The Best Part

Here we are, waiting for my brother Matthew to get back from his two year mission to the Philippines. I walked into the airport with my little girls and random members of my family kept popping up, until we had gathered a large and motley group of relatives and almost-relatives to welcome our long-lost brother. Matthew's plane was a little late, so by the time he arrived, his welcome balloon had floated up to the ceiling, his signs were a little ripped, and his cousins had frightened a large number of people as they lurked around the corner to surprise him.

Here he is!

(We edged out all the other people waiting and spread ourselves out front and center, so this other poor missionary is a little confused as to where his family is. )

He seemed so much older and more mature to me.

I was talking to my cousins about whether missionaries really notice who all is there when they arrive at the airport. I knew that there were so many people to welcome Matthew that it wasn't a big deal if I didn't show up, but I wanted to go because there's something about these very real moments that are very compelling. Like saying good-bye or a baby being born or having your heart broken, the times when you know that you are alive and living life, (even if it sucks) not just sleep-walking through the daily trivialities.

Speaking of real life moments, I was disappointed that Matthew's girlfriend Kellie wasn't there. I was really looking forward to seeing Matt's reaction to seeing her, and how they would handle their private/romantic/potentially awkward moment with an audience. Put it this way: it's like watching a romantic movie--a reeeeeaaaallly loooong movie--and not getting to see the moment at the end when the hero and the heroine get together. I remember when my sister Anna came home from her mission and her boyfriend (now husband) was there waiting at the airport for her. We all got to tease him and nudge him and make snarky remarks and ask if he was nervous. The best part was when she ran into his arms to give him a hug, with Dad's plaintive voice in the background: Remember...you're still a missionary! It was great. So yeah, I was deprived. Other than that though, it was such a great feeling to see Matthew again and gain back the very tall and skinny piece of our family that had been missing.

Party Hearty

On Saturday my cousins and I had a cousin party. Is that redundant? So I don't know if it's a Utah thing or just a thing, but the women I live near are really into throwing very cute and craftily-decorated parties. Starting at the tender age of 1, their kids are treated to elaborate themed birthday bashes with correspondingly large guest lists. In contrast, the highlight of my daughters' first birthday parties has involved giving them a cupcake in their high chair to get messy with. Voila! Every kid's dream first birthday! It's been kind of an adjustment for me here.

I think it would be easy to say that these moms are in a competition, and they just want people to 'ooh' and 'ahh' over what they've done. I know there is that element, but I think more than that, these moms just want the party or birthday to be special, and decorating and cooking is a way to do it. The problem then comes when their friends are throwing these super cool parties and they start thinking that maybe they're not doing enough, and they're being a slacker mom, and wow, won't it be embarrassing when their friends ask what they did for their kids birthday and all they did was cake and ice cream. Then you end up with over-the-top parties and the element of competition creeps in.

It was so refreshing to hear a mom I know talking about taking her son to Burger King on his birthday to get a crown for him. I thought, here is a mom who is really concerned with making her kid's day special by doing what is important to him, not what is important to her. Some kids might care about having a ton of friends/"friends" at their party and intense food and decorations, but I don't think most kids do.

So back to my cousins party, I know we would be happy sitting around my unadorned table and talking for a few hours, but I decided to decorate anyway. Just like we get dressed up to go to church or to a wedding, I think there is value in decorating for special occassions and holidays to lend an air of importance to them. But it's hard to rein yourself in sometimes. I could have easily spent 50 dollars on a tablecloth and dressing up my house. But I borrowed a teapot, serving set, and vases from Mom, spent 5 bucks on fabric from the fabric store, 6 dollars on flowers, and everything looked really nice. (Although pitiful compared to my friends' parties.)

My Kitchen

Females of any age like tea parties

Look! I did a crafty decoration by my calendar!

Like I said, I knew I didn't have to decorate for us to have a great time, but it helped make our get-together feel special. So I'm glad I did.

