Two Weeks of Christmas Memories: Episode Five, Kinda

It's strange that the 2008 Children's Christmas Musical is now but a memory.

Last night, three months of rehearsals came together as eleven kids and two adults performed to a pretty packed house. It's the first time I can ever remember not being extremely burned out by the time it was all over. This was the sixth year that I have spent my fall season wrangling kids, settling spats, and kissing boo-boos all in the name of theatre. There were minor mistakes and subtle hiccups but, all in all, I think it went very well. During the course of the last few months, Mean Raised Voice Lori had to come out a few times but I think that Logical and Generally Pretty Nice Lori visited often enough that the kids had a good time. Either that or they are faking these smiles...

They are actors though. You never can tell with their kind.

When we lived in Ramona I would shout choruses of Amens, Praises and Glories when the kid's play was over for the year but I loved and adored nearly all of the kids I worked with. When we decided to trade the sunny San Diego winters for Blizzardville I was devastated about leaving some of the kids I'd grown to love seeing at auditions every September. Never, never, would I love a cast of characters as much as I loved my Mountain View kids.

Do you see those smiles in the picture? I loved directing those grins. Oh, I miss my Mountain View kids like I miss good Mexican food but those kids in the picture make the homesickness downgrade from a violent stomach flu to the occasion wave of nausea. I. Love. Them.

I tell people that I have the spiritual gift of drama. (No, there is no actual spiritual gift of drama. My spiritual gift is administration and blah blah pocket protector this and file cabinet that.) I'll never do anything more than sit in a seat in a theatre on Broadway and I can think of mounds of people who worked beside me at Salomon Theatre that are more talented than I and very few who are less. (For example: "BUt, like a cloistress, she will veil-ed walkandwater once a day her chamber roundwitheye-offending brine..." sorry. Um. I realize that makes sense to only, like, one person who ever reads my blog but the butchering of Shakespeare had to be forever etched onto a page of my blog.) But if...IF...I got an 80,000 dollar education to be a stay at home mom and stand beside my husband in ministry then I will consider it an education well worth the loans I am paying--er, my husband is paying. And if that 80,000 dollar education prepared me for the life I am leading and if it kept me from making horrible decisions and if it authenticated my personal relationship with Jesus Christ in a more concrete fashion and if I learned the things that now play a small role in creating the smiles on the faces of those kids, then every dollar was worth it. Well, maybe not the dollars that went toward Chemistry and Biology. Those dollars I consider a complete waste.

I don't consider myself talented. Not in any sense of the word. Any level of success that comes to a night like the last one is purely a gracious God giving me a love for performance art and allowing me the opportunity to bring out that love in others. So when a dear friend calls me forward and hands me flowers for a job well done, I am grateful but I feel extremely perplexed. Because I am just doing what I do--what I love to do--what I feel the Lord called me to do. I'm just always so pleased that I was able to create, from start to finish, a memory for children, their families, and others. The flowers are lovely. And they smell divine on my table. But I feel unworthy of the gift.

After all, I'm just one of the kids, all grown up, thankful that the Lord gave me the chance to play.

Two Weeks of Christmas Memories: Episode Four

I always loved when we had Christmas Eve with my mom's side of the family and Christmas night with my dad's side. Those were my favorite years. I can't really put my finger on why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that my paternal grandmother always has tinsel on her tree. As a child, until the year I insisted on hanging it on our own tree, I loved tinsel. So maybe I loved having Christmas culminate with a sparkly tree. I don't know.

What I do know is that I remember, extremely clearly, a Christmas Eve at my Grandma Betty's and my Grandpa Bob's. My grandparents lived in a mobile home--my grandpa still lives there--and it didn't take much for it to fill with the heavenly scents of roast and potatoes and carrots. If I close my eyes I can almost smell it, mixing with the pine scent from their tiny tree...the one we would later plant on our hill. We gathered around the table, Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Dad, Jon, Uncle Jason, Aunt Vicki, Kyle, Neil and I--Holly wasn't born yet, Neil was just a little guy himself. It was warm and homey and epitomized Christmas Eve.

When we opened our gifts I was thrilled to unwrap a Caboodle. At ten or eleven I was just dying for my own caboodly carrying case. I don't really know why. I wasn't wearing makeup so I have no clue what I actually intended to do with it. I remember putting temporary Charger tattoos and Blue Fins (my swim team) key chains in it. In any case, I was dying for a Caboodle. I still remember the smile on my grandma's face when I opened it. She was so pleased to have pleased me so much.

