We went casual this year for our trip to visit Santa at the mall, deciding not to put on their fancy Christmas outfits. They didn’t get haircuts before hand, so they’re sporting some late-fall shag atop their heads. And the picture isn’t all that great, with the red of their shirts clashing with Santa’s outfit and LittleBrother looking at the ceiling and BigBrother sporting a shade of skin that can only be described as Oompa Loompa like. LittleBrother is also wearing Valentine’s Day socks from Gymboree, 2011. I think that makes me the most happy.
But one day, probably this time next year, I’ll look back at this photo and smile, right as my breath catches in my throat. I’ll whisper to myself, “Look at how they’ve grown.” And I’ll pull up blog posts from 2008 and 2009 and 2010 (remains my favorite thus far) and 2011 and 2012 and this post.
I’ll marvel at how fast time flies, how quickly the years pass and the cheeks disappear and little babies turn into little boys and turn into bigger boys. I’ll smile at the memories from each year, with the young Santa and the fire truck Christmas sweaters and the chipmunk cheeks. In the hustle and bustle of whatever will be next year, I’ll sit like I am this year, awash in the memory of tradition, however weird and creepy it may be.
This year, Santa told the boys he wants an egg sandwich and bacon instead of milk and cookies. We told the boys later that Santa was joking. Santa really wants a glass of wine and some cheese. (We didn’t tell them that.) (Yet.)