My heart DID go on: Tales of poor clothing choices and college drunkeness.

And now, for the big reveal....


{insert drumroll}


...I did, indeed, graduate from High School with Miss America 2001, Angela Baraquio.


...I also taught an aerobics class and broke my finger.


...The tanning bed story is, sadly, true.  Because I grew up in HAWAII and had no use for a tanning bed because we had the SUN in FEBRUARY.


...Mike and I did see "Mullholland Drive" at the Ritz in St. Louis, and Bob Costas happened to be the only other person in there.


...and lastly, while I WILL go into details of this in a post next week, the Wu Tang Clan did visit the Guess? Store I was working in (summer of 1997) with a real boom box and I was, in fact, sung to by ODB.  I have an autograph on an actual Guess? bag to prove it, but it's in...the POD.  I sort of forgot this story, because it feels like it happened 23 lifetimes ago, before I boarded the Starship Enterprise to live in the vacuum of space, but you know what?  It is more hilarious through the lens of time, for sure.


So now you know--

The story of me missing my first sorority formal is FALSE.  Sort of.  Because, while I did indeed consume a bottle of Boone's wine before I proceeded to pass out in a bathroom, I had a few things working in my favor:  1.) The buses were running late that evening, giving me some unexpected time to sober up, and 2.) My date ran next door to Burger King and I woke up to the sound of him pounding on the door because he bought me a Whopper, which served as a great sponge for all of that Boone's wine (gag).  I did have to BEG our social chair to be allowed on the bus, but would PROUDLY like to state that I was NOT the one who threw up on it (person(s) to remain nameless).  And sadly, I was in fact wearing a GIGANTIC heart choker with rhinestones, which became SO LEGENDARY that it was referenced and named "The Heart of the Ocean" TWO YEARS LATER when Titanic was released in 1996.   Also, I had this really big love for Celine Dion; I was a hot, hot mess between 1994 through 1997 and while I DID NOT miss my first formal, sadly (and shaaaaaamefully), most of the other details are true.


I would like it noted that I was NOT a drinker in high school.  But one time, at a sleepover, someone brought Boone's.  Fast forward to fall semester of my freshman year, when my new best friends who were randomly selected by a bizarre set of parties/brownie eating/skits/loud chanting (translation: sorority rush) were asking me WHAT I wanted to drink before our formal?  To which I answered BOONE'S, because I didn't know any other kind of alcohol besides keg beer, and an entire keg seemed excessive, no?  Then my friend Adler (who was an ENORMOUS drinker and penny loafer-wearer in high school) asked, how many bottles of Boone's did I need, exactly?  Three or Four?  


Totally, that should do it.  This was me playing it cool.


FYI high school/college students:  There is NO SUCH THING as cool.  Please reference the movie "Can't Buy Me Love" and the African Ant-Eater Dance scene.  There is "working really hard to fit in with the popular people", who are working really hard to fit in with the Kardashians, who are working really hard to fit in with real famous people/actors, who are working really hard to act like FICTIONAL CHARACTERS.  And then there are rock stars, and they are ON DRUGS, or else they are so ecclectic that they wear 15 scarves or a dress made out of meat, and really it is only this kind of CONFIDENCE that has balls to wear metallic python leggings, and thereby inspire an entire decade (the 80s).  


But for the sake of our little story, let's just say I played it REALLY cool, right up until I passed out in that bathroom.  Because, I stand by the statement that the pre-party, unless timed appropriately, is the WORST idea of all time.  Do you know when 6 shots of Dark Eyes vodka kicks in?  When you're drinking that Natty Light and head-banging to "You Shook Me All Night Long" by ACDC.  Liquor before beer, my ass.


But also.  I was wearing a dress made out of a fake velvet/spandex combination (sounds unbelievable, I know), with an ENORMOUS leg slit--but when I went to the grocery store (yes, I said grocery store) to buy nylons, I ended up picking up a pair of thigh highs, which are undoubtedly the most irritating invention of. all. time.  I was 18-years-old and 115 pounds and they STILL gave each of my legs a muffin top.  Unacceptable.


And when they weren't doing that, they were sliding down my legs and revealing themselves in the slit of my stretchy-green-fake-velvet-spandex-dress, which I'm *sure* I was keeping appropriately covered, seeing as I was drinking Boone's wine and vodka shots and passing out in hotel lobby bathrooms.  CLASSY.  


I like to think this little exercise in humiliation, and t he 5,000 others like it that characterized the painful period of independence-still-funded-by-mom-and-dad (translation: college) made me the blogger I am today.  Because if I wasn't laughing about it, I'd be living in a sad, insecure hole set to the soundtrack of Celine Dion's greatest hits.  It often dawns on me, when I meet someone in adulthood who REALLY cares about what other people think, that they are probably missing an experience in which they locked themselves into a bathroom, passed out, and led an entire sorority to think they have drowned in a public toilet.   Because you have to own that sh#! or it will kill you.


Because after waking up, downing my Whopper and adjusting my thigh-highs/gigantic leg slit, LIFE WENT ON, even with eyeliner streaked down my cheeks.  And you know what?   I rocked the "Alice Cooper" look too.

Proof that I TAUGHT my kids something today.

Still. Working. My. Ass. Off.

I wasn't gonna post, even though I WANT to post, but right now, I'm pretty sure that anything I write about would relate to this scavenger hunt, and there are too many of you that are playing.  So boo.

But 50+ comments on my fake story game?  Be still my virtual heart.   The truth shall be revealed...tomorrow....

I know I weenie-d out last night with a lame post too, BUT, I am simply jumping on here tonight to tell you that I successfully taught ONE of the little chickens to ride our electric razor scooter.  I might also mention this was the half-blind child, and so I do indeed, feel like I deserve a trophy, or a crown, or a Nobel Peace Prize.   Also, I managed to threaten G into TURNING the damn thing (whereas previously, she would only travel in a short, straight line), so now I have two kids that are proficient in electric scooters.  G's a really sweet kid, but when she gets an idea in her head...well, let's just say I can already tell we are going to have some kind of battle over a hideous prom dress with abdominal cut-outs in the shape of lips, or kittens or something equally hideous--and she is going to FIGHT me out of stubbornness and I will CAVE only because I know, one day, she will CRINGE every time she sees that picture on my wall, or in her wedding slideshow, or on family reunion t-shirts, or 40th birthday cakes.   G, just ride the freakin' scooter, or wear the dress with the turtleneck and PLEASE don't spend the $12 you've saved 6 months for at Cici's Pizza's bootleg arcade.  Sometimes I just know BETTER.

But not when it comes to knowing when it's appropriate to remove a naval ring.  Which is not when you're 32 weeks pregnant and it's sticking out like a skin Idart, fyi.

Blog comments are like virtual chardonnay.

Blog World!!!!!


