.

"No, tank tu," she says again, managing to climb on to the slide deck of the climber in spite of the fact that she's wearing a nightgown.

"Okay, be careful." I watch as she goes down the slide by herself, smiling happily. I clap for her as she stands up. And then she turns to go back up again.

Of course, as soon as we sit down to breakfast, Meg starts calling for me, probably wanting me to come watch her antics. But I keep telling her to come to the kitchen and finally she shows up, climbing into my lap and eating her breakfast off my plate. Once we've finished eating and the kitchen is reasonably clean, we troop back into the living room and gather around the tree to start opening the many, many gifts that are piled underneath it. The best part of the gift opening is seeing Meg's reaction. She has a blast ripping into the packages, excited to discover what's in each gaily wrapped gift. Each new item is something to ou and ah over. She inspects each item carefully whether it's a pair of socks or the floppy pink dog that she seems attached to immediately. It turns out that Grandma Maggie has knit her a couple of sweaters with matching tams. One various shades of pink in a striped pattern and the other solid red. It's the red sweater and hat that Meg brings to me.

"On?" she asks, dropping them in my lap.

"You want to put them on. Are you cold?"

"I'll start a fire," John offers.

"I think she just wants to put on a fashion show."

"Oh well, it'll be good atmosphere anyway." Soon there's a roaring fire going, and between that and all the gifts and the snow flurries drifting down outside the windows, it's turning into that picture-perfect Christmas.

"You look awfully cute in your little hat, Meggie," I tell her as she sits in Maggie's lap.

"I'm just glad it seems to fit," Maggie says. "It's a little big, but that just gives her some room to grow. I wasn't sure what size to make it. For someone who was so big when she was born, she's turning out to be a petite little thing. Aren't you, Meg?" I hadn't really thought about it, but I guess it's true. "Although you're growing up so quickly, getting to be Grandma's big girl."

"Big ga," she says. That's a tough word for her with an "R" and an "L."

"I can't believe how well she talks," Mom says.

"I can't believe how much she talks. Just like Abby," Eric adds.

"You're so smart. Grandma's smart girl, right?" Maggie wraps her arms around Meg in a tight hug.

"Don't forget pretty," John says.

"Pitty," Meg repeats.

"Okay, pretty girl," I stand up and reach for her. "What do you say we go upstairs and take a bath and make you even more pretty, huh? And we'll put your pretty dress on, too."

"You're gonna let her wear a dress?" Eric asks, pretending to be shocked.

"Well, it's Christmas. Besides, her father likes dresses."

"She means I like to buy dresses for Meg."

"Sure, that's what I mean." I pick up Meg and take her upstairs where I run bath for the both of us, getting our clothes all set out on the bed while Meg splashes around in the water, waiting for me to join her. It takes longer to get us all dressed up and ready for the day than I would have thought. John comes in and showers and dresses and leaves again after helping me wrestle Meg into a pair of white tights, leaving me to finish up the details which takes quite awhile. But then Meg had to help me get ready by brushing my hair and trying to button my blouse. And she had to have some 'make-up' and some perfume, too. And getting her hair pulled back and fastened into the little barrettes wasn't as easy as it looked either. By the time we return downstairs, there's been a magical transformation. Everyone else is dressed, the living room is straightened and my mom is back in the kitchen, loading the turkey into the over.

"Well, don't you look pretty," Mom says. I almost thank her until I realize she's talking to Meg. I have to say, she does look especially lovely in her Christmas finery. Her father picked this dress out as usual, and he did a good job. With a cranberry red velvety top and some sort of flowing white material for the skirt, it's more fancy than what I would have chosen, but it seems to suit Meg. The dress, the tights, and the tiny mary jane's that match the red in her dress make her look awfully grown up.

Eric wanders into the kitchen and gives a wolf whistle. "Could you not whistle at her?" I ask. "She's just a baby, you know."

"Who's whistling at Meg? I was whistling at you. I forgot you had legs."

"Shut up."