I'll never recapture the Christmas magic from childhoods at either of my grandparent's homes. I've been long grown and all of my cousins are well on their way. But the fact that discovering the magic of my Grandma Betty's smile at Christmas is now impossible makes me take a moment of pause. As I brought out my decorations this year I stopped and thought about my grandma. She made several of them and, as I placed them on shelves or hung them on walls, I thought of the Caboodle Christmas and a house full of delicious smells. I searched my mind for her smile and, when I found it, I carefully filed it back again, in a box marked, "Do Not Forget."

Two Weeks of Christmas Memories: Episode Three

When I was in the youth group at Ramona First Baptist Church (which later became Mountain View Community Church) we had white elephant gift exchanges. I love and adore white elephant exchanges. I have been a part of many hysterical Christmas parties that had, at their center, white elephant nonsense. One year, however, I did not leave the event very happy.

Everyone before me opened traditional (can traditional be associated with the phrase "white elephant"?) gifts. There was Barbie stationery. There were cans of Cheez Whiz. There was Power Ranger Bubble Bath. I approached the pile of gifts and saw one that looked especially interesting. It was oddly shaped and wrapped in pretty paper. I snatched it up. As I eagerly unwrapped it I discovered that someone misunderstood the meaning of white elephant.

Inside of my package I discovered four empty soda cans tied together with a shoe lace. Obviously, no one traded for my gift.

Two Weeks of Christmas Memories: Episode Two

When I was really little we woke up, did the Santa thing and had breakfast and then drove to one set of my grandparents and had lunch and opened presents and then drove to my other grandparents and had dinner and opened presents with them and even though I loved presents I remember being really, really, exponentially tired by the end of the day. And full.

Around the time that we moved to Ramona, we put an end to the nonstop Christmas day action. We started visiting one set of grandparents/aunts/uncles/cousins on Christmas Eve. Then we would have a slow Christmas morning at our house and see the other set of grandparents/aunts/uncles/cousins on Christmas night. Although, truthfully, I only had one cousin until I was nine. The next year we would switch which side of the family we saw on Christmas Eve and Christmas night. I don't know how our extended family felt about the arrangement but I loved it. Not only did Christmas last longer, we actually got to play with the stuff we got on Christmas morning.

When I was seven my brother and I got new bikes. I remember getting up that morning and creeping slowly and quietly down the hall before my parents woke up, just to see the magic before anyone else. Well, obviously, my new bike wasn't wrapped so I sped back down the hall so my parents wouldn't know I'd seen it already. After we opened our other presents, I rode the bike for a few minutes. Later, our neighbors, who had gotten a horse for Christmas, invited us on a ride. I was desperate for my own horse so my brother and I eagerly agreed. We started down the trail with my brother, myself, and the neighbor's son, David, atop the bareback horse. As David's dad walked beside us I suddenly felt all of us slipping. I gripped my brother tightly and held him as we toppled to the ground. Pain seared through my right arm and into my shoulder as we hit the ground. I sobbed all the way home.

I cried into the afternoon.

We were going to my aunt and uncle's house for Christmas night. When we were getting ready to leave my brother, who thought I was being overdramatic (I know. Weird right? Why would I suddenly start being overdramatic. I mean, I'd never been overdramatic before. Right mom? Mom...Mom...stop laughing!) punched me in the arm. "Is that where it hurts?"

I cried.

I don't remember much about the time at my aunt's house--just that my arm hurt. And hurt.

Turns out that it was broken. Way up high, close to my shoulder. It couldn't be casted so I spent many weeks in a sling and Ace bandage. My shiny new bike sparkled in the garage while my brother raced up and down the street on his.

I still hate horseback riding.
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For some reason, I as write this I am feeling like I broke my arm on the day after Christmas. Maybe, for some reason, we celebrated Christmas with my Dad's side of the family on the 26th that year instead of the 25th. Mom, can you clear this up for me?

Two Weeks Of Christmas Memories: Episode One

The house was decorated in reds and greens and twinkly lights. Carols had been sung. Presents had been wrapped. Cookies and milk were carefully placed on the table by tiny hands. Carrots sat next to the cookies because, after all, reindeer get hungry too. 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even our dog. The stockings would have been hung by the chimney with care but we had no chimney so we'd left a key on the front porch for St. Nicholas--hoping he would soon be there. My brother and I were nestled all snug in our beds while visions of sugar plums danced in our heads. Oh, who am I kidding. To this day I don't know what a sugar plum is. I just looked it up on the Internet and, given the almonds and pitted dates that the recipe called for, I don't think I'd be much of a fan. Visions of sugar plums didn't dance in our heads. Visions of candy canes and cookies and presents definitely did. And mamma in her kerchief and papa in his cap had just settled their brains for a long winter's nap.

