Christmas weekend was filled with a jumble of emotions. Some really joyful highs intermingled with a handful of bitter lows. I have a very emotional blogpost composed in my head, but I'm far too lazy to push my fingers across the keyboard tonight, so instead I'll leave you with the show you have all - er, who am I kidding? - both, been waiting for.
The backstory: my father-in-law always read the Christmas story from Luke to the kids on Christmas morning before presents, so in order to offset the gaping hole of his absence this year, we decided to put on a play, telling the story ourselves. Of course, we had the usual dramatic problems you would expect with any James Cameron movie or Broadway production: 42% of our cast members were too young to read, my diva daughter refused to be a wise man and instead insisted on being Mary because it was a way more glamorous role, and my mother-in-law's family heirloom was sacrificed as an offering to the Baby Jesus in the chaos of it all.
But it certainly was fun, we learned many lessons for our future productions, and we know Grandad would have been proud.
Without further adieu...
The Christmas story, a la Thomas-style: