A Christmas Letter

 Dear Me in 2013,

I thought I would write to you to remind you, for future reference, how things went this Christmas.  Overall, I would have to say that despite the stress of it all, Christmas was nice, but I think you could incorporate a few ideas that would make life truly feel more the way it looks in the pictures.

First, please, woman PLEASE, do some shopping earlier in the year.  This whole shopping the week of Christmas was ridiculous.  And CHRISTMAS EVE???  Were you nuts?  Look, chica, no good can come of going out into that madness again.  Not ever.  That week is meant for family.  Don't forget it.

Also, beginning wrapping at midnight was not the swiftest move you have ever made.  This year, let's take Guy's advice and finally sew the Christmas cloth wrap into bags for faster wrapping, and start wrapping on the day the first gift comes into the house (note: teach Guy to use the sewing machine).

Not bad on the baking this year.  Kudos.  You really pulled off the gluten-free/dairy-free goodies for Tessa while still managing to bake a little for the rest of the fam.  The macaroons rocked.  Too bad those goodie bags for friends didn't make it out till after Christmas.  Good cover story, though, telling folks it was to help them gradually wean from the sugar.  All lies, but still.  Nice cammo.

And hey, thumbs up on the Christmas Cards; they turned out great.  Too bad half of them still haven't been mailed out.  Again, I would go with Guy's suggestion for next year of starting the card in August (note: teach Guy to draw and to do photoshop).

Mostly though, I think if I had anything that I really wanted you to remember for next year it would be; don't be such a crab next year.  It's a vicious cycle... late, rush, tired, crabby, late, rush... etc.  I know, things had to get done.  And they did.  It's just that I don't think that THAT was how you wanted your kids to remember you at Christmas.

I guess the nice thing is that with how fast the years seem to go by, it will be Christmas again in like, 25 minutes, so you will get another chance really soon.

Happy New Year, Me.  

I hear you have big plans for the coming year. 

Just make sure to create space for the really important things.

***

 The girls' ballet recital

"I am just thrilled to be here.  Really.  More tutus, please."

 Butterflies...

Just before going to buy new ballet shoes as gifts for them, 

I overheard a conversation indicating that they are "done" with ballet.  

Time for gymnastics, they say.  Sheesh.

 "This is how I help mommy bake.  I am the tester!"

 The last advent of the season... really my favorite 

part of all of our Christmas preparations.

 Kaylee enjoys the sumptuous spread of German goodies provided by Bishop and Kathy.

 Sleep in Heavenly Peace...

 Quick, they are holding still...take a picture!

 Christmas Eve snuggles

 It was a rough night at first.  Ethan's bike got stolen, everyone was fussy, and it was just not going the way we wanted it to.  Guy did a wonderful job of turning it all around, and we still managed to read our traditional stories; the Christmas story from the Bible, The Christmas Candle, The Redneck Night Before Christmas and the (regular) Night Before Christmas.

 Ever since our New Year in New York in 2009, 

Cannoli have become a Christmas Eve Staple.

 And of course... new jammies!

"Pyer-man!!!!"

 Just before the sugar-plums finished dancing in wee little heads.  Santa's bells were still being heard at our house at 6am.  Kids got up at 8:30.  Poor, poor Santa(s).

 New Hats...

 The only thing he wanted.  

Santa scored with a sale and a coupon.  

That dude is a totally savvy shopper.

 Christmas Night....

 Guy shows his love in food.

All tuckered out from a happy Christmas.

****

Off to Santa Rosa

 "I'm bringin' sexy back..."

  Gorgeous Sonoma County in Winter

 We went to see our Sweet Joyce, who spoiled us completely rotten, put up with our chaos, noise, and clutter and all the while acted like we
were doing her some sort of favor! 

She is so dear to our hearts.  She has been a part of our lives since Guy and I were first married, which, by the way...

 was exactly 18 years ago yesterday.  We celebrated by finally, FINALLY getting our couples massage that I gifted to Guy 2 years ago upon completing his Masters (no pictures included.  No one needs to see that!)

Then to the Crocker Art Museum where we feasted
on the paintings of Norman Rockwell, 

the first painter I ever fell in love with as a very young girl.

 We ate at a Tibetan Restaurant that was just the perfect way to celebrate a spicy 18 years of marriage, and then even poked around a few shops and held hands for a while (Ethan is old enough to babysit!).

