I just spent a mind-numbing half hour helping my son sign eighteen valentine cards for his classmates. Even he was getting bored, evident by his increasingly lax standards of how to make the letters in his name: “This is a different way to make a ‘C,’ Mom.” Looks good to me, buddy. No one is going to pay much attention to your valentine anyway since mom here went the cheap-o route this year and got the ones that don’t come with any candy.
The slow deterioration of good penmanship
I don’t care much about Valentine’s Day. It’s not that I dislike it; I am just completely apathetic toward it. Valentine’s Day is like the fifth guy from *NSync in the world of holidays…you know, the one that’s not Justin Timberlake, Joey Fatone, Lance Bass, or JC Chavez. You don’t mind that it’s there, but you also wouldn’t really notice if it wasn’t. (And since I spent a ridiculous amount of time deciding which holidays the other guys would be, please indulge this small tangent: Timberlake is totally the Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year’s triplet threat. Fatone is Halloween; goofy, fun, and you know he has some mad skills for trading bad jokes for candy. Bass, he’s a firework who lets his colors burst like the Fourth of July. And just like the Easter Bunny tries to be as cool as Santa, Chavez ain’t no Timberlake. Now back to the point.)
I am not the only one in my house who feels this way about Valentine’s day. My husband has made a declaration that I never have to buy him a card as long as we live. He thinks they are a racket. In fact, he doesn’t want me to get him anything for Valentine’s day…well, anything that costs money. Wink, wink. (*eye roll*) But we always feel the need to help the kids put something together for one another. I have to be honest. Despite the fact that we know we all love each other, these little tokens of Cupid feel a little forced and trite. For example, my daughter informed me today that she was going to write a poem for everyone in our family: “Roses are red, Violets are blue, Happy Valentine’s Day, I love you.” (Members of our family, I am so sorry to ruin the surprise.) Forced. Trite.
What my kids don’t know is that they give me little valentines all year long. And this is what they look like in my head:
AHA! They DO really love each other!I adore the little notes Grace leaves for me all the timeTrue stories.I die from cuteness.I will mold her into my tiny clone. *maniacal laugh*He also realized we don’t live in a barn and actually closed the door.No words necessary
That means the pressure is off for Valentine’s Day. I already have everything I need; and I am pretty sure the rest of my family does, too. So we can instead enjoy the fun of Mardi Gras today and properly stuff our faces for Fat Tuesday. And then tomorrow on Ash Wednesday we can realize that all the crap we ate today might lead to that whole “to dust you shall return” thing happening just a wee bit sooner than later. But at least we won’t have to worry about last-minute Valentine gifts.
However, maybe someone should send something to that fifth guy from *NSync. This is his holiday after all.
I have been feeling uninspired lately. Which is funny, because I have been having a lovely time of things. Christmas was merry, providing gathering after gathering of friends and family for whom I am ever increasingly grateful. Our typical Midwestern grumblings about there being no point in getting the kids new snow boots thanks to global warming has been silenced by a smattering of powdered fluff…not quite enough to cover the tops of grassy blades, but enough for some good snowballs and the breaking in of brand new sleds that sat untouched last year. And of course, tonight is New Year’s Eve, which we will spend with good friends. There will no doubt be a lot of laughter as we sit on the brink of yearly rebirth.
True, I have been busy. It is a busy time of year. But it has nevertheless been in the back of my mind that I should be writing some cleverly witty post about New Year’s: a new take on resolutions (i.e. a new way to beat a dead horse)? A reflection on the past year (i.e. regurgitate my archives)? Make a montage to Dick Clark (i.e. play the sentimental card)? But I just could not muster the desire. I just could not think of anything to say that I felt anyone should devote even a few minutes of their time to read.
But then I read these words as I was checking Facebook: “Life grows sideways.” It is a line from a book written by Michael Nesmith called The American Gene (available for download at videoranch.com), which admittedly, I have yet to read. But the notion intrigued me; it made sense. Life does not build on itself in a linear sense with predictable moments of change. The only reason we see the changing of December 31st to January 1st as a new beginning is because we have assigned that meaning to it. For some of us, it becomes a new beginning because we make it so. We use the excuse of a fresh, unmarked calendar as the impetus to make changes. And there is nothing wrong with that in the least. But for others of us, things stay relatively the same, including our attitudes. Or if we do change, it is not because we are suddenly writing 2013 at the end of the date. Metamorphosis can happen at any time. We can choose to reinvent ourselves on a Wednesday in the middle of September. Or life can choose to throw something at us when we least expect it, giving us no choice but to change.
