I don't want to scare you, but I might be dying of a brain infection.

Ooooooooohhhhhh, I LOVE these.  I gifted them to my sister-in-law this week, in honor of her birthday.  Notice the felt shoes from Target, purchased in bulk this fall.  Sometimes hoarding pays off, is all I'm saying.

Because my original idea was to add....you guessed it...fabric rosettes.  But then!  A week before Christmas, some blog that I was reading listed a bunch of COOL tutorials on fabric flowers.  I did the happy-happy dance and checked a few of them out....and then.  I got busy playing the jolly fat guy and I TOTALLY forgot which blog did the tutorial list. 

This is the kind of thing that keeps me awake at night.  Seriously.

Because I CAN'T FIND IT.  ANYWHERE.  And I've looked. 

I guarantee that my memory will be jogged on December 22, 2011.  When I am mentally and physically unable to take on another project, but still lack the ability to say NO.

However.  I had perused the tutorial of the flower I was most interested in experimenting with, and so I went off of memory.  And that is what you see on these here yellow shoes. 

*************************

On an unrelated note.  I finally vocalized my *current* greatest fear to my husband this evening, and he looked at me as if I had just said I was going to join P. Diddy on tour.  As a clown posse krumper.

It did sound *kind of * crazy.

But I read online that sinus infections, when accompanied by neck pain, can equal a brain infection.

So, I think I have that.  Possibly.  It would explain a lot. 

And hubby thinks I am a WHACK JOB.  He's just now catching up to the rest of you, blog world. 

How China is responsible for the appearance of loose bowels in my living room.

For Christmas, I bought Mike an ipod speaker dock/ alarm clock.  Which sits in our kitchen, but coincidentally, still functions as an alarm clock.  For me.

Every morning, my husband has been getting the kids out of bed, shuffling them downstairs and starting their breakfast.  At which point, he then plugs my phone into the dock, finds some Bruno Mars and BLASTS it through the kitchen ceiling and straight into my brain buds.  It is *potentially* an awesome new therapy for awakening coma patients.  And it is a helluva lot more pleasant than his normal routine of snapping back our curtains and throwing a child upon my face. 

Anyway.  I have had a bit of a head cold this week, and I moved into our guest bedroom around 2 a.m. last night, when it became fairly obvious that I was about to wake our deceased beagle with never. ending. coughing.  And without a direct overhead access to B. Mars (or a functioning clock), I slept until 10 a.m. this morning.  It was glorious and panic-inducing all at the same time.  Unknowingly losing 2 hours out of my day makes me jumpy.  Apparently.

As I was rejuvenated and weirdly hyper, I decided we needed an activity.  Now, I have wanted to take my kids to our new, scary-shack-of-a-bowling-alley-near-the-railroad-tracks that we discovered a couple of months ago.  But as we have been Wii bowling for the past 4 days, this option seemed to lose its luster, for a couple of reasons:

1.)  We just bought a machine that allows us to bowl ALL THE DAMN TIME, and if we play 12 more games on it, I believe the Wii will pay for itself *if* you compare the cost of actually playing this sport in real life.

2.)  The kids have been throwing down scores in the range of 150 per game.  Which makes us all infinitely more AWE-some at bowling if we do it virtually.  Playing in real life would be kind of a buzz kill at this point. 

So.  I decided we would head to the Art Museum.  Because we rarely go there, it involves NO inflatable jumping machines or large crowds of petri dishes (children) carrying the ebola virus.  AND it's free.  We spent about an hour there, I took some clipboards and oil pastels, and the kids had fun drawing and copying works of art in the abstract section. 

As an added bonus, we headed to HEAVEN ON EARTH.  Also known as "The Fountain on Locust".  Fantastically-modern soda shop.  Specializing in ice cream drinks.  That's right, I said ICE CREAM DRINKS.  As in milkshakes and malts and MARTINIS.  I split a milkshake with Little J, but have had a dreamsicle martini before and ohmygod it is a spiritual experience. 

Then we headed home and walked in the door and I immediately started barking orders for the kids to CLEAN THIS PLACE UP!...when suddenly, I heard liquid splattering upon liquid.  Because Little J was tossing his milkshake in the toilet.

Which, coincidentally, makes him the FIRST Denckhoff child to ever puke IN A TOILET.  We had LOTS of vomit on the floor directly in front of the toilet, and even the cabinetry in the near-vicinity of the toilet.  But never the ACTUAL bowl.  Impressive.

Also.  Aside from eating 8+ hotdogs (don't ask how I know this) dairy products are quite possibly the WORST food you can have prior to pukage.  The. Worst.  It is most remarkably similar to this summer's milk spill/chocolate cheese debacle in the mini van.  Gag.

So I disinfected the bathroom, some doorknobs and the holy-grail-wii-remotes. And then GUESS WHO decided to crap small puddles of diarrhea in various areas throughout the living room.

That's right.

The NOISY PUTTY.  A $1 stocking stuffer gifted  to Big J.  For some reason, it's brown, it's slimy and when palpitated it makes sounds like a gassy colon.  Which I saw fit to purchase and gift!  Oh!  And when you leave small pieces of it ON MY SOFAS AND CURTAINS it *looks* like a glossy squirt of poop, when in fact it has dried and leaves something resembling a skid mark upon cleaning. 

And yes, it is MADE IN CHINA.

Now.  Some of you *may* be thinking that it's not China's fault that my 8-year-old has been inadvertently dropping noisy putty turdlets on my upholstery.  To which, I will remind you that G is one-quarter Okinawan.  NOT Chinese.  But close enough. 

Asia is taking the blame for this one tonight. 

For Christmas we gave our kids a red box of crazy.

Yup, we did it.  We Santa caved and "built" a Wii.  It took a lot of convincing, because my husband (aka, Mr. Claus) was raised on almost no television, and has fond childhood memories involving games with rocks and sticks. I, on the other hand, was practically raised by a tv, and have a *mild* distaste for the out-of-doors if the conditions are not just-so.  And mind you, I was raised in Hawaii, so my standards for outdoor perfection are somewhat high. 

