Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Let's just start off by saying that some of our holiday traditions are weird. Or, at least, counter to what we do or say for the rest of the year. Take Thanksgiving, for example. We teach not to waste, not to be a glutton, to think of how much we have compared to people in, say, third world countries. And then we gorge ourselves until we can barely move.

Halloween. We teach our kids not to take candy from or talk to strangers. And then we tell them to knock on doors and TAKE CANDY FROM STRANGERS.

Christmas. Don't talk to strangers. Certainly don't climb up on the lap of a strange man. "Hey, kids, come here and talk to this stranger. And get on his lap. And then ask him to break into your house at night. While we all sleep." We are a weird bunch of Americans, y'all.

Anyway, all that recognition aside, we do the Santa thing in our house. Not as a focal point. We most definitely teach the real meaning of Christmas. Santa is a fun bonus tradition for us. Of course the older two no longer believe in Santa. Thank goodness. I mean, I'm not judging kids who believe in Santa until they're ten, I just find it weird. I was six. My kids were both pretty young. Still, we've taken pictures with Santa every year.

Last year, Garrett DID NOT WANT TO VISIT SANTA. We forced him to because we wanted just one picture of our three boys with the bearded jolly gift giver. This year he begged us to let him abstain. Matthew also begged us to let him forego a visit with Santa. We begged him to please please please participate because Will is a hater of strange men and also facial hair. He obliged. He's a good egg like that.

YOU GUYS! We were ten feet away from Santa. He stood up, kindly said, "Hi kids!" and my youngest son managed to usher in the apocalypse all by his little 17 month old self. Still in my arms, he started violently shaking and sobbing. Not once did I even so much as attempt to put him on Santa's lap or give him to Santa in any way. And still, copious amounts of hysterics. 

There was not a single other child in line and Santa and his good little elves kindly tried to get my son to take JUST ONE GOOD PICTURE. Will was perfectly happy to take candy canes straight out of Santa's hands but he would not smile AT ALL. In the following picture, I am standing exactly 18 inches from Will and he is in the lap of his most beloved Matthew and still, he thinks he has been assigned the tragic fate of living the rest of his life at the North Pole in the sweat shop sometimes referred to as Santa's workshop.

"Why don't you get in the picture, Mom?" Santa suggested. Because Mom did not even do her hair before she left the house. She ran a comb through it and called it good. But oh alright. What's that, Will? If you eat a candy cane and sit in my lap you will at least stop whimpering? Ok. Deal.

That lasted all of ten seconds before he launched himself off my lap and watched from a safe distance while Matthew sat with Santa, dramatically said, "Look Will, I LOVE Santa," and hugged him.

And then. AND THEN. While I was paying for my gold plated pictures, the photographer caught this. Yes, my toddler DOES take candy from strangers. Great.

Seriously though. If you're looking for a very patient Santa and very kind "elves" you should head over to Valley Fair Mall. I can't vouch for them when it's crazy busy but today they were amazing. Santa even told me that my kids were the best behaved of the day. Since one of mine cried almost the entire time, I continue to be very afraid of the direction our society is going.

Matthew asked Santa for an air soft gun. Santa seemed surprised. I thought, at first, that he was silently judging me for letting my kid ask for a toy gun. The more I think about it though, the more I wonder if he was surprised that what my son asked for can be purchased for under $30. I'm guessing a lot of kids ask for an electronic version of the moon.

Oh well, who am I to judge? I tortured my kid with a bearded fat guy today.

It Is Well

My husband informed me last night that, just maybe, I should think about blogging again. On account of the fact that it's been more than a week.

Since I last blogged we:

-Legally adopted Will
-Had Christmas Eve
-Celebrated Christmas
-Celebrated Post Christmas with my parents once they arrived on the 26th

It's been a busy week.

Our Christmas was such a sweet time celebrating the birth of our Savior. It was especially wonderful because we held our boy tight--knowing he's here permanently and forever. There was really never a question with this one. Once his parents signed on the line in June, it was smooth sailing. It's just that, with everything that has gone on in the past for us, there was always the nagging pull in the back of my mind that something might possibly go horribly wrong.

It didn't.

On December 21, we gathered with close friends at the courthouse downtown. Our judge who was seriously the Doogie Howser of judges, was so nice. I didn't feel like she could possibly be a day older than me. But then I looked her up online because I'm weird and stalky like that and she graduated from the University of Utah in 1995. So, unless she is actually Doogie Howser, she's roughly eight years older than me. But, really, still. It's not like I'm going to be a judge in eight years. It was pretty much my life goal to be a mommy though so I AM TOTALLY ACHIEVING IT ALL, Y'ALL.

Diapers. Report cards. Teaching kids how to swim and how to read and how to do long division. It's all happening!

She was just great though and, in my stalking, I discovered that she practiced law in New York for awhile. I feel like, in a parallel world where she wasn't the judge and I wasn't nervous and tripping over my words, we could have been good friends.

In the end, my child spit up all over his collared white (because what was I thinking) shirt, she declared us fit to parent forever, we posed for a picture, and the rest is history.

I love this family. We're quirky and silly and we deal with some real life stuff just like everyone else. But, at the end of the day, there isn't anyone I'd rather wake up to or come home to or live day in and out with. These are my guys. All four of them.

If I was like a princess, I would feel very safe in their arms. Turns out, I'm nothing like a princess. I'm a boymom though and through. Snips, snails, puppy dog tails, mud and muck. Those are the things God has blessed me with. Still, I feel very safe and very loved in the middle of them.

One night, just after Will's adoption was finalized and just before Christmas, Troy and I sat on our couch and stared at the twinkling lights on our tree. Our three boys were asleep upstairs and I was snuggled in my guy's arms. We worship the One. We have amazing friends and family who love us. We're teaching our boys to adore the Savior of the world, come as a tiny babe. These are the things that matter.

