What Memphis is Like

Imagine that you are a young woman in the prime of your life. You have this boyfriend; he is sexy and smart and fun to be around, mostly. As soon as you met, he opened himself up to you and you could see all this amazing potential. He could be great, and you could be great by his side. The two of you have chemistry. There's just something about him that feels right to you.

You even like a lot of his friends. They're interesting and sharp and when you all hang out together, you feel so at home. You know that if you were dating some other guy, some Joe Schmoe from the office, you would never have found friends this cool. They introduce you to all this great music and they know all the best places to hear it. There's not a hole-in-the-wall or greasy spoon they haven't tried and judged, and you revel in the fruits of their searching.

He even cooks. He can make all kinds of things, but he has one dish, let's say barbecue, that is really special--the best you've ever had. Sure, maybe sometimes he gets in a barbecue rut, but even then, you have to admit it's good. It's what you want him to make when friends come over, and it's what you crave when you have to be apart.

But this guy, he has some issues. For a while you can overlook the problems--no one's perfect, right? So he's a little moody. A little bit of a slob around the house. The apartment you now share is starting to look a little shabby, especially when you compare it to your friends' places. Still, its better than what you could afford if you weren't with him. And really, you could let all of that go, every bit of it, if it weren't for this anger thing that just seems to be getting worse with every passing day.

At first you only hear about it. There's a story of how he lost it with some guy at a bar, or the office smartass. Then there will be a day now and then when he seems touchy, quick to raise his voice. After a while, it gets harder to relax around him. You're always wondering, in the back of your mind, when he's going to blow. And finally one day, it happens--he directs the full force of his anger at you. You probably didn't even do anything, just minding your own business when suddenly, Bam! He's in your face, screaming about nothing you did, and then the unthinkable happens, and he hits you.

You are stunned. Somehow, even though you knew it was happening all around you, you cannot believe this has hit home. You think about leaving, but it's so hard to wrap your mind around all the things you will lose. And even though it makes you hate yourself a little bit, you still love him. You can't forget all the good times, all the things you only feel when you're with him. You know that you won't get to keep his friends. Sure, you'll stay in touch, but it can never be the same. And you won't be able to go to the old hangouts--they're his territory. You imagine never tasting his cooking again--where will you get babrbecue that good? You look at other apartments and think of how you could fix them up, make them your own, and it all seems great, but then you go home and all your stuff is there, and your good memories, and it makes you angry that he has done this.

Why should you have to leave? Why can't he get himself together, why can't all those things you love about him be the whole story, why can't he see how perfect things would be if he would just deal with his problems? But in the end, you know that he won't. You know that you have to go. And you know, already, that you will never get over the feeling that he was the one, that it really was meant to be between the two of you, but he ruined it, and you just can't forgive him for that. You will never stop feeling angry about what could have been, the waste of it, the frustrating clarity of your vision of the man he could have chosen to become. You're young, you'll meet someone else, but you know there's some small part of yourself that you won't be able to give again, because you never got it back.

That is exactly what Memphis is like.

I'm Okay, You're Okay

One of the things I like about reading my friends' blogs is the way their thoughts and experiences can lead me to closer contemplation of my own. For example, reading Rita's post about people's reaction to her return to martial arts classes brought me back to something I've been thinking about lately myself. And really, what good are other people if they don't provide me with a platform to talk about me, me, me?

Really, though, Rita was saying that she's gotten a lot of "you're so brave" comments, which she can't help but hearing as "wow, you look so foolish, yet you get out there in that hideous uniform anyway" (to paraphrase). Wisely she has decided to enjoy herself and not care what people think. So how does that relate to me? It's kind of complicated. I think a lot of my persona is built on th foundation of "I don't care what you think of me," and on reflection, for the most part, I find that to be true. The trouble is more with what I think of me, or if your idea of me doesn't match up to my own idea of what you are supposed to think of me. That's reasonable, right?

