The Promised Christmas Tree Post

Every year I regale you lucky ducks with near death experiences of our annual Christmas Tree Hunt.  You can check out old ones here and here.  Every year is different, seeing as how we're gypsy wannabes who can't stay put or go to the same mountain every year, but one thing remains the same:


Something will go hideously wrong.


Chopping down our own tree is a family tradition that began, I suppose, when I was but a wee babe, tucked in my Papa's flannel jacket while Mama sprinted ahead "just around that one last corner."  The menfolk in my family tend not to enjoy this particular tradition for some reason (something to do with missing football and lugging back a tree the size of Mt Kilimanjaro) and they will more than likely morph into the dad from A Christmas Story when he looses his cool over the furnace and weaves a tapestry of profanity that still hangs over Lake Michigan to this day.  But tradition is tradition is tradition and if they don't want gravy in their stocking to go with their coal, the menfolk will oblige the womenfolk and the childrenfolk.

Having lived both in Wyoming and Michigan, places where it gets rather cold and snowy to say the least, we were pleasantly surprised to trek through the dirt this year instead of the snowbanks up to our armpits.  We're used to losing Anna, who is vertically challenged, and only seeing the tips of her pigtails sticking out of the snow.  We've lost dogs altogether and possibly one grandpa.

So, this year...it was fast!  It was not cold!  There was no whining!  The car didn't get stuck!  We didn't get lost!  We remembered snacks!  We only had to drive a mere thirty minutes!  We were back in under two hours!

I had even asked for time off from Nutcracker rehearsals so I could dedicate the day to our tree hunting.  My boss looked at me and asked if there was a death in the family to warrant such an absence twenty days before Nutcracker.  There might be, I replied, there's always that risk.

So, the problems didn't rear their ugly heads until we got home.  Then we came to understand a nugget of truth:

Some trees look smaller when they're on a mountainside then they do when you try to fit them in the living room.

Also, we're hoping forest service officials won't dust the stump for fingerprints because we may have lopped off more than the designated amount.  Whatever.  Let's not split hairs.

Let's just say there was pruning going on.

Eventually, we got the tree whittled down to Redwood size and set up.  The lights went on!  The gold beads went on!  All the ornaments (all 2134897.5497) of them went on!  The stockings were hung by the chimney with care!  I in my kerchief and Dad in his cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap (or a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond).

Then it happened.  I walked by our Christmas tree.  We'll never know if my pajama hem brushed the branches or if I breathed too heavily or if a cold north wind was blowing through a window, but suddenly -

         * crrrrrrreeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaak *

I found myself being leaned upon like Lucy by Joe Junior in While You Were Sleeping.

The tree fell into my arms.  Or to be more precise, my hair.
Luckily, I broke its fall with my 5'3" body.  I'm sacrificial like that.  Also, I have a kid who faints so I'm accustomed to holding out my arms at a moments notice and catching things.

I yell for my handsome prince and he comes running.  We push the tree back up.  We try nailing fishing line to the wall - an old trick used by cave men and their Christmas trees - but we only have the world's smallest and most ineffective nails and the line slips right off.  Plus, the weight of our tree snaps the line anyway.  Then we realize our tree stand is busted.  This explains some things.  Like why the tree tried to kill me.  So in order to go to the store and buy a replacement stand we had to do something so dreadful I don't even want to talk about it here...
we had to undecorate the tree in the same day we decorated it.
Then we went and bought a new stand.  We splurged for the $19.97 one and not the crummy, deadly $7.97 one.
Then we came home and started over.
Two years later, we had our Christmas tree.

It was worth it.  Even if I had to take three separate photos to show you the full tree due to its size.

Tree and Elf.

This is the same expression I had on my face when the tree tried to murder me.

Our angel topper is dwarfed by the behemoth branches.  She also may or may not have a terrified expression on her face.  She doesn't get out much.

Obedience through bribery and other advice

Mama guilt is a peculiar thing.  It follows us Mamas around and yells at us when we're trying to sleep.  I have discovered that it can be stifled by - at least occasionally - resorting to Things We Said We'd Never Do.


Things We Said We'd Never Do Before We Had Kids Back When We Were The Perfect Parents With No Kids To Ruin Our Perfect Parenting Streak:


1.  Bribe them.  The experts say you cannot do this or chaos will ensue: the world will be consumed in fire, followed by death, maiming, soiling of quilts, and the stepping on of chickens.  But here's the truth (shh!):


If a purse full of candy means your toddler will let you roam the aisles of Ross twice per year, then get a bigger purse.


2.  Count to three.   Back before we had our own little nose pickers we said we'd never do this because "it only gives them three more seconds to be naughty."  Well, I'm here to tell you this:


We have already been programmed to count to three when we're upset.  You can't help it.  You're already doing it in your head, so it may as well come out your mouth.  Plus, it will buy you three seconds to get yourself under control so that you don't do something you will regret later, like snarf a carton of Oreos in despair.  Go ahead and count to ten if it helps.  I won't tell.


