Dealing

Olivia Engel, two days older than my son. Madeleine Hsu, ten days older. Jesse Lewis, twenty days older. Caroline Previdi, seven weeks younger. Noah Pozner, four months younger.

This is why I climbed into his bed last night, after he was asleep. I just needed to hold him for a few more minutes. I needed to feel the rise and fall of his tiny chest as he sucked in life.

Teachers younger than I am, gone.

A principal running toward a madman with loaded guns.

Helpless kids, the whole world  in front of them, facing death with terrible fear.

Every day people are brutally murdered, heinous acts are committed. This place is ugly.

And so I am looking more intently at the beauty and breathing in my beautiful boys.

But I am waiting for my king to come and reign. Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

One Life

One life is no more important than another, really. I mean, when you break it down, everyone is someone's baby, mother, brother, sister, father. So my heart was broken when my husband told me about the heinous shooting in Connecticut. But I went into self desensitization mode. Maybe I could have been an emergency responder or surgeon in another life because I seem to possess the ability to shut off the empathetic/sympathetic portion of my brain and go about my daily life. I'm throwing my boys a Christmas party tonight and the bathroom needs to get cleaned, after all. And I don't exactly want to tell my kids what happened so, perhaps, I need to carry on like nothing did. If I let my mind wrap around the horror of bloody children lying dead in a classroom, I might as well curl up into the fetal position and refuse to ever get out of bed again.

Because this world is evil. So evil that I sometimes can't stand being a part of it.

But then my mom told me that it was being reported that these were students in one classroom. One kindergarten classroom. I look with wet eyes at my kindergartner and realize that this now hits way too close to home. No one life matters more. A dead fourth grader is an absolutely devastating atrocity and I shouldn't be able to clean a bathroom in the wake of such a tragedy. But I heard "kindergarten" and the air caught painfully between my lungs and the world.

I don't know those children. They live a long way away from here and our paths have not crossed. But I know Grayson, Carter, Rylan, Katherine, Mason, Addaly, Brooklyn, Juan, Tony, Brayton, Sydney and the rest of Mrs. A-----'s kindergarten class. I know their sweet smiles, their blonde curls, their purple snow boots that slip on the linoleum when it gets too wet. And I know Garrett. I know how he felt inside of me and I knew when my husband severed my son's umbilical cord that I couldn't protect him from this terrible, awful world. Not really, anyway. And so I can't help but imagine the innocent faces of Mrs. A----'s AM kindergarten class suddenly being blotted from this earth. I don't know the children from Sandy Hook Elementary, but I'm certain the world is a dimmer place without them.

I cannot desensitize myself--and I am sure that is for the better. May those sweet babies rest in peace.

***EDITED TO ADD***
News now says that the children were first graders. Obviously that doesn't change how I feel about the situation.

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.

Elfin Fun

Whew! I sorta forgot that I'm supposed to be posting pictures of our crazy elves and their shenanigans. My mom told me before they left after Thanksgiving that she wanted to know what they were doing every day. So here's what they've been up to.

December 1

December 2

December 3

Finn was found spying on Garrett's betta, Peter. It was a little hard to take his picture through the fish bowl.

December 4

The Seahawks hat is on top of a big stuffed bear in the hallway. The wreath is in our entry way. It took the boys awhile to find Booker in the entry way.

December 5

December 6

My brother had a train that went around our Christmas tree when we were growing up. This year, we bought one for the boys. Before we had our tree, it was set up in the middle of the floor. One day, the elves were found having some fun with it. This is the same day they temporarily disappeared because the boys were NON STOP FIGHTING. They reappeared later in the day with a note that told them that if they didn't stop fighting, the elves were going back to the North Pole. Matthew couldn't have cared less. But Garrett, oh, he cared. And he watched those elves for a solid hour and a half to make sure they didn't leave again.

December 7

December 8

December 9

One morning we all woke up to find Booker and Finn having a snack. There was candy, empty wrappers, and a bunch of fruit snacks. Finn's face was covered in chocolate. Booker was holding a chunk of candy in his hands. 