It is well with my soul. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

The Reason

We took our children to see Santa. None of them believe in Santa Claus. Garrett and Matthew are too old for that these days and Will doesn't believe in much of anything yet. He believes that I'll feed him. Although, with the way he sometimes screams like a banshee for his next bottle, I'm not even sure he has complete faith in my follow through. One day, I assume his eyes will light up with the magical fairy tale of Santa Claus but, at the moment, we have no believers.

We had to twist Garrett's arm to sit on Santa's lap "one last time" because we wanted just one picture with all three boys together with him. When we got there, Santa was on his break. We waited forEVER. Will very nearly had an exhausted meltdown at the last moment but he rallied and we got this adorable picture which we paid way too much for.

This isn't a post about visiting Santa though.

I have something important to say.

We have never spent more than $100 dollars on each of our children for Christmas. I am not saying that so that you will feel sorry for them and think we're the poorest of the poor. I am not saying it because I want any kind of sympathy. Nor am I saying it to try to make anyone who spends less than that feel like I'm bragging. That is what we choose to spend. More or less. (Usually less.)

We taught our children from the moment they started believing in Santa that he would bring them ONE parent approved gift. Generally, we've limited this gift to roughly $20 or less. Christmas is a wonderful time of gift giving and receiving. It's magical and there are sparkly lights and pine trees erected inside our homes. Our favorite decorations come out and remind of us Christmases long, long ago. We sip hot cocoa and eat cookies. In our family, we focus on the Christ child, come to set us free. We teach our children that Christmas is in the manger, not in the packages under the tree.

Receiving gifts is a fun tradition. Receiving the Savior is a matter of life or death.

Yesterday, when we were just a few minutes away from meeting Santa, Garrett turned to me, his eyes WIDE as saucers. "What?" I exclaimed because, clearly, something was wrong.

"Did you hear what she's asking Santa for?" he whispered the sentence in one long exhale of air.

There was a girl, probably somewhere between my boys in age, standing just a few feet away with who I assume to be her father. I shook my head from side to side, I hadn't heard. He pulled me down closer to him and whispered, "She wants a hatchimal, an iPad, and a phone!" he paused. "She wants all that. SHE IS ASKING HIM FOR ALL THAT!"

When the boys were in preschool, I realized this was going to be an issue. I stood around and listened as parents told other parents what the red-suited man was bringing their children. I did mental math and gave up when I'd estimated the loot to be well over $500. FOR PRESCHOOLERS! I was getting my kid a couple of toys and some clothes. Long ago, we explained to our children that some kids receive a lot from Santa Claus but that the parents have to approve it all. We told them that we only wanted them getting something small. So as not to ruin what Christmas is all about. They understood and this has been our policy ever since.

"What is a hatchimal?" I asked. He gave me a look that shouted, "HEY, MOM, YOU'RE MISSING THE POINT!" What I was impressed with, in my ten-year-old who doesn't believe that Santa brings anything, was that he seemed not jealous but appalled. There was real concern in his eyes that someone would even dare to ask for ONE of those things, let alone all three.

"It's a thing. It...hatches. It's...well it's really expensive."

He wasn't joking. I searched Amazon. The cheapest one I can find is $150. It's true that it hatches. Once hatched, you can teach it to walk, talk, dance, and play games. Alright, but, for that price, I'd also better be able to teach it to do the dishes, fold the laundry, and change diapers. 

I have no idea if "Santa" is going to bring all of her requests but I'm willing to bet she also has stuff coming from mom and dad and grandparents. Perhaps even aunts and uncles. Maybe she knows the true meaning of Christmas and maybe she doesn't. She certainly knows the true meaning of consumerism. 

I know it sounds like I'm judging because...I am.

I'm judging a society that teaches children that asking for all three of those things isn't pure madness.

I think I was born in the wrong decade. Maybe I'm some kind of old school mom in a new school mom body. I don't know. What I know is that it made me sad. It isn't that we can't afford to spend more than $100. It's that I don't want to. I want them to understand that the stuff will break. The gifts will long go forgotten. 

What we remember about Christmas is the ham at Grandma and Grandpa's house, the way the family laughed when great grandma said she wanted some of every kind of dessert ("A little of each," she'd say.), the way the tinsel shined on Grandma's tree. We remember the roast and potatoes at the other grandparents house, the way their mobile home lit up with just the lights from their table top tree, the sound of my grandmother's laugh which still brings tears of joy to my eyes when I hear it ringing in my memory. We remember being five years old and moving the stuffed bear on the advent calendar. We remember daddy rolling sugar cookies and mommy tucking us in so that Santa could come. We remember Christmas Eve candle light services and carols. We remember Linus and what Christmas is really all about.

We remember Luke 2.

Teach your children to remember these things or, rather, their own versions of these things. Teach them that it is not about phones and iPads and hatchimals. Teach them to be thankful for what they get to give, not what they will receive.

Teach them about Jesus.

But, I mean, if someone knows about a hatchimal that DOES fold laundry, can you pass that info on to me? It's just that I could probably get on board with that.

Real Nativity

It seems that, whenever I have a baby, I get to thinking more about Mary's vital role in the Christmas story. And, okay, so it's not like I had a baby, in the literal sense of the word but, in the past, I have birthed a child. So, I've long been a serious critic of the traditional nativity scene.

I love them. I have many. They are among my most cherished Christmas decorations. But they are ridiculous.

Chosen One straight up just gave birth to a baby in a cave. Or a barn. Or a stable. In any case, it was NOT a hospital bed with doctors and nurses all around. It was not her home with her mother and trusted women of the village.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that there was probably a considerable amount of animal feces. There was straw--hopefully some of it was still clean. There was blood and, after the baby, came the rest, the part that horrifies the husbands in the delivery room because, they were totally expecting that baby but, they maybe weren't so knowledgeable about the afterbirth.

I'd like to think that someone wiser in the ways of labor and delivery came along to help Joseph out but the Bible doesn't mention her. Had there been a midwife or a villager, she would have been the first to lay eyes on the Savior and I think she would have warranted a Biblical mention. So I feel like it was maybe just Joe. I've heard of husbands delivering babies in cars or hallways and even the most stoic of them seem a little rattled.

So in a room of animal waste and blood and guts, a baby came into the world. My baby came into the world in a sterile hospital environment. I had every benefit of modern medicine and it still took me approximately thirty seconds of gingerly lowering myself into a sitting position just to perch on the end of a bed. I was certainly not kneeling on any floors, sitting on my feet. Yet, this is always how Mary is depicted. Crouched on her heels like giving birth took nothing out of her.

Yes. We're told that she placed him in a manger because there was no room in the inn. But I don't know any mothers who just put their baby in a bassinet and leave them there all night long. Certainly the manger contained him for a time but I'm willing to bet good money that Mary did a considerable amount of holding him. I think she also laid in a pile of hay--the cleanest Joseph could scoop into a heap. I suspect she looked tired, perhaps swollen, her tunic all in disarray and her head covering askew or, maybe even, folded beneath her for a pillow.

Joseph was, no doubt, overwhelmed. Exhausted. Concerned for his wife's well being and anxious about what the future held. Perhaps it was he who sat on his heels, staring at the baby while Mary slept, watching the rise and fall of his tiny chest.

I have no doubt that the shepherds found Mary and Joseph and the babe lying in the manger just as the Bible reports. I just think Mary looked haggard and was, at best, propped up in the corner of the stable. I think Joseph was welcoming but disheveled from his recent hands on experience with childbirth. I think the animals were slightly agitated, their home overtaken by first a screaming woman and then a crying baby.

I want to add a nativity to my collection, one in which Mary is lying down. Joseph is sitting beside her. The baby is sleeping. He is not glowing nor is he wearing a crown. The shepherds are there but the wise men are still two years away.

This, perhaps, is Christmas.

Frozen statues in the cold
Washed in moonlight, blue and gold
Mary's babe in plastic hay
Quiet wonder on her face
Mary you look so serene
Far too pretty, much to clean
We might think we know you well
But what stories would you tell?
Of all the dirt and dust and shame
Every burning labor pain

And as I turn to walk away
I hear you say
I am real
Don't turn me into memory or myth
Let me be real
And I'll show you what it means to love like this
To be real
-Nichole Nordeman

This is Christmas

I haven't had a chance to blog about Christmas because I've been trying to get this angel off my head for the last week.

She's actually now in my trash can because I've had her forever, there's a short in her system so she can't be plugged into the lights unless you want to hear a constant, "EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!" sound, and her dress is torn. That angel has seen better days, is what I'm saying. But I'm a sentimental sap so I had to march straight to the trash can and toss her in without any fanfare. Now those sanitation workers need to come to my house RIGHT QUICK and take her away before I fish her out.

The tree is also gone because WHOA FIRE HAZARD. I've never had a tree lose more pine needles than that one did. It's truly a wonder that our tree didn't catch fire and burn our house straight to the ground.

Christmas for us is always a slow, drawn out affair.

AND WE WOULDN'T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY. I read my friends' accounts of AWAKE at 6:00 and finished with presents by 8:30 and it makes me so sad. I mean, to each her own but y'all really should be jealous of how my family does it. Envious. Green eyed monster attacks.

We start the festivities with our candle light service at church on Christmas Eve. Truly, I love Christmas Eve so much more than Christmas day. On Christmas Eve, the magic of the day hasn't come. We wait in eager anticipation--for the celebration of the birth of our Lord, for the gifts, for the family togetherness.

When we get home from church, we sit with our boys and read the story of Christ's birth out of Luke 2. Then, we open presents from Troy's side of the family. After that, we get the boys in bed. One of my favorite holiday traditions comes just after the boys are nestled into their beds with visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads. Except not really because they don't know what sugar plums are. Come to think of it, I don't know that I know what sugar plums are. Ah well. Once they're in bed, Troy and I sit in the dark in the living room, with our eyes fixed on the tree. The house is quiet. The tree twinkles with lights. We sit together and talk in hushed voices. And sometimes we don't even talk at all. I know that's hard for you to believe but I promise it's so.

On Christmas morning we get up whenever the boys do. This year, Garrett woke up around 7:30 and Matthew stayed asleep for almost another hour. We started opening our stockings at about 8:45. It's lovely the way we delay gratification. Our boys, at just 7 and 4, love to draw every moment out of the day. We got good ones.

The boys get their gifts from Santa--a stocking and ONE gift. They are only allowed to ask Santa for ONE thing. Santa only brings ONE thing. This year, they wanted skateboards.

Once we finish our stockings--which takes about a half hour because we take turns and there is only ever one person opening a gift at a time--I make a big breakfast. The boys enjoy their Santa stuff while I cook. When we're finished with breakfast, Troy does the dishes. We get dressed.

This year, my parents arrived before we began round two of the morning. We helped them unload and then we all sat down and they watched us open our family gifts. Troy and I buy the boys a want, a need, a wear and a read. (As a general rule. Although this year they both got two "wears" and a stuffed toy as well.)

From us, Garrett received: A bathing suit for next summer and a pair of pajamas, a book, a stuffed Woodstock, a sled and a military tank toy.

Matthew received: A pair of pajamas, thick gloves, a book, a stuffed Charlie Brown, a sled and a Scooby Doo mystery mobile toy.

Again, we take turns. It generally takes almost an hour for us to do our family portion.

My parents came bearing gifts. But, in our DRAG IT OUT, MAN fashion, we had a light snack before opening the things they brought from California. (Like this adorable cop costume from my brother and sister-in-law because Matthew LOVES himself some dress up.)

