More, Please

What do you do when your son, whose been "failing to thrive" since spring and closer to a feeding tube than ever before sits down at your traditional, holy, Christmas Eve feast, grabs a ginormous spoon, and begins to shove pierogis down his throat faster than the speed of light?

Duh.

You spend an entire day in the kitchen with your husband making more.

This morning, he had twelve for breakfast.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a Christmas Miracle.