December 10

And that about catches us up to today. Two weeks until the elves head back to the pole from whence they came. I wonder what other kinds of trouble they can get into.

Maybe, In 20 Years

A group of moms stood together in the biting cold that blows down from the mountain range and stops dead when it hits the elementary school at the top of the hill. The boys ran and screamed and tagged each other and my boy brought me a handful of junk and told me to hold the orbs he found on the playground. "I'm sorry, the what?" I asked, staring at part of an old eraser, a green bead, and a small bit of twine.

"My orbs," he yelled over his shoulder. I shoved them in pocket, pretending to understand.

"Mine calls them orbs, too. He's always bringing home junk," another mom says.

Soon, their teacher approaches. "I have to tell you a funny story," she's looking at Grayson's mom but addressing us all. "Today, Grayson and Ashlynn decided to be boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Oh no!" Grayson's mom laughs uncomfortably.

"I'm so glad you said Grayson and not Garrett," I smile, relieved.

"He was so excited," she continued, "he couldn't stand still in line. He said, 'I can't stand still, I'm filled with loooove." Three moms and a teacher dissolved into nearly uncontrollable laughter.

The next morning, I retell the story to my husband. Garrett overhears.

"That's soooo weird!" he says. "It must be going around because yesterday, on the playground, Katherine blew me a kiss!"

I lock eyes with my husband, "What did you do?" I ask my son.

"Nothing."

"Do you like Katherine?"

"Mom, I am way too young to have a girlfriend," he answers. There is a pause and then he asks, "What do I do if she wants me to be her girlfriend?"

"Well," I answer, "you can tell her that you're too young to have a girlfriend but that you guys can be good friends and play together on the playground."

"Okay," he replies, satisfied with the answer.

"Or, you can tell her that your mom says you can't have a girlfriend until you're 26."

He smiles, "That's a good idea. How many years until I'm 26?"

"Twenty," I say.

"Okay. Perfect," he turns on his heels and walks out the door.

Haggling

A big thanks goes out to my friend, Shannon, who reminded me last night on Facebook that a certain word I was looking for was haggle. Because I kept thinking heckle. I knew that wasn't right but I couldn't come up with haggle and she came to the rescue. Without such knowledge, the following story would have included the word barter in the place of haggle and that wouldn't be at all what I'm going for.

So, last night we got our Christmas tree.

We went to Lowe's and one of the employees informed my husband that he should "make a deal" with the lady selling trees.

My husband does not make deals. He asks what the price is and then pays it. Or he doesn't. But he is not a good haggler. He's missing that component of his brain. When we bought our Santa Fe, he asked for a lower price. The salesman replied, "I can't do that."

"Okay," my husband said and we proceeded to stand up and leave.

The only reason we own that car today is because the dealer called us an hour later and I did the talking.

Last night, I decided that I would use the cute six-year-old with the gaping hole in his mouth where two bottom teeth used to be to do the haggling. Might as well start 'em young. It's our only hope to counteract the genetics he may have inherited from his father. So Garrett made a beeline to a grand fir tree and would not be deterred. We showed him nobles, we tried convincing him that they are pretty, that they are easy to hang ornaments on, that they last longer, but he was standing with his arms wrapped around the choice grand fir, refusing to budge.

I sent him to get the sales lady. "Can I get this tree and give you 25 dollars?" he asked. It was on sale for $29. She showed him a more expensive noble.

"Look how pretty this one is."

He wouldn't even look at it until I promised to stand right next to his grand so that no one could swoop it out from under him--even though we were the only people in the place. He looked at. "Nice," he said, completely uninterested.

"You want the grand fir?" she asked him.

"Yes. For 25 dollars, okay?" he replied.

"Okay, sure," she answered. She turned and started to walk away while Troy picked up the tree.

Out of the corner of my mouth, I whispered, "We should have started lower."

As they trimmed the bottom and put it in the net, I paid for our tree. "I'm going to give it to you for twenty," she stated.

"Oh! Okay. Thank you!" I said.

"Your kid asked for $25. He didn't go low enough."

We are very thankful for our bargain tree. In my past experience, when one haggles, the salesperson doesn't usually go lower than the initial offer. Merry Christmas to us!

