Shooting stars.

(I don't have to remind you at this point that I don't actually call him 'Batman' to his face, do I?)

Batman has outfitted his floor to ceiling windows with those incredible lights that drop color down the line in stages, like the lights on the big tree at Kitsilano. All of the windows. I'm so hypnotized by Christmas lights, it almost isn't fair that they're going to conduct their Mine is bigger argument in this way but I have become used to the unbearable tension between Caleb and Batman.

What I have not become used to, however, is the sudden realization that Batman is wearing Tuscan Soul. I know that scent very well, and I'm proud of myself for my ability to pick out a man's signature fragrance from three yards away and have yet to be corrected when I hazard a guess to the wearer. Bergamot is a giveaway in this case, and it's worth noting that Caleb sometimes wears it too.

What do you think, Princess? He's pleased with himself, I can tell. He's smiling out of one side of his mouth, trying to suppress the grin. I make note of the use of my nickname and shake my head vaguely.

It's nice. Looks very pretty.

It really shines when the sun is rising. Maybe you should stay and see that.

I turn around. What is that? What are you doing?

Capitalizing on Satan's tricks of the trade, Bridget. Isn't this how it works? How does he have unlimited access to you no matter what and I can count on one hand the number of times-

Don't do this. Why can't I just enjoy the lights? My whole face is sad. What bullshit. I can't believe he's going to pull this six days before Christmas.

You didn't come here for the lights, Bridget.

No, I didn't. He starts to smile again but I keep talking. I came over to bring your present. I wasn't sure if you were going home for Christmas.

Too far for a few days. I have meetings.

Your family will be disappointed.

I haven't gone home for Christmas for years, Bridget. Home is where your heart is and I'm never there on the holiday.

Where is your heart?

I don't know exactly. His eyes turn darker and he walks to the kitchen to pour himself a scotch. I lost it decades ago. I guess I don't want to admit that I thought I was immune to something and it turns out I'm not.

So what do you do now?

Spend Christmas in a new place, I guess. I'm going to check out Woodward's windows and order a list of movies to watch and get some takeaway. You know. Just try and not work for a few days. Get some rest. I think I'm coming down with a bit of a cold.

He's watching me to see what I do next. I'm known for letting all the words come out before my brain is engaged. And I'm known the world over for not wanting people to be alone at Christmas, above all else. That's how we got Duncan and even Jacob, for fucks sakes.

Yeah, rest will be good for that. There's a bad cold going around. Take care of yourself. I am putting on my coat. My brain is in gear, I need to leave before I am drowning in Salvatore's dreams.

Bridget- Batman grabs my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug. Merry Christmas.

I throw my arms around his shoulders and put my head down against his shirt. I inhale deeply while I have the chance. Merry Christmas, Batman. Take care of yourself and call if you need anything.

What would I need, Bridget? I step back and he holds the door. We're just staring at each other. The lines we don't cross hold nicely most of the time. Like tonight. Actually, you know what I need? The name of something I can take that will let me sleep. I can't breathe when I lie down. What should I take?

Nyquil. Get some Nyquil. The green liquid. It's the best.

You've tried it?

Yes, It's the only thing I buy for us.

They're really lucky to have you. We're, all of us, you know? Really lucky. You're a gift. You're like the best Christmas present of all.

I walk to the elevator and turn and when the doors begin to close I say goodbye. I blow a kiss. I feel thankless and flighty after everything he has done for me. For all of us. I resolve to call tomorrow and see if he feels better. Or maybe I'll just bring him some breakfast and coffee before the sun rises, so I can see the way the silver lights look bathed in the orangy-pinks and purples of the early dawn. And check on him. People shouldn't be alone. Not this time of year. Hard to believe Christmas is less than a week away.

Waiting for the angels of Avalon.

Oh war is the common cry,
Pick up you swords and fly.
The sky is filled with good and bad
that mortals never know.
Oh, well, the night is long
the beads of time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise,
waiting for the eastern glow.

The pain of war cannot exceed
the woe of aftermath,
The drums will shake the castle wall,
the ring wraiths ride in black, Ride on.
Sing as you raise your bow,
shoot straighter than before.
No comfort has the fire at night
that lights the face so cold.

We have a tree! It's up even. It's in the corner of the living room and it's a Grand fir, which was far nicer a tree than I expected we would get, but when I saw the sad soft Douglases and remembered trying to keep my heavy heirloom porcelain and glass ornaments from bending to touch the floor I set about picking something much sturdier and since it's so fucking close to Christmas, the tree man gave it to me for a song.