More than anything, pondering the idea that “life grows sideways” helped me understand why perhaps I have not been feeling so motivated to write a New Year’s post. Instead, I stopped worrying about it and went outside to watch my kids play in the snow. Then I sat down and let all these thoughts flow out of me. Inspiration does come when you least expect it. Now I can feel as if I have met my self-imposed deadline, and enjoy watching the ball drop exactly when I expect it to.
It can be stressful to have a seven-year-old at Christmastime. Why? Because there is questioning. A lot of questioning. You know, about that plump guy in the red suit.
I have to be honest; Grace’s prying questions about Santa make me more uncomfortable than the few questions she has already asked me about S-E-X. Questions about sex, while a little awkward, haven’t been that hard to answer because I am making sure she has accurate facts, giving her knowledge that not only makes her feel okay about her own body, but will hopefully lead to informed and responsible decisions in the future. I subscribe to the very wise motto of G.I. Joe: Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.
But answering all these endless questions about Santa means I am doing the exact opposite: I am perpetrating a lie.
To tell…or not to tell? Copley Photo
It all started at the very beginning of December. We were in the car, sitting at a stoplight. The car behind us caught my eye in the rearview mirror because it had those little reindeer antlers on either side. I glanced at the driver for a glimpse of this person with undoubted Christmas cheer, and lo and behold…it was an older gentleman, with a round face, a long, fuzzy white beard, and a red shirt. I couldn’t believe my luck! Last year we happened upon a reindeer in our backyard just before Christmas, and now this! So I announced to the kids, “Look who is driving the car behind us!” They both quickly turned around, and Michael yelled, with an energy like the one that comes from eating too many pixie sticks, “SANTA!!!!!!”
Almost on cue, the man behind us smiled and waved at the kids. It was, for lack of a better word, precious. Just as I was feeling my own giant boost of yuletide glow, Grace said, a bit accusingly, “What would Santa be doing driving around here?” I explained that maybe he was making the rounds, checking up on kids, getting reports from all the Elves on the Shelves. She was quiet for a second. “I kind of think Santa is real. But I kind of think he is a fairy tale.” Well, isn’t that just Grinchy. And then the questions began…
I know what she’s doing. I can tell she is conflicted. She wants to believe Santa is real, but that maturing brain of hers is feeding her more and more of this thing call “logic,” and she’s not so sure she likes the taste of it. Therefore, instead of coming straight out with the question, “Is there really a Santa Claus?” she is asking every possible question about his practicality to see how I respond. Grace: What is Santa’s address?….Me: Just write “Santa Clause – North Pole. The post office will know where it goes because there is only one Santa….Grace: But if no one has ever seen Santa and his workshop is secret, how does the mailman know where he lives?….Me: (crap)
What am I supposed to do? Tell her that I am incredibly impressed with her abilities in deduction, throw up my hands to the fact that I will likely soon be out-smarted, and say, “Congratulations! I think you have just about figured it out. I will spare you the last two zillion questions you were going to ask me and just confirm what you are hinting at. THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS. And your parents are liars. Merry Christmas.”
Nope. That is not what I do at all. Instead, I conspire with my husband to dig ourselves even deeper in this jolly old lie. Ladies and gentlemen, witness our deception:
Grace’s Email from Santa
A few days ago, I was at the computer sending some emails when Grace asked me if the reason Santa knew all this stuff about her and Michael was because I emailed him. I confessed that I had absolutely no idea what Santa’s email address was. So Miss Smarty Pants said, “Just Google it.” I hesitantly typed in the words “Santa’s email address,” fearing that an entry would pop up saying something like “Trick your kids with this fake email address to Santa…because we all know Santa is not real.” Luckily, the first entry was an actual site where kids could send emails to Santa. And it was adorable. Grace entered her information and her note to Santa, then hit send. A screen popped up with a message that the email was being sent…then it said Santa was reading the email…then it said he was writing one back to her. Within a few minutes, Santa’s email was ready for her to read. She was a bit skeptical that he had written it so quickly, but that doubt was soon squashed once she read the email. It was very personal and even somehow had picked up from what she had written in the free-form comment section the fact that she had a brother. I was relieved to see she seemed quite satisfied.
