Falsies

This is going to prove how I  a) am easily influenced by others around me and therefore need to keep tabs on myself and b) should maybe not be left alone late at night.

Actually, it's okay to leave me alone late at night.

It's not okay to leave me alone late at night with new beauty products.

We (women) all know how it feels when you buy a new beauty product.  Okay, maybe a few of you don't care about beauty products at all and believe in "natural" beauty and I say kudos to you, you must be the type of person that can still look beautiful while tent camping after 3 days. If you are, please don't ever go camping with me because I disgust people like you. I actually wear foundation and a light lipstick when camping. And mascara.

Don't judge.

Anyway, when buying beauty products, it is normal to have the "I can't hardly wait to put this on my face!" feeling.

So let's go back to this weekend when I sent my husband on the Dad-Kid-Campout with the kids. My husband was quick to notice that whenever I talked about my friends and what we were going to do during the campout weekend, I always talked about us moms "sending" our husbands to the campout. Not "so and so's husband is going to the campout", but "so and so is sending (husband) and kids to the campout this year!"

This weekend I had a baby shower of a dear friend to attend. That would usually enter into the category of cramping my introverted "I get a weekend all to myself" mojo, but it was for one of my dearest friends who has been through a lot to get pregnant. I arrived in town for the shower about 45 minutes early and happened to spy a Target nearby. (I hear the collective gasp of my 8 readers!)

Whilst at the Target, I cruised through the beauty section.  (Note: I had already picked up a pair of very cute $14 sandals, dangling from my hands).  I could not justify purchasing new eye shadow, eye liner, or eyebrow pencil...because I just got those...but I could see myself getting...wait for it...false eyelashes. (There goes the collective groan of all 8 readers).

I could feel the false eyelash starter kit burning a hole through my purse as I sat through the baby shower. I could picture my husband coming home and saying, "Who is this mythological creature who has not only done my laundry, but also is tempting me with her beautiful eyelashes??" I could see myself at the upcoming work meeting- fully in charge, with gorgeous eyelashes. I could conquer mountains and manage my children better- all with beautiful eyelashes.

I had a headache driving home from the baby shower. It took me 3 hours to get rid of it.

It took me another 3 hours playing with paper art and watching movies to realize I hadn't even touched my false eyelashes.

Dilemma: How to watch movies and put false eyelashes on at the same time? (and after 2 glasses of wine and a carbohydrate coma, no less)

Not one to be deterred by the challenge of a beauty/movie dilemma, I grabbed a small lighted make up mirror ( I won it at my husband's work Christmas party! Huzzah!) and my false eyelash kit.

The instructions on the false eyelash kit were so tiny that women my age, who actually might need false eyelashes, can't read them without a magnifying glass or carefully placed sunbeam.

After trying to hold the words up to the magnifying mirror part of my make up mirror, then realizing the instructions were backwards (it's after midnight by now), I ran upstairs to grab my book light.

Book light carefully balanced on the table next to the make up mirror, I proceed to follow the directions which indicate that I need to open the eyelash glue and place a small dot on some foil (run and get the foil).  Unfortunately, although the picture on the instructions indicates that the glue just flows out of the bottle, I had to slam the glue on the tinfoil several times to get enough to make the recommended dime sized dot.

Next I take the tiny tweezers (that look like they could seriously do damage to your eye if you sneeze during this procedure) and pick up a teeny tiny group of false eyelashes that look like they come from a sugar pine tree.

I taught Outdoor Education for a year.

I dip the end of the teeny tiny grouping into the glue (not too much!) and then apply to the lash line (NOT THE LID) of the eye.

Thought: Aren't your eyelashes attached to your lid? Wouldn't your "lash line" be part of your lid?

As I pulled the tweezers away, I realized that the lash grouping had attached itself to the tweezers and not to my "lash line". Five more attempts did not prove much better.  After about 20 trials, I had managed to stick about four groupings as close to my lash line as I could and I had something that looked like longer, prettier lashes.

1:00 am. I begin to work on the other eye, only to realize that some of the lashes from my first eye have fallen off.

It's amazing how at 1:00 am a few groupings of lashes can look like a spider and although in your deepest intellect you know it's not a spider, the part of your brain that should have gone to bed a long time ago says, "Spider!" and so you jump and say, "Ee-yah!" or something like that and try and flick the spider (that once was false lashes on your eye) that is glued to your fingers off your fingers without much success.

2:00 am.  I finally packed up my failed attempt at beauty and went to bed.

The next morning I found that 4 of my lashes on my right eye were way longer than any other of my lashes and they were securely fastened to my lash line. I wore those lashes like a badge of beauty honor for the 2 hours that I took to take a leisurely shower, clean the kitchen, and do a load of laundry.  Then I removed them because I realized how ridiculous it looked.

I had to remove them following the instructions using the eyelash remover solution. Which poured out of it's bottle like water.

I also whitened my teeth with whitening strips. Those worked out okay. Except for the strip that is stuck to the carpet that I can't seem to remove.

Superhero? Super kid.

I was an Outdoor Education teacher for two years. I was a summer camp counselor for 2 summers. I taught in a classroom for 11 years. I have been an Education Specialist with a Charter School for the past 4 years.

I don't say this to brag. But I simply to say, "I've seen it all". And no, I probably haven't seen as much as the educator who has been in the classroom for 20 plus years, but I feel like I have seen it all.

I know what the initials ODD, GATE, IEP, RSP, SDC, ADD, and ADHD mean. I know how to spot signs of Asperger's or Autism. I know when to deal with an angry parent or student, and when to run away. I know how to make phone calls regarding bad grades, bad manners, bad upbringing, bad lunch, bad whatever.  I've melted parents like cold, hard butter on a hotcake with my sweet words of reassurance. Yeah, I'm that syrupy.

I have buzz words, techniques, books, and websites that I can pull out of my back pocket.

Until last Thursday, I was that Superhero.

Now I'm the "on the other end" Superhero. And it has driven me to tears. And to my knees.

I'm just being honest here, and it hurts to be this honest. Because now I have THAT kid.

And it's not just that he got kicked out of Day Care. As my husband said, someday we will look back on this when Ian is older, and laugh and tell him how he got kicked out of Day Care. We will look on it like a badge of honor, almost. As in, "I know I run a company now, am a great boss, and make enough money to send my parents to Maui every year, but would you believe I got kicked out of Day Care??"

And I will tell him about all the times he scared the heck out of me by throwing his head against the floor when he got upset when he was an infant. Or how he threw his head back so far when he was screaming when we were holding him that we were afraid we would drop him.

Or how he would throw things.

Or how we can't let either of his grandmother's watch him by themselves because we are afraid he would cause them injury. Or break something. Or just really freak them out.

And then there was that one time when the babysitter was watching him and he got so upset he took off all his clothes, threw them over the second floor banister and yelled, naked, "YOU'RE BREAKING MY HEART!!"

But then...

There are the numerous phone calls that I have received over the past several months. The increasing desperation in the teacher's voice as I am told about all the screaming fits, the throwing chairs, and the scratching of arms as she tries to hold him down.

And I don't blame them for kicking him out. I really don't. He totally deserved it.

His teacher is on the "older" side.  The kind of "older" side that when she receives an injury it actually causes bruising on her arm.  And she called me the day before he got kicked out and said on the phone, "I won't give up on him."

I guess when he scratches enough to cause bleeding on another teacher's arm and throws a chair in the direction of other little day care kids, that negates the whole "I won't give up on him" line.

But, oh, how it hurts. 

Of course, his sister is in 7th heaven because it wasn't her. And I know she is thinking "I look pretty good compared to him", because that is what I used to think every time my brother did something stupid.

Oh, good. Now my parents are mad at him. That takes the pressure off me for awhile.

And this is what makes me angry...in my thought process. And now I can see how other parents were angry. It's not the teacher's fault that my three year old couldn't follow the routine and rules of day care. It's not the teacher's fault that my son might have ODD or a sensory processing disorder, or whatever the special needs flavor of the month is.

BUT...

I was never invited to observe in the classroom. I never saw what words the teacher used with him, or what tone of voice. And I know, as a teacher, you can't cater to every kid all the time and sometimes your patience wears thin and you say things you don't mean, or you use a tone you know you shouldn't use, or the bubble of words above your head suddenly bursts and comes out of your mouth.