"Nice skirt. Could it get any shorter? Or tighter?" I look down at the velvety black skirt that I'm wearing. It's not that short or that tight. I don't think. I take Meg and leave the kitchen, going down the hall to find John hiding out in the study.

"Is my skirt too shirt?" I demand.

"What?" he asks with a laugh, turning around. "Hi, Meggers. You look bee-u-tiful," He tells her, reaching out for her. "Mommy looks beautiful, too."

"Thank you. The skirt?"

"Nice. I like it." There's something about the way he leers at me …

"Oh, God. It is too short. I better go change."

"Don't change. It's perfect." He reaches out and grabs my arm.

"Yeah, but your parents …"

"I don't think my dad will object."

"Yeah, but your mom …"

"Wore plenty of short skirts in her day. And it's really not that short. Of course, maybe you should button up your blouse a little bit." I immediately glance down. "Kidding, Abby. I was kidding. By the way, I like this a lot." He runs a finger up the sleeve of my blouse. "Satin?"

"I don't know. It was the same red as Meg's dress so …"

"I like it. A lot." He runs a finger along the inside edge of the collar. "I'm so glad you just happen to be standing under the mistletoe."

"What mistletoe?" I ask glancing up.

"Use your imagination," he asks, closing the gap between us and leaning down to kiss me.

"Mommy," I a little hand pats my face impatiently. John and I pull apart and look at Meg.

"She's jealous. She doesn't like it when I kiss her Daddy."

"More like she doesn't like it when I kiss her Mommy. She really wants you all to herself. Don't you, peanut?" He tosses her up in the air, making her giggle.

"Again, again!" She cries as soon as he catches her. I take the opportunity to sneak back into the kitchen to start in on some of the preparation for the big meal.

When I drop about a dozen things in a row, Mom turns to me, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I lie.

"Abby …"

"It's just … Carter's parents. They make me nervous. Still. Especially when they come here. I feel like I have to put on some kind of show. I worry about everything. What if I say something stupid? What if I spill the gravy? What if Meg acts up? It's too much pressure. Especially on a holiday."

"Oh, Abby, it'll be fine. I'm sure you don't have to worry so much. They're family, after all. I'm sure they love you every bit as much as I love John."

"I don't know. They're always … nice. But kind of … aloof. Sometimes I think they … disapprove of me."

"I'm sure that's not true. Besides, you're the mother of their grandchild."

"A fact I sometimes think they'd like to forget. And if that's not enough, this is the first holiday that they'll be spending together since they got divorced. It's all a little awkward."

"Well, all you can do is your best and hope it works out okay."

"Yeah, I guess." As if on cue, John comes into the kitchen.

"There's a limo out front."

"Your mother." I take a deep breath and pull off my apron. "Mom, do you mind …"

"Of course not. Go ahead."

We swing through the living room and pick up Meg. I straighten her hair, smooth down her dress, and wipe non-existent stains off her face. I duck into the bathroom to give my reflection a once over. John catches me wiping my sweaty palms on my skirt, and takes Meg from me.

"Relax," he says. "It's just my mother. Not the Gestapo."

She flies in the door in a whirlwind. I get Meg back so that Carter can take the packages from the limo driver and then help his mom with her coat. After she's exchanged well-wishes and a hug with John and pleasantries with me, she turns to Meg.

"Merry Christmas, Margaret." Meg looks at her somewhat suspiciously, probably wondering about being addressed as 'Margaret.' She usually only hears that when she's in trouble.

"Say 'hi' to Grandma Eleanor." I jiggle her up and down and keep my fingers crossed that she won't go shy on me and refuse to talk to her grandmother. She ran right to Maggie and Eric last night when they arrived, but you never know with toddlers. She drops her head onto my shoulder.

"Hello, Meg," Eleanor tries. That seems to do the trick. Meg lifts her head up and smiles and then leans toward her grandmother. Throws herself at her, really, forcing Eleanor to hold her whether she wants to or not.