But apparently her wheels had been turning all afternoon, because at dinner time she informed us she had a sneaky idea. She wasn’t so sure Santa had actually written that email, or that there really was a Santa to even email. So she had devised an “experiment.” She wanted my husband to go back to the site and enter in his name, but say he was 6-years-old and from Canada. By her reasoning, if Santa was real and really writing these emails, he would certainly know that Kurtis was actually an adult…and not living in Canada.
Well, *%$#@. But I have to admit, she is kind of a genius. And a little maniacal.
We knew we couldn’t talk our way out of this, so my husband agreed to do it. He went downstairs and started the email. All of a sudden, he came racing back upstairs, whipped into the family room and said in a hushed voice, “QUICK! Get on the Kindle, pretend you are Santa, and send an email to me saying that you know I was tricking you!” OOOOOH! You handsome devil you! But there was just one problem. I panicked, “But the site doesn’t send it to your email address! Santa’s email just pops up on the site after a minute or two!!!” But my enginerd had already taken care of that. He had unplugged the router so when they hit “send” nothing would happen. Then when he plugged the router back in, he quickly opened his email to find this message waiting in his inbox:
Subject: Naughty, Naughty
HO HO HO! You tried to trick old Santa! I know you don’t live in Canada.
Love, Santa
P.S. Rudolph thought that was a funny joke!
I know. The tangled web of lies we weave. But I have to say, it was totally worth it to see the look on her face and hear her exclaim, “YES! The email was really from Santa!”
Maybe I am setting her up for a bigger disappointment when she finally does learn the truth. Maybe I am being selfish. I know that the elaborate lengths my husband and I have gone to in order to keep Grace believing are in part for us. We see her losing pieces of “little” every day. Sure, her innocence still outweighs her worldliness. But childhood starts to look different around this age. It isn’t necessarily better or worse, but change is always hard. Every parent knows that faint tug of longing that comes whenever you catch a glimpse of a photo of your child during younger years. Remember…that squeaky voice…the way that tiny hand felt around your finger…that unquestionable belief in anything that could be imagined…it was adorable.
My Cutest Christmas Angel when she was 1-year-old
But seven-year-olds can be pretty adorable, too. Grace reminded me of that when she took a bit of offense to Santa’s use of the word “joke.”
“It wasn’t a joke. It was an EXPERIMENT.”
Maybe I will remember that line when Grace finally does come to the real conclusion about Santa Claus. And then I will let her eat the cookies her little brother leaves for him. I might need a lot of cookies.
Since it is the season of ghosts, here’s a little video for you:
Sorry. I had to. It’s Halloween law.
I love Halloween. Plain and simple. First, there’s the candy. Even adults sometimes need a special excuse to gorge themselves on fun size Butterfingers and Snickers. And there’s the dressing up. Halloween is by the far the best reason to slather on the face paint. Finally, there’s the scary movies. Though I can always enjoy a good horror flick any time of the year, pumpkin scented air somehow heightens the cathartic fear I crave.
My husband, on the other hand, hates Halloween for all the above reasons, except the candy. He will swipe a Kit Kat from a trick-or-treating stash faster than you can say “smell my feet.” But he loathes dressing up, so the fact that I have gotten him to do it so many times proves the omnipotence of my womanly wiles. And scary movies? Forget about it. He can’t even watch a commercial forGhost Hunters. He probably won’t even dare to read this post based on the title. He so wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse. I, however, will have my vast knowledge of survival skills, thanks to The Walking Dead.
To me, it’s all in fun. As far as I’m concerned, there are things much scarier than Halloween:
1. The junior girls’ clothing department in most stores. (Oh, the horror!) Don’t go into the bargain basement! The evil hoochie will suck out all your dignity!
2. Being stranded anywhere cold. Or just standing in the cold. Or getting out of bed on a cold morning. Or just thinking about being cold. (Now I’m freaking myself out.)
He is no doubt shooting the scariest movie I could ever see. This just looks horrific. Quick, someone show me a picture of a beach! (photo by By Chief Warrant Officer 4 Dennis Oglesby [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)3. Finding the perfect dress for an out-of-town wedding, traveling to the destination, and then realizing your forgot your Spanx. (I had to cover my eyes for that one.) We’re pushing the envelope of horror here. It’s worse than a slasher film.
