It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else. - Erma Bombeck
I haven't had a large need for courage in my life, not the kind that's exalted in great tales. I've walked through grief, but most have by the time they reach the approach to their fortieth year. Many in far larger doses than I have endured. I've borne children and while I certainly think that childbirth requires bravery, the reward tempers the trial a little. I've ventured to the store with four children under four and that may well be my bravest act to date, but I'm not sure that's the type of courage that inspires the quotes of great minds. No doubt because they've never done it. I know true love and many extol the virtue of loving truly as one of courage, but I see it more as a happy accident.
This is all the quiet valiance of every day life. Love. Loss. Pain. Triumph. It's hardly once more into the breach; or Frodo at the gates of Mordor; or a dash back into a burning building.
Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death. - Earl Wilson
But I find, staring down the tunnel of the last twelve hours of 2010, that my own little leap into the new year requires a little more bravery than I anticipated. [[[[[Deep Breath.]]]]] I have written something and I'd like to share it with you. It's been ready for weeks. I imagined myself gleefully hitting publish on this post in the wee hours of this morning. Here I sit, still hesitating, reading and rereading and wondering. What if no one reads? What if it's out there and nothing happens?
The answer is: Entirely possible. Likely even.
Nothing ventured, nothing ever gained. I promised myself I would move this project forward in the new year, I conceived a plan and I executed it. (With ENORMOUS help from Cat of Mommygeekology, who lent me her skill and made this more gorgeous than I could have dared to hope.) The only thing left is to tell you about it and ask you for a favor. {{{Deep breath number two. Stop procrastinating, Stacey.}}}
[Let your] place never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat. - Theodore Roosevelt
Today, I'm launching a new site called Summer Connolly Romance where I will publish serially my first romance novel, UNION PACIFIC. I would love it if you wanted to read along, comment, criticize constructively, but I absolutely know that this genre is not for everyone. If it's not for you, I wonder if you would share it with your friend, cousin, acquaintance, crazy neighbor, whoever has a quiet passion for frivolous love stories and heaving bosoms because-I-would-be-forever-grateful-thank-you-so-very-much-kisses-and-hugs. (Oh and also, subscribe? Even if you never click through again so that it looks like people are reading and I can breathe?)
[[[[[And exhale.]]]]]
A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for. - William Shedd
I'm not sure why this is so difficult for me to do. That's a lie. I know exactly why. For the same reason I shy away from going back to school. For the same reason I refuse to say aloud that I think we are done having babies. For the same reason I cringe when someone asks me if I'll go back to law when Nate starts school.
I am unbelievably happy. I am so happy that it hurts sometimes. I am so happy that underlying the happiness is a little bit of fear of any change, any shift, any swerve to the left or right. The problem with trying to keep things the same is that they keep changing no matter what you do. Far better to forge into the undergrowth on your own than to wait for something to knock you over the cliff that you don't see to your side.
Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. - Anais Nin
I'd like my life to expand under my direction. Critics will say that I shouldn't give my work away for free. Why not a traditional search for an agent? Why not self-publish and market? Much discussion ebbs and flows on blogs about the wisdom or folly of writing "for free." My response, free and foolish and follyful, is that I don't care. It's mine to give. The manuscript needs work and I want you to help me. I'm inspired by writing for others. A large part of my joy in the last three years has been writing here and finding, surprisingly, an interactive and engaging audience of writers that I now call friends. The world of writing and publishing is changing, one has to prove oneself, has to show the ability to build interest and marketability. Why not here?
There it is. I've offered you my tiny, ordinary bit of bravery for the start of 2011. It is www.summerconnollyromance.com. I've swallowed my fear of failure. I've shrugged off the possibility of disinterest.
Raise your glass. To courage, no matter how small. To creativity. To dreams. To 2011. Now, tell me what small step you'll take toward something you want in the new year?
Courage is ... the mastery of fear, not the absence of fear. - Mark Twain
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
How Matt and I failed Elf 101
This is the full tale of my elfin struggles.
It started with my mother - who not only gave birth to me - a person completely incapable of managing the magic of Christmas for my children - but also bought me a complicated elf game complete with creepy elf and elf rules and daily elf duties.
(I know. I know. It freaks me out too. Sketchy.)
The Elf on the Shelf. It comes with one elf and one book describing complicated rules of elf play including: 1) one must name one's elf; 2) the elf flies to Santa every night to tattle on the resident children and returns to a different spot every morning; 3) the elf must not be touched or it loses its magic.
We named our elf Jingles. So far, so good.
On the third day of Jingles' employment in our home, I placed him on top of a wall sconce. I know I KNOW it says "elf on the shelf," but listen, there are only so many shelves in one house and then you have to start getting creative. Unfortunately, his legs dangled down into the sconce and touched the lightbulb. That was fine all night but became a problem in the morning when the children turned the light on. Matt - Mr. Fire Safety - immediately nixed that elf location. But you can't TOUCH the blasted thing because then it loses its magic, you see, and it can't go back and tell Santa how horrid your children are. So, I told the children that I was positive it would move its legs out of the burn zone if we all just left the room and went to eat breakfast.
They left. I illegally moved the elf in daylight hours a few inches away from the lightbulb. Fine. Except that ten minutes into breakfast Saige got a time-out of epic proportions and I sent her back to her room possibly forever.
When she arrived at her room door, her dramatic sobs of outrage turned to shrieks of pure child terror.
"What is it?" I hissed up the stairs. It is a true talent to be finished dealing with your children and already hissing before 8:30 a.m.
"THE ELF. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! I I I I I'MMMMMMM SCAREDDDDDDD. IT MOOOOVEEEEEDDDDDD!"
Oh the horror. I'm pretty mean but I let her take the time-out in my room because...look I'm afraid of the dark and supernatural things and creeptastic moving elfs too, okay?
For the next few days, I did alright although I did have to get up twice at 6:00 a.m. and run downstairs to move the damn elf because magic creepy elves that run to Santa and tattle on children don't move themselves, you know.
I screwed the whole thing the freak up again because I wanted to put the elf back in their room. Mainly, I admit, because I kind of liked their trepidation and mild hysteria when they woke up and found themselves overseen by one of Santa's little helper demons. We'd used up all the shelves in their room (one) and the sconce (bad idea) and so I went for the only other high available surface, which seemed fairly logical at the time because it was winter and who the hell turns the ceiling fans on in the winter?
Shut up.
I should have pulled the chain on the ceiling fan and turned it off, but I didn't. Of course, they woke up and immediately espied their little watcher fiend. I mean friend. And of course Garrett took one look at that elf on the ceiling fan and turned the damn thing on. I wasn't there, but I take great, great amusement in imagining Jingles whipping around a few times before he was flung across the room, landing face down on the floor.
This is the point at which I woke up from a sound and happy slumber because Garrett - the perpetrator of the elfanticide freaked the f-u-c-k out. Two hours later, red-faced and swollen, the child still sobbed inconsolably: AH-AH-AH-AH-CI-DEN-DEN-T. AH-AH-AH-AH-CI-DENT! I did feel bad. I did! For my part in the crime. In my defense, he wasn't particularly concerned about the welfare of long-suffering Jingles, but more deeply afraid that his small victim would somehow drag its broken body back to the North Pole and with its dying breath, prostrate at Santa's feet, gasp out: "Gar-rett. Gaaaarrrrreeeetttt." Thereby eliminating any possibility of blaming this tragic accident on his sister.
There was nothing to do but make up a new string of ridiculous lies. Isn't that the magic of Christmas? Lying to your children? We had to leave the room so that the elf could go back to Santa who could kiss him and make him feel better with his Christmas magic. Jingles might need a day to recover, but we were certain that he would return and of course, both Jingles and Santa would know that it was an accident. Also, they are particularly forgiving of children whose mother's are hopelessly inept at Christmas.
They went downstairs and I hid the stupid elf in my closet. Then while Jingles grumbled his way back to the North Pole to smoke a cigarrette and wait for all the other elves to return so that he could bitch about how he was the unluckiest elf in the history of Elves on Shelves and did they realize that JUST TWO DOORS down, Crinkle had the cushiest assignment ever. (My friend Meg, who is very, very safety conscious and lovely and together and would never even think of placing a small personage of any kind - creepy or no - on a ceiling fan.) Of all the luck. He gets stuck with this Stacey idiot. While Jingles grumbled and smoked, we composed a lovely note of apology to both Jingles and Santa and promised never to turn on anything upon which Jingles sat ever, ever again.
Jingles returned the next morning as creepy as ever, safely seated on the curtain bar in the nursery. The very next morning the damn thing went on strike and refused to move from that spot. Or my brain went on strike. Or Christmas went on strike.
Crestfallen, Garrett, Saige and Quinn tip-toed into our room to tell us that the elf hadn't moved. It was over. Christmas must surely be dead. I thought, vague and deflated, from my pillow that I had failed at Christmas magic. Thirty days is just too long for me to maintain anything. I can't make dinner every night for a week let alone sustain the illusion of Jingles the Elf for a month. Matt opened one bleary eye to peer at his children.
"He gets a day off," he told them with authority, "workman's comp."
They joyously padded back to their little beds. That is how Matt and I failed basic elf and cynical sarcasm saved Christmas. (We may be banned from elf ownership on both poles.)
It started with my mother - who not only gave birth to me - a person completely incapable of managing the magic of Christmas for my children - but also bought me a complicated elf game complete with creepy elf and elf rules and daily elf duties.
(I know. I know. It freaks me out too. Sketchy.)
The Elf on the Shelf. It comes with one elf and one book describing complicated rules of elf play including: 1) one must name one's elf; 2) the elf flies to Santa every night to tattle on the resident children and returns to a different spot every morning; 3) the elf must not be touched or it loses its magic.
We named our elf Jingles. So far, so good.
On the third day of Jingles' employment in our home, I placed him on top of a wall sconce. I know I KNOW it says "elf on the shelf," but listen, there are only so many shelves in one house and then you have to start getting creative. Unfortunately, his legs dangled down into the sconce and touched the lightbulb. That was fine all night but became a problem in the morning when the children turned the light on. Matt - Mr. Fire Safety - immediately nixed that elf location. But you can't TOUCH the blasted thing because then it loses its magic, you see, and it can't go back and tell Santa how horrid your children are. So, I told the children that I was positive it would move its legs out of the burn zone if we all just left the room and went to eat breakfast.
They left. I illegally moved the elf in daylight hours a few inches away from the lightbulb. Fine. Except that ten minutes into breakfast Saige got a time-out of epic proportions and I sent her back to her room possibly forever.
When she arrived at her room door, her dramatic sobs of outrage turned to shrieks of pure child terror.
"What is it?" I hissed up the stairs. It is a true talent to be finished dealing with your children and already hissing before 8:30 a.m.
"THE ELF. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! I I I I I'MMMMMMM SCAREDDDDDDD. IT MOOOOVEEEEEDDDDDD!"
Oh the horror. I'm pretty mean but I let her take the time-out in my room because...look I'm afraid of the dark and supernatural things and creeptastic moving elfs too, okay?
For the next few days, I did alright although I did have to get up twice at 6:00 a.m. and run downstairs to move the damn elf because magic creepy elves that run to Santa and tattle on children don't move themselves, you know.
I screwed the whole thing the freak up again because I wanted to put the elf back in their room. Mainly, I admit, because I kind of liked their trepidation and mild hysteria when they woke up and found themselves overseen by one of Santa's little helper demons. We'd used up all the shelves in their room (one) and the sconce (bad idea) and so I went for the only other high available surface, which seemed fairly logical at the time because it was winter and who the hell turns the ceiling fans on in the winter?
Shut up.
I should have pulled the chain on the ceiling fan and turned it off, but I didn't. Of course, they woke up and immediately espied their little watcher fiend. I mean friend. And of course Garrett took one look at that elf on the ceiling fan and turned the damn thing on. I wasn't there, but I take great, great amusement in imagining Jingles whipping around a few times before he was flung across the room, landing face down on the floor.
This is the point at which I woke up from a sound and happy slumber because Garrett - the perpetrator of the elfanticide freaked the f-u-c-k out. Two hours later, red-faced and swollen, the child still sobbed inconsolably: AH-AH-AH-AH-CI-DEN-DEN-T. AH-AH-AH-AH-CI-DENT! I did feel bad. I did! For my part in the crime. In my defense, he wasn't particularly concerned about the welfare of long-suffering Jingles, but more deeply afraid that his small victim would somehow drag its broken body back to the North Pole and with its dying breath, prostrate at Santa's feet, gasp out: "Gar-rett. Gaaaarrrrreeeetttt." Thereby eliminating any possibility of blaming this tragic accident on his sister.
There was nothing to do but make up a new string of ridiculous lies. Isn't that the magic of Christmas? Lying to your children? We had to leave the room so that the elf could go back to Santa who could kiss him and make him feel better with his Christmas magic. Jingles might need a day to recover, but we were certain that he would return and of course, both Jingles and Santa would know that it was an accident. Also, they are particularly forgiving of children whose mother's are hopelessly inept at Christmas.
They went downstairs and I hid the stupid elf in my closet. Then while Jingles grumbled his way back to the North Pole to smoke a cigarrette and wait for all the other elves to return so that he could bitch about how he was the unluckiest elf in the history of Elves on Shelves and did they realize that JUST TWO DOORS down, Crinkle had the cushiest assignment ever. (My friend Meg, who is very, very safety conscious and lovely and together and would never even think of placing a small personage of any kind - creepy or no - on a ceiling fan.) Of all the luck. He gets stuck with this Stacey idiot. While Jingles grumbled and smoked, we composed a lovely note of apology to both Jingles and Santa and promised never to turn on anything upon which Jingles sat ever, ever again.
Jingles returned the next morning as creepy as ever, safely seated on the curtain bar in the nursery. The very next morning the damn thing went on strike and refused to move from that spot. Or my brain went on strike. Or Christmas went on strike.
Crestfallen, Garrett, Saige and Quinn tip-toed into our room to tell us that the elf hadn't moved. It was over. Christmas must surely be dead. I thought, vague and deflated, from my pillow that I had failed at Christmas magic. Thirty days is just too long for me to maintain anything. I can't make dinner every night for a week let alone sustain the illusion of Jingles the Elf for a month. Matt opened one bleary eye to peer at his children.
"He gets a day off," he told them with authority, "workman's comp."
They joyously padded back to their little beds. That is how Matt and I failed basic elf and cynical sarcasm saved Christmas. (We may be banned from elf ownership on both poles.)
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Twas the night before Christmas
(Actually, it is Christmas, but only just barely.) ((Okay, fine, it's halfway through Christmas. I was tired and drunk and blogger wouldn't upload pictures last night.))
The fairy trees are decorated.
Christmas Eve pajamas are donned.
They aren't excited at all.
The presents are wrapped.
The market from Santa is ready. Matt made it with his own two sweet, sexy hands.
The stockings are stuffed.
The fairy trees are outside with fairy bait.
Santa and his reindeer have been appropriately rewarded for their toils.
The children sleep with visions of juice boxes dancing in their heads. (They do get juice boxes in their stockings. Also, pop tarts. And they think that they died and Santa let them into heaven. That's how easy Christmas is when you never let your kids have juice or sugary breakfasts.)
The homemade Baileys is made and poured.
Grandma and Grandpa are intoxicated. So is Aunt Heather. So am I.
[No pictures allowed.]
Matt is pissed that I'm "playing blog on Christmas Eve."
Sing with me now.
All is calm. All is bright.
Round non-virgin mother is tired.
Holy (terror) infants so whiny and wild.
Sleep at least until fi-IVE.
Sleee-eeep at least until five.
(Oh, I know, I'm totally going to hell. Best part? If I go tonight I'll be drunk when I get there.)
(They slept until seven!!! SEVEN!!!! Thank you, Santa.)
Merry Christmas. XO.
The fairy trees are decorated.
Christmas Eve pajamas are donned.
The presents are wrapped.
The market from Santa is ready. Matt made it with his own two sweet, sexy hands.
The stockings are stuffed.
The fairy trees are outside with fairy bait.
Santa and his reindeer have been appropriately rewarded for their toils.
The children sleep with visions of juice boxes dancing in their heads. (They do get juice boxes in their stockings. Also, pop tarts. And they think that they died and Santa let them into heaven. That's how easy Christmas is when you never let your kids have juice or sugary breakfasts.)
The homemade Baileys is made and poured.
Grandma and Grandpa are intoxicated. So is Aunt Heather. So am I.
[No pictures allowed.]
Matt is pissed that I'm "playing blog on Christmas Eve."
Sing with me now.
All is calm. All is bright.
Round non-virgin mother is tired.
Holy (terror) infants so whiny and wild.
Sleep at least until fi-IVE.
Sleee-eeep at least until five.
(Oh, I know, I'm totally going to hell. Best part? If I go tonight I'll be drunk when I get there.)
(They slept until seven!!! SEVEN!!!! Thank you, Santa.)
Merry Christmas. XO.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Pageantry
I didn't want to go.
