Out with the Cold, in with the Flu

This year I decided I’d make a true effort to have the Christmas spirit and be festive. I decorated my house, I listened to the music, I read stories to my kids, I watched movie, after movie, after movie. I joyfully purchased gifts for my family and baked goodies for the neighbors. I drank eggnog by the gallon.

What I didn’t do was dance like a sugar plum fairy around my home with a can of Lysol.

Trust me – that WILL be on the list for next year.

Just days before Christmas I was given the gift that keeps on giving. A virus.

I speedily sought medical attention from my trusty local doctor. I whined a bit about how Christmas was in two days and I’d sure like to enjoy it. Seems that he too was in the giving spirit this year, because he kindly gave me my second gift of Christmas – a penicillin shot in the buttocks. (This was administered by his nurse in case you were worried, like my hubby.)

Funny thing about viruses…. how they don’t respond to antibiotics and all that. Drat.

In fact, I’ll share with you this tasty morsel that I found out by Googling the word “Virus”: Antibiotics do not harm a virus, they are shape-shifters -- they mutate from one cold season to the next.

The phrase “shape-shifters” makes you think that viruses are all sci-fi or something. Here’s what it really means: BUCKLE UP!

Okay, fine, I understand that there is opposition in all things. I may not necessarily embrace the statement, but I acknowledge it as fact. Virus = Opposition.

Here’s my beef. Can’t our pal Opposition take a little break for the holidays? I mean him and his minions work hard all year to ruin plans and cause heartache. You’d think that he’d like a little time to sit by the fire (or IN it), surrounded by his friends of darkness, and reflect on the past year and the problems they’ve caused. Maybe use the time to vamp up for the New Year. I’m just sayin’…

Well, here’s what I have to say to you Mr. Opposition. You may have my body. You’ve done your best to get in the way of my carefully crafted holiday cheer! You’ve got my sore throat, crusty eyes, runny nose, cough and general intestinal discomfort. But you’ll NEVER have my mind. No sir!

I will rise above your reign of terror and sing Christmas songs even though it makes my head hurt and my throat feel scabby. I will revel in opening gifts from my loved ones. I will set aside a bowl of goodies for when I can taste again.

And last, but not least, I will spike the eggnog with Sudafed and drink until the pain goes away.

Hmm... maybe this whole virus thing wasn’t so bad after all. I’ll let you know when the drugs wear off…..

Stranger Danger

A few weeks ago a friend of mine made a post on Facebook about this subject. It got me to thinking.

So, today I am offering this public service announcement to all you concerned and dedicated parents out there.

The subject: Stranger Danger

Whatever happened to the good old days of teaching our kids about avoiding strangers? Everywhere I go lately there are children attempting to engage me in some sort of interaction. At the grocery store, at the restaurant, in church – no place is safe!

Why is this happening? I barely have the energy, time - and frankly sometimes the desire - to interact with my own children. Heck, I’m thrilled with myself when I work up the energy to give a high-five or a hug to my nieces and nephew. So why, oh why, oh why do random people’s kids keep expecting something out of me?
I will give those little soldiers snaps for dedication to their cause. They will attempt to catch my eye from all sorts of angles. Over their mom’s shoulder, under her arm, around her legs… they are relentless. They cover their eyes to start a game of peek-a-boo. They wink. They smile. They wave.

Frankly, it makes me sick. Why aren’t parents telling their kids that I’m dangerous?

Is it because I have boogers on my shoulder? Is it because they can tell I haven’t washed my hair since last January? Is it the bags under my eyes, the smeared mascara or the sweat stains that make me look non-threatening?

What part of my demeanor invites children and tells them I want to play?

Sure, my entire essence screams “Mom”, when what I’m trying to go for is “NOT INTERESTED”! Trust me, kid, when I tell you that the look of desperation in my eye is not loneliness!

So please people. I'm not out to hurt your children’s feelings. But I do not have the energy to sustain that full minute of interacting with your child while you are busy ignoring them. I have my own children to ignore… and it’s taking all my time.

Let’s all go back to a simpler time. A time when kids were afraid of strangers and pressed their terrified faces against their mother’s leg rather than make eye contact. A time when I could stare mindlessly at trashy gossip magazines in the check-out line rather than play mental hide-n-seek with The Peek-A-Boo Kid.

Thank you!

P.S. I am aware that by posting this I have firmly placed one of my feet in that oft mentioned “hand basket” to warmer places. I’ll miss you all.