"Hi, Ga-ma," Meg says with a smile. Even though that's exactly what she calls Maggie, and therefore I've heard her version of 'Grandma' before, this time I hear it a little differently.

"I wonder if that's how your grandmother got her name," I say aloud to Carter.

"It is," Eleanor says. "It was the best Bobby could do for a long time. By the time he could get it right, John was copying everything his brother said and did. And it just sort of stuck."

"I never knew that," John says.

"You never asked."

"Pezents?" Meg asks now, pointing to the packages in the hallway. "I want pezent."

"Meg," I say with a warning tone.

But Grandma Eleanor jumps in. "Yes, presents for you, my darling. Shall we put them under your tree?"

"Twee." Meg squirms to get down, then takes her grandmother's hand and leads her to the tree. Of course the gifts don't actually make it under the tree. Meg rips into the first one right away. I try to stop her, thinking it's a bit rude for her to just start opening the gifts, but Eleanor assures me that she doesn't mind.

"Oooh," Meg says, pulling the tissue paper away from what appears to be some old books. John and I sit down on the couch next to her to inspect them.

"Oh, the Winnie-the-Pooh books," John says, pulling out one of the four A.A. Milne classics.

"They look … antique. Were they yours?"

"I don't think so. Mom?"

"No, these weren't yours. But you always liked the stories. These came up at auction a few months ago and I thought of Meg. They're first editions," she adds. Oh boy. Valuable first editions for a toddler. I catch John's eye and it seems he's thinking the same thing. "Oh, I know she won't appreciate them until she's older, but I wanted her to have them now anyway."

"They're pretty," I say.

"Pitty," Meg echoes, touching the one of the leather bound volumes lightly.

"We'll display them. In her room or maybe give her her own shelf in the study," John says.

"Here, dear," Eleanor says to Meg, "Open this one. I think you'll find it more useful right now." Inside this box is the same collection of stories, only in one big book that is clearly geared for children, with muted, but cheerful pictures throughout. A third box contains stuffed version of the book's characters. Only these aren't the primary-colored, regular ones that you can buy at the Wal-Mart. These are like the pictures in the book, made up of more muted tones and well-crafted with plush materials. Meg seems instantly intrigued by them.

"Wuz tha name?" She asks, pointing to Tigger.

"Tigger," John tells her, thereby designating himself the expert.

"Wuz tha name, Daddy?" She scoots off her place on the couch so she can walk over to him and drop Piglet into his lap.

I excuse myself back into the kitchen, where all roads seem to lead for me today, and send Maggie and Eric into the living room to make small talk with an admonition to be on their best behavior. Grandpa Jack arrives before too long, causing another flurry of activity. He, too, has brought Meg an expensive, fancy gift. A hand-crafted baby doll, made by an artist to look like a newborn Meg. It's beautiful and looks so lifelike that it brings tears to my eyes. John comments that it's probably more of a gift for me than Meg and suggests that Meg will have to fight me for it. Although it's vinyl and perfectly safe for her to play with, I think it's another item that will go on display until she's a little bit older.

"We wouldn't want it ruined," I explain.

"Well, we'll teach her to be careful with it," John says. "It'll be good practice."

"For what?"

"For when she has a little brother or sister." Immediately three proud grandparents and one proud uncle turn to stare at me.

"Someday," I add hastily. "Not yet." I turn and give John the evil eye and he just grins back at me.

There are a few more presents to be opened, but unfortunately none for Meg who has caught on to this gift business all too well.

"I want pezents," she's saying, her voice taking on a slight whiney tone. John's trying to reason with a toddler. Eric is trying to distract her with various antics involving red and green M&Ms. Eleanor and Jack are studiously avoiding each other while my mother talks Jack's ear off. I escape to the kitchen, as per norm. That's one nice thing about hosting, I think, a perpetual excuse to disappear. I find various ways to fiddle around in the kitchen all by myself until I hear a little voice above the din.

"I want Mommy."

"Meggie, I'm in here." She wanders into the kitchen looking a little lost, and slightly tearful.