I know you will think I'm a Scrooge and I will tell you that I am. I don't like things for children in the evening. My kids go upstairs at 6:30. By 7:00 they are marginally scrubbed, PJed, brushed, read to, sang several lullabies and in their adorable matching toddler beds listening to music. One CD. When it ends and the dulcet strains of Big Bird fade, they are usually all asleep
I didn't want to go. It was all so complicated. I needed a sitter because Matt had picked up a shift until 10:00 p.m. and my friend was having a party and I was tired and it started at 7:00 p.m. and did I mention that I don't do kids after 7:00 p.m.? But I pushed through. I rallied and fed them and sent Saige and Garrett upstairs to get dressed. It was pajama day at school and they both still wore their fuzzy, footed pajamas at dinner time. The sitter came. Nate screamed like she regularly pinches him and clung to my leg. I pried him off while giving her the complicated rundown. I hope to have the big kids home by 8:30, my friend Kayla, you know Kayla? She's going to bring her little boy over around 7:30, but Nate and Quinn should be asleep by then and you already talked to her right? And then I'll go to the party for a bit. Kayla said she'd pick up Leo by nine. I might be late, but Matt will be home by ten. Is that okay?
Nate still screamed. Kelsey, our sitter, our second Kelsey in a run of adored Kelseys begged me to just leave with her eyes. Shut up and go. I know how to do it.
She does. Thank god. I ran upstairs and herded Saige and Garrett down in their jeans and t-shirts. Garrett had marker all over his face. Saige's shirt had some sort of permanent white stain down the side. The ghost of Christmas Amy touched my shoulder and I pictured the children at her Christmas Eve party last year in their angel dresses with red satin and white lace and their sweater vests and ties and something told my little pagan soul that this was not quite right. This was not quite right for a Christmas pageant in a huge Presbyterian church with three grades of excited students and 300 beaming parents and grandparents.
I almost threw in the towel then. I won't go, I thought, but they were so excited. They'll go like this, dammit, but something stopped me and I herded them back upstairs and fished last year's Costco Christmas dress and a two-year-old wedding sweater vest out of the closet. Dressed, scrubbed, ready, we headed back for the car. At the last minute, I met Quinn's forlorn little eyes at the bottom of the stairs and I caved completely.
Do you want to come with us? The child radiated happiness. He broke his neck nodding.
So. Great then. NOW I was paying a very wonderful, very worth it, very expensive sitter to put my baby to bed (which involves handing him a bottle and laying him down) and watch TV while she waited for my friend to bring her child so that we could all go to a party, but not until I survived this whole Christmas pageant thing.
The sanctuary glowed. Its wood polished, lighted and pine-boughed for Christmas. It's been years since I was in a church in this season. We all rustled in our finery, sitting in the pews, facing the empty risers. Well, most rustled in their finery, I didn't quite make it out of my jeans. My nice jeans. Quinn held my hand and twisted his neck from side to side between the magnificent floor-to-ceiling organ and trying to see Saige and Garrett.
It was peaceful, that slight pause before the pageant, surrounded by people waiting, cameras poised, for a glimpse of their sweet kids. Peaceful and pretty and Christmasy. I felt like a grown-up. A grown-up parent. I'm not sure if I've sat in a pew waiting for carols to begin since I was a little girl in an itchy, petticoated dress of my own. I'd forgotten the anticipation.
They came down the center aisle, all in a row, so proud with their peacock feathers spread, stepping carefully into their places on the stage. (I said a quiet prayer of thanks to God and Amy for my own small miracle because you should have seen the angel dresses and the ties. My children blended right in. You couldn't even see from the pews that most of the sequins had fallen off of Saige's dress). They sang Go Tell It On The Mountain and We Wish You A Merry Christmas and Silent Night.
I cried a little to see my Kindergartners. My Kindergartners. Up there on the risers. They knew every word and every hand motion. I was so glad that we went.
It ended and Garrett shattered the stillness by blaring, "Mommy! EXCUSE ME MOMMY!" from the risers. I raised my finger carefully to my lips, which I bit to keep from laughing out loud.
"Garrett what on earth did you need to tell me when you were up on stage?" I asked him in the van. That you loved me? That you were so proud to sing for Quinn and I?
"I wanted to know if you had my coat," he said around a huge mouthful of sugar cookie.
Uh huh. Even if I am a human coat rack, I'm still so very glad we went. And I am glad for parties with wine and no children.
I know you will think I'm a Scrooge and I will tell you that I am. I don't like things for children in the evening. My kids go upstairs at 6:30. By 7:00 they are marginally scrubbed, PJed, brushed, read to, sang several lullabies and in their adorable matching toddler beds listening to music. One CD. When it ends and the dulcet strains of Big Bird fade, they are usually all asleep
I didn't want to go. It was all so complicated. I needed a sitter because Matt had picked up a shift until 10:00 p.m. and my friend was having a party and I was tired and it started at 7:00 p.m. and did I mention that I don't do kids after 7:00 p.m.? But I pushed through. I rallied and fed them and sent Saige and Garrett upstairs to get dressed. It was pajama day at school and they both still wore their fuzzy, footed pajamas at dinner time. The sitter came. Nate screamed like she regularly pinches him and clung to my leg. I pried him off while giving her the complicated rundown. I hope to have the big kids home by 8:30, my friend Kayla, you know Kayla? She's going to bring her little boy over around 7:30, but Nate and Quinn should be asleep by then and you already talked to her right? And then I'll go to the party for a bit. Kayla said she'd pick up Leo by nine. I might be late, but Matt will be home by ten. Is that okay?
Nate still screamed. Kelsey, our sitter, our second Kelsey in a run of adored Kelseys begged me to just leave with her eyes. Shut up and go. I know how to do it.
She does. Thank god. I ran upstairs and herded Saige and Garrett down in their jeans and t-shirts. Garrett had marker all over his face. Saige's shirt had some sort of permanent white stain down the side. The ghost of Christmas Amy touched my shoulder and I pictured the children at her Christmas Eve party last year in their angel dresses with red satin and white lace and their sweater vests and ties and something told my little pagan soul that this was not quite right. This was not quite right for a Christmas pageant in a huge Presbyterian church with three grades of excited students and 300 beaming parents and grandparents.
I almost threw in the towel then. I won't go, I thought, but they were so excited. They'll go like this, dammit, but something stopped me and I herded them back upstairs and fished last year's Costco Christmas dress and a two-year-old wedding sweater vest out of the closet. Dressed, scrubbed, ready, we headed back for the car. At the last minute, I met Quinn's forlorn little eyes at the bottom of the stairs and I caved completely.
Do you want to come with us? The child radiated happiness. He broke his neck nodding.
So. Great then. NOW I was paying a very wonderful, very worth it, very expensive sitter to put my baby to bed (which involves handing him a bottle and laying him down) and watch TV while she waited for my friend to bring her child so that we could all go to a party, but not until I survived this whole Christmas pageant thing.
The sanctuary glowed. Its wood polished, lighted and pine-boughed for Christmas. It's been years since I was in a church in this season. We all rustled in our finery, sitting in the pews, facing the empty risers. Well, most rustled in their finery, I didn't quite make it out of my jeans. My nice jeans. Quinn held my hand and twisted his neck from side to side between the magnificent floor-to-ceiling organ and trying to see Saige and Garrett.
It was peaceful, that slight pause before the pageant, surrounded by people waiting, cameras poised, for a glimpse of their sweet kids. Peaceful and pretty and Christmasy. I felt like a grown-up. A grown-up parent. I'm not sure if I've sat in a pew waiting for carols to begin since I was a little girl in an itchy, petticoated dress of my own. I'd forgotten the anticipation.
They came down the center aisle, all in a row, so proud with their peacock feathers spread, stepping carefully into their places on the stage. (I said a quiet prayer of thanks to God and Amy for my own small miracle because you should have seen the angel dresses and the ties. My children blended right in. You couldn't even see from the pews that most of the sequins had fallen off of Saige's dress). They sang Go Tell It On The Mountain and We Wish You A Merry Christmas and Silent Night.
I cried a little to see my Kindergartners. My Kindergartners. Up there on the risers. They knew every word and every hand motion. I was so glad that we went.
It ended and Garrett shattered the stillness by blaring, "Mommy! EXCUSE ME MOMMY!" from the risers. I raised my finger carefully to my lips, which I bit to keep from laughing out loud.
"Garrett what on earth did you need to tell me when you were up on stage?" I asked him in the van. That you loved me? That you were so proud to sing for Quinn and I?
"I wanted to know if you had my coat," he said around a huge mouthful of sugar cookie.
Uh huh. Even if I am a human coat rack, I'm still so very glad we went. And I am glad for parties with wine and no children.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Molluscum contagiosum
For weeks now, I've been mildly concerned about two little pearly bumps in Quinn's left armpit. I noticed them and showed them to Matt and promptly forgot about them. At bedtime, I would notice the larger one and comment that maybe we should have it looked at and then forget. Until the other night when I went in to check out the largest skintag/bump/zit/whatthehellisinQuinn'sarmpit and lo and behold they had multiplied like a freaking loaves and fishes Christmas miracle. At the count of nine, I called Matt in for consultation. He had no idea, so I did what every mother does when her child has freaky pearl-like skin bumps, I asked twitter.
O great and powerful twitter: @anymommy Quinn has all these weird little skin...bubbles? ... in his armpit. He's three so more likely silly skin virus than something horrid, right?
