Merry Christmas from The Mabel’s. May your coffee be hot, your cinnamon rolls be gooey, and your quiet moments be the loudest memories of all. — Leo asked if we can leave the golden rock out all year. I said yes. Mabel would have approved. Did your Christmas morning have a quiet moment like this? Tell me about it in the comments. I’d love to hear your “Mabel’s” story.
My son, [Leo], appeared in the doorway of the living room, clutching his stuffed bear by one ear. His hair was a disaster. His eyes were still half-closed. But then he saw the stockings hung by the (fake, but very lush) fireplace, and his face did that thing it does every year—a slow sunrise of realization.
“It’s a paperweight for your desk,” he explained. “So you don’t float away when you write.” Christmas Morning at The Mabel-s - Mother and S...
“Mom. He came.”
He nodded seriously, then wiped icing on the dog. The rest was a blur of wrapping paper, thank-yous, and one minor incident involving a remote-control dinosaur and the actual Christmas tree (the dinosaur won; the tree is now slightly tilted). Merry Christmas from The Mabel’s
It looks like your title got cut off, but I can infer the heartwarming vibe you’re going for:
I opened a small, heavy box from him (wrapped in three layers of tape, because he’s six). Inside was a smooth river rock, painted gold, with the word “HOME” written in wobbly red letters. I said yes
I thought about it. “Regular magic disappears,” I said. “Christmas magic is the kind that hides in the quiet parts. The parts where nobody is looking.”
Not Santa. Not presents. Just… he came. The magic was still intact. We have a rule at The Mabel’s: No presents under the tree until the stockings are emptied. This is a Mabel original decree. It paces the morning, keeps the frenzy at bay.