                                                   

By the time we were finished, it was mid afternoon.

It's slow. And quiet. (I mean, as quiet as our house ever is which is the equivalent of NOT VERY QUIET.) There is no ripping and no shredding. There is not a lick of chaos. We try not to focus on the gimme gimme gimme aspect of Christmas.

We try to remember what it's really about. It's all about a Savior, in a manger, who came to die so that we might live. God, made flesh. The Word, who spoke the world into existence, humbling Himself, entering His own creation, to seek and save the lost.

This is Christmas.

Elf on Our Shelf

We have elves.

They do things like this...




And this...

                                   

Garrett's friend Brett* (of Bloody Mary fame) didn't have an elf so he did what any sensible first grader would do. He made one. Out of what, I have no earthly idea. Apparently, this elf possesses magical powers and moves around at night--just like Garrett's elf.

This prompted a hysterically funny conversation a couple of days ago in which Garrett declared, "Brett made his elf. I mean, he just made it. And it moves at night. I'm pretty sure it's just Brett's mom and dad moving it around while he's sleeping."

                                     

Hmmm. You don't say?

Meanwhile, he still believes, wholeheartedly, that his own elf moves all by himself.

You know, despite the fact that his hands are sown together and he has a rather large tag protruding from the back of his red felt unitard. 

*Still not his actual name.

Christmas is Coming

You wanna know who's excited about Christmas only being 16 days away?

These guys.

You know what was not exciting?

Picking out our tree.

Because it was freezing cold. So basically, we grabbed the nearest one in our price range and hoped that it looked good when we got it home.

You know what is also not exciting?

Shopping for my husband's stocking stuffers. It's my nemesis. EVERY. SINGLE. YEAR. The boys are easy. Dollar Tree or the dollar bins at Target is all it takes. I'm easy. Chapstick. A five dollar CD from Lifeway. Gum. Heck, even a lint roller will do.

But I lose sleep over Troy's on an annual basis.

You know what is exciting?

Nativities. Christmas lights. Baking cookies. Garrett planning a sleepover with his best friend. Elves moving around our house. Stockings hung on the mantle. Carol Sings and Bell Choirs. The smell of pine. And, of course, the first chapters of Luke.

Christmas 2012

Ahem. Let us just pretend that it's not already January 6 and I'm only now getting around to blogging about Christmas. Shall we? 

On the 23rd of December my boys looked like this. Just go ahead and lock up your daughters now because, in approximately 24 and 27 years, respectively, I'll allow them to start dating and, well, they clean up nice.

On Christmas Eve we had a church service. Snow was coming down like crazy so we left really early and went out to a late lunch right by the church. (More on that in another post.) After church that night, we headed home and ate some snacks. After we all got into comfy clothes and jammies, we read the Christmas story from Matthew.

Then it was present time.

On Christmas Eve we open the things from Troy's side of the family. This year we also decided to open the presents from my extended family. Garrett had been begging for Battleship for awhile. The cousin who drew his name in the exchange got it for him, along with a little Lego set. Before he opened it he said, "I think this box is my Battleship game!" He's getting pretty smart...

Matthew's jammies matched the season. He also might have been the absolute cutest that either boy has ever been at Christmas. He totally got it all and he was so excited and thankful for each and every gift. It was really adorable to watch.

Garrett borrowed our camera and snapped this shot. We tried to smile instead of yelling, "Be careful! Don't drop it! We can't replace it!" I think it turned out okay. I mean, we're missing rather vital parts of our heads but it's pretty good for a six-year-old.

We set out cookies and milk for Santa and reindeer food for his traveling companions. Troy braved the icy roads and crazy last minute shoppers to pick up batteries for one of the gifts the boys had received. I set to getting the kids in bed. I made the mistake of telling them that I received a text on my phone saying that Santa had been spotted in Colorado. Garrett freaked out because they weren't in bed yet. He dove under his covers and started to cry, "Mommy! Get in bed! Santa won't come if you're up. OH NO! DADDY IS STILL OUT THERE! CALL HIM NOW! SANTA WON'T COME MOMMY WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?" The hysteria reached such epic levels that I had to do something.

I looked at my phone. "Oh!" I said. "Sorry, Garrett. I read it wrong. Santa was spotted in Connecticut. We still have plenty of time." 

But he'd worked himself into a frenzy and suddenly his emotions were completely out of control. He started telling me that he was afraid of Santa because it is weird for someone to wander around his house in the dark and could he sleep in my room and would Santa come upstairs and spy on him while he was sleeping and oh the humanity? Eventually I got him calmed down enough to fall asleep. By the morning he was all fun and games and Santa Clause has been here and HOORAY!

We opened stockings and Santa presents in our pajamas. Then we had a big protein filled breakfast, got dressed and opened everything from each other.

The Little Buddy got a book about a monkey. Among other things.

The Rock Star got a rash guard for surf camp. He begged for this one day and I bought it while Troy distracted the kids. He'd tried on a few different ones and this one fit the very best. Even though he knows how to read, he said, "Is it the Rip Curl one?" I said no. He said, "Is it O'Neill?" I said no. "Well, then, what is it?" he asked.

"Body Glove."

"Oh. The Body Glove rash guard. Okay. THANKS!"

Apparently my six-year-old is working hard on knowing the differences between his surf brands.

Troy found each boy a jersey on Ebay. Matthew received a super cheap jersey of the best Charger of all time. (Yah Tomlinson!)

Garrett decided awhile ago that Oregon State has the best mascot of any school of all time of ever. Because he loves beavers he has become obsessed with OSU. He was happy with his jersey which he put on over the top of his rash guard. He then sported Rash Guard Jersey for half the day.

Later in the day, we opened presents from my parents and half Skyped with them. We have no idea what was going on but my parents were able to see and hear us while we could only hear them.

