Hey mister, wake up!

MY DEAR FABULOUS DAUGHTER,

Your father had a very busy week and hasn't been sleeping particularly well lately, so it wasn't surprising that after a beer and a few glasses of wine last night in the comfort of our friends' home and in the warmth of their gracious hospitality he began to look a little unsteady on his feet. I reminded him early on and again several times during the course of the evening that he was our designated driver; I had left my glasses behind and wouldn't be able to see well enough to drive home. Your dear father, however, ignored my not so subtle hints and continued enjoying more wine as he sat laughing and joking with our friends and their guests. Eventually he came upon the realization himself that perhaps he had overdone it somewhat and he left the dining room table to rest on a couch in family room where three darling little girls were watching a movie and playing with toys. The adults continued their various and boisterous conversations until we were hushed by one of our number redirecting our attention to the high pitched squealing and laughter of the little girls. We all listened and yes, indeed, they did seem to be enjoying a very good laugh about something. One of us sought out the source of the girls' delight and reported that your father had fallen asleep on the couch and the little girls were putting barettes in his hair. Of course we all had to have a look and there he was, slumped in a semi-upright position with a wee giggling girl sitting on either side of him. He wore pink barrettes in his hair, pillows stacked upon the top of his head, and a magic fairy wand lay across his lap. Soon a camera appeared and the girls were directed as to clever ways in which they might continue their fun with your hapless father. The next time I checked on your father he was sporting a long curling felt pen mustache, extraordinarily bushy eyebrows, and there emblazoned on the tip of his nose was the Star of Bethlehem. (Actually, darling, here I must confess that the curling moustache was my own contribution to the facial art.) More picture-taking ensued amidst hearty laughter, and through it all your father never so much as twitched or stirred a finger. The adults soon returned to their conversations and it wasn't until another half hour had passed that your father was finally awakened by the the little girls patting his face and repeatedly chanting, Hey mister, hey mister, wake up and look at your face!

Your father had the most bewildered look upon his black-felt-pen-festooned face when he rejoined the adults. He had a look in the mirror and loudly accused us all of taking advantage of a poor man wanting only to rest his eyes for a moment or two; we all joined him for another good laugh before I took him firmly by the arm and steered him toward the front door. We bundled up in our scarves and warm jackets, thanked our hosts for another entertaining evening, then, despite your father's protestations, we set out on our 20 minute walk home in the chilly air - I was exceedingly thankful I'd worn flat shoes, a thick scarf and a warm jacket.

As we travelled along the main street, we passed a bus that had broken down and I noticed several quizzical looks and smirks upon the faces of the disgorging passengers when they saw your father's charming face. I smirked a bit myself, thinking that your father's forgetting to remove the felt pen before heading home was a well-suited punishment for his crime of over indulgence. When at last we reached home I puttered around the kitchen for several minutes and your father headed straight to our bedroom. He was fast asleep in a lifeless heap when I climbed into bed. (Oh, I do believe I feel a limerick coming on...)

The next morning when I awakened I was more than a little amused to see your father's sleeping face still sported the curly-cued mustache, bushy eyebrows and starry nose. When at last he opened his bleary eyes and squinted at me I couldn't resist chastising him for failing to wash his face before collapsing into bed. He said, I did wash my face - this stuff won't come off. Egads I thought as I realized it was permanent marker with which I'd taken such delight in creating the swooping moustache!

The poor man spent an inordinately long time in the shower this morning scrubbing his face; there's just a hint of grayish decoration remaining and I'm quite sure it'll be gone before he leaves for work tomorrow...

Only two weeks left until we'll see your smiling face at Christmas!

LOVE AND KISSES FROM YOUR WONDERFUL MOTHER