About a month ago, my son and daughter created a makeshift Christmas list by sitting down and circling items in a toy catalog. My daughter hasn’t wavered in her request for an iPod, a Nintendo DS and a Bongo Board. My son, however, can’t seem to make up his mind.

His first list included Transformers, a marble roller-coaster, and any and all things Little Einstein. I shopped, his grandparent’s shopped, and we thought the boy would have a very happy Christmas.

Roughly two weeks later, he decided he wanted a train, books, and some Webkinz. Then shortly after that, he took an interest in Backugan toys and added that to his list as well.

Despite trips back and forth to the store, and extra charges on the credit card, I thought we had things under control.

But all of that was before my son sat on Santa’s lap and we found he had changed his tune yet again. As he stroked the jolly elf’s beard, my boy put a sweet smile on his face, looked into Santa’s eyes…and asked him to bring us a horse.

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The other day, I was snuggling with my little boy when I asked, “Who’s your favorite person?”

He hugged me and said, “You and Daddy both.”

I tickled him a little and teased, “Both? But I’m the one who feeds you, cleans up after you, does your laundry, drives you to therapy and school, reads with you, helps you with homework, and tucks you in bed.”

He replied, “Yeah, but Daddy throws me in the air.”

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Yesterday morning we attended an annual Santa Breakfast at our church. The cafeteria hall is decked and filled with loud music, games, face-painting, greasy food, ugly sweaters and a visit from a very large man in a red suit.

A couple of years ago, this was a terrifying experience for my son. When Santa arrived, my boy grabbed onto his Dad and wouldn’t let go. Literally. I have a picture of my husband holding his arms straight out to either side, with my son dangling from his neck like a Flavor Flav necklace.

Yesterday wasn’t much different. Because when the DJ said that Santa had arrived and he was parking his sleigh outside, my son suddenly looked very nervous.

But, instead of grabbing Daddy’s neck, he grabbed his own rear end and then turned to the folks sitting at our table and announced, “I need to go poop!”

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This is a glimpse of how a family manages to get through a bout of the plague. I highly recommend keeping these suggestions in a mental file.

Here is said family’s recycle bin. Note how Mom and Dad deal with stress by drinking cheap beer and large quantities of wine. Oh, and see the Mueslix box? That’s what happens when you haven’t been to the store in over a week and want to make Magic Wheaties Meatloaf, but after you’ve started mixing ingredients together you realize there isn’t a Wheatie to be found.

If your substitute choices are Kix or Mueslix, go with the Mueslix. It’s a good alternative, but you will have to take some time to pick out the raisins.

This is what happens when a six year old plague victim gets tired of playing with his Matchbox cars. He makes stick figures out of the track. Don’t be alarmed when he tears it apart limb from limb.

These are bath toys, and because Mom’s tend to make plague victims bathe a lot, these toys get frequent attention. If the victim happens to name them…oh say, Jessie, Jessley, and Jorley. I highly suggest knowing those names, which one is which, and be able to make up some great stories about the three of them on the spot. Because a soaking-wet, tired, rash-covered, feverish, projectile pooping kid tends to be a little sensitive.

Get used to running out of clean clothes. It’s okay. There is absolutely nothing wrong with sending your daughter to bed with plaid pajama bottoms and a camouflage top, and putting your son down for the night in fire engine pants and a green, dinosaur shirt. No one can tell they don’t match in the dark.

And finally, about that laundry…if you wear a zip-up sweatshirt to pick up your daughter at school, and you don’t have a clean shirt to wear under it, make sure the plague victim you’re holding doesn’t pull your zipper down. Just sayin’.

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