Walking Marshmallows

Something about little kids in snow gear is just so darn cute. Something about the ratio of width of snow gear to height of child plus hat with ears equals the golden mean of cuteness.

So stinkin' cute.

Okay, enough cuteness. Get to work.

Dad needs some help.

Sammy? Sammy?

At the Local Bar

I wish I had gotten a picture of Austin and I at the bar on our weekend date. No, we haven't suddenly taken to the bottle. This was no ordinary bar, people. This was an oxygen bar. Now, an oxygen bar is run along the lines of selling bottled water. Why don't we charge people for an abundant resource that is readily available? It just has to look fancy and they'll pay lots of money for it! Normally I don't spend money on abundant resources that are readily available, but it was included in a Groupon we got. So we sat down, hooked ourselves up (Ahh...scented air!) and kind of looked at each other and grinned. We felt pretty ridiculous. Probably because we were paying (kind of) to breathe air and we looked like terminally ill hospital patients. I wouldn't recommend it for a first date.

But if you need a date night idea, we watched a movie later that night that is worthy of your time. I finally understand the appeal of Clark Gable. (Shout out to Aunt Kristi).

Ignore the dramatic and smarmy cover. It was not dramatic and smarmy, but fun and romantic. I think you'll especially enjoy the scene with the guy who picks them up when they are hitchhiking.

Welcome!

Welcome to my house!

Be sure to say hi to the Welcome Bear as you come in!

If you can make it past the 5 foot high snow drift in the driveway...

I would love to see you!

So I know you are wondering...what does one do with a 5 foot high snow drift in the driveway? Well,  when all one owns is a shovel, and one's husband is gone, one goes outside, moves a little snow around to try and incite the pity of neighbors with snowblowers, then takes lots of pictures and blogs about it. See you soon!

Alarming Times

Here it is, the humble smoke detector. Saver of lives, silent protector of the home. Also my arch-nemesis the past few days. Some time ago, my husband may or may not have set off the fire alarm while grilling in the basement. (Don't ask.) The smoke detector kept chirping after it was disconnected, and it ended up stuffed in a large suitcase in the basement. Chirp. Chirp. It was an appropriately incompetent end to an embarrassing little saga in our lives. (Who grills in their basement?) When Austin brought the suitcase upstairs to pack for a business trip, the problem resurfaced, but like a good husband, he reattached it to the wiring downstairs as part of his husbandly fix-it duties before he left. Fixed!

Unfortunately, the smoke detector must have been lying low, because hours later it started its cheery yet incessant chirping again, once a minute, on the minute. Chirp. Chirp. Only this time, it was attached to the ceiling right underneath my bed. I ventured into the cold, creepy basement (we once found a dead mouse down there) and disconnected the alarm and took out the battery, which must have been low. Problem solved.

Last night I was turning in around 11, when I heard a noise. Chirp. Chirp. Seriously? I went out to the living room and looked around. Do you know that it's extremely hard to detect the source of a high-pitched chirping sound? Especially one that only goes off once a minute? It's a very time-consuming process. I finally traced it to Sammy's room, where she was somehow snoring soundly with the incessant chirping going on next to her. I grabbed the piano bench from downstairs to take the alarm down. Couldn't...quite...reach. I could either drag a heavy ladder up lots of stairs from the garage, or use my quick wit and native intelligence to find a quicker solution. I went with option two and found a little stool that Sammy stands on to brush her teeth. Picture this:

Then add a piano bench underneath the stool to the mental image. I don't know what my solution says about my native intelligence, but it got the job done. I took the old battery out then headed to bed. Chirp. I whirled around. The awful thought struck me--maybe, just maybe, all the smoke detectors were put in the house at the same time. Ergo, maybe all their batteries would fail at the same time. So much for silent protectors. I glared at the dead smoke alarms lined up on the piano...no noise there. I sat on the sofa for a minute...then a couple more minutes, just to make sure I wasn't imagining things. No sound. With my house less protected, but my sanity fully intact, I went to bed.

