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| Stringam Family - not a speedo in the bunch! |
In the Tolley household, Christmas . . . the actual ‘business portion’ which includes frantic tearing of colourful papers and scrabbling through mounds of discarded wrapping, was an event on hold until the father of the household finally succumbed to the pleadings of his numerous children and crawled out of bed. Once he hit the front room, it was every man for himself. Or every woman . . . or child . . . you get the picture.
To facilitate the introduction of said father to the ‘action room’, the children, over the years, graduated from begging, to more . . . proactive methods. As their size, and strength, increased, they finally achieved the impossible. Plucking their sire from his warm downy and carrying him, bodily, to his place of honour.
In an attempt to thwart their . . . growing . . . expertise, their father began to incorporate thought into the proceedings.
He resorted to sneakiness.
With various degrees of success.
Christmas, 2001, began like many others. Tiny noises in the bowels of the house which told us that the natives were stirring and that time for any needed preparation was short. Grant leaped from the bed and, under cover of darkness, began to shed his pyjamas. Not unusual. However, considering that our children would soon be pounding up the stairs . . . well . . . unusual. Sleepily, I noted the sound of fabric sliding over flesh. He was pulling something else on. Then, he crawled back into the bed and snuggled close.
Suspicious, I asked him what he was wearing and he chuckled. “Not much,” he said.
Then the pounding started. “Mom, Dad! Time to open presents!”
“Okay,” he called, cheerfully. Another sign that all was not as it should be. The door swung open.
Slowly.
Several suspicious noses poked into the room, the light from the hallway throwing their shadows across the bed. Remember, these children had been exposed to many different devices in an attempt to discourage them from their desired goal. Catapults, duct tape, air horns, chains with padlocks, duct tape, yards of medical gauze, duct tape.
Okay, he likes duct tape. I admit it.
The group stayed huddled for a moment, afraid to pierce the unknown blackness that pervaded our room. We remained still. Finally one brave soul reached for the switch, flooding the scene with light. We blinked sleepily at them.
Our kids aren’t the only actors in the family.
They moved slowly forward, still tightly packed. A group makes a harder target. Okay the reasoning needs a bit of work, but there is safety in numbers. They approached the bed. Still cautious. Still peering anxiously into the shadows and flinching at every sound. Finally, they reached their father. Silence. Grant’s eyes were now closed, a small, blissful smile creasing his face.
Not a good sign.
One of the older boys grabbed the covers, then paused, gaining courage. The silence stretched. He threw them back.
And disclosed his portly father clad in a ‘speedo’. A bright blue one.
Oh, and a bowtie. Red. With sequins.
Now I would like to take this opportunity to state that the ‘speedo’ swimsuit was created with speed in mind, hence the name. Comfort is secondary, and looks a far distant third. Certainly they look . . . ummm . . . delicious on the trim, incredibly fit men each of us women have drooled over at some point in our lives.
On a middle aged, fairly Santa-esque male. Not as good.
But certainly effective. The kids scattered. Screaming. We could hear one of them moaning in the hall. “I don’t want to open presents, do you want to open presents?”
Another answered, “Presents? What are those? I’m going back to bed!”
My husband chuckled again. “I should have thought of this years ago!” he said.
Mission accomplished.
To facilitate the introduction of said father to the ‘action room’, the children, over the years, graduated from begging, to more . . . proactive methods. As their size, and strength, increased, they finally achieved the impossible. Plucking their sire from his warm downy and carrying him, bodily, to his place of honour.
In an attempt to thwart their . . . growing . . . expertise, their father began to incorporate thought into the proceedings.
He resorted to sneakiness.
With various degrees of success.
Christmas, 2001, began like many others. Tiny noises in the bowels of the house which told us that the natives were stirring and that time for any needed preparation was short. Grant leaped from the bed and, under cover of darkness, began to shed his pyjamas. Not unusual. However, considering that our children would soon be pounding up the stairs . . . well . . . unusual. Sleepily, I noted the sound of fabric sliding over flesh. He was pulling something else on. Then, he crawled back into the bed and snuggled close.
Suspicious, I asked him what he was wearing and he chuckled. “Not much,” he said.
Then the pounding started. “Mom, Dad! Time to open presents!”
“Okay,” he called, cheerfully. Another sign that all was not as it should be. The door swung open.
Slowly.
Several suspicious noses poked into the room, the light from the hallway throwing their shadows across the bed. Remember, these children had been exposed to many different devices in an attempt to discourage them from their desired goal. Catapults, duct tape, air horns, chains with padlocks, duct tape, yards of medical gauze, duct tape.
Okay, he likes duct tape. I admit it.
The group stayed huddled for a moment, afraid to pierce the unknown blackness that pervaded our room. We remained still. Finally one brave soul reached for the switch, flooding the scene with light. We blinked sleepily at them.
Our kids aren’t the only actors in the family.
They moved slowly forward, still tightly packed. A group makes a harder target. Okay the reasoning needs a bit of work, but there is safety in numbers. They approached the bed. Still cautious. Still peering anxiously into the shadows and flinching at every sound. Finally, they reached their father. Silence. Grant’s eyes were now closed, a small, blissful smile creasing his face.
Not a good sign.
One of the older boys grabbed the covers, then paused, gaining courage. The silence stretched. He threw them back.
And disclosed his portly father clad in a ‘speedo’. A bright blue one.
Oh, and a bowtie. Red. With sequins.
Now I would like to take this opportunity to state that the ‘speedo’ swimsuit was created with speed in mind, hence the name. Comfort is secondary, and looks a far distant third. Certainly they look . . . ummm . . . delicious on the trim, incredibly fit men each of us women have drooled over at some point in our lives.
On a middle aged, fairly Santa-esque male. Not as good.
But certainly effective. The kids scattered. Screaming. We could hear one of them moaning in the hall. “I don’t want to open presents, do you want to open presents?”
Another answered, “Presents? What are those? I’m going back to bed!”
My husband chuckled again. “I should have thought of this years ago!” he said.
Mission accomplished.
