I know this is cheating—and for many of you it won’t be new at all—but a few people have suggested that I offer the Thorps’ annual Christmas letter online, and a few others have suggested I post the “back issues.” Bless you for your interest in a letter that runs too long and includes footnotes.
Here’s a start on the archive:
Blogger’s Note: I know, I know: Facebook reruns = cheating. Sue me.
Five-year-old Trevor has been on a role. On Saturday he informed me that, because we are part of one family, we love each other but are not friends.
“Why do you think family members can’t be friends?” I ask.
“Because,” he says. “I just know.”
I press him further. “Dad, I’m serious!” he says. “We can’t be friends!”
I make a sad face and quit talking. “OK, we can be friends,” he said.
“What makes you think so now?” I asked.
“Because you made a really sad face!”
But then later I revisit the issue, after Mom has come home. “For the thousandth time,” he says, exasperated, “we can’t be friends.”
He’s remarkably clear and consistent about the rules how they are applied. Siblings cannot be friends. Parents and children cannot be friends. Spouses cease being friends as soon as they marry. However, you can be friends with your in-laws. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, godparents, godchildren and “honorary” relatives (close friends to whom you give familial titles) can be friends. And of course, grandparents and grandchildren can be friends.
Give him specific names or situations, and he displays the wisdom of Solomon. For the thousandth time … he’s serious!
On Sunday, we woke to hear Gabe’s random silliness and Trevvy’s belly laughs in the next room. Who knew that acting things out in slow-motion and fast-forward could be so much fun? Later in the day, Trevor offered to show us what they had been doing before they turned in for the night, in “slo-mo, fast-mo and medium-mo.”
“We’ll do medium-mo first,” he said, “‘cuz that’s regular speed.”
Then late this morning, Trevor asked what we would have for lunch. I told him I was thinking about eating him for lunch.
“Aaaiiggh!” he said. “I don’t want to die alive!”
“I didn’t even think that was possible, ” I said. “I thought people usually died dead.”
“Dad,” he said in a tone that suggests I’m impossibly dense, “If you died dead, you would have to die a second life.”
Blogger’s Addendum: Just now, while seated on Jodi’s lap, Trevor backside rumbled audibly. “Hey!” said Jodi, and Trevvy began to laugh. Not three seconds later, the smell hit them both in a wave. “HEY!” yelled Jodi, grimacing, and Trevor sprinted away from her, holding his nose and laughing. When Jodi attempte to leave the area, Trevor went back to where they had been seated and began to fan his hands in her direction saying, “Here comes some good-ee!”
Trevor likes gorillas. He likes to act like a gorilla. The great ape may be his favorite animal, in fact.
So the other morning, over breakfast, Trevor abruptly announces, “Y’know how the lion is the king of the jungle? I think the gorilla should be. Because all he would have to do is pick up the lion like this,” — and here he mimes picking up something with a tightly clenched fist — “and PKEHHUUWWH!” — and here he throws a hard punch with his other fist, accompanied by a sound effect somewhere between a gunshot and a bowler’s strike.
Everybody laughs. “Trevvy,” I say, “when you said, ‘pick up the lion like this,’ what exactly did you mean?”
“I meant like when an animal picks up a baby animal by the back of the neck,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Just wanted to be clear,” I said.
That’s quite a gorilla.
We got a letter from Albertville Primary (and his teacher, the mysteriously named “New Hire”) informing us that he will have be in the morning half-day group.
“Trevvy,” said Jodi, “that means you’ll get to ride to school with Brendan and Gabe and Emma!”
Trevor looked concerned and a little sad. “But Mom,” he said. “I like to get up in real morning.”
“What do you mean by real morning?” asked Jodi.
You know,” he said. “Like, when the sun’s already up!”
Last night I walked into the guest bedroom at the Venjohns to see three of our four kids getting ready for bed. Emma and Gabe were searching for toothbrushes when Trevor put his thumbs in his waistband and said, “Well, I’m taking my pants off in 10 – 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 …” The others found scrambled for the door as he accelerated the count: “5,4,3,2 …” As he said “1” the door clicked shut. Trevor said “Zero” in a high-pitch “uh-oh!” of a voice, then dropped his pants and whispered, “Ah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
Archangel Stomp 