And today, the children decorated frosting Christmas trees, constructed with royal meringue icing and candy.  It’s like gingerbread house decoration, only without the architecture.  The smaller trees are upside down ice cream cones.  The larger ones are Styrofoam cones. 

I used to think my life as a mother would be one craft project after the next . . . reality is that one craft project over the span of a Christmas break is all I can manage.

Tomorrow?  Cookies, I think.  Brownies, for sure, for a church family with a new baby.  After that?  A mandatory Christmas pageant rehearsal.  Ho ho ho. 

But right now . . . David Letterman.

 

The thing is, I parked within the lines at Costco last Sunday . . . contrary to the accusations of the anonymous commenter on the previous post who determined that I deserved to have my vehicle “keyed” in five separate places.  I suspect that commenter has personal experience . . . otherwise, how would he/she know what, exactly, the criteria is for vandalizing another person’s property.  What a dork.  I only published your comment so everyone could see what an idiot you are.

I managed to get my Christmas cards in the mail today.  Yesterday, I devoted myself to preparing three packages to be sent to Texas to relatives . . . and wouldn’t you know, they’ll be late anyway.  Oh well.  Tomorrow, I’m thinking about making Christmas cookies for the neighbors . . . a gesture to all the families of the boys who tend to hang out here.  (Yesterday, two brothers were here for almost an hour and NONE of my boys were even home.  How funny is that?)

Our church is having a little pageant on Christmas Eve and I’m telling you, the daily practices are really cramping my style!  (Even though I personally don’t have to attend.)  At least we’re only having one service this Christmas Eve.  Usually, my husband is gone from the afternoon until after midnight.  That’s why I instituted our annual Christmas Eve meal:  nachos.  I wanted our Christmas Eve dinner to be festive, easy and kid-friendly.  They think it’s really cool to have nachos for dinner and it’s really easy (they mostly like the fake-nacho cheese that comes in a can, which I hate . . . but boy, it’s simple!)  I make fancier nachos for myself. 

Saturday night, we went to a dinner.  Guess where it was held?

 

And I found the sign I’d like to have hanging over my room in the nursing home:

I found that sign very amusing, almost as amusing as anonymous commenters.

I love receiving personal mail as much as the next person.  Thus, Christmas-card season is one of my favorite mail-times of the year.  However, when I open up a card from an old friend and all I find are signatures . . . I am disappointed.  I want a breezy summary of the year or at least a few bullet points or something!  How about a handwritten sentence or a promise to email or visit?

I hate the Christmas newsletter bragging as much as the next person . . . my blood turns green from envying all the Hawaiian vacations and tropical cruises, but still, I’d rather have that kind of news than no news at all.  Tell me how much smarter your kids are than mine and how they were invited to a Hollywood premiere based on their cuteness alone.  But tell me something.

At the very least, send a picture!  Preferably one of someone with a finger in her nose.  (Ah-ha!  An excuse to post this picture again!)

Now, I must go write my amusing, informative and yet completely devoid-of-bragging newsletter.  You should, too!

This story (over at “Notes from the Trenches”) reminds me of the Christmas that my husband gave me a gift certificate for a massage.  I placed that white envelope in the windowsill until after the festivities.

After the festivities, my husband hurried all the wrappings and ribbons into the dumpster. 

I never saw that envelope again.  He claims I lost it.  I know he threw it away.  The massage therapist refused to honor the gift–even though it was a small office and the person who sold the gift certificate clearly remembered my husband purchasing said certificate–and thus, I never got that massage.

And my husband still thinks I lost it and I still know he threw it away,

I went for my twice-a-decade dentist appointment this afternoon.  The dentist cheered after he looked in my mouth because he realized that now he’ll be able to take that cruise through the South Pacific islands next February.  In fact, he’ll be able to take a dozen friends.

I hate the dentist, not personally, of course, but the sound of metal scraping my teeth, the grit of that polishing stuff, the bright lights shining in my eyes, the sound of money slipping into my molars.  I hate that.

My daughter was heard chanting in the other room today.  “I’m doing the underpants dance.  First you wiggle your bottom!  Then you wiggle your pants!” 

I will not be doing the underpants dance.  Especially considering that I can’t afford to shake any of my old fillings loose.

Adopt-a-book coming soon!  This is how it will work:

1)  I’ll list a book I’m going to relinquish.

2)  You’ll leave a comment and Paypal me a quarter (Melodee-at-gmail-dot-com–replace dashes/words with symbols).  [UPDATE:  Paypal takes the quarter as a “fee” if you fund your Paypal account with a debit/credit card.  I will pay the postage and if you win, you may choose to send me a buck or two to offset the costs.  Fair enough?]

3)  I will randomly choose a winner after, say, twenty-four hours.

4)  Book will be packed and shipped off to its new home.

We’ll see how this works and tweak the procedure if need be.