I know that I have a problem with taking myself too seriously. Sometimes that makes it hard for me to determine why I'm really doing or not doing something. I think there are a lot of things I don't do because in no universe can I comprehend how those things are supposed to be fun. Which wouldn't matter, except they're always things that a lot of other people think are fun, and the end result is that I come across as a curmudgeonly or stuck up or more-highbrow-than-thou. It's hard to even list specific examples because of the mental list of friends who are going to read them and say "Oh, so you think all these things that I do are stupid, huh?" Which is tricky because, while those things do seem kind of unfathomable to me, that doesn't mean I think you're dumb for doing them. Maybe that means that I'm not so much worried about me or what you think of me, but about what you think I think of you? This is getting confusing.

Suffice it to say that even if no one would ever see me or know that I had done it, I would never, ever, ever stand in my own living room and play Rock Band any more than I would ever stand in front of a bar full of strangers and sing karaoke. Just like I really and truly do not like reality TV, even though you may suspect that I secretly watch and love it but just pretend I'm "better" than that. I know that makes some of you sad for me, but really, it's okay. Because knowing that I wouldn't want to do it even if no one were watching or would ever even find out assures me that it's not about making an ass of myself. That's just not what I think is fun. So I'm okay with that. And I guess I want my Rock-Band/various-other-video-game-playing/Rock-of-Love-watching friends to be okay with that too. I won't be embarrassed for you, and you don't have to feel sorry for me for missing all the fun.

As for the American Idol thing, well, maybe we don't need to talk about that right now.

Dirty Santa

Genevieve has a habit of fixating on ideas and events. For a long time, she was obsessed with her birthday party. We could see a motorcycle and she'd say "I had two motorcycels at my birthday party. They were pink and purple." If she saw something she liked she would insist that she either had or would have that thing at her birthday party. Every day was about her birthday. The funny thing is, she's never even had a birthday party. My kids have their first real party when they turn five and are old enough to remember me spending that kind of money for a Spongebob cake at the bowling alley for them and their spazzy friends.

Lately, though, she has changed her focus. Christmas seems to have been the catalyst, although the effect was slightly delayed. Now it's all about the fat man in the red suit. And even though she sometimes speaks of him as a friend who is going to bring her things, she also blames him for all her injuries.

It started as Christmas approached and we tried to get Genevieve excited about Santa bringing her toys in the middle of the night. Without fail, she would insist that Santa was going to punch her in the stomach. I have no idea where my two year old got the mental image of a jolly old elf sneaking into her room in the dark of night to punch her in the gut as she slept, but it seemed to be firmly entrenched.

Now whenever she has a mysterious bruise or scratch, if I ask her how she got it she replies witout missing a beat "Santa hit me." Where is she getting this? Am I going to catch some stranger lurking around my house at night dressed as Mr. Clause?

Refreshed

I did not touch a computer all weekend. It was an unplanned break, one that happened naturally, and that's probably for the best since the minute I set a limit for myself, I will defiantly break it just to prove that I can. Such is the life of the ODD sufferer. Anyway, it was nice!

We hosted a group yard sale Saturday, since we do have plenty of yard to go around. I amused SAM and BD by taking seemingly random strangers on a spontaneous tour of the house, including my closet. Because if you come to my house, I'm showing you that closet! But they were not in fact random strangers. They were Kristen from the MOMS' board and her husband Josh and their baby girl whose name, I believe, is Ella. So there.

In other acts of gregariousness to total strangers, I introduced myself to our new neighbors and ended up sitting and chatting with them for an hour on their lovely back porch while my boys joined their boys on their trampoline. Also, last night while going through the U-Scan line at Kroger to buy exactly one tub of Cool-Whip for a terrible pie I attempted to make, I allowed two different people to use my discount card since they didn't have one. Like I do.

Slain

I read this story on this blog this morning and it just immobilized me. It's from Bird by Bird, by Anne Lammot. I own that book but I've never read it, because she's kind of Christiany and spiritual and I tend to avoid that stuff.

Here is the best true story on giving I know, and it was told by Jack Kornfield of the Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Woodacre. An eight year old boy had a younger sister who was dying of leukemia, and he was told that without a blood transfusion she would die. His parents explained to him that his blood was probably compatible with hers, and if so, he could be the blood donor. They asked him they could test his blood. He said sure. So they did and it was a good match. Then they asked if he would give his sister a pint of blood, that it could be her only chance of living. He said he would have to think about it overnight.The next day he went to his parents and said he was willing to donate the blood. So they took him to the hospital where he was put on a gurney beside his six-year-old sister. Both of them were hooked up to IVs. A nurse withdrew a pint of blood from the boy, which was then put in the girls' IV. The boy lay on his gurney in silence while the blood dripped into his sister, until the doctor came over to see how he was doing. Then the boy opened his eyes and asked, "How soon until I start to die?"

Now, I know this story has some problems: why would it be blood and not bone marrow? Why would it only be a pint of blood? But still! What killed me when I read it was thinking of an eight-year-old boy making what he thought was the sacrifice of his actual life, and doing so while believing that his parents were willing to trade his life for his sister's.

I really hope that is not a true story.

Samoas and Other Mysteries of the Universe

My girl scout finally located her cookie order form and took a break from edging out the Chip-Juices to bring me my four boxes: Samoas, Trefoils, Lemon Chalet Creams, and of course, Thin Mints. This prompted a discussion on the beautiful mystery that is the Samoa. How is it that none of us likes coconut but cannot resist the luscious Samoa? We talked briefly about the new flavors but agreed that the Samoa is still Troop Leader #1.

This indisputable fact was confirmed whenI shared the fact that I was a girl scout for many years and always sold the most cookies in my troop. This was thanks to the fact that my mom worked at Methodist Hospital and would take my order form in to work with her, then bring it back with several sheets of notebook paper stapled to it and covered with orders. A girl in the class smacked her hand on the desk and said with an earnest face and a voice full of longing: "That's because Samoa's ain't no joke."

That Was When I Ruled the World

In my English classes, we are starting on the period in British history known as The Restoration (or The Enlightenment or The Age of Reason or any of several other names), which happened around the same period of time that the colonies grew, revolted, and became America. Since so much of the literature we read in this period consists of social commentary and satire, I spend a little more time on background information than usual, and I had my students presenting on various aspects of the period in groups today.

I also had a student selling girl scout cookies in my fourth period as the kids entered the room. So I waited until after the "Relevant Dates and Milestones" group went and mentioned the Boston tea party to charge my cookie tax, paid in cookies. They thought this was hilarious but did not pay up until I insisted "Y'all think I'm kidding. I want my cookies! If you don't want to pay, you can dump all your cookies in the Boston Harbor in an act of protest." They laughed all the way up to my desk to pay me my cookies. I collected five Thin Mints, a Trefoil, a Samoa, and a new flavor called Dulce de Leche.

When I was done I said "Now I'm going to get fat and it's all your fault. I'll have to charge you a fat tax."

It's good to be queen.

Out the Poop Chute

My baby got sick. As in, sicker than any of my four kids has ever been in my eleven-plus years of motherhood. Sometime around 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning, Genevieve cried and asked to come to our room. I brought her to bed, and instead of wanting to nurse as I expected, she seemed to fall instantly and deeply asleep...for thirty seconds, until she threw up. After a complete strip down of bed, baby, and mom, we layered towels over the clean sheets in standard toddler-vomiting procedure so that they could be stripped away one at a time as needed. Sadly, the towels weren't enough to prevent two more changes of sheets before 10:00 a.m., especially once things started coming out the other end as well.

