We really do have an ordinary suburban family living in an ordinary suburban home. It's only farm-like in my imagination.

There's something about Christmas that brings out the strange questions in public. Or, well, the questions some of us parents regard as strange. It's the holiday for children, I suppose, and for distant relatives and family friends to catch up, so people switch to the channel in their heads dedicated to intimate questions.

Which is a long-winded way to say I've gotten at least three "are they brother and sister? I mean, really?" questions from total strangers in the past week. I'm slightly surprised I don't find it more annoying than I do, but it's really becoming old hat. Automatic answer (the one that works for us): They are... now.

There's a lot one can say with that pause and the emphasis on the last word, depending on how much one feels like talking about these things in public, how the question appears to be intended, and whether the wind is coming out of the northeast in a particularly chilly way or not.

It's the one constant with having the kind of family I have.

Less common, but more gratifying to me, are the comments that take place around the extended family dinner tables about how Daughter got some of whatever makes Cousin X so Cousin X-like, or how much son (son!) takes after Uncle Y. Because, remember, this is a memetic family. This is a more subtle constant, but it always asserts itself given enough green bean casserole, Christmas pudding, grilled shrimp, homemade buttercream frosting, and kinfolk who are unafraid to make close observations. (And of all the relatives, it would be Cousin X, wouldn't it. Sigh. It's true, though -- she really does.)

Enough pondering. I have serious digesting toward which to apply myself. We did eat well out here on the farm....