In other news, we’re having cold, blustery rain.  How is it where you live?  Really.  I want to know.

 

I decided to clean up the kitchen.  It was almost 9 p.m.  I had already exercised and changed into pajamas.  After cleaning the kitchen, I planned to read the newspaper.

And then, suddenly, my slippers slid in a cascade of water that gushed from under the sink.  In a flash, I turned off the dishwasher and snapped the faucet off and grabbed for towels as water covered half the kitchen floor. 

I lived through this calamity once before, the night before Thanksgiving a few years back.  I knew what I must do.  I spread a carpet of towels on the floor, pulled out the miscellany of cleaning supplies and the crock-pots out from the cabinet and then put my clothes back on.  I drove straight to Albertson’s, bought Liquid Plumr and nothing else, and drove straight home.  I poured those chemicals down my sink and now, at 10:55 p.m., the dishwasher is strumming along, singing a little tune and draining its hot water down the unclogged drain.

I rock.

This morning’s adventure was a rousing success, though the 13-year old twins reported, “I’m bored,” within ten minutes of our arrival at the appropriate Community Center.  However, they soon discovered the joy of stringing popcorn and then started a game of Monopoly with a boy in an orange shirt.  I helped the little ones make reindeer puppets with brown construction paper cut-outs of their hands.  Then, they decorated snowflakes with tubes of glitter glue.  My four-year old, Grace, has an obsession with glue, particularly if glitter is involved, so she spent quite a stretch of time dotting her snowflake with little globs of sparkly goo. 

Eventually, I ended up on the chilly, goose-poop covered path which half-circled the pond.  I, ever the Pied Piper, led a procession of five boys and one girl.  I chanted, “Watch out for poop!  Don’t step in poop!” over and over again. 

When we arrived at the event, I took out my camera, only to discover it dead, so dead.  Bummer.  (Battery problem, not coronary disease.)  So, I whipped out my brand new, cute little pink cell phone and snapped cell phone pictures which are now trapped in my phone because I don’t have the foggiest idea how to transfer those photos.  Guess I’ll have to read the manual.  I’d take a picture with my newly batteried-up camera, but the house is still in a box in the back of the Disco Van and thus, no picture.  Maybe later.

My gingerbread house did not win a prize, but then, after seeing the other remarkable creations, I’m not surprised.  Clearly, some other overachievers spent more than two hours decorating their houses.  I was just happy to be back home by 1:30 p.m. . . and then, six neighborhood boys appeared to frolic and roughhouse in my yard. 

Happily, tomorrow is Saturday which can only mean one thing.  I’m jetting out of this house quicker than you can say “clogged sink” or “Mom, I’m hungry!”.   

 

It’s 11:48 p.m.  I hear Jay Leno’s studio audience laughing.  The center of my back, right between my shoulder blades aches.  I need to pee. 

In approximately nine and a half hours, I will gather up five children (three of mine and an extra four year old and a two year old) and the following items:

1)  One fully decorated (by me, from 9 p.m. to 11 p.m., minus a half-hour break to watch “The Duel” on MTV) gingerbread house.  I not only decorated it, I also baked the gingerbread from scratch.  This will likely be the last time I ever participate in such folly.  (And by “folly” I mean baking the thing from scratch.  The house smelled delightful, but I am no Martha Stewart.)  You can’t even see the gingerbread because I loaded the thing with so much candy. 

2)  Lunch for everyone.  Diaper bag for the 2-year old.

3)  Sample math and composition work for the kids’ portfolios to deliver to the teacher.

4)  Camera.

5)  Directions.

We are going to a Virtual Academy Winter Wonderland party.  My whole day has centered around the ridiculous gingerbread house, which I imagine I should have let the children decorate, but 1) they are not crafty and 2) I didn’t have time.  How did this date sneak up on me?  And how silly is it that I decorated the gingerbread house when the whole point, I imagine, was to have some fun family activity? 

I have vowed that I’ll let the kids decorate personal gingerbread houses in a couple of weeks during Christmas break. 

And now, five minutes until the clock strikes twelve and I turn back into a servant-girl.  Or something like that.  *POOF*

A woman showed up at my front door today with her pre-teen son at her side.  I thought maybe she came to share with me the way of salvation, but instead, it turned out that she knew someone who knows me.  The boy at her side was her son and she wondered if he could stay at our house all afternoon and then go with my boys to youth group tonight.  My boys don’t attend youth group, but I said, “Sure,” and that’s how I ended up with yet another boy in my house.

Isn’t it odd, though, that someone I’d never laid eyes on before dropped her son off at my house before jetting off to work?  And isn’t it stranger still that I agreed to this sudden arrangement?

The boys all played some crazy physical game outside where they attempted to beat each others’ brains out.  Or something like that.  I opened the front door at one point and hollered out, “You!  Big kids!  Take it easy on the little kids!” and then closed the door again. 