"What's wrong? Are you tired?" I ask picking her up and holding her against my shoulder.

"Milky, Mommy."

"You are tired. You wanna take a nap?"

"No nap." Exactly what I thought she'd say today. I don't really expect that she'll be willing to go off and take a nap in her room with such an appreciative audience here.

"Well, milky is only for sleepy time," I remind her.

"Mooommy." She tugs at my shirt.

"Oh, sweetie. Not right now. Mommy has to cook." She looks at me, as if she's considering this.

"Ba-ba?" She asks, as if we are in negotiations. Bottles are also supposed to be just for naptime or bedtime, but I suppose on Christmas we can make an exception.

"Okay, I'll get you a bottle." I put her down so that I can fix it for her, and when I hand it to her she reaches up to me.

"Hold you." I peer out into the living room. A few grandparents. An uncle. No father.

"Where's Daddy?"

"I na know," she says, shaking her head.

"I don't know either. Meggie? Mommy's so busy. Can you ask Grandma to hold you?" She trots off into the living room, bottle in hand. I forgot that there's two Grandmas out there and assumed she'd go to my mom who I know would be thrilled to hold her while she drinks her bottle and rests. But Meg goes to the couch and climbs up.

"Here, Ga-ma," she says, handing Eleanor the bottle so she can make herself comfortable in her grandmother's lap. She takes the bottle back, as she likes to hold it herself, but she stays cuddled up in Grandma Eleanor's lap.

With peace restored to the rest of the house, and the turkey almost done, it's time for me to kick it into gear. Juggling half a dozen side dishes all at once isn't as easy as it looks. Not to mention the desserts. I hate to ask for help, because my mom and Eric and John have already done so much, and I feel like I haven't done anything at all. Eric and Carter put together all the assembly-required items last night, and lugged almost all of the gifts from their hiding spots to under the tree. Today my mom's done most of the major cooking. It seems like the least I can do to actually finish up the cooking. Just when I think I have everything under control in the kitchen …

"Hey, Abby? We forgot to do Meg's stocking."

"Well, we can do it after dinner," I call out to John.

"Uh … she wants it now. Can you come out here for a few minutes?"

Well, since I'm not doing anything … When I reach the living room I see that Meg's practically having a fit, waving her arms towards the stocking and crying. This looks like it has the making for a full blown temper tantrum. Now, I wouldn't give her what she's demanding when she's acting like this, but there's no accounting for grandparents.

"Is this what you want, sweetheart?" Jack asks, taking the stocking off the mantle and handing it to her. She stops crying and sits right down on the floor to dump out the stocking's contents. Great, now she's gonna think that when she stamps her feet and screams she'll get what she wants. Oh, well. It's Christmas. And right now I want to enjoy watching her open up her last few gifts. She's excited by most of the things she unwraps, recognizing some of her favorite things like bubbles and plastic bracelets right away. The socks, hair accessories, and sippy cups don't excite her too much. But the Poptarts and the pacifiers get her attention.

"Opee," she says, handing both packages to Daddy.

"We don't need to open them right now. Poptarts will spoil your dinner. And the nuks are for night-night." He tells her.

"No nigh-nigh. Opee." She's crying, big tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Don't cry, sweetie," John says, bending down to hug her.

"Why don't you play with some of your new toys?" Jack suggests.

"Wanna get on the train, Meg?" Eric asks. "Can Uncle Eric try your train?" He sits down on the little train, pretending like he's going to take a ride.

"Would you get off that? You'll break it," Mom tells him.

"I'm not gonna break it."

"Get off it right now. Here sweetie, want to sing with Frosty?" Mom offers up a stuffed Frosty-the-Snowman, pushing the button to make it play the song of the same name.

"Meg, do you want Grandma Eleanor to read to you?"

Meg looks around the room, a bewildered look on her face. And then she bolts across the room to me. "Mommy, Mommy." She wraps her little arms around my leg. How come it's never "Daddy, Daddy" when I need it to be? I've got potatoes boiling over on the stove, probably threatening to set the kitchen on fire. I disengage her and pick her up, retrieving the Poptarts and the pacifiers and retreating to the kitchen.

