Christmas Bloopers

Hello, friends.  How is everyone surviving?  Actually, what I mean is, how is everyone doing? I’ve recently read a few posts from other bloggers complaining about the holidays- how they feel overwhelmed with their “to do” list and how that to do list makes them just want to get this holiday over with.  They feel the holidays are something to survive. Do you feel that way?  To be honest, I’ve gotten pretty good at having a laid-back attitude towards Christmas.  Whatever gets done, get done.  Only half of our outdoor lights are working, I never finished decorating the garlands over my living room windows, and while Santa is going to be pretty good to the kids this year, the stockings being hung by the chimney with care will be on the light side. That’s okay.  I’m still enjoying the holidays.  I suppose I'm surviving just fine.  

However, that’s not to say that the season hasn't had it’s moments with me.  It has.  Thought I’d share a few here:  

Let’s start with the elf.  Our elf’s name is Bucky.  Bucky.  I named him. I should know his name.  Yet, one morning the kids woke up and found a message written to them in red lipstick on a mirror, and that message was mysteriously signed, “Buddy.”  This sparked a huge controversy in our home.  Who is Buddy? An imposter? A friend? A foe?  

From across the room, Mr. C silently shot me an amused look and I sent a look right back that said, “Bucky, Buddy, WHATEVER.  I REMEMBERED TO MOVE THE STUPID ELF, ISN’T THAT ENOUGH?”

Listen, parents.  Can we all agree on something?  I’m sure more than one of you have forgotten to move your elf once or twice this year.  We all know that these elves wear out their welcome pretty early in December.  Can we all understand that if one is coherent enough after a full day to not only remember to move the dumb elf, but to set him up in an amusing situation for the kids to discover the next morning, then that is enough? Let’s not expect more than that.  We don’t need to get their names correct.  WE GET POINTS FOR REMEMBERING TO MOVE THE ELF. 

Then there is the baking.  I first want to brag about the awesome wardrobe choices I make on days in which I plan to work extensively with flour:

 Black cotton capri leggings.  Fantastic.

Next, I’m going to show you a picture of two iced cookies.  One, I decorated.  The other, my ten year old daughter decorated.  If you remember me writing about how my Kindergarten teacher thought I belonged in Special Education because of my poor hand-eye coordination, then you’ll be able to guess who decorated which cookie:

Yep. PG’s is on top. Mine is on the bottom.  

Can I tell you a secret?  It bothers me that I am bad at decorating cookies.  I know that it’s stupid to be bothered by such a simple, inconsequential thing, but I feel like I should be able to do a better job. I always give it my best shot, and I always suck.  Meanwhile, PG is a machine, decorating them all beautifully. While I watch her, there is this weird jealous-yet-proud commentary going on in my head: “Oh, my gosh.  Crisscrossing diagonal stripes on the trees!  Why didn’t I think of that? And mixing the stripes with dots? Genius!”

Last thing:  Yesterday I made Tiramisu Balls, Spice Cutout Cookies, Pineapple Upside-Down Cookies, and Candy Cane Fudge.  Today, I made Chipotle Roasted Almonds, Cranberry Cheesecake Bars, and Pretzel Toffee Bark.   I got to the very last item I was going to bake, Rachael Ray’s Peppermint Yule Log Cookies, and it turned out to be one of those stupid recipes where they leave out important information- like, to expect the dough to be crumbly so you don’t end up frantically Googling “how to save crumbly dough” with your floury fingers and make a mess on your keyboard. Anyway, I was tired.  And my back hurt.  And I was sick of baking.  And I was mentally cussing out Rachael Ray.  So I took passive-aggressive action against the faulty dough.  

I turned it into a poop emoji.  

Oddly, that made me feel better and gave me energy to finish my insane cookie marathon. 

As you can see, most of my least desirable holiday moments revolve around baking.  Please remind me next year that I don’t like to do it.  I won’t believe you, because by then, the stressed out, mess-making, back-aching lunatic that I turn into while making cookies will be a distant memory. But for those of you who love me, you should really make a concerted effort to stop me.  Truly.  It’s best for all involved. 