We had a great day relaxing, not getting chickens, building Legos, and hanging out.

I made chicken*, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and cranberry sauce for dinner. We gathered around and gave thanks for the baby Jesus born to die.

*In the interest of full disclosure, it is important for me to state that Costco made my chicken. I merely reheated it. God bless Costco.

Final Elf Installment

Last Sunday, we had family leave just after church and more family arrive about two hours later. In those two hours we flew through the house cleaning the most important things. Like clumps of dog hair embedded in the carpet, a layer of dust settled on every shelf and table, and puddles of _____________*. I'm just keepin' it real. 

So, now that my brother, his wife, and their puppy are headed back to San Diego, I have time to share our final elf pictures.

One night, they were up to absolutely no good. This Winter Wonderland scene is courtesy of my husband who laid out the entire thing. This included a trip to Walmart because we didn't have any regular sized marshmallows.

 December 21

(For you, Missy. As requested.)

Our boys' bathroom is done in a Hawaii theme and we keep a spare roll of toilet paper in a sand bucket on the back of the toilet. You can probably imagine how much my son jumped when he groggily padded into the bathroom and started using the commode only to be met with his elf's staring eyes.

December 22

Garrett made an elf at school. Of course, his "real" elf, Finn, needed to hang out with his his craft elf "Penguin." Why "Penguin" you ask? I have no earthly idea. Matthew's elf decided to have some serious fun that night. He's riding Stinky the trash truck and if you think Stinky didn't start talking loudly while this scene was being set up, you'd be wrong. 

December 23

It was finally time for the elves last night with us. The boys woke up to them both reading the Christmas story out of Garrett's action Bible. I'm certainly glad that the elves know the true meaning of the holiday.

December 24

That's all until next year. Perhaps next year they will arrive on December 19th so as to spare us the agony of trying to find so many spots for them.

And. Now. Stop reading if you get squeamish around bodily fluids.

*Originally this read: Puddles of coagulated urine at the base of the toilet. But then my husband thought it was so nauseating that people would boycott this post, if not the blog altogether. So I decided to put it way down here. If you're still reading I sincerely hope you don't stop coming over here based solely on congealed liquid waste.

The Great Chicken Story of 2012--Part Two

***Continued***

That day, when Troy got home, I asked him if I could have my present. "I'm going just crazy!" I explained. He told me, in no uncertain terms, to stop asking and leave it alone.

"I got you a cow, anyway," he said.

Thinking this was my chance to manipulate the situation, I quickly lied, "You said it was chickens!"

He pulled his work shirt off and threw a t-shirt on, "Oh. Well, you know." But Garrett was standing in the room and his eyes grew round as saucers.

"Mommy!" he hissed. Then he climbed up onto the bed where I sat and whispered, "You can't tell Daddy what we talked about."

Holy heck. It's confirmed. My husband bought me chickens for Christmas and I just simply don't understand why.

On Christmas Eve, Troy came home from work. Garrett heard him in the garage and threw the door open. I was hot on Garrett's heals and Troy came lunging through the door at me. "Go upstairs!" he commanded. "Did you see? Did you see your present sitting in the middle of the garage just then?"

"No," I said because, truly, I hadn't. "Is it alive? Is it chickens? Are my chickens sitting in the middle of the garage right now?"

He herded me up the stairs. Several minutes later he came up.

"Are there living things wandering around my house right now?" I asked him. "I want my present now. I'm going crazy with all the not knowing."

"You cannot have your present right now. You will wait until tomorrow like everyone else."

We went to our Christmas Eve service. We came home and opened presents from Troy's side of the family. We went to bed. We got up. We opened stockings. We had a big breakfast. We got dressed. And all the while I was getting more and more anxious as I anticipated feigning excitement over being given the gift of poultry. We all opened all of our presents from each other. My last one was a tiny box, not fit for a chicken.

I opened it to find a note.

It directed me to another note. And another.

With each note I grew increasingly more anxious, expecting to find a feathery friend at the next turn. Eventually, I was directed to the bathroom in the basement. I opened the door and walked toward the shower. A knot twisted in the pit of my stomach. My beloved son had already given it away with his big eyes and his curled smile and his hushed whispers and subtle nods. I pulled back the curtain, prepared to meet my new pets for the very first time.

There, inside the shower, was my very own bicycle.

I'd mentioned months ago that I wanted one.

I sighed enormous relief. And then I told my husband all the details of that little weasel's lies. I told him of my interrogations. I told him of the information that Garrett had woven into his tapestry of deceit. I told him that I knew I was missing pieces because my mom had used the word "awesome" and Troy had been so proud when he'd returned from their adventure that I knew he thought it was a good gift. And how could he buy me chickens and be so wrong about something I would want for Christmas?

I think my husband fist bumped my son.

And then I asked him how, exactly, he could afford a bike since that alone would have exceeded our limit.

"Because!" Garrett squealed. "Someone has already been riding it!"

My husband got a steal on a barely used bike. So they had met someone (but not at Wheeler Farm) and they had made a business transaction (but not with someone they knew) and Troy had given Garrett only the roughest of scripts to use when his mother interrogated him because he knows me that well.

The fine, upstanding, Christian mama in me is really kind of worried about the fact that my kid can lie so convincingly that I was almost 100% sure I was getting chickens for Christmas. But, I have to admit, the performer in me is beaming with pride.

Well played, young son and his father. Well played.

The Great Chicken Story of 2012--Part One

My sister-in-law, brother-in-law, two nieces and nephew are skiing. Or snowboarding. The jury was still out when they left. Their third daughter is here, reading Twilight and playing with my boys. So I used Kaylie, the built in babysitter, as an opportunity to take down Christmas (insert frowny face) and balance my checkbook. Because "built in" and "babysitter" are two words we don't hear around here. Ever. And now, well, The Rock Star is running an errand with his daddy and The Little Buddy is supposed to be resting but is, instead, whispering loudly in his room about all manner of nonsense.