I wish I could say that this extremely interesting story had a happy ending, but alas, that's not how life works. I swear I've heard a chirping somewhere in the house today...most likely another alarm with a low battery in the cold, creepy basement. Or perhaps an extremely obnoxious mouse. I'll let Austin investigate.

Case Closed

Yes, dear readers, I have solved The Case of the Missing Keys. When I last wrote, the number one suspect was the adorable mastermind Cici. However, it appears that I have falsely accused her. She did seem highly suspect at the time, but I can definitively say that she is not the culprit. In fact, she has somewhat reformed her character--the other day Austin found her toothbrush in the recycling can, which means she's being more eco-friendly in how she gets rid of things. (Only plastics 1--7 in the recycling, Cici.)

But back to the case. Last night we had a foot of snow from our Sunday blizzard, so I put Cici to bed and Sammy and I went out to help Austin shovel. I put my snow coat on, tried to stick my arms in the sleeves, and found in one sleeve the elusive missing keys. !!! Of course I was in shock. The fact that the keys were in my sleeve would imply that I was in some way responsible for their loss. Who me? Couldn't be.  I have a cute coat to wear out and about in the winter and a more functional coat that I only wear when it snows, and it never snowed during the time the keys were lost. The snow coat containing the keys was hung neatly on a hanger, so it's not like I was in a huge hurry and ripped off the coat, leaving the keys behind in the sleeve.

I've been racking my brains trying to come up with a good reason for the keys to be in my sleeve. It's this sort of thing that haunts you the rest of your life, you know? My best guess is that my snow coat was in the basket by our garage door where I throw my cute coat and purse when  I come home. The keys slipped out of my coat pocket or purse and landed on top of my snow coat. When I got my snow coat out of the basket to hang it neatly in its place, the keys slipped inside and lodged in the sleeve. It sounds plausible. Kind of. I guess we could just leave it by saying that the keys appeared as mysteriously as they left. Case closed.



The Key to the Case

Call me Nancy Drew. I'm not quite as well-dressed as she is, but like her, I inevitably have to solve mysteries. This week, I've been working on The Case of the Missing Keys. Unfortunately, I have been one of the few people of interest in the case, because Austin was recovering from nasal surgery most of the week and didn't drive. I think I uncovered a vital clue last night though. I put the kids to bed, and exhausted, needed to watch a little HGTV to unwind. But where was the remote? I knew I had seen it right before supper on the sofa, and now it had totally disappeared. I geared up for The Search for the Black Remote. I searched high, I searched low, I dug around in the couch, I crawled under and around things, all the while muttering very un-Nancy Drew-ish phrases such as, "I hate my life."

Then in a flash of brilliance, I remembered a small *thunk* I had heard earlier while the kids were playing, and checked one of the few places I hadn't looked...the trash can. Yes, there it was, buried underneath a few pieces of trash and limp celery. The missing remote. I had just gained a new culprit for my Keys case.

  Not the crazy one, the small one.

 Look at those shifty eyes.

The next morning, I also uncovered a pair of the suspect's socks in the trash can, and my worry that our keys were now buried in our local landfill thanks to my child's new hobby changed to the calm serenity that comes with the certainty of disaster.

Well, I confess--I still have a little teeny-tiny hope left that the keys didn't get sent to the dump on Monday. When Sammy was the same age as Cici, we lost our car keys and thought they had been thrown away. Bleak despair, gloom all around. A few months later, we got out our Yahtzee game and found them inside. Joy, jubilation! In retrospect Sammy was very cute and clever for managing to find such a great hiding place. So I won't close the case quite yet. I've already eliminated the board games we had out this week, but as soon as I find a suitably fashionable frock to wear, I'm off to search my guitar case and the guest bathroom.

Wish me luck!

My Special Surprise

I sat down tonight with the intent to blog about stuffed animals, and how the gift of one signifies that the giver is placing him/herself in the role of adult--the one with power and dominance in the relationship--while at the same time subjugating his or her significant other to an infantile, child-like role. Then I was planning on diving into the transfer of adult/child relationships to husband/wife relationships, then wrapping it all into the greater framework of imperialism and colonization. Then I realized that I had probably been reading too many of my old college papers while scrapbooking and that maybe all people are thinking when they buy stuffed animals is: "This animal is cute. My significant other is cute. Ergo, I will buy it." Or something along those lines. So instead of a post titled Stuffed Animals: The Role of Gift-Giving in Imperialistic Relationship Power Dynamics, I give to you a story about an old boyfriend.

Writing 101: Know thine audience. 

It was a cold day in Idaho...for those who didn't have a date. Thankfully, this Valentine's Day I did. My first college boyfriend and I had been dating for about a month, and I just knew he was going to have something great planned for us. I was right--he picked me up and we headed off to one of the most popular restaurants in town. Unfortunately, his great plan did not involve making reservations ahead of time on the most popular date night of the year, so either we could wait an hour to get seated or we could go to Arbys. I was a little nonplussed as I picked at my curly fries, but when my boyfriend told me he had a special surprise for me, his lack of planning was forgiven. What woman doesn't like a special surprise on Valentine's Day?

We finished eating, got into the car, and I eagerly watched as he reached into the back seat of his truck, and pulled out...a pillow. A decorative Valentine's Day pillow, with a cutesy saying on it--I think it was "Be Mine." You know, at least with a stuffed animal, you can read, "He thinks I'm cute!" into it, but all you can read into a stuffed pillow is, "It was at his eye level at Walmart and it was on sale." Let's just say I went home that night reconsidering my life. (Roommate: So what did X get you for Valentine's Day? Me: Ummm...a pillow. There's no way to make that not sound lame.) I immediately stuffed the grand token of my boyfriend's affection into the darkest corner of my closet and then broke up with the poor sap as soon after Valentine's Day as I decently could. The pillow then got flung into the middle of the dorm courtyard, where I watched it get kicked around for a couple days. The End.

There are quite a few morals to be gleaned from this story. (Not that there always has to be a moral.) But I think the most important one is this: only buy decorative pillows for your grandma. 



This is the Place???

The other night Austin and I took this quiz that is supposed to tell you places to live that you would really like. (The site asks for personal info at the very end, but I made that up and gave it my junk email address.) The first three places were in Washington State, where my hubby grew up. Then a lot of places in Pennsylvania, a few in New Hampshire, one in Alaska, one in Maine, a couple in New York, and a bunch more in Washington scattered throughout. I've been to Washington quite a few times, and it just isn't calling my name. New Hampshire definitely intrigues me, and we both liked upstate New York when we went on our massive road trip last summer. I just want to go to all these random towns and see if they are, in fact, the perfect place for us to live. I want to fall in love and know that the town we are living in is absolutely the town for us.

Do you think that there is a place out there that is a perfect match for you? Or could you just move anywhere and love it if you made enough effort? I think the perfect place would have lots of trees, four seasons, a fun community vibe, some cultural things going on, good friends, good schools, and family nearby.

The family thing is really important to us, but also very limiting, because our family lives in places that we like, but don't love. Of course we love being close to family, so it's hard to know what to do. Do we live in a nice, albeit uninspired place, or search for that one special town and then figure out how to get our family to move close to us? Choices, choices.

The Forgetful American

I know I learned all about America's political system in elementary school...and high school...and that American Heritage class in college. But why is it that all I can remember is a video of men in wigs singing together?

One of life's tough questions, I guess. With this being a major election year, I thought I should brush up on my political knowledge. Most of you who peruse my blog may do so for a lighthearted laugh when you get bored with reading the non-news on Yahoo, but feel free to join me in my studies if you feel so inclined.