I have numerous arguments for wanting the Wii for myself our children, but one of my biggest was simply a gigantic brain block on what to get them for Christmas.  That wouldn't cost a fortune AND break in 2 days.  Months ago, I found an MP3 player for G that was also a camera and video camera.  For $50.  Sound to good to be true?  It is.  That thing is a piece of crap on steroids.  People, it took 3 WHOLE days just to figure out how to turn the volume down.  I give it a total life span of 2 months, tops.

And then.  I found these AWESOME  remote-control-flying-UFOs?  Those suckers levitated all over the house.  For about 4 minutes.  And then they lost their battery power and had to be charged.  For 30 hours.  Not. Even. Kidding.

I mean, that is the kind of thing that makes me hate China. 

Are you catching my point here?  A gift for an 8-year-old is generally going to involve some sort of cheap mechanical toy with a life span of 12.8 minutes.  Remember the ZHU ZHU PET?  Had. to. have. it.  Particularly since it was only $10.  So we sent search teams across 4 states and found one for each kid.  Only to have them suck-up and choke on every piece of dog hair in our entire house.  I took one apart in an effort to resuscitate it?  Let's just say that waxing a Wookie would have been easier, and more likely to happen.

Enter the Wii.  Simply because I am so sick of flushing money down the toilet, $15 at a time. 

So.  This is the 20th?  25th?  Anniversary of Nintendo, and they are celebrating with a festive, RED, Wii console.  LOVES it.  Except that you need to buy extra remotes, and none of them come in RED.  Nintendo, did you not see this coming?  It is visually disturbing to me that our remotes do. not. match.  I fight the battle to match my children with monograms in jewel tones, even though they wage war for clothing with large, neon cartoon characters (gag) on a daily basis.  Do you not think I want my lifeless, docile, little controllers to look the SAME?  And if you think *appearances* don't matter, then why-on-God's-green-earth, did you go and make the Wii that flashy red color?  It's just SCREAMING for attention, and then you make it wear plain, sensible, non-matching black remotes.  It's like wearing crocs with a ball gown and it BUGS.

All aboard for CRAZY TOWN!  Woot!

Anyway.

Our kids are beginning to get the hang of the Wii.  The sports package that comes with it is per-fect-o, but anything involving more than one motor function at a time is impossible challenging.  Like teaching math with tally marks or trying to explain WHY every word in the English language has a silent "e"...instructing a 4, 6 or 8 year old in how to get Mario to run AND jump at the same time is *difficult*.  And then you add in those bastard walking mushrooms and they are DEAD.  Instantly, 5 lives, 45 seconds flat. 

For a few hours, even Wii bowling was an obstacle, as the kids have to learn to Press the "B" button and release it at just the right time--which means that for 3 hours straight, all I said was:

 "Hold the B.  Big J, the B.  Hold the B.  Don't let go of the B.  Not yet.  Push. The. B.  Keep it down.  Down.  DOWN!  Now let go.  Let go.  Hold it.  Let go. Now.  Push it again.  Again.  Do. Not. Let. Go.  Hold it.  Hold it.  Now!  Let go!"

The Wii is like rehabilitating a stroke victim.  You can quote me on that.  Because I am teaching my kids to walk/run/jump/shoot ice balls/throw yarn lassos/chop onions/golf with only their two hands, while their brains  HAVE NO IDEA what to do. 

Walk!  Jump!  Look out for the mushroom!  Jump!  Get the star!  Go forward and press A with a quick tap on the "B".  It's like I am speaking Portuguese. 

Besides push the "B" button, because after 3 hours of repeated commands, that is BURNED into their brains for life.  In fact, we practically have to pry their hands off of it when we call it a night, because they now believe their general health and safety rely solely upon that one little button that mommy screamed at them about, for a large chunk of time, on Christmas day. 

One day they'll thank me.  When Nintendo starts making polka-dotted red remotes, and they are super-ultra-rock-stars at Super Mario Brothers.  Kids, that was ALL me. 

You're welcome.

How holiday joy and cheer looks like 6 people about to die in a freak logging accident.

Hellooooooooo, blog friends!!  Here's hoping you had a lovely holiday, full of family and friends and food so fattening that you will be working it off for the next 5 months straight.  Because peppermint ice cream and cookies ARE the gifts that keep. on. giving.  And those bastards are particularly generous with the thighs and ass. 

I know I have been absent.  But I come bearing a tiny sliver of joy as penance.

We have gotten MANY a comment on our Christmas card this year.  And I would LOVE to say that it's because I personally knit matching sweaters for the entire family WITH MY TEETH, but the sad truth is that there were ZERO good family pictures to work with this year.  Z-E-R-O.

So you know what?  We had to go with humor.  Otherwise known as The-day-I-thought-my-entire-family-was-going-to-die-in-a-freak-log-flume-drowning.  Which happened to be caught on film.

So without further ado, may I present the Denckhoff Christmas Card (and letter) of 2010:

Merry Christmas, Family and Friends!

Despite our laundry pile, the gravitational pull of Target, and our general attempts to sustain small human beings, we are taking a moment to count our MANY blessings: For all of you, for another year of crazy “normalcy” and for our four, small, flesh-colored tornadoes (the children). We are ever so thankful that fumigating our mini-van after the unfortunate milk spill/cheese making debacle, and finding time for bi-weekly showers (and other, basic hygiene tasks) are among the most complicated tasks we faced in 2010.

Grace is in 2nd grade, John & Libby are rocking kindergarten, and Joshua, our “baby”, is finishing up his last year of preschool. It appears that we have traded diapers and naps for playdates and soccer and math homework that includes a system of tally marks/coins/number grids SO COMPLICATED that even the military can’t decipher it. While parenting infants and toddlers took lightning reflexes and infinite patience, it appears that this stage requires a masters degree in counseling and quantum physics.

And pharmaceuticals. Kidding.

As for the adults? We have managed to celebrate 10 AWESOME years of marriage and survived the “Log-Flume-of-Terror” (pictured on this here card). Our ol’ beagle didn’t quite fare so well, but we are sure she’s gnawing on a never-ending hot dog in the sky (RIP, Bailey). In her absence, we have adopted small rodents and the children sure do love terrorizing the snot out of them! House with 4 children=war-torn Vietnam for hamsters.