He remembered us from last year too. Huh.

But I have no energy anymore. I supervised some wrapping tonight, watching Henry struggle with neat folds and the terrible little tape dispenser, and I offered to cook a big dinner but Ben took one look at me and dialed the Chinese restaurant. I am asleep on my feet, approaching that weird stasis where I have let go of worrying about whether or not Christmas will be a success and instead reassured myself that working doggedly at it for the past six weeks straight means I really did try my best and it's okay to relax and begin to enjoy the holiday now. Hard to believe it's still a week away, maybe we're doing better than I thought we were.

I want to sleep more than I am but it still feels as if I'm breaking the surface when I wake up, gasping for air. I'm sure I hold my breath in my sleep and that frightens me but I don't know what to do about it and once my eyes open they remain open for the day. I'll take the dog up the street, walking slowly in the quiet early morning and marvelling at how warm it is and then we come back and I start the coffee and draw a picture or read the newspaper. Then the exhaustion creeps back in around the edges of me and it gains more purchase over the course of the day until it is resting on my head and shoulders, a weight pushing my heels into the ground, compressing my spine, dulling my eyes against the light.

Maybe that will change this week. I have to be careful not to let the night owls keep me up so late, I have to remember it's just fine to sit down and read a book or watch a movie without it being only after it's too late to do anything fun and everything not-fun is done, like chores.

I have to remember to have some coffee in the middle of the day again. That really works, only the boys don't want me to have any bad habits at all. Good luck with that one, I say.

Oh and in other news, Caleb put lights on the boat. Well, he had them put on. Seventeen sets in all. It's a floating carnival. He pronounced it tacky. I said it was perfect.

Through glass.

Standing on the grass sipping a hot coffee, I am smiling at the lights. Many of the boats have Christmas lights up. I am gleeful about it. Everything looks so beautiful. The lights are stunning, doubled in the reflection of the water, punctuating the night with LED sparkles. Mentally I will my whole body to turn to stone so I can stay here, and be a slight, regal version of an Easter Island statue, gazing out over the beloved blue-green sea toward the future or the past or some semblance of life in between.

Caleb's boat has no lights on it. I'm not sure if I should request it or not.

***

The clerk at Tiffany & Co. informs us that, due to a busy afternoon, there is a waiting list to see a salesperson. If we'd like to add our name, she can see that we are taken care of. Ben defers, and invites me to look around first. I head off to do the diamond loop, beginning with the signature pieces and the bridal counters and ending with the leather goods and the Elsa Peretti collections.

He says all I have to do is point to something and he'll have it wrapped.

I walk straight out the door and turn right. In the window with the yellow diamonds they have a tiny snowy pink and blue carousel that spins around and around and around. I want that. I would never stop watching it.

But it isn't for sale.

***

I'm trying to emulate the girl on the other side of the ramen shop. She's using her spoon and her chopsticks in conjunction to eat the noodles. I'm good with chopsticks but every time I pick up the spoon with my left hand my right hand fails to work properly. I put the spoon down and I'm fine. It's so messy but so delicious. Ben is finished so I need to worry less about soup winding up on my dress and more about eating my spicy akaoni miso so we can go home. I'm tempted to ask for some gyoza to take away, just to eat in the truck on the way home. They are so delicious. It's like I haven't eaten in days. I can't remember if I have or not but for tonight the soup will suffice.

***

It's beginning to rain and we have returned to the house empty-handed, having set out seven hours ago with firm plans to go to the Christmas tree lot and bring home a tree. We have driven past ten different tree lots but somehow we needed to just lose a day, give it away, not become slaves to the hours, minutes and schedules of others.

PJ and Ruth present matching facial expressions, rife with disappointment but they are not bound by the same constraints of desperate timekeeping. We vow to rise early tomorrow and head straight to the lot. Ben will again tell me to pick out whatever I like best. Easily done, since these are not designer trees, unless you walk to the center of the lot where the Noble firs are. I will stick to the edges, where the misfit spiny Fraser and Douglas firs rest against wooden saw horses.

I want one that is perfectly imperfect, a tree for a home that is also perfectly imperfect.

I will give the man a handful of twenties and he will make a fresh cut and offer to help Ben get it safely into the truck bed. We will make small talk about Halifax, and compare readiness for what has become a dizzying carousel of holiday madness. We will promise to come back next year.