Your comments on yesterdays post...they made my entire existence.  Just so you know, my dear HUSBAND got the answer wrong, so I know you all are anxiously awaiting the BIG reveal on Friday.  I'm holding off for all of you that catch up on me once a week.  I know this because I have a SITE TRACKER.  No really, I can SEE you.  Well, not you exactly, but the 12-digit code assigned to you by the Internet police.  But for those of you who commented for the FIRST TIME today, I am not kidding when I say this brings a great deal of joy, like chardonnay, to my sober heart.  I have checked my in-box countless times today, and have delighted in EACH of you!!  Truly.  It's nice to know that I can ask and you will respond; and one day in the near future, I may call again, because I have plans for us to take over the cloud-vapor-kingdom of the Internet, friends.  


Anyhoo.


Today's post is short because:


I REALLY want the rest of you slackers to click over to yesterday and PARTICIPATE.  Don't be the goth chic with the foot piercings that thinks organized activities are, like, SO LAME.  Everyone is scared of her because they think her brain might be leaking out her serrated skull ring.  I mean, REALLY, sometimes joining a group of mommy bloggers IS the right (and less scar-filled) thing to do.  So leave a comment.


But also.  I am working on a project that is SO AWESOME it is seriously blowing my MIND right now.  But it's top secret and so I can't talk about it!!!!!  It's killing me, because  you guys--it's SOOOOOOOO good.  And it has everything to do with the scavenger hunt we are planning for New Year's Eve, which is the reason for the big hush-hush.  But there are like 10 million amazing blog posts about this one, very specific *project* I am working on, and GAH!  It. Is. Killing. Me.


Peace, friends.  You rule.  Dare we push yesterday's comments up to 40???????

Where we play a game that forces you to throw me a freaking bone.

Ah, the holidays...are over.   Based on my December 23rd post, we all know that I almost required sedation this year, and so it is a very good thing (regarding my mental health) that we are putting Christmas back in it's box.  KIDDING!  We all know there is a fat-chance-in-hell that my new fake tree is going ANYWHERE before the very end of January.  


We have officially moved into the second most, shake-inducing phase of the holidays...the season of the 30-day return.  Let's put it this way:  on a typical week, I am at Target two?  Maybe three times?  And yet, I'm not even sure I've EVER successfully returned anything there, which is how I ended up owning (and OWNING, if you know what I mean) the ugly blue bathing suit that causes my husband to dry-heave (link HERE).  I suck at returning stuff.  And if I ordered it on the Internet?  Fogetaboutit (that was "forget about it" in a thick mob accent).  Amazon, I am yours--hook-line-and-sinker--with that free two-day shipping biz-ness, because I sold you my SOUL, which is weird, because I paid a membership fee for you to OWN me.  But now it's like the universe just sends me crap, and how do you return something to the Internet?  It's made of vapors and clouds or something, and it's address is the air, baby.


Oh dear.  I've hit a tangent.  


Because the point of today's post is a little...game.  To pass the time between Christmas and New Year's, I'm going to give you a few scenarios that may/may not have ACTUALLY happened to me.  Can you spot the fake?  Do you even KNOW me, blog world?  The answer is yes, YES YOU DO, because I don't just have normal conversations with people about the post-birthing supplies that I hoard in my bathroom closets.  Only you guys {insert air kiss}.  But when I look back at it, weird (stupid) stuff sometimes happens to me, like that time I told you guys about that photo shoot I had with my college friends in a seedy motel room, that WASN'T PORN.  Yep, that was (horrifyingly) real.  But which of these is fake?

• I once broke my finger while TEACHING an aerobics class in college, while doing a behind-the-back-toe-touch type of move AND while wearing spandex.  Gross.  

• While working at the Guess? store in Hawaii over summer break, the Wu Tang Clan walked in carrying a boom box and I was terrified until Old Dirty Bastard sang (rapped?) me the bit he did on Mariah Carey's "Fantasy" single.  To this day, I can still see the DIAMOND embedded in his tooth.

• I missed my FIRST college sorority formal, because I drank an entire bottle of Boone's wine (and some shots) and passed out in the lobby bathroom of the hotel we were "pre-partying" in.   Whoever invented the pre-party should be SHOT, because nine-times-out-of-ten it ended with me vomiting.  To add insult to injury, I was wearing this enormous heart pendant on a velvet choker that became known among my college friends as "The Heart of the Ocean" (once Titanic was released).  I was HIDEOUS.

• There was a future Miss America in my high school graduating class.

• I went to a tanning bed for the first time in college, and did not close the lid, because NO ONE TOLD ME.  So, I FRIED my back, but my front was as white as the Indiana snow.  And I didn't realize this was the issue until hours later, when a friend saw my two-toned skin and joked, "What, did you forget to close the lid or something??"  Light bulb moment. 

• Before we had kids, the Ritz-Carlton in St. Louis converted one of it's meeting rooms into a small (kind of bootleg) movie theater and the only movie Mike and I ever saw there was "Mullholland Drive".  There was only one other person in that theater, and it was Bob Costas.

Here's the DEAL...in order for this to be fun, you actually have to PLAY.  What on earth does it take for you people to comment?????  I KNOW you're out there!  I SEE YOU!!  I will send you that ponytail I found in my desk earlier this year OR a pack of post-birthing pads if it will get you to leave a comment.   I know you have to type in that annoying security code, or whatever, but I KNOW you can do it.  One time.  For me.  Pretty please.  You are single-handedly going to be the wind beneath my wings.  I wanna light the comment board UP--and by that, I mean, I would like to see if it's possible to receive more than 10 comments in one day.  I have faith in you, blog world.  I know you would send me a care-package of your own hair in a ponytail, if I REALLY needed it.  




Our fun game ends on Friday, at which time I will reveal the fake and maybe (?) award a weird prize.  


Now.


Go leave a COMMENT.

From fear to hypnosis.

The year AFTER our kids stopped screaming like Santa was a serial killer.  I came across this gem in my picture archives last night, and you know, it works.  Well call this "2008: The Year of the Five Deer in Headlights".  


Do me a solid?  If you are jumping into my Christmas blog-a-thon, continue on to the previous post about our kids and the miracle of them surviving Day #1 on their electric Razor scooters?  It's so completely awesome and I just want the entire world to see it, because we were one concussion away from it being tragic--but in the absence of a flesh wound it was the funniest thing I've witnessed in a long time.  


Definitely funnier than me losing my schmidt at Sam's Club (click HERE).   The holidays have truly *inspired* me.


Peace, love, joy and chardonnay, friends.

I'LL NEVER LET GO: How the Razor scooter is like the Titanic.

Oh you guys.  I am totally mortified and yet laughing my ass off at the same time, following our tutorial on the electric Razor scooter.  It seemed like such a good idea.  To me.  Because Mike just looks pissed about it, and he's all I-told-you-so, and I'm like WHAT?  You were all nods and uh-huhs as I remember it.  But even his pissy-ness is funny, because ohmygod you guys, how did I not see this coming?????


I suppose the *magic* of Christmas is what got to me, as I envisioned these two beasts sitting under the tree; but then we got them outside and my palms got a little sweaty thinking about how I was going to mount this thing.  Is it hard to balance on?  How fast does it go?  Do you have to hold down the throttle the whole time?  How do you slow it down?  I figured they were details that would just work themselves out once you got on the thing.  And before I actually saw them in person?  I thought they were more like the scooters old people ride, except without a seat.