"I wanna, I wanna, I wanna. Mama," Meg's crying in my ear as I balance her on my hip, my arm under her butt so that my hands are free. I don't think she knows what she wants at this point, but I can't have a crying baby clinging to me while I try to assemble the meal. By now the turkey is probably burnt, and I don't think the green bean casserole is ever gonna get warm. I open the pacifiers for Meg and she immediately pops one into her mouth, happily holding the second one from the package in her hand. But she's not truly happy until she has a Poptart -- a whole Poptart, not even broken into pieces -- in her other hand. She alternates between chewing on the Poptart and sucking on the nuk. I alternate between trying to put her down so I can get something done and trying to get something done with her in my arms. When I try to hand her off to John, she still manages to find a way back to me. But at least she brings reinforcements with her this time. Of course, she's still crying for me to hold her, but it's tough to get a turkey out of the oven with a baby on your hip. I'm bouncing around the kitchen, getting increasingly frustrated, when Carter comes over and gently takes the oven mitt off my hand.

"Abby? You look a little …"

"What?" There's a definite challenge in my voice.

"Flustered. Why don't you take a break?"

"No. I've gotta get this done. Pies need to go in the oven. So do the rolls. I don't know where I put the cranberry sauce, and I can't find any more butter. The table isn't even set yet. The turkey is probably overdone and the potatoes are gonna be lumpy."

"Abby," Mom says, using a stern 'mom' voice. "Take a break. Meg needs a break. Why don't you take her upstairs for a little while? We'll take care of this."

"But it's my house."

"It's my house, too. I can do this."

"But you did all the work yesterday."

"That's not true. And I haven't done much of anything today, so let me finish up. Maggie will help. We'll still give you all the credit."

"I don't know."

"Do it for Meg," Mom suggests. She does look tired.

"Maybe she'll fall asleep," John says.

"Then she'll miss dinner."

"Well, that happens. Maybe she just needs some quiet time to recharge. I'd do it, but …" But she has a death grip on me.

"Okay, I'll take her upstairs and rock her for a little while. Call me if you need anything."

"We'll call you," John says, "When it's time to eat."

I don't protest, just take Meg and run off to her room, settling into the rocking chair. Of course, to Meg, that can mean only one thing. In spite of the fact that she already had a bottle this afternoon and that I don't think she'll really take a nap, I unbutton my blouse and let her nurse. She sighs heavily with relief. Not unlike an addict getting a fix. It's a lot like how nicotine always felt to me. I could use a cigarette about now. Or a drink. I look down at the little person snuggled in my arms and push those thoughts away. She's the only fix I need now. And the high I get from being with her is better than any thing else I've ever felt. And somehow, she has the same power to take away the tension, the upset, the pain. I smile down at her, running a finger along her profile, then smoothing back her beautiful red curls. I pick up her little hand and press it to my lips.

"Oh, I love you, Meg." She looks up at me, content and peaceful now. And the look on her face is all I need to see to know that she feels the same way. As frustrating and sometimes flat out irritating as it can be having her follow me around, begging for my attention, I know I wouldn't have it any other way. It's pretty incredible to have someone in your life that loves you that much and has no qualms about showing it. And even though her constant needs are sometimes difficult to deal with, every time she calls out "Mommy," my heart swells with pride and happiness. "Where would I be without you, huh, pumpkin?"

"You really like it, huh?" Eric's standing in the doorway to Meg's room. He comes over and hands me a glass of water. "Thought you might need that."

"Thanks. Really like what? Breastfeeding?"

"No. Being a mom. This whole …domestic routine."

I consider, for a moment, how to answer. Finally I say simply, "Yeah, I really like it. Who would have ever thought, huh?"

"It doesn't surprise me at all. I mean, you practically raised me. So it's no shock that you're good at it. And usually people like the things they're good at so …"

"I don't know how good I am at it. I couldn't even get through one family gathering without practically melting down. I didn't even finish -- or start for that matter -- my own meal."

