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But it's not so great if you are the one waiting for your dad to come home.
    After dinner is the best part of Christmas Eve. Grandpa gets out our favorite Monty Python movie, and us boys drag our pillows and blankets off the bunks and out to the floor under the Christmas tree. We laugh at all the stupid parts and say all the good lines and act out the fights, including catapulting our old teddy bears over the tree and down the hall. Traditionally, Grandma does the dishes while we watch, saying “Outrageous!” and “Blasphemy!” every ten min utes, and sounding more Irish as the movie goes on.
    But this year Grandma just leaves the dishes in the sink and goes to bed, and Grandpa actually falls asleep in his recliner before we get to the killer-rabbit part.Pete turns the volume down and shushes us about saying the lines, and suddenly it's not such a funny movie when everyone is behaving.
    “Come on,” Jim says. “Let's get those dishes. It's a lot of work to have guests. God knows, the Grands don't need extra work.”
    “Guests?” Frank says, trailing us into the kitchen. “We aren't guests; we live here.”
    I've got nothing to say about this because I'm the only one who lives here now, which gets real obvious when I'm the only person who remembers where the soap and clean dish towels are.
    “All right, men,” Pete says, putting on his command voice. “I'll scrub; John can dry and put away. Jim, clear the table and counters, and Frank, sweep and mop.”
    He forgot a job for me. Dad never forgets a job for me.
    I'm an inch from turning around and slugging him, but the Nativity on the mantel catches my eye, and something about the Holy Family all snug and together in the stable melts me.
    “I guess I'll make everybody hot chocolate,” I say, pulling a step stool over to the cupboard. I make killerhot chocolate. I get out the big pot, the cocoa, the sugar, and the milk jug. It's Christmas; maybe I'll make a whole gallon.
    Jim launches into another of his “perfect date” stories while we work. Nobody actually believes he's been on a date, but I love the part with the girl, the rope trick, the parking meter, and the awkward conversation with the Boise patrolman. He's just about to launch into another when John says, “Hey, I wonder what Grandma's got in the sinners’ cupboard.” Pete reaches up and brings down an almost full bottle of Irish whiskey.
    What a stupid idea.
    “Hey, guys, the hot chocolate is done,” I say to distract them. I pour beautiful steaming cocoa into the china coffeepot and line up a row of mugs.
    “Excellent!” Pete says, pouring himself half a cup of cocoa and topping it off with whiskey.
    Oh, man! It was perfect. It smelled perfect. It was heaven by the spoonful, and he dumped gasoline in it. Jim and John are right behind him, and Frank too— that traitor!
    Fine. I take my cup to the far corner of the kitchen and hoard all the whipped cream. I figure the brothersare going to get all rowdy now, so it's weird when they just stand around saying nothing and looking at the half-mopped floor.
    “Do you think they are going to send your unit to Iraq anytime soon?” John says, not looking at Pete.
    Pete shrugs and takes a slow sip from his cocoa. “Not for a while yet. We're gearing up to train deploying troops for now, but if we're in Iraq for the long haul …” He looks at Jim, and then John. “I bet we'll all get our turn out there.”
    The four of them nod their heads over their hot chocolate and study the ground. It's not like anyone needs to say it, but how are we going to keep the ranch going with everybody gone? Pete pours a second round of whiskey.
    Finally, Jim says, “The Grands look so old, all of a sudden.”
    “Yeah,” John says, “and since when does Grandma go to bed at eight o'clock and leave the kitchen a mess?”
    “Grandpa doesn't stand up as straight as he used to,” Pete adds.
    Like bad posture is some kind of moral failure.
    “I don't get it,” Frank