Christmas Boxes

I’m betting that not too many people get sentimental about putting away the Christmas decorations, but I do. There is something about putting an object in a dark box where it will sit and collect dust in an attic or garage for an infinite amount of time that just seems so sad to me. I’ve always been like that. The story of the Velveteen Rabbit pulls on my heartstrings in the most unbearable way- that poor, loved on, discarded, stuffed bunny was the reason I kept my two favorite stuffed animals from childhood on my bed in the broad daylight until I was married. No dark and lonely closet shelves for them! And my family and close friends know that the best way to torture me is to softly sing a chorus of “Puff the Magic Dragon.” I can’t hear the line about "little Jackie Paper coming no more" without choking up.

So today when I was carefully wrapping up the glass angels, ceramic santas, and the kid’s special ornaments, I couldn’t help but get all sappy and reflective. I thought about how last year when I was wrapping up those very same things, I was oblivious to how our life would be changed by the next time I saw them. When I packed away Christmas last year, Baby Roo was a teeny tiny newborn. We didn't yet know the serious, watchful, and affectionate baby girl she would become. Princess G was still in preschool. She was a good 2 inches shorter, and she most certainly wasn't reading yet. J was still in diapers. 9 was only a 7th grader, which seems so much younger than an 8th grader.

By the time we pull the Christmas boxes down next year, Princess G will be a full time elementary school student in 1st grade. I'll drop her off at 8 and won't see her again until almost 3. She’ll be reading and writing on her own. She’ll have a whole bunch of new friends. She’ll be wearing a school uniform, and god forbid- Hannah Montana may have released a whole new album to which she’ll probably know all the songs.
9 will be in high school and only a year away from getting his learner's permit. This fact always shocks me, because I first met him when he was a Kindergartener which doesn’t seem so long ago.
J will….well, J will be J. He’s unpredictable. I’m sure he has a whole bunch of surprises for us up his sleeve.
And my baby girl will be talking. Pieces of her personality and talents that we can't see yet will be unveiled. I can’t wait.

’09 has brought me and my family so many wonderful things: new school, new friends, (a new blog!), and many experiences both good and bad that I wouldn’t trade for anything (except that one trip to Ralphs when J had wet his pants and Roo had chewed on the club card and Stupid Jerry the Checker humiliated me by loudly asking for hand sanitizer. I'd trade that experience in a heartbeat).
I don’t know what 2010 will bring- a thought that is breathtaking in it’s ambiguity. Whatever it brings, I hope that you and your family enjoy a blessed year and that we’re all here together again next December when it’s time to once again bring those dusty boxes of Christmas decorations back out into the light.

Ta-Daaaaaa!

That's our dorky little card for the year. It's not my favorite, but it is what it is. It was actually the cause of a tiny spat between Mr. C and I. He chose the one template for it that I said I didn't like. Somehow he heard "Yes, darling. That's the one we must have!" and thus ordered a set of 50 cards with a black template. Doesn't black just scream holiday cheer to you? I guess it does to Mr. C.
Luckily, I've gotten much better at holding my tongue. We avoided a big blowout, though I do still have bitter feelings towards him for not even photoshopping that weird double chin thing I have going on. What is that anyway????

So, mainly because my brain is fried from the baking, decorating, and gift making, I'm just going to post a couple of cards from Christmas' past. (Btw, WHEN am I going to learn that Martha Stewart I am not? Every year I have these huge ambitions, and I end up hating myself right about the time when I'm knee- deep in hot glue and decorater icing.)

In case you haven't figured it out yet, Mr. C and I are complete dorks, and our Christmas Cards show it. Every year we do some kind of nerdy little theme. Secretly, in my heart of hearts, I would like to do a "normal" card where I could look decent instead of say, like a cartoon character (2007) or Mrs. Brady (2006). But doing so would be considered blasphemous around here. This is a full on project for Mr. C and the kids, and I admit, it's a little bit fun too.

