Tom Stafford

Stafford: Time slips by fast as another holiday rolls in

Since it’s Christmas Eve, I’ll make this short.

We’ll probably see one another later on in the grocery anyway. Look for me in frozen foods and if I don’t move, give me a little shove.

Yeah, it’s the usual at our house.

The Boy Child is in town. He moved to Minneapolis in the summer. He’d been in D.C. doing a job I never really understood.

After he moved, they downsized and he’s now working on a job pretty much like the one I didn’t understand in Washington. I’ll try to bone up on that while he’s home and get back with you after the New Year to explain it, just like I failed to do last year.

No, he won’t be here long, a few days, certainly not as long as his mother would like. I know that puts her in a long line of mothers. But that doesn’t make her want him to stick around any less.

Well, he’s 36 and I’m 63 now. It’s one of our dyslexic birthdays. When he was 14 and I was 41, we saw Hootie and the Blowfish in the old Wittenberg Gym. Twenty-two years ago, it’s hard to believe.

The Girl Child? She’s still down in Springboro with those two grandsons of ours. She’s a great mother and as sweet as she was as a child.

Yeah, I know we’re lucky having the grand kids 40 minutes away. My brother’s two boys decided to spread the floor by living on either coast — and then have children.

Still, he gets to see the little ones. He’s the only baby sitter I know who flies to his work and charges by the hour.

But our daughter’s, fine, fine.

She got a promotion not too long ago and seems pretty happy about it.

In a way, she wouldn’t mind going back to the days of Ozzie and Harriett and Ward and June Cleaver. It makes her feel bad to leave the 6-month-old at daycare and not see enough of him during the week.

And, of course, the weekends are always a blitz.

She’s thinking about time with the little guy a little more these days because her previous little guy just turned 5. His feet fall below my hips now when I carry him in asleep from the car.

And the little one’s teething and drooling, chewing on his nearest limb. First he goes to the finger sandwich, then the hand sandwich before curling up his fist to enjoy the knuckle sandwich. I call him Yidda Guy.

My wife?

She tells me her husband’s getting older but she doesn’t know the half of it because her eyes aren’t what they used to be.

That’s a joke I’d like you not to repeat. I get enough of those over-the-glasses looks as it is and I only deserve a few of them.

She’s good, though.

Finally decided spending time with grandchildren is more important than work. She’s always doing projects with the kids. Thinks she’s on the same wave length as the older one and I’d say so, too.

They’ve kind of left me in the dust.

Me?

Still doing a little writing. The Sunday column and freelance work now and then.

Did a little teaching this fall and enjoyed it.

Still playing some music and a little hockey.

Getting hit with the puck usually doesn’t bother me but when the ice sneaks up on me, it’s another matter. With age comes a heftier respect for gravity.

To tell the truth, I don’t feel much older, though I have noticed there seem to be a lot more young people around than there used to be.

Well, I suppose I better be getting along. I’m ready for presents, euchre and singing a little fa-ra-ra-ra-ra with Ralphie.

Merry, Merry to you all, however you do what you do.

Hard to believe, isn’t it.

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