“I hated that stuff I had to take to make my bones strong,” declared Kermit.
“You hated having to wear braces on your legs, too.” His father followed the boys into the nursery, gave each a friendly smack and tumbled them into bed. “But the braces made your legs strong enough so you can swim like the rest of us.”
“I still hate getting water in my ears,” stated Ted, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Will there be warmer bedrooms in that palace up in Albany, Father?”
“We’ll hope so—and it isn’t a palace. It’s officially called a mansion.”
“In storybooks governors always live in palaces. Does the president live in a palace in Washington?”
“No, just a big white house. You’ve seen it. You should remember.”
“I’ve seen so many places,” sighed Ted, “but I like this house best.”
“We all do. We’ll come back to it every summer,” promised Roosevelt.
The house was quiet at last but Edith Roosevelt, when they had completed the task of filling all the dangling stockings, lay awake a long time, her thoughts trying to search the future, what lay ahead for all those children. More of war and danger, more heart-racking anxiety for their mother? Perhaps it was best not to know, otherwise life would be one long torment of apprehension.
Morning showed a thin cover of snow on the ground, but before day came to reveal it plainly, there was pandemonium in the parents’ quiet bedroom as the children came rushing in lugging their stockings. Only small toys bulged in the stockings, but Alice proudly displayed a little gold bracelet and Archie, round-faced and beaming, bounced up and down on his father’s stomach excitedly cranking a small tin toy that made musical sounds as the handle turned.