For all of the shenanigans and general craziness, we are indeed...Thankful. For the LOVE, JOY and PEACE of Christ that comes amidst the ridiculous chaos of life! May you know him in your heart this season and throughout 2011!

Love,

The Denckhoffs

Merry Christmas, Freddy Krueger!!

Today's Christmas Project:  The gingerbread house.

Aka, Freddy Krueger's Winter Home.

Oh, friends.  This year, I was taking it EASY on myself, and figured, what the hell!  I'm going to buy a gingerbread kit.  And while I don't *normally* bake gingerbread in the shape of a house, in years past, I have hand-cut graham crackers and glue gunned them to form gigantic house structures AND small urban slums. 

In any case, gingerbread houses = gigantic pain in the ass.  But this is often the theme of parenthood. 

So I buy this house (and train).  And what I'm really thinking, is that I have found the secret to eternal happiness and holiday merriment in a box.  Right? 

Wrong.  So.  So.  Wrong.

It all starts innocently enough.  I locate the pieces.  I tell the hyped up children to SHHHHHH while mommy is reading the directions.  Fun!!  I have TOTALLY got this.  We glue the house together and then wait 15 minutes, per the instructions. 

We get started on the train.  It is *slightly* more tricky.  My confidence is a little shaken, but I'm sure the children don't feel it at all, particularly when I tell them to go in the other room if they are going to play/talk.  More FUN!

The structures are complete.  It looks okay.  Moving on.

Well, that thick icing that is holding the house together?  Yeah, it ain't so good at spreading.  And while I am using ALL OF MY ARM STRENGTH to spackle the damn house, the roof totally collapses.  Taking a few gumballs in it's avalanche.  Scream. 

Scream.

On the opposite end of the spectrum?  The icing holding the train together is RUNNY.  Like, one second it looks AWESOME!  And the next?  It's standing completely at a 45 degree angle and it's face is melting off. 

At this point, I handed the icing bag over to Little J, and told him to have. at. it.  In the meantime, I used my chin to try to hold the girl's roof together, while using my toes to keep the train at a normal 90 degree angle.  It was NOT pretty.  But the kids sure did have fun, once I got the hell out of the way. 

Lastly.  The white icing was OUT OF THE QUESTION, because it was way too thick and pasty coming out of the plastic tubey thingy.  So we moved on to red!  I was thinking this would be festive window dressings!  And it is...if your name is Freddy Krueger,and you live on Elm Street. 

Runny red icing = windows weeping blood.  Hello, Christmas!!

I do have to say, I laugh out loud when I see these things sitting on our table.  And the kids really did have a blast, so at the end of the day, it was a drippy, pseudo-bloody SUCCESS! 

What holiday activity did you do today that reminded you of a serial killer with a bloody claw???

Merry Christmas to you, dear blog readers.

As I am STILL struggling to put together a coherent sentence, I thought I would give all of you the gift of laughter and awkwardness this holiday season.  I have had these little gems for quite some time now, and have been meaning to share them...however, it is quite obvious that they are SO good/awful that they make the PERFECT Christmas gift for you.

May I present.  The WORST school pictures of all time.  Taken by my children, this year. 

Consistently, across the board, appauling and terribly humorous.

Big J, Kindergarten:

Now.  The kid can't help that we only cut his hair every 6 months or so.  Whenever it looks shaggy enough to serve as a constant, visual reminder.  And unfortunately for Big J, this picture was the reminder we needed to get him to the freakin' barber.  The side glance also adds a nice touch of humor.

Not TOO bad, you say?

Let me introduce L, kindergarten:

It's *kind of* a smile, and a kind of a teeth-bearing look that says "I am small but I can rip your face off".  You may have guessed that we are struggling with the natural smile.  Though, in L's defense, when she smiles, she does so with her entire face and usually, her eyes disappear. 

You must know that I have saved the best for last? 

Little J, Pre-kindergarten:

Wow. 

I'm almost speechless.  I think that only a pair of large, wire-rimmed glasses would complete "the look".  Where, oh where, have I seen that before?

Oh, right.  Here it is.

Son of a gun.  They are TERRIBLE.  And I say this in love, and because these photos shall forever serve as reminders to CUT THE BOYS HAIR.  Dear God, the hair.  And apparently, they are living a joyless childhood and need to be schooled in the art of SMILING. 

A few days later, G's photos arrived via her backpack.  I don't have them scanned in, so you'll have to take my word for it.  Since all my kids were absent on picture day (we were on va-cay), I forgot about picture retakes, until JOY-OF-ALL-JOYS, Mike got wind of it during carpool and called to see what he should do about it. 

So.  Her general appearance was out of my control, but I was confident in her outfit selection.  Mike's job was to ORDER THE PICTURES.  What I received was, I KID YOU NOT, a package of 12 wallets and a wall calendar. 

?????

And not only were they wallets, they were wallets with a small inset of the EXACT same picture.

???????????????????????????????????????????

And not only were they wallets-of-wallets, as I shall now refer to them, they were the WORST of the four pictures.  G was wearing a ponytail that day, and therefore it looks as if she has no hair.  But that wouldn't *really* bother me, if it wasn't for the forced smile.  And by forced, I don't mean so much with the lips and cheeks, but the BROW LINE.  Think about that for one tiny second. 

G is a pretty delicate child.  She's small and thin, and could wear a size 4T jeans, if they wouldn't be Daisy-Duke like in the length.  This picture is anything. but. delicate.  She looks like she could eat small villagers.  And I am only viewing it in a wallet-of-a-wallet size, so it is truly the Lord's mercy that Mike didn't order an 8x10. 

Merry Christmas, blog world.  Amidst your wrapping frenzy and that last minute run to Wal-mart (egad!), I hope this was a small ray of sunshine in your day.

Teachers gifts, part deux.

I am trying, TRYING to write a blog post about the wondertwins and the miracle of their 6th birthday, and my brain is FAILING.  Badly.  I have thoughts and a theme and yet am totally mentally constipated when it comes to the actual words.  I promise that something heartfelt and meaningful is on it's way soon. 

In the meantime, I am hoping to appease you with my second post on teacher's gifts--I ended up revisiting Home Goods and finding some cute plates to paint with chalkboard paint.  Add a few fabric rosettes and a box of chalk?  And you have yourself a chalk message board.  Love!