Next year seems like a million miles away but I know I will wake up in a week and it will be here already and Christmas trees will be the last thing on my mind as I fight to honor the resolutions I've been working on so diligently.

Ultimately I will fail, but I always try my hardest. And that's what counts, isn't it?

Apple. Tree. Far. Blah blah blah.

I knew for sure last night when I asked Ruth to return her scissors, markers and tape to the basket on her desk. This morning when I went into her room to put her folded laundry on her bed, the scissors, markers and tape were sitting on the desk right in front of the basket.

Who does that? Goes all the way to a different floor only to be too indifferent to put the supplies back where they belong, to the point of leaving them directly in front of where they belong?

Lochlan does, that's who.

Drives me nuts.

Now times two.

Let's just cover shock, awe and Tahoe all in one go. I don't have much time.

Thank you for your concerned emails, I realize posting an entry Sunday and then nothing since would throw the Internet into a tizzy, I just didn't realize how large. So in order to put your minds at ease, I didn't do any of the following, in case you heard otherwise:

1. Die.
2. Eat so much rice from the new rice cooker that I explode like a wren at a spring church wedding.
3. Run off with Robert Redford to live out my dream of lap dancing on Sundance while he pulls his gloves off one finger at a time. With his teeth.
4. Join the circus.
5. Get killed in a sex game where Caleb cheats anyway and then pretends not to hear my safe word (which almost happened in what..85? 95? 05?, oh, just pick a year and we'll go with that.)
6. See the new Rock of Ages trailer and turn Amish, eschewing all media forever and ever amen because it looks that bad.

So all of those rumors are false, save for the ones I hope for. (Mostly #3 or #4).

Nope, in this case I was buried in presents, parties and pageants and lost track of the week, mostly because I've found lots of alcohol, wrapping paper and carols but very little hot food, sleep or cuddles.

That last one, well, that's a doozy. I am off to empty the contents of our traveling bags into the washing machine, cook something wonderful, and then turn and lock myself into Ben's arms for the night so I can dream of pine trees covered with snow and men in red coats with white beards. Or maybe that was men in white coats with red beards. Or maybe it's black coats and brown beards.

Yes, that sounds just about right. Goodnight, before my face hits the keyboard (again).

B-Lister.

I found Santa sitting in a plush throne at a virtually empty shopping mall. It was late, past the dinner hour and the crowds have all but vanished.

He was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, an airport paperback concealed inside a larger, hollow book that purported to be the list of all of the children in the world who had been naughty or nice. The Book of Lists. I always wonder which one my name is on, even though I'm pretty sure it's at the top of the Naughty list, especially if the list is in alphabetical order. B is second to first. And I bet all the As are total Santa ass-kissers, leaving me to head up the line that stands slack-jawed and casual, weaving side to side, hair messed up, clothes and fingertips smoking black.

I stood and watched his irises scan the words. Back and forth, back and forth. I know it's an engrossing book, I've read it myself and so I was quiet. I didn't want to interrupt him but at the same time I had precious minutes to get this done under the guise of picking out a present without witnesses so as to save at least a few surprises for Christmas Day.

I took another step forward and he checked himself, smiling and tucking the book under his chair before pretending to be surprised, thrilled to see me.

Bridget! How are you?

I'm doing okay, Santa. Just finishing some shopping.

Come over and sit with me, then.

I smiled and walked behind the velvet rope. I put my coat and my bags on a hook and stepped up to the chair. Santa held his arms out and true to form I went into them. I sat on his knee and he laughed and asked me what I wanted this year.

Not like it matters, the naughty kids don't get presents. How do you think Santa knew my name? Yeah, the top of that stupid list.

I'd like my ghosts to come back from the dead. Sometimes I want to talk to them. Sometimes I wish they were still here.

Bridget. I'm the spirit of Christmas, not a maker of miracles. For that you're going to have to go straight to the Big Man.

Does he have a chair at the mall? I'll be first in line.

That elicited a huge belly laugh. No, my dear, I'm afraid you need to go to church to talk to him.

See, there's another fallacy right there, poking holes in Santa's red-and-white facade. You don't have to talk to God at church, he's supposed to be everywhere at once. Unless your name starts with a B and can be found at the top of that goddamned list.

So is there anything you can do? Anything at all?