I once told a class they were going to drive me to drink.

I once put a big L on my forehead in desperation when I was on recess duty. A kid said, "Did she just call me a loser?"

But still...why couldn't I observe what he was doing?? Maybe I could have helped. And I didn't ask if I could because everything about the place said, "No parents allowed past this point".

Why wasn't I given notice? They could have told me that they were documenting incidences so that they could kick him out. Instead, I was told they were documenting incidences to help us with information to give the counselor we were going to take my son to see. I wasn't given a "if we have this many incidences, than this will happen" type of speech. I was given a "come get him and don't come back" phone call.

Harsh. This is my baby we are talking about.

And now I get it. And that is why I am a different type of Superhero. I wish I could say that I was the kind of Superhero like Linda Carter as Wonder Woman, because then I would be so intimidatingly gorgeous with an invisible jet and a rope of truth...

I digress again.

I am the Superhero with the swollen eyes because I've cried myself to sleep about my son. I am the Superhero who has gained 5 pounds because of stress eating. I'm the Superhero who has gotten very little sleep over the past week because all of a sudden I was stuck with the "I HAVE to work! Now what do I do?" questions running through my head. (Another Day Care? Not an option. I can handle getting kicked out of one...barely. Two would kill me). I am the Superhero that interviewed five potential Nannies in a 6 hour period and prayed that one of them will see how awesome my son is.

Because he is. And I'm crying as I write this.

Stupid Day Care. They don't see what he is like when he comes to you at 6:30 in the morning, throws himself on you, smiling, and says, "Mommy! Wake Up! The sky is awake!"

They don't see how he can count to twelve...and then jump back to seven.

He knows all the words to "Let It Go" and "Do You Want to Build  a Snowman?"

He knows what a heart looks like.

He says "I love you" just because. He giggles when you pinch his little rear end.

He will only eat yogurt and Dinosaur chicken, but he can scream the ABC song at the top of his lungs.

At night, he can't go to sleep until my arm is wrapped around him.

He freaks out when he can't find me in the house.

He is not afraid of getting dirty, heights, squirt guns, monsters, or pirates. He is afraid of spiders. If you ask him how big a spider is, he will stretch his arms wide and say, "this big".

He demands your eyes are on him when he talks, not on the iPad, computer, or Facebook.

He could care less if laundry is in a neat pile. He sees it as an "opportunity to throw caution and clothes to the wind".

He knows how to beg for a donut.

I am a Superhero because I gave birth to this kid. And he is mine. Well, really, he is God's. But we get to borrow him for awhile.

And I am a Superhero because now I get it.  And I wish I could go back and apologize to all the parents that I talked to about their kid who was badly behaved. I want to tell them that I know how bad it hurts to hear those words. I want to tell them that it hurts for days afterwards and you want to scream at the person who told you your kid wasn't good enough because they Just. Don't. Get. It.

But I do. I get it. And I am in the club of Superhero women.

So my first idea for a blog since …forever…hit me at 10:30 pm and I was too tired to do anything about it then…all my good ideas probably got sucked out of my head by my pillow…

But here it goes anyway…

The other night my 3 year old son asked if he could take one of his wooden train cars into the bath tub with him. I stopped buying bath tub toys a long time ago because I found out that empty Johnson’s baby shampoo bottles are just as entertaining in the tub. I said no because I happen to be a teacher and know something about what happens to wood in water, but my son (not a teacher) has no clue and therefore thought I was just being mean.

Now here is where I should interject that my children have the gift of being a tattle-tale. Thank goodness they usually reserve that gift for each other. 

As parents, we have written filed all the typical parent responses to tattling on invisible 5 x 7 index cards in our brains.  If you were able to look in my brain under the file “Respond to Tattling” you would see the following statements written on my index cards:

·         I can’t hear tattling. Try to tell me another way.

·         Was it on accident?

·         I have an idea. Don’t touch each other.

·         I mean it. Don’t touch each other.

·         Honey, Mommy will take care of your brother/sister. You worry about what you are doing.

·         Knock it off

My husband has downsized his file to one card.

·         Knock it off

I’m exaggerating. I don’t know what his card says. If he’s in the room when the tattling starts, I leave to let him deal with it.  I don’t hear what’s on his card.

Anyway, back to the bathtub…

No wait…let me clarify something else. (This is what happens when you don’t blog for awhile, you pretend that no one cares if there is no fluidity- is that a word?- to your writing)

I don’t understand tattling because I didn’t grow up with it. I was an only child until I was sixteen. When my younger brother came along, my main concern was whether he was mistaken for my child.  I once tried to tattle tale on him and it was so lame, that I even sounded awful to myself.

Anyway, my son figured out quickly that tattling to Mommy about Daddy, or tattling to Daddy about Mommy would get him nowhere.

So when I said “no” to the toy in the bathtub and tried to explain that it would get ruined, my son got a very defiant look on his face and said to me, “Well, I am mad at you now. I am going to tell your mother!”

I’m still scratching my head trying to figure out who taught him to say that.  I am thinking back to all the times I left him alone with my mother and whether or not they began to plot the day he would be able to say that to me.

Because the thing is, my mom can be a very scary woman. You do not want to make her mad. Ever.

So if anybody threatens to tell my mom anything I’ve done, I sort of started to seize up and break out in a rash. Even if it is a three year old doing the threatening. The rational part of me began to tell myself that my mother lives a 5 hour drive away and that my son can’t drive, or operate my iPhone. I think.

I did what any person under that kind of threat would do…I interceded by telling on myself to my mom first. I texted her. That I wouldn’t let him have a toy in the tub. That I tried to tell him the toy would get ruined.

And then I told on my son.

 

 

Camping Mommy Style

My husband and I decided to camp again as a family this summer.

We both agreed that true camping means sleeping in a tent and having a campfire.

In the interest of true camping, I created a Pinterest Board called "camping" in which I downloaded every campfire recipe you can think of.

I didn't use a single one.

Instead I stuck to my old stand by of expensive cheese, wine, and delicious crackers.  And take out. We only camped for three nights, but my real personal challenge was on night #2 when I realized the restaurant I wanted take out from (the best nachos on the central coast) was closed on Tuesdays.  I had to settle for the second best nachos on the central coast. My husband told me I was doing a really good job of roughing it.  I proved how well I could "rough it" by eating the leftover cold nachos for breakfast the next day while sitting on the aerobed in the tent. This was while my husband left in the van with his computer to go find a coffee place with hot breakfast sandwiches and wifi, leaving me with 2 young children and only a forest to entertain them. I figured I was the camping champion of the day because not only had I consumed cold nachos for breakfast, but I had NO COFFEE until my husband came to pick us all up at 9:30 am.

Confession time: the only camping we have done as a family so far has been no farther than a ten minute drive from my parent's house.  I set a simple "real camping" goal for myself because of this: I will not take a shower at my parent's house while camping.  Last year, while camping near my parent's house with our family AND some close friends, I failed miserably. Not only did we raid my parent's house for a home cooked dinner, but I took a shower while we were all there. 

This year, I actually took a shower on the campsite.  Part of me felt silly because I was using up time in the camp grounds shower while people were waiting. I could have saved some camp hot water by going to my parent's house I reasoned, but my daughter insisted on showering on the camp grounds.  Apparently this was some sort of rite of passage that she felt she had to do. Unfortunately, right before I had gathered our shower gear and flip flops (ALWAYS wear flip flops in a shower when camping), my daughter skinned her knee for the first time. Not one to be thrown off course, I threw my wailing daughter into the shower with me.  Everyone within a five tent radius could hear the howls of my six year old as she watched the blood drip from her knee and felt the sting of shampoo drip over her eyes.  It was an experience only smores and glow sticks could improve.

Since our first shower experience was so successful (not), I decided that the only way to stay clean was to go to the water park in Paso Robles.  I had already been there twice with my kids, but my husband had not had the pleasure of baking in the sun while watching his children frolic in the kiddie pool for awhile until forcing them to "float" on tubes down the "lazy river".  The children and I had developed a routine of playing in the kiddie part and then floating down the lazy river, returning to the kiddie pool, then lazy river...you get the idea.  With my husband around we could actually branch out to the "wave pool" on our tubes. I love the wave pool. I could have stayed in the tube and rode the waves for the rest of the afternoon. My toddler son was the same way. Every moment a wave would lift his tube up he would yell, "Whee!" and "This is fun!" My daughter said in a quiet voice, " I don't feel so good."