And twitter, well okay, Dre, @walktherope, answered me: I'd have to see them to give a real opinion, but look up molluscum (think I'm spelling that right) it can look like skin bubbles.
Molluscum. That sounds absolutely disgustingly like my child has small barnacle sea creatures growing from his underside. So, yes, yes of course, that's probably exactly what it is.
Then, I did what every mother who asks twitter and gets an immediate diagnosis does.
Call our pediatrician? WHAT? We have killer copays and he doesn't have a well baby until JULY and his arm is functioning and obviously getting blood flow, so um NO. I googled "molluscum."
Ah yes, said Google, Molluscum contagiosum. We know it well.
I didn't even have to get to the description of this skin virus which actually involved the words "pearly" and "zit-like." I saw "contagiosum" and I knew immediately that this is exactly what my child has. Contagious skin barnacles. Of course he does. Is the universe kidding me? It's like some celestial being that's watched too many Harry Potter movies pointed it's big elder wand at me and was all, oh yeah, you mock the elf on the shelf and fake trees, I curse you.
MOLLUSCUM CONTAGIOSUM. Take that, anymommy.
The best part was that I could not restrain my obsessive compulsive picking tendencies and I had messed with the largest contagious skin barnacle until it popped. Oh.my.god., I know how you all LOVE to hear about how disgusting we are in intimate detail. You should go back and read the pinworm post (Update: the pinworm post link, by request). Google got the last word on that one because the little health blurb was all (I paraphrase), "and don't mess with those suckers either because the virus lives in the waxy white center and that's why it is contagious when a child scratches the bumps."
Or when his psycho mother pops them. So, I am waiting to develop contagious skin barnacles on my face while I try to think of an appropriate countercurse for the whole entire universe.
Like ASSICUS BOILUS VIRALUS!
Or perhaps the dreaded OCULAR WORMICUM HORRIFICO! Wherein the Twelve Days of Christmas, Feliz Navidad and Mele Kalikimaka will play in your brain for the rest of your life on repeat FOREVER. Ha! I hope you are all good at countercurses or shield curses, but I've already got all of my protective incantations set up so don't even try to deflect that shit back this way.
HUMBUGICUS BAHAVERA.
O great and powerful twitter: @anymommy Quinn has all these weird little skin...bubbles? ... in his armpit. He's three so more likely silly skin virus than something horrid, right?
And twitter, well okay, Dre, @walktherope, answered me: I'd have to see them to give a real opinion, but look up molluscum (think I'm spelling that right) it can look like skin bubbles.
Molluscum. That sounds absolutely disgustingly like my child has small barnacle sea creatures growing from his underside. So, yes, yes of course, that's probably exactly what it is.
Then, I did what every mother who asks twitter and gets an immediate diagnosis does.
Call our pediatrician? WHAT? We have killer copays and he doesn't have a well baby until JULY and his arm is functioning and obviously getting blood flow, so um NO. I googled "molluscum."
Ah yes, said Google, Molluscum contagiosum. We know it well.
I didn't even have to get to the description of this skin virus which actually involved the words "pearly" and "zit-like." I saw "contagiosum" and I knew immediately that this is exactly what my child has. Contagious skin barnacles. Of course he does. Is the universe kidding me? It's like some celestial being that's watched too many Harry Potter movies pointed it's big elder wand at me and was all, oh yeah, you mock the elf on the shelf and fake trees, I curse you.
MOLLUSCUM CONTAGIOSUM. Take that, anymommy.
The best part was that I could not restrain my obsessive compulsive picking tendencies and I had messed with the largest contagious skin barnacle until it popped. Oh.my.god., I know how you all LOVE to hear about how disgusting we are in intimate detail. You should go back and read the pinworm post (Update: the pinworm post link, by request). Google got the last word on that one because the little health blurb was all (I paraphrase), "and don't mess with those suckers either because the virus lives in the waxy white center and that's why it is contagious when a child scratches the bumps."
Or when his psycho mother pops them. So, I am waiting to develop contagious skin barnacles on my face while I try to think of an appropriate countercurse for the whole entire universe.
Like ASSICUS BOILUS VIRALUS!
Or perhaps the dreaded OCULAR WORMICUM HORRIFICO! Wherein the Twelve Days of Christmas, Feliz Navidad and Mele Kalikimaka will play in your brain for the rest of your life on repeat FOREVER. Ha! I hope you are all good at countercurses or shield curses, but I've already got all of my protective incantations set up so don't even try to deflect that shit back this way.
HUMBUGICUS BAHAVERA.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
I'm gonna get your goat
UPDATE: AND THE GOAT GOES TO ... Susie!!!
I used random.org and it generated a random list of the numbers 1-50 (since there were 50 comments). The first few numbers are below (that's the lawyer in me, must provide proof) and #5 was the top pick. Susie left the fifth comment, so YAY! Goat for Susie. Email me and I'll email you and we'll get all your information to the awesome Oxfam people helping with this giveaway. Meanwhile, as lucky Susie gets a goat, I get contagious skin barnacles, but that's a whole different post that I will definitely be posting. Probably right now. Skin barnacles suck, but you all are wholly and completely awesome. Thanks for commenting and supporting Oxfam, goats for rural families, me and that spirit of the season thing. If you want to weep a little over how good people can be, go and check out what's been going on at www.thebloggess.com. Amazing.
Random Sequence Generator
Here is your sequence:5 33 45 27 25 15
Enough about me. Let's talk about a charity called Oxfam and how they are helping families all over the world, making their lives a little brighter, their futures a little more certain and their children a little healthier.
It's no secret that while the first world celebrates the holidays, people around the world struggle to feed their families. We all help in large and small ways to try and ease things for others at home and abroad.
What if you could help AND be a part of cutting edge fashion trends? Because as Oxfam and their fabulous fashion forward spokesman point out, there is nothing more fashionable than draping a goat around your shoulders or donning a chicken, or wrapping yourself in a sheep. If you plan to send that livestock to a family in need in a rural community. That is the beauty of The Oxfam Collection, 2010. Gifts that provide life. Gifts that sustain. Gifts that make a difference.
Please consider The Oxfam Collection, 2010 as you bustle about for last minute gifts this year. A dozen chicks for that uncle who has everything. A grove of miracle trees for your boss. I mean does he really need more chocolate? What about books for kids who need them as a gift exchange between your own children? We're going to give books from Oxfam this year as the gifts between my kids and it shocked me how well they understood this concept.
Here's the fun part. Oxfam is letting me give away a goat to a reader! One of you can give the gift of milk, fertilizer and food to a struggling family. All you have to do is comment on this post and you've entered to win. Comment by midnight (PST) Friday, December 17. I'll choose a winner with one of those random thingys over the weekend and announce the name on Monday. So fun. So easy. So heart-warming. Thanks, Oxfam.
Wait. Fine print: 1) You have to live in the United States to win. (Sorry Canadians.) 2) You cannot keep the goat. I know. That's just mean. If you really need a goat, email me, I'll see what I can do, but this one has to go to needy families in very rural areas of the world. 3) You have to leave me a valid email somehow or contact me after I announce you as the goat gift recipient. 4) You have to pledge your first born child to me. 5) That last one was a joke, I have plenty of children, I want money. 6) KID(DING). Ahahaha. I slay me. This is absolutely legit and Oxfam is an amazing charity, now go forth and comment.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The trappings of Christmas
Matt and I are really different. I deeply appreciate a good bargain and I'm careful with money, but I get easily frustrated, bored or desperate and I just want to get the damn shopping over with already. Matt is a comparison shopper. He never gets bored. He never gets desperate. He never balks at the idea of returning to the same damn store we originally visited later to buy something after checking out the prices in fifteen thousand million other stores.
So, with that background, yesterday was long. And boring. And I can't even begin to tell you how desperate I was by 10:00 a.m. It's that age old story. Christian boy meets nice semi-Jewish girl. Girl is adamant about live Christmas trees. Boy thinks live trees are a colossal waste of money. Girl begs every year for the picture perfect outing to the tree farm. With reindeer! And cocoa! And beautific rosy cheeked children! The outing is never picturesque or perfect, but girl perseveres. Boy mocks. Boy stalls. Boy cries fire hazard! Boy convinces girls to acquire horrific, tree-eating horse-dog. Girl caves two weeks before Christmas. Boy and girl go on endless comparative shopping trip for fake trees. Girl throws temper tantrum hissy fit in parking lot of Lowe's because, if we are doing this, she wants the expensive tree with the realistic needles and the full shape and the thousands of perfect white twinkly lights. Otherwise girl wants a live tree with outing and cocoa RIGHT NOW. Or Saturday, when everyone is home. Boy does math in head based on price of fluffy full shaped grand fir live trees and agrees to expensive fake tree because the "ROI" is five years out.
?
Girl demands Starbucks chai tea latte and the "ROI" is immediate if boy ever wants to see girl without pants in his lifetime again.
