A Christmas Letter

 Dear Me in 2013,

I thought I would write to you to remind you, for future reference, how things went this Christmas.  Overall, I would have to say that despite the stress of it all, Christmas was nice, but I think you could incorporate a few ideas that would make life truly feel more the way it looks in the pictures.

First, please, woman PLEASE, do some shopping earlier in the year.  This whole shopping the week of Christmas was ridiculous.  And CHRISTMAS EVE???  Were you nuts?  Look, chica, no good can come of going out into that madness again.  Not ever.  That week is meant for family.  Don't forget it.

Also, beginning wrapping at midnight was not the swiftest move you have ever made.  This year, let's take Guy's advice and finally sew the Christmas cloth wrap into bags for faster wrapping, and start wrapping on the day the first gift comes into the house (note: teach Guy to use the sewing machine).

Not bad on the baking this year.  Kudos.  You really pulled off the gluten-free/dairy-free goodies for Tessa while still managing to bake a little for the rest of the fam.  The macaroons rocked.  Too bad those goodie bags for friends didn't make it out till after Christmas.  Good cover story, though, telling folks it was to help them gradually wean from the sugar.  All lies, but still.  Nice cammo.

And hey, thumbs up on the Christmas Cards; they turned out great.  Too bad half of them still haven't been mailed out.  Again, I would go with Guy's suggestion for next year of starting the card in August (note: teach Guy to draw and to do photoshop).

Mostly though, I think if I had anything that I really wanted you to remember for next year it would be; don't be such a crab next year.  It's a vicious cycle... late, rush, tired, crabby, late, rush... etc.  I know, things had to get done.  And they did.  It's just that I don't think that THAT was how you wanted your kids to remember you at Christmas.

I guess the nice thing is that with how fast the years seem to go by, it will be Christmas again in like, 25 minutes, so you will get another chance really soon.

Happy New Year, Me.  

I hear you have big plans for the coming year. 

Just make sure to create space for the really important things.

***

 The girls' ballet recital

"I am just thrilled to be here.  Really.  More tutus, please."

 Butterflies...

Just before going to buy new ballet shoes as gifts for them, 

I overheard a conversation indicating that they are "done" with ballet.  

Time for gymnastics, they say.  Sheesh.

 "This is how I help mommy bake.  I am the tester!"

 The last advent of the season... really my favorite 

part of all of our Christmas preparations.

 Kaylee enjoys the sumptuous spread of German goodies provided by Bishop and Kathy.

 Sleep in Heavenly Peace...

 Quick, they are holding still...take a picture!

 Christmas Eve snuggles

 It was a rough night at first.  Ethan's bike got stolen, everyone was fussy, and it was just not going the way we wanted it to.  Guy did a wonderful job of turning it all around, and we still managed to read our traditional stories; the Christmas story from the Bible, The Christmas Candle, The Redneck Night Before Christmas and the (regular) Night Before Christmas.

 Ever since our New Year in New York in 2009, 

Cannoli have become a Christmas Eve Staple.

 And of course... new jammies!

"Pyer-man!!!!"

 Just before the sugar-plums finished dancing in wee little heads.  Santa's bells were still being heard at our house at 6am.  Kids got up at 8:30.  Poor, poor Santa(s).

 New Hats...

 The only thing he wanted.  

Santa scored with a sale and a coupon.  

That dude is a totally savvy shopper.

 Christmas Night....

 Guy shows his love in food.

All tuckered out from a happy Christmas.

****

Off to Santa Rosa

 "I'm bringin' sexy back..."

  Gorgeous Sonoma County in Winter

 We went to see our Sweet Joyce, who spoiled us completely rotten, put up with our chaos, noise, and clutter and all the while acted like we
were doing her some sort of favor! 

She is so dear to our hearts.  She has been a part of our lives since Guy and I were first married, which, by the way...

 was exactly 18 years ago yesterday.  We celebrated by finally, FINALLY getting our couples massage that I gifted to Guy 2 years ago upon completing his Masters (no pictures included.  No one needs to see that!)

Then to the Crocker Art Museum where we feasted
on the paintings of Norman Rockwell, 

the first painter I ever fell in love with as a very young girl.

 We ate at a Tibetan Restaurant that was just the perfect way to celebrate a spicy 18 years of marriage, and then even poked around a few shops and held hands for a while (Ethan is old enough to babysit!).

I have to take a moment here to say...

I love my husband.

He is such a good friend.  

He knows and loves every line on my face.  

He knows how to help me in the ways I need it most. 

I am so grateful that I spend my life with this good man.  

And I love looking toward what the future will bring with him at my side.

***

No, that is not our future home, 

but the coming year certainly has a "bump" in store.

Some people say God works in mysterious ways.

I say he works in mischievous ways.

Baby Holman Due June 2013, 

and all is well.

All Tuckered Out

I could tell you about this week,
but then I'd have to kill you.  Or maybe you would kill yourself.  So I will save you the drama and sum up, in general terms, what will go down in the dim recesses of my cluttered memory as: The week from "What-was-I-thinking-ever-becoming-a-parent-?"

