Page 115 of Mad Love
When he brings Caleb down, freshly changed, I was right. He’s got the happiest smile on his face.
“Did you hear him call me Daddy?”
“Cutest thing ever,” I say.
We sit under the tree, and I look at my two favorite people.
“You guys make me so happy. Merry Christmas,” I tell Weston.
He meets me in the middle for a kiss.
“Merry Christmas, baby,” I tell Caleb, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
He pats my face.
“Look, did you see what’s over there?” I ask, pointing to the little bike that he can sit on but also move around with his feet.
Weston picks him up and sets him on it and it takes a minute for him to realize he can make it move. When he runs into the tree and the massive thing wobbles, Weston hurriedly pulls him off and shows him another present.
“Yeah, that thing’s gotta go,” Weston teases.
“I never knew a Christmas tree was full of such danger,” I add.
When Caleb just looks at his present, Weston tears a little of the paper to show him how it’s done. Caleb grins and rips the paper and flings it into the air. When he sees the little tool set inside to go with the little workbench we got for him, he tosses the box. Weston takes the tools out of the box, laughing when Caleb tries to put his feet inside the box.
“Look, did you see the workbench?” Weston asks, pointing to the toy sitting next to the tree. He takes Caleb’s hand and grabs the hammer from the tool kit and walks over there, trying to show him everything.
Caleb points at the box behind him and does thewantsign, which makes us laugh so hard.
“I guess it’s true that you only need to give kids boxes at this age,” I say.
“Well, let me give you a present then,” Weston says, “but first, you have to find your stocking.”
I look around, seeing his stuffed stocking still hanging, but mine is gone. I lift my eyebrows. “Is that a thing? Hiding the stockings?”
He laughs. “It is now?” He says it like it’s a question.
“I love how we just keep winging it.”
We both crack up at that.
“Makes life an adventure,” he says.
“Well, next year, I will make sure Santa hides your stocking.”
“Santa’s part of the stockings?” he asks.
“I think. I mean, I never really believed, but…”
He looks affronted. “Sacrilege!”
“Hmm. I didn’t know you felt so passionately about believing.”
“Believing is everything,” he says. “I just wasn’t sure which part Santa was involved in.”
“Well, now you have me questioning everything.”
He grins and stands to pull me to my feet, and when I move around the living room, he says if I’m hot or cold or warm. I finally find my stocking sitting between books on the built-in bookshelves.