Here's 2005:















And I know this is cheap, but I don't have 2008's for you. I can't find the file, which is just as well. We tried to copy an old school style Coca Cola ad, with Santa leaving Baby Roo as a gift for under the tree. However, most people didn't get it and just thought we were trying to do some kind of weird nativity scene. I was slightly offended- a nativity scene with a Santa? We're kooky, but not that kooky.


So, that's it. This really is a horrible post and I do apologize. I had high hopes for it, but our household has been hit with a double whammy of an upper respiratory virus AND pink eye these last couple of weeks. I sound like Demi Moore, but I look like some monster out of a Scooby Doo cartoon. My eye is so red that it's practically glowing.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to you, my 9 wonderful readers! Have a wonderful holiday!

Oh Noooooooo!

It's official. My days of abusing the power of Santa are over for this season. J received this certificate from Santa last Thursday at the preschool Christmas party, thus ending my reign of power and supreme manipulation a full week early.
Bastards.


Good thing he's cute.

You all have a good night!

Another Reason To Love Boobs

So, I had a totally weird Monday. And against all of my better judgment, I am going to share it with you here. I'm giving you fair warning however, this post is not for the faint of heart. Or the modest. So if either of those traits describe you, you should definitely leave... like, now.

Allright.

It all started out innocently enough. Both my girls woke up this morning with bright red goopy eyes. If my 5 years of teaching in the public school system has taught me nothing else, I have learned how to spot a case of pink eye from a mile away. (Which is where I wished I was as I spent the first hour of the morning wrestling the baby to the ground with a warm washcloth in my hand attempting to unglue her lashes.)
Anyway, before I left to take J to school I logged into Facebook and updated my status to let the world know that my girls "had eyes as red as candy canes." You know, just a silly little mommy update with a clever holiday reference thrown in there to make myself feel clever. I thought nothing of it (as you can see by all the ways I just described my cleverness).

When I came back, I logged in again and had a few comments. The first few were just nice "been there, that sucks" comments. But then a friend wrote that breastmilk is a sure cure for pink eye. "Surely she jests?" I thought and jokingly wrote back, "What? Am I suppose to squirt it in their eyes?"
Well, apparently that is exactly what I was supposed to do. I began to receive an avalanche of comments. (Well, okay. 21 comments. But on my little page, that's like an avalanche.) To my total surprise, I have friends who've heard of this weird remedy and they all swore by it. A ton of my friends were curious. 1 friend was totally disgusted. But they all asked for me to keep them posted.

Honestly, I started getting nervous because I could totally see the whole thing going the way of a prank that high school Mean Girls would play on dweeby Freshman girls. "Yeah, go ahead!" they'd all say. "Squirt breastmilk into your baby's eyes! We're so curious!" And then they'd laugh and point their fingers at me if I ever actually went through with it.

Besides, there were so many reasons not to do it. A) It's just weird
B) I haven't nursed Baby Roo in months. I knew there wouldn't be any real
"squirting" action. I did, however, still have some ahem- "supplies", low
though they may have been.
C) It's just weird.

But the day wore on. The doctor's office had still not called in the prescription to the pharmacy and it was getting to be 3-o-clock. It was breaking my heart to see Baby Roo's big blue eyes all bloodshot and crusty. The 5 year old had already made it crystal clear that she would not be a guinea pig in this little experiement. This actually made me happy, as it would have worried me more if she responded with enthusiasm to the idea.

Anyway....listen up ladies, cuz here's your update:

Around 3:30 I caved. I sat in my glider and tried to remember what the Nipple Nazis-aka La Leche League- told me to do to bring in milk. It took a while, but I finally managed to collect a grand total of about a teaspoon in a tupperware container. Tres classy.
And seriously? I think my last mammogram involved less squishing and mashing.

Anyway, after that I went and got the medicine dropper. For the second time that day, I wrestled Baby Roo to the ground and managed to squeeze in a couple of drops. Then I put her and her milky eyeballs to bed.