So here's how it goes:  You turn it on, turn the throttle (and hold it) and then have to push off with your feet (similar to a traditional scooter) to give it some speed and get it started.  IF you remember to hold the throttle-thingy down, then you will feel it ROAR to life about three seconds in.  I say "IF" because there are some children who never managed this step, and that probably saved us a trip to the ER and a few hundred stitches.  I will say the scooter-throttle-thingy is the 2011 version of the debacle we encountered last year with Wii bowling, and their seemingly genetic inability to "PRESS-THE-B-BUTTON".


{Sidenote: The fact that we had issues mastering a Wii remote MIGHT have been my first clue that we were not ready for a ride-on toy that requires a helmet AND balance AND coordination.}


But here's the kicker, friends.  Once they actually hold down the throttle?  THEY NEVER LET GO, just like Kate Winslet in the Titanic movie.  Until death in the icy water of the Atlantic, they NEVER LET GO.  And then you have what looks like a toddler zig-zagging across the street, because she doesn't care about cars or steering or controlling her speed, she only cares about HOLDING DOWN THAT STUPID THROTTLE.  Like we told her 400 times.  Just like holding the B-button during Wii bowling, except that this was going to kill her.  It's the death part that escaped me during that big pre-Thanksgiving sale at Target.


Because, as you probably know, once you hold down the throttle and get the sucker going, it WILL NOT STOP until you let it go.  And if you are brainwashed into NEVER LETTING GO, you are going to die when you hit a tree, or a parked car, or a moving car or the Pacific Ocean, if you make it all the way there on 45-minutes of battery-power, without hitting anything in between.


Mike was *probably* pissed because he figured this out relatively early on, and spent a good part of our time on the scooters running along side them and protecting their skulls.  While I laughed.  Because it was SO funny, you guys.  And just to prove it, here's the video, of L going 5?  Maybe 10 feet, straight into the neighbor's yard when Mike grabs hold.  He makes a COMPLETE revolution, and what you'll see is L, in the air still f-ing holding on to that throttle like a circus monkey.  I can't make this stuff up.

THIS is the magic of Christmas.  Ho, Ho, (HA!), HO!!!!!

A mid-day, slightly delirious recap.

Update:  Christmas has officially had it's guts torn to SHREDS.  And it is good and joyful, but for a minor glitch when we got ready to set up G's new sewing machine, only to find....


....it was missing it's presser foot (the thing you push to make it sew) and it's power cord.  Really, Wal-mart?  Really???????????  Luckily G got footie pajamas and some kind of small ball-shaped stuffed rodent and so we have a fragile, 24-hour peace, but so help me if Wal-Mart doesn't have the SAME machine in store tomorrow, there is going to be a PROBLEM.  


The big hit here is the walkie-talkies; we got two sets, so that all the kids could have one.  I didn't anticipate them being used within the same 2 feet of each other, so that's a *tad* annoying; but it is Christmas, and I am so tired that it appears I have lost half my hearing, and the loud beep that comes before every transmission has snapped me out of a coma at least 19 times, so really it's not that bad and possibly life-saving.  When "Santa" estimates all projects and wrapping to be done by 11 p.m. she is really full of sh#!, because it was 2:30 before my head hit the pillow and today my eyeballs feel like they are marinating in diet coke.  To be fair, I did decide at the 23rd hour (literally) to create a ginger-bread house tablescape, and I can only assume that was the last of the holiday crazies/ caffeine burning itself off.  


Also, I did happen to wrap a few things prior to Christmas Eve (highly unusual for me), but this plan BACKFIRED this morning when I forgot what was in them.  Yeah, yeah, yeah...I did label the gifts with a tiny number assigned to each child; what I like to call "Santa's magic ink" although, for the life of me, I can't remember WHY Santa can't use actual gift tags?  I'm so far into this lie, I just don't remember if he's allergic to them or what the story is, but I have a feeling it has something to do with being out of gift tags one Christmas--an oversight that has screwed me for life, it would seem.   Anyhoo, I *mostly* remembered to tag each gift with it's recipient in my very complicated, four-number system, but this did not tell me WHAT the gift was exactly, and we all know there is a hierarchy to present opening that starts with pajamas, progresses to beyblades and ends with rollerblades or gaming systems or labradoodle puppies.   It doesn't fly if you open the show with a real live unicorn, and end with flash cards, but ohmygod, I am so tired, I honestly can't tell the difference.  


The big question mark is the electric scooters--WHY this isn't a home run defies logic, actually.  It's a SCOOTER with a MOTOR that produces FIRE when you ride it and Santa is giving herself a complex over WHY you aren't in love with these things.  I'm gonna sell it hard this afternoon with a demonstration that will *possibly* be videoed and posted on this here blog.


Also.  Michael loves his the kids marine-endorsed, air soft gun, but has YET to figure out how to load it with pellets.    Therefore, all toes are *still* accounted for, thanks for asking.  But honestly, I'm so tired, I'm not sure I would notice if one (or four) of our collective 60 toes was missing.


I hope you all had a fantastic Christmas morning with your families, that you don't kill yourselves demonstrating an electric razor scooter for your kids and that you find 12 minutes to slip into a half coma before re-loading on meats and wine again tonight!!!


Keep it classy, blogworld.

The gift of laughter for you, dear readers.

image courtesy of verymarykate.com

Please work, please work, please work, please work.


{edited to note:  it did NOT work.  This is not a Christmas miracle.  Lame.  But CLICK HERE because it is awesome sauce.}


I tried to post this two nights ago and it did not happen--and there is just no way on God's green earth that I would EVER be able to figure out WHY, particularly while I was having a Christmas party with chardonnay (and BFF Becky).  And I REALLY need this to work, because it is honestly one of the most awesome things I have seen on the Interwebs.  My present to you.


I could post another in this series, because they are all...phenomenal.  But it's Christmas, and you know me, I like to go with a THEME.  


So, if this doesn't work as planned and the screen is blank or whatever, go ahead and blame Bill Gates or the Kardashians or the Wizard of Oz, or whoever is in charge of running the Internet.  And CLICK HERE to watch it on their actual site, even though we all know it's much *cooler* when I can just make this stuff appear on my blog.  


Merry, Merry!!

The good ol' scary santa days.

An oldie, but a GOODIE.  And by goodie, I mean, I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt for days while my children thought they were going to perish.  Not unlike last year's Christmas card picture, of my children plummeting to their death on a log flume.  I think it has everything to do with the way Big J looks like he is going to jump straight into the camera.  I don't know how Santa managed to restrain them, but we have approximately 12 minutes worth of this caught on film, so I'm assuming he works out.

 Our kids are too old to scream as if Santa is going to take an axe to their toes; and while we still have the awkward school photos (link HERE, you won't be disappointed), there is a part of me that misses the emotions they wear on their sleeves or the way their WAILING carries throughout an entire shopping mall.   It feels like there's a little more of a song and a dance to our Christmases, juggling expectations, finding their true hearts beneath what is cool or what they pretend to be for the sake of others.  


Christmas morning, however, is one of the times that joy and wonder win out over EVERYTHING else.   

Merry Christmas, blogworld!!!!

I laughed, I cried, I averted a plan by terrorists and zombies BUT I failed at making snow globes.

