It’s freaking cold here in West Chester the past couple of days: in the mornings, there’s frost on the inside of the storm windows (which means something less than good about the condition of our weatherstripping, I’m afraid.)

Christmas morning, Kate and I bundled the baby up in a blanket and dashed, in our slippers, past nine burned-out luminaria next door to her parents’ house, where there’s a fire in the fireplace and a big plate of english muffins and bacon in the kitchen. Kate’s brother Matt and his girlfriend Kristen descended from the hipster stratosphere (he’s in a mod band, she manages a store in Soho) to find that Bob had fixed up a wonky clutch cable on Matt’s Vespa and put it, with a big red bow, just outside the door. When Matt saw it, he whooped, hollered, and took it for a ride around the block, shag haircut streaming out in the sub-zero temperature, Kristen riding gamely on the pillion. It’ll make the trip to the East Village, where it’ll become a cafe racer (well, cruiser) once again.

The three days around Christmas have been a whirl of family activities, and I find myself saying the same things I’ve heard a million times at family functions coming out of the mouths of other new dads: “oh, she’s a little cranky because she’s missing her nap.” Life is wonderful, and exhausting, and holiday meals are now consumed at higher speeds, in shorter bursts, usually because of the reach-y baby sitting one one knee.