And, I know this sounds nuts, but tomorrow I am hosting the third annual Craftapoolooza at my house.  My friend Jennifer and I get our kids together and craft homemade Christmas gifts all day long.   I’m about as good at crafts as I am at baking, but Jenn is good at it and we have fun.  The kids have fun.  And at the end, there is wine.  

(That’s a lie.  The wine is there long before the end.  It shows up right in the midst of making glitter bulbs and homemade bath bombs, and that is because it is necessary.  For survival.  Of all the crafts.)

Here’s to surviving, everyone! 

 Merry Christmas, Happy Channukah, Happy Holidays- take your pick of whichever you like.  May love surround each and every one of you, on Christmas and everyday thereafter!  Thanks for reading.

The Most Difficult Children In The World

One of the nice things about writing this blog is when one of you comment that I make you feel normal, because really, when I write this stuff, that's exactly what I'm looking for: a connection with all of you, a validation that what I'm feeling is what other people are feeling.  Let's face it: most of the time, I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm okay with that, as long as none of you know what you're doing either.  We're all in this together.

Except for today.  Today I need to believe that I have THE MOST DIFFICULT CHILDREN IN THE WORLD.  I don't want to anyone to relate, because if they related or told me I was normal, I wouldn't be able to martyr myself and sigh and feel sorry about the fact that I have THE MOST DIFFICULT CHILDREN IN THE WORLD.

Here are the things that the Most Difficult Children do that qualifies them for the title:

The Most Difficult Children tell me that they've brushed their teeth and when I clarify by asking "With toothpaste?" they said "Oh." and turn around to head back to the bathroom.

The Most Difficult Children also put on clothes that they wore yesterday and hope that I won't notice.  Then, when I do, the most difficult children will wail and cry and get mad at me because I won't let them out of the house looking like homeless people.  This happens repeatedly, several times a week, and they are always surprised at the fact that I won't let them wear dirty clothes.  I don't understand.

The Most Difficult Children in the World will not be able to share space in the bathroom without fighting with their siblings in the bathroom about stupid stuff that has nothing to do with getting ready for the day.".....  The most ironic thing about this is that one of these children have no less than three cherished shirts that say "Make Peace Happen", and she WILL BE WEARING SAID SHIRTS WHILE INSTIGATING FIGHTS OVER NOTHING.  When I point this out, she says "My shirt is talking about world peace mom, not here."  To which I ask, why not here?  We obviously need peace to happen here, in this little, crowded bathroom more than the world needs it. We need it.  I need it. So much needing of it.

The Most Difficult Children In The World listen to me lecture and yell and beg and gnash my teeth all the way to school, and then when we get there, I say "Have a good day.  I hope you listen to your teachers better than you listen to me."  And they exit the car and give me dirty looks that say they think I am the Meanest Mom In The World.  And that makes sense, because what other kind of mom would The Most Difficult Children In The World have other than The Meanest Mom In The World?  

Yes, I could have handled the morning better.  I could have held my frustration in check.  I could have  left out the mean, martyred, guilt-trippy goodbye in the car.  However, today, I'm doing away with introspection and mom-guilt.  I am well-practiced in both, but I'm choosing right now to let it go.  The kids hold responsibility for their behavior too, for behavior they know is not okay, that they've been told is not okay.... multiple, hundred, a million times. I am not a saint.

Except today.  Today, I am saint-like.  I'm going to be kind to myself and think of me in exactly that way.   It's hard being the meanest mom when your kids choose to be the most difficult, and I'm still here.  Still doing my job.  Yay, me.

You can all be thankful that today, I own the title to Meanest Mom of the Most Difficult Children.  Tomorrow I have a clean slate, so the title is up for grabs.  And if this unlucky title falls to you, my friend, I will admire you and give you mad respect, because any given day that a child decides to be the Most Difficult Child, is a day that a mom needs to know that she's doing holy work.  She may not be doing it perfectly, just as a lot of our saints didn't do it perfectly, but she's doing it.  And that makes us saints.