On my kitchen table sits a wooden bowl full of festive autumn gourds and lumpy decorative vegetables. An orange ceramic Halloweenish container adorns a canister. Our late-shedding deciduous tree in the back yard is dropping leaves. My Thanksgiving recipes are still taped to the kitchen cabinets, as is my Thanksgiving timeline for cooking. The giant electric roasting pan is in the other room, too, awaiting storage.

But I’m not entirely unprepared for Christmas. For instance, my Christmas china (Spode, Christmas Tree pattern, in case you feel like sending a gift) is on display. (Nevermind that it’s on display in the hutch year-round.) And I do have those wrapped Christmas gifts stashed under my bed. The Spode tea kettle that I never managed to get put away last year after Christmas is finally appropriate sitting on my stove. It looked kind of weird in July, but now it looks just right.

I’m in a slump, but at least my tea kettle has the Christmas Spirit.

You know how people think their little one is The Cutest and The Smartest Child Ever? I have never been under that delusion. And that is yet another reason why I wonder if perhaps something is wrong with me.

I suppose it all goes back to my early days as an elementary school student. I thought I was The Smartest Girl in the school because I was a mighty fine student. I loved learning. I loved writing. I loved all things academic. I loved spelling and I especially loved Fridays in fifth grade when we’d have math games at the blackboard. I always won. I was very smart, indeed. (And humble.)

Then, the world collapsed and my parents divorced and I realized I was fat (though at a completely normal weight and normal size). And then *cue ominous music* sixth grade happened.

I easily won my classroom spelling bee and went on to the all-school spelling bee. I intended to win, as I was The Best Speller. Or so I thought. Then I encountered the word, “cellophane,” and I fell apart. Cellophane? I was out. Back in my homeroom, I found a small folded paper . . . I unfolded it and found “C-E-L-L-O-P-H-A-N-E” pencilled in block letters.*

That was the beginning of my personal realization. I was not the Smartest Girl in the School. I was definitely not the Cutest Girl in the School. I was just another kid, an tall girl with brown eyes and dishwater blond hair who couldn’t spell “cellophane.”

My quest for perfection was not yet over, though. I intended to graduate with a 4.00 grade point average. And then came that fateful class in high school in which I received a B+. Stupid, stupid, alcoholic choir teacher. Not that I’m still bitter, but that woman gave me a B+ for the semester grade, even though I had excellent attendance, participation and an A for my first quarter grade. I received a B for the second quarter because I missed a choir contest–which I explained to her in advance that I’d have to miss due to a prior commitment. She gave me extra credit so I could make up the deficit. She implied that the extra credit would make up for the missed contest.

And then she ruined my grade point average. The grown-up Mel would have protested, but the teenage Mel accepted the unjust grade with dismay. If only I knew then what I know now.

So, where am I going with this long-winded dissertation? Well.

All I have to do is look around and I see people who are smarter than me, more talented than me, cuter than me, skinnier than me, and who understand poetry and politics. And I dearly love my children, but I see them clearly. I know they are not the cutest, smartest, cleverest children ever.

I am objective, unlike my sister-in-law who believes that her grandson is the best kid in the universe. He’s a brat and his kindergarten teacher will tell you so. He got in trouble for stripping naked in the school bathroom and his grandma, my sister-in-law, thinks that this is somehow the teacher’s fault. Poor poor child, it’s not his fault that he’s a hellion who is always in trouble. Whatever.

Maybe I’m just a little crabby tonight. As you can see, I have no illusion that I’m correct . . . but I am definitely sure that I am irritable and unlikely to win Miss Congeniality. And my kids? They are terrific, but so are a lot of other kids . . . and mine aren’t spoiled rotten brats who think they deserve to be treated like royalty.

*I never did find out who put that little slip of paper in my desk.

There are three things you ought to know about me:

1) I am not a morning person. As my husband likes to joke, “Do you wake up grumpy in the morning? No, I let her sleep.”
2) I give myself a very small margin of time in the mornings. Why waste time being alert when you can be snuggled under the covers on a dismal morning?
3) I refuse to get out of bed until the clock shows a multiple of five. For instance, I will not get up at 6:44 a.m. Instead, I will wait with one eye open and the rest of myself fast asleep until 6:45 a.m. And then, if I accidentally sleep until 6:46 a.m., I must wait until 6:50 a.m. (Obsessive? Compulsive? Or just crazy?)