I have to take a moment here to say...

I love my husband.

He is such a good friend.  

He knows and loves every line on my face.  

He knows how to help me in the ways I need it most. 

I am so grateful that I spend my life with this good man.  

And I love looking toward what the future will bring with him at my side.

***

No, that is not our future home, 

but the coming year certainly has a "bump" in store.

Some people say God works in mysterious ways.

I say he works in mischievous ways.

Baby Holman Due June 2013, 

and all is well.

Story Time (or) How to Get Thrown Out of a Thrift Store

Come away with me, boys and girls to a magical place called DI, which is short for Deseret Industries, and also for Downright Insanity, depending.  DI is a thrift store on steroids, quite like a Super Walmart, but cleaner and with less swearing.

Our mission: To get clothing for Ellie.  She was once the tiniest of our children for her particular age, but she has since "outgrown" that illustrious distinction, and lately she has been outgrowing everything else.  The fountain of hand-me-downs that once kept her from going naked has dried up, and so, in a moment of deluded over-self-estimation, I thought, "Hey!  Let's go to DI!  Just Ellie, Tessa, Jonah and me!"

(This, boys and girls, is where the music gets all foreboding, and you shake your head, knowing that only bad things can happen if our characters continue on their chosen path).

We had been in the store about 15 minutes, and had collected a pile of "try-it-ons" that was draped over the mini-shopping cart seat and handle, leaving the cart empty for Jonah.  In a flash - a literal flash of cloth and hangers - I witnessed the shopping cart fly up into the air and completely invert itself, Jonah inside, over the top of Tessa, who had just mounted the front end.  The cart landed on Tessa and thankfully, so did Jonah.  Nothing breaks the fall of a child like another child, that's what I always say.  The chorus of wails that burst from those two small humans was detected by seismographs at NASA three states over.

You know, there is nothing that calls the attention of store employees quite like a good old-fashioned cart flipping.  In a pair of seconds we were surrounded by extremely concerned onlookers, who chose to speak all at once offering assistance and asking what we might need.  Silence, I thought, a few ice packs, a couple of gags and a bag to put over my head, that's what.  Some chocolate might be nice, too.  Thank you.

I sat on the floor with a mostly-startled Jonah and a hurt Tessa both huddled impossibly in my one lap.  Ellie, for once, made herself quite useful picking up the clothing explosion that lay around us like the aftermath of a party at a nude beach.  I probed Tessa's ankle for a possible broken bone, and quickly assessed that she was bruised, embarrassed and otherwise fine.  I had arnica on hand (someday I will write an entire post on arnica.  You will run out and buy many tubes for you and your loved ones, I promise), so we globed some on, picked our selves off the floor and tried to act natural.  Nothing to see here folks.  Move along, move along.  

A moment later a worker materialized beside me and handed my kids stuffed bears.  Used, scary looking stuffed bears.  We all smiled and I assured him the kids were fine.

Now, I know you were thinking that this was my story.  But noooo, boys and girls, because now we get to cram a cranky toddler, a wounded-but-still-lively ballerina, a clothing diva and a half-spent mama into a handicapped fitting room stall for 45 minutes.  You see, Ellie has to bow, shake her booty, kick up her heal and spin in every stinkin' outfit.  Apparently, that is the proper way to try on clothing.  Jonah lasted about 10 minutes before he discovered the 12" gap under the stall door. 

You could almost hear his little brain say "Woo-hoo!  I'm free!"  Every time he got halfway out of the stall, I grabbed his heals and dragged him back under.  It was super fun for him for about 10 pulls, because about 1 in 5 tries he was successful.  By now Tessa had decided that she too, needed to try on clothing, so each time he escaped I would have to open the door to run him down while -not one, but two- girls squealed that I was "showing the world their bums".  Meanwhile Jonah giggled hysterically and dodged in and out of clothing racks like a rabbit with me in hot pursuit.

We did this about 5 times, till I got smart (well, let's say less-stupid) and sat on the floor in front of the door.

(Begin the screaming-toddler soundtrack here.  Continue on a loop, increasing the volume every 4 minutes). 

At a certain point, one of the store's many Oh-so-helpful employees called to me from outside the door, "Is everything alright in there?"