4. Thinking your kid had an after-school activity only to get a call that she has been sitting in the parking lot waiting for you to pick her up…and sobbing. (Gasp!) Talk about Nightmare in the Carpool Lane.
5. Over-zealous salespeople at mall kiosks jumping out of nowhere. (No, please! I don’t have a minute to spare! If you let me go I won’t tell anyone! Please, I have children!)
Look at ’em. Just stalking their prey like Jaws. Watch your appendages or they may end up the victims of sneak attack massages or covered in alien lotions. (By warrenski, Drop dead Dead Sea scum! [CC BY-SA 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
6. The guy behind the counter at Qdoba who has absolutely no patience for me deciding which kind of salsa, beans, and cheeses I want adorning my burrito. (My heart is racing with suspenseful, impending doom.) NO TACOS FOR YOU!
Here’s hoping you only encounter ghouls and goblins, and not something worse. Happy Halloween!
Since it is the season of ghosts, here’s a little video for you:
Sorry. I had to. It’s Halloween law.
I love Halloween. Plain and simple. First, there’s the candy. Even adults sometimes need a special excuse to gorge themselves on fun size Butterfingers and Snickers. And there’s the dressing up. Halloween is by the far the best reason to slather on the face paint. Finally, there’s the scary movies. Though I can always enjoy a good horror flick any time of the year, pumpkin scented air somehow heightens the cathartic fear I crave.
My husband, on the other hand, hates Halloween for all the above reasons, except the candy. He will swipe a Kit Kat from a trick-or-treating stash faster than you can say “smell my feet.” But he loathes dressing up, so the fact that I have gotten him to do it so many times proves the omnipotence of my womanly wiles. And scary movies? Forget about it. He can’t even watch a commercial forGhost Hunters. He probably won’t even dare to read this post based on the title. He so wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse. I, however, will have my vast knowledge of survival skills, thanks to The Walking Dead.
To me, it’s all in fun. As far as I’m concerned, there are things much scarier than Halloween:
1. The junior girls’ clothing department in most stores. (Oh, the horror!)
Don’t go into the bargain basement! The evil hoochie will suck out all your dignity!
2. Being stranded anywhere cold. Or just standing in the cold. Or getting out of bed on a cold morning. Or just thinking about being cold. (Now I’m freaking myself out.)
He is no doubt shooting the scariest movie I could ever see. This just looks horrific. Quick, someone show me a picture of a beach! (photo from http://www.events.nationalgeographic.com)
3. Finding the perfect dress for an out-of-town wedding, traveling to the destination, and then realizing your forgot your Spanx. (I had to cover my eyes for that one.)
We are pushing the envelope of horror here, folks. It’s worse than a slasher film. (photo from http://www.washingtonpost.com
4. Thinking your kid had an after-school activity only to get a call that she has been sitting in the parking lot waiting for you to pick her up…and sobbing. (Gasp!)
Nightmare in the Carpool Lane (photo from dipity.com)
5. Over-zealous salespeople at mall kiosks jumping out of nowhere. (No, please! I don’t have a minute to spare! If you let me go I won’t tell anyone! Please, I have children!)
Look at ’em. Just stalking their prey like Jaws. Watch your appendages or they may end up the victims of sneak attack massages or covered in alien lotions.
6. The guy behind the counter at Qdoba who has absolutely no patience for me deciding which kind of salsa, beans, and cheeses I want adorning my burrito. (My heart is racing with suspenseful, impending doom.)
NO TACOS FOR YOU!
Here’s hoping you only encounter ghouls and goblins, and not something worse. Happy Halloween!
My parents did a very convenient thing: they were born four days apart from each other. Needless to say, when they hit those important milestone birthdays, it makes things easier on me and my siblings. One giant bang of a celebration, and we are good. That is exactly what we did this past weekend. I am still exhausted.
Do I really have parents this old?