"What do you mean?"

"My tummy hurts."
"Seriously? But this is so fun."

"Mommy..." and then she made the face. You know, the chipmunk hold-your-breath-and-puff-your-cheeks-out face.

I think I said to my husband something like, "Head toward shore" or "abandon ship" or "abort mission" and we found ourselves scrambling to get out of the wave pool.

Sad that my only thought was, "She'll never make it on Space Mountain. How is she going to ride Space Mountain?"

That night, we walked around the campsite. I have to confess that while my husband admired the beauty of the surrounding trees and such, I was checking out the décor of other campsites and considering what I could buy with next year's camping budget.  It feels like a competition, looking at other's decked out campsites.  Some people actually decorated their outdoor tables with flowers and fancy table clothes.  Others played music out of RV's fancier than my house. Some showed evidence of real meat grilling on campfires.

I told my husband, "I think next year I'll buy an EZ Up and get some rope lights for atmosphere."

"That's not camping", he said.

"What? The EZ Up?"

"The rope lights. That's not camping."

We walked around some more. I wasn't going to press my luck, because it was my husband who didn't even smirk when I pulled out the air mattresses to sleep on (not real camping?).  I was thinking that more light and covering to enjoy the fancy cheese and wine I brought camping would be nice. 

"We could do lanterns, " he said out of the blue.

I thought a moment. Lanterns with those little fake tea lights would be pretty atmosphere and seem more campy. "Okay," I said, "lanterns would be better."

We walked along in peace once more, enjoying the last of daylight.

"Look at that HUGE, fancy motorhome!" I shouted, pointing to a nearby campsite.

"That is really big," said my husband.

"Not real camping," I said.

The next day my daughter got up and asked for a Pop Tart for breakfast.

Now that is real camping.

Salve!

When I first started homeschooling, I had dreams of grandeur. I pictured my daughter being able to recite Shakespeare at the age of six.  I pictured her composing her first piece of music at the age of 7. I pictured a genius. Someone who could read chapter books by the end of kindergarten and had multiple languages under her belt.

If you have that kid, don't even come near me.

The truth about homeschooling lies more somewhere in between. Somewhere between days where I can barely squeeze a math page out, and days where she's reading at a second grade level. Between days where she can count by fives before I've even taught her, and days where she can't read a word because she doesn't feel like looking at the letters.

 I can count the number of art projects we've done this year on one hand.

I can count the number of times she's had a music lesson: 0.

I can count the number of times I've screwed up this kinder year of hers: 2, 462.

And yet, I wouldn't trade it because of days like today.

Today, I pulled out the SECOND Latin Language Program I've purchased this year. If you homeschool, you know why we chose Latin as the first (and maybe only) foreign language for our daughter.  If you don't homeschool, you'll think we're nuts.

Just to clear the air- we are nuts.

But my daughter wanted to start the book and sing-along CD "right now". Even though I purchased it for next year.  And she doesn't understand why I sort of freaked out a little and said no at first, because she doesn't get that if we start now I have to REWRITE THE WHOLE LATIN LESSON PLANS for the beginning of next school year and I am a little obsessive compulsive when it comes to lesson plans.

I decided to recite my new mantra. "I'm a tree. I can bend."

It isn't really my new mantra. I don't really have a mantra. If I did, it would be something like "More coffee makes me happy", not this silly tree nonsense.

But I decided to be wild and throw caution to the wind and I opened the workbook to the first page. I put the CD on the stereo.

Two harmonic voices began singing a song about "here comes the teacher" and "hello" and "good-bye". We sang the words in Latin.

My daughter decided the music was a beat she could dance to.

We danced. We sang. I looked at the workbook.

And then I realized we had been singing the "classical" version of Latin, not the "ecclesiastical" version.

Side note: this is typical of us.  I tried to learn Italian through CDs a few years ago. My daughter was about 4.  She actually followed along pretty good and was saying, "Bona Sera" with the CD and "Arrivederci!" like a true Italian.  But the CD went right from teaching common pleasantries and greetings to "Can you help me find a Taxi?"  We gave up.

The classical version of Latin is not my style because it pronounces the 'v' like a 'w' sound and I have enough trouble getting the vowel sounds straight, so please try not to switch consonant sounds on me too much. Thank you.

So I forwarded the CD to the same song, only in the "version" that I wanted, and we tried again. But by this time we were giggling so hard, because when you think about it, the word "discipuli" in Latin is pretty hard to pronounce because the 'i' can sound like an 'e' and the 'c' is actually a 'ch'.

And there are two different versions of that word.  All I can think is thank goodness the next level doesn't start until third grade.

I am determined that we will learn these songs and go on to read books in Latin, or at least turn a clever phrase or two to impress those who would otherwise sneer at homeschooling.

"Omnia Fortiora Si Dicta Latina."  Everything sounds more impressive when you say it in Latin.

Put the Baby Back!

When I got married and we celebrated our first Christmas together, I realized that something was missing.  A Nativity set.

Having a Nativity out during Christmas was something my Mom did every year.  I can't tell you why for sure, because it's not like my parents went to church, but I think there was something soothing and peaceful in the tradition of having that little Nativity set on display every year. Plus it was really cool art.

So when my husband and I celebrated our first Christmas together, I knew that in the spirit of the season, I wanted my own Nativity set.  Something that would be in the family for years to come.  Something that my children would grow to love and expect every year. 

The problem is that all the Nativity sets I wanted were really too expensive for our budget.  In my mind, I couldn't justify a purchase like that quite yet.  Not until I had a family.

The search for the Nativity set took a different turn after my daughter was born.  I joined this Mom's group at church and one of the sessions around Christmastime was titled (appropriately) "How to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas with your family."  There were a bunch of experienced Mom's talking about how they had found a Nativity that was "kid friendly" so that their children could play with the pieces and the parents could talk about the Nativity scene and Jesus' Birthday.  It all sounded great to me and so I went off in search of a "kid friendly" Nativity. 

Here's the problem.  And here is where I am a little snooty when it comes to the whole Nativity thing. 

To me, Nativity scenes are a work of art.  I have seen some so beautiful that they make me want to weep (and that was before I saw the price tag).  So the idea of purchasing a Veggietales Nativity scence where Bob the Tomato and Larry the Cucumber were some of the key players hadn't quite grown on me yet.  Neither had the Fischer Price Little People Nativity where all the characters looked like they were short and fat.  Seeing as my daughter was only 9 months old during this Nativity hunt, I couldn't rightly justify purchasing anything that I wouldn't be okay with her teething on.  You see my delimma?

I finally settled for a Nativity set I happened across in a nearby Christian bookstore.  The price tag was right, the characters were sort of this rubbery/plasticky material that wouldn't break, and the box even said the set was "kid friendly". 

The first year we had the Nativity set, my daughter didn't play with the pieces so much as throw them across the room.

The second year we had it, when she was almost two, her throwing had better aim.

By the time she was almost three, she had learned to play with the pieces.  She had conversations with the animals in the stable and told the donkey, "Happy Birthday." 

And so it went, my daughter slowly progressing toward playing with the Nativity and understanding the Christmas Story.  Last year, as I was putting the Nativity set away after Christmas, I couldn't find the baby Jesus.

"Where's baby Jesus?" I asked my family.

No one knew.  And I feared that my one year old had swallowed him whole.  I watched his diapers for a week waiting for the baby Jesus. Nothing.

I eventually had forgotten that the baby Jesus had been lost from the Nativity set until six months later when I found a wise man hanging out under the couch.  I didn't even know he had been missing.

"I found a Wise Man!" I told the five year old and set him in my "junk cup" on the kitchen counter so I would see him for the next six months and not lose him.

"Did you find the baby Jesus?" my daughter asked. I can't believe she remembered he was missing.


Now here is the part where you think that I could just put the Wise Man away with the rest of the Nativity set, but you would be sorely mistaken because I don't go into my garage.  Ever.  It scares me.
And since the Nativity set was packed away in the garage, the Wise Man got to hang out in the "junk cup" for six months.

So here comes Thanksgiving and I'm thinking, "I have a Nativity set with no baby Jesus. This cannot be."

I break down and buy the Fischer Price Nativity set with the short and fat Joseph and Mary and the chubby baby Jesus that lights up and plays music when you press on the manger.  I do this because I have a two year old son who can throw farther than any of us combined.