Are you kidding me?  No, everything is not alright in here!  I am at war with Attilla-the-Baby while battling with Miss Ballet who would like for me to buy her 5 skirts-she-doesn't-need, please, and Miss Can-I-skip-ages-10-through-12-and-go-straight-to-obnoxious-teenager?... I have burst a vein in my left eye, I am developing a bruise from a recent unintentional toddler head-butt, and we still have 8 more things to try on... NO...DECIDEDLY NOT ALRIGHT!

I wanted to say all that, but a little voice inside my head (the one that belongs to the mom who discourages me from dolling out pieces of my mind all willy-nilly to telemarketers) tapped the freaky-mom-voice on the shoulder and suggested that maybe we would not like to have Child Protective Services called on us today, especially when we are so close to being done.

"Oh, he's just really, really tired."  I call from my sumo-match on the dirty blue indoor-outdoor carpet in the stall.  Really, he has all the energy in the world, it's me who's really, really tired.  There is no answer.  Good, I think, I don't need another audience.  Was he really thinking he would somehow help?  Did he plan to offer to hold Jonah while I helped with zippers and buttons?  Perhaps he would like to give me a foot massage as well!  Yes, Sir, please.  I'd love your help.  And when you are done here, will you follow me home and clean up my disastrous house while I nap?

We spent $32.  That bought 3 pairs of pants, 2 dresses, 5 tops, a skirt, and a claw toy.  We also staggered for the exit with two very ugly bears and a headache, all free.

As we stepped through the giant sliding glass doors, I heard a sound quite like an enormous sigh.  It could have just been the whoosh of air as the doors slid closed behind us, but I swear it sounded like a store full of people breathing a sigh of relief.

OK, so we didn't get thrown out, but I don't imagine we'll be going back any time soon, either.

Cooking Lesson: How (not) to Make Lasagne

About two weeks ago my neighbors had a death in the family.  I decided to make them dinner.  They have to eat, I figured.  Food.  It's a little port in the storm.

I got home late from taking the girl's to class, and following my hubby's suggestion to make life easier on myself, I bought a frozen lasagne.

BAD.

BAD BAD BAD.

I wrestled my way through the discount grocery store with the girls and Jonah boy, struggled through the checkout stand, grappled my way through the loading-transporting-and-unloading of the groceries.  Far later than planned, I scurried into the house, arms loaded, to shove the frozen lasagne into the oven.

Oh, wait... preheat.... no forget the preheat.  The lasagne won't know the difference.

Now read the box.  WHAT!?!?!  80 to 100 minutes???  Let's see, it's now 4:50, add 80 minutes, so sometime between 6:10 and 6:30...  "Quick Ellie," I called, " run over and tell them I am going to be about 20 minutes late."  I frosted the cake made earlier, made a salad and garlic bread then headed for the oven at the time dictated by the box.

It's 6:10.  I opened the cover of the lasagne, dismayed at the sight of unmelted cheese.  A finger poke to the center confirmed my frigid fears.  Not only was it not cooked, the lasagne was still frozen in the middle.

I freaked out for about one solid minute, which included a over-exaggerated rant about "trying to be nice always backfiring",  and a scavenge through the cupboards, presumably to look for the nice hot meal made by elves, miraculously hidden there.  Next, I did the "burst" part of bursting into tears, but realizing there was no time, I jammed my gearshift into overdrive and said to Guy, who had come in mid-rant, "OK, let me think!"

I grabbed a casserole dish small enough to fit in the microwave.  I cut the lasagne in half and plopped one side into the small dish and hustled it into the microwave.  This could work.  In about 8 minutes I had a pretty well thawed, and on the outside edges, cooked, lasagne.  But now I had to get at that middle.  Calling Guy, I grabbed a knife and chopped the pasta block down the center.  Using two spatulas I hoisted 'half of the half' into the air, balanced and dripping on two spatulas.  I (kindly but stress-ed-ly) rattled orders to Guy, who tipped the the dish toward the empty gap allowing the remaining lasagne fourth to schplop! into place, bringing it's cold part to the edge of the pan.  A quick plop returned the semi-cooked quarter to its waiting thumb-puzzle place.  Eight more minutes gave me a well "baked" half, and a rerun of the previous 16 minutes with the twin-half gifted me with a belated, but piping hot, Frankenstein lasagne.  A pile of cheese melted by the broiler hid the scars of the patchwork casserole, and the little slops of sauce on the sides of the dish from the slip-n-slide routine gave the meal a convincing homemade-feel.