"Yeah, but … that's doesn't matter. Meg's not gonna remember who put the turkey in the oven. Or who took it out. Or whether or not the mashed potatoes were burned."

"The mashed potatoes are burned? How do you burn mashed potatoes?"

"The potatoes are fine. I just meant …"

"I know. And … thanks. You're a pretty smart guy, you know."

"I learned from the best." He reaches over and ruffles my hair. And then Meg's. "Dinner will be on the table in about ten minutes. But take your time. We'll wait."

With that, he's gone leaving Meg and I to finish recharging our batteries. She closes her eyes briefly, as do I, but neither of us really falls asleep. Even after she's had her fill and pulls away from me, I stay where I am, holding Meg sitting on my lap, her back to my chest. We rock back and forth slowly, quietly for awhile, until I hear the clattering of plates and silverware that suggests that dinner is being served.

"You wanna go get some dinner, Meggie?" She can't possibly be very hungry, but she nods anyway and seems in good spirits as we enter the dining room to find all the food laid out on the table in a beautiful spread. The finishing chefs seem to have done an excellent job.

"Feeling better?" John asks, rolling in Meg's high chair from the kitchen.

"Yeah. Thanks. Everything looks great."

"Well, you did most of it."

Instead of answering, I settle Meg into her highchair and fasten a large bib around her neck.

"Ooo, furkey!" She decided on Thanksgiving that she liked turkey, and I guess she remembers it. She's still calling it 'furkey' too.

Eric's laughing. "Furkey, that's funny, squirt."

"Squirt," Meg says.

"She can say 'squirt' but she can't say 'turkey?' Oookay," Eric says. I shrug. Who knows.

"Everything looks delicious, Abby," Jack says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek as he passes by.

"Yes, it all look deductible. Uh … delectable," Eleanor says, with a hiccupy little burp. "It's all just so beautiful. And it's so wonderful to have family with you for the holidays." She's a little choked up, seeming to wipe a tear from her eye before abruptly sitting down.

I lean over towards John as we're all taking our seats. "Has your mother been drinking?" I whisper.

"Ooh, yeah."

"How did that happen?"

"Well, after Dad got here she said, 'I need a drink.' And told her we don't keep alcohol in the house. And she said, 'That's fine, dear. I just need some ice and a glass.' Apparently, she brought her own."

"She hasn't been sharing it, has she?" I ask as I pass him the mashed potatoes.

"Just with my father."

"We're very happily divorced," Jack confides.

"Well, that's … uh … good. I guess?" I look to Carter for help, but he just shrugs.

"Meg, do you want some turkey, squirt?"

"Furkey! Furkey! Furkey!" Eric seems to find this hilarious, but I'm left rolling my eyes and hurrying up to fix Meg a plate of 'furkey.'

"Do you ever feel like your life is like something out of a movie?" We all stop and turn to look at my mother-in-law, who is apparently still waxing poetic.

"Some kind of slapstick, comedy-of-errors," I say under my breath.

"No, Abby. You mean a romantic comedy."

"Haha," I laugh dismissively. "Hardly. More like one of those bad movies that you don't want to admit to watching."

"Bad? You mean like porn?" Eric asks. "Because that might be appropriate."

"Funny. I didn't mean baaad, I meant bad. Like a bad B-movie. You know, slightly out-of-focus and occasionally overwrought."

"This day has been like a scene out of a movie. Sometimes my whole life feels that way," Eleanor is saying idly.

"That's nice, dear. Now can you pass the gravy?" Jack asks.

"Don't you ever feel like our life was a movie?"

"More like a fairytale."

"Cinderella? With you as Prince Charming?" She pats Jack's hand fondly. "Oh no, that's more appropriate for Abby."

"Huh?" I ask.

"I was thinking more of something with a wicked witch," Jack says.

"Dad!"

"I was just kidding, son. Your mother knows that. Or she would. If she hadn't been … imbibing all afternoon."