Particularly appropriate since they are for TEACHERS, no?  Although these days teachers don't actually use chalkboards, they use dry erase boards and smart boards and all kinds of new technology.  But I am unaware or any crafting supply that turns a simple platter into a computer tablet.  If you find it, let me know. 

We are on the countdown to Christmas, folks!  And if I can ever spit this darn birthday post out, I will be somewhat free of major responsibilities this week.  Besides a little cooking and some gift wrapping.  Oh, and there's still the issue of L's Christmas dress, which has yet to be started.  But I am still infinitely ahead of the game, in relation to years past. 

Merry Christmas, friends!

Where I explain myself as a whale, an eskimo and a beer wench.

You know what?  It's been a *challenging* week.  But not necessarily because of my 3.7 mile to-do list.  Actually, I have been managing my time rather wisely. 

Teacher gifts are done, and the details for G's class Christmas party will come together tomorrow, without much ado.  I delegated a few things, including the ordering of Big J and L's birthday cake for Saturday.  Rather than peruse the Internet for 3 hours looking for the PERFECT picture of Darth Vader, I gave that task to Mike.  And he found a picture that was AWE-some, but is it just me, or does the Dark Lord appear to have a rather large...cup?  So. Many. Jokes.

The Wondertwins actually turn 6 on Saturday.  Which means that 6 years ago, I was beached upon our Lazy-Boy, sitting upon a super-absorbent pad.  Because, my water had been broken for 12 WEEKS.  Which basically made me a slow, trickling faucet.  Disguised as a large, ocean mammal. 

Thankfully, their birthday party is at a bowling alley and unless I have a budget that would account for carpet reupholstery, 25 pairs of new shoes and a Haz-mat level of decontamination, it will be impossible for me to "cutesy" this up.  Which is great, because there is ZERO time or emotional energy for cute.

This week, in particular, is always pretty hard on me.  Sub-consciously.  Because I make it about Christmas cards and presents and 35 batches of peppermint brownies, but this Saturday will mark the 6 year anniversary of when a full-blown Orca whale was thrown into Vietnam-style  combat.  Which is how I would most accurately describe being on 13 weeks of bedrest with triplets, only to birth three babies who were 15 weeks early.  Lots of blubber and large gaping wounds.  And TRAUMA.

In the meantime.   I bought the ugliest house slippers known to man.  Because they were $15 at Sams, and they looked damn comfy.  And boy, did they not disappoint.  Even if they did make Mike dry heave a little.   

He is not as big a fan of my Elmira the Eskimo costume as he is of Gretchen the Beer wench. 

Merry Christmas, Teachers!!

Ahh, teacher gifts.  Nearly complete.

And I say nearly, because the four plates of cookies pictured here are ONLY for Little J's teachers.  That's right, he has 4 teachers in his actual classroom.  And lest you think I am complaining (who me?  I NEVER do that), I will tell you that last year Big J and L were also at this school, in a different room, which meant that we had 8 teachers among them.  Plus therapists. 

But seriously.  These ladies are teaching my kids reading and math and all things related to social skills and etiquette.  So, if it was possible, I would bake them cookies made of millions of dollars.  And it would be WORTH IT. 

I found these awesome polka-dot plates at Home Goods back in September, and bought 4.  Which was perfect for Little J's 4 teachers, but still leaves me short two gifts, for Big J & L's teacher, and G's teacher.   Because we all know that I am *challenged* when it comes to math and general organization of these sorts of projects.  And of course, HomeGoods no longer stocks the same plates (that would be TOO easy), so I had to get creative today, but I really like what I came up with.  You'll just have to wait a day to see them. 

Anyhoo.  I started baking the cookies (Cowboy cookies, from THIS recipe) in the afternoon, so that by the time the kids were in bed all I had to do was arrange them and wrap them in cellophane.  With all that time on my hands, I decided each package also needed a corduroy rosette.  And just like that, they were done.  No major emotional breakdowns or hours of sleep lost!

Tonight I am finishing up the final two gifts.  And SHOCKER!  There are more rosettes involved. 

Advent Day Number-Who-Knows?

Probably 11.  Yep, it was Saturday, and that was the 11th, right?  We all know I am challenged when it comes to keeping, or even LOOKING, at a calendar.  I prefer, instead, to rely upon my *stellar* memory skills and the winter moon cycle.  Or something similarly CRAZY and unreliable. 

Anyway.

Saturday's treat included a box of Christmas cards from the Dollar store.  And I had NO IDEA what a hit it would be, as the kids got to choose 3 friends that they wanted to write cards to.  I knew G, and probably L, would be all over this.  But the boys loved it just as much.

So much, in fact, that we ventured out for another box of cards.  And when it is all said and done, I have about 30 cards to send on behalf of the children.  Which is going to be interesting, because if I SUCK at keeping an organized schedule?  Well then, I SUCK x's 1,000,000 at getting things in the mail. 

To prove my point?  I have already received our family Christmas cards in the mail, and proceeded to address all 150 within 2 days.  This would be awesome, but for two details.    I under-ordered by about 30.  Which really means I under-ordered by about 50?   But as I went off of a *general* count I had floating in my head, my ability to get this number correct is about as likely as Bon Jovi and Bruno Mars touring together in concert.  

Don't even say it.  I KNOW that's what the CONTACTS section of my email/phone/every electronic device is for.  Here's the deal, peeps.  There are contacts in there that I don't even recognize.  Probably someone who worked with Mike 15 years ago.   Or someone that I worked with 15 years ago, but for the life of me, I can't even remember what it felt like to regularly wear clothing that did not include denim or stretchy cotton.  Much less, what I did (and who I did it with) for 8 solid hours at a desk.  Hello!  That made me sound like a porn star playing a naughty accountant.  FYI, what I did prior to having children was no where near that exciting.  Or disease-ridden.   

There are a handful of contacts with only 1st names?  And a bunch of peeps with 4-7 various addresses, collected over time?  Not to mention the 4 or 5 various address books from schools and church, etc., with families I haven't officially entered into my contacts, because OBVIOUSLY, we just aren't tight enough for that kind of commitment??


???????????

I am a HOT mess.  And if you wonder why I don't delete some of these contacts so that I have a more accurate count for my annual Christmas list?