Forty-five minutes late and accompanied by a hidden humble pie, we trudged our belated offering across the lawns a few doors down; cake, salad, garlic bread ...and Frankenstein, bringing up the rear.  The neighbors were kind and grateful.  I was embarrassed.  But at least it was done.

It wasn't homemade, but if you don't tell, I won't.

Sometimes our very best just happens to also be a sloppy mess.  Frankly, there will always be something we could do better, if each thing we did were done in a vacuum.  But it is not.  We have laundry and driving and diapers and meals and phone calls and friends and pets and yards and tomoato-sauce-splattered kitchen floors that all need our attention.

So your best might just be terrible today, but if it is your best, that's is nothing to be ashamed of.

Just find a way to melt cheese on top.

Loaves and Fishes and Tender Mercies

There are many major miracles,
ones like partings of seas and loaves of bread that feed thousands, and those miracles make the big time; we all know about them.  But there are minor miracles, Tender Mercies, some call them.  We had one on Tuesday.  Allow me to share.

We were just wrapping up our semi-weekly Spanish lesson, wherein I painfully guided the children through the worlds slowest and most agonizing game of "Pesca!" (that's "Go Fish" for all you Americanos) (please, if you ever think it will be a great idea to share a language with a child, increasing both vocabulary and conversational skills, by playing "Go fish!"... just save yourself the trouble and go slam your fingers in a car door.  Yeah, it's that much fun).  I was tidying up, (actually, I was just sitting dazed in a chair chatting with Kathy) as 10 children ages Jonah-through-Adam had all run outside to play, dragging with them sundry costumes, hamsters, toys and granola bars.  From my living room window I could see little people in various stages of unstructured play, and all was momentarily well with the world (now, besides my snazzy use of alliteration with all of those fabulous W's, I must point out that in this context, the word "momentarily" denotes a certain foreshadowing.  Crafty of me, huh? bum bum bum baaaaahm...)

The next paragraph begins with "All of a sudden".  Now when I say "All of a sudden", please envision with me a serene, park-like back yard (minus half of the grass), children joyfully playing, ABRUPTLY shifting to a scene from an old Japanese Godzilla movie.   

All of a sudden, children began screaming, first one, then three, then ALL TEN.  And running.  Was it a swarm of bees?  Had a child flipped off of the trampoline and been disgustingly impaled on a yard tool? Was there a murderer chasing ALL of them?

I heard Adam's voice above the din yelling "Toby!  Drop it!!!" echoed by other big-boy voices saying the same.  Then I saw Toby, running with something in his mouth, a sock, perhaps?  A toy?  That wasn't like Toby... what could he possibly? ... The girls screaming reached fever pitch as they trampled each other to get through the door.  And then it hit me...

"HAMSTER!!!!!"  I bellowed and bolted for the door, tripping over sobbing, screaming little girl's along my way.  I didn't have to go far, because as much as Toby hates noise, he hates angry boys even worse.  He came running into the studio and I intercepted him at the stairs.  He was shaking so hard his fur was blurry, and hanging out of his mouth was the back end of a hamster.  A fat, white butt and two motionless little legs were all that could be seen of Charlotte, Tessa's gift from Santa (who we really should have waited to name until after learning She was a He).

My need to stop the carnage over-rode my terror at the thought of the mouthful of hamster guts I may be extruding from Toby's mouth, and I easily pried open his jaw and scooped out the wet fuzzball.  Cupping my hands over it to block the view from little eyes, I ran to the living room, all the while trying somehow to console a hysterical Tessa.  I have said it before, and I'll say it again, thank heavens for Kathy.  This time her heroism took the form of comforting arms for sobbing girls while I examined the some-how-still-alive hamster. 

Though his saliva drenched orange fur looked like  it was covered with blood, a slow and careful going-over revealed no such trace.  The hamster sat in my hands, utterly still and so very stunned, but apparently unharmed.  I checked little arms and legs (pets have arms, ask any five year old), and ever so gently pressed each rib.  No flinching, no wiggly bits that should not be wiggly.  One wet, freaked out, but otherwise alive rodent.