Just the thought of my mom in a kerchief and my dad sleeping in a stocking cap makes me smirk. They definitely don't slumber in such attire. In any case, out on the lawn--or somewhere, I don't know--there arose such a clatter, I awoke and froze in my bed...something was the matter. I was certain I'd heard Santa.

I was also certain that my bladder was extremely full and in serious need of relief. I also believed that if I got up and caught sight of Santa, he'd leave without bestowing gifts upon my brother and myself. I couldn't be responsible for such a Christmas catastrophe. So I laid there. And laid there. And laid there. I had no idea how long it took Santa to fill stockings and place gifts under the tree with care but I knew that I'd better make good and sure he was gone before I got up.

In all my five-year-oldness I squirmed. I couldn't take it anymore. I finally decided that I'd rather come face to face with Santa than wet my bed. I dashed from my room to the bathroom. I remember closing my eyes tightly and hoping that Santa would understand my basic human need to pee. When I finished I sprinted back to my bed, dove under the covers and whispered, "Sorry Santa. I really had to go."

In the morning my stocking was brimming with goodies and my name was on several of the packages under the tree. Santa had been there. Whether he'd been there at the exact time I had to go to the bathroom, I'll never know. I'll never know if he was there, unloading loot, at the precise moment that I was dashing down my hallway. I could have come face to face with jolly old St. Nicholas. But I didn't...

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This blog writer believes that Jesus is the Way, the Truth and the Life. She believes that he is THE reason for the Christmas season. She is also thankful that, as a child, her parents shared a little of the magic of St. Nick with her.

Question Answered

Concerning my post on December 7, anonymous asked if I was pregnant again. Troy and I are Paper Pregnant. It's been 20 months since we started trying to welcome a second child into our lives. With every passing day I realize more and more that Garrett was our biological miracle. Now we're waiting for a miracle that is not bone of our bones but is growing, instead, in our hearts.

So, in a way, yes, I'm pregnant again. But technically, no, I'm not.

The flu...

The one good thing about having the most horrendous flu is that I never thought I'd see my middle school weight again. But lo and behold...

There's always a silver lining.

December 7

It's after 11:00 pm which means that this day almost passed without me remembering. I rushed through all the things I had to do today and only just now took notice of the date.

Six years ago my husband and I sat across from each other on our first date.

Three years ago I saw not one but two lines on the stick.

Both boys, on their own, are immeasurably more than I deserve. Together, well, words don't begin to describe the joy in my heart.

December 7th is a very good day.

Our Date With Santa

Trust me, we understand the real meaning of Christmas. We are certainly teaching our son about Jesus, the manger, and why he came. Nevertheless, we do enjoy the festive pageantry that marks this holiday. Part of this fun includes annual trips to see a shopping mall Santa.

When Garrett was four and a half months old, my mom and dad took him to see Santa. Troy and I were running a Children's Christmas Play Dress Rehearsal. He was clad in Christmas colors complete with little green booties. Though he didn't cry, he promptly puked green baby food all over the crisp white cuff of Santa's sleeve. The picture is adorable, you can even spy the smeared peas on Santa's sleeve...if you look close enough.

Last year, my mom, aunt, and cousin took him to visit Santa on the day that Troy, my dad, and myself drove the moving van from San Diego to Salt Lake. My mom flew out a day later with Garrett. We don't have a Santa picture. The kid refused to sit on the scary man's lap. The helpful elf suggested that my mom sit on Santa's lap with my son so that they could get a picture. My mom decided that I didn't need a picture of her on Santa's lap with my ballistic child.

My mom is visiting for the week and we took Garrett to visit Santa today. I thought it would be a repeat of last year. It usually takes Garrett a few minutes to warm up to regular people. I was certain he wouldn't get within ten feet of the lap of a jolly, bearded, bowl full of jelly man. As we stood in line, we prepped him. I explained the procedure. I informed him of exactly what would happen. I told him that he would sit on Santa's lap and, in turn, Santa would give him a treat. Garrett really likes treats. We coached him on the fact that he could tell Santa what he wanted for Christmas.