This morning, these three truths converged and the doorbell rang while I was still showering. When I emerged a few moments later, my husband–strangely awake and dressed in sweatpants–informed me that my daycare child had already arrived.

I said, “What?!? It’s not 7:15!”

And he said, “Yeah, he said he left early this morning in case the roads were bad.”

And I said, “Well. You should have told him to sit in the car until 7:15.” Because I am just that merciful and accomodating first thing in the morning.

It was only 7:12 a.m. when I stepped outside of the bathroom, more than enough time to get dressed and half-heartedly dry my hair.

When I say 7:15, I mean 7:15. That’s something else you might want to know about me. I’m kind of particular about things like that.

p.s. We have cold rain this morning and it’s pretty hard to make a snowmen out of cold rain. Update!!

An inch of snow might fall tonight and that’s the lead story on the local news.

You have to love the Pacific Northwest!

Update: 10:35 a.m. The rain has turned to big gloppy flakes of wet snow. The children are entranced and stand outside in this miserable weather soggy winter wonderland. I took photographs, documenting our first snow fall of the season.

I suppose Seattle will now officially shut down for the day.

Only snippets float around in my brain, kind of like those floaters you get in your eye which are extremely distracting during a boring lecture on the pentateuch at 7:30 a.m.

For instance, I thought just a second ago about how I used to put myself to sleep with visions of a plump-cheeked baby back when we used to be childless. I never once envisioned a twelve year old. Nor does the same image put me to sleep anymore.
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I acknowledged to myself over the past few days how furious I am with my mother and her icky new boyfriend. I mean, maybe he’s not even icky, but the fact is, since she started “seeing” him–whoever he is, as far as I know, no police check has been done–she doesn’t call. She hasn’t stopped by (we live in the same town). Is it too much to hope for an attentive grandmother when one was raised with an absent mother?

The answer to that is yes. Obviously.
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I vowed to myself to eat only vegetables and fruit tomorrow. Will I ever actually feel hungry again?
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In what universe do women wear pointy high heels with jeans? I mean, besides Oprah-land?
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I’m so not ready for another week of childcare, school-at-home and preschoolers.
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Nick and Jessica broke up? What? Doesn’t anybody stay together anymore?
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I feel silly for looking forward to Oprah’s appearance on David Letterman next week. But I feel completely justified in looking forward to the new season of “24.”
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Today, I read about googlewhacking. I’m afraid I now have another way to procrastinate and avoid my housework. Great. Just what I needed. As if Hawaii and Tahiti aren’t distracting enough.

We have a fake Christmas tree and I’m only a little not ashamed to admit it. This is practically sacrilege here in the Pacific Northwest, the Evergreen State, the home of lots of trees and at Christmas-time, lots of lots of trees. Oh, sure, there are photographs of the childhood me posing in front of an shiny silver tree which had its own cool color-changing spotlight, but when my family moved from the Midwest to the Northwest, all that fakery ended.

From that moment on, no more imitation trees. In fact, after my dad married his second wife, we took things a step farther and had living trees, their roots wrapped in burlap, in our living room. (We planted them after Christmas.) Some of my relatives had fake trees and I thought that was weird and wrong. (One of my great-aunts kept her fake tree up until February, which is beyond weird and wrong.)

When we moved to Michigan, our twins were 19 months old. Since we moved right before Thanksgiving, we decided not to have a tree at all. We reasoned that the boys would never remember and the daunting task of protecting a Christmas tree from lively almost-two-year olds was too much. But by the time they were three, we not only had a tree, but we did the fairytale family outing to a Christmas tree farm. We tromped through deep snow, pulling the children along by their arms, until at last, we found an acceptable tree.

Felling said tree was not a joyous holiday event. The saw the farm gave us was faulty or we were uncoordinated, but the task frustrated us and sucked the holiday joy right out of the experience.

That tree left sharp needles in our carpet which poked into our tender feet when we least expected it–even months later. And for whatever reason, I ended up being the person prone under the tree, wiggling and screwing the pitchy wood into the rickety tree stand. Snow melted and dripped into my eyes.

The next Christmas season found me great with child and I and my pregnant belly insisted that we get a fake tree. I couldn’t stomach the thought of struggling with a real live Christmas tree. So we abandoned our smug family ideas and kissed the picture-worthy cutting down of tree outing goodbye and joined the fake tree club.