Well, what's a family holiday without someone getting hammered? The rest of the meal goes as is expected. Various things get knocked over and spilled, the turkey gets cold, we keep running out of gravy because the gravy boat is too small, but everyone lies and says how wonderful everything is anyway. The biggest frustration is trying to coax Meg to eat something.

"Come on, Meggers, eat your turkey. Off your plate and into your belly."

"My belly?" She asks, looking down and patting her little tummy.

"Yeah, put the turkey in your belly," I say pointing. "Eat it up."

"Belly," she says, both hands patting her stomach this time. Then both hands on her head. "Head." Because this gets applause and cheers, she then has to point to every body part she knows.

"That's very good, sweetie," John tells her, "But eat."

"Daaad-dee?"

"What Meg?"

"Wuz tha name?"

"You know who that is."

"Unca Ewic." And then she's off, pointing at everyone at the table so that she can name them. Suddenly dinner has become the Meg show. She's busy showing off all of her skills, all except eating. When she starts singing Jingle Bells, I figure it's enough. She not gonna actually eat anything. She'll just make a mess with the food on her plate.

"Meg, are you done?"

She nods enthusiastically, pushing her plate toward me. "All done." I take her plate. "Down?"

"Yeah, sure." I turn her loose and follow her as far as the hall to see that she's made a bee line for the slide and is happily scaling the side, dress, tights, mary janes and all. The dressy clothes don't seem to hinder her at all. She's happily sliding down the slide and then jumping up to run around and climb up again. I turn back to the dining room, intending to clear the dishes.

"Sit down, Abby," John instructs. "We'll clear." The men disappear into the kitchen leaving me alone with my mother and my mother-in-law. Kind of a scary place to be. Especially when Maggie excuses herself to the bathroom and Eleanor gets up and moves around next to me. Meg wanders back in to the room, and I pick her up and sit her in my lap. Using her as a shield, I suppose.

"You know, Abby," Eleanor says in a confiding tone. "I like you. I really do."

"Thank you."

"You're so much better than all those other trollops John used to date."

"Uh … thanks, I guess."

"I know I wasn't very …receptive when we found out you were pregnant. But now when I see this little face," she reaches forward and puts a hand on either side of Meg's face and squeezes. I see Meg's eyes open wide, trying to figure this out. But then she laughs, figuring Grandma is just goofing around with her like the rest of us do. "Well, when I look at Meg, I'm really glad that if someone had to trap my son into marriage, that it was you. And it turns out your background and breeding haven't really mattered that much." Wow, talk about a back-handed compliment. I remind myself that she's had a little too much to drink and these family holidays aren't easy on anyone. And it's not like her feelings about me were ever a big secret. I guess I should be glad that she likes me, at least in some fashion. "And Meg reminds me so much of John," she saying now. Good thing or she'd probably be questioning her paternity. "So bright and charming and attractive. Truly worthy of the Carter name." And I don't suppose that I, or my inferior genes, have had anything to do with that. As if reading my mind, she says, "And I know you've contributed to that. My grandchild might not have turned out so well if it had been some other nurse that John had gotten pregnant." So I guess, all things considered, this isn't so bad. I think it's her way of saying that she's glad --almost-- to have me for her daughter-in-law. At least she doesn't hate me. That's something, I suppose.

"Well, thanks. That's …uh …good to know. I'm glad you're so proud of Meg."

"She's beautiful. Just like my boys." I rests a hand gently on Meg head, before leaning closer to me. "Do you have any prescription medication in the house, dear?"

"Uh, no. Sorry. Um, I think I better … uh, check Meg's diaper. And check on how things are going in the kitchen. But, uh, make yourself at home. Dessert will be in … um, a little while." I pick up Meg and make a hasty retreat upstairs to change her diaper before sneaking back down to the kitchen. I find John alone, just starting up the dishwasher.

"Meg's back on the train, huh?" We both pause for a moment, listening the train-whistle sound effects from the other room.