A free course from BYU: http://is.byu.edu/is/site/courses/free.cfma

A sample citizenship test

How to study for the citizenship test

Dull Winter Days

The morning started out so-so. On one hand, I got to spend lots of time playing games and reading books with Sammy while Cici was napping. On the other hand, I accidentally snapped off a vital plastic piece of the dishwasher while unloading it. Then things went downhill. Cici woke up and started crying, then Sammy started crying too: "Nooo Mom, don't get her!" Over and over. Then she followed me from room to room as I changed a poopy diaper, tidied up a few things, and got lunch ready, all the while sobbing, "I didn't want you to get her!" (Me: "Why didn't you want me to get her?" Sam: "I know she's cute, but I don't like her hair, or her feet, or her shirt, or all of her!") Argh. Crying kids are the worst.

Now most days, I am fully aware that I have the best job in the world. Still, there are some dull winter days when I grow nostalgic for the glamorous days before I got married, when I trotted around campus tutoring adoring freshmen, speaking brilliantly at conferences, and keeping my eyes peeled for that cute boy that could be right around the next corner. Of course, our minds polish the past, making  our memories glow brighter than the reality ever was. And yet, these 13 seconds sum up exactly what I'm feeling today. (Thanks, Kellie)

My Traumatic Childhood

Here I am, in all my nerdy glory. This is just one of the many nerdy pictures from my childhood. (Let's just say that I went through multiple "ugly duckling" phases.) Ah, my childhood. My project du jour is re-scrapbooking all the scrapbook stuff my mom gave me. My vision is to scan all my photos and have one 8x11 glossy photo book of my growing up years with a cd of the pictures in the back, one 8x11 memory book with cute notes, newspaper clippings, etc., in it, and one small memory box for little mementos. I've been sorting for four or five days. Nerdy photos, keep. Old homework, toss. Cute notes about the secret sister club, keep. Notes marked "private, do not read" expressing my teenage angst that managed to end up in my scrapbook, toss. Sorry, Mom, there are just some parts of my life I don't want to relive every time I pull out my scrapbook to show the kids. It's just part of my commitment to selective life chronicling.

Of course I'm doing this for my kids, so they don't have to cart a bunch of my life around someday, but its also been surprisingly refreshing and cathartic for me. I don't actually remember most of my childhood, (I read the other day that if you have a bad memory, you are trying to block a traumatic childhood--I knew those days picking rocks out of the fields on the farm would damage me somehow!) so going through the pictures and papers has made me feel like I re-discovered a part of me that was missing.

Since my current memories tend to get stuck on the anomalies like Mom losing her temper or Grandpa swearing, I liked seeing the pictures of the family trips I'd forgotten about, and remembering the great times that we had together. I liked seeing how creative I was as a little kid with the song, stories, poems, and crafts that Mom saved. I was pretty dramatic too. Multiple childhood notes of me hating this or that, and then notes of apology for losing my temper. How many of those do I keep? To me, they aren't cute. They bring back painful memories of sitting in the bathroom talking to myself in the mirror and trying to make sense of life. When you're little, the little things that happen are so big to you, and make such an impact on your life.



So it's been an interesting process. I'm glad I'm starting now. Life accumulates!

Mmmm...yummy!

Rainbow Pasta Salad

Well, week two and Austin and I are still doing P90X. We've missed a couple days due to date night and such, but we have forged past our mistakes. (Hey, it's not my fault that a plate full of homemade eclairs was put in front of me!) Week one was bad because 1). I was pretty sick, 2). I was burning any extra energy doing intense workouts at night, 3). I was waking up with Cici at night,  and 4). I was spending an inordinate amount of time cutting up vegetables for meals I didn't even enjoy very much

.

But you know me, I'm the type to suffer in silence. It's not like my husband heard me whining all week or anything.

