Tristan, my 7 month old son, is now getting to the stage where he can almost crawl. He makes up for his lack of conventional mobility by flinging himself in the vague direction of his intended target, which can be funny at times, and terrifying at others, depending on where he is and how high that is from the ground. This new development has combined almost seamlessly with the burning desire the little man has to copy the grown ups. Lately, this resulted in him throwing himself forward to get from his positions between his mother and I on the couch to next to me, whereby he began to type by banging his open hands on the keyboard. Trying to remove the little so and so only resulted renewed and even more determined efforts to get at the laptop.
With Christmas looming on the horizon, I find myself looking forward to it more than recent years – not that I don’t like Christmas – because I am now responsible for creating a Christmas experience for someone else, who has no preconceptions of what Christmas should be. Admittedly, at 8 months, he won’t remember this one, but it will be good practice nonetheless.
For me, the main attraction of Christmas is in the imagery. I was always drawn the Dickensian scenes of old Victorian houses covered in snow, and the reds, golds and greens of traditional Christmas decor. I can’t actually remember when my focus switched from presents to trimmings, but it’s been that way for a long time and, when it comes time to get the Christmas tree out, I tend to go a bit overboard.
I’m tired now, and am going to go to bed. I wrote this random stream of off-the-cuff-fluff because I’m trying to keep in the habit of writing everyday and, today, it seemed that no matter how long I stared at any of my currently ongoing writing projects, I couldn’t switch my brain into gear. So I opened up my blog and typed, and what you see is what I wrote.
Good night.