I put up both Nativity sets.  The missing baby Jesus Nativity set is on display because it now has sentimental value to me.  I look at the donkey and think of how my daughter told him "Happy Birthday".  I look at the empty manger and think of how it will be filled in our hearts on Christmas morning.

And I look at the Fischer Price one and think that it's sort of cute and the light up baby Jesus kind of grows on you. And the pieces are easy to find because they are so fat.

I spend the majority of my evening collecting Nativity pieces that have wandered throughout the house ("Where did you take Mary? Have you seen Joseph?") and putting them back on their perspective tables. 

Tonight, as we were decorating the Christmas tree, while my two year old simultaneously removed decorations from the tree, I found the missing baby Jesus in the ornament box.

"Hey! It's the baby Jesus! Look!" I shouted.

"Hooray!" my daughter yelled, and she put him in his rightful place in his manger bed.

"Wook!" my son cried and ran off with the baby Jesus and the camel.

"You bring that baby back!" I yell after him.

"Baby Yesus!" my son yells back at me.

"I'll go get him," my daughter sighs and takes off after the two year old who is waving the baby Jesus in the air as if to tease us.

I got distracted by ornaments after that, and it wasn't until the children were finally deep asleep in bed that I thought to go look for the baby Jesus again.

There was the baby Jesus.  Lovingly placed in between Mary and Joseph. My daughter had placed him in his rightful spot with the Wise Men and Angels looking on.

Lately, it is in the quiet moments of my heart that I find I get the most meaning out of Christmas. Sure, I love the making presents, and wrapping presents, decorating, and lights, but this year it seems I feel the happiest just staring at those little Nativity scenes by the light of the Christmas tree. I find my heart kneeling down in front of the manger and simply absorbing the beauty of a baby born in a stable.

My moment was broken by the realization that the manger has gone missing.

Poetic License with a Sewing Machine

So this is how it starts.

I go out shopping with my Mom and she says, "Oh, I have to take you to this one place..." and then adds one of the following hook lines: "It's so cute." "You'll just love it." "I thought of you."

And just like when I was thirteen, I'm blindly following the only woman who really taught me how to shop, my Mother, into some place that will be my downfall.

A few months ago I followed my mother into a shop that declared the clothes weren't really clothes, but "wearable art".  I ended up buying a blouse that cost me about a day and a half worth of my paycheck.

It is art. I just want you to know.

Now it's art with a small spot on it that I'm hoping a dry cleaner can get out.

So last year my Mom does that "let's go shopping" thing with me and I end up in a store that makes napkins.  Well, napkins and cute little aprons. Mostly napkins.

"They make napkins," says my Mom, "Aren't they great?"

For the record, my Mom owns like 457 napkins and placemats. She doesn't even own that many shoes.

I tell her, "They are great."

And then I say, "You know, I used to sew. I could do this.  I could make us napkins. I just need a machine."

My Mom says, "You could make napkins and sell them."

My daughter says, "Can I get this apron? I need this apron."

Four sets of napkins and one child size apron later, I'm daydreaming of my own napkin business.

The only problem is I don't have a sewing machine and I haven't used one in over twenty years.

Fast forward to Mother's Day of this year when I tell my husband that Costco has a sewing machine on sale.  I hold out the coupon to him and say, "This is what I want for Mother's Day."

"It's not very romantic," says my husband. (He always says that).

I proceed to tell him all the amazing things I could do if I could just have this sewing machine.  I tell him about mending clothes, adding ruffles to things, and yes, making napkins.

I get the sewing machine.

It sits in the box for two months until I finally get up the courage to open it.

"Wow," I say to my husband.

I find a video online that shows me how to wind a bobbin and thread my machine. I watch it three times.

"That looks scary and complicated," says my husband (who has an IQ of over 150, mind you).

"Yep."

I dive right in. I buy thread and material and start making this "strip blanket" that I saw on Pinterest. Basically, it's a bunch of strips of material sewn together that somehow become a blanket.

After day one of my sewing strips of material together, I decide to fortify myself with goodies by going to Trader Joe's. 

Who should I bump into at Trader Joe's, but the woman who ran the Costume Shop for the Theater Department I was in during college.

"This is fortuitous," I tell her, showing that I am a college graduate by using big words, "I just bought a sewing machine."

"Oh, dear," she says, "Do you want my phone number?"

Apparently, she remembers how I sew better than I do.

I take her number.

I also tell my friend who designs and sews costumes for a living that I bought a sewing machine and I might be needing her help.

"What can you sew?" she asks.

"Flat things," I tell her.  "Blankets. Tableclothes. Napkins.  Straight lines."

I finish the blanket for my daughter. It looks better than I thought. I have to admit, I feel a thrill in knowing that I did it without anyone's help. Well, except the online lady who told me how to wind a bobbin and thread a machine three times. The strips of fabric are crooked and according to my daughter, the blanket already has a hole somewhere. So what? I made it.

"Can you make me a Nemo costume?" my daughter asks.

"I don't think so. I can make you a napkin."

"I don't want to be a napkin for Halloween."

I still haven't made a napkin. I've made part of a tablecloth and I've made a curtain to go on the play room closet.  I contemplated a Halloween costume for my kids, but how many Halloween costumes are out there that only require one to sew straight, flat lines?

Anyway, if you see a bunch of people dressed like napkins for Halloween, chances are it's my family.

What Mommies Love

Do you know what Mommies love?

Don't count children, spouse, house, friends, and the many devoted things Mommies do to keep these things going.

Mommies love time outs. For themselves.

  Give a Mom a book, a quiet place, a cup of hot tea, or a glass of wine, and say, "Go! Have Fun!" and a Mommy will run with that and not look back. (Okay, she won't look back after she's made sure everyone is taken care of and someone has been left in charge with a list).

Recently I had a LONG time out. A whole weekend. Don't hate me.

My parents live in this really beautiful area of the central California coast. And while it's in the 90s where I live, it's in the 60s at my parent's house. They have a view of the ocean. It took me 6 hours in traffic to get there. (Some of you are making that "little violin" sign with your fingers and whispering sarcastically, "Poor baby!")

Anyway, one of the things my parents really enjoy is food and wine. Not necessarily in that order.

 And since I didn't have the kids with me this weekend, I actually got to eat out at some of my favorite places. I noticed a common theme. Figs. Figs must be in season, because lots of people are serving figs.

  Here's what I ate at the restaurants I visited this weekend. For lunch my Mom and I split a dish of Crostini's with Brie and this Olive and Fig Tampenade. This was at a restaurant in Cambria. They actually sell the Olive and Fig Tampenade for $10 a "jar". I bought two. The rest of the meal was fabulous too, (Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato, and Avocado Sandwich with red pepper aioli and sweet potato fries) but honestly, nothing compares with that fig and olive stuff.

For dinner, my parents and I began the meal by sharing an appetizer of assorted (fancy) cheeses, figs, real honeycomb with honey, and toasted raisin bread. I know. Amazing, right?

So when I got home, at the nearest opportunity, that being tonight, I made my own version of a spread to put on top of bread and cheese. We're having friends over for Bible Study. And we always do appetizers and wine on Bible Study night. Don't judge. It's awesome.

My creation is no comparison to that fig and olive tampenade that I'm saving for when we go camping in a few weeks, but it will do in a pinch. Here's what I did in case you want to duplicate or make your own twist on this.

Lisa's Fig, Date, and Olive Spread

What you'll need:

Kosher Salt
Minced garlic (like 4 or 5 cloves worth)
Olive Oil 6 or 7 figs (I think mine were dried? Or already peeled? I'm not really sure...)
6 or 7 dates
1 can of sliced black olives (I used a small can, but you can really use a big one)
Pinch of sugar
dash of whiskey

What you need to do:
Cut figs and dates in half. Take seed out of dates.
Pour a decent amount of olive oil into a pan and heat (I started with medium heat, and then lowered it. It just got too hot).
Sautee figs and dates in the pan and when they start to change color, add garlic and stir around until fragrant. figs and dates should change color a bit, but not burn.
Put fig, date, and garlic mixture into your food processor.
 Drain olives and add.
 Add olive oil.
Add more because you didn't add enough.
Add a pinch of Kosher salt.
 Add a dash of whiskey (just a dash...or you could try Brandy. Why not?) and a pinch of sugar. Pulse,chop, or grind in your food processor until it looks like a spread.
Check consistency with a spoon.
 If it's too thick, add more olive oil.
 If too sweet, add more salt.
Give it a spin in your processor again.
Serve warmish over toasted baguette spread with warmed brie cheese.