For those of you who don't know her personally, Genevieve is a little cricket bug. On a good day she weighs about 24 pounds, soaking wet. A full day of being unable to hold down a sip of water while any reserves she had seeped out the back door quickly took its toll. Sometime around 6:00 I was changing her clothes again and she was unable to stand up on her own. I called the pediatrician's after-hours nurse, who called the doctor on call, who confirmed that I needed to take her to the emergency room. I loaded up a diaper bag with extra clothes, a towel, diapers, wipes, and plastic bags and headed to Baptist East.

The emergency department at Baptist is undergoing renovations, and so is the parking lot. After circling a few times, I sucked it up and parked in the garage, which meant I had to walk about six blocks carrying a suddenly-heavy 24 pounds of half-awake toddler and an overloaded bag, along with my purse. Fortunately once we reached the E.R. we only had to wait about half an hour, during which time she threw up the water she'd drunk in the car.

The nurse and doctor we saw were wonderful. The nurse remarked immediately that Genevieve's eyes were very sunken and that she would most likely need IV fluids. The doctor concurred, and soon my poor baby girl was being gently but firmly swaddled in a sheet with one arm pinned to her side, then strapped onto an immobilization board with giant octupus-like blue velcro straps so that she would not injure herself by fighting during the insertion of the needle. She was so weak that all she could do was wimper "Mommy, mommy, mommy" pitifully as I stroked her hair and mumured soothing reassurances while fighting back tears of my own.

Once the needle was in, the nurse quickly took blood and a rectal temp, which was 101.2, and then released her to sit in my lap during the actual receiving of the fluids. She also injected some Zofran into the IV line to stop the vomiting, then left us alone for a bit. There was a wallpaper border of jungle animals at chair-rail height all the way around the small room, and after about five minutes, I pointed out the elephants to Genevieve. For the first time all day, she perked up a little and responded by talking about all the different animals, explaining which was the Daddy and which ones were herelf and her siblings. I was so relieved that I almost cried again. The nurse came in and said she looked noticibly better already and chatted about Genevieve's apparently excellent veins. I told her she must have gotten them from her father, because when I gave birth to that child it took every nurse in the hospital to get my IV in successfully. She looked at my apparently veiny hands and scoffed at the lack of expertise. I think the issue is that mine roll when someone tries to stick them. Anyway...

The doctor came back in and explained how the Zofran works and said he'd give me a prescription for more that could be taken orally if needed. He also explained that now that she was hydrated again, the diarrhea would likely reappear, which it did before we even left the E.R. Over the next two days it really never let up, which added an almost bloody butt rash to the mix of her misery. By Monday she was mostly better but cranky, and by Tuesday she was just plain crabby and over it. She really went 72 hours without eating, so it will probably be a while before she's 100% again. Somerset woke up puking this morning but already seems to be doing better, so I'm hoping it won't hit those of us over 30 pounds as hard, if at all.

Suck it, Ken Starr

Breathing Room

It's funny how being in a different space makes everything, well...different. As we settle into the new abode, I can't help being surprised by some of the things I'm noticing. Some are not so much surprising as eye opening, I guess.

I once read an article by an anthropologist who had spent time studying the effects of overcrowding on mice and, later, on people. Well, not just overcrowding but also a shortage of essentials like food and clean water. Long story short, the mice ate their babies, and the humans let theirs wander into the fire and found it funny, or deprived their loved ones of anything they themselves could get their hands on, even if it was something the loved ones needed and they themselves did not, like medicine for a specific illness.

I wasn't quite to the point of eating my young in the small house, but I was getting close. For a long, long time, that house was fine. It seemed to grow as we grew. I felt that people did not really need as much space as we Americans tend to think we need, and I still believe that. But somewhere in the past year or so, suddenly we popped a seam and the house went from cozy to tight like your skinny jeans 20 pounds later. My response to that too-tight feeling was mainly to hide out in my room, yelling at any child who tumbled into my space, and swearing that I hoped my kids either never had kids, or lived far away before they did so that I would not be expected to babysit. Because honestly, for a while now I've been feeling that if I can just get my kids grown and out of the house, I never want to see another child again as long as I live. Ev. Er. And that's a shame, because my kids are beautiful and smart and funny and sweet. But they're also kids, which means they're often spazzy and loud and whiny and needing something, anything, right that minute. Add in the fact that there are so many of them, and the odds that at least one will be doing something undesirable at any given moment go way up. Throw all that into a 1200 square foot house and well, you get the picture.