Male/Female

A few nights ago, at the dinner table, we were having some sort of conversation. I can't remember what we were talking about but Garrett ended up referring to something as a male. Impressed that he knew that word, what it meant, and how to properly use it, I said, "That's right, a boy is a male. If a boy is a male, do you know what a girl is called?"

"A calf," he supplied, convinced.

I have no idea what on earth he was thinking when he said that but it struck me as so hysterical that I nearly spit my food across the table. After I threw a hand over my mouth to keep my partially chewed dinner inside, I glanced at my husband who was laughing equally as hard.

I had visions of him, twelve years from now, informing me that he was dating a really nice calf. Although, I'm not sure the girl of his dreams would enjoy being referred to as a tiny bovine.

Let It Snow!

My husband doesn't like heights. He certainly doesn't like climb-the-ladder-and-stand-on-icy-roofs kind of heights. So our Christmas lights haven't always been the talk of the town. But he knows that I like lights and, more than that, he knows his kids do. So, every year, he does his best to have some manner of twinkling bulbs for Christmas.

Last year, he had a brilliant idea. He gave me permission to spend money at the after Christmas sales on lawn decor that doesn't involve him spending hours on a slick roof. I got to shop. He was freed from the looming possibility of certain death. It was a win-win for everyone.

I purchased a lighted snowman, a twinkling snowflake and a cute sign for the yard. Yesterday he and Garrett built the various items and then called me out of the warm house into the bitter cold (and by bitter cold I mean anything under 60 degrees--you know that right?) to figure out where to put them. We decided to put up one strand of lights to tie everything together. As Troy and I were working on getting the strand up, I glanced at the sign.

"Let it snow!" it reads. And it just comes across as really, overly enthusiastic about it.

I bought it willingly, is the point.

The thought crossed my mind that I should have looked for something that read, "Let it be hot!" Or, "Dreaming of a Hawaiian Christmas!"

But, in all honestly, if I'm going to live somewhere that snows, it might as well do so in December. So, I have a lot of rules, is what I'm saying. No snow in November. No snow past March 31, please. But plenty of it in December because a white Christmas really is a beautiful Christmas.

So, let it snow.

I guess.

You heard it hear first, folks. And now you can all fall over dead from the shock.

Fun Week

My kids have the benefit curse of a mom with a degree in Theatre and a dad who loves art. Whenever it's a dress up night at Kid's Club or spirit week at school, we pull out all the stops. Last week was crazy hair night at our midweek club.

 We used gel, hairspray and temporary hair dye for Garrett and created this...

We knew it was coming so we had Matthew grow his hair out for a few weeks longer than we normally would. It's hard to do crazy hair on a kid with a shaved head. First, Troy shaved the rest of Matthew's head leaving only a cross shape. Then we sprayed it orange. Both boys had a blast!

On Friday, we were invited to the house of a boy in Garrett's class. They'd invited four boys from the kindergarten class and another neighbor kid. Garrett's friend has a little brother and I had Matthew with me so there was a total of 8 boys between the ages of 6 and 2. That's a lot of boys, y'all. 

They frosted gingerbread men, slurped hot chocolate and made these...

Aren't they the cutest gingerbread houses you've ever seen? We used a very thick frosting to "glue" the graham crackers to milk cartons which then made it SO easy for the boys to decorate the houses.

Elves on Our Shelves

This year, our elves arrived earlier than normal. Typically, they appear on December 1 but Garrett really wanted my parents to get to see them so I made a call. I left a message at the North Pole and some elf named Martha, with an incredibly thick accent, returned my call. It took some time to locate the elves assigned to my boys and I had to sit on the phone for quite awhile. Both boys stared at me in eager anticipation. Unfortunately, Martha couldn't guarantee that they'd be here by the time my parents had to leave. She did promise to send them right away but elves have a mind of their own.

Lo and behold, they rang our doorbell the day before my parents left. They came with a note that explained how quickly they had made the trip. They'd only stopped in Manitoba to spend a night with Finn's grandmother, a retired elf who now lives with a family of field mice.