Week two has been better. I feel like I've adapted some of the P90X nutrition guide's weirder recipes to ones I will actually make and my family will actually eat. (Note: Egg whites are gross, the whole egg is better for you anyway!) The other night I decided to make a tuna pasta salad. In the dark recesses of our storage room I found a box of colored pastas and threw them in my pot of boiling water. Only after that did I read that instead of the delicious dyes which I normally enjoy, these pastas were colored by the massive amount of vegetables added to them. Oops. Well, they sounded very diet-friendly, even if they did smell weird. Later, I added my tuna then was lured by false advertising into substituting Greek yogurt for the mayo. "Makes a great substitute for creams and mayonnaise!"  Bugsquat. Sour cream, yes. Mayo, no.

I sprinkled more vegetables on top to hide the weird pasta and then billed it to my family as "Rainbow Pasta!" My parenting magazine says that you should make up fun names for the food your kids won't eat. (Broccoli = Shrek's Trees!) Well, it didn't work. The colorful name couldn't make up for the fact that the cucumbers were the best part of supper. We ended up going out for an impromptu date and eating unhealthy pizza. Then I felt guilty when my P90X trainer told us to stay away from poison. (Like pizza and donuts. I assume he is okay with us ingesting real poison, since he keeps pushing the P90X "recovery drink.") Learn from my mistakes. Beware of adaption gone wrong. Use the mayo.



The Worrywart

One morning, Sammy's preschool called and said they had an opening in a morning class--which would work a lot better for us than her current afternoon class--so I said I would take it. Immediately after I said yes to the switch I was plagued with doubt. What if Sammy had trouble making new friends because I switched her mid-year? What if she missed her friends and teacher in her old class? Would it be possible for me to switch her back to her afternoon class if the morning class didn't work out? What if I was scarring her for life because of my choice?

Sammy's one worry was which door she would go out for recess in her new class.

Sometimes we needlessly put our worries and fears on other people. I think this is especially true for parents, because we naturally see reflections of ourselves in our kids. For example, my challenge over the years has been to be a more social person and connect with people, so all my worries for Sam were centered around that. I pictured Sammy as a lonely shrinking violet standing up against the wall,

but that's not who she is at preschool. It sounds like her first day in the new class went more like this:

Carpe Diem!

When I picked Sammy up after school, I asked about her new teacher. "How was Miss Kelli?" Sam nonchalantly replied, "She was great!" I asked if she liked the kids in her class. Sammy informed me that she did, and that the boys were her friends, as well as someone named mmhAm. (Sometimes I have no idea what she's saying.) Then she informed me that the next time she went to preschool I didn't have to walk her inside. So yes, I worried needlessly and my fears were groundless. Sammy will have her own set of challenges in life, but they may be totally unrelated to my challenges. She is not me.

Epic New Year

Sammy at Cici's current age (14 mo.)

The year 2012 didn't begin in a very epic way. The non-epic-ness of our New Year celebration, which basically involved going to sleep, was topped only by the non-epic-ness of my parents' celebration, which involved reading a Nancy Drew book together. To be fair, Austin and I have been dealing with a rash of sleepless nights (Thanks kids!) which is why we turned in early. Good thing, too, because we were woken up by Cici around 1:30 on New Year's Day. At least she wasn't up at midnight--supposedly whatever you're doing at midnight is what you'll be doing the rest of the year, and I can't handle another sleepless year.

On a more positive note, my goal for this year is to do something for my mind, body, and spirit every day. Something fun I've been doing for my mind is memorizing the countries of the world. (Hopefully I'm not the only nerd out there who thinks this is fun.) I found this free website for country quizzes and a pronunciation guide for countries like Kyrgyzstan. For my body, Austin and I have jumped on the P90X train and are shredding our way to fitness !!! while stuffing our bodies with more vegetables and protein than we've eaten in the past year combined. On the spiritual side, I want to have meaningful personal prayer, scripture study, and one act of service each day.

I'm excited for this year. I'm excited for my plan: mind, body, spirit, because it can be as simple or as complicated as I'm feeling up to for the day. This year may not have started out in a grandiose way, but I have a feeling it's going to be an epic 12 months. I'll keep you posted!