Honey, most people want an iPhone, or a new car, or a raise. Do you have anything tangible that I could leave under your tree to retain enough credibility in your eyes to bring you back to see me next year? I daresay I've never seen anyone work so hard at wanting to have Christmas spirit, and I'd do anything to be able to help you out.

My eyes catch the glowing red sign of the liquor store across the promenade. I can't believe I'm going to let Santa Claus off the hook but I do because I tend to exit gracefully after I bring people to their knees with my pleas for clarity.

Sure, bring me a bottle of Crown Royal Black, and we'll call it even.

I can do that, Bridget. You've got fourteen days to get your name on that other list and you'll see your present under the tree on Christmas morning. Just do me a favour and don't drink it with that other legendary character we all seem to half-believe in, because God is a lot of things but tolerant with those who defy his good graces by cavorting with the Devil isn't one of them.

I won't, Santa. I promise. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Bridget. Now take this candy cane and smile. The elf is going to take our picture. You can purchase it at the counter for fifteen bucks on your way out.

Waiting for Morpheus.

In this life, you're the one place I call home
In this life, you're the feeling I belong
In this life, you're the flower and the thorn
You're everything that's fair in love and war

I am consuming song lyrics in overdrive, every arrangement better than the next. I'm scrambling to hit the repeat button so I can hear them again and memorize them by heart as I lay in the feather bed under the struggling sunrise. Soon enough the sun will disappear into the clouds and it will be time to rise and glint with a dull reflection, instead of shine. No one shines when it's cloudy, we just readjust our plans and take a moment to grab an umbrella, just in case.

But I am loathe to get up. The words, the melodies are pulling me back down into the soft folds of cool cotton, stitches neat and perfect in a row, a stark contrast to the those who sleep on into the morning, the one on my right with a smooth peaceful expression and tousled black hair, sticking up straight at the crown, sheets thrown off his shoulders. His skin is so cool sometimes I still count his heartbeats before I'll believe he's mine. He dreams of all the songs he's going to write when he's finished disengaging from the corporate business and returns to working for himself. He dreams of life without lawyers, royalties, art direction and sycophancy but there are no perfect days like that.

On my left the other one sleeps fitfully, tense. Red curls fighting order, his skin flushed and feverish, stacking his mastered skills in his dreams, watching for traps and ensuring a smile on every face. I'm one hundred percent sure every dream he has involves a perfect full performance and he'll replay the same dreams every night until he gets it right. Only you can't get it right, and there are no perfect days, just great days and not-so-great days, like those with rain or tough, heartless crowds or conflict or equipment failure at a popular attraction.

I don't sleep enough to dream anymore, I just drop off while listening to a song and wake up with words that seem to be arranged in a particularly extraordinary way, or when the music ends. Nothing startles me more than dead silence anymore.

And nothing soothes like a song.

Imitation of Life.

This lightning storm
This tidal wave
This avalanche, I'm not afraid.
C'mon, c'mon no one can see me cry.

We're back on the stone patio in the freezing cold morning. I can see my breath. Today I wish I didn't have to see him. The further we get from Wednesday the more angry and guilty I feel. Shameful. Filthy and corrupted.

You're an adult. You make your own decisions.

Since when, Lochlan? I'm not even allowed to dress myself.

Case in point, another cold day, another hood pulled up and tied in a bow under my chin. Something you do when someone is four and hasn't learned their knots yet. I know my knots and I know some they don't even know. I can tie a bow but I choose to leave everything unraveled and pooled across my shoulders instead. If we're going to continue to repeat history in every different dynamic and incarnation we have at our disposal than I will revert and just stay young and leave it all in his lap. Only he keeps pushing it off and I can't get through to that hard head of his.

What do you want me to say?

What did Ben say?

He said to leave it be. We're not going to talk about it.

Well then why don't we just-

Because you are not Ben. I thought you were different now! I thought you were going to be there. When I went into the water-

Your life wasn't at stake this time, Bridget. Fuck. Do you know how crazy this makes me? I don't even want to think about it. When it comes to that I just shut down. I don't know what to say.

Say you're sorry.

You first.

We are facing each other, his face is set in stone. Expressionless except for that disapproving perfection. That expression that only I get and I hate it.

For what?

For doing what you do best, Bridget. Hellbent on ruining one more good thing to come into your life in a long time.

You say sorry, Lochlan!

I wasn't even there, Bridget!

Exactly! Maybe if you stuck around I wouldn't be like this.

So you're saying if I had asked you to leave, you would have come with me?