Matthew belongs to the brown eyed elf. When he first arrived, Matthew was just a tiny toddler so we named him. After long deliberation, we landed on Booker T. Elfington. Garrett was older. "Tangled" had just come out. That, on top of the fact that he was obsessed with his moose stocking holder that year, led him to want to name him Flynn Mooserider. I convinced him to change it a little bit and Finn Mooserider became his scout elf's given name.

Arrival Day--November 26

The first day they were here, they were very excited. They bounced back and forth between Christmas mugs in the kitchen and even giggled when Garrett sang Santa Claus is Coming to Town. I forgot to take a picture of their coffee mug antics.

Monday was their first official day here and the boys awoke and instantly began looking for them. Booker was hanging with the penguins--probably because he normally has to travel to the opposite end of the earth to see them. Finn was, apparently, sailing.

November 27

The next day, Booker was hanging out on the top of my curio and Finn was watching from the top of the cabinet that holds all of our DVDs.

November 28

Apparently it got cold because on Wednesday we found them both all snuggly. Booker was cuddling with a stuffed snowman by the telephone. Finn was being lazy in a basket in the bathroom.

November 29

On Thursday morning Finn was like a terrifying giant, spying on the good people of Christmas Village. And Booker was making it very hard for me to cook. 

November 30

Garrett was hilarious that morning. He couldn't find Matthew's elf anywhere. He wanted oatmeal for breakfast and asked if he could push the buttons on the microwave. I said, "Sure." He started to jump up onto the counter, saw the elf, and lurched backward.

"Whoa! There he is! You have to push the buttons!"

"Why can't you do it?" I asked.

"Mom! What if my pant leg accidentally touches him?"

Last night Troy set up his "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" Christmas set across the top of our entertainment unit. This morning, both elves were hanging with the gang.

 

Who knows where they'll be tomorrow.

Revival

She said he is doing incredibly well.

In all subjects, he is at or above grade level. He is kind and friendly to everyone. He is respectful and focused. My boy earned all E's in citizenship, despite the fact that there is the little problem of him finishing his work quickly and distracting the rest of his table by being an incessant chatterbox. We all agreed that he would try to work on it.

I apologized on account of all the heredity in that little problem. I got the same criticism growing up. So did my mother and her mother before her. His teacher said that while he talks a lot, it hasn't reached a level of being a serious problem yet. She said she wished she had a dozen more just like him to which I replied that I didn't really need a dozen more at home. I promise you, one Garrett is plenty.

Then she gently began, "I need to talk to you about a sensitive issue."

My mind raced to a million terrible places in the following two seconds of silence. He stole something. He said a bad word. He called someone a horrible name. He forced a girl to kiss him on the playground. He said someone was too fat or too skinny or too ugly. 

"He says God a lot," she started and, of course, being a pastor's wife, my first thought was that he had a problem with taking the Lord's name in vain. Except we are very serious about that in our home and I really didn't think that was it. She continued, "I mean...not...how do I put--"

And it dawned on me so I replied, "Oh, like, he talks about God?"

She nodded, red creeping up into her cheeks, "And it is offending some of the kids. So he can talk to me about God because I love it about him and he can write about it whenever he wants, but he needs to talk less about it with the other kids. It makes some of them uncomfortable."

I nodded, unsure of how to handle this with Garrett. I noticed that he had drawn up his legs and was suddenly extremely and uncharacteristically quiet. I put my arm around him and pulled him to me. His teacher started to ask him an unrelated question but he turned, fixed his green eyes on me and whispered, almost inaudibly, "God is spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth." (John 4:24)

"Okay, Garrett," I said as I ran my fingers through his hair. I turned to look at his teacher. "See," I started, "my husband is a pastor. We spend a lot of time at church. I understand what you are saying and my husband and I certainly understand social norms and what is acceptable to talk about and when, but he is very passionate about God and he's six. So I'm not entirely sure what to do--"

"I'm not either," she interjected.

"--but we'll talk to him about it."

