The holidays are ripping along. When you're that perfect age for enjoying the holidays, seven or nine, I guess, the month of December drags along like ice-cold molasses. The final fifteen days of school feel interminable, with three o'clock only coming after hours of torture. (As an adult, I have learned, because Reid's grandparents are teachers, that the instructors feel the same way.) Thanksgiving is massive feast, but it is always oddly lacking one major holiday element: gifts. So it becomes a filling but loot-free preview of the major holiday mama, Christmas. And certainly, once the big day comes, and the gifts are opened, the wrapping paper disposed of (after several days, mind you), and at least one major toy irreparably damaged by urgent use, the holiday season suddenly draws to a painful close.

Looking back over a nine-year old shoulder on the precipice of January 3rd or 5th or whenever we returned to school, I remember lamenting how little time I really had off over the holidays. That two and a half weeks had rocketed by, and here I was, waiting for the bus again.

Well, now the tables are turned. The molasses pace of December from my childhood has been utterly tossed from memory, as I look at a desk calendar to be shocked -- shocked!-- that it is midway through December. That I've bought a mere fraction of the gifts I need to buy and I've got less than ten days! TEN DAYS! The last time I really recall noting the date was November 29th or something, and here it is Christmastime in Washington. Stunned, I am.

Reid, meanwhile, lives his life with vigor but no realization of the chaos, wonder and free stuff he will be taking advantage of soon. Grandparents are lining up to hold, reward and (hopefully) change the diaper of the family's little prince. K and I are bucking for some time off this holiday season. Maybe a night on the town, baby-free. Maybe just a night when we sleep for more than four hours at a clip. Please.