the eighteenth

It is a complete cliche but it happened to me. The spirit of Christmas has returned. Yes, super cheesy, but I am telling the truth.

I remember Christmas as a kid. It had a feeling. A smell. It was my favorite time of year. Then one year it stopped. Christmas time came and nothing. I think I was about 22. It was the worst Christmas ever.But this year was different. The spirit took a little while to get here, but it finally arrived.

She is almost three, so the whole Santa Claus thing is a brand new concept. But by Christmas morning I think she got it. It occurred to me about three days before Christmas, that as a family we could start our own traditions. So cookies, milk and carrots for the rain deer (Ya, ya not a new tradition but...you know). Then The Night Before Christmas Book that auntie Sid sent. It would be perfect. 

I have been a bit of a head case these days (hence the lack of blog posts). My mind and memory are like scrambled eggs. I spent most of Christmas Eve day worrying that I would forget to put out the cookies and read her the story. I felt like I needed to make myself a note. Seriously. I finally broke down and told my sister not to let me forget. The look on her face was priceless. I think she thought I was joking. Nope, 1,100% serious.  Of course she would never remember that I forgot, but the mothers guilt would follow me year after year.

As the light of the day ended, we enjoyed a Christmas Eve dinner with my father (Papy). She got an intro to opening presents as she tore into the gifts Papy brought for her and her brothers. Then before bed the cookies, milk and carrots were out and The Night Before Christmas was read. I kiss on the cheek and off with the lights. As I closed the door, she asked "is Santa coming?"
"Yes, Santa is coming. But he won't come if you are awake." Echoing my mom years ago.

As we helped Santa and the raindeer by drinking the milk and gnawing on the cookies and carrots, I realized that the magic of Christmas was returning.

Before hitting the pillow myself, I put the presents from Santa under the Christmas tree and stuffed a couple of goodies in the stockings. For effect.

She woke us up at around 7:30am by bashing me in the stomach with a book. You should try it sometime. It truly is a lovely way to wake up. I asked her if Santa had come. Kinda like a dog, she cocked her head to one side and in the sing-song voice replied "Santa?"
"Yes, Santa might have come to our house. It's Christmas!"
"Oh." She replied. I could see the wheels in her head turning. Trying to figure out what in the ___ I was talking about.
He ran down stairs ahead of us to turn on the tree and get positioned for a picture. Watch out Ansel Adams! My husband is the pro photog!
As we came down the stairs and over to the tree, she was silent. I was so worried that she would not be thrilled. What if she wasn't thrilled? While it would make for a great story to tell at her wedding, what if she wasn't thrilled and was more interested in the lack of cock 'n balls on the tree? What kind of child have I raised? Have I not taught her better? I mean really. Presents! They are one of the greatest things on earth. Fact.
Anyhow, the look of bewilderment and amazement as she stood in front of the plate with the one lonely, half eaten cookie and an empty glass of milk. "Where did they go?" she said as she looked back at me.
"Santa ate them!" I said with as much glee as one can muster without having consumed a drop of coffee.
"Santa ate them?"
"Yes. Santa was here and he ate the cookies. But he left presents."
"Presents!"
My eyes welled up with tears. The magic of Christmas had returned. Right then and there I could feel it in every ounce of my body. It was wonderful. Easily one of the greatest feelings.

And off she went tearing into the wrapping paper. While the few gifts that we were able to afford occupied her for about 13 minutes, it did not matter. The gift of giving her the magic of Christmas is priceless. Those moments will stay with me forever.

the seventeenth

The reflection of the lights twinkle in her eyes as she watches me strategically put the ornaments on the tree. Of course she asks about the cock 'n balls which almost ruins the moment. A couple minutes go by and I realize that things are quiet. She is under the table reading a book (well not really reading because she is barely three, but you know what I mean). So sweet. It was one of those moments you want to stop time.
I start humming We Wish You A Merry Christmas. She yells out to me "No Mommy! No singing!"
"Oh! I am sorry am I interrupting your reading?" I reply.
She responds "I no reading. I pooping. Be quiet!"

