Santa may have brought an entire sleigh-full of toys, but Daddy brought home two plastic miniature footballs and a few stuffed zebras wearing t-shirts emblazoned with some company’s logo and that tradeshow swag, let me tell you, elicited a gratefulness from Archie, Kit and Jack so sincere that it may go down in our family’s history as the greatest gift-giving occasion ever.

I don’t get it either.

John went to New York City last week to participate on a discussion panel about electronic marketing. Or something like that. I think. I didn’t really pay attention when he was telling me about it because, honestly, I-don’t-care-already-just-keep-bringing-that-paycheck-home-ok?-bye.

At any rate, the panel discussion was part of the National Retail Federation trade show which used to mean a lot more to me when I worked in marketing way back when, but now just means I’ve got to go it alone with three kids for a whole week while my husband gets to eat in expensive restaurants, see the sights, and talk to adults about fun stuff all day long.

I mean, if I’m being honest that’s the truth, right?

But when John got home and snuck into the twins’ bedroom with Archie riding high on his hip the first thing that next morning, and Kit and Jack screamed with excitement when they saw their dad, and then John and Archie started screaming, too, until all four of them were screaming at each other really, really loudly and then laughing when they had to cut it all out to get some air and I couldn’t help but laugh right then, too, even though I still hadn’t had my coffee, well, that’s when I decided that maybe the short straw was really the winner this time around.

“Did this football come all the way from New York City?” Jack asked incredulously after we’d all made our way downstairs, into the kitchen, and John started doling out the prizes he’d picked up from the vendors he’d visited on the tradeshow floor. John and I looked at each other when Jack said New York City, and I’d be lying if I denied cringing a little when I realized how much my youngest son sounded like those cowboys in the Pace Picante Sauce commercials.

“Sure did,” John reassured Jack.

“Aw-shucks, Dad! That’s great!” Jack exclaimed and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at Jack’s unsophisticated interjection. What kind of boy am I raising down here South of the Mason-Dixon line?

A good one, I think. One who missed his dad a lot, just like his sister and brother. And me, too, once I got over being POed that John got to eat at Sardi’s on Saturday night while I sat in front of the television watching a Ghost Whisperer repeat and eating an English muffin with peanut butter.