My dad welcomed his sixth decade on earth last week, and today it is my mom’s turn. But today is a little more than just a birthday; it is a celebration of second chances. As my dad tearfully admitted at their party, there were two times in his life when he didn’t think he would live to see 60: when he almost fell from a jerry-rigged rope bridge between two fly ash electrostatic precipitators (…um, no clue. That is total enginerd territory), and when he was being wheeled down a hospital corridor on his way to a quadruple bypass surgery. And there was one time, much more recently, when he was afraid my mom wouldn’t make it to 60, either (cue the tears from the entire room, the resulting red eyes ruining all good photo ops during the “Happy Birthday” song…thanks, Dad).
I have only mentioned my mom’s accident once in this blog, for a few reasons. I try to keep this space fairly light-hearted, mostly because I don’t like reading stuff from negative nancies, so why would I expect other people to be interested in reading about my woes? Second, facing things like the mortality of your parents is pretty heavy and emotional stuff and, well, I have a good dose of German blood running through my veins. We don’t always deal with that stuff very well. We like to bottle it up; and when we do let it out, it usually results in a rather uncontrollable “ugly cry” and virtually indecipherable words between sobs.
But let me give you the Cliff’s Notes version of everything that has happened the last five or so months: My mom had been having these spells where she would pass out, and the doctors were not sure what was causing them. Before they could figure it out, she unfortunately fainted and fell one morning, landing on her head. She fractured her neck and bruised her spinal cord, an injury that could have very well left her completely paralyzed or dead. There was quite a long time of uncertainty about how my mom’s body would heal. The doctors said she would regain feeling and mobility in her hands and feet, but they could not say how much or how quickly. And they still couldn’t figure out what was making her pass out, which put her in danger of the same thing happening again. After weeks in the hospital, dealings with blood clots, months at a rehab facility, and even more months in outpatient therapy, my mom has persevered and is able to walk on her own again. The cause of the fainting spells has been found to be seizures, and she is now on the appropriate medication to (hopefully) keep this from happening again. She is still not back to where she was pre-accident, and probably never will be. But considering the alternatives, I don’t think I would have it any other way.
So today, my mom has made 60 even more fabulous than it would have been. And to celebrate, I would like to share six things I have learned from my mom’s accident.
1. My mom can rock a pair of TED hose compression stockings like nobody’s business. She even pulled them off with formal wear at two weddings this summer. Who needs fish nets?
2. I am apparently of the age where doctors seem to feel I am the keeper of and the person whom should be consulted about my parents’ health history and concerns as well as the medications they are on. And I am absolutely not comfortable with that. When my mom was in the hospital, her neurosurgeon (who was quickly dubbed as being “my buddy”) would direct all conversation about my mom’s condition to ME…despite the fact that my father, the patient’s HUSBAND, who is of sound mind and body, was also in the room. Dude, my parents are just turning 60. They aren’t that old. I’m not committing them to the nursing home quite yet. I still refuse to believe I am old enough to be the mother of a seven-year-old, let alone keep track of the bazillion and one medications you are about to put my mother on. Give me a few more years to defer all important decisions to my parents. I’m not the matriarch yet. Geez.
The infamous Aunt Ginny
3. No matter how young you are, everyone who uses a walker ends up looking like my Great Aunt Ginny, God rest her soul. Sorry, Mom. You were totally doing the Aunt Ginny shuffle.
4. The best motivation for not having to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of your life is to order your wheelchair from a company who never actually delivers said wheelchair. It’s a long and ridiculous story (as are most things health insurance related), but basically, my mom never got the wheelchair they ordered. So it’s a good thing she’s walking now.
5. When the going gets tough, you realize how amazing your friends and family are. My mom is lucky to have so many people who care about her. The outpouring of prayers and support was vast. Even better was the number of friends and family who were literally at my mom’s side; bringing dinners, driving her to therapy, keeping her company at home before she got the green light to be by herself, and taking her to the store or just out to lunch. That did wonders for my mom’s spirit. But it also put my dad at ease as he went back to work, enabled my sister and I to keep our own households running, and helped my brother deal with being in another city, knowing that mom was cared for. We are all so grateful for this band of generous souls.
6. My mom is pretty bad ass. If you would have asked me that day in the emergency room if I thought my mom would be where she is today, doing what she is doing less than six months from the accident, I probably would have said no. Not because I didn’t have any faith in my mom, but simply because everything was so unknown and, frankly, scary. But my mom did not let that get the better of her. And I know that she is doing as well as she is today not only because of the miraculous way the body can heal itself, but mostly because my mom decided on how she wanted things to be. And she made it so.