They soon galloped into the back yard and played a noisy game of hide-and-seek.  Then they all trampled inside.  My 8-year old had muddy pant-legs and flushed cheeks and dirty hands.  Two boys have gone home, but there are still seven boys in the Boy Cave.  The three littler kids are running back and forth in the house.

*  *  *

Do I look different tonight?  I’m typing from the keyboard of my brand new bottom-of-the-line Dell laptop computer.  Yes, I know, several of you recommended (practically demanded, really) that I purchase an Apple computer, but I’m a simple girl with simple needs and a very small budget. 

Tell me this.  If I offered free books, would you be willing to contribute a quarter (per chance) if you wanted the book?  That way, someone gets the book for twenty-five cents and I don’t have to pay shipping.  I will probably give away two books a week if enough people will donate a quarter in exchange for a chance to win.  (Kind of like a raffle, but very unofficial . . . we’d use Paypal.)  Let me know if you would participate in such a giveaway.  I’d love to send books without asking for anything in return, but I’m not made of money.  Alas. 

So, would you send a quarter for a chance to adopt a book?  Yes or no?  Anyone have a better idea?

I woke up with a stiff, sore jaw because I’d slept immobile half the night after my four-year old daughter insisted (with tears) that she needed to sleep with me.  I scooted over to the middle of the king-sized bed and she curled up against my back and everyone slept soundly.  Except me.  I inhabited that space between deep sleep and consciousness and didn’t jostle anyone until morning. 

We didn’t get out of bed until after 8:30 a.m. which was such a luxury.  The days of a baby shrieking at dawn are behind me and I say that with a complete absence of longing or nostalgia.  I am so happy to sleep past dawn on a regular basis.

I would have stayed in bed longer, but my free time lasted only until 2:30 p.m.  Saturday is my day off, on normal weeks, and I relish walking out the front door and climbing into my disco van (really, all this “golf conversion” van lacks is a disco ball–it has mini blinds and a seat that converts into a bed in the back) and driving away from my home.  Today I forgot my cell phone, so I was truly disconnected from my family.  It was refreshing.

I went to the following places, in this order:

1)  Gas station.

2)  Bank.

3)  Camera shop to drop off random roll of black and white film.

4)  Game store to ask about Nintendo Wii.  (No promise of anything before Christmas.)

5)  GI Joe’s Sporting Goods to gaze at slippers on sale for $17.  Left with nothing.  Slipper sole seemed too stiff.

6)  Target.  Picked up rain ticket items:  a vacuum for $10 and a digital camera card for $7.97.  And a few more things.

7)  Marshall’s to shop the clearance racks.  Will now be capable of dressing for various holiday events.

8)  Taco Time.  Soft taco. 

9)  Value Village.  Bought two big stacks of books: 

The Moral Intelligence of Children by Robert Coles;

The Ultimate Weight Loss Solution by Dr. Phil McGraw (for giveaway on other blog);

French Women Don’t Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano;

What Should I Do With My Life?  by Po Bronson (I read an article about him or saw him on a talk show once);

When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It’s Time To Go Home by Erma Bombeck;

The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory;

And Then I Had Teenagers by Susan Alexander Yates;

Personal History by Katharine Graham;

Parenting Teens with Love and Logic by Foster Cline, M.D. and Jim Fay;

And One More Thing Before You Go by Maria Shriver;

Before the Change:  Taking Charge of Your Perimenopause by Ann Louise Gittleman, Ph.D.;

Our Greatest Gift (A Meditation on Dying and Caring) by Henri J.M. Nouwen;

A Million Little Pieces by (the Liar) James Frey;

All this, plus a bag of bouncy balls and a stuffed snowman (which I paid the exorbitant price of $4.99!) for $36 total, including tax.  I also hatched a plan to send you, my readers, my cast-off books as I finish each one.  It’ll be fun.

Then I went home.  Half an hour passed, then I left again, this time taking the boys with me.  We went to see The Nativity Story.  (The boys said they liked it.  I thought it was beautifully done, though not entirely realistic nor with a fabulous screenplay.  It was family-friendly (for instance, Baby Jesus was born without an umbilical cord attached, oddly enough), though, and an adequate portrayal of the Christmas story.

Anyway, then we went through the Wendy’s drive-thru and took dinner home.  My husband went to work for a couple of hours, I exercised, read another chapter of Pat Conroy’s The Losing Season and put my daughter to bed. 

Then I read most of an Oprah magazine while waiting (impatiently) for the boys to go to bed, too.

Now, blessed silence fills the house.  I’m only sorry that all too soon I’ll have to sleep, too, and waste this quietness.

Three more neighborhood boys turned up today in my back yard.  For those keeping score at home, that means eight neighborhood boys here, added to my three boys . . . eleven boys, flinging snowballs created from the one inch of snow that fell two nights ago. 

Truly, it is a season of miracles.