The week was peppered with the joys of a 12 year old having a Homeschool-Chernobyl (oh, you just wait, there's a post in there somewhere) and seasoned generously with the thrill of an insurance company calling me about my car being involved in a hit and run in San Diego.  Yah, because I have time to buzz down to SoCal and commit a felony.  Between Rocketry class and Anglo-Saxon Literature class, I just drove the 20 hour round trip for kicks.  Then a few days later there was the real hit and run,  - courtesy of a "blue Toyota" (thanks, witnesses, you really outdid yourselves on that one) - in the grocery store parking lot.  A word to the wise, if you ever walk out of sliding glass doors and are followed to your car by a police officer, it won't end well.  Officer Bradshaw was nice, and called me "Sweetie" and "Hun" and told me to have a better day.  I wanted to hug her, because there were other things that happened this week, the kinds of things that parents of teenagers spend long, fret-filled hours talking about behind closed bedroom doors, but I only shrugged, "It's got to get better, right?".  I surveyed the damage, and by the grace of the hit-and-run-gods it was over the top of the dent I put in the fender 7 years ago.  Let's call it an embellishment and leave it at that.

Somewhere in between teenager-drama and bumper-rama, the plumbing backed up next door.  This month I get to earn my keep as the property manager.  More advice... don't put rice down the disposal, apparently it swells.

My Jonah baby hit a milestone this week that matters to none but those of us in Mormon-dom.  He turned 18 months old and graduated from mama's lap to Nursery, that special place at church where goldfish crackers are consumed in Costco quantities and germs are shared freely.  He hit the door running and never looked back.  "Oh, WOW!" he said in his most blown-away voice at the sight of blocks and cars.  "OH, WOWWWW!" He blurted again, tossing a car aside to grab the bright macaroni noodles for making necklaces.  I faded from his line of site.  I just couldn't compete with all the toddler bling.  I lingered at the door and called a feeble and unappreciated goodbye.

"He'll be alright." one of the nursery leaders consoled.

"I know he will, but I won't." I whimpered to the closing door as it severed a little string from my heart to that fat, precious boy.

My arms felt so heavy with their emptiness as I sat in endured my class. 

That settles it.  Clearly, he can not grow up.  I am putting my foot down.  I simply will not allow it.  Make a note.

So, you see, I'm all tuckered out.  But I only have one day left to get my paintings ready for an art show I am trying to get in to.  Little things, like Jonah spilling a pint of white gesso on the rug while the dog simultaneously vomits ten feet away, have created a few delays.  Tomorrow I plan to paint - between tending the teen, helping the homeschooled heart, and scaling the mountain of laundry that was neglected last week in the hazmat that is my life. 

Break out the yellow suits and gas masks, sweethearts.  This is not a drill.

A Thousand Words

It hardly seems possible

that September is more than half gone.  There is a funny nip in the air at night, and more and more leaves each day on the patio from the mulberry trees.  The kids keep asking me to take them swimming, and even though the 10-day forecast calls for high nineties, I know I had better do it soon.  It feels like Halloween will soon be ringing my doorbell and saying "trick-or-treat!"

And it seems it can't be a whole year since the last time Francine was here, but it was.  She came to see Jonah-boy be born, to rub my back and smile at me and tell me how strong I was.  Now he is tumbling along on fat, dirty feet and jabbering like a blue jay.  It has indeed been too, too long.

Francine arrived last weekend with baskets full of goodies - organic farmer's market finds; white peaches and nectarines, raw pasta sauce from her own garden (can I say "wow!"???), fresh brick-oven bread and garlic butter, and astonishingly, gluten-free ravioli, though she had no idea about Tessa's new diet.  She even brought dessert - a gorgeous hand-made blackberry pie, "The lady at the farmers market said she picked the berries just yesterday.  Her recipe won the gold ribbon at the fair."  Francine told us. 

It was a gold ribbon meal all the way around.

The whole evening had an air about it, a sort of "just right" feeling, like comfy old shoes.  But there were times, many of them, when things sort of fell apart, as old shoes do.  The kids fought, Ethan dodged work - and my camera, the dog was under-foot and the kid's manners were often under-par.  I have learned not to feel embarrassed around Francine - she truly accepts us with all of our familial flaws.  And let me tell you, we were exceptionally flawed on this particular night.

As I looked at the pictures from that evening, in my mind I could see all of those moments in between them.  The fuss Tessa made when I tried to take "just one more" picture,  Ethan filling his mouth with water and spitting it in a grand spray all over his brother,  the setting sun right in our eyes, the flies and mosquitoes, my fretting over messes being made and time marching too swiftly. 

I think sometimes as I sit down late at night, like now, to write about our life and our experiences, I find myself doing a lot of editing.  Maybe I am trying not to complain.  Maybe I want to remember to have gratitude for my blessings.  Maybe I don't want to "air my dirty laundry" too much, as my dad would say.  I cut out the moments in between, the squabbles and the burned food, the barking at the kids (mine, not the dog's), the times I sit down on the floor and cry because it all seems so overwhelming.  And I think, that's not really very fair.  I would like my life to be like it is in the pictures, and it is... and it's all of the other things, too. 