Great. Nothing like decorating the tree with cock 'n ball ornaments while she craps her pants under the dining room table. 

the sixteenth

I would like to preface this blog with a warning for my parents and family. This blog post will contain a few expletives that one might consider offensive. Although, in this case it is freaking hilarious.

This is the first year that she is actually "getting" this whole Christmas thing. She loves the Christmas lights, decorations, trees and kitschy lawn ornaments. She encompasses all of these items into one term "Christmas." It is actually quite genius when you think about it.

Anyway on with the story….I finally put together our Christmas tree. Yes, I just said put together. It comes in pieces. Our faux Christmas tree is circa 1970 so you literally have to put each branch in the trunk of the tree. A little wobbly but once she's put together she's mighty purdy. So a glass of wine and I tackled the assembly after the kids went to bed. The glass of wine decided not to put on the lights or the decorations, trashy TV was much more appealing.

She woke up the next morning and much to her surprise, Christmas was in her house. We walked down the stairs and into the living room. The look of complete surprise that Christmas was in her house was priceless. She stood in front of the naked Christmas tree turned her head and in her sing-song angelic voice asked "where're the cock 'n balls?"

This is the point in the story where I must back track and explain the source of her vulgarity.

She loves to play with him. They roughhouse all the time. She pounces and punches and jumps all over him. Unfortunately she also pounces on his, well….twigs and berries if you catch my drift. In an effort to explain to her that papa has a sensitive area, he told her to be careful of his….hold your applause….cock 'n balls. Don't judge me, I was not home that afternoon. When he mentioned to me that he had explained this cock 'n balls term I almost punched him in the cock 'n balls. Are you kidding me? Really? Of all the things to tell her. Husbands…sometimes they just don't get it. Bless his heart.

The first cock 'n balls episode occurred on a quiet Saturday morning. We were on the couch drinking coffee while the beast and the boys played. It was one of those moments where you are in "ah" of how wonderful life can truly be. She had been rifling through the toy box, when out of the corner of her eye she spotted them. She jumped up and trotted over to two handful sized balls. As she picked up the first one she said with such glee "Oh! My cock 'n balls!"

I almost wet myself. First because I was shocked to hear the words come from her lips and secondly because it was so cute. Really, it was adorable. I had hoped that I heard her incorrectly, so I asked her what she had in her hands. She replied "My cock 'n balls!"
Of course he heard it this time and much like a prepubescent teen he giggled. (I giggled too, but don't tell him that). She did not see our laughter as she was too busy packing her cock 'n balls into her purse….like a true woman. She had it by the balls (Hold your applause. I will keep the jokes coming).

The second episode occurred when we were over at my mother-in-law's house admiring their Christmas tree. You probably know where this story is going. She and I were discussing the tree, the lights and the ornaments. Yes, you got it. She pointed to the ball ornaments and said "Look mommy cock 'n balls!"

I guess we should be thankful she hasn't dropped the f-bomb….at least hasn't dropped it yet.

the fifteenth

I had had writers block for a week and was at a loss. I'd tried a dozen times to write something. Something that had meaning. There are only so many times that one can write random words without getting completely frustrated. At some point something has to stick or else the frustration is, well, it sucks. Literally. The frustration sucks the creative life out of you.


Anyhow, I was feeding the boys and turned my head to look outside and decided I was going to run. Yes, run. Like for exercise. And I was going to run right then. Lately I have been racking my brain on when I could possibly find the time to go to the gym. I am sure that I could find an hour here or there in a week, but I am a schedule person. I like knowing that every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday I go to the gym. Just going when it fits in doesn't work for me. The inflexibility is certainly a flaw. Eventually, I'll work on it. Right now I have other flaws on my list. Plus going to the gym means changing clothes, driving to the gym….all of which take up valuable minutes that I could spend sweating and regretting (the extra serving of carbs).