Charlotte, back in his cage, walked around like someone who had just had surgery.  He climbed into his hamster wheel, because, well, there in not much else to do in there, and oh...so...slow...ly...and...gin...ger...ly walked.  There was no nose bobbing, no whisker twitching, but he was alive.  Suspecting some possible internal damage, I told Tessa that Charlotte was not out of the woods.  "If he lives through the night, she will probably make it, and if she makes it through tomorrow, I think he will be fine."  I told her.  I know, we are totally giving this critter a gender identity complex.  It's a work in progress.

Charlotte lived.  It's been 4 days.  Tessa learned many valuable lessons.  She knows now, that dogs can't tell the difference between a squirrel and a hamster.  She knows that if Charlotte has to poop, she should NEVER put her on the ground to do her biz-nis.  And she learned that God is good to little hamsters.

All that screaming curdled my milk.

It was a Tender Mercy that our little Charlotte lived.  Some credit must be given to Toby, who, having been trained as a soft-mouthed hunting dog, somehow knew not to bite down.  But really, I give all the credit to He who knows each sparrow that falls.  The tragedy that this would have been to a little girl I know would have been just beyond heartbreaking.  But you see, we officially reached our quota for chaos in the month of February by the 18th.  We are all full up on crazy here, thank you very much.

As I write this, Charlotte is trying out a new name.  Nibbles.  I like it.  I think the middle name should reflect his warrior spirit and his good fortune.

How about Lucky?

No Strings Attached

It was meant to be

breakfast in bed.

It ended up as breakfast after the shower.

No strings attached, just my girls bein' sweet to me.

On Sunday I lost my voice.

On Monday I could whisper.

On Tuesday I could croak.

And though I was feeling much better by Wednesday,

the girls decided to take pity on me, all out of the kindness of their sweet,

and in no way cunning or manipulative little hearts.

You feel it coming, don't you?

Smell that little wiff of  rat?

Come with me now to 15 minutes after I swallow my last chunk of apple.

Ellie tenderly asks, "Mama, do I get a kindness bead for making you breakfast?"

*

Huh.

Just when you thought you were doing something right as a parent.

Yes, this week we re-instituted the bead jars.  Beads = kid currency.  Earn one by doing your jobs.  2 kindness beads = 1 bead.  Earn kindness beads by being caught doing a good deed.

*

I hear Tessa is planning to make me a get well lunch tomorrow.

'Can't wait.

****

Don't forget to come by tomorrow (or Saturday.  It's OK, I know you're busy.  I'll wait up for ya').

The Studio is so fancy you could eat fudge off of it. 

I made you some really cute snowman earrings.

I'll save 'em for ya'.

It's a darn good thing

It's a darn good thing

tha I left my camera in LA last weekend when we went down for a family wedding.  Because if I hadn't, I would have taken it with me Saturday to the Evil Pizza Place that shall remain Nameless.  The one that makes you pay $10 to get in the door for their very unimpressive buffet, even though you will only have 2 slices of doughy-in-the-middle pizza and a small salad.  I would have ended up taking pictures of my devil-spawn children NOT having any fun and complaining constantly. 

It would have been a waste of pixels. 

Trust me.

But because I know that you want the gory details, I shall tell you.  But you will have to imagine it all, for alas, there are no pictures.  And it's a darn good thing.

There had been no way around it.  Adam had his last soccer game, and with all last-soccer-games comes the poorly planned end-of-season party and the "You showed up so you get an overpriced plastic trophy that your parents paid for".  So while Guy went to a funeral, I wrestled 5 reluctant kids back into the van to first go buy an over-priced Gluten Free Pizza to smuggle into the Evil Pizza Place a half hour away (in case you were wondering, gluten-free in this context means "disgusting if not eaten immediately").  Upon our arrival to the second pizza joint, the perky staff at the EPP graciously accepted my $40, which included full price for the child who could not eat their glutinous glop.  As drinks cost extra, I announced that water wound be fine.  No, that was not a question, it was a demand.  No child dare argue. 

The party room that had been reserved was just the right size for a small group of pigmies, and so we managed to locate the only empty table in the nearby dining room.  Whilst playing the food relay game with each child from the buffet area and back to our table, a courtesy-challenged old lady plopped herself down in one of our chairs and refused to move.  "No English" she mumbled. 

Oh, yeah, I believe you, Grannie.