Then we had to pick up the Kindergartners and since the day was one long extended outing anyway, we took the whole crew to see "one of Santa's helpers" at the mall.
Waiting to see Santa. Yes, I only finished half of Saige's hair last night. I'll get it done before the damn Christmas pageant, okay? Don't rush me. I'm over the rope bridge, remember?
Oh fun! Everyone is so excited! I'm loose in the mall! I'm so excited!
What.in.the.everloving.world.is.wrong.with.you.people. GETMEOFF. GETMEOFFRIGHTNOW. OMFGTHECREEPYREDGUYISTOUCHINGME.
My children could talk the ears off of a deaf reindeer. (Sample questions: Where are your reindeer? How'd you get that tree in here? Where are the elves? We have an elf in our house.) Also, when Santa asked Garrett what he wanted for Christmas, he said, with a suspicious glint in his eye: "I already told the elf."
No one told me the bearded guy gave out candy. Let's go back, I want to sit in his lap again.
Post Santa visit of ridiculousness, we drove BACK to Home Depot to buy the very first fake tree that I liked from the morning, except that they didn't have any more. They haven't had any for weeks, a state of affairs that we neglected to ask after on our earlier visit. You know, because most sane people have their Christmas trees already because most sane people do not fight about Christmas tree acquisition for two weeks before purchasing.
Well. We are not most sane people. Obviously.
Then we drove back to Lowe's where Matt went in to ask them to match Home Depot's price on the tree of my desire while I sat in the van and had a meltdown along with all four of my children on the phone with my mother. Other people drunk dial, I parking lot dial on Matt's comparative shopping excursions of unhappiness. Ask my mom and my sister, they have listened to me rant from many a parking lot. I also text Elise. If you'd like to get on my parking lot dial list, please let me know, I need fresh victims.
Lowe's didn't have any more pretty fake trees either, surprise, surprise, but when Matt returned to the car his shoulders were slumped a bit in defeat and I didn't have the heart to vent my trapped in the van with four grumpy children frustration on him. Instead I suggested nicely that we plan a trip to the really cool tree farm with reindeer and cocoa for Saturday.
At home, I put the four children to bed while Matt comparative fake tree shopped on line in the last gasp hope that he could order a fake tree and have it here before Saturday. Suddenly, his excited voice echoed from the office. "Can you hold it?! I'll be right there."
The man had found the fake tree of fluffy real needle twinkly light happiness at a Home Depot thirty minutes away on the state line. (The Idaho, Washington state line if you're wondering.) He whistled for his reindeer(-sized dog) and loaded his sleigh(-like Suburban) and flew out of sight into the foggy, freezing-rain of the night. An hour later he returned triumphant with the exact tree that we had chosen that morning except that it was on clearance and he got it for $99.00 instead of $238.00.
Matt wins Christmas. He lives under a lucky star.
So, with that background, yesterday was long. And boring. And I can't even begin to tell you how desperate I was by 10:00 a.m. It's that age old story. Christian boy meets nice semi-Jewish girl. Girl is adamant about live Christmas trees. Boy thinks live trees are a colossal waste of money. Girl begs every year for the picture perfect outing to the tree farm. With reindeer! And cocoa! And beautific rosy cheeked children! The outing is never picturesque or perfect, but girl perseveres. Boy mocks. Boy stalls. Boy cries fire hazard! Boy convinces girls to acquire horrific, tree-eating horse-dog. Girl caves two weeks before Christmas. Boy and girl go on endless comparative shopping trip for fake trees. Girl throws temper tantrum hissy fit in parking lot of Lowe's because, if we are doing this, she wants the expensive tree with the realistic needles and the full shape and the thousands of perfect white twinkly lights. Otherwise girl wants a live tree with outing and cocoa RIGHT NOW. Or Saturday, when everyone is home. Boy does math in head based on price of fluffy full shaped grand fir live trees and agrees to expensive fake tree because the "ROI" is five years out.
?
Girl demands Starbucks chai tea latte and the "ROI" is immediate if boy ever wants to see girl without pants in his lifetime again.
Then we had to pick up the Kindergartners and since the day was one long extended outing anyway, we took the whole crew to see "one of Santa's helpers" at the mall.
Waiting to see Santa. Yes, I only finished half of Saige's hair last night. I'll get it done before the damn Christmas pageant, okay? Don't rush me. I'm over the rope bridge, remember?
Oh fun! Everyone is so excited! I'm loose in the mall! I'm so excited!
What.in.the.everloving.world.is.wrong.with.you.people. GETMEOFF. GETMEOFFRIGHTNOW. OMFGTHECREEPYREDGUYISTOUCHINGME.
My children could talk the ears off of a deaf reindeer. (Sample questions: Where are your reindeer? How'd you get that tree in here? Where are the elves? We have an elf in our house.) Also, when Santa asked Garrett what he wanted for Christmas, he said, with a suspicious glint in his eye: "I already told the elf."
No one told me the bearded guy gave out candy. Let's go back, I want to sit in his lap again.
Post Santa visit of ridiculousness, we drove BACK to Home Depot to buy the very first fake tree that I liked from the morning, except that they didn't have any more. They haven't had any for weeks, a state of affairs that we neglected to ask after on our earlier visit. You know, because most sane people have their Christmas trees already because most sane people do not fight about Christmas tree acquisition for two weeks before purchasing.
Well. We are not most sane people. Obviously.
Then we drove back to Lowe's where Matt went in to ask them to match Home Depot's price on the tree of my desire while I sat in the van and had a meltdown along with all four of my children on the phone with my mother. Other people drunk dial, I parking lot dial on Matt's comparative shopping excursions of unhappiness. Ask my mom and my sister, they have listened to me rant from many a parking lot. I also text Elise. If you'd like to get on my parking lot dial list, please let me know, I need fresh victims.
Lowe's didn't have any more pretty fake trees either, surprise, surprise, but when Matt returned to the car his shoulders were slumped a bit in defeat and I didn't have the heart to vent my trapped in the van with four grumpy children frustration on him. Instead I suggested nicely that we plan a trip to the really cool tree farm with reindeer and cocoa for Saturday.
At home, I put the four children to bed while Matt comparative fake tree shopped on line in the last gasp hope that he could order a fake tree and have it here before Saturday. Suddenly, his excited voice echoed from the office. "Can you hold it?! I'll be right there."
The man had found the fake tree of fluffy real needle twinkly light happiness at a Home Depot thirty minutes away on the state line. (The Idaho, Washington state line if you're wondering.) He whistled for his reindeer(-sized dog) and loaded his sleigh(-like Suburban) and flew out of sight into the foggy, freezing-rain of the night. An hour later he returned triumphant with the exact tree that we had chosen that morning except that it was on clearance and he got it for $99.00 instead of $238.00.
Matt wins Christmas. He lives under a lucky star.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Across the divide
Gray-brown slush sloshed over the top of my boots. Nate and three heavy shopping bags hung precariously from my right arm as I dug in my pockets for the keys to my dilapidated minivan. It has hit the fence on the way in and out of our driveway too many times to call it "used" any more. Nate wore only a sweater because I hate dealing with his coat when we dash in and out of stores on errands. His adorable blue boots - hand-me-downs that have made it through all three boys - slipped down and dangled dangerously over the sludge, revealing that he wore no socks inside the fuzzy lining. He smeared his runny-nose snot across the shoulder of my new chocolate brown coat as he turned his head from side to side to see the activity of the busy parking lot.
I saw her as we entered our row, about half way down on the left, carefully placing the frame of a gorgeous travel system so that it sat in as little slush as possible. I probably noticed because the fabric pattern was an appealing chocolate brown and blue. I love chocolate brown. I chose it for all my babies. A perfectly matched deep brown diaper bag sat in the basket below the stroller and another bag, in a lovely coordinating pattern, hung from the handle. Her mother, the older woman looked too much like her to be anyone else, helped her carefully arrange everything before the cargo for whom all of this preparation was done was lifted from the car.
A newborn, I thought. Her first. I peeked on my way by and saw the tiny weeks-old face snuggled beneath a car seat cozy that complimented the carrier that matched the travel system. I remember that, I thought. I remember how each thing purchased had to be perfect regardless of cost. I remember those first tentative outings that required an assistant and a timetable. I remember being her.
Was it only five years ago? Is that possible? Should I smile or cry at the way I now schlep four kids to Costco at 4:00 p.m., assistantless, fearless, diaperbagless, snackless, counting on the snack grannies and really good off-brand diapers to get us through. We haven't bought a big baby item new in three years and two babies. Should I wince at the peanut butter snot mixture on my kids' faces? The mismatched clothes because they surprised me and dressed themselves? I do feel a pang for the borrowed utilitarian blue carrier that Nate rode about in for the first six months of his life. It was great and we were thrilled not to buy one, but I do so love chocolate brown.
