The Real Christmas Story

Okay, so, we spent Christmas this year at my sister's house, because she was great with child and not up to driving six hours to our house, and certainly not up to an airplane ride to our parents' house. She is due on New Year's Day.

She and her husband have a four year old, very verbal boy, who proclaimed as soon as the disbelief faded that the new baby shall be called Soonyouwah. We do not know why. We do not know what it is. We only know that It Shall Be Called.

So, on Christmas Eve, we're all kind of vegging out in front of the tube, watching the Saints whup up mightily upon the Giants, when during the first quarter my sister goes to the bathroom, and I hear a rather sharp "MIKE!" eminating therefrom.

Shortly thereafter, I join Mike in the kitchen, just in time to hear him tell the OB/GYN's answering service that his "water's wife broke." I did hear it, with my own ears, yea verily.

My sister comes out of the bathroom, amazingly calm (but not so amazing, since she knows at this point she's just along for the ride, in control of very little). She points out where Santa has left some gifts, and where the batteries are that should go into them, and asks me to make a couple of phone calls. She asks me if I can handle the 4 year old, then she slaps her head and says "You took a ten year old to France; keeping a four year old in his own house should be a breeze!"

Her idea of breeze and mine are different, you might guess.

That was at about 2:30 Sunday afternoon, and about 10:20 she called and said it was a boy, and they had no idea what his name was yet. I suggested Jesus, since it was Christmas Eve, and Jesus H. Moskowitz sounded like someone I'd want to get to know.

But alas, they didn't take my suggestion, and if you want to know what they named him, peek here.