So, back on Thanksgiving Day, my husband took our oldest and also my father and went on a mysterious errand. Apparently it involved a Christmas present for me. Now, I do not like finding out what my Christmas presents are ahead of time because, while I can feign surprise well enough (my $80,000 Theatre degree bought me at least that much, I hope) I don't like doing it because it's one thing to be an actress and quite another thing altogether being a fake and a phony.

BUT.

In another life I'm a detective. Or maybe an interrogator. Because I can't stand not having all the information. So when they got home from this mysterious errand, I heard my mother whispering with my husband. The word "awesome" came up. I also heard, "So that was him on the phone?" I wasn't trying to overhear, honest I wasn't. I just did. And those two pieces of information were enough to make Another-Dimension-Detective-Lori go on high alert.

And so I did what any normal, rational person would do. I interrogated my husband who told me that he went to a farm and bought me a cow. I quizzed my mother who told me to, "just leave it alone!" I berated my son who stuck to the cow story.

I looked through the log on our phone, saw a number I didn't recognize and reverse googled it. That led to a dead end. I stopped short of calling that number and finding out more information because my prying has limits. I let a few weeks go by.

Then, not wanting to actually discover the secret but wanting, indeed, to gather more information to satisfy the investigative reporter inside, I tried a new approach with my son.

"Remember when you and daddy and Grandpa went to the farm? Was it Winder Farm or Wheeler Farm?" I asked him, nonchalantly, over lunch one day. I didn't really think they went to a farm and I was fully expecting Garrett, when caught off guard, to say as much. So, I'd randomly chosen the two farms in the area that Garrett is familiar with.

He wrinkled up his face. "I'm not allowed to tell you."

"Well," I said, suspicious, "I won't know what the gift is. Just tell me if it was Winder or Wheeler?" This went on for quite some time with him refusing to tell me and me continuing to ask.

Finally, he stammered, "Fine! It was Wheeler Farm!" Now I was really confused because, WAIT! WHAT? THERE WAS REALLY A FARM INVOLVED?

This led to me doing an extensive Internet search on what Wheeler Farm had going on during Thanksgiving. Nothing, it turns out, absolutely nothing. "Did you go anywhere else?" I asked Garrett.

"No."

"Did you meet someone there?"

"Yeees," he drawled slowly with a look on his face that said, My father is going to kill me and I'm planning to take you with me.

"Did you know the person?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Now stop asking me questions or I'll get in trouble."

So I let it go.

For that day.

I decided that they'd met someone in the parking lot at Wheeler Farm and made some sort of exchange. You know, Troy handed over some money, another person handed over some merchandise. But not, like, a drug deal, which is kind of how I just made it sound. I'd come to the end of my research.

Except that, two days before Christmas I went out of my mind crazy with wonder. And curiosity. And I HAVE TO KNOW RIGHT NOW WHAT KIND OF GOODS WERE EXCHANGED AT WHEELER FARM. Because I'm really a terrible, horrible person. Will the defendant please tell the court why she tried, extensively, to get her six-year-old to crack? Because she's a Terrible. And a Horrible. The end.

"Garrett, did daddy really buy me a cow?"

"Mommy, I CANNOT talk about it!" God bless that sweet child. I don't deserve him. I'm going to ruin him for sure. He's going to be on a couch someday and, before the doctor can even ask him what's wrong he's just going to blurt out, "My mother!" And he'll be right.

"Just tell me if it was a cow or not," I commanded, knowing full well that my husband did not buy me a cow.

"I can't tell you," he said, loyalty lying fully with his father.

"Was it a goat?" I asked. He glared at me.

"Chickens, then?"

And then the most terrible thing happened. His eyes widened quickly and then narrowed. His mouth twitched at the side. He was the metaphorical deer. I was the metaphorical headlight. "I can't...I'm not supposed to-- oh, mommy. Please don't tell daddy we talked about this."

I'd completely stumbled into my present. My boy had been cornered. With no where to go, his face told me the whole story. My husband had bought me chickens for Christmas.

"It's chickens?" And, ever so slightly, he nodded. "Why did you tell me?" I asked gently, feeling like the thirty feet of chicken poop that lies just beneath being the worst mother in the whole entire world from the lakes of Minnesota to the hills of Tennessee. Across the plains of Texas, from sea to shining sea, including, even, Asia, France, and most of Canada.

"Because," he said. "You wouldn't stop asking me." It was like a dagger to my Terrible and Horrible heart.

It was all so confusing. Was there a coop involved or were these things just going to wander my house? Did he actually buy me chickens or, like, a year supply of eggs? There had to be a logical explanation because I want chickens about as much as I want a root canal and you all know my fear of dental work.

Why? Why, on God's beautiful green (sometimes covered in freezing cold snow) earth had my husband bought me chickens? And how, exactly, was I supposed to act excited about it?

****To be continued****

In December?

Troy's sister and her family arrived today and are spending several days with us. The day they leave, my brother and sister-in-law will get in. I think we're going to have family at our house for the next nine days or so. I doubt I'll be posting much. Because, cousins and uncles and aunts, oh my.

Things I still need to post about include the final days of THE ELVES ARE WATCHING YOU SO KNOCK IT OFF. Also, CHRISTMAS! And don't let me forget to tell you about the GREAT CHICKEN STORY of 2012.

I'll get to it. In time.

For now, I leave you with two things. The first is a conversation overheard here in Doozleberrydom. (Wow, haven't used that moniker in awhile!) Several days ago we were sitting around. Well, I was standing around because my oldest child had decided that our cookies were not festive enough for Santa and so we had to bake more with FESTIVENESS and SPRINKLES! I was mixing and preheating and Garrett was sitting at the table drawing a picture.