Blog World!!

I.  CANNOT.  THROW.  ANYTHING.  AWAY.   Even random contacts. 

Oh, and Detail #2, as to why my early-Christmas-Card-activity is less than awesome?  I have *sort of* lost interest, and these puppies are neither stamped, nor affixed with return address labels.  And there are 50 more Christmas cards a-comin', which means the whole batch will probably leave our home, on schedule, at 6 p.m. on December 24th. 

But, to end on a high note:  I am working on teacher gifts tonight and will be getting them out the door TOMORROW!!  Yeah, baby.  And they are turning out to be not as complicated or stress-inducing as they have been in years past.  But that *probably* has something to do with the fact that I am not beginning them at 10 p.m. 

Hang in there, friends!!!  Christmas is in sight!!

Where I learn an important lesson about instructions.

Tonight my book club is having a gift exchange.  So, some LUCKY lady is going to win this pink, fuzzy stocking!!!!  I hope her name starts with a "B" or else this will be kind of stupid.

There also happens to be a metal stamped necklace in that stocking.  For any of you out there who aren't so fond of homemade gifts.  Mostly I am totally a buy-it-from-Target kind of gal, but I like to wrap it up in a pretty lil' package.  Remember, that's my love language.  Target and ribbons and cellophane.

I have actually wanted to try my hand at sewing a stocking for quite some time.  No pattern, but C'MON people.  It's a giant, baggy sock  that doesn't have to actually fit anybody.  It's not rocket science.  Or 2nd grade math. 

And yet!

I managed to sew my first one with an inner lining 4 sizes smaller than the actual stocking.  So apparently, patterns ARE helpful.  Who knew?

Christmas, I am not going down without a fight. And let me warn you, I am scrappy.

This is me.  Kicking Christmas' ass.

Not the Jesus part of Christmas.  But the whiny little elf that jumps right on my back and gives me 127 projects.  Due tomorrow.  While singing "Mary Did You Know?".  That song makes me CRAZY.  Like dog-with-rabbies crazy. 

I've decided that this week is just going to flat out suck.  Because it's the last week of school, and Big J and L's 6th birthday on Saturday, which includes having a party at a local bowling alley.  Plus, I'm coordinating G's class party on Friday.  And then there's Christmas. 

Oh.  Let me clarify that Big J and L's birthday does not suck.  It is, in fact a GIGANTIC blessing, seeing as they were undercooked by 15 whole weeks.  Which is like underestimating the roasting time on a turkey by 2 whole hours, and still managing to escape a major case of salmonella.  However.  In my desire to show love via my totally-whack-and-ridonkulous-love-language of pretty bows and packages and monograms, I will probably overdose on energy pills this week, doing stuff that the wondertwins could care less about.  Big J and L.  I am telling you now.  Every appliqued shirt and matching outfit is an OUTPOURING of my unconditional love for you.  Tell that to your therapist, and show him the family pictures of your youth...and he will understand that you were loved truly and deeply in the most insane way imaginable.

But back to my suckfest.  Yup, it's going to be a doosie.  But I'm gearing up for it, and I think expectation is half the battle.  This weekend alone, I have managed to address Christmas cards up to the letter R.  This is WAY ahead of my usual schedule, in which I use my tears to seal envelopes on December 23rd.  At midnight. 

Plus.  If I just put in some prison-hour kind of time this week, I am hoping to be listening to Glee Christmas and sipping chardonnay.  All. Next. Week.

Santa, all I want for Christmas is a week to freaking enjoy it.  With some wine.

This is me giving procrastination a big fat kick in the arse.

First.  Time.  Ever.

That I have BEGUN wrapping Christmas presents before 10:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve.  Which, FYI, is a recipe for disaster because inevitably I run out of:  tape, "specific" Santa wrapping paper OR chardonnay.  And then I have to get all creative with a glue gun and cough syrup. 

A BIG part of me fantasizes Christmas Eve.  Playing Santa, while the kids go to bed.  Except that this year, I am *smarter* and realizing that December 24th is the peak of a sugar-induced manic binge for my children, and Santa is less of a fantasy and more of a fat, tired and *mildly* liquored laborer.  

And ya know what?  Wrapping presents in a quiet house with the t.v. on is quite lovely.  Magical even.  And for the second time in the last 2 weeks, I managed to turn on the 15th hour of the Today Show.  DO ANY OF YOU WATCH THE TODAY SHOW?  Because, holy hell, that Kathy Lee is Out. Of. Control.  Someone needs to breath-a-lize her or put her on ADHD medication or both.  

Happy weekend friends!!  I have been told Old Navy is selling $5 fleeces tomorrow, and Toys R Us is having some kind of Wii and Lego sale, and even though I think I am 99% done with my shopping, I just. can't. resist. cheap. stuff.

Happy weekend!!!

I'm not sure how it's possible,but we managed to take Christmas and turn it into something terrifying.

So last night, we officially trimmed our tree.  And without fail, every year, we also manage to miscalculate our ceiling heights by about 8 inches.  Even this year, when I thought our tree was a tad on the *small* side.  Under normal circumstances, this would mean that we would shove that star up there in a somewhat sideways position, but our top branch makes even this an impossible task.

I know.

Other families would simply cut the branch.  And we have every INTENTION of doing just that.  But people.  My basement is FULL of intentions in the form of Hobby Lobby crafting materials.  So, I'm going to go ahead and put my money on a more likely scenario, that the star will remain seated on our couch until January 15th or so. 

Now.  To understand our annual tree trimming ritual, you must know that my dear husband is FASCINATED and mildly obsessed with the most ugly-ass ornaments ever known to man.  Don't believe me?  Let me enter as evidence, the Christmas mouse sculpted out of manure:

Okay, so it's probably not ACTUALLY made of poop.  But in my mind, an ornament that looks like it is made out of excrement is JUST AS BAD.   This little beauty (which always ends up SMACK in the center of our tree) was handed down in a box of similarly offensive ornaments, by my dear in-laws (thank you, Bob and Pat).  And Mike likes to tell me that he made it, therefore attempting to appeal to my "crafty" side?  Nice try, honey, but 2nd graders do not have that kind of fine motor dexterity.  No, no, someone paid MONEY for this, I am certain.  Or, attended an organic ornament making party on a cattle farm.