So Happy 60th Birthday, Mom! Welcome to the decade of second chances, you compression stocking fashionista, you. Love you.
Today my dad turns sixty years old. Over the years, I have drawn comparisons of him to many different people. A slave driver. A jail warden. The big, giant, scary, fire and brimstone floating wizard head in The Wizard of Oz. Okay, okay…I kid. But he does do a spot-on impersonation of my Great Aunt Ginny eating. And he was calling the majority of the world’s Continue reading “A Re-Gift to My Dad”→
Well, it is almost Easter. And that means a trip to the mall to visit the Easter Bunny. Actually, my kids saw the Bunny by accident this year. Since it seems that recently I have the foresight of a possum (they’re blind, people), I was actually surprised to see the Easter gazebo set up when I took the kids to the mall the other day to get Michael fitted for his ring bearer tux for my cousin’s upcoming wedding.
“Mom! The Easter Bunny is here!”
“Already? Oh. I guess Easter is in a couple of days, isn’t it?”
“Can we go get our picture taken?”
I looked at the two of them standing in front of me, not in their Easter best, but in whatever was clean in their closets. Fortunately, their outfits weren’t too horrible, so what the heck?
There was no line, so the photographer told the kids to go ahead and see the Bunny while he finished checking out the family that had just gone. Cool. Well, not so cool. It took the guy a full five or so minutes to finish up with that family. That doesn’t sound very long, you say. And it wouldn’t have been, if my kids were sitting on Santa’s lap. Because Santa can TALK to the kids. The Bunny just sits there and gives thumbs ups and covers his eyes with his hands. So I tried to strike up a one-sided conversation. Awkward. Very awkward. Five whole minutes of awkwardness. And my kids were no help. The children who were jumping beans of excitement just moments ago were now stoic monks who had taken a vow of silence. Tic…tic…tic…
Finally, the photographer was ready to take the photo. By some miraculous form of rabbit sign language, the Bunny and I did cook up a sneaky little pose for the picture. And might I say, all the awkward silence was worth it to have a photo of the Easter Bunny giving my unsuspecting kids “bunny ears.” We also got coupons for Auntie Anne’s Pretzels. Bonus!
So as we walked through the mall to get our free pretzels, I started taking note of the stores we passed and realized ones I will likely never patronize, or will begrudgingly patronize.
Abercrombie & Fitch: Any store that blares crappy techno-dance music and declares biological warfare with their overpowering cologne reminiscent of awkward thirteen-year-old boys looking to cop a feel during a slow dance at a mixer OBVIOUSLY cares very little about me having a pleasant shopping experience. And I recall the day after Thanksgiving when a few rather buff young male employees were standing shirtless in the entryway. I realize this was a shrewd marketing ploy to entice female shoppers, but it ended up feeling more like an awkward “To Catch a Predator” setup.
Justice: This store makes me weep inside that I have a little girl who is reaching the age where she cares about fashion…or what she THINKS is fashion. A little on the side of hoochie and a lot on the side of hideous, Justice represents most of what is wrong with clothing trends for little girls. And for some inexplicable reason, the mall by my house has TWO of them, catty corner from each other. The exact same store…doubled. Is there THAT much of a demand for neon tees with graphics of women wearing sunglasses and pouting their lips? Guess what? Little girls don’t need to look like Madonna circa 1985…or Madonna circa 1995…or Madonna circa anytime. So stop telling them this is what is cool. And don’t give me that bull that you supply what the public demands. If you didn’t make it in the first place, the girls wouldn’t know what they were missing. Go take a little walk down the mall to Gymboree and see what any self-respecting mom would buy for her self-respecting young daughter to wear.
Spencer Gifts: Mostly because I’m not in junior high anymore, and I no longer find naughty novelties and black light posters funny or cool.
XXI Forever: You’re not fooling anyone. We know you are still Forever 21. Putting Roman numerals on your sign won’t magically make your clothes of good quality or taste. Besides, on your website you have a “Club” subcategory under “Apparel.” Cla-ssy.