The Santa Dilemma

I know most of you have probably been following this breaking story, but apparently, Justin Beiber grew up with his mom telling him there was no Santa Claus. (*Shock*Gasp*) She didn't want him to one day realize he'd been lied to his entire childhood, then consequently not believe her when she told him about God.

I don't know, it kind of makes sense. So how do I handle the whole Santa thing? Well, I don't shoot Sammy down when she asks about Santa, ("He's not real, okay! Just don't tell your preschool buddies...") but I do preface everything I tell her with: "Legend has it..." or, "The story goes that...." For example, "Tradition has it...that Santa will bring you presents in your stocking!" I don't think she knows what a legend or tradition is, but someday she will and realize that I have not in fact lied to her about Santa, but have carried on a fun tradition of our forefathers.

Aside from focusing on semantics while talking about Santa, I have also been trying to teach Sammy what Christmas is all about. We add a magnet to our magnetic nativity every morning and read a scripture and sing a song about Jesus. Every night, we cut a link off our chain that has something about Jesus written on it and we tape it to our window. We've watched videos, read books, etc. about Jesus. So a couple days ago, we had a little conversation about Christmas--I was mostly curious what Sammy had absorbed about Christmas this year.

Me: Sammy, do you know what Christmas is?
Sammy: It's when Santa comes and brings us presents and stockings!
Me: And when we celebrate Jesus' birthday!
Sammy: And when Santa comes!
Me: And when we celebrate Jesus coming to earth as a little baby!
Sammy: And I get presents from Santa!
Me: He's not real, okay! I'm the one that shells out for those presents! It's Jesus' day. It's about Jesus!

Okay, so I didn't really say that last part. I wanted to, but I didn't. I think she just might be too young to really get the reason for Christmas. But you know what? At least I'm not Jewish. Have you ever tried to explain Hanukkah to a 3-year-old? I have. Let me tell you, those Jewish mothers have it even worse than I do.

That's Just the Way the Cookie Crumbles

I've had a couple of embarassing incidents this Christmas season--there was that time I walked around church a while before I noticed the french fry sticker on my ankle, and then Sammy shouting out "Mom, I need to go pee!" during the middle of her preschool Christmas program. However, the Cookie Incident tops everything.

I spent hours last week baking and icing and decorating 4 dozen star cookies for a recipe exchange group. (I was going for the first time and wanted to impress people with how tasty and beautiful my Christmas cookies were. Normally I don't spend that much time on cookies.) The idea is that a bunch of women go to someone's house, trade cookies and recipes, and go home with a nice variety to give to the neighbors for Christmas. I think it's a great idea.

Anyway, the night of the exchange, we were running late getting home from seeing Christmas lights, but I figured I would go anyway. I glanced at the address on Google Maps and jumped into the car. The only problem was, when I got to the subdivision where the house was located, no one had their lights on and I couldn't see anyone's address. Fortunately, it was a small subdivision, and there was only one house with all the lights on and 15 cars parked in front of it. Bingo! There was a little sign taped to the door, "Come in,"  so I trotted on in with my dozens of beautiful and tasty cookies. 

As I stopped in the entry and tried to figure out how to take my boots off while holding 4 dozen cookies, I started looking around me. Strange...there were a lot of little kids running around. I thought this was a girls' night out sort of thing. I took a few steps toward the kitchen to set my cookies down and started looking at the grown ups sitting around talking. Also strange...quite a few men were there mingling with the women and I didn't recognize anyone...Oh no. Oh crap. Wrong house. RUN FOR THE DOOR! I was inches away from freedom when a nice man holding a baby came around the corner and smiled cheerily at me. "Hi, how are you doing?" He seemed a little confused as I detoured around him and reached for the doorknob, still holding my umpteen beautiful and tasty cookies.  "Great!" I squeaked. "I, um, forgot my cellphone--um, I have to run out to the car to grab it." I made a hasty exit.