I'm not really sure I can put today into words, but I'm gonna try.  Because it's kind of my thing.  As a preview I will tell you it was one of the dumbest moves I could pull, plus a plan to trick zombies, plus a full-on ugly cry, plus kind-of Christmas miracle--which I *think* leaves me emotionally neutral and blotchy.


So it's TWO DAYS before Christmas, which coincidentally, is the day that my procrastinator side meets my over-ambitious alter ego--and this is the story of how they left me bawling my eyes out in the parking lot of Sam's Club.  True f-ing story.

I knew it was an errand day; and so, after letting the kids kill off their social manners and a few thousand brain cells on the Wii, we headed out for a late lunch at Chick-Fil-A.  I LOVE Chick-Fil-A, but I ALWAYS forget that I love it until Sundays (when it's closed, for those of you who live in 1985).  But also, I tend to forget that Chick-Fil-A, if consumed in the actual restaurant, gives me ADD.  Mostly because the place is 73 times smaller than it needs to be to effectively contain THAT MANY three year olds.  First glance always suggests that there are no open tables--until you place your order, and by some miracle of GOD, a booth opens up!  But there's the urgency, because the place is PACKED and at this point, it is making my brain misfire--very similar to "Wal-Mart-on-Black-Friday" syndrome.  So I'm booking it toward the table, and the Chick-Fil-A people are calling my name because our order is ready, and I tell the kids to go sit down, but suddenly they develop a fear of being more than 3 inches away from me, and then G just decides to pull her really tiny tooth out and can I hold it?, while I'm just barking orders at the kids and the Chick-Fil-A people who have (at this point) kindly helped me to my table, because it's pretty damn obvious that I need it, don't you think?  We are 17 minutes into errand running.  And then I opened the Chick-Fil-A sauce, and I FORGOT, I love the Chick-Fil-A sauce, and so I drank it and that is officially how I added indigestion into this equation.


After Chick-Fil-A, their playground and the retying of eight shoelaces, I went to:

• buy some gift certificates (procrastinator)
• pimp a paint store for off-tint paint for our school Art Fest (ambitious)
• purchase a large canvas with a tax-free letter and a 50% off coupon (ambitious)
• purchase fabric to make bowties and stuffing to make ornaments (procrastinator, and crazy)
• go to Sam's Club to pick up photos for handmade snow globes and various other items for Christmas dinner

Here's where we hit a bit of a problem, because we have been asked to bring a 9x13 container of Sam's brand macaroni and cheese to Christmas dinner, as a side dish for the kids.  Not Stouffer's, but SAM'S BRAND.  I did a prelimnary search a few days ago, and turned up with nothing, and so I *probably* went into Sam's with a little bit of an attitude about the mac-and-cheese, but then I found it!  Only, it wasn't a 9x13, it was more like a 5 x 8.75?  And that just blew the whole damn thing apart.


I called Mike, paralyzed; I asked him to confirm the exact size of the container with his aunt.  The kids wanted free cookies, but they wouldn't walk up to the counter by themselves, obviously still traumatized by the Chick-Fil-A table experience.  Mike called back, said we could buy whatever mac-and-cheese we wanted--he suggested we make it?  Which is exactly what you don't say to a woman who is freaking out about the logistics of a macaroni and cheese container two days before Christmas, but to tell you the truth, I don't think he could have said anything right in that circumstance, unless it was that he had miraculously purchased me a year's supply of mac-n-cheese for Christmas--and let's face it, that would be a huge kick to my imaginary testicles too.  He told me to just get the 5 x 8.75 inch container; I explained that this would likely leave us short on mac-and-cheese, and that there would be whining, LOTS OF WHINING, and that would CERTAINLY trigger the zombie apocalypse, because you have no idea how close we come to summoning the undead on a daily basis.  He told me to buy TWO of the odd-sized mac-and-cheeses, which is like $21 in MAC-AND-CHEESE and I am opposed to that on so many levels, but mostly on my morals as a decent human being.  

In any case, I made it out of Sam's on the edge of a full-blown nervous breakdown, though, I did let the kids each pick out their own cardboard box, because it is still Christmas, after all--and also because zombies HATE cardboard. And then we headed to the library to return "Beethoven's Christmas" and borrow something equally as atrocious, which is when I realized, SON OF A BITCH, I left my small purse in the cart at Sam's.  However, it took me 10 minutes to make sure I didn't shove it in between the crap on my front seat, OR amongst the art supplies in my trunk.


I held it together pretty good, especially considering that the gift certificates I purchased (that day) were in there, rendering an entire hour of errand running NULL and VOID--but I probably would have eaten my shirt if the mac-and-cheese was in there too, which thankfully, it wasn't.  We are talking about a total elapsed time of 15 minutes, but when I got to Sam's I didn't find it in any of the carts in the corrals I parked next to, nor had it been turned into the membership desk.  I talked to the guys who collect the carts--NOPE--and then I went back to the car and called Mike and bawled my eyes out.  Because I leave my small, stupid, completely-wrong-choice-in-a-handbag in shopping carts quite frequently, and yet my faith in humanity is ALWAYS restored--except, of course, at Christmas when I could REALLY use some goodwill toward men, because I am about to lose my schmidt over the logistical size of a mac-and-cheese pan.


Mike listened SO kindly, and we debated whether or not to cancel the credit card, when it was still possible that the dumb purse could show up.  Two days before Christmas is the WORST time to be without your credit card, because you just might need to pick up a last minute marine-endorsed air soft gun (story for another day).  He asked if I left my name at the front desk so that they could call if it was found--but I said no because I was SURE that terrorists had found it and were already financing an attack with American credit, and they CERTAINLY weren't going to return my gift certificates out of kindness.  It felt THAT devastating, but Mike convinced me to march back in there, all red and puffy, which is precisely when the guys who collect the carts found my purse.  In the row/ cart corral NEXT TO the one I thought I parked in originally.  HOORAY!  And also, WHOOPSIE!


And then we headed to Kinko's to laminate pictures to be used in our snow globes--pictures, which coincidentally, we realized were all TOO LARGE to fit in the jars intended for the snow globes, upon returning home this evening.  I'm up, then I'm down, then I'm REALLY down, and then it turns out that fate is just being a bastard that is just f-ing with my last minute crafting.  Whatever, I'm so over the snow globes, now I'm on to ceramic paint baking and bowties.  


Peace out.


And also, because I know that sometimes you need affirmation that Christmas is crazy in other people's houses--I am planning a SERIES of blog posts throughout Christmas day, so CHECK IN, people.  Sometime after you confiscate that slingshot you bought your kid, tune in to see me dissect EXACTLY what I was thinking when I gifted an airsoft gun to a seven and five year old.

Wishing you all the efficiency of a Ritalin-fueled day.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

An ADD diagnosis in a pear tree.