But now that we have room to spread out, I find myself feeling better. More relaxed and cheerful and less like there's a swarm of spider monkeys climbing up my body and swinging dangerously close to my head. That's not really surprising, but it's still somewhat like waking from a dream in which the bizarre felt normal, and only in retrospect can my rational mind recognize the insanity.

And of course, my being more relaxed and happy has translated to the kids being less clingy and needy. They are even being very cooperative about bedtime, and Genevieve is putting herself back to sleep most of the times she wakes up at night, which is a totally new thing. They're not underfoot while I cook dinner, and they're not fighting over a single couch cushion, b.k.a. "spot!" on the extra-large couch. As a result, I'm spending some time in the evenings on said couch instead of holed up in my bedroom. It's all circular.

Whirlwind

Yesterday afternoon, my mom called while I was waiting in the car line to pick the kids up from school to tell me that someone she knew was interested in looking at our house. She was already planning to see another house on the street at 4:30 and was hoping she could stop by ours afterward.

Since we are moving this weekend, my house was at that moment a wreck of boxes and mess that I hadn't bothered to clean, thinking I'd do it all as I packed and purged the house of junk. But I need to sell my house, so I agreed. I walked in the door at 4:00 and started cleaning. I had the forsight to stop by a convenience store and get the girls a treat, (the boys stay later on Thursdays for piano and computer club, so BD would be picking them up), and thankfully they sat happily on a box in my room, sweetly sharing their Cheetos and M&Ms and watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets for the eleventy-ninth time while I spun through the house like a whirling dirvish. The whirlwind power clean is a maneuver I am exceptionally good at, if I do say so myself, and in an hour I had the house looking acceptable, with a few neat stacks of boxes, packed and unpacked, the main living areas clear with wood floors and surfaces gleaming, the kids' rooms reasonably straight, and kitchen and bathroom at least wiped down with counters clear.

Being able to make a good pass at cleaning in an hour is something I'm going to miss about my little house. As excited as I am about the new house, there is an element of sadness about leaving the our family's home for the past eleven-plus years. When we bought that house, I was pregnant with our first child. I remember painting the living room and stripping the ugly bathroom wallpaper like it was yesterday. I can remember walking into the room we prepared for Calvin and loving the way the light made the room feel peaceful and perfect for a baby. There was the train ride to New Orleans, en route to Katherine's wedding in Pensacola, when I agreed to name our unexpected third child Somerset instead of Veronica if we could move our room into the back den, giving her a room that would not be shared with her two brothers.

When I remember our house in the years to come, I will think about being able to sit on the couch and see the child playing in the bathtub. I'll remember the rare days when I sat in the living room watching snow fall past the big uncovered back windows in the den, and mornings spent on the front porch glider with a baby in the crook of my arm or playing in the exersaucer while the older kids rode bigwheels and tricycles down the neighbor's driveway. I'll think about making ravioli or having cocktails with a group of friends around the big table in the small dining room, laughing and talking smack over the sounds of too many kids running wild in the front bedrooms. I'll miss the walk to the duck pond and the sight of all four kids piled onto the sectional sofa that has been their favorite sleeping spot since we bought it. I'll remember my twenty-five year old self, buying our first house, expecting our first baby, and feeling like an adult but one who wasn't sure how she got to that point or if she knew what to do now that she was there.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure I feel that different now. I still don't feel like a 36 year old woman with four kids and a real job, but my new house certainly feels very grown up. And big! Did I mention all the space? I can already see it filled with our kids and our friends and our beautiful life, and that makes it a little easier to close the 1240 square-foot, one-bath chapter we're leaving behind.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig

As many of you know, I'm moving this weekend. Into a house with triple the square feet of our current home, and shaped like a square doughnut with an atrium (aka Baby Jail Yard) in the doughnut hole, on an acre, with lawn care included in the rent. With three and a half bathrooms, as opposed to the one we all share now, and five bedrooms. Not only is there an actual master bath, but there is a master closet triple the size of my current bathroom, with built in drawers and shelves and shoe racks, and yards of hanging rods. There's a big, open kitchen with a fancy gas range and double wall ovens and a giant Sub-Zero fridge that inexplicably lacks a freezer. That part is okay, because there's room in the laundry room right off the kitchen for my big free-standing freezer. There's also a toilet in there, but we won't worry about that right now.

I'm probably most excited about all the outdoor living space, because I am an outddorsy kind of girl. But also? The kitchen and the multiple bathrooms and the ginormous closet and all the space, space, space! And doors that close to keep kids out, and the big stone corner fireplace that is identical to the one I grew up with. Did I mention all the space? Oh, and, AND, it's within walking distance of both an excellent elementary school and Calvin's middle school of choice.

I could really only be more excited if we had already sold our current house. We are working on that, and having all our stuff out of the way will make it easier to do some of the small repairs and touch-ups that need to be done. Ideally we'd love to sell it to someone who plans to fix it up/flip it, who doesn't want us to fix anything. A girl can dream, right?

In case you're wondering, we haven't won the lottery. The house is a very 1970s ranch in a good but older nighborhood in not-so-hip East Memphis. It's awesome but a little dated. (The kitchen was redone in 1995, so it's awesome in a 90s way, which is fine with me. Let's be real--I'm kind of 90s myself.) There's a whole lotta grasscloth. So the rent is not as huge as you might expect for a house that size. We are also combining households with my very good friend SAM and her two kidlets. That's right, baby makes nine. I've always wanted to live on a commune. I just never expected it to involve an East Memphis to downtown commute and complicated carpooling arrangements. Oh well, you can't have everything, right? There is plenty of room for all of us, and based on several factors and habits established over the last year, it just makes sense. I predict that changes in the economy and the general socio-political climate will engender more unconventional and creative living situations in the immediate future. Who knows, maybe we will be trail blazers!

Inspired

After the inspiring and hopeful tone of today's inauguration, I started thinking about other speeches and essays I've enjoyed. That led me to re-read this essay by potter, writer, and self-sufficient mama extrordinaire, Kelly Averill Savino. Every time I read it, I laugh, tear up, and finish by wanting to give it a standing ovation. On this pass, these lines in particular jumped out at me:

Everywhere there are women sitting in front of the banquet of their lives, a million sustaining, delicious choices -- oblivious, because they are looking back over their shoulders at the good old days, the old boyfriend, the old body, life before kids, the old freedoms.

I may be guilty of a little of that. And while I think that a little of that is normal and maybe inevitable, it's good to be reminded that what we have is this, now. And to throw that away or overlook it is a terrible mistake.

Make 'em laugh

You know, I said that I don't really make specific resoultions, but I'm going to make one now. I resolve to laugh more. I do not laugh nearly enough. A little while ago I was reminded of this video, and I watched it again and it cracked me up just like the first time I saw it. And laughing like that reminded me of how good that feels, and how I should do it more often.

So go ahead, tell me a joke. Show me something funny. Clue me in to what gives you a chuckle. I bet I'm not the only one who could use a good laugh.

January Pondering

Normally, the first of the year is a very motivating time for me. I don't make a list of specific resolutions, but I do feel a sense of renewal and opportunity. I love cycles and change, so it seems very natural to me that the start of a new year should be a fresh start toward personal goals and growth.

This year, I still have that general feeling, but I'm not as motivated and energized as I usually am in January. That could have something to do with the solid week of rain, or the recurring lack of sleep I've experienced so far in '09, I guess. We had a very restful, relaxing Christmas break, though, so I should have enough in the reserves.

