A few years ago my brother-in-law and sister-in-law gave us a nativity scene for Christmas. It was made in Poland (I’m Polish) and it’s very nice. I store it right next to the Bible we also got as a gift. Because anyone who knows this royal family knows we would just love nativity scenes and bibles as gifts….cough cough.
The past few years at Christmas I’ve actually unpacked the stuffed nativity (they are like stuffed dolls) because the kids have found them fun to play with, and we’ve had family over who may or may not notice we may or may not be displaying said nativity that was thoughtfully picked out.
Princess Peanut likes the donkey, the lamb, and of course the Baby Jesus. She hasn’t ever played with Joseph or Mary or the angel. Don’t ask me where the wise men are…apparently they were not present at this particular birth or the Polish nuns who sewed them got tired.
Lately we’ve been playing with the donkey, the lamb, and a puppy dog . They talk. They go on little trips to other rooms together. They pretend to eat fake food. All well and good.
Enter Baby Jesus.
Suddenly the donkey and lamb have been labeled “bad sisters go away!” and the puppy and Jesus have formed a bond. The Baby Jesus gets to walk the puppy (using one of my headbands) and Jesus tells the dog “you’re such a good puppy” and so on and so forth.
Somewhere along the lines puppy stayed in the other room and only Baby Jesus (with or without his manger, depending on her mood) has been clutched in her tiny hands. Baby Jesus had breakfast with us this morning. Baby Jesus came to the mall. Baby Jesus is the new Elmo that must be carried at all times.
Of course Baby Jesus also needs to eat, and since Mom is catching up on a million things around here what with the recent illnesses and all, a cup or two of milk might remain on the table longer than need be.
Enter Princess Peanut feeding Baby Jesus milk while Mom wasn’t paying attention.
I heard something about “here you go baby” but wasn’t really listening.
About 20 minutes later I found Baby Jesus floating face down in a bowl of milk on my kitchen table.
“Honey, let’s not feed the baby your milk, ok?”
“But Mama...she was hungry.”
Cue brother-
“That’s a BOY, not a girl!”
“No it’s not! It’s a girl!”
“No, it’s a boy!”
So now I’ve got a Baby Jesus floating face down in milk and two kids having the argument I like to reserve to really piss off some right-wing fanatics.
I fished Baby Jesus out of the milk, and at the kids’ request he was towel dried and bundled much like they are after a bath.
My youngest then put him in his manger, hooked my headband back around the neck of her puppy dog, and proceeded on a walk around the house.
“Do you feel better after your bath my little girl? I’m so glad…here puppy, let’s have some peanut butter…”
We’re so going to hell.
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