We wouldn't be friends, she and I. Not because I think she's a snob or I wasn't there once or I can't understand. Not because she would judge me or my van or my makeupless face. Because the gulf between us is hard to bridge without a past relationship to nudge it along. Because it's been so long - not in calendar-years, but in experience-years, since I worried about nursing or sleep patterns or whether anything matched that still worked. My chaos would overwhelm her. Her first time need to do everything 'right' would wear on me the way fashion magazines wear on your self esteem.
I glanced at her in the parking lot across the yawning ravine and I remembered being on her side with tears in my eyes. But I'm not sorry to have made it across. That rope bridge is a bitch.
I saw her as we entered our row, about half way down on the left, carefully placing the frame of a gorgeous travel system so that it sat in as little slush as possible. I probably noticed because the fabric pattern was an appealing chocolate brown and blue. I love chocolate brown. I chose it for all my babies. A perfectly matched deep brown diaper bag sat in the basket below the stroller and another bag, in a lovely coordinating pattern, hung from the handle. Her mother, the older woman looked too much like her to be anyone else, helped her carefully arrange everything before the cargo for whom all of this preparation was done was lifted from the car.
A newborn, I thought. Her first. I peeked on my way by and saw the tiny weeks-old face snuggled beneath a car seat cozy that complimented the carrier that matched the travel system. I remember that, I thought. I remember how each thing purchased had to be perfect regardless of cost. I remember those first tentative outings that required an assistant and a timetable. I remember being her.
Was it only five years ago? Is that possible? Should I smile or cry at the way I now schlep four kids to Costco at 4:00 p.m., assistantless, fearless, diaperbagless, snackless, counting on the snack grannies and really good off-brand diapers to get us through. We haven't bought a big baby item new in three years and two babies. Should I wince at the peanut butter snot mixture on my kids' faces? The mismatched clothes because they surprised me and dressed themselves? I do feel a pang for the borrowed utilitarian blue carrier that Nate rode about in for the first six months of his life. It was great and we were thrilled not to buy one, but I do so love chocolate brown.
We wouldn't be friends, she and I. Not because I think she's a snob or I wasn't there once or I can't understand. Not because she would judge me or my van or my makeupless face. Because the gulf between us is hard to bridge without a past relationship to nudge it along. Because it's been so long - not in calendar-years, but in experience-years, since I worried about nursing or sleep patterns or whether anything matched that still worked. My chaos would overwhelm her. Her first time need to do everything 'right' would wear on me the way fashion magazines wear on your self esteem.
I glanced at her in the parking lot across the yawning ravine and I remembered being on her side with tears in my eyes. But I'm not sorry to have made it across. That rope bridge is a bitch.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Things I'm Over; A passive aggressive post that never refers directly to the thing it is talking about
(This is a boring blog world post. Just ignore it if blog world bores you, like it never happened.)
Enough with all the peace and light and joy and good will. I shopped all morning and I'm feeling ornery. Let's mock other people. Thankfully, we are perfect and therefore we have license to mock others at will. I can't even type that with a straight face. Let's mock everyone, including ourselves.
1) Snow. 1a) Ice. 1b) Icicles. 1c) Sludge. 1d) Scraping car windows. 1e) Frozen fingers.
2) Highs of eight degrees. 2a) Snow pants. 2b) Boots. 2c) Carrying wood. 2d) Wiping dog paws.
3) People who bemoan the lack of free thinking in the blogging community and then mock mercilessly anyone who disagrees with them.
4) Too cool for school blog posts/twitter references intended to make the rest of us feel dumb for speaking up or voicing an opinion.
5) Passive aggressive posts that never refer directly to the actual event that they are discussing. Oh, wait. Huh.
6) The behavior that I am exhibiting in this post.
7) Advent calendars. 7a) Creepy shelf elves that report to Santa at night. 7b) Brilliant millionaires who thought to market creepy shelf elves. 7c) Gingerbread house school projects. (I have been assigned frosting THREE times. They do not sell frosting at the dollar store, o teachers of mine children, I want animal crackers or mini-candy canes.)
8) People who think they are smarter than I am, even if they are smarter than I am.
9) Tweets that assume everyone on twitter is horrified by every single move any Republican makes any where.
10) The idea that Amazon is bound by the constitutional restriction of limits of free speech placed on the government. (Last I checked, Amazon had not yet taken over the government. Although, I believe there are several representatives from Georgia who align with the Amazon party.)
This one goes to eleven!
11) The idea that writers of pedop.helia propaganda are entitled to equal protection under the U.S. Constitution.
(Leaving aside the fact that Amazon.com is not the government (hopefully, barring coup), last I checked, even if Amazon were the government, pedo.philes and their propagandizers are not a protected class in the realm of constitutional law that prohibits discrimination by the government, like oh let's say, race or gender or political alignment, which means that the government may discriminate against pedo.philes in regards to their free speech rights so long as there is a rational basis for doing so. I'll give you a rational basis: Writing about how best to sed.uce chil.dren for your own sick sex.ual pleasu.re and then marketing that writing on Amazon. There's your rational basis. (Yes, I have been annoyed by this for months, thank you.))
Twelve!
12) Tweets by political bloggers suggesting that anyone who disagrees with the current regime is racist. (Not that I think Obama runs a regime. Because that's a very scary eastern dictator type of word, isn't it? Which might suggest that I thought he was a ... oh for fu.ck sake.)
Okay, let's go for twenty!
13) Christmas catalogs.
14) Sixteen and pregnant.
15) Peppermint bark knock-offs. Only William Sonoma's will do, trust me on this.
16) The word douche used as an adjective.
17) The dying baby pterodactyl noise that Nate makes when he wants something.
18) Whining. In particular, my children's whining, but I'm willing to paint with a broad brush here. Don't even think about whining at me in the comments. Italics are suspect because that's kind of a whiny font.
19) People who speak a second language fluently. Damn them for being smarter than me.
20) ?? (Your turn. What are you over?)
This list was inspired by Anna's Friday lists at www.abdpbt.com, because I may be a snarky bitch occasionally, but I'm not an identity vampire and I always try to give credit where due.
Enough with all the peace and light and joy and good will. I shopped all morning and I'm feeling ornery. Let's mock other people.
Things I'm Over
1) Snow. 1a) Ice. 1b) Icicles. 1c) Sludge. 1d) Scraping car windows. 1e) Frozen fingers.
2) Highs of eight degrees. 2a) Snow pants. 2b) Boots. 2c) Carrying wood. 2d) Wiping dog paws.
3) People who bemoan the lack of free thinking in the blogging community and then mock mercilessly anyone who disagrees with them.
4) Too cool for school blog posts/twitter references intended to make the rest of us feel dumb for speaking up or voicing an opinion.
5) Passive aggressive posts that never refer directly to the actual event that they are discussing. Oh, wait. Huh.
6) The behavior that I am exhibiting in this post.
7) Advent calendars. 7a) Creepy shelf elves that report to Santa at night. 7b) Brilliant millionaires who thought to market creepy shelf elves. 7c) Gingerbread house school projects. (I have been assigned frosting THREE times. They do not sell frosting at the dollar store, o teachers of mine children, I want animal crackers or mini-candy canes.)
8) People who think they are smarter than I am, even if they are smarter than I am.
9) Tweets that assume everyone on twitter is horrified by every single move any Republican makes any where.
10) The idea that Amazon is bound by the constitutional restriction of limits of free speech placed on the government. (Last I checked, Amazon had not yet taken over the government. Although, I believe there are several representatives from Georgia who align with the Amazon party.)
This one goes to eleven!
11) The idea that writers of pedop.helia propaganda are entitled to equal protection under the U.S. Constitution.
(Leaving aside the fact that Amazon.com is not the government (hopefully, barring coup), last I checked, even if Amazon were the government, pedo.philes and their propagandizers are not a protected class in the realm of constitutional law that prohibits discrimination by the government, like oh let's say, race or gender or political alignment, which means that the government may discriminate against pedo.philes in regards to their free speech rights so long as there is a rational basis for doing so. I'll give you a rational basis: Writing about how best to sed.uce chil.dren for your own sick sex.ual pleasu.re and then marketing that writing on Amazon. There's your rational basis. (Yes, I have been annoyed by this for months, thank you.))
Twelve!
12) Tweets by political bloggers suggesting that anyone who disagrees with the current regime is racist. (Not that I think Obama runs a regime. Because that's a very scary eastern dictator type of word, isn't it? Which might suggest that I thought he was a ... oh for fu.ck sake.)
Okay, let's go for twenty!
13) Christmas catalogs.
14) Sixteen and pregnant.
15) Peppermint bark knock-offs. Only William Sonoma's will do, trust me on this.
16) The word douche used as an adjective.
17) The dying baby pterodactyl noise that Nate makes when he wants something.