One of my children seemed particularly fond of this particular branch: 

And if you will notice, one of the 70 ornaments hung on this limb is a single bell on a 25-year-old piece of ribbon.  Any guesses where it came from?????

I know what you're thinking.  Throw the ugly ornaments out.  Blogworld, do you KNOW me?  I can't throw anything away.  What's that you say?  Hide the ugly ornaments?  I do.  EVERY year.  Hubby is born with a sixth sense that guides him directly toward HIDEOUS.

More proof? 

Enter, Nordic Santa.  Purchased in 2004, on a trip to Steamboat, Colorado.  In a store FULL of ornaments, THIS is what he chose.  Now granted, he's not made out of a discarded baby diaper.  But he is HUGE.  As in gigantic.  As in, just 6 inches shy of the size of ACTUAL Santa.  And the kids find it slightly creepy that we decided to kill St. Nick, have him taxidermied, and then mounted on our Christmas tree.  It sort of kills the fantasy for them.

Just so you get a proper scale, here he is, dominating the other ornaments.  Oh, and looksy here, he's hanging right next to his #1 goon, the poop mouse:

So this is how it goes, every year.  I hide the ugly ornaments, Mike performs the Jedi mind trick, and they *magically* reappear.  And then we spend the next 15 minutes RACING to place our keepsakes on the tree.  It  is not relaxing, but more closely resembling an Ultimate Fighter Death Match. 

And who am I kidding anyway?  Nordic Santa just eats all of my petite little figurines, so it's a losing battle for pretty.   Next year I am going to hang a bunch of raw meat on the tree and hope that satisfies him.

Advent Day #6 as metaphor for my life.

Advent Day #6:  Crazy kid wreaths.  Last Christmas, I saw an idea somewhere in the blog universe, where an entire tree was decorated in race car tracks and cars.  Mentally, I filed that little idea somewhere in the black hole of my brain, and when I put my thoughts on shuffle the other day, it popped up.

My kids have no Christmas decor in their rooms, so I decided this was a great start.  Fake wreaths are always 50% off at Hobby Lobby (starting in April, when they begin to restock for the holidays).  They each cost $3.50.  And then I got fancy with a little flocking spray.  And well, don't be surprised if Mike wakes up with textured white hair.  It just means I decided to spray him down and shock him 100 times with the Light Keeper Pro (see yesterdays post if you are like, "huh?").

So.  One of my favorite blogs to read is The Pleated Poppy, because I LOVE Lindsey's style.  And last week, she did a tutorial on yarn ball ornaments.  And suddenly, I HAD. TO. HAVE. YARN. BALLS.  Matter of life and death, actually.  I'll be damned if I didn't grab my yarn and my glue gun and just start wrapping stuff.  Now.  If Mike wakes up tomorrow with white textured hair AND is covered in yarn?  It means I accidentally killed him with the Light Keeper Pro and I tried to *hide* the body in a gigantic, 6-foot ornament.  But if you want the tutorial, head straight to THIS LINK.

Best part about this wreath?  Well, I personally like the non-traditional-ness-ing-ed-tion.  Just kidding, but it felt like I was adding a whole lotta suffixes to those words.  Apparently, my English language knowledge is stored next to holiday-crafts-for-a-sucktastic-day.  Anyhoo.  Here's what you do with McDonald's toys!!!  You know, the ones that are getting busy under your couch and multiplying like rabbits on fertility drugs?  Yep, those.  Glue guns and fake wreaths are contraception for small plastic doo-hickeys, because Mermaid cannot throw her junk in Buzz Lightyear's face if she is held in bondage by melty glue.  Hear?  I also threw a few of our 53 million Matchbox cars on here, along with some of those Mega Blocks Legos. 

And at the end of the day, I decided it still needed....something.  Because I wanted these things to look really full and chaotic.  Like.  My.  Life.  So I tied some strips of tulle to the girl's wreath, and some random scraps of fabric in blues and greens to the boys.  Yup, it looks like a mess and I LIKE IT. 

Just like I like my 2 or 3 or 14 globs of toothpaste on the bathroom counter.  'Kay?

Where Mike's hair becomes an epic Christmas legend.

Oh, friends.

Last week's meltdown was SO nuclear in nature, that it is yet to be determined if any of my children will grow an extra toe or spontaneously produce a conjoined twin as a result.  It was all kinds of nasty, but I am coming out of it sssssslowly.  Thanks in part to a well timed, but extremely short overnight visit by a best college pal. 

However. 

Prior to my personal Chernobyl, I experienced one of the greatest moments.  Of. My. Entire. Life.  I laughed SO hard that I did the ugly cry.  For at least 30 minutes.

Let me set the scene.

Last Wednesday (I think, but who the hell knows), my husband decided it was time for Christmas to go on its annual binge-drinking spree, which ALWAYS ends with the vomiting of mass amounts of lights upon our roof.  He enlisted the help of three friends, and together they spent a solid 2 hours "making magic happen".

Oh.  And it was magical, alright. 

Also important to our story:  Last year, Mike and I bought this handy-dandy little tool called the "Light Keeper Pro", which looks very similar to a large glue gun (oh! me likey those), but actually I think it is a tool of the devil, because it uses some sort of voo-doo magic to repair broken light strands.  Don't ask me to explain it, because really, how does one explain the work of Satan and black magic?  All I know is that Mike hooks this thing up to one of the lights, clicks its trigger a few times (that's what she said) and bing-bam-boom, the lights work again.  Like I said.  Voo-doo.

So.  In the course of hanging 50 STRANDS of lights from our roof, Mike used this thing, like, 20 or more times. 

And when our house was sufficiently bright enough to be seen BEYOND space, we all reconvened in the kitchen for some wine and brownies.  At which point, Mike removed his hat.

Um.

Um. 

Wha?

Hmmm.

Um.

We all *noticed* it.  Like you notice Lindsey Lohan's lady parts when she *forgets* to wear undies.  But our friend Nick was the first to verbalize it.  In actual words, as opposed to bulbous eye stares and incoherent gasps.

"Dude, what is up with your hair?"