On one hand, I know that this year will hold some exciting changes for my family. We'll be trying to move houses (not cities yet), hopefully very soon. Genevieve will finally be weaned, bringing my nine (combined) years of nursing to a final and permanent close. She will also finish potty training, ending my relationship with diapers (not nearly as bitter-sweet an ending) until grandchildren come along.

On the other hand, I have some personal things that I know I need to work on that I am just not feeling. I have kept off twenty pounds for about a year and a half, but need to lose another 20, and yet I'm not doing anything. It's time to get back in the gym, but somehow I just haven't made it there yet. There are other, less tangible things that I know I need to work on, too, but somehow I'm just...not.

The Big C

Happy birthday Calvin. I can't believe you are eleven years old. Eleven! I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you are so grown up, since you sometimes act like the only adult in the house. You are the child who made me a mother and taught me the job. I couldn't have asked for a better teacher.

Why I Love Being Southern

Or, things I chatted about with the woman in line behind me while waiting to check out at Kroger this afternoon:

-Why it was so busy and why she didn't expect it to be
-The astonishing amount of food piled in my basket and why I needed to buy three loaves of bread at a time
-How long that giant pile of food would last us (about two weeks)
-How it's easier when kids get older, but then also not
-How hormonal her 12-year-old daughter is and how I dread my kids hitting puberty
-Divorce and how there is life after it
-How high her utility bill was and how my friend Stacey's high utility bill made hers look tiny
-How much we both hate the midtown Schnuck's and just cannot go there
-How you can't go in Kroghetto at night but how it's nice and uncrowded during the day
-How she was so hungry she was about to gnaw off her own arm
-How she should snag one of the warm rotisserie chickens right next to us and run off to hide and eat it, and how once when I was pregnant I wanted to hide in a closet with a whole chicken I'd just roasted so I could devour it all myself

Then as soon as it was my turn at the checkout, she and the woman behind her realized they had a mutual friend. Like you do in Memphis.

How I Spent my Christmas Vacation, by Sassy Molassy

Oh, hello there. Having a good holiday season? It's almost over; I realize my happy holiday wishes are somewhat belated. So sue me. I have a life!

Actually, I don't really. I am probably the laziest mother of four who ever lived. I'm cool with that. It saves me from having to drive kids to things like soccer practice. Anyway, we have been enjoying our very relaxed and lazy break. Having traveled to the wonderful Fachini family Thanksgiving in Georgia, we spent Christmas here in town. Christmas Eve was spent with my family of origin as is the tradition, although it was my sister's year to spend Christmas with her husband's family, so we did miss them. All I had to cook was homemade mac and cheese for the kids, and my first ever from-scratch cheesecake, which turned out beautifully if I do say so myself. I'm planning to eat the last of it in a little while, if you must know. And no, you can't have any.

The kids got some good loot, and then we came home for our annual viewing of It's a Wonderful Life and then off to bed so Santa could come. He brought more loot. Imagine that! The kids seemed very happy as Santa had answered their main wishes: for Calvin, a cell phone; for Joshua, a tribot; and for Somerset, a bike. Genevieve had no real requests so she got a Little People farm, which she could not care less about. That's okay though, as she is busy caring for the four or five baby dolls she received from various parties.

Tomorrow we plan to ring in the new year with a few of our closest friends. I love New Year's Eve, which puts me in the minority around here, but I will save that discussion for another post. Meanwhile, here are some pictures!

Cousin Kyle got an American bulldog puppy for Christmas. Even though I do not like dogs and do not in anyway understand the desire to own a pet, she was sort of sweet in a puppy kind of way. For a couple of hours.


Somerset about to dive in at the grandparents'.


Genevieve enjoying many of her gifts simultaneously. (Some of them were hair accessories. Can you tell?)


Calvin checking out his new phone Christmas morning.


Smiley Christmas morning Calvin.


Christmas morning extravaganza!


