On Christmas night, after the best Christmas we’ve had in the last four years, I was up most of the night because Tucker was throwing up.  To his credit, he made it into the bowl every time.  This, my friends, has taken years of training.

I was sure the flu had hit us, especially since nearly all of my Facebook friends were battling some kind of Grinch-like virus that aimed to steal every crumb of their holiday spirit.  But the next morning, Tuck was fine.

The thing is, and I’m trying not to be too graphic here, but the night had seemed to be one constant recurrence of chocolate.  We are talking eruptions of such chocolatey proportions that would have impressed the oompah-loompahs.

I said to him over a very dry and bland breakfast, “Tuck, this isn’t an interrogation and this conversation won’t get you in trouble. I’m just curious… How many Christmas desserts did you have yesterday?”

13.

THIRTEEN.

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