Yes.

He walks three paces the other way and then abruptly puts his arms up around his head and turns around, flinging them back down.

WHAT THE FUCK, BRIDGET. I can't fix what happened. And I don't think you care anymore, really. You run to the first person who puts their arms out for you. If you want to pin that on me you're going to have to look in a fucking mirror, baby, because I DIDN'T DO THIS TO YOU!

Stop it. Ben steps through the door and we both defuse instantly. You fucking ever yell like that at her again and I'll throw you off the fucking cliff, Loch.

Oh well. As long as we're doing death threats, happy Friday. It's like I'm not even there.

Oh, now that you've had your fun you're going to grow some balls, brother?

She's an adult.

No she isn't! He stopped suddenly, staring at me. Why can't you both stay away from him? Jesus Christ, just stay away from him. He backed away from me, shaking his head. He's in tears and he wants one thing in his life and he'll never have it. Ever.

I didn't answer him. I watch him go indoors. SLAM! I'm surprised all the glass hasn't shattered to the bottom of the door by now. After a fashion, Ben's voice from behind me. He is still staring up at the house while I have turned to watch the waves.

He needs help, Bridget.

He needs me. Admitting that makes me feel small and hopeless and guilty as sin. And I know Ben's about to measure out a little more length so I can roam just a little further away from him.

So go to him. I turned around. His face wasn't kind or generous. It was a test to see how close to the edges I would venture.

I passed with flying colors.

He'll come back to us when he's ready, Benny. He'll be fine.

I turned away again to provide Benjamin with the dignity of not having his relief recognized. I'm not a monster, it serves no purpose to capitalize on the doubts he won't admit to out loud.

Ricochet (Do anything, Bridget, but just don't you go looking for Cole.)

Little supernovas in my head
Little soft pulses in my dead
Little souvenirs and secrets shared
Little off guard and unprepared

I was never good enough to find
I was never bad enough to mind
In the middle I will do my best
Take me in your arms and leave the rest

(I'm trying to keep my cool but Jacob is standing behind me screaming and I can't concentrate. I can't think. I can't hear anything. I can't block his voice out no matter what I do so I do the things I'm not supposed to do, simply to cope. His efforts are backfiring all over the place. I duck every time one lights off. It's a reflex. I can't help myself.)

I can't help myself when it comes to a lot of things.

The envelope was brought to the door, hand-delivered by Satan himself. Copper-colored. Whereas pewter grey is for me, the copper envelopes signify Benjamin. The invitation was for all of us, however. A little impromptu, belated celebration down at the boathouse. Some king crab, oysters and pate, a little good whiskey for those who know what they like most and a little time together.

When we arrived, Caleb had low jazz playing on the stereo and candles lit everywhere, even outside on the deck. There was a birthday cake on the counter. We were touched.

And old habits die hard, unlike people, who die much too easily for my comfort. Caleb has always favored Ben. Sometimes I don't understand that, and sometimes I understand it perfectly.

Once it grew late, some of the boys drifted up the hill to the house and I took the kids back up to oversee their bedtimes, tucking them in tightly, lights out because the next day is a school day and enough is enough. They had snacked on hot chocolate and gingerbread man cookies and run around long past their bedtimes. They were worn out. I returned to the boathouse once they were settled. Then another few left.

That left four of us. The three aspects of my fate, and me.

And a big bottle of whiskey with my name written all over it in blood, not easily wiped away like my prematurely-made resolutions to do the right thing instead of the wrong thing, every last time.

Lochlan made a heroically foolish attempt to drink as much as possible, so that I wouldn't. His disadvantage became obvious early on, when he could no longer detect his own cleverness, and he promised he wouldn't but then he left me there with two ghosts and two others, but only three people in the room. A riddle. I would play the solution, the consummate lightweight, three sheets into the wind, sailing freely into the dark. I know where I'm going. I just don't know where he went.

We've been through this before. Old habits. He disappears and I pay for that.

I can rock back and come to rest against Ben, who is leaning against the corner of the railing, looking out over the water. Or with the whole world spinning I can pitch forward gently and I will come to rest against Caleb, who is standing in front of me looking as much like Cole as my little marinated brain will allow. I lean forward slightly and his jawline rests against my forehead. A kiss glances off my hair and his face comes down in front of me. Blue eyes I haven't seen for almost six years startle me. I am falling, dropping out of the wind with a resounding thud as I hit bottom. I don't feel a thing.

