Letters to Myself

Tonight is the last of twelve days of Christmas, a time for spirits to break free their shackles and roam the earth (see, Dickens: A Christmas Carol). Which, judging by the various moaning & wailings I've read from the Republican corners of the Intarweb regarding last night's triumphant triumph of one Mike Huckabee, I can only suggest that maybe they'll get lucky and Zombie Reagan will arise from the grave tonight to lead the party. Back to, er, the 80's, I guess. That might be fun. I was a hopeless geek in high school, but maybe I could bring my iPod along to pass the time.

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A startling and terrifying development in Ye Hansen Household today: when we picked up the boy from daycare, they told us he refused to take his nap. And while he didn't go to bed until his regular bedtime, boy, was he cranky. Man alive. Not quite Linda Blair with the head spins and the pea soup, but wow.

He's asleep now. Quiet. If you wake him, you'll have to soothe him back to sleep.