18) Whining. In particular, my children's whining, but I'm willing to paint with a broad brush here. Don't even think about whining at me in the comments. Italics are suspect because that's kind of a whiny font.
19) People who speak a second language fluently. Damn them for being smarter than me.
20) ?? (Your turn. What are you over?)
This list was inspired by Anna's Friday lists at www.abdpbt.com, because I may be a snarky bitch occasionally, but I'm not an identity vampire and I always try to give credit where due.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Let there be light
Blessed art thou, o lord our god, king of the universe, who wrought miracles for our fathers in days of old at this season.
Beautiful words, regardless of faith. Isn't it funny that it is a nearly universal symptom of humanity to celebrate light at the darkest time of the year? Perhaps we are all the same inside.
*****************************
Note above my shot glass menorah. You're a little bit embarrassed that you know me right now, even peripherally, aren't you? It's okay. I'm a little bit embarrassed that I know me. I ordered an actual menorah for next year!
Blessed art thou, o lord our god, king of the universe, who has allowed us Crate & Barrel.
I'll miss the shot glass menorah in all honesty. My favorite part of that picture is the larger than life Christmas tree advent calendar in the background that my converted-to-Judaism mother sent my children. We are a freaking melting pot in this house, people. (And that thing is the source of at least one screaming melt down per evening, Grandma. There is one drawer to open. I have four children.)
Christian Kindergarten meets Hanukkah. And has a "blow out the candles" contest from across the room. God didn't smite them, but I wanted to smite a few of them.
The challah riseth.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Holiday spirit
Two more days of Chanukah, two weeks until Christmas.
I hung wreaths and stockings with a morose air. The house pressed on me, tight and cluttered with the boxes of holiday decorations piled in the hall, pictures pulled down and stacked in a corner to make way for seasonal hangings and our usual stacks pushed to the side for relocating. Maybe I felt internally cluttered with lists and things clamoring for attention. Bake the challah for three preschools, decorate, finish the cards, check off present lists, no new pajamas yet for Christmas Eve, the menorah unlit during my travels, touched lightly. The last night, I promised, we'll do it the last night. As if that left me so much time. It's tomorrow.
On my constant runs up and down the basement steps, laundry, store the stacks, take down the empty decorations boxes, grab the flour, start the dough, I glimpsed Quinn through the door of the play room. He sat in the middle of a large arc of stuffed animals to which he gave careful, lisped instructions in his Quinn voice. "These are my babies," he told me as I huffed by. "They're sitting in sool, like Saige and Darrett." Ten minutes later, another fly by. "Momma? Quiet time too long."
I carried the pictures removed from the mantel and the wall upstairs. Nate cried in the nursery and I winced. The dough wasn't finished, three boxes of ornaments lay enticingly open in the hall, Quinn clamored to be allowed upstairs, only an hour until Kindergarten pick up. The baby screamed through his diaper change. My shoulders set in a harried hunch.
It's so much work with children hanging off of me and little hands into everything I don't place high enough and shrill voices howling at me for daring to take my attention away for an hour or two. Why do I do it? Why do I sign up for all the extras?
"Mooommmmaaaaaa. Quiet time TOO. LONG. I want to come UP."
"Okay," I called to him, the howling, snotty-nosed baby on my hip, the metal and unrisen dough taste of defeat on my tongue, "come up here and play."
Quinn stomped up the steps and through the kitchen. I handed the baby a cracker. Silence.
He was stopped a few steps into the living room, a wide-eyed cliche in his wonder, his little hands on either side of his face in a perfect Home Alone parody. He gazed at the fireplace, the huge wreath hung above, the stockings. "Oh," he gasped, "it's bootiful."
Oh yeah. That's why.
Here's a toast to all of us, the parents everywhere, the friends and volunteers, working themselves into a holiday tizzy. May we all have little moments to remind us that it's bootiful. Even if we had to make it that way our damn selves. Magic is still magic from behind the curtain.
I'm leaving comments open because I love Gayle so. But I want you to know that my inability to respond and my reading-blogs behindness is adding to my general panic. As always, I treasure every little thing you tell me.
I hung wreaths and stockings with a morose air. The house pressed on me, tight and cluttered with the boxes of holiday decorations piled in the hall, pictures pulled down and stacked in a corner to make way for seasonal hangings and our usual stacks pushed to the side for relocating. Maybe I felt internally cluttered with lists and things clamoring for attention. Bake the challah for three preschools, decorate, finish the cards, check off present lists, no new pajamas yet for Christmas Eve, the menorah unlit during my travels, touched lightly. The last night, I promised, we'll do it the last night. As if that left me so much time. It's tomorrow.
On my constant runs up and down the basement steps, laundry, store the stacks, take down the empty decorations boxes, grab the flour, start the dough, I glimpsed Quinn through the door of the play room. He sat in the middle of a large arc of stuffed animals to which he gave careful, lisped instructions in his Quinn voice. "These are my babies," he told me as I huffed by. "They're sitting in sool, like Saige and Darrett." Ten minutes later, another fly by. "Momma? Quiet time too long."
I carried the pictures removed from the mantel and the wall upstairs. Nate cried in the nursery and I winced. The dough wasn't finished, three boxes of ornaments lay enticingly open in the hall, Quinn clamored to be allowed upstairs, only an hour until Kindergarten pick up. The baby screamed through his diaper change. My shoulders set in a harried hunch.
It's so much work with children hanging off of me and little hands into everything I don't place high enough and shrill voices howling at me for daring to take my attention away for an hour or two. Why do I do it? Why do I sign up for all the extras?
"Mooommmmaaaaaa. Quiet time TOO. LONG. I want to come UP."
"Okay," I called to him, the howling, snotty-nosed baby on my hip, the metal and unrisen dough taste of defeat on my tongue, "come up here and play."
Quinn stomped up the steps and through the kitchen. I handed the baby a cracker. Silence.
He was stopped a few steps into the living room, a wide-eyed cliche in his wonder, his little hands on either side of his face in a perfect Home Alone parody. He gazed at the fireplace, the huge wreath hung above, the stockings. "Oh," he gasped, "it's bootiful."
Oh yeah. That's why.
Here's a toast to all of us, the parents everywhere, the friends and volunteers, working themselves into a holiday tizzy. May we all have little moments to remind us that it's bootiful. Even if we had to make it that way our damn selves. Magic is still magic from behind the curtain.
I'm leaving comments open because I love Gayle so. But I want you to know that my inability to respond and my reading-blogs behindness is adding to my general panic. As always, I treasure every little thing you tell me.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Homecoming
Home again, home again, lickety split. It was only three days. A little jaunt across the country. Saige would get her grandparents to herself. Quinn and Garrett would get a weekend with their Daddy.
Saige went to the ice show and hung out with me and picked all of her favorite shows without taking turns and stayed up late and had ice cream and grandma's pumpkin bars (to die for you will never eat pumpkin pie again). Garrett and Quinn saw a hockey game with Daddy and "camped" in the basement overnight. Daddy even set up the tent and the air mattress. (He is insane, you couldn't pay me to sleep in that basement.)
And for me?
I got to hear Garrett's sweet, high voice on the phone. Hi Mommy, can I talk to Saige? She already went to bed, sweetheart, what did you do today? Aw. I want to talk to Saige. I want to tell her that everyone asked for her at school and I want to tell her that we went to Leo's birthday party and we had cake AND a cupcake.
Forget missing mom when there's lording cake over your sister to be done. Unbeknownst to him, she had a similar report involving Grandma's all day cookie baking fest and ice cream. Oneupmanship in the world of five-year-olds.
I got to see them in the back of the car on the way home from the airport, so excited, stumbling over each other in their eagerness to share all their news. I got to watch Nate light up for Matt and then totter around on his unsteady legs after Hampton. "Dogdog. Dogdog. Dogdog."
I got to hear Quinn say, jazz hands flapping in my face in his excitement, "mall mellows go in the hotchawclet. Big mellows go on the cwackers." If you can decipher that in less than fifteen minutes, you're doing better than his mother. (Hint, it involved basement camping and big, big sticky.)
I got to come home. Now I need to stop pretending I have months until the holidays, bake some challah, buy some presents, deck some halls and a room or two and deal with my holiday card bottleneck. That's what I'll be doing feverishly for the next two weeks. It might even involve Costco after dark with all of the littles. Bring it on, mean Costco parking lot people. I'm ready for you.
Saige went to the ice show and hung out with me and picked all of her favorite shows without taking turns and stayed up late and had ice cream and grandma's pumpkin bars (to die for you will never eat pumpkin pie again). Garrett and Quinn saw a hockey game with Daddy and "camped" in the basement overnight. Daddy even set up the tent and the air mattress. (He is insane, you couldn't pay me to sleep in that basement.)
And for me?
I got to hear Garrett's sweet, high voice on the phone. Hi Mommy, can I talk to Saige? She already went to bed, sweetheart, what did you do today? Aw. I want to talk to Saige. I want to tell her that everyone asked for her at school and I want to tell her that we went to Leo's birthday party and we had cake AND a cupcake.