Plaza Frontenac (for those of you not from St. Louis, this would be our “upscale” mall. You must say it with an uppity tone and draw out the ‘a’…”Plaaaaza Frontenac.”): Yes, I am protesting this whole entire mall…mostly because I wear clothes from Target, and not only can the salespeople tell, but they let me know they can tell. However, I do make two exceptions. I will eat at Canyon Cafe, because it is the bomb. And I will go to Williams-Sonoma whenever we get a gift card from my husband’s aunt and uncle for Christmas. Because who am I to turn down free money towards some super cool stuff? And the gift card kind of explains the clothes from Target anyway. Maybe on my next trip to “The Plaza” I’ll pull out my one shirt I own from Ann Taylor, thanks to the outlet mall.
But boy, those were some good pretzels. I hope since God raised Jesus from the dead to give us eternal life, he also bought into the Auntie Anne’s franchise and put one of those suckers in Heaven. Can I hear a Hallelujah? Oh wait, not yet…we’ve still got two more days before we can say that. My bad.
A blessed Easter to one and all…unless you’re Jewish. Then a blessed Passover…unless you’re atheist. Then bummer…no Easter candy for you. But have a good weekend anyway.
I have a confession: I am a birthday-party-planning junkie. Full on. I can’t help myself. As soon as one of my children’s birthdays begins to inch its way closer on my calendar, I begin vibrating with possibilities. It is almost as if I have my own little competition in my head with Martha Stewart. And it is completely and entirely unnecessary.
Let’s face it. Kids really are not that hard to please when it comes to this stuff. So why do I insist on doing more than I need to? I usually ask myself this question when I am drowning in handmade decorations, when my fingers are stained with icing color, and when I am to the point where I need a spreadsheet to keep track of all the activities and details on the agenda. So basically, I am asking myself that question at this very moment because, presently, that is the stage I am at in preparation for Grace’s birthday party this weekend.
I have to admit that when Grace told me that this year she wanted to have an art party, I was elated…unlike when she chose Dora the Explorer for her third birthday. Where is the creativity in that? Sheesh, three-year-olds know nothing. I am completely energized when my kids choose a party theme I can run with. It’s a sickness. Really, it is. And an art party has the perfect combination of specificity and openness for interpretation. Grace just wants to “do art.” The rest is up to me. Now, a normal mother would realize the gift she has just been given with that statement. The bar is set pretty low. Some paper. Some crayons. Do art, kids! And then we’ll eat some cake. Badda bing, badda boom. You got yourself a party. But no, not me. I took that statement as a challenge, scoured Pinterest, and had an entire sheet of paper full of ideas mere hours after Grace had informed me of her chosen theme. Like I said,…a sickness. If only I approached more things in my life with such zeal
I got good use out of this old fridge box, first as a princess castle…
…then as the witch’s castle for a Wizard of Oz party…
…and finally as the entrance to Gotham City.
I am not going to kid anyone (or myself for that matter) and say I go party-crazy simply for the benefit of my kids. Part if it is selfish. I love doing stuff like this, even if sometimes I bite off more than I can chew. But I can at least rest easy in knowing my intention IS for my children. The way I look at it, birthdays are special. I may fail in other aspects of parenting, but at least my kids can always look back and say, “Mom sure threw us some kick-ass birthday parties.” After all, in my eyes the reason for these celebrations, the days my children were born, were better than any party I could ever have. So the least I can do is try to convey the immeasurable joy I felt on those days through some streamers and party games.
So I guess overall, it is not such a bad thing that I am a birthday-party-planning junkie. I also realized that this year, Grace has taken an interest in helping me with the preparation. She was so excited when I came home with bags from Hobby Lobby and Wal-Mart full of supplies, and she wanted to help me make the decorations. I have to say, that was pretty cool. To watch the delight she was taking in the anticipation of her party, of having a hand in creating it, made me realize that planning these parties WITH my kids might be just as much fun as the party themselves.
And at the very least, I am getting free labor out of it. 🙂 Now enough of this blogging. My free labor is at school right now, and I have some paint chip garland that won’t make itself.
Believe it or not, both of my children stayed up until midnight last night to ring in the new year, albeit by accident. We had planned to “celebrate” early like most parents of young children, but for some reason, everything just ran a little behind. We ate dinner later than we planned, which moved back our movie start time. Before we knew it, we had unknowingly blown right through 9:00 and 10:00 pm. My husband quickly gave the kids a bath in order to have our celebration at 11:00, but then we realized what the heck. If they can make it to midnight, more power to them. And they did.