P.P.S. I'm only about 87.3% serious.

Ride 'Em Cowboy!

The story you are about to read is not a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living, or about to be dead, is intentional. Oh – and it’s long.
Back a few weeks ago when this Christmas season was still brimming with hope, peace and love, our little family set about putting up our tree. It was a small snippet of time worthy of a Hallmark movie as we told the girls where each ornament came from and its story in our life. (Every year we get an ornament that represents something significant that happened to our family that year).

Several of the special ornaments are heirloom ornaments that my Grandma Campbell has made for each of her grandkids – and now great-grands – every year for as long as I can remember. They are beautiful ceramic ornaments. I treasure them. This, of course, means that they were going nowhere near our tree this year because we have an 18 month old boy in our house. I told Steve to box them back up and we’d save them for next year.

While we were hanging ornaments we mentioned how we used to get “real” trees from a tree lot every year and how good they smelled etc. Our girls thought we were lying.

Now, despite what you may think about me, I don’t brazenly lie to my children on a regular basis. In fact, the majority of my little white lies are for their benefit (ie. my previously mentioned Santa lie). So, I have no idea why they automatically thought we were making this up.

After some attempts at convincing them, Steve and I realized that we’d done a disservice to our children by never taking them tree shopping, so we decided we’d get a small “real” tree for the window seat in our living room this year. Bonus: We could hang my heirloom ornaments on that tree because no people under 4 ft. tall are allowed in there. Excellent!

This past week we finally went and purchased the tree. Now I’m remembering why we have a fake. First off, it’s frigid while you’re walking around looking at trees that remind me of Charlie Brown but cost more than a new Lexus. Joel was playing the role of Harrison Ford in “The Fugitive” and our girls weren’t nearly as smitten with the tree lot as I felt they should be. (Or, maybe their faces were just frozen in that expression.)

Two stops later we found a 3 ft tree, strapped it to the roof and came home. We quickly had it decorated and propped up in the window seat. It was a beauty and the kids were happy. See photo:




A few days later I foolishly allowed Cadence and Joel into the living room. Okay, really I was feeling bad for our fair-weather chihuahua and let him in to sit in the sunlight streaming through the window. The other two rabble-rousers just followed like sheep.

I was sitting at the kitchen table addressing holiday cards while they waited for Eliana to get home from school.

Then… IT happened. I heard a huge crash.

I ran all 4 feet into the living room, arriving breathless, and found the tree lying in the middle of the room with Joel lying on top of it, water running off the window seat like a Hawaiian waterfall and the ornaments flung all about the room.

I looked at Cadence and she said, “Holy Cow Mama!”

I looked at Joel and he immediately jumped up, started crying and ran to Cadence for comfort. That’s right… I did all that with just a look!

I shooed the children out of the room and shut the door before giving myself a time-out.

(Side note: When I shared this story with my mother she asked if I’d checked to see if Joel was alright. Grandmother-hood has really turned her into a softie! Of course he was fine; he was able to jump up and run to Cadence for protection.)

Later, when I was able to transform from Mom-Hulk back into Mom, I asked Cadence what had happened. She said Joel had climbed into the window seat, squeezed himself between the tree and the window and pushed. Then he rode it down like a bucking bronco.




I’m guessing the ride wasn’t exactly what he was expecting.

You have to understand that this is no normal window seat. It’s a good 2.5 feet off the floor. He had to have pretty much scaled the wall to get up there. And while I do give him snaps for his Spiderman skills, and his miraculous ability to fling ceramic heirloom ornaments 10 feet without breaking any, I found myself just this side of going postal.

I did manage to clean it up and then told my wee-peeps not to tell Daddy Bear about it. He’s stressed enough without hearing about EVERYTHING that happens here when he’s not around.

Too bad I can't keep a secret from him and a few days later I mentioned it. He already knew. I don’t know how he could have known!

Was it the fact that I wasn’t able to get the tree to sit straight in the tree stand after the incident? Perhaps it was that the décor was in a totally different location than before? Or maybe he noticed that something fishy was going down when he walked near the tree and stepped on swampy carpet?


All I know is that later that night as the glow from the tree lights filled the living room, and Joel was in bed, I felt like it would probably all be okay. Someday when he’s a world champion bull rider, Steve and I will look at each other and smile.


Ride 'Em Cowboy!

The Truth about Babies and Pups

Take a look at these two pictures:







You see before you the most blatant case of false advertising ever known to man.