I freely confess at this very moment, that I have bellowed the phrase "I AM NOT THE MAID!!!" not once, but twice this week.  I have changed 3-6 diarrhea diapers a day for four days.  I have eaten half of a container of chocolate frosting all by myself.  I don't know where my cell phone is, again.  And there are - count 'em- SIX laundry baskets sitting in front of me on the floor right now.  I worry about my kids.  I hate being broke.  I dread that my skin is changing, that parts of me are drooping, and that if I stop dyeing my hair I will look like the bride of Frankenstein.  My garage looks like a box store threw up in it, and was then hit by a cyclone of bikes, recycling and baby clothes in trash bags.

Oh, yeah, and I have three overdue library books.

I don't suppose I have a moral here.  If I were Maya Angelou I would find a poem in it all.  But I am just a regular mom, trying to live the gospel, trying to keep a clean house and to raise good honest people to send out into the world.  I am trying to overcome my short temper, my big mouth and my sweet tooth. 

I am flawed, but I try to hide it. 

I guess that's why I am the one who takes all the pictures.

It is easier (to hide) on this side of the camera.

Gardenias from Francine; the first of many gifts.

After many tries, I finally get a genuine smile from Ellie.

A feast, garnished with edible flowers by Tessa-loo.

Is it my imagination...

...or is everyone looking at me funny?

See the flower in her hair?  That means Tessa was here.

That's quite a scrumptious dish.  The pie looks good too.

I can see Francine's love for my children

 reflecting back at her in their faces.

You can keep your durn'ol genetic relatives...

 We have adopted a grandma that jumps

on the trampoline with our kids!

Title Below

Jonah boy - crashed 

The title of this post has been changed due to a very persistent spammer.  The original title was:

Technical Difficulties

I tried to post last night, but the website crashed about four times.  Finally it sent me a note; it was having technical difficulties. 

It's not the only one.

I wanted to tell you all about my trip to the library, but my own technical difficulties were getting in the way.  Without the library, though, my story makes no sense.  So here it is...

The library is amazing.  It's like someone giving you a big ol' gift card to Barnes and Noble, and grabbing any book you are even remotely interested in, taking them home, reading them, and returning them no questions asked.  I go bonkers at the library.  I go to my favorite shelves and just grab any book that calls out to me.  When the pile in my left arm gets so heavy that I can't manage another book (which, by the way, is a lot of books now because of my new buffness), I stagger to the children's section, and ease my ridiculous pile onto one of those shorty tables.  Then I sit in an itty-bitty chair with my butt cheeks hanging off the sides and go through my pile, flipping through the pages and sorting the good ones from the duds like a fishmonger sorts halibut.  This time around I got books on building fountains, watercolor painting, one on raising daughters in an appearance obsessed culture, a couple about the science of water energy, a book on beading, and an amazing little book called The Creative Family... Oh, it will be a string of late nights and long visits to the little girl's room. 

It had been a strange, beautiful rainy day.  A summer storm had rolled in, humid and heavy, and it felt like a day that had been plucked out of early October.  I walked through the library feeling grateful for all of the brave people who took a chance at putting their thoughts down on a page, and then had the faith that someone would publish them, all so that I could be inspired.  And I was.  Am.

Thus inspired, when I got up yesterday I determined to do something amazing with my day.  I exercised, did a little house work, and was just finishing up our family 3-minute patrol when I heard a voice calling.  "Mom...could you come here?".

Enter technical difficulty #1.

Ethan was in the garage.  He was orange.  "I'm sorry..." he started.  Somehow he had managed to knock a small plastic container of oil painting pigment powder off of a shelf.  It broke.  He picked it up.  It dumped out all over him and the ground.  Then he had nervously paced back and forth trying to figure out what to do.

For five minutes.

In the orange powder.

Most unfortunately, the powder also happens to be very toxic.  It needed to be cleaned up carefully.  I called my PHD brother to get clean-up instructions.  I had Ethan strip down right in the garage before hitting the shower.  I had to trust him to clean the nooks and crannies, but the mama in me wanted to get in there with a luffa.  I created a sort of haz-mat suit for myself, and armed with gloves, a mask, plastic booties (Ok, Safeway bags and rubber bands, but they did the job), and some special clean-up supplies from the hardware store, I spent the next four hours in the garage, working until not a trace of orange remained.  After the mess was cleaned up, I remembered that the washer repair guy is coming today (more technical problems), so of course I had to tidy up around the machine.  Once I got going out there it was hard to stop, and it just made sense to drag out all the baby clothes to locate the toddler-sized summer duds (yes, he's that big). At 11:30, I finally stopped (not finished...stopped).

It wasn't the day I planned, but I had a lot of time to think as I schlepped around in my plastic suit.  I thought about how much I wanted to protect my children from anything that would hurt them.    I thought about chocolate (I always think about chocolate).  And I thought about the paintings I would never paint in my life because I chose to have five children.  They will be my only chances at making masterpieces, so I gotta get it right.

The orange pigment was a total loss.  I probably wasn't going to need it anyway.