3.  Potty train later rather than earlier.  Who ever said potty training = freedom was smoking something, and I'm not talking about salmon.  


Potty training means two years of your life you will never get back, plus an intimate knowledge of every public restroom from here to Topeka.  Every errand you run will take fourteen times the amount of time it would take had your little muffin been wearing a diaper.


4.  Give in when nagged.  I always said/thought/read/heard that if you NEVER give in on a battle with a toddler, then YOU WILL WIN FOREVER.  That is a big, fat lie and whoever told you that is laughing it up.  Saying "no" only makes stubborn little gremlins more stubborn and more gremlin-y.  They really, REALLY like a challenge.  


So, do yourself a favor and just give in next time.


5.  Never let them become a picky eater.  I don't like picky eaters.  I don't like your picky eater and I don't like that picky eater across the street and I don't like my picky eater.  But they didn't become that way because you "let" them.  They just are.  Like spiders and high bridges and wedgie-prone underpants.  So, accept them.  Let them be.  Give them cereal for lunch (instead of steamed quineoa) and Nutella for breakfast (instead of vegetable stir fry).


I won't tell.


6.  If you don't read to them, they won't become readers.  Yeah, well, sometimes you read to them and they still don't become readers.  Set that example all you want and it still might not work.  I read all the time.  I read so much I forget to change my socks or mop the floor or parent my children!  And all I have to show for my stellar example are a bunch of kids who tell me they'll wait for the Xbox version.  


So go ahead and sink into that bubble bath with the latest romantic mystery...but don't expect your sacrifice to rub off into literate children.


7.  Have a strict bedtime.


Yeah.  Good luck with that one.


8.  Don't allow them to have a "sleep crutch."  You know, those things like binkies and babas and blankies and other things that begin with B.  Well, I'm here to tell you, surround that little angel with every sleep crutch you can possibly find.


We used to surround a snoring infant Cora with upteen pacifiers in the hope that when the one in her sweet angel mouth would fall out (which it would the second we hauled our tired bodies into our own bed), she would magically have enough power over her own limbs to grab the nearest one and pop it in herself.  This doesn't work.  But I still recommend the Circle of Binkies.


9.  Purify their water, boil their pacifiers, use non BPA bottles, give them organic food, use cloth diapers, etc.


At least when someone is looking.  This is key.  When you're home alone with Baby, do whatever the heck you want.


10.  Your turn. 


What rule do you break when it comes to parenting?

Just photos

Looky!  Crescent rolls!  As far as the eyes can see!  As many as your belly can hold, plus two!

Three strange woodland creatures I met in the woods.  Hence, the woodland creatures...living in the woods...

Also, one small ninja.

And his mom.

I hope the park ranger doesn't fingerprint the stump we left that may have been slightly, just a little, a tad, a smidge, above 12 inches.  Ahem.

The hunters bringing home their kill tree.

Hold up for the ninja who was wearing last year's snow boots and couldn't walk fast.  Also, he needed a sandwich.

"Look, Mom!  I'm on a car! Don't I look good on a car?  Can I have a car?  Can I drive the car?  Can I borrow the car keys?  See you later, can I have them please?"

Sittin' on top of the world...lookin' down on creation...


Why is everything a song with me?


There is a story about the Christmas tree.  But I have to wait another day or two before I can laugh about it.  I'm still wincing.  Also, I can't walk by without PTSD flashbacks and thinking it's going to fall my head.  So...yeah.  Later.  First I must bask in the glow of 400 mini lights.


*contented sigh*

What's in my head and on my lips

Coffee tastes best when it's stolen out of the pot before it's done brewing and it makes that little sizzling sound when the liquid hits the warmer. 


Gianni, this is my bath.  You can take your own in twenty minutes after Mommy is raisin-y.  Get your toes out.  Get your fingers out.  Quit stealing my bubbles. Ok, you can take the bubbles with you.  Don't drip. 


Yes, Anna, you can have a dark chocolate ginger truffle for breakfast.  It is the season.  Dark chocolate ginger truffles; they're not just for dessert anymore.


I miss the easy friendships I had when I was in my twenties, but I wouldn't go back because they were too easy and not tried by fire yet.  I love knowing that our little band has been through everything possible that could happen to humankind (well, almost) and one by one, we've helped raised one another out of the pits of it, dusted off our big girl pants, and squeezed our entwined hands.


When Thanksgiving dinner arrives I wonder why we only eat such a fabulous, perfect, flawless meal once a year.  Then, after upteen leftovers, I remember why.  No one will want it again for 360 days.


