"Falcon, this is Blue Raven. The goose has nested. Repeat, the goose has nested." - Bender, Futurama

The Mrs. and The Boy hard at work on a gingerbread house. Unfortunately, the Pugsley Zoning Commission decided the whole affair was substandard and needed to be dismantled. And eaten. Whenever The Mrs. and I were out of the room.

So, Christmas has come and gone. The highlight of Christmas Eve for me is watching the young ‘uns tear into the presents like a crew of howler monkeys with attention deficit disorder. The Boy had been bursting at the seams since first light, Christmas Eve morning. Opening presents on Christmas Eve, for us, allows us to spend Christmas Day the way it should be spent, by stuffing ourselves with turkey and ham and falling asleep on the couch spending it in relatively quiet contemplation with the family.

The Boy got presents that he loves, Pugsley was just thrilled that the wrapped up thingies under the tree weren’t decorations, but were actually things that he could have and play with, after his sweaty, grubby little fingers managed to rip the wrapping paper. The Boy patiently waited his turn. The Mrs. graciously accepted the socks and new mop I got her.

Perhaps the most vexing present that The Boy got this year was a set of walkie-talkies (long on his list). As I put them into their charger, I looked in the owners manual and saw that I would be violating FEDERAL LAW if he used them without a license. Reading further, there were a few low power channels that he could use lawfully.

I went to the FCC website and looked up, and found that The Boy would be unable to use the walkie-talkies until he was 18. I looked a little further, and found that if I got the FCC license, The Boy (and any other blood relative of mine or The Mrs.) could use them in glorious 16-mile-range full-power mode, emitting enough electromagnetic spectrum energy to changes people’s genetic code up to at least 10 miles away.

He waited until they were fully charged, and then we used them today. Verdict? He loved them. What had been drudgery (bring the trash cans back in) became a mission with the walkie-talkies.

Me: “Red Dog, Red Dog, do you copy?”
The Boy: “Base, this is Red Dog. I read you.” He is standing ten feet from me.
Me: “Red Dog, please get the trash cans. Bring them back to home base.”
The Boy: “Roger!” With that, he ran, complete with a full share of glee, to do something he normally grumbled about.

The walkie-talkies have a feature that allows them to scan through the available frequencies to eavesdrop listen to other people’s conversation. Nothing. Dead air. We live next to a sizable subdivision, so there must not have been many other kids who wanted walkie-talkies for Christmas (or, perhaps there were no other Dads that mistakenly purchased serious radios).

The Mrs. corrected me. “No, honey, all the other kids got cell phones for Christmas.”

Instantly, I knew that she was right.

I was glad, however, that The Boy was happy with his silly little “push to talk” walkie-talkies and that he and I could communicate. Heck, I even had a conversation with The Mrs. (codename: Supreme Commander) on them. Fun. And useful. On one errand when The Boy was out of earshot I asked him to get gloves in addition to the trash bag through the magic of Marconi’s invention. This day, The Boy didn’t complain a bit about the work.

The biggest magic, though, was in the amazed expression on Pugsley’s face when he saw the first toy under the paper – it was as if he was kicking himself for falling for this trick, again, and that sometime, somewhere, he’d get The Mrs. and I back, perhaps when he chooses a nursing home.