Just stay for a little while, please, Cole?

Cole smiles at me as his eyes turn black.

I turn away, frightened now. I'm turned back firmly. This is not my choice to make tonight, it's been made for me and that's okay because I want it anyway. I want it really, really badly. I let go of Cole once, under extreme duress. I didn't want him to disappear forever. I don't know if I can make that choice again.

The fallout of my next move is weighed and measured carefully and deemed an acceptable risk. The collateral damage rests here. On me. And I can take it. I can take pretty much anything you throw at me. I say that out loud and that's when Jacob begins to scream.

He is yelling my name, over and over. It's so loud I try and pour more whiskey in to drown him out and it works for a little while. I pull Caleb's hands up over my ears just like how Jacob used to cover my ears with his hands. Hear no evil, completing the proverb.

Caleb uses that leverage to rocket me off the ground and into the center of the earth, holding me there until Ben takes a hold of my arms and pulls me back to the surface. I try to tell him I'm sorry but he holds his fingers up to my lips. The only competition in Ben's mind has red hair and a way with flames. If anything Ben has the upper hand again because this is a different fire. It doesn't burn, it warms. It doesn't scar, it smooths the past and the present together into one colossal tangle of melted memories, softened and mixed.

Cole never put his hands over my ears, he they always cover my eyes. See no evil, Caleb whispers in a laugh.

Ben returns to the comfortable chair in the corner, a glass of nothing more than ginger ale on the table beside him and he smokes a cigar while he watches Caleb light me on fire.

When all of the whiskey has burned off and the flames go out, the sun rises over the mountains, beaming rays of new warmth in through the skylights. I trace the lines in Ben's face until they teach him a path to consciousness. Caleb is nowhere to be found. Breakfast is set at the table and a note on the counter tells us to take our time.

We already did.

We took ours and then we stole the rest from the dead, who have no means to spend it anymore. I am ashamed and burning, loathe to return to the house and face anyone. Hell, I can't even turn around. It's one thing to look at Ben when his eyes are closed but if he's looking back at me I can't do it.

Little variations on my page
Little doors open on my cage
Little time has come and gone so far
Little by little who you are

I can see the patterns on your face
I can see the miracles I trace
Symmetry in shadows I can't hide
I just wanna be right by your side

He pulls my face up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

When did he stop screaming, Bee?

When I was back in your arms.

He nods, slower than slow-motion and pulls me into his arms once more. It was a mistake, that's all. A habit we broke that sometimes drifts back and we'll fight it again, starting today. A moment of weakness, giving in, hearing the screams I threw away when he should have only heard me trying to catch my breath.

Speak no evil, Bridget, Ben warns me. Save face. Leave it alone.

It's too late for that. Fuck you too.

I will give you everything to
Say you want to stay you want me too
Say you'll never die, you'll always haunt me
I want to know I belong to you
Say you'll haunt me
Together, we'll be together, together forever
I belong to you

Easy to see.

Today I got lost in the Bay store in Coquitlam. Then I got lost in the mall, proper. Then Zellers because I had to get a Hero Factory dude for Henry and do you think they could put toys at the front of the store to..lure people in? Nope. At the back. And the aisles are the tallest I've ever seen. It was horrible. It was dark. It sucked. I can't wait for Target to move in.

Notice both stores I was lost in are owned by Hudson's Bay Company? That should tell you all you need to know. Coquitlam Center is not Holt Renfrew. But you can't buy Hero Factory at Holt because Hero Factory is made by Lego, not Louis Vuitton. And you can't take the small town out of the girl, no matter how hard you try. When I walk through Holt someone will inevitably roll my tongue up on a stick from the floor and hand it back to me. Designer...stuff. Everywhere. But I don't buy anything. Sometimes the boys do. I do all my shopping at the regular shopping centers, thanks. Because you can find things you need. Like toys for my not-so-little-anymore boy.

But it was on the way home that I discovered something amazing.

My car seats have a height adjustment. (One that is not called The Yellow Pages).

Up until now the routine was simple. If the boys had to drive my car for any reason they will ratchet the seat back as far as it will go, and when I drive I ratchet it all the way to the front. I didn't know it also goes up or down. (I knew about the reclining-back part. No one needs that here.)

Huzzah. Thank you, Santa. That is the best present ever. I knew I could freaking parallel park. Oh yes I did. It's so much easier when you can see out of the goddamned car, though.