Okay, not the pear tree, but the diagnosis stands, and I feel like it's a giant step forward for mankind, because if life involves more than 1.5 successive steps, then we are ill-equipped.  I scheduled this appointment a few weeks back, and true to form, I failed to look at the paper work involved--because HONESTLY, why do you need SIXTEEN PAGES worth of information, including whether or not I was excited to find out that I was pregnant with Big J (the answer is YES, because I paid $10,000 to be able to do so) and what, exactly, is the relevance of knowing when he held his head erect?  My answer:  sometime between two months and seven years of age.   Nor do I know the month at which he "ran without falling often" (maybe never?) or when he waved bye-bye for the first time; I can tell you he almost died when he stood up in his high chair and fell on straight on his head (though I'm not sure WHEN it happened exactly) and that he used to turn orange when I fed him carrots.  That is ALL I remember, aside from the general theme that his infancy/toddlerhood was a scary, dangerous time.  I don't even know what his first word was, but I am confident that he said one.


The appointment lasted an hour, at which time our pediatrician stated it was fairly obvious that Big J has ADD.  Or ADHD, because apparently, it's all the same thing now.  THANK GOD for prematurity, because I don't feel like this was much of a fight--and it's the holidays, so Wal-mart and it's "Site-to-store" system has taken the spunk right out of me.  We start medication in a couple of weeks, about the time we head back to school, and I could not be happier.  It's hard to explain, though I've tried in other posts, but there is something *distinctly* different about the way Big J processes information.  Or doesn't process information.  Or the way he turns everything into a rocket ship, which is really cute, except for when you are trying to do homework, or get ready for school, or get out of the house in any kind of timely manner.  That all sounds really silly, until you have a kid with ADD and it is glaringly obvious that every task takes four times as long and what seems like infinite amounts of concentration and self-esteem.  


Also, let me go ahead and put on record--we are talking about ADD all the time around here.  All. The. Time.  Because all of the *secrets* and not acting like Big J struggles, and trying not to speak about it in front of others because we wouldn't want anyone to know he has ADD is, frankly, exhausting and unhealthy.  He has ADD, people.  ADD.  It's not like he clubs baby seals, and I am OKAY with it.  And I sure as hell am going to make sure Big J is okay with it, because it's not something to be ashamed about--but I will certainly teach him that it is, if I can't have an open conversation about it.  Seriously, I think he needs a t-shirt that says " I was born 15 weeks premature, and all I got was this stupid ADD".  


So that's that.  But for tonight, I am addressing 250 Christmas cards, because they FINALLY showed up on my doorstep at 4 p.m this afternoon.  Way to underwhelm me, printing company.  I have been stalking the UPS tracking site, and my Christmas cards have been in transit from Michigan for four days--W.T.F.    I mean, we just joined Amazon Prime, so my tolerance for slow-ass mail is WAY LOW.


We are headed into the final stretch, friends!  And I'm not gonna lie, Big J's ADD medication is looking pre-tty awesome right about now.  

The final stretch.

So our teacher gifts turned out pretty well, I think.  Look at them.  No really, LOOK AT THEM.  Sometime around midnight, after the popcorn fiasco, and the packaging of treats in various cellophane bags tied with multi-colored yarn, I decided we needed some sort of holiday tag that centered around a painted fingerprint heart theme--officially the moment I lost my f-ing mind.  But it all turned out kind of cute-modern-country-Christmas, and so I don't think anybody really noticed that I was unshowered and dripping hair grease when I hauled these babies into school this morning.  


Also, I was in charge of collecting money and purchasing a group gift for Big J & L's teacher...I sort of assumed we would go with a gift certificate, but in the 11th hour, Mike and I decided to go rogue and buy a Kindle (and a smaller gift card).  As it turns out, this was the PERFECT gift--their teacher was beaming this afternoon and was actually teary-eyed over it--which just goes to show you, that THOUGHTFUL gifts count, yo.  Probably because I wrapped them with yarn pom-poms.  POM POMS!  And if there is a theme for this blog post?  It's that I am AWESOME.  A-W-E-S-O-M-E.  And I love yarn.


'Tis the season for self esteem, apparently.


And then I went to the UPS store and learned that it costs $161 for Christmas delivery to Hawaii.  Not awesome.  I feel like we go through this every year, and every year I get it WRONG.  Instead of actually buying an airplane ticket for my gifts, I opted for "ground delivery" (um...), and ended up spending $53, but my parents won't get them until next Wednesday.  Really, this has nothing to do with Christmas, and everything to do with the fact that it's a tiny island in the middle of the ocean.  Turns out "ground delivery" (really?) takes 7-8 days, so really, I just mistimed Christmas by about a week, and misunderstood that you can actually drive to Hawaii.  I'll try to remember that for next year.


But who are we kidding, no I won't.  

I burned the teacher gifts, and other tales of failed housewivery.

For starters--it is NEVER a good idea to use a new recipe for teacher Christmas gifts.  Particularly if that recipe utilizes popcorn.  Popcorn, I am channeling all of my holiday stress onto you, because I'm not sure it's possible to hate food (that's not liver or bananas) THIS much.


You know, I usually make peppermint brownies for our teachers, but there are like 83 different steps and 3 kinds of icings involved with those, and so, meh, I'm kind of over it.  On an effort level, I'm looking for something that's on par with slice-and-bake cookies--because I can make that crap look gourmet with a little snowflake-patterned cellophane, maybe a little felt bird ornament.


So it's POPCORN, right?  You melt some stuff and throw it on there, blah, blah, blah.  Slice and bake, baby, slice and bake.  And that would be all fine and dandy, if popcorn wasn't the gremlin of the food world.   Because that sh#! was everywhere, and let me just tell you, there is NO EASY WAY to simultaneously mix 37 cups of it with almond bark that doesn't involve my hands and the floor and the sink and some jelly roll pans and every freaking bowl in the kitchen.


And then a few days passed and I decided to make caramel corn for the kid's teachers.  Because there were like, four ingredients and none of them required me to unwrap seven boxes of candy canes and beat them into a fine, symmetrical powder (bonus).  Same issue with these bastards multiplying like gremlins, but the actual mixing of the sauce and the popcorn (split amongst TWO large pots) went surprisingly smoothly.   The key to making GREAT caramel corn, however, is baking? roasting? it for an hour at low heat.  And stirring it.  EVERY 15 MINUTES.


Sounds like a bitchy move, popcorn.


I read on a blog that you could up the temperature for a shorter period of time, and stir it more often--and let me just tell you that this resulted in me burning the hell out of the gremlins.  I tried to save the unburnt top layer, but melted caramel DRIPS, and so I ended up with 85 cups of burnt caramel popcorn with a burnt caramel glaze, distributed in EVERY bowl in my kitchen.  I tasted it 53 times, and it was still, always (and terribly) burnt.


This, of course, resulted in me having to REMAKE the caramel corn during the dinner hour; but first I had to throw away the burnt batch, for the sake of counter space and bowl availability, and that gave me the shakes, because I HATE to throw anything away, even if it's burnt.  This was tricky, because you may remember that I don't take the garbage out (ever), and by the time I threw the burnt popcorn out, the trash was already 2 inches above the rim, and Little J's half-eaten yogurt was flowing down the side.  This is *probably* how popcorn ended up MOOSHED all over our small kitchen floor, and why my socks are STILL sticky as I type this.   I was supposed to bake/stir it for 60 minutes, but I lost my will to live somewhere around minute 34, and so I just gave up.  And you know what?  It's still crunchy and gooooooooood.  You hear that popcorn, I WIN.