And it all tastes a little bit better when your Mom makes it.  I can't taste 1988 in my stuffing, or 1992 in my mashed potatoes.  Mine are all 2011 and they are lacking somehow.  My mom's food tastes like memories on a plate.


Yaaah, we're finally out of that all natural, green, eco friendly dishwasher soap and we can go back to the hole-in-the-ozone-layer, harsh, plastic-y packaged, dish tabs that I so very much love.  It was like I had a collection of faux milk glass for a while there.


This is the only time of year I like cookies.


Measure your butter when making shortbread, don't just eyeball it.  


Why is the laundry never done?  I hate seeing the bottom of the hamper only to have my view obscured by someone tossing in their underpants, completely and effectively dampening my warm, fuzzy feelings.


I'm so excited to chop down my Christmas tree tomorrow I can hardly stand it.  I'm a little nervous to be living in such a tree hugging state now though.  Especially if they find out about the Cascade dish tabs.  And that I only recycle when I run out of room in my trash.


I love that my man is obsessed with lights on the house and that I can't let him go into any drugstore or department store or grocery store because he will buy more.  


Why is there a fly in my kitchen?  Shouldn't flies be dead in November? 


Gianni's skin is so soft.  Maybe I should rub almond milk, dirt, tears, mud, twigs, oatmeal, salad dressing, Windex, dog food and car oil, on my face too.  Maybe I should make a Toddler Facial Smoothie and sell it on QVC.  


No, Anna, one truffle is plenty.


Gianni, it's time for your bath now.  What do you mean you don't want one anymore?  Can I at least remove the twig from your pants and rub the oatmeal into your skin a little bit better?  Can you spare some of that mysterious grease for my T-zone?

gratitude

Grateful for...


...where I was one year ago and where I am today. Last year I hit a deer with my van, which wasn't very holiday-like of me. This year I will stay out of vehicles.


Visiting friends.


Veggie trays while the turkey cooks.  Go, turkey, go!  Brown up, baby, and get in my belly!


The Macy's Thanksgiving Parade in the background while we fill the crockpot with apple cider, Tawni rolls out a pie crust using a wine bottle, the number of guests keeps tallying up, the crescent rolls rise, the kids rollerblade, the dog enjoys his giblets, and we plan our Christmas tree hunt for this weekend.


Texts from my group home kids...happy thanksgiving to you too, you little gremlins.


Daughters who can take over the Dreaded and Hideous Gravy Whisking Chore that was the bane of my childhood.  Muwahahaha!


Six homemade batches of chocolate truffles ready to be sent off to Idaho.  Don't you wished you lived in Idaho?


Christmas cards in a perfect stack, ready for addressing.  Want one?  Send me your address.  If you are not in my red Wonder Woman address book, you may as well not exist.


A job I totally enjoy.


Writing that people enjoy.


A book that is almost finished.


Mom and Dad.


Boots, jackets, scarves, dresses with leggings. 


Milo and Gianni sitting perched on the floor watching the dog show on television.  Milo is sure to win, in spite of his giblet breath.  Gianni is also in the running in the hound category.  He is a most excellent howler. 


"Four Christmas'" on the dvr to watch with my snugglebunny one night with the extra chocolate truffles (it's not my fault that they all won't fit in the gift boxes).


The turkey induced coma I will shortly fall in to.  I will only be revived by the odor of apple crisp or pumpkin pie with freshly whipped cream wafted gently under my snoring nose.  


What are you thankful for today and everyday?

Sibling Rivalry: A Love Story

The following is a piece I wrote for publication.  It was rejected.  I rewrote it.  Again, rejected.  A different publication showed a brief and momentary interest in it.  But again, rejected.  Then I thought to myself, 'Hey, Self!  I have a blog where no one rejects me!  Well, if they do I don't hear about it.'  So, here you go.  Please don't reject me.  


                                                    *****************************
                                                 SIBLING RIVALRY: A LOVE STORY

It snowed last year:  I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.  –Dylan Thomas.

Is there a relationship so exasperating, exhilarating, angst-ridden, hilarious, bonding, mortifying, constant, giggle inducing, and annoying as that of siblings?  If there is, I have yet to see it.  Although we may love our friends, think we’ve told our girlfriends everything there is to know about us, lean on our spouses, have deep talks with our parents, adore our grandmas, and even sometimes befriend our own offspring, only our siblings knew us from the time of the younger’s birth and will be there when the last one breathes their last.  The language between brothers and sisters is even without words at times; a nod, a shrug, a snort, a shake of the head, a wave of the hand, and they instantly know what the other is communicating.  They interject your childhood tale with a well place eye roll, because after all, they were there too and know when you’re exaggerating.   