I move all our crap to a dinning room somwhere in Outter Mongolia. 

 It takes 4 trips.  I stomp the whole way.

Tessa's $5 "all you can eat" consisted of 4 cucumber slices, a pile of hard boiled egg crumbs, and two helpings of ice cream.  Oh, but don't forget her cold, hard, $10 toppings-congealed on a gluten-free frizbee.  She ate 1 and 1/2 slices.

I told Ethan he had to eat enough to last him for the entire day because I had to pay adult price for him.  He had 4 slices of pizza and 5 ice cream cones. 

Frankly, I think he could have done better.

Later, we packed into Party Room #3 to witness the awards ceremony.  Some words were said, which no one could hear on account of the 2 kinds of music that were playing and the carnival on the other side of the partition. 

Back out to the zoo-room.

No, make that the bathroom. 

Jonah stuck his hands in the toilet during the 1.7 seconds it took me to pull up my pants.  The girls enjoyed the automated everything in the bathroom. 

Yeah, because that's why we came here, to play with the hand-dryer. 

In a black out, may you never find yourself in the potty of the EPP.

Now back to the zoo-room.  Not just arcade games, but rides and a playland. 

Somebody kill me now.

Time for some math: Two girls + 10 tokens does not equal 5 games each when each game costs two tokens.  I lug 27 pound Jonah around the arcade for 30 minutes while they play the "change your stinkin' mind every 4 seconds game". 

Finally, no more tokens. 

Halle-stinkin'-luja.

But now for my favorite part: the TICKETS.  The meaningless, pretend the kid did something of value and reward him with tickets to trade for CHEAP PLASTIC CRAP THAT WILL BE BROKEN OR LOST IN THE CAR BEFORE WE GET HOME. 

Now it is time for more math:  16 tickets divided by 2 girls = 1 cheap toy dinosaur.

But wait, by some freakish miracle, the pimply-faced boy behind the counter gives EACH of the girls a cheap toy dinosaur!  One pink, one purple!  He even guessed their favorite colors right!

Wait for it...

Tessa begins to cry.  She didn't want THAT toy, she wanted a DIFFERENT toy. 

I stand in the middle of the chaos and yell

"I HATE THIS PLACE!  WE ARE NEVER COMING BACK HERE AGAIN!"

but my voice is swallowed by the dinging bells and wailing sirens

 of the games and rides.

I grab the pink dinosaur out of her hand and march to the nearest trash can.

A sudden awareness and simultaneous appreciation for pink dinosaurs

sweeps over Tessa.

"No, Mama!  I changed my mind!  I like my dinosaur!!!"

Lucky dinosaur, that's all I've got to say.

Tokenless, we fill the last half hour in the baby play area waiting for Adam to finish up.  I spend 67% of my time rescuing Jonah from the bottom of the slide and the impending bloody lip that I wish to avoid from some kid named Josh with freakishly large feet.

.

Jonah cries.  He wants to nurse.  No, wait, back to the bottom of the slide.  No, nurse, no, slide...no...

Ellie whines that she is sooooo bored and she hates this place.

Amen, sister.

Finally, the boys cash in Adams tickets, everyone grabs a last cookie and the remains of the cold pizza-cracker, and 2 hours and 37 minutes after we first arrived, we straggle to the van.  Tessa cries the whole way because she couldn't have the cookie.  It has gluten.  A tiny vein bursts in my right eye.

But wait.  Do you hear that? 

Is that air whistling out of the giant inflatable hammer that Adam chose for his prize? 

Oh, why yes.  Yes it is. 

"It's OK, Mom," Adam says quickly, as I rather animatedly throw the van into a sharp U-turn. 

"OH, NO it is NOT ok!  That is a $40 hammer, young man, and by darn, you are going to get one that works!"

I march into the EPP and announce to the room at large that my son WILL be going back in, hand stamp or not, to trade in his toy for one that works.

No one argues.

Back at home, we tumble out of the van into the driveway, a mass of shoes and diaper bags and pizza boxes. 

And then it happened. 

You were hoping it would, I can tell.

It began with a whiny cry.

"Mom!!!!!"

"WHAT NOW?!?!?!"

"I lost my dinosaur!"

Oh.  My.  BLEEEEEEEP.

It was just under the seat.

But I have to tell you,

it's a darn good thing.