Now they are all packaged up in cellophane bags, with a small sampling of peppermint brownies (can't. help. it.), and a felt bird ornament.  Sticky, messy, felt-adorned perfection.  And bonus!  Turns out tomorrow is a full school day, and NOT a half-day with free unicorn rides, like I imagined.  Bummer about the unicorn, though.

We are OKAY.

"Stop. Twisting.  It."


"Why, it doesn't MATTER."


"Yes it does, it looks ugly," I said to Mike this evening, as we were packaging 23-individual servings of powdered donuts in cellophane baggies tied with grosgrain ribbon.  This is my secret to creating an adorable class birthday treat--created of synthetic materials in a peanut-free factory--that costs $8, and isn't an ugly bag of cheap, allergy-free donuts.  But you don't TWIST the bag before you tie it with the ribbon, as Mike is so fond of doing, because it looks funny.  The cellophane should simply poof out over the tie NATURALLY, no twist.  NO TWIST!


"Dude, relax."  Grab. TWIST. Tie.


"You son-of-a-bitch, you're doing this to spite me."

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

If you wonder what we do to celebrate Big J & L's SEVEN years of life, and the anniversary of their brother (and triplet's) death, then the answer would be irritating the snot of of each other by re-packaging baked goods. And going to church, and to Monkey Joe's, and watching Beethoven's Christmas and going to our church's annual Christmas pageant and having dinner at Cici's Pizza and perusing Facebook.  Seven-years later looks a lot like normalcy, with less irritation over the paper bits that are ALL OVER our floors--because today I am really, REALLY thankful for those paper bits.  I suppose the biggest difference is that on December 18th, I remember this instinctively, and I have the patience and perspective I *wish* I had the other 364 days of the year.  Today, there aren't emails to return, or phonetic lessons to suffer through, or sentences to write, or businesses to solicit for free art supplies (post for another day).  Today, I am reminded that I BEGGED for the chance to be able to hear my babies read, or decorate gingerbread houses with them, or package powdered donuts for their birthday treat (no TWIST).  Hell, I begged for them to simply be able to BREATHE, and my prayers were exceeded by one million percent.  


Today, we are not overcome by grief; we are full of the details of living.  The unimportant stuff, the distractions, they fall away, and what we are left with is JOY.  More happiness than suffering, more reasons to celebrate than despair.   Friends, we are okay--and I feel like you need to know that, because we don't talk about this on a regular basis.  We survived the day that Caleb died, the day we buried him in the POURING rain, the days the doctors told us Big J was dangerously close to not making it, the time we thought L's lung was punctured by a catheter tip, the months in the NICU, L's strokes, three years on a feeding tube, oxygen tanks at home, hundreds (thousands) of vomiting episodes and the fact that one of our babies/ toddlers/ preschoolers slept with six-feet of rubber tubing in her crib for YEARS.   We survived it and maybe that's cheating, but I'm pretty sure there isn't a rule that the person who sobs through life wins; or else I just don't understand the game.  Today, seven-years later, it's fairly easy to *survive* because there are twins to tickle and shower with gifts and water cups to fill at Monkey Joe's--and if you think that eventually the busy-ness will subside and I will crumble, well then, you probably aren't on Pinterest, and {spoiler alert}, I manifest my emotions in the state of my house (basement) that looks semi-nuclear, and the way I micromanage the tying of small, cellophane baggies.


To Big J and L and Caleb--It has been an incredible pleasure to experience a miracle every day for seven years and to be changed from the very moment we met you.  What we realized in tragedy and at the limit of what we never imagined we could handle, is that God is GOOD.  Really, really, good.   I could have lived an entire lifetime of never quite believing that--but that is a life of insecurity and disappointment, and he saved me from it.  Maybe we are supposed to be bitter and fearful, but you have made us bold and full of hope, and we are beyond thankful.  


Happy Birthday, we LOVE you.


{If you are new here, and haven't heard the WHOLE story, click HERE}

Hey girl, monograms make EVERYTHING better.

photo courtesy of handmaderyangosling.tumbler.com

Oh, this day has been amazing--the kind of day I NEVER give myself, except for those FOUR YEARS in college--and it would be the best-day-ever if not for the wicked hangover that I tried to kill with a McDonald's sausage biscuit (and hash browns) this morning at 8 a.m.  Didn't work though; and I think I made it angrier. Funny thing is, I don't *really* remember being all that drunk last night--I mean I remember the seven glasses of wine, but as I recall, I was extremely charming and CLASSY throughout the entire evening.  But then we got home, and I put on whatever clothes were on the floor (which, coincidentally, were later revealed to be NOT pajamas) and I crawled in bed, and I thought, "SH#!, how did this happen, exactly?"...And then I proceeded to wake up every couple of hours feeling like I accidentally ate a hamster, but lacking any kind of motivation to drink some water.  That's not true, I would TOTALLY have swallowed water from a straw if Mike (the slacker) would have gotten out of bed and served it to me.


If your skeptical, then let me tell you that it is ABSOLUTELY possible to not know that you're drunk.  In case you haven't noticed, it is also entirely possible not to realize that you have gained 15 pounds (those jeans TOTALLY still fit) or that mice are eating your Halloween candy; and we all know that reality t.v. proves that there is an entire demographic of women who fail to notice they are PREGNANT.  My point being that we don't really notice anything unless it's being blogged or mentioned on facebook, and as far as I can tell, no one posted pictures of me wearing a 42DD bra last night, so my memory of "charming and classy" stands, bitches.


Anyway.  This is the scenario that finds me in bed ALL DAY, in my non-pajamas--which are really my "nice" sweat pants and the shirt I wore yesterday, and while that may sound like lounge-wear to you, it is in fact, an outfit that I am seen in publicly on a regular basis.   But this lazy day is shaping up to be like the Christmas present I give to the over-achieving part of me that has to put polka-dots on everything, only I wrapped it with a *hint* of nausea.  Super.

photo courtesy of handmaderyangosling.tumbler.com

So I kind of feel like I've been on Facebook and Pinterest for like, 5 hours now--but it is worth it, because this is my college-self's CHRISTMAS PRESENT to my cracked-out-suburban housewife self (we've been over this), and also because I found this amazing website (link HERE) that is dedicated to imagining things that Ryan Gosling would say if he was madly in love with a crafter.  Boom.   I am OBSESSED with it, and now I find myself imagining scenarios in which Ryan Gosling (RG) might express affection by purchasing a laminator or creating                                                                                                                               a winter village with fine glitter.  And I CANNOT STOP laughing, and then *kind-of* crying, because it's all just so lovely, this world where Ryan Gosling reaffirms women who have Etsy shops and hopes of making Christmas trees out of ruffled grosgrain ribbon.  We are REAL people with feelings and needs and it is so OBVIOUS that Ryan gets that--I mean REALLY gets it, because NO ONE just thinks to buy baker's twine as a gift, and that gesture is just beautiful.  God, it's so beauuuuuutiful {insert ugly cry}.  Now I am weeping all by myself in my bed with my non-pajamas, and then it HITS ME, that maybe I'm not hungover, but still drunk?  And then I saw that someone posted a picture of Patrick Dempsey, all jealous and with a tag line that says "Pffff....Gosling. I bet he doesn't even know what Mod Podge is" and it is just like this day is getting better and BETTER, but not less nauseating.



