Uncle Damien! Please, please, please can we watch Snoopy again?” Four-year-old Ronnie climbs into Damien’s lap and bounces, her hands holding his T-shirt in tight little fists. We’re in the great room so that we can enjoy the tree that we spent the late afternoon decorating, with Ronnie placing the star on top from her perch on her father’s shoulders. The room’s east wall has a hidden panel that reveals a large-screen television, and we’ve all been sprawled on the sofas, chairs, and the floor watching Home Alone, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. We’re full of pie and hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps, which really is as festive as Jamie promised. Not that Ronnie or Sylvia know that—the child and the mom-to-be got to enjoy the cocoa, but not the extra cheer. And, in retrospect, even just cocoa was probably a mistake as far as Ronnie is concerned. Because now the little girl is completely hyped up on sugar and excitement. “Please, please, please, please, please.”