Life experience should warn us that anything coming in such a cute package can be nothing but trouble. (Am I the only one who saw the movie Gremlins?) And yet, we succumb and find ourselves making a place for these wee balls of destruction inside our homes.

Why?

Well, for one thing, we are blinded by their cute little faces. When you see a baby or a puppy you immediately begin imagining the bliss that will be yours upon securing one. You smile to yourself as you think about rocking that sweet baby, kissing its cheeks and holding it close. How it will love and honor you and spend its growing years serving you with love. You imagine the playful and charming antics of your puppy… visions of long sunset walks and snuggly evenings by the fire while your champion k-9 sits close by eagerly anticipating your next command.

Pa-lease! Is there anyone out there who that’s actually panned out for? (Probably, but for the purposes of my rant, we’ll assume the answer is a resounding NO!)

Directly upon bringing home your young pride and joy you will see just how wrong you were. Yes, you’re rocking that sweet baby and holding it close… but its 1:00 a.m. and you’ve been doing it since 7:00 p.m. The magic is gone. Oh, and oops, you were holding it close enough to get projectile poo/vomit on yourself. How blissful.

As you walk down the hall to clean up you see that your fluffy puppy has done the same damage on the carpet, and oh shucks, you’ve stepped in it.

Then you’ll say to yourself, “How did a nice girl like me end up here?”, “I’ve been lied to! This isn’t how it was supposed to go!” or "Why hasn't medicinal pot been legalized?"

Why don’t we learn? Why do we keep having more babies and bringing home more balls of fur?

Because, after all those sleepless nights, dry-cleaning bills, doctor and vet bills, transforming yourself into a human napkin and giving yourself time-outs you realize something....





Life was pretty dull before them.

Let it Snow... Let it S....NOOOOOO!!!!!!

What do you do when your desires and the desires of your children are in direct conflict? I’m not talking about making beds, eating your veggies or putting your panties on the right way – heck, WEARING panties at all! I’m talking about snow.

My girls have been complaining about the lack of snow for the past few days. How can it really be Christmas-time if there’s no snow?

I personally don’t see the problem. I think if it snowed on Christmas Eve and melted on Boxing Day we’d all be just fine. I also think the song “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” could only have been written by someone making movies in Hollywood, because they don’t get snow very often and they still consider it magical.

I find that I’m forced to lie to my children a lot more often than I should be comfortable with. I mean, every parent lies. Don’t pretend you don’t! Santa is the perfect example. I don’t care how you look at it… it’s a blatant untruth. Yes, there is historical accuracy in the story of St. Nicholas. But he wasn’t a chubby, red-suit-wearing, reindeer-driving, list-making old man. According to A Veggie Tales Christmas he lived in Greece. I’m calling “bunk” on that, but that’s just going with my gut.

Back to the subject at hand: Snow.

I’m getting too old for the white fluffy killer of warmth. When it began snowing yesterday my kids (and my DAD!!) were all excited. We were helping set up my parent’s Christmas tree when the snow began. My Dad says, “Oh good, it’s snowing. I’m going outside to put up the lights.” I looked at my mom for confirmation that my ears hadn’t abandoned functioning and she said, “He likes to put them up when it’s snowing. It’s more festive.”

Or crazy!

My girls trotted outside to join in the gaiety. I stayed inside and thought about starting up a space heater.

Later that day my girls went on and on about how excited they were for the snow. Once upon a time I felt that way too. Back when it wasn’t my job to shovel the drive-way, or mop up the snow drippings in the kitchen. Back when falling on the icy pavement didn’t hurt so bad. Back in the good old days of bladder control, when I could sled for hours without having to pee.

But, as Eliana made a snow-ball and launched it at my face (missing by at least a mile!) I momentarily saw the delight written on hers. Cadence was laughing while she threw snow in the air and even Joel was laughing from his vantage point on my hip as he reached his chubby hands out to catch flakes on them.

And when Eliana turned to me and said, “Isn’t this great Mom!” I was forced to lie. “Yep. It’s awesome.”

And reindeer can fly!

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far...

Something happened at our house this week that I’ve debated blogging about. Really, I have! While I find the situation somewhat humorous, the others involved aren’t laughing and there’s always the risk that they’ll stumble upon my blog and be offended. But, here goes anyhow...

Disclaimer: This didn't make me feel much like being "funny"... so if it's laughter you want, you'd best scroll down to another post ;)

This week Eliana got officially dumped by her school walking group. She’ll still carpool with them when she goes in the afternoon, but is left to her own devices for getting home.