Enjoy!!

  Best served with a view of the ocean. I have to go to my parent's house for that.

She Finally Gets Me...

Hello? Hello?
  Is this thing on? (tap, tap, tap)

It's not that I haven't had anything to blog about since March, but I had this thing called "writer's block" where I just couldn't commit anything down.

It really was annoying.

  And then I thought about the last few days.

Yesterday I took my daughter to the beach. Just me and my gal. We went to the beach because a friend of mine from out of state happened to be vacationing at the beach and I wanted to see her. I haven't seen her in 11 years. I've known her for over 40 years. That's all my life. You have to understand that this was the friend that I "grew up" with. I saw her at least twice a week, every week, throughout my entire childhood.

Anyway, this friend, who still holds a special place in my heart, took to my daughter like glue. Within five minutes my daughter was ready to leave me for her. And I wasn't even jealous because I was ready to follow my friend to the ends of the earth within five minutes too. Some people just have that affect on us, I guess.

This special beach trip of ours did exhaust us, though.

  Did you ever notice that when you spend a whole day at the beach, even if you are just sitting in the sun, watching your childhood friend bury your kid in the sand, you are exhausted and sort of feel like a walking zombie the next day? I love that feeling.

That feeling is even better when you are a kid and you are on vacation at the beach and you have nothing to do but play at the beach all day for a week. Pure awesomeness.

We only had a day at the beach and today my daughter and I were sort of doing the zombie-after-beach-thing. And I have pink eye and a sore throat so I had to go to the doctor today. And I had to pick my car up from the fix it place to the tune of six hundred and thirty two dollars (that's enough to make anyone a zombie). And I had laundry to do and coffee-filter butterflies to make.

  Seriously. It's been a full day.

A part of me was ready for bed before I even put dinner on the table. But then we walked to the store after dinner and had to get the kids ready for bed. Every night my husband reads Bible Stories in our bed to my daughter before bed time. It's a sweet bedtime ritual that gives them their special time and it gives me some time to myself. I was half-listening to what my husband was reading and I heard him say, "Jesus needed some disciples, so he went to Barnes and Noble."

  I started giggling. My husband is not especially fond of being interrupted during Bible Story time, so I got the look.

  "What did you say?" I asked him.

"I said, 'Jesus needed some disciples, so he went to look for helpers'."

  "Oh. It sounded like 'so he went to Barnes and Noble'."

My daughter can't help herself. She starts giggling.

My husband says, "Well, if it were today, maybe he would go to Barnes and Noble, but back then he went to some fishermen."

My daughter giggles some more.

I think to myself that really, you probably could find anything you want at Barnes and Noble. Kinda like Target.

  I can't help myself. I smile at my daughter and say, "Barnes and Noble." She giggles harder.

My husband and I both say "Shhh!" because we don't want her to wake her brother, but I am smiling.

  Because my daughter is starting to get my sense of humor. It makes me feel like at least if she followed one of my friends back to their house, she'd take me with her. 

Girl Talk

Not much has happened lately on my blog and I apologize to all of my 8 readers.

I have no excuse. And I have a lot of excuses that all add up to being incredibly tired for the past six weeks.

Seriously, it's been so busy around here and we've lost so much sleep that my husband and I walk around like zombies and neither one of us retain information very well.

This weekend I went to go visit a friend for her birthday back East. back East does mean Connecticut, although I guess since I live in California, anything can be considered "back East", but in my head "back East" = New England. Anyway, my husband had to ask me five times when my return flight home was. After the third time of asking me, I pulled the ol' teacher "repeat after me" game by saying, "I'm coming home on Sunday. What day am I coming home?" and he would say, "Sunday." I would then give positive reinforcement by patting his arm and saying, "Right!" and smiling big. But as any teacher knows, even this method is not always a guarantee of retainment of information, so after the fifth time he asked me, I sighed and wrote it down.

I am not blameless in this either, though, because my husband has reminded me several times of things he has on his schedule and I still end up saying things like, "You never told me that."

And before anyone starts suggesting ways of how we can remember things, please understand that we both have computer calendars, post-it note reminders placed within our line of sight around the house, and a very nice dry-erase board calendar in the upstairs hallway. It's just that we are too tired to write anything down on the calendar upstairs (that requires walking up the stairs and consciously writing on the calendar-who has the energy for that?) and we can't see our post-it notes in the kitchen because we're zombies...so we wander around mumbling our schedules to each other hoping the information will stick.

My husband did remember to pick me up at the airport. I expected this huge chorus of "Mama!" from the backseat. I expected my children to great me with hugs and kisses and shouts of joy. They were both bent over asleep in their car seats. "They've had a long weekend," my husband explained.

I did too. I had a great, long weekend.

I flew out "back East", as I stated earlier, to surprise my friend for her birthday. It wasn't just any friend, though, it was one of the only people in the world I consider a "kindred spirit", so to speak. We met twenty years ago this summer,we both were camp counselors at a christian summer camp. We did not become close, though, until the following summer, when we returned as counselors to the same camp. For some reason, the friends I made at this particular camp are sort that I consider my closest allies in navigating the world and all that life entails.

Anyway, this particular friend is probably the one I would chose if anyone had to say who is your "best friend", although that term sounds sort of silly at our age.
But remember when we were young and best friends meant you stayed up all night talking about boys and music and movie stars until all hours of the morning?

I stayed up all night talking this weekend, but our talk was the talk of grown women with responsibilities. Austistic children, children with emotional anxieties, husbands, financial troubles, relatives we struggle with, schooling, spiritual growth, spiritual needs,housework,jobs, etc...we still managed to laugh and even giggle, but it was apparent by the lines on our face and the softness of our child-bearing bodies, that we are older.

And the great thing about being a grown up is that sometimes you get to have these kinds of conversations with a glass of wine in your hand and the kind of wisdom and love that only comes with twenty years of friendship.

I came back exhausted. I can hardly think straight. And my poor husband has had parent duty all weekend, so he's exhausted too.

But it was totally worth another upcoming week of zombieland.

Little Linguist

I’m pretty sure that although my daughter has dreams of being a lounge singer, she is better suited to be a linguist.

And it’s not just because her father is a genius and uses words I’ve never heard of before. And it’s not because before I had children, I had a pretty good vocabulary myself.

It’s not even because I suspect my husband of sneaking J.R.R. Tolkien books under her pillow at night, hoping some of Tolkien’s linguistic talent will go to her head through osmosis.

It’s because she’s already started down the path that leads to being a linguist.

I think one of the talents you must have to be a linguist is the ability to make up words on the spot and define them and then convince everyone that your definition is correct. She’s really good at this.

For example, during the Christmas season, we would drive around town looking at lights. If there was a house that had a display of lights that might put Las Vegas to shame, the Four Year Old would say, “HungaMunga!”
Without even waiting for the question that would ask for clarification, she would define her word for us: “HungaMunga. It means A LOT of lights.”

Pretty soon we were all bursting out with “HungaMunga!” anytime we saw a house with a lot of lights. Then my husband began to use it in a sentence, “That house has a lot of HungaMunga. Wouldn’t you agree?”

One day last week I was driving around completing errands with my kids in the car and my daughter started crying. If you know my daughter, it’s not very unusual for her to burst into tears all of a sudden and scare the heck out of you. Sometimes I can be strong enough and patient enough to deal with these little emotional outbursts. Other times she is so spontaneous in her crying that it surprises me and I respond by practically jumping out of my seat.

“What is wrong?” I asked. If you want to, you may believe that I asked this in the most patient and loving Mommy voice. If you want the truth…I probably asked it with a tone of exasperation.

“All the HungaMunga is gone!” she wailed.

I didn’t know whether to laugh because it’s obvious this word has become part of our family vocabulary or cry because I was too tired to explain the cycle of Christmas decorations yet again.

I could make a list of the words that she has made up and have become part of the household vocabulary, but I won’t because I need that list for future blog entries. I have to stretch the fun out.

