It is about 4 p.m., and I am at the Summit Avenue residence - the home of my wife and my daughter. A day spent prepping the Christmas Eve dinner (meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes, asparagus sauteed in red wine and butter), making some cookies for The Man and sharing with my daughter the residual cookie dough, and watching the Simpsons movie twice (actually a very good, very sweet movie with a redemption theme).
Tonight a light supper, some wine, and we'll allow my daughter to open one gift. The girls will go upstairs, I will likely settle onto the couch and watch a couple showings of "A Christmas Story." It is funny: the older I get the more removed I am from Ralphie and the more I sympathize with the Old Man.
The girls will go to sleep, I will nod off and The Man will come through and do his work, have some cookies, drink an egg cream and be on his way.
This Christmas is special: my wife and I are trying to provide our girl with some semblance of family, of continuity, of stability, even as the world around her shifts and changes dramatically. But at least for tonight and tomorrow, the day will be hers, and I will do what I do best: suffocate any expression of sadness or remorse for my contribution to this drama and go with the flow.
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