Update:  The hangover HATES an entire box of macaroni and cheese. And three really large peppermint brownies.  HATES.  It is a particularly picky eater, this hangover; and that sounds very unlike it, because *usually* it is pacified by the mayonnaise sauce at Burger King.  But maybe I have entered some alternate universe and now I have Mariah Carey's hangover and I need to feed it  free-range, diamond-encrusted, vegan chickens.  If you think that's absurd, because chickens aren't a vegan food, then you OBVIOUSLY don't realize that she is Mariah f-ing Carey and she names kids "Roc and Roe" and stars in movies like "Glitter" and makes chickens meat-less.. and other such ridiculousness. 


But it's totally okay.  Because RG says "Hey Girl (Mariah), I will totally hot glue your sofa sectional with millions of rhinestones, because a princess needs a throne."  We {heart} you, RG.

Hamsters in my alcohol are NOT the most absurd thing I have seen tonight.

Um.


Beginning at 2:00 p.m. today, I...


Went to Hancock Fabrics to pick up the bias tape I needed to finish the American Girl sleeping bags I am sewing; went to Target to find a secret Santa gift; went to HomeGoods to find a Secret Santa gift; picked up 2 of 4 children from school and agreed to an impromptu playdate; went to Barnes & Noble to find a secret Santa gift; went BACK to Target to actually purchase my Secret Santa gift; cooked TWO pans of brownies and an entire batch of chili (as opposed to a partial batch?); monogrammed two dish towels; cleaned a kitchen; freaked out and went to Sam's to purchase my *actual* secret Santa gift after being ridiculed by my husband; drank 7 glasses of wine, and; ate 2 steak sandwiches and 10 pounds worth of Bissinger's chocolate.


I would like it noted that my secret Santa gift was traded  the maximum of THREE times; it was tied for BEST GIFT ever with a 5-pack of wine.  I call that a win, even if it came at the cost of $15 worth of gas and my SANITY.  FYI, the Steve Jobs biography is a hit--but this is amongst a crowd that also (thoughtfully) considered a 42DD bra a wise use of $20.   For the record, I am not a 42DD.

And then I came home, kind of drunk, and Mike noticed that the hamsters were fortressed amongst our alcohol--which is good, because I might not have found them for weeks.  I'm sure there is a story there, I'm just not convinced that it is as great as a 30+ year old male in a REALLY large female undergarment.

Now I'm going to hypothesize that playing santa is like gambling with the happiness of children.

Oh, crisis.


A few weeks back, our kids started making their Christmas lists.  This is mostly an activity I use to entertain them, when the GUILT sets in that they are watching entirely too much t.v.; it's really cute, too, particularly as the youngest three are learning to spell.  Coincidentally, these are the years where errors in phonetic spelling are likely to produce wish list items of a highly inappropriate/ soft-porn nature...and that is just PRICELESS.  But rarely are these lists a hard-and-fast rule about what is coming at Christmas time--they are a guide, perhaps providing some insight into the minds of five, seven and nine year olds, but they are by NO MEANS a promise.  


I mean, I *generally* know what my kids want for Christmas, because I am a bad-ass Jedi that way.  They are  ALWAYS going to want Legos, craft supplies, Wii games, Beanie-Boos and roller skates--but I also know that they would be THRILLED with an outdoor trampoline, electric scooters, 18 LIVE hamsters and an inflatable, remote controlled shark.  And so, the age-old debate continues, trying to gift them things they think they want, (given their lack of access to and knowledge of Satan's virtual retail tool, Amazon),  and balancing that against what I KNOW they would love, and won't cost us a battery budget that could realistically feed an entire third-world country.  Playing Santa comes with GREAT responsibility--of not turning our kids into DEMONS, not annihilating their brain cells, not hampering their future ability to have children (steroids and hot tubs are OUT), and not being the parents who buy their daughters clothes/ toys that resemble hookers, thereby influencing EVERY third grade girl to want to expose the bra strap that she is wearing for LOOKS and not to support her still undeveloped chest.


G's list this year included a few top tier items--the first being a Nintendo DS, which we have talked about at nauseating length for some time now, because those things are freaking expensive!  But also, I want her to REALLY appreciate it, and so we have struck a deal in which she is saving her money to buy one herself--and it is GENIUS, because she won't get there until she hits high school.  Also high on her list of "big" items are Kanani, the American Girl Doll of the Year and a sewing machine.  Being the practical Santa that I am, and knowing that G spends 95% of her free time "crafting", I went with the sewing machine.


However.  Third grade is apparently the year when MEMORY kicks in, and she has staged a CONSTANT and elaborate campaign for Kanani.  Now G has had an American Girl since she was five; purchased because I envisioned YEARS of her playing with and dressing her doll with her friends--except that she really never bothered with her much, besides ratting her hair like a Jersey girl, or *accidentally* pulling her head off that one time, and other such disturbing behaviors NOT BEFITTING a young, plastic lady from the Victorian age.  Just kidding, we have Nicki, and she is from Colorado, circa 2007, but it still doesn't make any kind of sense for her to have an Amy Winehouse bee-hive.  All of this to say that G's interest in her doll has been sparse, at best, until about 3 weeks ago.  When she began playing with that damn doll ALL. THE. TIME.


Mike and I have continued to discuss our strategy--she doesn't NEED two dolls, she has one that she has barely played with in 4.5 years.  Two dolls seems so very first-world {insert EYE ROLL people, that was sarcasm.}  Except that Kanani is from HAWAII, and so there are some sentimental factors involved (for me),   and also, a constant nagging feeling in my gut that I was MEANT BY GOD to own this doll.  


But also, I have blog posts to write and ornaments to paint with fingerprints and *probably* and undiagnosed case of ADD and so I tend to see a bottle of glitter, and it inspires a life-sized snow globe project, and then I forget the entire Christmas conundrum.


Until last night, when G left the American Girl catalog on our dining room table with a note, stating in no uncertain terms, that Kanani is the only present she wants in her whole entire life.  Yep folks, she played the "I'll-never-ask-for-anything-again-in-my-whole-entire-life-card", and if we were talking about a 84-pack of Squinkies on an errand run to Target, then I would clearly understand it to be bull and I would call that bluff-- but this feels very much like the pure desire of her nine-year-old soul.  Sigh.  Mike and I entered another round of discussions, which I am coming to realize, is REALLY me doing all the talking and him hearing every seventh word and nodding in agreement.  And we decided she probably needs Kanani, instead of the sewing machine.


Except that Kanani is SOLD OUT.  WTH, American Girl?  If you're only gonna offer the Hawaiian doll that rides dolphins to school for ONE YEAR, and you send me 10 catalogs with her mug plastered ALL OVER them, then you better mass produce a large warehouse full of Kananis in anticipation of this very need.  Fortunately, you can still purchase her on eBay.  For $200.  From some guy who stockpiles popular kids toys and charges twice their value.  Sorry G, no dice.  