Me: Okay buddy. You're going to sit on Santa's lap and then you'll get a treat. Okay?
Garrett: Yeah.
Me: What are you going to ask Santa to bring you?
Garrett: A green hat.

WHAT?

It didn't matter how we prompted him to come up with something else. It didn't matter how I asked it. He was convinced. Sure. Decided. He wanted a green hat from Santa.

Me: Garrett, Santa will bring you a toy if you want.
Garrett: Yeah.
Me: What kind of toy might you want?
Garrett: A green hat.

Well, in any case, when it was our turn I braced myself for the worst. I headed over to Santa with Garrett in my arms. I sat him down and Santa said, "Well hey there Garrett. My you've grown since last year." And then...well...I'll let the picture speak for itself...








That kid loves himself some Santa. They whispered words with each other. Perhaps Garrett mumbled something about his green hat, I don't know. What I know is that Santa gave him not one but two candy canes and a book. When it was time to leave, Garrett went back and hugged him. Then he tried to climb back up onto his lap. Santa, who was in a very good mood, said something about how he would love to hold him all day long but he needed to see the other children. So then Garrett said, "Die die, Santa. Tink to." Which does not mean that he wanted Santa to die but that he was saying, "Bye bye, Santa. Thank you."

It was precious.

And...um...then I promptly went shopping for a silly green hat.

OCD?

Some things in my life have been, well, overstated. If you've known me for longer than five minutes you know I abused my brother when we were children--the now infamous story being that his first sentence was, Mommy, sissy hit--you know that when I was quite small I made my newlywed aunt and uncle read me a book while they took a bath. Together. Presumably with no clothing on. And you know that my family thinks I was born missing my off switch. My dad doesn't think there was a time, from the development of my language skills until I left for college, when I wasn't talking. These stories are becoming legendary. Or, at least, they should be with as often as they're told.

Speaking of legendary. I come from a long line of cleaners. My dad. His mom. I'm sure a great-grandparent or two. My clean gene has always manifested itself in the nice, neat little compartment of organization. I certainly don't keep the cleanest house I've ever seen. My shelves can rarely pass a white glove test and sometimes I'll go weeks without cleaning the least frequented bathroom. I probably didn't need to confess that. I'm sure you think less of me now. But when it comes to being organized well...I should have maybe majored in it. I'm way better at that than I am at acting.

When I was little (and by little I mean eight or nine) I used to clean my closet. For fun. I loved to get things in better order than they were before. As the story goes, I was playing with a friend when she and her sister had to clean their own closet. It was horrors worse than my own closet and I acted as the drill sergeant making her get rid of things she hadn't used in several months. I can remember helping other friends and neighbors organize their own rooms throughout high school and college.

Then I married a piler. Troy really enjoys piles. Loves them, even. He maybe would have married a pile if it was decidedly female. They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks but, the truth is, you kind of can. I know this because, the longer Troy and I are married, the less clutter my house takes on. I even see myself wearing off on him in ways I could only have dreamed of five years ago. There's only one problem. The better he gets, the worse I get. Oh, I don't replace his piles with my own. No. I replace his piles with higher expectations heaped upon him. My brother, the psychologist, says that everyone has areas of their life that are obsessive/compulsive. The problem is that my area, which I've always known was a severe allergy to clutter, is getting worse. And I can see it.

In my mind, all things have a place and when other things are added to that place, I feel uneasy. I feel, truthfully, a compulsion to move it that either must be consciously suppressed or must be acted upon. For example, my end table currently has three Christmas decorations and several Christmas books on it. That's fine. They can live there. But if someone (read: Troy) puts a cell phone or a newspaper or a set of keys on it, I have to move them to their rightful home. The phone goes to the night stand or into a pocket, the keys onto the hook by the door and the newspaper into the recycler because, well, it's after 10:00 am so it should be read and ready for recycling by now.

I know what you're thinking. You're wondering how I have a toddler, aren't you? Honestly, I spend a lot of my day picking up after him but I also let him have his way with his playroom constantly. It's not that I can't let him play and destroy spaces, I just have to "fix" them when he's finished. The trouble is I can see it getting worse and what worries me is not the fact that I am ruining my son's life--really, truly, he destroys his spaces on a daily basis--but the fact that I am 27 years old. What, on earth, am I going to be like at 40 or 50? I don't have to wash my hands three thousand times before I flip the light switch 82 times and then turn around in three circles and spit twice into the toilet or anything like that but I do, often times, have crazy urges to declutter things.