Another language “issue” I’ve noticed about the Four Year Old, though, is her ability to make sure that everyone understands that words that are used in past tense, are REALLY used in past tense. What I mean is that she throws an extra “ed” on the end of a word to make it as meaningful as possible. She doesn’t just say, “Mommy, I missed you.” She says, “Mommy, I missed-ed you.”

I know this is a typical preschooler thing to do, but I am going to kind of miss (ded) those words when she grows out of them.

It's not easy being green

The other night I almost had a heart attack.

Well, not really, but I did almost do a cartwheel and shout, "Yippee!"

You see, my daughter ate a vegetable.

Not just any vegetable. But the green one that looks like trees and that one must usually smother in cheese sauce to make it appear edible to anyone under the age of thirty.

"What is this called again?" asked the Four Year Old, holding up her fork that had speared one of the small trees (not covered in any sauce, mind you).

"Broccoli."

She stuck it in her mouth. I waited.

"I like broccoli now."

Inside my head, the crowd was going wild. Cheers of joy filled my head. I mentally spoke to the vitamins in the green stuff she had just swallowed, asking them to find their way to the most vital parts and take root, because who knew when she would eat another vegetable. It took me four years to get her to eat this.

"Oh, good." I said.

"I don't like the white ones, though."

My husband said, "That's cauliflower. That's different. It's okay if you don't like it. You tried it at least."

My daughter ate another piece of broccoli. She could have asked me for anything she wanted and I would have given it to her. Would you like a pony? I will go get you a pony. Thank you, thank you, for eating a vegetable.

Did you ever notice that they make it as easy as possible to lie on the Wellness Questionaire at the Pediatrician's office? Maybe not at all doctor's facilities, but at least in ours. They put all the right answers in one column, and all the wrong ones in another. Does anyone smoke in your home? Is your water heater turned to the right temperature? Do you put your baby in a car seat? It's all yes or no, check this box, type of questions, all the correct answers in the same column to make it convenient to just check down the row. I wonder if whoever wrote that questionaire knew that most mothers are suffering from lack of sleep and multi-tasking headaches, and thought, "The poor dears, let's just make it so they don't have one more thing to think about." So I'm taking my son to get his wellness check up (four months late) and to get his shots and I'm filling out the form, feeling like I could get an A or a happy face sticker on the form for being such a good mom. And then the form says, "Do you offer your child vegetables at every meal?"

I actually hesitated. Like I held my pencil in the air and stared at the form and considered lying by marking "yes." Why, yes, my children are offered vegetables at every meal because what kind of mother would I be if I didn't do that? I'm certainly not the mother who throws five chicken nuggets on a plate in the microwave and asks, "You want ketchup with that?" and calls it good. I'm certainly not the mother who considers chocolate cheerios a decent snack.

I had visions of being tied up to a chair and being questioned by Jack Bauer (Okay, if you never watched 24, you won't get it) on my children's eating habits. Then being declared some sort of vegetable hater or terrorist and hauled away never to be heard from again. Caught by the Counter Terrorist Unit in defense of all things veggie. No, Jack, don't hurt me, I promise to offer peas and carrots.

I marked "no". I do not offer vegetables with every meal. Let the chips fall where they may. I can take it.

That Pediatrician didn't even look at my questionaire.

I still felt guilty - I made a promise to myself that I would make an effort to at least offer vegetables with dinner. And even if they don't eat them, I will have done my job. I was rewarded with 4 small trees of green being eaten by the Four Year Old. The Toddler just threw them on the floor.

You can't win them all.

I gave the Four Year Old cake for dessert.

A use for bacon

As if anyone needed to be told a use for bacon. I just couldn't think of a clever title.

So I was looking for good crockpot recipes because, let's face it, they are few and far between it seems, and I found one. But then I tweaked it because I felt it needed bacon.

Here is the recipe. It's a navy bean and ham soup. With bacon. And sauteed onions. And carrots. And cream. Basically, I rewrote the recipe. It turned out quite yummy, but rich. A little goes a long way with this one. I also threw on some asiago shredded cheese on the top. I served it with fresh asiago cheese bread.

You will need :
A bag of navy beans. Soak 2 cups overnight in 6 cups of water. Drain.
A whole package of bacon (I used applewood smoked. It was quite extraordinary)
3 or 4 large carrots
1 yellow onion
whipping cream
1 box of chicken stock (low sodium)
a bunch of ham, cubed
pepper to taste
throw in some garlic with the onions while your sauteing if you want.


After soaking beans over night and draining, throw them in a crockpot.
Cook all your bacon, pat dry with paper towels and crumble. Add to crockpot.
Save the bacon grease. While bacon grease is still hot, saute one diced, yellow onion.
When onions are mostly soft, add to crockpot.
Slice carrots and saute in onion and bacon grease. When carrots are completely coated and change color a bit, remove and add to crockpot.
Add cubed ham to crockpot.
Add in one box of chicken stock (about 4 cups or so) and 1 cup of water.
Stir and cook on low for 7-9 hours.
About 1/2 hour or so before eating, add in some cream. I did about half of a small carton.
Serve in bowls with a little sprinkled asiago cheese.

Enjoy!

Sneaky Christmas

Not to be one to say the glass is half empty, I am surprised at myself for thinking only of the Christmas-sy things I haven't done this season, rather than the ones I have.

I am slightly peeved because Christmas is two days away and I have not been to one "Sing-a-long Handel's Messiah" and I have not seen enough Las Vegas style Christmas lights. I haven't sung enough Christmas carols and I have not had one glass of eggnog. The closest I came was having eggnog flavored creamer in my coffee. Not really a decent substitute.

I didn't even get to attend the one adult Christmas Party I was invited to because the morning of the party, my daughter threw up five times and then I was so queasy by 4pm all I wanted to do was crawl in bed. I almost cried when I called the babysitter to cancel.

So now that Christmas has completely snuck up on me, I have finally submitted to the fact that although I didn't do everything Christmas-sy I wanted, I did at least do some things.

For instance, I took my four year old daughter to see The Nutcracker. She loved it, but she did loudly ask during the ballet, "Why are all the boys wearing tights?!?" I had to explain that men who do ballet sometimes wear tights. This led to all kinds of questions about costume choices so that I had to finally say, "Shush! Just watch the play!" To which she responded, "Is it over yet?"

I escorted both my kids to our church's childrens Christmas musical, only to have them both have a meltdown after the first 20 minutes. Then we had to leave.

We drove around town oohing and ahhing at Christmas lights one night.

My daughter and I watched "Elf" together and giggled through the whole thing.

We made Christmas cake pops that turned out not too bad. We made Christmas chocolate lollipops and gave them to preschool teachers and day care workers. We made sure they were wrapped in pretty ribbons.

The kids and I went to Target to go Christmas shopping at least five times.

I mailed out Christmas cards. Our pictures actually look decent this year. I know this because my mom told me. Last year she said, "Your card is really awful." It was. Last year I threw the kids on the living room chair and said "hold still" and took a few bad pictures of them not holding still. Then I threw those pictures on a card. This year, we at least are all holding still. And we're sitting on a beach.

I watched the movie "The Nativity Story" and cried my eyes out at the end.

After frantically searching for my James Taylor Christmas CD, and not being able to find it, I downloaded it onto my iPhone so I can listen to it in the car. Since I just downloaded it and I haven't heard it all season, my husband can expect to hear it all the way to San Diego on Christmas Day.

I frantically wrapped presents ahead of time so that my husband has the room to wrap his at the last minute.

And yes, we have a Christmas tree. All the ornaments are above waist level now because of the 16 month old, but we have a beautiful tree. And today I actually took the time to look at some of my favorite ornaments on the tree and just breath in the peaceful feeling that comes with having a Christmas tree.

I baked one batch of sugar cookies shaped like Christmas stars and trees. I made 11 cookies. Six of them burned. C'est la vie.

There's still time to watch A Christmas Story. It doesn't look like I'll get to go caroling this year or see Las Vegas type lights, but we may actually make it to a "Day After Christmas" party given by one of my old high school chums.

And in the end, I will get to watch my kids tear into wrapping paper and their stockings and eat candy and play and play and play. And then three days later, we travel to my parent's house and do it all over again. That's alright by me.

I start to wish that the Christmas season was two months long, but then I think about how I hate it when Christmas decorations go up in stores right after Halloween and I haven't had time to transition to the season.

Really, Christmas only lasted one night. One blessed, silent night.