"Mom?" he began. "I am trying to write 'Savior' and I already did the 'S' and the 'A' but I forget what letter says vuh." Now, mind you, he is reading these days and must have just had a temporary brain cramp because he totally knows the answer.

Matthew, who was busy bouncing to and fro with all the energy that I used to have didn't even pause or contemplate or think about it. He just looked at his brother and said, "It's the 'V.'"

And Garrett said, "Thanks, Matt!" The three-year-old helping out the six-year-old, gotta love it.

Also, completely unrelated, my husband bought me a requested brown jacket for Christmas. Well, the jacket was requested but not a specific one. I liked the one he picked out but it was slightly, ever so slightly, tight across my shoulder blades. I decided to exchange it for another one. He bought it at Target so I was anticipating a horrendous return line. I waited approximately thirty seconds. Score one for Target! I made the return and then went in search of another one.

The coats were on clearance. In the place of where they used to be hung rows and rows of swim suits.

People. This is Utah. This is December. It is currently snowing outside and the temperature is at least two degrees under miserable. I really feel like they're missing their market.

They had no brown jackets. Well, except one but it was U.G.L.Y. you ain't got no alibi ugly. (Uh. 80's flashback. Sorry.) Kohl's had very few (but they did have a ridiculously long return line). I decided to check Sears. I scored a brown coat--regularly $160 for A LOT LESS THAN ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY DOLLARS. It was, in fact, only barely more than my husband had spent at Target (and I'd since accumulated money from my grandparents so it all worked out brilliantly in the end).

Except that I started picturing myself in a bathing suit and now I want to throw out all of our leftover Christmas sweets. So, boo for that.

I Missed...

Last night I missed being there with...

Grandma's cookies.
Cousins' banter.
Brother's laugh.
Family dinner.
Aunts.
Uncles.
Grandparents.
Mom.
Dad.
Sister-in-law.

Last night I remembered...

Countless Christmas celebrations with extended family.
Grandma's cookies being passed around two or three tables strung together to fit us all.
Baby cousins--then toddler ones--then bigger ones.
Brother's laugh.
Growing up around aunts, uncles, grandparents.
Unwrapping presents by a long row of stockings and a tree covered in tinsel at Grandma's house.
Falling asleep in the car after a long day filled with the ones I love.

It's not always easy to live far away from the family you grew up with.

And sometimes it makes me sad to be the one that's missing.

Those Creatures

Our elves have been busy little guys. And, okay, so I have to give a huge shout out to my husband because he has been on the ball with these creatures. Many a night I have found myself sound asleep with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head before it ever crosses my mind to make sure the elves aren't found in the exact same spot they were occupying the day before. But Troy has stepped up to the plate and hit one out of the park on several occasions. He's totally our Elf MVP. 

The boys' room is decorated with a plane and helicopter theme. There are old helicopter instruments up on a shelf over their dresser. On this particular day, Garrett was getting something down and somehow hit something which made the elf take a face plant. He FUH-REE-KED out. Tears were spilling off his cheeks as he begged me to gently pick up the elf and return him to his spot. "Please, Finn! Don't disappear!" he chanted through tears while I stood Finn back up. Matthew's elf joined one of our nativity scenes as the fourth--and lesser known--wise man.

December 11

December 12

Apparently it got cold because one elf was found sleeping in the spoon rest, bundled up and the other was waiting for a cup of java to warm his chilled bones. (Or, rather, his plastic face and stuffed felt body.)

December 13

December 14

So, once upon a time, we had a white elephant gift exchange. One individual received a huge box of rejected Christmas decorations. Then, because she didn't want them, she left them at our house. We got rid of each and every one of them except the ceramic reindeer featured above. It's been glued back together in places and is kind of ugly as sin but we had a total Velveteen Rabbit meets Woody from Toy Story moment with him and couldn't bear to throw him out. Every year I consider getting rid of him and every year I can't bring myself to do it. I don't know who he belonged to before or how many owners he's had, but he's ours now.

December 15

My Grandma made the penguin and skiing Santa in the above picture--along with many of my other decorations and probably a quarter of my Christmas ornaments. I always miss my Grandma most at Christmastime. As I unwrap the things she crafted and look at the initials BB carved into each one, I can almost hear her laugh ring out and I wish I was small enough--and that she was alive enough-- for me to crawl up onto her lap and eat string cheese. It might be why I keep a steady flow of string cheese in my own refrigerator despite the fact that it is not cheap.

December 16

December 17

December 18

I hang our Christmas cards up on a long piece of twine every year and, one day, the elf had clipped himself up with them. When we got the cards in the mail that day, I stood to attach them. "HE'S GONNA FALL! DON'T DO THAT RIGHT NOW! GET DOWN!" came a panicked voice from the other room. Good grief. I think a certain six-year-old is taking this way too seriously. I wanted to have all the fun in the world with him this year because I was pretty sure this would be the last year he believed in Santa but then my friend informed me that she didn't figure it out until she was twelve. TWELVE, people! As in ONE YEAR OLDER THAN ELEVEN. AS IN SIX YEARS FROM NOW. AS IN I tell you what, I am not going to have my kid freaking out every time I get within three feet of these things for another six years.

December 19

So. Last night the elves (or at least one of them) toilet papered our Christmas tree after I'd fallen asleep. I drove past my window today when I took Garrett to school and, oh my, we look like the town crazy people who used bathroom tissue instead of garland on our tree. But man, the boys sure thought it was the funniest thing they'd done yet.

December 20

Four days left.

AND COUNTING.

Unless the Mayans were right. I think I speak for Elf on the Shelf mothers everywhere when I say that it wouldn't be the worst thing if the world ended and we could stop moving elves.

Except, who I am kidding, Troy has single handedly kept this entire operation alive.