My husband and I do not have the spiritual gift of evangelism. I'd trade my administration gift any day for it, but it's simply not in me. That doesn't mean I'm not called to do it, but simply handing a VBS flier to another mom makes me sweat like I just finished a marathon. In Death Valley. In August. We've never told Garrett to continuously bring up God to his friends. In fact, we encourage him to live and lead by example. I knew when he was four that we were in for it. That's when he, rather forcefully, commanded his preschool class to be baptized (even though he hasn't been). He herded them over to the carpet and began pretending to baptize them in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I apologized profusely that day, even though every adult in the building thought it was equal parts hilarious and adorable. Garrett would tell a tree that Jesus died on the cross for its sins if he thought the tree had ears. He wants people to know his Jesus. He is strangely spiritually sensitive for a boy of six. And, truly, very little of that has anything to do with us. We take him to church. We pray with him. We read him the Bible. And he takes that knowledge and discipline and he trusts in the Lord. He finds new strength. He soars high on wings like eagles.

And I do not want him to lose that passion.

I do not want him to conform but to be transformed.

He knows that if we keep quiet, the very stones will cry out.

So we rode home quietly and silent tears slid down my cheeks because this parenting thing is hard. Where is the balance between offense and passion? How do you teach it to a six-year-old without crushing his heart.

Then I shared with my husband. We prayed and I processed. Troy asked Garrett how his conference was and he replied, "I'm doing really well but I can't talk about God."

And I really wished he hadn't been sitting right there when she brought it up. We explained to him that he can talk about God with his teacher. He can write about Him. He can talk about Him all he wants to on the playground because the last we heard we had freedom of speech in this country. And, on the playground, the kids can run away if they want to. We told him he can't talk about God when his teacher is talking or when they are supposed to be discussing something else entirely because he needs to be respectful of her time. We told him how proud we are of him. And then we bought him a Happy Meal. Oh yes, we did.

As I sat in Bible study last night, sharing the details of the day and asking for prayer, it dawned on me. My kindergartner is my hero. He's ahead academically. He's nice to everyone. He's respectful. He's on fire for God and he's not afraid to show it. If only we could all be so successful.

I prayed for him almost the whole way to school and asked God to give him boldness and discernment to share his faith when appropriate. I am proud of that kid. I have no idea why God chose me to be his mother. None whatsoever. But I am so thankful--and so honored--that He did.

U-Haul

I know what Black Friday is. I'd never even heard of Cyber Monday until last night. And as far as I knew, last Thursday was actually called Thanksgiving but, apparently, it's official term is now Gray Thursday.

I think our society has hit an all time low.

On Tuesday, when I drove past Best Buy, there were two tents erected on the sidewalk. On Tuesday people. More than 48 hours before the store would open. I am assuming that these individuals gave up a Thanksgiving meal with family or friends so that they could be first in line for a new television with a good price tag.

I understand shopping on Black Friday because there are some incredible deals. I went out with my mom so this is definitely a "pot calling the kettle black" kind of post. Why hello there, Kettle. Nice to meet you. I'm Pot." (Except that sort of makes me sound like a green, leafy recreational drug.) But what I noticed is that our society needs an intervention. Me included.

We stuffed ourselves with turkey and a variety of dishes where the first ingredient listed is CARBS! and then the second ingredient is MORE CARBS! We washed down the carbs with green salad and then sugar with the active ingredients of PUMPKIN PIE and WHIPPED CREAM. At some point, we realized that Walmart opened at 8:00 pm. I also noticed that a certain something I was hoping to procure for my husband was on mega (!!!) sale so it was "necessary" to wander over.

We left the house at 7:57 because, well, we were going to the Walmart by my house which is never very crowded. It took me a minute to realize that the cars were parked all the way down the street because the enormous parking lot was full. There were police officers directing traffic. We parked down a side street and hiked walked a short distance up to the store. There wasn't a cart in sight. People were bumping into each other like a summer Saturday at Disneyland meets the restroom during halftime of a major sporting event. We were vacillating between laughing in a sort of awed amazement and gawking in a silent stupor. As we slowly made our way around the store, we stopped at those bins of cheap movies near the electronics section. There were people standing, shoulder to shoulder, like the links in chainmail, digging furiously through the DVDs as though someone had informed them that there was a check for a million dollars at the bottom.