Forget missing mom when there's lording cake over your sister to be done. Unbeknownst to him, she had a similar report involving Grandma's all day cookie baking fest and ice cream. Oneupmanship in the world of five-year-olds.
I got to see them in the back of the car on the way home from the airport, so excited, stumbling over each other in their eagerness to share all their news. I got to watch Nate light up for Matt and then totter around on his unsteady legs after Hampton. "Dogdog. Dogdog. Dogdog."
I got to hear Quinn say, jazz hands flapping in my face in his excitement, "mall mellows go in the hotchawclet. Big mellows go on the cwackers." If you can decipher that in less than fifteen minutes, you're doing better than his mother. (Hint, it involved basement camping and big, big sticky.)
I got to come home. Now I need to stop pretending I have months until the holidays, bake some challah, buy some presents, deck some halls and a room or two and deal with my holiday card bottleneck. That's what I'll be doing feverishly for the next two weeks. It might even involve Costco after dark with all of the littles. Bring it on, mean Costco parking lot people. I'm ready for you.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Detours
Saige and Nate and I are in D.C. and it has become frighteningly apparent that living on the quiet, pastoral, slow-paced border of Idaho has destroyed my ability to live in the real world. I've lost all skills.
I used to be master of the greater Washington, D.C., Northern Virginia and Maryland highway system. Nothing phased me in my domain. A road that was one way into the city except from 3-7 p.m. when it was one way out? No problem. Bridge closure? I could get around it. Hidden two foot entrance ramp onto eight lane megahighway? Loved them all.
Last night at eleven my sister and I tried to drive from Bethesda back to my parent's house in Springfield. We sat in traffic on the Beltway for a really long time and I bitched incessantly about where - in the hell - all of these people could possibly be going at 11:00 p.m. ? Where? And then it opened back up and we started driving and we got off at the Springfield exit and we were completely confused for beaucoup amounts of time until we finally had to call my mother - at midnight - like irresponsible college kids - and beg her to help us because OMFG where WERE we? It said Springfield Parkway but we'd been driving and driving and driving and were we going the wrong way somehow? We turned around because we must be going the wrong way because their house is seriously like two blocks from the interchange of 495 and 395, which is where we got off so WHAT THE HELL?
It took my mom seconds to realize that we never made it to the 495/395 interchange because we somehow exited I-495 onto I-66 - an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT MEGAHIGHWAY headed towards West Virginia or Kentucky or something - without once realizing it. I'm all, mom that is not possible, we were ON 495, unless we passed through a break in the time-space continuum, I think I would have noticed exiting one eight lane highway for a second eight lane highway. Oh, well, she mused, they close 495 late at night sometimes for the construction. And everyone just has to drive to Kentucky. Of course. Makes sense.
There is one highway in all of Border of Idaho. Two ways to go. West to Seattle. East to Chicago. If you head to Chicago you'd better have a lot of gas because there isn't jack shit else in the 2000 miles between Washington and Chicago. If you head to Seattle this time of year you'd better have chains because the pass closes to all but chained cars regularly, but even if that happened to you and you couldn't get over the pass they STILL wouldn't just shoot you off onto some other highway headed to Nevada or Utah. You know why? THERE ISN'T ONE.
So, that was annoying, but we made it home and the kids slept the whole time, which meant it wasn't nearly as annoying as showing up at the airport all perky and clean and chipper at 8:00 a.m. the previous morning to be told that our flight to Salt Lake City was canceled and we could instead fly straight to Minneapolis at 1:20 p.m. I wasn't that stressed because straight to Minneapolis instead of SLC to Minneapolis - YAY!!!! Five hours in a small border airport with Saige and Nate - Not yay. And that was not even the the annoying part. I had to call Matt because he had dropped us at the airport an hour earlier on his way to take a hysterically sobbing Garrett (I wa-a-a-a-n-n-nt t-o-o-o-o go-o-o-o to GRA-A-A-A-A-MAAAAAAs) to Kindergarten and asked him to please come and save me from five extra hours at the airport.
I braced myself for the sarcasm extravaganza and called.
Matt: You realize that we have this thing called the internet and that you can just log right onto that darn thing and see if your flight is canceled or not?
Grrrrrrrrrrr. Yes, I do, but I had to do ten kajillion things to get all of the kids into the car by 7:30 a.m. ready to go to our myriad of destinations. I had like 30 seconds on the computer this morning and I checked my email because I assumed that since I'd printed my boarding passes the night before and no additional snow had fallen in the interim that the plane for which I held valid boarding passes would actually 1) take off in the generally right direction for Salt Lake City; and 2) not detour unexpectedly midflight to some other destination like Kentucky, which apparently highways in Washington D.C. may do AT WILL.
My mistake.
We made it. The kids were delightful, the trip was easy and security went smoothly. Now if highways would only stay where they are placed, leading helpfully to their original destinations, all will be well and we'll be back on the border of Idaho by Sunday.
(P.S. I led my discussion with families waiting to adopt from the foster system in Bethesda. I was so apprehensive. They were lovely.)
I used to be master of the greater Washington, D.C., Northern Virginia and Maryland highway system. Nothing phased me in my domain. A road that was one way into the city except from 3-7 p.m. when it was one way out? No problem. Bridge closure? I could get around it. Hidden two foot entrance ramp onto eight lane megahighway? Loved them all.
Last night at eleven my sister and I tried to drive from Bethesda back to my parent's house in Springfield. We sat in traffic on the Beltway for a really long time and I bitched incessantly about where - in the hell - all of these people could possibly be going at 11:00 p.m. ? Where? And then it opened back up and we started driving and we got off at the Springfield exit and we were completely confused for beaucoup amounts of time until we finally had to call my mother - at midnight - like irresponsible college kids - and beg her to help us because OMFG where WERE we? It said Springfield Parkway but we'd been driving and driving and driving and were we going the wrong way somehow? We turned around because we must be going the wrong way because their house is seriously like two blocks from the interchange of 495 and 395, which is where we got off so WHAT THE HELL?
It took my mom seconds to realize that we never made it to the 495/395 interchange because we somehow exited I-495 onto I-66 - an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT MEGAHIGHWAY headed towards West Virginia or Kentucky or something - without once realizing it. I'm all, mom that is not possible, we were ON 495, unless we passed through a break in the time-space continuum, I think I would have noticed exiting one eight lane highway for a second eight lane highway. Oh, well, she mused, they close 495 late at night sometimes for the construction. And everyone just has to drive to Kentucky. Of course. Makes sense.
There is one highway in all of Border of Idaho. Two ways to go. West to Seattle. East to Chicago. If you head to Chicago you'd better have a lot of gas because there isn't jack shit else in the 2000 miles between Washington and Chicago. If you head to Seattle this time of year you'd better have chains because the pass closes to all but chained cars regularly, but even if that happened to you and you couldn't get over the pass they STILL wouldn't just shoot you off onto some other highway headed to Nevada or Utah. You know why? THERE ISN'T ONE.
So, that was annoying, but we made it home and the kids slept the whole time, which meant it wasn't nearly as annoying as showing up at the airport all perky and clean and chipper at 8:00 a.m. the previous morning to be told that our flight to Salt Lake City was canceled and we could instead fly straight to Minneapolis at 1:20 p.m. I wasn't that stressed because straight to Minneapolis instead of SLC to Minneapolis - YAY!!!! Five hours in a small border airport with Saige and Nate - Not yay. And that was not even the the annoying part. I had to call Matt because he had dropped us at the airport an hour earlier on his way to take a hysterically sobbing Garrett (I wa-a-a-a-n-n-nt t-o-o-o-o go-o-o-o to GRA-A-A-A-A-MAAAAAAs) to Kindergarten and asked him to please come and save me from five extra hours at the airport.
I braced myself for the sarcasm extravaganza and called.
Matt: You realize that we have this thing called the internet and that you can just log right onto that darn thing and see if your flight is canceled or not?
Grrrrrrrrrrr. Yes, I do, but I had to do ten kajillion things to get all of the kids into the car by 7:30 a.m. ready to go to our myriad of destinations. I had like 30 seconds on the computer this morning and I checked my email because I assumed that since I'd printed my boarding passes the night before and no additional snow had fallen in the interim that the plane for which I held valid boarding passes would actually 1) take off in the generally right direction for Salt Lake City; and 2) not detour unexpectedly midflight to some other destination like Kentucky, which apparently highways in Washington D.C. may do AT WILL.
My mistake.
We made it. The kids were delightful, the trip was easy and security went smoothly. Now if highways would only stay where they are placed, leading helpfully to their original destinations, all will be well and we'll be back on the border of Idaho by Sunday.
(P.S. I led my discussion with families waiting to adopt from the foster system in Bethesda. I was so apprehensive. They were lovely.)
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