"Either her or Eric."

"I got some great pictures of her on there earlier. And on the slide. And in the playhouse. Posing in front of the tree in her pretty dress. We'll have to get some of the three of us after dessert."

"Sure."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Ab…"

"Well, your mother asked for me for prescription drugs. After she told me how glad she was that I was the slut that you knocked up. Oh wait, I mean, that I was the slut that tricked you into knocking me up so I could marry you for your money."

"What?"

"I think she was actually trying to be nice. It just didn't come out right."

"I'm sorry."

I wave my hand dismissively. "It's okay."

"No, it's not."

"Yeah, it is. Right sentiment, wrong verse. I'll try to pick out the good. Besides, it was certainly nothing worse than Maggie and I have screamed at each other in some of our 'finer' moments."

"She can't talk to you like that. I'll say something to her."

"No, don't. It's not worth it. She's your mother. She's Meg's grandmother. For better or worse, we're a family. And this way, if there comes a day that my mother says something hateful to you, you'll have no choice but get over it."

"That would never happen. Maggie loves me."

"True. But you never know … you have a tendency to do stupid things so who knows when you might incur her wrath."

He laughs. "You know Abby, I'm really proud of you."

"For what?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"For … everything. For making today work. You've come a long way."

"Was I that bad before?"

"No. It's just … there's was a time when you wouldn't have handled all this …chaos with such aplomb."

"Well, I'm a mommy now. It's my job to handle chaos. And having Meg … puts things in perspective, I guess. Keeps me centered. She keeps me sane. That's probably too much responsibility to rest on the shoulders of a toddler, though, isn't it?"

"Not really. It's not like you trying to keep Maggie sane. You don't expect Meg to actually do anything other than just be there. Be herself."

"Funny how it's worked out. I used to think motherhood would be my undoing. Who knew it would turn out to be just what I needed?"

As if on cue, a little voice calls from the living room. "Mommy!"

"Ah, speaking of which … "

"You go tend to Meg," he says, "And I'll tend to dessert. We'll meet in the dining room in a few minutes."

Dessert and then the family portrait photo ops go fairly smoothly. By the time everything has been cleaned up and some semblance of order has been restored to the house, a tired Meg begins rubbing her eyes. The perfect excuse for me to escape once again, getting her ready for bed. We return downstairs to find the 'party' winding down. Jack and Eleanor are on their way out, and after drawn out good-byes with Meg and plans for brunch tomorrow are made, they depart.

"No limo?" I ask John as we settle in one the couch. The living room is lit only by the tree and the fire blazing in the fireplace. It's soothing and restful after the craziness of the day.

"No, my dad's gonna give her a ride.," John says, slipping an arm around my shoulders. "Turns out they're staying at the same hotel."

"Dangerous." I slip my shoes off and curl up next to him, with Meg curled in my arms.

"I just hope they remember how happily divorced they are."

"Where are Mom and Eric?"

"Looking for Monopoly."

"Uh-oh."

"So … that wasn't so bad, huh?"

"Well, no one stormed out in a huff. No one disappeared. And the kitchen isn't on fire so …"

"I think Meg liked it. Didn't you jelly bean?" He takes her from my arms and lifts her over his head, causing a fit of giggles.

"Well in that case, I'd say it was rousing success," I say, slipping an arm around his waist, dropping my head onto his shoulder. I rest a hand on Meg's back, overcome with sappy holiday sentiment as I look at my beautiful little girl. "Merry Christmas, Meg. I love you." A tear wets the corner of my eye as I give her a little kiss.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Meg?"

"I wanna Pah-tar." She gives me a hopeful, charming little smile.

I can't help but laugh. My sweet little Meg. She's definitely the best thing that ever happened to me. Her mere existence is the best gift I could ever ask for. Being her mother gives me more than I ever would have thought possible. And having her to share Christmas with definitely makes it the most wonderful day of the year. On this day to celebrate miracles, to celebrate family, I know that because of my little miracle who created this family, I am truly blessed.