Boy Bash

On Friday night, we threw a Boys' Christmas Bash and filled our home with the laughter and rowdiness of seven boys. And it was supposed to be nine but a couple of them had to cancel at the last minute and it was probably for the better because HAVE MERCY THE NOISE LEVEL with just the seven.

If I had seven boys ranging between the ages of three and a half and seven, I might have to live in an asylum and just come home at night to make them dinner. Also, I would refuse to clean toilets ever again. The end.

We had a total blast, though. And it was kind of magical to celebrate the joy of children on a day that was just so very tragic.

As the boys arrived, I had Shrek the Halls playing to keep them occupied while we waited for the others. After that Troy was in charge of a couple of games. He brought home this green PVC pipe thing from church which kind of resembles a Christmas tree and they did a ring toss. They also played "Rudolph's Nose" which was nothing more than "Hot Potato" using a big red ball instead of a potato.

When the games were over it was time to have milk and cookies. And blueberry flavored candy canes. My brain temporarily shut down when I decorated the table and included the candy canes. I thought they would just take them home and enjoy them later. Because I forgot three things. SUGAR. BOYS. SIX-YEAR-OLDS. (Well, one seven, two six, two five, one four and one three but still.) So some of the boys got the brilliant idea to add their blueberry candy canes to their milk. Most of these children did not end up drinking the milk and I can't say that I really blame them.

I had a recipe for "Melted Snowmen" which was warm milk mixed with a little sugar and a splash of vanilla. Then the cup is topped with whipped cream, chocolate chips and a candy corn snowman nose. They were impossible to photograph because the solid pieces almost immediately began sinking into the bottom of the cup. But they were cute for approximately 2.1 seconds.

After the refreshments sugar high we had them make a craft which I got last year at the after Christmas sale. It was just a foam wreath that they stuck penguins, baubles, bows and snowflakes on. They made very cute ornaments and I wrote their names and the year on the back.

After that was my favorite part...

I stole this idea from Kelle Hampton and tried to put my own spin on it. We made reindeer food because, the way I see it, the reindeer are the ones doing the real workout on Christmas Eve. I mean, sure, Santa has to get his big belly up and down everyone's chimney but he gets rewarded with cookies at every single house. The reindeer get nothing. So each boy had a wooden box with a ziploc baggie inside. They could choose all sorts of combinations of items to create their own reindeer food. 

We had marshmallows, peanuts, oats, shredded coconut, raisins, Cheerios and a secret ingredient. Each item helps the reindeer in some way. Even the marshmallows provide a much needed sugar high when the night gets long. There was a note for Santa included in each bag asking him to kindly take the reindeer a treat. The boys seemed to really like this part and it was so fun watching them invent their very own blends.

I finished off the night by reading them 'Twas the Night Before Christmas and asking them what they would like for Christmas this year. Before they left, we made sure to snap a picture.

I volunteered in Garrett's class on Monday morning and one of his buddies came up to me. "I loved that party. Will you please do one for Halloween?"

"Um...maybe," I replied.

"Okay! Yay! And also for Easter."

So apparently the party was a hit.

Stocking Stuffers

I just received an email in my inbox from Hale Centre Theatre. And, first, kudos to them for spelling theatre the correct way. Second, I've seen a show there. It was good. And it was Into the Woods so...double kudos for making Into the Woods good. I didn't actually want to leave at intermission or gouge out my eyes. I totally just cracked myself up there for a second because it was only after I'd written that sentence that I remembered that, in the show, the stepsisters are blinded by pigeons.

So, in my email was an advertisement. The title of the email was "Perfect stocking stuffers from HCT!" and, I'll admit, I was super intrigued. Stocking stuffers from a theatre? What are these stuffers and, yes please. I'll stuff my own stocking if I can fill it with theatre merchandise. I opened the email to find several images. On my screen they were all stuck together nicely but it doesn't work out so well here. Still, I think you can get the idea.

It begins with, "Stuff their stockings with year-round cheer," so, at this point, I was still pretty excited. What are they offering? Key chains? Shirts from past shows that they have a surplus of and are currently collecting dust in the dressing rooms? Signed programs?

      

"The perfect stocking stuffer. Gift certificates from Hale Centre Theatre are good for single show tickets and concessions at the theatre." Okay. Hold the curtain. Because I was under the impression that everyone got lip balm and lint rollers in their stockings. Side note: When Troy and I got married, I thought that duct tape and zip ties were great stocking stuffers. He thought that DVDs and CDs and books were great stocking stuffers. Needless to say, my stocking rocked that year and his, well, did not. It's because his family opens all their Christmas presents on Christmas Eve and the only thing left on Christmas morning is the stocking so it has to be kind of good. My family opens nearly all of ours on Christmas morning and the stocking is like an appetizer to the five-course meal that's still to come. We've met a stocking compromise that works well for all involved. STILL. Even that very first year when I opened music and books and he opened a bungee cord and chapstick, I did NOT open a gift card to see a show. What people are these that put shows in stockings? I tell you what. If I was getting theatre tickets for Christmas, they would be the very last thing I opened. The end all. The big shebang. And our Christmas budget is such that that would be all I got--except for the stocking which, quite certainly, would consist of a Sobe drink, a new toothbrush, and maybe a chocolate Santa.

I'm trying to imagine what kind of budget we would have to have for me to find show tickets in my stocking. What else would I get after that? Diamonds? A new car? The deed to a theatre on Broadway?

I'm glad there are some people who have the means to throw tickets into a glorified sock--I just can't believe that the good folks at the Hale Centre would think this is the norm.

So. No. The theatre isn't selling key chains or t-shirts or socks with show quotes (although that would be cool and I would so buy those). They're just selling gift cards and tickets, like they always do, and expecting rich people to remember that they haven't purchased their $75 stocking stuffers yet.