At this point, 3 of us were within inches of Mike's head.  Because it was wirey looking?    Frizzy-like?  Similar to a tool one might use to scrub a stove top?  Burnt-ish, but without the smell.  I'm not even quite sure how to describe it without being simultaneously obscene and offensive.  I can tell you, however, that it was an experience involving all 5 senses.

Except for taste.  Because licking Mike's head at this point, would equal placing my tongue upon this:

Hell. To. The. No. 

But you get the idea.  Because he was only 500 rhinestones and 2 inches of hair away from this. 

Not.  Kidding.

Apparently, because Mike was wearing boots with rubber soles during his repeated use of the voo-doo-light-fixer-upper-thingy, he built up an electrical charge within his body.  Sounds safe!  And this "charge" then proceeded to fry his hair and potentially sear his kidneys?  Because it's infinitely MORE funny if you think Mike's spleen might now resemble Richard Simmon's fro. 

I TRIED to get pictures.  REALLY, I tried.  But it takes GREAT lighting to make even Richard Simmons look that A-MAZING.  And it makes me kind of wonder if he repeatedly electrocutes himself with the Light Keeper Pro every morning and twice on Fridays.   Probably.  But after the biggest laugh of my entire life, Mike washed his hair.  And Presto-Chango!  Back to normal.  Which means, that if we can figure out a way to soak them in water and a little soap, there is hope that Mike's intestines will definitely un-frizz.



But, for now, his *mild* electrocution and resulting fro will be the stuff of legends, like Big Foot and the Loch Ness monster.   Until Christmas 2011, whence it shalt rise again.

The.  End. 

Where Bruno Mars serenades the shoe wench.

**My new favorite thing**

I was wandering Target earlier this week and stumbled upon a mustard yellow tee.  And for whatever reason, it spoke to me.  Seriously, I have revealed this week that I have multiple personalities, one being a "shoe wench" and that I am hearing voices coming from clothing.  You should be concerned for me.  Very concerned. 

But the color combos (red/aqua/grey/brown) are next to perfection for me.  Well.  If it could sing Bruno Mars on repeat constantly, that would make it better. 

Oh!!!  And speaking of Bruno, I received, perhaps, one of the GREATEST comments of all time on THIS blog post.   Because during that concert, Bruno grabbed a camera and videoed from the stage.  While he sang.  AND SHE POSTED A LINK TO THAT FOOTAGE.   Which means, *technically*, I am like ONE DEGREE removed from actually touching Bruno Mars.  Abby, if you had a blog, I would be all over it with a million thank yous.  It seriously made my crappy, tired week. 

Happy Weekend, friends.  You know I love ya.

Just the way you are.  *Wink*.

Our shoe wench died and I am taking it very, VERY badly.

Today.  My alter-ego died a painfully, long, slow and brutal death. 

And by that, I mean she took a few hundred good, solid kicks to the crotch, by a pointy stiletto heel, for approximately six hours straight. 

Let's back up for one, tiny second and talk about shoes.

EVERYDAY.  My kids play this fun game where they take their shoes off, and then:  hide them in the most inconspicuous spots ever known to man, leave them in plain sight but forget what shoes look like altogether (apparently), or take their shoes off and make a mess SO LARGE that it takes 45 minutes of cleaning to simply make it possible to even begin to search for the damn shoes.

It is one of the greater frustrations of parenthood.  Second only to large milk spills.

So today.  I was aiming to run to Target before picking G up at school.  I gave the three little kids a 5 minute warning to get ready to go.  Mostly, this was successful, except for one lost pair of shoes. 

Apparently, I picked this very moment to stop being an enabler.  Which, for young children, is the equivalent of telling a 25+ year heroine junkie to quit cold turkey.  Because YOU KNOW WHAT??  Each of my kids has a shoe bin in the closet, where the magic shoe wench obviously organizes all the footwear.  But that wench died today, via stiletto to the lady bits.

I told Little J to find his shoes.  I would wait.  I gave him suggestions, per the areas of the house he frequented today.  Mostly, this would be the point at which my children aimlessly walk from room to room whimpering and looking at the walls.  Where we have YET to find any shoes.

The ultimatum?  If we didn't have time for Target, we would forgo movie time this afternoon and run our errands then.  And let's call this what it truly is, shall we.  A consequence for the children, with ENORMOUS downsides for the mommy as well.

So he cried.  And searched the walls for his shoes.  Until we HAD to leave to get to carpool on time and I became a part of the *fun* shoe game.  Which apparently, I am AWESOME at, because looksy-here-what-mommy-found in the playroom.

Back at home, after carpool.  G is working on MATH homework.  Math homework is part of the conspiracy that killed the shoe wench, I think.  Held the plastic bag right over her head during the ass-whooping. 

G's class is working on adding double digits.  They are doing this by some system of tally marks that are SO very foreign to my caveman method of "carrying the 1".  I referenced this in a similar rant last year, but now I know it's only going to get worse, because we'll be working on this for a good part of the year, I'm sure, and I really just don't think that I can handle it.  And I mean that for real.  I might just be okay if G's knowledge of addition ends at 10 + 10. 

Because this concept is new and hard for her.  And I don't know how to teach it to her the way she is learning it in school.  I want to tell her to carry that damn 1.  But instead I have to tell her to use tally marks or coins or whatever system it is they are pushing, but she doesn't have a solid concept of that yet, and so it is like a second grader leading a 34-year old with a LARGE math disability.  So her answers are wrong, but I have NO FRICKIN IDEA how to tell her to fix it.  If you are my friend on facebook, this would be a similar conundrum to trying to help G define the word "should".  Try it.  Try to "help" a 8 year old to define that word, without giving them the answer. 

50-minutes later, I told G to just write down any old answer.  50 minutes.  50.  Five.  Zero.  For 8 problems.  Really, it was just one problem that gave us all the trouble.  This almost-hour of time accounted for exactly 873 kicks to the shoe wench's crotch. 

Oh.  But wait.

G's class is doing a reading program, where they record the number of pages they read every month.  The minimum is 200.  We are always above that, and I feel good about it, because I challenge G with the books she reads.  We are generally reading chapter books without pictures, that are typically 100-200 pages each.  They take her a little longer to read than the chapter books she started the year with, because the type is smaller, the chapters are longer and there are no pictures.  But she reads them well, and likes them.  And I will be the first to admit that we don't read every night, because there just isn't time. 