My husband purchased a fake tree at Sears for a hundred bucks. We’ve been using it ever since, so I figure that the current cost of that tree is about $12.50 a year. Do I miss the smell of an evergreen tree in the house? Sure. That’s where Yankee Candles come in handy. Do I miss stepping on pine needles? No. Do I miss trying to keep a tree from becoming a flaming fire hazard? No.

Am I deeply ashamed to feature a fake tree in my home? Well, let’s just say I am shallowly ashamed of my fake tree. At least it’s a fake pretending to be real, unlike the silvery fake of my earliest days.

I am giving thanks for the following:

1) A closet full of good shoes. When I was a teenager, volunteering at the hospital, I had to have a pair of brown loafers. I bought a cheap pair of fake leather shoes at Payless because that was all I could afford. I will never forget the day my handsome cousin held one of those shoes in his hands and made a disparaging remark about it. He was kidding me, sort of, but I was mortified and I never bought another pair of cheap fake leather shoes again.

2) My 1972 house with its sparkly ceilings and brown door. Sure, I get jealous when I visit custom-made homes with bamboo floors and black marble kitchen counters, but this house is perfect for us. We bought it without even seeing it. At the time, we had three boys–this house has three bedrooms, plus a converted garage. The converted garage (which is like a rec room) is big enough that my mom lived with us for almost two years . . . and now that we had another child, my twins have that room. We had no idea we’d have four children (being infertile and all–ha ha ha ha) but our house is just the right size for all of us. ((Yes, I was unfaithful, but that only happened once and you would have been, too, don’t deny it.)

3) My husband. The first time I saw him, he was sweating in the South Carolina heat and spitting and who knew that my Prince Charming would come from Texas, but he did. He thinks I’m hilarious, he overlooks my neurosis, he encourages me to pursue my individual dreams and interests. He’s the most fabulous father and as far as I can remember, he’s never slammed a door. He thinks we’re very different from each other, but that’s just because he’s a boy and I’m a girl–just beyond those differences, we share common bonds, values, backgrounds and goals.

4) Kids I never thought I’d have. Back in the Dark Days of 1989, infertility loomed over us like a storm cloud. The doctors said it was unlikely we’d ever have kids and all I wanted was to be a mother. And now, all these years later, I have a house full of children. Today, my boys peeled potatoes, one of my twins made the much-maligned green bean casserole, and my daughter helped make pies. If my heart had pants, I’d have to unbutton them because I am just that full.

5) My faith. Philip Yancey says faith is believing in advance what makes sense only in reverse. I’m beginning to see what that means. As the map of my life unfolds, my journey makes more sense. I can see where I’ve been and I have a better idea of the direction I’m headed. I am thankful to the Creator and for glimpses of heaven here on earth.

My thankful list could go on and on, but I was on my feet most of the day and I’m eager to crawl into bed. Dinner was delicious. My habitually late guests were actually on time. The children were cooperative and well-behaved today. For all this, I give thanks.

Lately, I’ve heard some people pine for a Pajama Thanksgiving, one where street clothes and obligatory visits to in-laws and relatives are not required. I have a long history of untraditional Thanksgivings, though I’ve never spent Thanksgiving Day in my pajamas.

I have no memory of a single Thanksgiving with both of my parents in attendance. But I do vaguely remember shuttling from household to household in the post-divorce era. I also remember one particularly horrific Thanksgiving Day spent at my stepmother’s sister’s home. The sister had a three or four-year old son who spoke with careful, slow earnestness. This boy was a nasally, preternaturally curious, annoying kid with a penchant for big words. I was a self-conscious teenager, which is why I wished for death when he said to me (in front of God and everybody) in his loud voice, “WHY DO YOU HAVE SUCH LARGE *BREASTS?” (Okay. Maybe that’s too much information, but I’m telling you, I was mortified.)

In college, once I went to Wichita, Kansas, for Thanksgiving with a friend. Her parents were out of town and the heat was off in the house. She didn’t know how to get the furnace to kick on–it must have been malfunctioning–and we couldn’t get a fire lighted. We froze. We ate dinner at her friends’ home. I have no idea who they were. Our return trip to Springfield, Missouri, was a nightmare. What should have taken five hours took ten because the roads were covered with a shiny layer of slick ice. I thought for sure we would die.