You're laughing at me and pointing your finger, aren't you? I know you are. I'd say that I deserve it, but.....THE LAST LAUGH IS ON YOU CUZ SHE WOKE UP WITH NO GOOP!
I am not kidding! There is something to this breastmilk cure! Her eyes are still red, but it's significantly better than it was.

Now, those of you who were pro-squirt, don't get too excited because both Roo and PG are now being treated with the Vigamox that finally got called into the pharmacy. There will be no more boob mashing. But I am totally impressed. I have nothing bad to say about the breastmilk cure. Except that Roo's eyes did kinda stink like sour milk the whole evening.

And for those of you laughing at me and shaking your head, I guess I don't blame you. As one of my friends wrote, this is one of those things that you would never believe you'd ever find yourself discussing or doing prior to motherhood. Yet, here we are. And hey, people do stranger things. This mommy blogger loves to use nipple cream as a lip gloss. That's way worse, right? Right?

You all have a good night.

Sunny with Sprinkles on Top

J was first in line this morning to get out the door and take Princess G to Kindergarten. When he opened the door, he saw that the sprinklers were on. His remark to that?
"Oh GREAT! Sprinkles!"

Can he please stay 3 forever?

White Girls Can't Dance. Or Jump. (not this one anyway)

So tonight I took my first Zumba class. If you haven't heard of Zumba, it's more or less an aerobic version of Salsa and Merengue, set to Latin/World music. Lots of hip swaying, booty shakin', and shimmying. It's very high energy, very fun, and very.... um, humbling.

Before I start totally making fun of myself, I have to tell you about my instructor. I have to tell you-no, I want to tell you that a) she was fantastic- high energy, happy, great at choreography, and easy to follow. B.) She's also one of my (8! Love u guys!) blog readers. Hi Melissa! I know you blamed your cough on an oncoming cold, but it's okay for you to admit now that you were just trying to choke back laughter as I fumbled and flailed my way through your class.

Seriously, it was a lot of fun. I'm just glad there weren't any mirrors in the place so I didn't have to see my own image proving to me that yes, I did indeed look as dorky as I felt. While Melissa seemed to be channeling Shakira, I could not even manage to work my arms and legs simultaneously. I had to focus on one or the other, so most of the time I put my energy into salsa stepping. Very difficult for a girl who took 10 years to learn the Roger Rabbit (and I'll still bust that move out on any dance floor, yo).

Can we talk about the body popping, hip shakin', and shimmying? I'm sure that my two sisters who follow this blog, are rolling on the floor laughing right now with the image of me trying my best pop, shake, and shimmy. According to them, it's not what my bod is or isn't doing, it's the face I make when I'm really into it. You know, like the white man's overbite? Except it's not an overbite. It's more like..... um... remember on LaVerne and Shirley the look that Shirley Finney would get when she did her little dance for Carmine? It's kinda like that. A dancing equivalent to an embarrassing O face.
Sara, Karen... I remember the laughter girls. And it still hurts.

Also, can I just say: lots of jumping + 3 vaginal deliveries to children all 8 lbs. and up= no bueno.

BUT.

I am going back for more. Because it was so dang fun. And because one of the biggest surprises of the night (besides the fact that I didn't drop dead of a heart attack- which I fully expected to do) was how much I fell in love with the music. In fact, after I finish this post I'm hopping over to iTunes and downloading every track I can find that comes up under a "Zumba" search. This music makes me want to move! It's going to be my new housecleaning music. Who'd drag a mop with crazy beats like that pumping in the background?
So Melissa, I'll be back. And I'm trading the tired yoga pants for something more latin-inspired. Maybe I'll put a flower in my hair? Or buy a really cute pair of cigarette pants. (I'll just be sure to wear a pair of Depends.)
Cuz that's the kind of spicy Latina I am.

You all have a good night!

The Power of Santa

I have a confession to make. You might want to sit down for this one because it really seems to blow people's minds when I tell them this.

