G'morning son shine

Dear Silas,

It's going to be a good day.

Unless you knock over the tree that your sister worked so very hard to decorate this past Sunday.

Yes. I know it's just barely December. But after her Academy Award worthy performance of the Nutcracker -- she danced with dramatic flair (and what seemed to be four-part harmony) -- the point of which was making yours truly buy the earliest cut tree EVER in the history of this household. ... What could I do?

It was either get the tree or watch the "Barbie Nutcracker" DVD for the zillionth time. And saying 'No' to decorating it after the Royal WE had hauled the dang thing upstairs and cemented it into its stand would have had the same effect as trying to stop train barreling down an an icy track.

No one wants that.

But I digress.

Back to you, and the thing you've started doing ... hurtling yourself into the tree from your lowly position on that little pushcar you so love.

Please, just don't do it. Ok?

Because if you continue to charge headfirst at the evergreen, we shall have to wrap you in a duct tape leash, measured precisely to stop your forward catapult one measly little foot away from the stately fir. (Picture the tree holding a midget at arm's length and you will get the drift of what I'm trying to get at here).

Of course I realize you may need a sweet incentive, so here's the deal: If you stay away from the lights and the baubles, I will make waffles.

You like waffles.

Fluffy, hot waffles bathed in maple syrup are SO much better than some dumb old tree that's sticky with pine sap, anyway!



Wishing you love and soft landings,

Mama