Every year, my mum makes everyone in our immediate family pajamas to wear on Christmas Eve. Every year, Max gets two pairs. The rest of us get one apiece. Who does Granny love best, you ask? I had actually braced myself for a tiny pair of fetal pajama pants for Speck, that I would be expected to pin to my stomach, or else swallow in the hopes that they would drift down and Speck would put them on, but my mother did not go quite that far.
My dad's pajamas yielded some leftover material, and Max's second pair of pjs were constructed to match his Gramps'. They were quite a team. And no, to you observant and nitpicky people, Max's socks do not match.
Once we had opened as many presents as Max could tolerate, eaten breakfast, napped Max down, and shed our pajamas in favor of streetwear, we went over to my aunt and uncle's house for dinner and togetherness. My cousin's four and 1/2 year old son took Max under his wing for the day, and was very patient with him. We had a delicious dinner, but Max did not partake of much of it. Partially due to excitement, and partially due to the fact that we had let him try some eggnog before dinner, and he guzzled down two cupsful, he did not have much of an appetite. Oh, well. Eggnog for dinner is the kind of thing you can only get away with at Christmas, and he did make up for it later.
We have arrived at the end of Christmas pictures that come from my camera, so I will have to wait until other relatives email me their pictures to post more. In the meantime, I am sure that Max will find things to do to fill the blog with amusing anecdotes while we wait.