Joshua cozying up to his new Tribot.

Christmas morning Monkey Bread.


Video chat with Nonna down in South Florida.

Lost and Found

Things I could not find this morning:

1. The will to get out of bed before hitting snooze for the fourth time
2. The pink travel mug
3. The lid to the blue travel mug
4. Any lid that fit any suitable container for my lunch
5. The words to convince my two year old that she would be much happier in bed than sitting in a daze on the counter watching me put on my makeup. ("I want your eyes to be pink, Mommy.)
6. Anything worth listening to on the radio
7. A wormhole that would save me from being five(ish...okay maybe closer to ten) minutes late for the eleventyninth day in a row.

Things I did find:

1. A snuggle before getting out of bed
2. A two-year old who just wanted to sleep sweetly on her mama's shoulder
3. An about-to-be-eleven-year-old who put his newly pulled tooth under his pillow just for old time's sake
4. The red travel mug that I filled with delicious hot tea with real cream
5. A container I thought would be too small for my lunch but wasn't
6. Pants that only needed a quick spin in the dryer to make them wearable
7. Matching, hole-free, new black socks, and in plain view
8. The already-graded pile of papers on my desk far outsizing the to-be-graded pile
9. Homemade chocolate-peanut clusters from a student and fellow-teacher's son (breakfast!)
10. That it's Wednesday of the last, short week before Christmas break

As always, the good far outweighs the bad. I really can't complain at all, can I?

Let me count the ways

Lately I'm noticing all the little ways in which my children are like me. It's an interesting experience, because in many ways they are not like me at all. And of course, sometimes they act like me in ways that are not at all good. This is different, though. I'm not talking about them being impatient and sarcastic and snippy with each other. I'm talking about little ways that show how they take after their ma.

Calvin: Has read the first four Harry Potter books in the past week or so. This is exciting to me on so many levels! I've waited for the day that he would read and enjoy these books that I adore, and it's finally here! It was also fun to sit at the table with a group of our friends as we all watched him sit and read without ceasing amid the whirlwind of activity that is the cocktail hour kids and even lift a plate out of toddler range with one hand while never tearing his eyes from the page. That's my boy! He also continues to demonstrate my tendency to eschew anything resembling a dry crust of bread/pizza/cookie edge, etc.

Joshua: Has always reminded me the most of myself as a child because he is just so clueless. The other night I went through his homework folder, and all his signed papers from the past two months were still sitting in there. When I was his age, I remember having no idea what was going on, ever. I was in my own little world, and so is he. The fact that I know where he gets it is what makes it okay. I grew out of it, and so will he. In the meantime, he's mostly just my happy-go-lucky little guy.

Somerset: Wants to do what she wants to do. The fact that you or I want her to do something different does not necessarily mean she's going to happily abandon her pursuit. This may be frustrating to me as a parent, but I also find it reassuring. I consider my willingness to tell other people that I do not care what they want me to do is one of the reasons I'm the happy person that I am, and I can only be glad if she possesses that particular tool. The flip side of that is that, like me, she also happens to be extremely sensitive to the people she does care about. Just when we think she's an incorrigible rebel, she can be devastated by a disapproving or angry statement from BD or me. And the way she cries when that happens is just 100% me with hurt feelings. It's heartbreaking.

Genevieve: Honestly at 2 1/2, her main Sassy-like personality trait is binge eating. That girl can put away the groceries! Oh, and she shows my preference for non-breakfast foods for breakfast. She woke up this morning asking for macaroni, but there was none in the fridge so she settled for Spaghettios. According to her Dad, she scarfed them down and chased them with a chocolate chip waffle. Unlike me, however, she often requests her food cold for the simple reason that she is too impatient to wait for the microwave. This is more like BD, whose mother says he would cry and beg "Don't cook it, don't cook it!" when she tried to heat his food. I, on the other hand, will not eat anything cold that is normally served hot. Blech! She also talks a lot. A. Lot.