It was a Christmas miracle.
No, not Santa, or the little baby Jesus, or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa (although neither would be a Christmas miracle).
And no, not the fact that both Beatrice and Bryce sat on Santa's lap for a sweet photo (that you'll find below).
No, this miracle was so much more miraculous.
Last night, Mama said goodnight to Beatrice, and then I picked her up to take her to bed.
We cruised up each stair step, ooing and awing at the colorful Christmas lights wrapped around the stairwell handhold.
Bea held tight her "fuzzy" blanket and sucked her thumb. We made it to the top of the stairs and headed for her room.
Upon entering, a faint blue light washed over us: we had put our old lava lamp in her room.
We watched the yellow wax bubble and float as if suspended in zero gravity. Bea snuggled her head into my shoulder. I smiled.
And then she threw up. All over me.
I rushed her into the bathroom and bent her over the toilet. Vomit everywhere. Chunky big girl vomit. None of the breast milk liquid pudding that Bryce spits up.
Mama joined me frantically stripping Bea naked and cleaning her up.
The Christmas miracle? Bea wasn't upset. At all. We really thought she be howling over throwing up like she did. In fact, as soon Mama had her all fresh -- while I slogged along cleaning the bathroom -- Bea ran around her room in her diaper happy as a Christmas elf high on candy cane crack.
But the even greater Christmas miracles?
The fact that I've been able to help a lot with Bryce these first four months of her life -- and that I get to spend this Christmas with the three most beautiful, loving girls in the world.
And a 300-year-old heavily matted Calico that hacks all over the floor and pees over the edge of her cat box.