So this idea of running is perfect…well, perfect if I liked running. I am not a runner. Never have been. I hate running. Even when I was a gym rat, I never ran. I was elliptical maniac. I spent an hour on that stupid machine and then 30 minutes with weights and stretching. I was in pretty good shape…of course at the time I did not think so. Little did I know three and half years later I'd be softer than an angel food cake. The last time I went to the gym I was probably 12 weeks pregnant with the boys….they are nine months next week. You can see where this running thing is a wild idea. I've stepped on the Stairmaster in our garage a few times, but not enough to make any bit of difference. Plus getting on that Stairmaster means cleaning away the crap that has gathered on top of it, which always leads to some organizational project. A project that becomes a perfect excuse not to exercise.

This running thing was a brilliant idea. I mean, maybe I don't hate running any more. Millions of people love running. I need to try to love it too. Seems reasonable to at least try it again. What could it hurt? Ha!

As the boys were finishing up their snack, I ran upstairs (the baby monitor was on so don't go calling CPS) to change my pants and put on another bra (they aren't what they used to be). I pulled my hair back, shoved on a hat and grabbed my sunglasses. SIDE NOTE: an advantage to running from home is that I can wear sunglasses and cover up the dark black circles that are usually concealed with make-up and the likes. You look like a tool wearing sunglasses inside a gym. I need to find all the advantages I can. Hopefully these advantages will add to the enchanting running experience.

I put the boys in the stroller, bundled them up and took them outside to him. He was busy cleaning up after our four dogs (and you thought changing diapers was nasty. Four dogs…need I say more).

My first words were, "don't judge."
He laughed. Don't judge usually means I am about to make an announcement that he will laugh at no matter what it is.
"I am going on a run."
"Really?" He replied.
"I said don't judge."
"I'm not." He was smiling so I knew he really was judging. "Don't you think a walk would be better?"
"Here are your sons. I'll be back."
"Do you think this is a good idea?"
"No." and off I went. I figured I'd take a dog with me. Something to keep me from walking the whole way.

I started running the moment I closed the gate behind me. The neighbor kids were out playing. Feeling a little cocky I remarked on how cool their bikes were as I jogged by. One of the neighbors was out in their front yard. The cockiness still in play, I kicked up the pace and ran by giving an "afternoon" as I trodded past. It felt good. I was light on my feet. Found a good pace. I was a bad ass. Look at me. I found the time. I was a born-again. Right then and their running was my new thing. I needed a thing. This was it. I made it out of our court and was thinking that I should sign up to run a half-marathon. What am I thinking? I'm a ___ bad ass. Make it a full marathon. I had been running for about 30 seconds.

As we made our way down the street and onto the running path my lungs started to burn. They were on fire. Wow. Then my calves. About 45 seconds later my ass. I had been running for a whole 5 minutes. I gave myself a break (a rarity) and rationalized that I had not exercised in a long time. Keep going. You pushed out twins with a faulty epidural. You can run. I walked periodically, but tried to run as much as I could. Each time I would walk, the dog would turn to look at me as if saying "really?"

As I rounded the corner back to our court, my feet had turned to bricks. My cockiness had fizzled to embarrassment. I had been gone for about 15 minutes and fourteen of them were miserable. I kept thinking did all runners start off like this? Maybe I will be the next Usaine Bolt….probably not, but a girl can dream right?

You can see that the writer's block passed, or at least for the moment. Nothing like burning ass muscles to help the words flow.

the fourteenth

I'm a bad ass mom. Really. You don't believe me, you should see what happens when she is on a time out. My time outs are so powerful they hurt. They inflict injuries in a stealth like mode. She goes on a time out and then suddenly she has the biggest owie know to man. Truly. Her injuries while on time out consist of hurt toes, week old bruises on her knees that flair up, or some remarkable eye issue that always seems to resolve itself once the time out is over. It really is a remarkable phenomenon. I am mom hear me roar.

the thirteenth

As a mom to three little ones (blessing/curse) I have realized that the hardest part is not the parenting, it is the trying to still be a human. A human with good days, bad days, a horrible attitude and on some days a complete lack of focus. A human who get excited and gitty.

