Deck The Son With Boughs of Gooey
I tried to drape tinsel across his brow and hang mistletoe from his ears but he vetoed that, bolting to his room and barring the door. I considered getting a picture of the seasonal boy this morning but as I left at 0'dark-hundred, he was still asleep with a blanket wrapped all around his head. Being a compassionate and thoughtful mother, I decided, after much deliberation, not to waken him to the twin assault of my fingers prying his eye open to the flash of the camera.
He can now never say that I don't love him or put his needs first.
So, what to do to top this? The Rudolph schnozz with the green nose snot has been so over done; the human equivalent of fruitcake. I could use flaky skin as snow with a few snowman shaped boils (courtesy of the multitude of staph patients I get to see) clustered tastefully across my arms. My hands are certainly cold enough to provide the illusion of being made of ice, to further enhance the theme.
Pestilence as body art, for those who've tired of tattoos and piercings.
Labels: The Small-Handed Ones