I am thankful we get almost a whole month to revel in the season when I look at it that way. And even though I didn't get to do everything I wanted to put me in the Christmas Spirit, my daughter reminds me daily when she opens the door on her Advent Calendar that Christmas can't come soon enough.

So welcome Christmas and Happy Birthday, Jesus.

I just hope I get that bike put together before Christmas morning!

Christmas is coming...

To Santa or not to Santa? That is the question.

My husband and I briefly discussed this before having kids and as we talked over whether or not we would introduce our children to the make believe world of Santa, I honestly thought it might be a deal breaker and end our marriage before it even started. Seriously, who doesn't love Santa? My husband, apparently. Actually, he might like Santa, but he doesn't like to lie. At all. End of story. Case closed.

I finally got the compromise of we could "play" Santa as a "game". If she ever asks, we explain that Santa is a really fun game to play, but he isn't real like you or me. She's never asked. Okay, I take that back. She must have asked the babysitter. And the babysitter said Santa was real.

Enter her word against ours.

And somehow, I, the person that wanted Santa in the first place, is left to explain that Santa is a game to my four year old who is standing with her hands on her hips, saying, "Oh, no! He's real!"

"Talk to your father," I said. I figured he started this mess anyway.

In the meantime, I end up discussing with a friend how much money I owe to the Susan G. Komen Foundation . This leads to talking about debt. Which leads to talking about my drug addicted brother. Which leads to me talking about how my drug addicted brother acts all tough, but is really scared to death. Which leads to a mention of my fears and insecurities and how come I didn't end up like him.

I say, "There but for the grace of God, go I."

And then I end up spilling my guts about how there is a debt I will never be able to pay. How much I owe God. For saving me from self-destructing. For pulling me out of situations that I was stupid enough to get into.

And I say that I know all the spiritual buzz talk in my head about how I can never pay that debt back, but that's not the point.

I FEEL as if I'm supposed to pay it back and I never can. So I'm frozen in place.

So then my friend brings up lavishing gifts on our children at Christmas time. Actually, I brought that up, but she brings it up and asks if I expect as many gifts from my children in return.

Of course not.

For one thing, they don't have jobs. Their job skills are poorly lacking at this particular time. Unless you can call knowing all the words to Little Einsteins a job skill. Or throwing food on the floor.

No. I give my children gifts because of the sheer bliss I get out of seeing the joy on their faces when they open presents. It's a way to show them I love them.

And I realize I never will pay my parents back in a hundred Christmases for the lavishness of presents and love shown to me. They probably aren't keeping track anyway.

And I won't care if my children ever lavish me with gifts.

As for God...well, you get where I'm going with this.

Open the present. Look inside. Be joyful. Make someone else joyful.

Follow the star. Look in the manger. Be joyful. Make Someone else joyful.

Just accept that I didn't earn the gift and I can't pay it back.

Okay, and this leads back to Santa.

Why in the world do some people hold over kid's heads that they have to be good all year long to earn a Christmas present? Adults can't even be good all year long.

And we don't even remind them of being good all year long for Santa until like, after Thanksgiving.

I don't hear any parents on the playground in July saying, "Knock that off or Santa won't bring you a present this year!"

It's not until Christmas carols start playing on the radio after Thanksgiving that we are reminded we better watch out and we better not cry or pout. Or honk our horn in traffic. Or become impatient with our children. (I'm only talking about myself now). The year is practically over by then. I don't think that's very fair.

I remember one year when I was asked if I had been good all year thinking back to a particular incident in September and hoping Santa wouldn't remember. Oh, the pressure.

I hope my kids grow up knowing that even though they weren't good all year long, they still get presents at Christmas because it's fun and I love them.

And we still haven't completely resolved the Santa issue. Well, I resolved it. I just am putting a bunch of presents under the tree with a name on them, but no "from". So for all they know, the Easter Bunny could have left the presents there.

My guess is my cover is blown anyway because my daughter caught me wrapping one of her gifts and said, "So how's it going wrapping my gift?"

I said, "Fine. Get out."

See? It's all about the love.

The 3 Day Walk

Well, I think we can all agree that I failed the blog-a-thon month.

I have good reason, though. November also happens to be the month that I embarked on one of the greatest challenges of my life.

I took on the Susan G. Komen 3 Day Walk for a Cure and attempted to walk 60 miles in 3 days.

I confess, my walking partner, Shawna, and I did not do all 60. We did more like 45. But still, that's more walking than I've done in awhile.

If you haven't done the 3 Day Walk, then in your wildest imagination you can't imagine what it's like. It's beyond amazing.

For 3 Days, I answered not one email from work. I didn't even take my computer to San Diego.

For 3 Days my only responsibility was to take care of myself, to take care of my walking partner, and to walk and walk and walk and walk. Oh, and to have fun doing it. And to ignore the pain. To yell, "Limping is still walking!" when I felt like I couldn't walk anymore.

On Day 1, I wore the worst shoes I could have possibly worn. I wore these "easy tone" shoes and by mile 4, my feet felt like they were on fire. I had to redo the moleskin bandages on my feet at every pit stop. There were times I thought to myself, "I am so not going to make it. I can't do this. I'm already in pain."

But then a breast cancer survivor would walk by me. Or a van full of moms dressed in pink boas would drive by cheering us on and playing music full blast. Or someone would give me candy. Or a little girl's sign would say, "The life you are saving might be my own." So I kept walking. And walking.

We walked 18.5 miles on Day 1. Some of those miles included the killer hill up to Torrey Pines Lodge in San Diego. If you want to know how awful that hill was, picture a walker on the side of the road throwing up. Thank God it wasn't me, but it could have been.

On Day 2, I changed to different shoes and the bottoms of my feet felt better, but the tops of my toes started to get blisters. My back started to ache. There were longer stretches of time between people who cheered, which allowed us to enjoy the beauty around us. Then, right when we would need it, a huge group of people would be there with signs and candy and smiles and 'thank you's' and it would propel us forward to the next pit stop, where I would wrap my toes. Toward the end of the day, when I really wanted to quit, some guy was passing out little tequila shots (it was awesome) and then we met this woman who was dancing around and we come to find out she's just one year off her treatment for breast cancer and she did the San Francisco 3 Day Walk just recently, and she raised $12,000 in fundraising money. I loved her. And her colorful friend (I don't remember his name) played Abba on his stereo for us so we could dance our way to the end. We did 15.5 miles that day.

At the end of the day, my husband's cousin Susie picked us up at "camp" and took us back to her house. Camp is full of pink tents where lots of walkers stay. They also have this tent set up called "In Remembrance" and when you walk into this large tent, there is a smaller tent in the middle with all these notes on it from walkers who have written the names of people they have lost to breast cancer. Around the sides of the tent are pictures of women who had done the walk, and then passed away from breast cancer. All these courageous, amazing women. I felt so thankful that my mother was one of the blessed ones- a ten year survivor.

Susie and her husband fed us smoked tri tip and salad and garlic bread. Then we went for a soak in their hot tub outside and Susie brought us a glass of wine. I slept like a baby that night.

The morning of Day 3, I realized my feet wouldn't fit in any of my shoes. I put on one shoe and my foot screamed for me to take it off. I couldn't even get the other shoe on. "What will I do?" I asked my husband. All I could think about was finishing. I had to finish.

We figured out that cousin Susie wears one size bigger than me. I put her shoes on and they fit perfectly and felt fantastic.

We walked only 12 miles on Day 3. We were late getting started (Starbucks run) and then we stopped to have lunch with Shawna's boyfriend in Old Town. It was a blast. People gave us mimosas in the morning (don't worry, they were small, and we were told to 'drink your water' all the time) and candy and kleenex and stickers and music and anything else they could think of. We took pictures. We laughed and made up funny words. We stretched at every stop light. And in the end...we cried.

Closing Ceremonies were incredible. Picture 3,600 people who walked. Picture $9 million raised for breast cancer. Picture a party of music and screaming and laughing. Picture "thank you" being told to you by almost every member in the community. And picture the survivors. So many women. They paraded in between us during the closing ceremony while we all held up one shoe and shouted to them "You're beautiful! You're courageous! Thank you for walking!" and tears poured down all of our faces.