So as we watched the ball drop, the sparkling apple juice was flowing. We all wished each other a happy 2012…all of us except for Michael. These were Michael’s very first words of the new year, in order: 1. “Ew, they’re kissing.” 2. “Sis, you’re in my way” (accompanied by a push) 3. Sticking out his tongue and spitting at us.
Well, I thought. It looks as though 2012 is going to be pretty much the same as 2011.
On second thought, however, that really would not be such a bad thing. By most accounts, 2011 was a kind year to me. There were definitely some horrible moments throughout the year, most notably the passing of Kurt’s grandfather and our friends’ little boy Chase, as well as the horrible tornadoes that struck the area, including the homes of both my in-laws and my great-aunt and great-uncle. Thankfully, the twister’s damage resulted in fixable things, so I count that as a blessing.
But more often than not, 2011 brought positive things to my life. My kids treated me to more gems of hilarity and uber-cuteness. Grace learned to read, ride a bike, and get herself ready in the morning, while Michael figured out the potty-training thing…all four of which are very freeing things for a mom. I spent a lot of life-renewing time with a lot of different friends, including two girls’ weekends: one of which helped me get back in touch with the girl of my yesteryear, and one that helped me appreciate the woman I am and the life I have now. I also made some new and wonderful friends, and welcomed another
adorable niece, Kate, into the world. I had five whole days to myself this summer when Kurt mercifully took the kids on vacation with his family, which meant that for five days the house was clean and quiet, I was well rested, I did not have to watch PBS Kids, and I painted my toenails for probably the first time all year. I did join the family later in the summer to visit the Chicago area and spend time with my “bestie” and her family. The Cardinals won the World Series the same night we had our annual Halloween party, so I got to wear a costume AND sing “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang at the same time: win-win. And speaking of Halloween, FX made me giddy with their new show American Horror Story, which let me feel spooky long after the ghoulish holiday was over. Sometimes, I am really easy to please.
The Happy Couple – Me and Micky
I feel like I am forgetting something really momentus…ooohhhh yeaaahhhhh. Did I ever mention that The Monkees embarked on their 45th Anniversary Tour? A tour us fans did not think would really happen? A tour that worked as a vehicle to show me the depth and breadth of my husband’s love for me? Yes, 2011 boasted the magical weekend when Kurt and I traveled to Columbus, OH, and I rocked out to my favorite band of all time from the front row (see A Completely Biased Review). Not only that, but twenty-five years of waiting to meet my idol, Micky Dolenz, finally paid off with one geek-out moment hug and an unintentional groupie moment (see Meet and Greet). And I was not the only one to have a brush-with-greatness moment this year. Kurt also caught a glimpse of one of his favorites, celebrity chef and host of Good Eats Alton Brown, AND saw a live performance that included his favorite radio personalities and comedians, Bob & Tom, Chick McGee, and Jimmy Pardo. That’s right ya’ll, we were rubbing elbows with the A-List.
Finally, 2011 gave birth to this blog. While in itself, this is not all that amazing, what it has represented for me is. You can read my first post on the Genesis page to learn more about why I started the blog in the first place. For now, I just want to recognize the happiness I have found in creating my stories here, in remembering a passion I had forgotten and left to collect dust. And the fact that people have taken delight in reading it…well, that is just the hug from Micky on top of The Monkee concert cake.
So if 2012 wants to bring on more of the same, I say that is fine by me. Here’s to a new year!
I don’t care much about Valentine’s Day. It’s not that I dislike it; I am just completely apathetic toward it. Valentine’s Day is like the fifth guy from *NSync in the world of holidays…you know, the one that’s not Justin Timberlake, Joey Fatone, Lance Bass, or JC Chavez. You don’t mind that it’s there, but you also wouldn’t really notice if it wasn’t. (And since I spent a ridiculous amount of time deciding which holidays the other guys would be, please indulge this small tangent: Timberlake is totally the Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year’s triplet threat. Fatone is Halloween; goofy, fun, and you know he has some mad skills for trading bad jokes for candy. Bass, he’s a firework who lets his colors burst like the Fourth of July. And just like the Easter Bunny tries to be as cool as Santa, Chavez ain’t no Timberlake. Now back to the point.)
Are You Finished Yet? 