A human who laughs at inappropriate times and smiles at cute boys (men). A human who still gets their feelings hurt but is often forced to suck it up and take one for the team. A human who on the hardest of hard days has to get up in the morning and put on a good front for the sake of my beautiful children. All the while battling my own issues and demons. My own accomplishments and defeats. Realization of my own goals and wants. Acceptance of what is and what will never be.

And it is for these reasons that I appreciate my parents (and those who guided me) more and more each day. Thank you for being human and thank you for the ability to eventually see this fact. Although, it is probably a little overdue.

the twelfth

Everyone (including me) was a little irritable this morning. Which I should have taken as a sign that the day would have a few bumps. Actually, the first sign should have been the snot-snail-trail across her face this morning. It was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. Pleasant. Nothing like dried snot before noon. So, because of the irritability I thought it would be good to get out and walk. A little fresh air might help lift some spirits. Plus I had eaten a few too many breakfast sausages. A walk would at least make me feel a little bit less guilty. She insisted on taking her wagon. Which really was not a good idea but she was already in a mood and had enough snot for the entire neighborhood. Fine. Bring the damn POS Walmart wagon. About twenty minutes (which is why walks are not a fav of mine these days) later we were on our way.We had just barely gotten around the block when it happened. I was slightly ahead of her and the stupid wagon. I heard her little feet running to catch up. Then, silence. But for just a second and then came the sliding sound. That girl slid across the asphalt like it was the bottom of the ninth, tie ball game, diving for home plate. Again, silence. And then the screams. Poor thing. I think she was more scared than hurt. Of course I picked her up (cause I am usually a good mom) and told her it was okay. Of course gallons of tears and snot were running on to my jacket...I made a mental note to wash it later on today with the other gazillion loads that were calling my name.

When I put her down, she made sure to pull up her pant leg to assess the damage. No sense falling if you don't have the boo-boo to show off. There it was. A nice case of road rash. She looked at her knee and then at me. Through the snot and tears she mumbled that she wanted a banade (translation: band aide. A Hello Kitty band aide). Still in mommy of the year mode, I told her that when we get home we will get a banade. On we went.

We usually pick flowers and put them in her stroller, but since she had her damn wagon I could tell she was going to hunt down some big ticket items. And less than a minute after sliding into home plate, she had to touch it. She grabbed that thing like it was the game winning ball. She had reached out and taken a handful of a cactus. Now, I am not a cacti expert, but this thing was mean. Her poor little starfish hand was covered in tiny little thorns. Her hand looked like it had grown hair. I don't know what she did but the thorns were everywhere. On the front and back of her hand. And as any two-year old would do, she rubbed her hand on her jacket. Which pushed the thorns in further and broke off the ends. I did my best to pull out the thorns with my nails, but there were hundreds of them.  Tough little girl. She didn't shed a tear. Just snot. Again, on we went. As we walked, I kept looking back and asking to see her hand. I was so scared that it would swell, which would trigger some horrible chain reaction which would sent her body into a complete swell....yes, yes, worse case scenario person I am. But come on! What if? How the F would I get it all together to get her to the doctor with two semi-mobile, centipede crawling babies...okay, yes, yes. Too much coffee. Calm down. Is it too early for a drink...it was going to be a long day.

She made it home alive - no horrible adverse reactions. Thank God. I outfitted her knee with two Hello Kitty banades. Which she then had to show off to her brothers. She told them that she phell (fell) and don't touch her banades or they would be in big trouble.

Tomorrow is my Monday. Back to work. But I might grab myself a banade, just in case.