When our twins were three and we lived far from family, we went to a buffet restaurant for Thanksgiving. I remember that day with fondness. All the wonder of a big feast with no dishes to do! And the boys ate like birds in those days and their meals were free. What’s not to love?

Usually, though, I cook. I like the smell of turkey cooking. I like leftovers. I like to relax in my own home with my own family. We don’t stay in our pajamas, but our attitude is pajama-like. Sit down, relax, we aren’t trying to impress anyone. We have nowhere to go, nothing to do but eat and digest.

And for you skeptics, that’s okay if you don’t want a helping of my stuffing with sliced green olives and raisins. That just means there’s more for me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

My mother had four kids, just like me. So when she says on the phone, “I don’t know how you do it,” I have no ready reply. What do you mean, you don’t know how? YOU HAD FOUR KIDS! Just like me.

But when my mother’s youngest child was three and her oldest child was eleven, her marriage crumbled and she lost custody of us. So, I guess she really doesn’t know. I can’t imagine what that would be like, to go from sticky Cheerio bowls and bickering in the backyard to visit once or twice a month. After the initial relief, does deep, dark depression set in?

So often, I feel like I am doing nothing, just refolding the same laundry, sweeping the same floor, cooking the same meals, wearing the same jeans, picking up the same toys–and it feels like nothing. I know, of course, that I’m doing everything, what with raising human beings from cradle to adulthood, but the progress is slow and I’m not even sure if we’re heading in the right direction some days.

And then my mother exclaims, “You do the work of four people!”

I laughed. Maybe four extremely lazy, unambitious people.

She said, “You homeschool.” (I mentally correct her and say school-at-home in my head and then I think of how many times in the past week I have yelled at my Reluctant Student who drags his feet.)

She said, “You take care of other people’s kids.” (Well, true, but only for the money. And they nap.)

She said, “You have your own children and you’re the chief cook and bottle washer.” (I think of my inadequate housekeeping, my pitiful meals, my disgusting toilets. I think of the board games I don’t play, the times I am desperate to get away from these kids, how insane it makes me to hear them chew.)

She said, “Then you volunteer at the church.” (But I know that really, all I do is teach a Sunday School class for preschoolers and direct Vacation Bible School, and compared to other pastor’s wives, compared to other Church Ladies, even, I do practically nothing. I am a sorry excuse for a pastor’s wife.)

I wonder if it feels like I’m doing nothing because I do what I do simultaneously? I am hardly ever focused on a single task. Even at this moment, I am half-watching the American Music Awards. Can I just say that I thought Mariah Carey’s opening song was dreadful? And I think Mariah Carey is one of the most amazing singers ever. I also practically blushed with embarrassment on behalf of Hilary Duff–how can she not be mortified at herself, bopping around on the stage, singing a silly song about heart beats? What ridiculous lyrics and crazy dancing and what a truly ugly dress she wore.

Um, what was I saying? I seem to be a little sidetracked.

Well, tomorrow is a half-day of school, then Thursday is Turkey Day. I’ll be staying home, cooking everything myself because I am just that stupid fabulous. And because I turned down an invitation to my mother’s tiny apartment because my children annoy her (let’s just be honest) and there isn’t enough room in her abode for us to spread out, especially in light of the fact that my brother (The Prodigal Son) and his wife and my grandmother (almost 100 years old, be impressed) and my cousin and her new boyfriend and her same old daughter will also be there, taking up square footage.

Seriously, there isn’t enough room for us. We’ll probably go over for dessert. Maybe. Well, probably. It’s only three minutes away. How can we not?

One final note. In my family, we put green olives and raisins in our stuffing. What else would you expect from someone who grew up thinking pickles and ketchup belong on tacos?

My daughter is three years and three months old. She is a delicate child with long fingers and short reluctant-to-grow blond curls. For three years now, since her first Thanksgiving, she has been markedly reticent around people she doesn’t know well. (On that first Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house, she screamed her head off until I brought her home.) She is sensitive and a big fan of fingernail polish and pretty dresses.

This morning, she climbed onto her kid-sized table in the kitchen and proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen!” She noticed me watching and shot a shy, sly glance my way. She paused dramatically. I waited for a song, a dance, a recitation of the alphabet.

Then she announced, “I am going to kick your butt!”