At first I was mad at Els. She was running ahead of the group, not waiting, and basically being a pain. But, thanks to a good friend of mine, I realized that I have no right to squish her sense of freedom and the happiness she gets from skipping home every day. Pretty soon she’ll grow up and the world will take that spring out of her step. For now, it’s my job to keep it there.

Eliana expressed to me how it’s just too hard to stand by the tree and wait for everyone when she’s got the wiggles bad and just wants to run home and tell me about her day. (For the record... the school is like 3 whole blocks away from our home.)

This got me thinking about me as a child. How would I have felt? Well, sorry world, but I’d have ditched ‘em too.

When I was about Eliana’s age, my family was on vacation at my grandparent’s home in Arizona. All the cousins were outside climbing rocks and I said a bad word (“shutup”).

An uncle was summoned and he came outside and told me that his kids weren’t allowed to say that word and asked me to stop. He went back inside and I promptly said it again.

Uncle was summoned back. I sat in my power position at the top of a tall rock while he again told me not to say that word. I was quiet for a moment while he gave me a stern look.

Then I said, to his face, “Shut up”.

He was mad. He started telling me to get down off the rock, that he was taking me to my parents. I sat on the rock and repeatedly said, “Shut up, shut up, shut up….”

He finally went in and got my Dad. They came out and my Dad sat there looking up at me while my Uncle shared with him my little moment of rebellious behavior. What did my Dad do?

He asked me to get down and I obeyed. After all, this was actually MY dad, and so he had a right to boss me. At first, he didn’t say anything to me as he held my hand and walked me back to the house. But when we were out of earshot of Uncle and cousin’s, he said something like this: “Uncle asked you not to say shut up, and you should obey him because he’s an adult. But… as far as I’m concerned…I don’t care if you say it or not.”

It was awesome. My dad had my back!

And my parents have always had my back. They gave me a lot of freedom to just be me. Yes, I had to obey certain rules and wasn’t given total freedom. But, I was allowed to question things and find my own way.

So, my sweet Eliana - you go ahead and skip! You run until your lungs burn and you get charlie horses in both your legs. Because you’re only 6 years-old once. It's an exciting time as you’re just discovering how the world works.

And one lesson I want you to learn is this:

Mama’s got your back!

My Grown-Up Christmas List

I love Christmas! My house is oozing Christmas. The stockings are literally hung by the fire. The tree is up. Christmas music is blaring from the radio and our front yard is filled with twinkling lights. Isn’t it grand!


As I was cleaning my house this morning, the song Grown-Up Christmas List by Amy Grant came on. I have to be honest here, while I appreciate what the song is trying to convey, it’s a bit cheesy. I do realize that I don’t represent the general public in that sentiment. Also, I have been accused of being dead inside on more than one occasion. Just sayin’….

But it did get me to thinking (a dangerous pastime I know!) about what I would put on my Christmas list now that I’m impersonating a grown-up. I don’t think Amy Grant would agree, but here it is:

1 – Aerosol Spray-On Diaper Rash Cream. I’m totally sick of using my finger to rub cream on my babies butts. Can someone please invent this!

2 – Drive-Up chocolate suppliers. Hersheys or Mars could set up shop here with a drive-up window where you just pull in, order and snag your bag of goodness as you zip along.

3 – Magic like Mary Poppins. I’ve always wished I could just make crap clean itself up with a snap of my finger! I’m even willing to sing if needed!

4 – A dog potty. This was my daughter’s idea and I like it. No more having to let the dog out, OR clean up his “stuff” if you forget. Flush and done.

5 – My own private jet. I’m not selfish… I’d share with family and friends!

6 – Winning the lottery. Hey, I’d pay tithing on it.

7 – A “Snooze” button for my kids.

8 – A private chef. Make it yummy AND low fat/low carb/latest trend. It would be so awesome!

9 – That my kids would be interested in quality programming rather than Dora the Explorer and other such mind numbing stuff. Or, at least have their TV show characters not have gratingly high voices! I’m not picky!

And finally…

10 – Magic cubes full of weapons like on Mario Kart. So when you’re driving and people are being dorks you can hit a cube, get a weapon and launch that sucker outta here.

I am realistic enough to know that none of these things will happen. But, that didn’t stop Amy Grant from writing her sappy song about things that will ALSO never really happen. After all, she knew what we all know deep down… if a girl can’t have hope, she’s got nothing.