Lines of people stood, waiting for an iPad to go on sale later in the night. Police officers and hoards of employees patrolled taped off sections. Men guarded carts. Women weaved briskly about. "Do you want the Tupperware?" someone yelled down an aisle. "Did you see the prices on these games?" another shouted.

We looked at each other. It was so easy to get sucked into the frenzy of SALE and HALF PRICE. We started talking about other places. So many other places a stick and a rock makes a great game, or an Operation Christmas Child shoe box shows up and children are absolutely thankful, or a decent meal would be a huge blessing. As we made our way over to the grocery section where they were having several items go on sale at 10:00, we commented about just how ridiculous our society is, just how material, just how greedy. "It really makes me sick," I said with an uncomfortable lump in my stomach and, before I'd put the finishing letter on the last word I continued, "Oohhh! Look at that!" I have a compassion deficit, apparently. It only lasts until the next shiny thing catches my attention. Thankfully, I realized the pathetic nature of my juxtaposition and called myself on it.

I can't explain it but I felt dirty. I needed to wash the consumerism off my body. I needed to remind myself that while I receive huge happiness in giving gifts and a fair amount in receiving them, this just isn't about getting the best deal. Sometimes we need to remove ourselves from the chaos and the crowd and be thankful for what we already have, not what we think we can't live without.

I had just eaten more food in a half hour span of time than some people see in a week. I have a roof over my head. I have running water. I have outrageous medical insurance that I complain about all the time but I don't really have to worry that my kids will die of the common cold. I have cable and a cell phone. I AM WEALTHY by the world's standards.

I saw on the news that a woman drove a U-Haul on Black Friday because her car wasn't big enough for all the things she intended to get. Last night they featured the same woman operating two computers simultaneously to get the best Cyber Monday deals. I complained about how ridiculous it was that she needed that much stuff.

But compared to the rest of the world, I might as well be U-Haul lady. Why was I so privileged to be born into such a rich country? And how do I consistently remember to be rich in faith and godly inheritance instead of consumed by the lure of shiny stuff?

Shopping

You wanna know what I have left to buy for Christmas?

I need to finish stuffing my husband's stocking. I need one more thing to go in Matthew's stocking.

The end.

So now I can focus on decorating and baking and wrapping and listening to music and worshiping the risen Lord come tiny baby.

Merry Christmas to those of you who are done shopping and those of you who haven't started. (Although I certainly pity that latter.)

Spanish Lesson

He walks toward the bathroom. "I'll be in there. Please excuse me. Which is, of course, Spanish for I have to poop."

"Oh, it is?" I begin to laugh.

"Is it really? I just made that up!" he responds.

"Um. No. It is not."

"Well, then, how do I say, 'I have to poop' in Spanish?" he asks.

"I have no idea."

"But you took a lot of Spanish," he reminds me.

"Yes but I never learned how to say that." Then it strikes me that I probably did. It is probably tengo caca or something of the sort. But I am not teaching that to my six-year-old.

It also strikes me that this is probably not something I should be writing about. But I really don't know how we aren't a reality show.

Treat

This story is very much like The Great Jrink Revelation of last summer. So, yesterday, Garrett and I were working on his homework. He was supposed to cut out the letter "T" and then find five pictures that start with T, cut them out, and glue them to the larger T. We flipped through magazines looking for words that begin with T.

I eventually found a picture of chocolate covered candy cane sticks. "Hey, we could use this! What would we have to call this to make it work for T?" I asked.

He looked long and hard. "Candy doesn't start with T. Neither does chocolate. I don't know, Mom."

"Well," I said, "how about treat?"

He began saying each letter of the word. "Ch, er, E, t. Ch, er, E, t. Chreat doesn't start with T either."

I tried not to laugh. "T, er, E, t," I said. "Yes it does."

His eyes widened into saucers. "It's treat?"

I nodded.

"Has it always been treat?" he asked. "I mean, are you sure it isn't chreat?"

"I'm sure. It's treat."

"That is so weird. All my life I thought it was chreat."

It started out as a simple little homework assignment but it totally rocked his world.