He is in his crib, surrounded by his “sleep stuff,” which includes two pacifiers, a stuffed giraffe, and a blue and green patchwork blanket. His hair sticks up at odd angles, and his eyes are a bit puffy. But the expression on his face tells me he has an agenda.
I settle myself in the chair across the room, resting my hands on my rapidly expanding midsection, and say, “What do you want to talk about?”
“Santa.”