Epilogue: Highly confused, I drove around the subdivision one more time and actually found the right address. Strangely, even though I was only 30 minutes late, the house was dark and everyone was gone. I gave up on my attempts to be social and drove home slowly in the dark, my dejected tears dropping one by one onto my perfectly iced cookies. Each lovingly placed sprinkle melted softly into...okay, okay, so it wasn't that big of a deal. Our neighbors just got tins of star cookies, no variety added. I went home and looked up my invitation to the recipe exchange group and saw that they had actually met two days earlier. Am I discouraged that I made all that effort to go the recipe group only to get the date wrong? No. Sometimes mistakes happen. Sometimes you go to total strangers' Christmas parties. Sometimes, that's just the way the cookie crumbles.

Christmas Sob Stories

Christmas time is here! It's nice to be home. Inside, the house is festooned with Christmas lights and garlands and bursting with joyful activities like gingerbread house making,

while outside, our welcome bear shivers in the cold.

I'm thinking of writing a Christmas story. It's about a sad, lonely little orphan bear who is shivering in the snow on Christmas Eve, when suddenly a nice family pulls up and gives him warm clothes to wear and 15 large boxes full of toys and goodies to take back to the orphanage. If this is sounding familiar, it's because it is. Most Christmas stories tend to fall into formulaic and somewhat maudlin patterns. You can quote me as an expert on that, because today I read around 90 short Christmas stories online to find some worthy of putting in a binder and reading as a family at Christmas time. I would say about 86 percent of them started with someone dying, someone missing a loved one who has died, or a mention of the Great Depression. The other 14 percent were about orphans.

Yes, as a writer I turn up my nose at Christmas stories. And yet, as I read story after story, I would start sobbing as poor little Billy bought those Christmas shoes for his dying mother, or the lonely old man gave the beautiful doll to the deserving girl who was only thinking about her crippled brother, or the single mom of three kids who didn't know how she was going to provide Christmas for her family was given gifts by kind strangers. The pile of Kleenex grew and my kids looked at me like I was crazy, but I kept reading and sobbing my way through all 90 stories. I think my heart grew 3 sizes today. Or I'm turning into my emotional father. Both medical impossibilities, yet I know something changed today. Despite the predictable cast and the sentimental writing, I'm starting to like Christmas stories.

Perilous Yoga

At Thanksgiving time I was chatting with my sister-in-law, who told me she was taking a yoga class in addition to her super running. It piqued my interest--we've established that I'm not motivated enough to run but I've been wanting to do something in the mornings at home to get the day jumpstarted. I figured I could just check out some yoga videos from the library for some free exercise. Plus, Sammy would probably like to do it with me.

Now, my sister-in-law did say that she was taking her yoga class at a gym with babysitting, and that her kids were a little underfoot when she did yoga at home, but I brushed that aside. My kids are pretty mellow; Sammy doesn't like to over-exert herself and Cici usually just follows Sammy around.

 They look so peaceful, don't they?

Unfortunately, something about the sight of me stretching to soothing New Age music mysteriously whips them up into a frenetic swirl of activity. Mom is standing on one foot? Let's grab onto her leg and try to make her fall over. Mom is doing any stretch that remotely resembles a tunnel? We must crawl under her and run around her. Mom is lying on her back with her eyes closed doing relaxation exercises? We should drop books on her face!

This morning during the latest yoga movie, I was lying on my back listening to someone chant Relax! Breathe! Heal! over and over in a soothing voice when I heard a familiar voice exclaim, "Mom! You're a boat!" followed by the painful whump! of a three-year-old plunking herself onto my relaxed stomach. My eyes shot open and I gave Sammy The Look while Cici giggled in the background. Yogi-like, I calmly went back to Relax! Breathe! Heal! while unbeknownst to me, Sammy circled around for round two. "Mom! You're a bed!" I snapped into defensive mode. Sammy likes to jump on the bed. "Alright," I sighed in defeat. "Yoga time is over." Who would have thought that such a peaceful looking activity could be so dangerous?