I didn't even mention the times when my husband showed up with my kids to cheer me on. Or the San Diego Police Department who dressed in pink and rode beside us on bikes and were so amazingly nice. Or the sorority team who wore T-Shirts that said, "Whoever says winning isn't everything, isn't fighting breast cancer."

I woke up this morning feeling sore and tired. And sort of sad. Kind of like the let down you have after camp. The "What do I do now?" feeling. The sensation that I should be putting on my tennis shoes and I should start walking. Only they don't fit me right now.

And I gained 5 pounds. Can you believe it? My husband says it has to be water weight because I'm swollen. Whatever. I know I didn't have 5 pounds of electrolytes and candy.

I'm doing this again in 2013 if anyone wants to be part of a team.

Let's go for a walk.

Remembering the attention span of a baby is important.

Remembering the attention span of a baby is important.

And even if you do, that doesn't mean everyone else around you will.

And so you'll end up feeding chocolate cheesecake to your 15 month old to appease him.

Today we went out to brunch at some golf/country club in Beaumont.

We went after church, so at least we were dressed okay. But because neither my husband or my Mother-In-Law knew exactly where we were going, we ended up driving around in circles for awhile. My daughter contributed her two cents to the argument my husband and his mother were having up front about where we were going. I was in the very back of the van and my job was to keep my body from falling off the seat everytime my mother-in-law suddenly slammed on the brakes, while correcting my daughter in proper back seat manners. The baby slept peacefully through the whole thing.

I always carry a "bag of stuff" anytime I have my children with me. I don't call it a diaper bag, because diaper bag would indicate some sort of organizational thinking and I ceased that a long time ago, so now I just have this "bag of stuff". It usually does include a diaper and a baggie of wipes. It also includes various food items intended on distracting my children. I also may throw in a toy or two, but I can't testify as to whether the toy is always in good condition or not.

Today's "bag of stuff" contained 1 diaper, 1 baggie of wipes, 1 baggie of crunchy veggie sticks, and one baby yogurt. Oh, and I made my husband go back to the car after we got in the restaurant, for this new strawberry milk thing Gerber has made. It's like a juice box, only it's strawberry milk for toddlers.

My husband going back to the car delayed us some.

My mother-in-law going back to the car delayed us some.

By the time we had sat down to eat, the baby had worked his way through half of his veggie sticks and 5 of the 10 minutes he can tolerate a high chair.

So far my children were the models of good restaurant behavior. If you know the attention span of a baby, you know this won't last long.

The 15 month old sucked down that strawberry milk quicker than I can say, "Slow down, little buddy."

So with a full plate in front of me, I had half a baggie of veggie sticks (3 minutes eating time) and a baby yogurt (2 minutes eating time)to distract the toddler. My daughter started to whine, so we distracted her with bacon and some kind of strawberry tart.

She likes bacon.

I did finish my biscuits (and gravy!) before the squirming in the high chair started.
I was able to finish my little omlette because the two Simon and Garfunkel sound alike guitarists took the stage and held the children's fascination for about 3 extra minutes. Then my husband took the baby out for a walk.

Then I took the baby out for a walk.

Then my husband took the baby out for a walk again.

Then I got a piece of cheesecake. Right when my husband brought the baby back.

How is it children know the sight and smell of chocolate so well? How is it they know they will like it?

This baby, who is only 15 months old and can only say "sock" and "up" and "uh-oh" and "mama", reached as far across the table as he could and grabbed my cheesecake fork with the intention of bringing it to his mouth.

Baby likes chocolate cheesecake.

A lot.

In Protest

There has been a lot of news lately about the OWS people (Occupy Wall Street- for those of you out of the "know"). I won't comment whether I agree or disagree with the movement-okay, I will.

I feel very diplomatic about it. I agree with some. Not all. I agree to the right to protest. As long as it's not my children doing the protesting against me. I'm slightly jealous in the fact that I wish I could take a drum set down to the street and hang out singing and drumming. However, when I think about how people are probably starting to smell, I decide it doesn't seem so fun. And I would be the only conservative there saying "yeah, you have some valid reasons for being here-but I'm here for the drums."

However, it has got me thinking about the act of protesting and what would be appropriate to protest in the eyes of a child. My children - to be exact.

So if my kids were professional protesters-these are what they would deem "protestable". They have already tested the waters on these. All they need are drums and signs.

I call it "Occupy Ross House".

Things that are worthy of a protest:

1) Getting out of the tub before "prune skin" has set in

2) Any vegetable

3) Turning off 'Little Einsteins' before it's over

4) Putting away toys

5) Throwing trash away

6) Going to bed at a decent hour

7) Not getting a bedtime story

8) Where's my juice?

9) Eating squash with mixed cereal-again

10) Being denied more Halloween candy


Things I wish I could protest about:

1) Not being able to finish a hot cup of coffee

2) Little hands pounding on the bathroom door when I'm trying to pee

3) Eating lunch standing up so the baby doesn't grab it

4) Being woken up in the middle of the night

5) Being "snobbered" (see previous blogs) on

6) Whining

I'm counting this blog toward tomorrow. This blog-a-thon thing has me so confused.

What day am I on?

While at a work meeting, my asthmatic hyper-on-medicine daughter kept my husband very busy.

They made pipe cleaner crafts.

One such craft was two pipe cleaners forming an "X" with some glitter glue in the middle holding them together.

"What is it?" I asked her. (It's always good to ask)

"It's an 'X'", she told me.

Some of the pipe cleaner creations were very cute. A pipe cleaner shaped like a star on top of another pipe cleaner was my favorite.

"Nice wand," I said.

"That's a Christmas Star!"

I picked up a pipe cleaner that was all scrunched up off the table and went to go throw it in the trash, thinking it was the discards of their activity.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?" She yelled.

"Don't yell. I'm throwing the trash away."

"That's not trash! That's a snowball."

See? I should have asked.

What shall we do with the drunken sailor?

I noticed that I ended my blog yesterday in mid-sentence. That's because I was very tired. I don't even remember writing that partial sentence.

Why was I tired? Well, for one thing I guess I was fighting off a cold because I woke up this morning with one.

For another thing, I was writing the blog from Urgent Care. We had to take my daughter to Urgent Care because she caught some kind of viral thing and her asthma kicked in. After three nebulizer treatments at our house without any success, we decided to take her to Urgent Care.

I hate asthma. I have asthma, but I haven't had a full on attack in years. My daughter was having a full on attack and she was terrified. She was also very hyper from the medicine. It's not a good combination.

"I need medicine!" She yelled at me.

"I don't look happy!" She cried.

It was awful.

Thankfully, the good nurses and doctors at Urgent Care accepted her right away and rushed her into a room where they gave her a double dose of albuterol and some other medicine we don't have at home. Then they gave her steroids.

She was breathing much better afterward. And if she wasn't hyper before, well, this did it for sure.

While we waited for her prescription of a new inhaler and more steroids, my daughter danced in circles singing, "The pharmacy! The pharmacy! Oh, I love the pharmacy!"

I should have waited to blog about how children can change subjects on you quickly until after last night. Today was a whirlwind of changing subjects.

ME: You have to stay home from preschool today.

HER: NOOOOO!! I'll never see my friend Emily again! Can I do a craft?

ME: What would you like to do?

HER: I want to color a picture. No, I want to make Christmas decorations. I want some juice.

Perhaps putting scissors in the hands of a child on steroids and asthma medicine is a bad idea.

HER: I'm hungry.

ME: Would you like something to eat.

HER: No. Not now. I'm busy. Can I watch 'The Incredibles'?

ME: Okay, I'll be waayyy over here in case you need me. Please put the scissors down.


Another thing I noticed with this round of medicine is that she walks a little crooked. Kind of like a drunken sailor who's trying really hard not to show he's been drinking.

I asked her if she was okay, but she just sang a song about ocean animals in return and asked where the glitter was.

I think this is payback. My mother tells stories about me with asthma when I was little. Apparently after a hefty shot of adrenaline, I told one doctor I had six brothers and sisters. Then I proceeded to recite their names. I gave them names like "Mary Margaret".

Another time after a shot of adrenaline, I dragged my toy box into my mother's bedroom at 2am and said, "play."

When I was two years old, I had to be hospitalized for asthma. While in the hospital, I was so full of adrenaline that I pulled down the oxygen tent the doctors had put up over my bed and stomped on it like a gorilla.

It's going to take me a week to clean all of this up.

And I have 2 more days of this at least.