The sewing machine it is, but I am certainly going to test the philosophy I outlined in yesterdays post, and I am PRAYING that G will still retain the ability to believe in God and Christmas in the absence of an American Girl under the tree.  


If all else fails, we'll be purchasing a kitten to restore her good faith.

In defense of gift-givers.

Last week, I alluded to the "rules" of Christmas, the ways that the entire holiday has become quite complicated, and how it is *almost* impossible to seriously maime your children with dangerous gifts anymore (think lawn darts)--though, we are certainly gonna try, because Big J is getting himself a Red Rider B.B. gun this year.


But along with holiday cheer and  five ten extra pounds and an above average consumption of chardonnay, Christmas brings THE GUILT.  Of being too busy, of not hand-sewing ornaments for all of our friends, of spending too much money, of not focusing on Christ, of forgetting a present for the hamsters, of buying cookies for the school party at the grocery store instead of making them without flour or milk or eggs or raw sugar.  However, it's a pretty consistent theme among my mommy-friends, that there is a crap-ton of guilt over how much we spend on our children at Christmas; how presents under the tree seem to be competing with Jesus (and winning); how we are (potentially) teaching our kids to be little Kardashians who expect iphones made out of actual diamonds.  I have seen "My Super Sweet Sixteen" on MTV, and these are VERY real fears.


Except that Christmas, for me, is BIG and BOLD and MAGICAL.  It always has been.  I can't remember a year where it wasn't, where I was disappointed--even after the fantasy of Santa was stripped away over the years, there hasn't been a Christmas where I didn't come downstairs filled with anticipation, or where my expectations weren't met or exceeded.  


Both of my parents worked hard at full-time jobs my entire life.  I eventually came to understand that money was tight for my family, I knew my parents HAD to work--but also, that we had a comfortable, normal life.  I know they made it work.  And I also know that I woke up every morning on Christmas to a tree FULL of presents, which is an even more amazing feat when you consider that I was an ONLY child, and therefore, they were ALL for me.  I don't remember them ever NOT getting it right; I don't remember being disappointed.  As an 8th grader (I think), I know I was still SO EXCITED to get downstairs on Christmas morning that I completely missed the LARGE table in my bedroom that my parents had decorated (after I went to sleep) with my very own phone--a big deal, since they had to have a phone jack installed.  At the time, the red phone with the really BIG numbers was the most  amazing gift--but as a home-owner, I now understand that the inconvenience of WAITING half a day for the phone company was a big deal, as was keeping it a SECRET until Christmas morning.  But what they REALLY gave me that year was trust and privacy and a little bit of independence, which as a parent, I am beginning to understand, are scary and near impossible gifts.   


I come from magical Christmases, and I don't apologize for it.  Big tree, lots of presents.  My parents were thoughtful in what they bought, and they saved in other ways to be able to give me a few more things at Christmas.  And in the context of our family I came to UNDERSTAND it, and eventually, to replicate the joy of giving to my kids at Christmas.  It has had a tremendous impact on me; and if you are familiar with the Five Love languages, mine is CLEARLY gift giving, as it is how I am most comfortable expressing gratitude and thankfulness and affection.  I LOVE to give gifts, thoughtful gifts.  I LOVE to make them.  I love the time it takes to find something perfect, and possibly on sale.  I loathe gift certificates.  Which is another reason that Christmas, and all it's rules, make me crazy--you can't just gift friends with monogrammed dish towels or a homemade scarf anymore, without feeling like you are HEAPING guilt on to someone else.  There's this whole idea that presents have to be reciprocal, everything fair and easy and equal...and it's a buzz kill for a gift giver.


I understand the argument of excessive consumerism, and the notion that we are teaching our kids to value presents over Jesus, that somehow they are learning that all they need is a Savior AND a Nintendo DS.  I get the tendency to want to curb that, and I think about it, too.  I have GUILT over it--except that I am a gift-giver by nature, and there is a large part of me that delights in showering my kids with a pile of gifts under the tree that simply takes their breath away.   In my everyday world, my kids DO NOT understand that it is my UNDYING love that denies them 12 cookies for dinner, or makes them go to their room and *rethink* their attitude, or forces them to wear a jacket throughout the winter.  They don't get it.  One day, all these boundaries and rules will make sense, but for today, I am mostly the woman who pops a blood vessel in her eye when milk spills and is always telling them to clean up their toys or put their lunchboxes away or flush the toilet, for God's sake.  But also, I am the lucky gal that gets to hug them everyday after school, and buy them hamsters and play Yahtzee on family game nights and let them lick the bowl after we make cupcakes.  I was designed to be rules and spontaneity; freedom and safety; strength and vulnerability.


All of this, everything I do or say, speaks of my faith, or lack of it.  My children's concept of God, their trust in him, the way they relate to him, will undoubtedly be influenced by me;  I am their first example of love and authority and compassion and grace, and that carries a lot of weight in who they are beginning to understand God to be.  I'm (attempting to) teach them to trust this GREAT life he has in store for us, how he wants to give us the desires of our hearts--and yet it often feels like the unassuming life of Christ and his seemingly humble birth is in direct opposition to the God who created an entire, lavish WORLD for his prized creation.  I'm not gonna lie, when I focus solely on the parts of faith that call us to deny ourselves and a live a life of sacrifice, it can often feel budgeted and lifeless and unexciting.  Because, I *think* God was always meant to be BOTH, purely and perfectly at the same time.


I am a gift-giver; and when I understand Christmas in the context of who God designed me to be, I understand that he is one, too.  That Christmas BEGAN with a very lavish gift--a SAVIOR--and that it came at a great cost.  There is a tendency to paint that first Christmas as simple and humble and that is certainly part of the story; but it was also a moment so intricate, that it was conceived from the very beginning of time, amazingly perfect and complicated.  That's the kicker about being God--being so simple and yet so incredibly complex that the world will debate your exact intentions FOREVER.  Plain and elaborate, just and full of grace, God and man...all at the same time.  


I cannot recreate that kind of wonder with an American Girl doll, and I KNOW that.  No Lego set will EVER beat the Christ-child, and I get that too.  However, I *believe* I can be a Christian and still desire to fill a tree with presents that my kids will love.  I believe those presents can say as much about Jesus as choosing to refrain from them can, too.  Where some of us focus on the parts of Christmas that are simple and uncomplicated, some of us speak to the mystery and wonder of the holiday.   I believe that whimsy and splendor speak to the parts of my children's hearts that will, one day, imagine heaven as amazing beyond ALL understanding.  As they get older and more practical--perhaps a little more cynical--I want my children to cling to the memory of Christmas morning, and know that in the midst of our discipline and rules, we also loved them in a way that felt like magic.  Years from now, my kids won't believe in Santa anymore, but they will remember waking up to what seemed like a miracle; the toys themselves will be long gone, but the memories of anticipation and joy and expectations met are LASTING.  As adults, they will understand that Christmas presents COST something and that they are incredible and undeserved; and if the Lord is gracious to us, then they will see that ALL of this is a picture of Christ, and that heaven is bold and abundant and will NEVER disappoint or fail to meet our expectations. 


My name is Sara, and I am a Christian who believes in  presents under the tree.