So the bottom line is this...is there medication for this? Or do I have to chalk it up to my clean genes and go about my life either driving those around me crazy or feeling all twisty and psychotic inside as I stare at a television remote thrown haphazardly onto the couch instead of placed neatly inside the cabinet?

Tale of a Tail

When I was five years old a cartoon hit the theaters just before the Christmas season. It was a story of a little Russian mouse named Fievel. An American Tail became a beloved classic for my brother and me.

We just switched from Comcast to Direct TV and we get the premium movie channels for free for a short while. I decided to check out what was on HBO tonight and my son is currently enthralled with Fievel and Tiger and the whole gang.

It's so special to share the things of my youth with him. And 22 years later this song still gets to me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRjb8sMjYu8

Christmas

I'm sitting here watching the Broncos and Jets games on the television (Go Jets!) and watching the Charger game in play by play on my computer. Of course, I'm wearing my Tomlinson jersey because, well, those Bolts need all the help they can get. It's chilly outside and the leaves are falling off of the neighbor's tree into my new yard. The stockings are hung and the Christmas books are stacked on the table. I feel ready for the season.

I do not feel ready for Christmas. There is still a Kid's Play to rehearse and cookies to be baked and presents to be bought. But I love this time of year. It is, shall I say, the most wonderful time of the year.

Grandma & Grandpa

Garrett has spent the last four days playing with his Grandma DeDe and his Grandpa Gary.

Did I mention that we put him in a toddler bed when we moved here? Well, he's been getting up a little before we're ready for him. This morning he got up a little before the sun. Troy put him back in bed. About a half hour later he bypassed our bedroom completely in favor of finding his grandpa. Gary is an early bird and Garrett figured he'd just come down and make him watch cartoons. And beg him for some bacon and eggs. And get to keep his pacifier for a little longer. Grandpa's are way better than parents.

And his grandma spent the last four days playing and reading and playing and reading and then playing. Garrett decided that she needed to spend the majority of her time playing Geo Trax. I'm sure she agreed wholeheartedly.

They helped us get the house and yard ready to turn over and they shared a Thanksgiving feast with us and we watched a lot of football. At the moment they are boarding a plane and heading back to Oregon...

And Garrett is adjusting to life without his personal playmates.

Finished

We are finished. Done. Put us a fork in us. The old house is cleaned and weeded and locked and we're over it.

Have I told you lately that I hate moving?

Sink Pool

Garrett and O-- are friends. Despite the fact that Garrett has a good seven months of life experience on O--, they're at approximately the same maturity level. They say about the same amount of words but O-- has him beat on the potty training front. She's not potty trained but she's closer than Garrett. His potty training is currently stalled at, "Yes, Mommy, I am potty trained. I sit on the toilet for two seconds, get bored, get up and whiz all over the floor." Anyway, Garrett and O-- behave kind of like siblings. They'll play great together for fifteen minutes and then, suddenly, her mother and I will hear World War III breaking out in the playroom. Such was the case on Monday.

Several ladies from the church had dropped by to help me settle into this house. O--'s mother came by and the two kids played happily (mostly) for awhile. They had their spats but generally they were short lived and easily forgotten. At one point I noticed that it was very quiet upstairs.

Me: They're playing awfully well together. I peer up the stairs. Behind a closed door. I start up the stairs.

At this point I slowly become aware of the fact that I hear water running. It takes a full two seconds for me to process this auditory revelation and then I say...

Me: Do you hear water running?

I simultaneously hear O-- playing happily behind the closed playroom door. Garrett, on the other hand, I do not hear. I fly toward the sound of the running water and, as I turn the corner into my bathroom I find this...

He climbed the toilet. He climbed into the sink. He turned on freezing cold water. He climbed in fully clothed. Everything within reach became a bath toy. Lotion, deodorant, dental floss, toothbrushes. If it was on the counter or in the cabinet, it was floating in the water. When I turned the corner he jumped a mile. Then he saw me, assumed I would be excited about this little extravaganza and started yanking off his clothing and yelling, "Pool! Bath!"

I told him not to do that ever again. Though I questioned his cold water bath in late November I informed him that he ought not pull those shenanigans again. But man if I wasn't trying so desperately hard not to crack up. I cannot say the same for the other adults in the house who found it uproariously funny and didn't hide their mirth.

There was water everywhere and, as I cleaned it up I watched Garrett relieve his bladder on the carpet. Oh toddlers.