Merry Christmas from Middlemarch, where lines like this abide:

"To an aunt who does not recognise her infant nephew as Bouddha, and has nothing to do for him but to admire, his behavior is apt to appear monotonous, and the interest of watching him exhaustible."

Times do exist when it's a relief not to be with my father's family for the holidays, where there are more babies than space in my brain to recall their names. I like how in old books they just refer to infants as "baby." Not by name and not by "the baby," just "baby." Let's bring that back.