We
were preparing to go to my mother’s house for Christmas Eve when my youngest
protested about having to wear jeans instead of sweatpants.
“It’s
a party,” I explained. “You have to dress up a little.”
A
superb arguer, just like his father, Clark provided his usual well-reasoned
response, “Well, I didn’t have to dress up for Andrew’s birthday party.”
I
was highlighting the difference between laser tag and Christmas Eve when my
oldest chimed in.
“That
was Andrew’s birthday,” he said. “This is Jesus’s.”
Silenced,
at least for the moment, Clark put on his jeans.
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