A coworker stepped in shit this morning. On this foggy, Christmas Eve morning he stepped in a big pile of shit. (Hopefully, dog.) He handled it well. Grace under pressure and stuff, we're kind of trained to be cool in this job. We're investigators at a psychiatric hospital. Anyway, the shoe. It's too bad we're at work, because this is a job for a water hose. He's outside now looking for a stick.
Like I said, it's Christmas Eve. I'm at work. When I was a kid today was The Day. Our family always opened presents on Christmas Eve after a fancy dinner. Now that I have my own family presents get opened on Christmas morning. Rightfully so. Santa's coming. My son is going to wake up to a wonderland of toys and wrapping paper and joy. Looking back, I feel a bit gypped that my Christmas was over before it even began. I don't know why my parents chose to celebrate that way. They also forced me to go to church at midnight. And even though I didn't believe any of what the church was selling, the gravity of spending midnight on Christmas in a church singing Silent Night holding a candle in a darkened sanctuary was always humbling and sobering. Myths and legends aside, there's a power in those churches that's hard to deny. Perhaps it's the collective strength of numerous people praying their faithful prayers to an entity far more powerful than anything they can imagine. There's magic in a belief that strong.
So, tomorrow morning my son will wake up and see what Santa Claus has left behind. It's going to be exciting and magical.