I have never ever, even for one day in my life, believed in Santa Claus.

Crazy, huh? It's because of my parents. They made some kind of decision when we were little to just be straight up honest with us about the whole Santa Claus/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy thing from the start. I think it was more my dad's decision than anyone else's, but they've always just said that they felt like it was wrong for adults to lie to children about stuff like that. So I don't know, maybe he was really traumatized by finding out the truth when he was a kid? But anyway, we've (my sisters and I) never believed in Santa.

I know what you may be thinking. "It's not a lie! It's part of the magic of childhood." That's what most people say. I remember when I taught Kindergarten and I told my teaching partner (who is the most Kindey-ish Kindergarten teacher you will ever meet), her eyes opened wide and her face melted into this incredibly sympathetic expression that I think most people save for starving Africans or cancer patients. "How saaaaaaaaaaaad!" she wailed. She was so distraught that I felt compelled to assure her that the Christmas magic was still there- just like all the other kids, we were always too excited to sleep the night before. We still ran out to find our stockings and tons of presents under the tree. The difference was only that we knew our parents put them there. At Easter we still got baskets and did an egg hunt. When we lost a tooth we woke up to a note under our pillow that led to a huge hunt for clues that eventually led us to our tooth money. It was awesome and fun.

Still, no one believes me when I say it wasn't sad. So as I've grown into an adult, it's become apparent to me that in Christmas Country, I am akin to a foreign exchange student. I am on complete and total alien soil. And because of this, I may have misinterpreted a few traditions here and there.

Poor Mr. C. spent December of the first year we were married doing damage control while I unwittingly and unknowingly tore holes right and left in the whole Santa Conspiracy thing. I didn't know I couldn't take my stepson 9 shopping for stocking stuffers with me. Who knew that Santa had sole rights to stuffing all the stockings? And really? Does everyone wrap the "Santa Presents" in different top secret wrapping paper? I was also totally surprised to learn that I was expected to stock the vegetable crisper with carrots for the reindeer AND that I had to write a "thank you for the cookies and carrots" letter from Santa (using cleverly disguised handwriting, of course).

At the end of the month, I told Mr. C that the whole Santa thing was too much work and that when we had our own kids, I'd prefer not to participate thank you very much.

But then I discovered the power of Santa.

The power of Santa is just so good. I started out only using it once and a while. I wasn't going to use it all, but 2 yr. old Princess G had already learned about St. Nick from her big brother. So one day when she and I were engaged in a power struggle of some sort, I let the words "Fine. But Santa Claus is watching you!" slip out from my lips. And she gave up! It was so easy that it gave me a little high. So when J got old enough, I started using it on him too. And that's when it got a little out of control. Like I said, it's a type of high.

In the months of November and December, you won't find a disciplinarian lazier than me. I'm more than happy to make Santa the fall guy for any unpopular rules or expectations around here. You don't want to eat your veggies? Fine with me, but Santa may not like it. What's that? You don't want to take a nap? Well, you know.... Santa really likes little boys and girls who listen to their mommies when they say it's nap time. Oh, I'm sorry! Were you complaining about having to clean your room? I'll make sure to call Santa and tell him your opinion on chores.

It's possible that I've abused the power of Santa just slightly. My kids are no dummies. They are more than a little suspicious that I'm using Santa to basically bully them into obedience. They just haven't figured out yet what their counter attack is going to be. And every time I deal the Santa card I see J's eyes narrow and I'm pretty sure his hooligan little mind is thinking something along the lines of "Ya, Santa can suck it." He just doesn't quite have the cajones yet. I've got a few years.

So, how many moms do you know who've managed to make their own children hate Santa Claus? It's terrible, I know. I've taken all the fun out of St. Nick. For this, I'm sure the Big Guy will drop a few lumps of coal into my stocking. But not before I enjoy a few more weeks of peace and quiet.

You all have a good night.