But we got her reading log back today, with a note that said she needed to read 300 pages a month?  And after the math debacle and the horribly bloody death of the shoe wench (whose body is still in our hallway closet), this just BROKE me. 

So G's sweet teacher, whom I LOVE dearly (let me preface), got a long, note in her folder tonight.  It's basically a note BEGGING her to send help, because I fear that the angry mob that killed the shoe wench is out for me too.  But seriously.  I need her wisdom on how  to prioritize.  Because the regular homework every night isn't such a big deal.  But there is usually some kind of project that hasn't been finished in class and needs to be completed.  And then there's spelling words every week.  And a written bible verse test.  In all honesty, folks, that adds up a lot of times, to 2 hours a night.  And it is killing me slowly.  And she is in 2nd grade, which gives me a PANIC attack, just thinking about the years to come. 

And then, glory-of-all-glories.  It was time for our Target run. 

The children were angels at this point.  And all shoes were found and placed upon feet with NOT a single whimper or wall search.  I believe they were terrified because their mother was weeping and listening to Bruno Mars on CONSTANT repeat. 

But we made it to Target and parked 2 miles away from the front of the store, only to discover...wait for it...that 3 of 4 children did not wear coats.  Did I mention that they brutally murdered the shoe wench today?  Who also happens to be responsible for proper winterizing of the clothing? 

Seriously.

Large crowds of people were looking at me like I was Octo-mom, having no biz-ness birthin' all these babies if I can't put a damn coat on them in the dead of winter while dragging them to Target at rush hour.  It took EVERY OUNCE OF MY SELF CONTROL not to yell, at the top of my lungs, that the children killed the shoe wench!!! 

THE CHILDREN KILLED THE SHOE WENCH!!!

I LOVE these kids.  Love, love, love.  But most days I am holding it all together with a very, very, VERY thin string of patience.  And by "holding it together", I simply mean keeping them alive and without injury that requires an urgent care visit.  Clothing, food, a bath every 4 days.  And when you throw cleaning the house, and cooking dinner and planning a birthday party and making Christmas gifts on to this already full plate?  It breaks.  EVERYTIME. 

But I don't know what should give.  The two hours of homework?  The cleaning?  I watch ZERO television (not by choice, but because there's NO time).  I haven't read a book in months.  I currently have ZERO commitments outside of my family.  I've pretty much quit running in the past 2 weeks.  Yes, I know many of you think the "homemade" gifts is a BIG red flag?  But that is one of my few, selfish activities.  There is a creative side to me, we'll call her Helga the Gentle-Craft-Giant, and while she's a big girl, I fear she might meet the angry stiletto too. 

It just feels a little bit like I am drowning.  In stuff that is TOTALLY ridiculous, but COMPLETELY our lives right now.  G can't NOT do her homework.  Little J can't leave the house without shoes.  We are not struggling with disease or oppression or anything major, but I'm not kidding, there are days when this life attacks my spirit harder than the days of watching my babies struggle in the NICU.  And that, is the honest truth.  Sometimes, I think that people believe we suffered this incredible loss and that gives us a lifetime of perspective, but really, it aint true.  Because honestly, I PRAYED for these days, for the just the opportunity to raise them.  And yet, I still suck at this life, with my attitude, with my patience, with my selfishness, a lot of the time.  And it has everything to do with my *control* issues, but man-o-man, it is a struggle right now.  

And if the dead shoe wench is any indication, I am not winning this battle. 

Advent Day #1. And how I am that mom who buys her kids slutty stuff, disguised as a sale shopper.

Can someone please explain how we got to December?  Because it feels like just a week ago that I was wearing my ugly blue bathing suit and flip flops.  And my legs were clean shaven, like, 75% of the time.  November and it's manic weather is partially to blame, I suppose.  It failed to instill in me that general bad mood associated with cold temperatures, which is generally the precursor to my holiday sleeplessness/caffeine high/general panic. 

However.  Yesterday, it dawned on me that December, she was a-comin'.  Which is 10 kinds of awesome, because I started Advent Project #1 at approximately 10 p.m.

Luckily, it wasn't anything too complicated.  May I introduce, the Christmas pillow!

Remember that homemade gifts workshop I did a few weeks back?  My friend Patti also taught one of the classes (concentrating on kid's crafts), and this was one of her ideas.  Then my friend Heather decided to make some as gifts.  And then I just decided to jump on the Christmas-pillow-bandwagon, but I am like 3 degrees removed from the ACTUAL idea.  You dig? 

You might recall that I spent 9 months spray painting advent boxes last year?  Well, two things about that.  I chose my boxes based on "cuteness" of shape and I would say that 92% of all advent treats do not fit properly within them.  And also?  I have committed to purchasing 24 days of treats, PRIOR TO THE ACTUAL CHRISTMAS GIFT DUMPAGE, for 4 children, for the rest of my life.  Also, there is the twin's birthday, sandwiched in there on the 18th, so let's not forget that there is that additional present purchasing also.  Perhaps I didn't think through this one so much.  

Shut your pie hole with that comment that is  about to roll right off your tongue.  Yes, *thinking* through anything is not a strength of mine. 

Anyway.

Christmas pillows.  Success.  Though, we are off to a banner start, as they took a couple of hours of intensive labor AND they didn't fit in Advent Box #1.  That's what I call an Advent Double whammy. 

Oh!  And on a COMPLETELY unrelated note?  I suppose that Black Friday isn't so much a crock of crap.  Because I managed to purchase some fuzzy, glittery nonsense at Justice this past weekend, and it was all 40% off.  Which, apparently is the point at which I abandon my standards for owning/gifting fuzzy, glittery crap.

But yesterday?  I totally went  in there to pick up a CRIMPER (hells, yeah!) for G, and everything was full price.  And then my conservative shield went up and there was NO WAY I was gonna buy body glitter for $10.  That's right.  I said crimping and body glitter.

And that's when I realized I am contributing to the slutty-Halloween-costume-and-general-inappropriate-toy debacle.  It just disguised itself as a really good 40% off sale.   Gasp!

Welcome to December, folks!