My sister – homeschooled beside me during the 1980s - is someone who, even when she struggles to understand me, is the type of fiercely loyal sibling who would drive the get-away car for me after I’ve knocked over the Piggly Wiggly.  If someone dared to suggest I should rethink my life of crime, she’d defend me.  This I know.  And I would do the same for her, although me being the elder I would probably smack her upside the head at the same time.  We’ve gone to bat for each other more times than I even remember.  I recently found my old diary and it was sprinkled throughout with all sorts of references to my sister; a few complimentary, some angry and critical, most ridiculous (I was eleven).  All of the mean parts were crossed through as though in remorse I had seen fit to undo what I had done to her by describing her character so unjustly.  Nowadays, she would still drive the get-away car for me, although in these later years it would be a van full of children, sometimes quarreling siblings themselves.  In fact, we’d be sure to be caught by the police as we pulled over to the side of the road to lecture them about the importance of being kind to your brothers and sisters.            

A sister is someone who will be brutally honest, snuggle under the covers during thunder storms, huddle with you during fearful times, loan you her clothes, steal your clothes, bully you herself but stand up for you with anyone else, braid your hair and pop your pimples.  She has heard you cry yourself to sleep, seen you in your birthday suit, was there when your first crush broke your teenage heart, conspired against your mutual parents with you, did your homework for you, solved mysteries and fought crime with you as her sidekick, learned to drive with you, and either did everything first or everything last, depending on birth order.  My sister is the first person to know when something is wrong with me and the last person I would want to hurt, although ironically she’s usually the first despite my good intentions.  She’s the finisher of all my good quotes and the only one who understands why I think they’re so funny.  We have numerous one liners that crack us up even though neither one of us could tell you why anymore; somewhere through thirty years we’ve forgotten the source.  Why would the declaration that the mashed potatoes are creamy be so hilarious, especially when there are no mashed potatoes to be had?  We’re not quite sure anymore…but we will always bring it up and then laugh together as everyone else in the room raise their eyebrows and back away slowly.  She’s the borrower of all my cute shoes, the thief behind most of my lost earrings, and in a way that only makes sense:  as a chubby little black haired babe perched precariously for a Kodak moment in my three year old arms, she stole my heart long ago.

  

If you don’t understand how a woman could both love her sister dearly and want to wring her neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child.  –Linda Sunshine.

Sibling rivalry began in the garden of Eden and will continue as long as we call our fallen world our home.  Imagine how different the road trips in Heaven will be!  Why, I don’t know about you, but I plan on driving from one galaxy to another with nothing but peace in the backseat!

The lines of distinction are blurred when you have a sibling that is the same gender and close to the same age.  Their lives are conjoined and entirely fluid, even more so when they’re homeschooled.   Four and five year old sisters are almost one whole person.  This was evident one day as I asked my daughters what they wanted to be when they grew up.  Five year old Cora responded, ‘A cowgirl.’  Anna scowled and crossed her little arms over her chest.  ‘Fine,’ she muttered, unhappily, ‘I guess I’ll be the horse.’  Two separate identities and directions would have been unfathomable, unthinkable, and probably unexplainable to them.  If one is a cowgirl, then it only stands to reason that the other has to be the horse.  Poor little whippersnapper had to retire her dreams of being a doctor at an early age and learn instead to gallop properly.  Lucky for her, or unluckily, Cora at the ripe old age of eleven has changed her career path to Marine Biology.  Let us hope Anna swims well and can speak dolphin.

I’m sure the rivalry in our house will only escalate in the teen years, as much as I fight the idea.  There will be arguments over lip gloss and shoes, homework and drivers’ permits, chalk lines drawn down the middle of the bedroom, missing jewelry and clothes, more eye rolls than I care to think about, crossed out diary entries, hung up phone conversations, accusations, competition, drama and tears.  There will also be laughter, giggle fits, toe nail painting, hair braiding, shared jokes and quotes that no one else will understand or remember, late night cups of tea, whispered dreams, a whole lot of secrets, pinky swears, and hugs.  If I’m blessed enough, it will last until they wish the same things for their granddaughters and grandsons:  a rivalry that was really a love story.




This particular post is linked up at

Mein Lieblings

So today's the day the big homeschool blog awards come out and are announced and I draw the line at checking the website 2348798.345 times.  So while I pretend not to care, I will cheerily accept an award from Heather
who was sweet enough to give me this:

I think it's German.

And no one who speaks German could be evil!!!

Sorry.  I was momentarily taken over by Bart Simpson.  That happens sometimes.

Anyway, in the spirit of Bloggy Awards Etiquette, I must follow the rules and nominate blogs that I admire, adore, esteem, read frequently, etc.  Oh, and that are not well known.  No nominating Pioneer Woman or Gluten Girl or any such successful nonsense as that.  Only us slave labor bloggers.  The ones who have less than 100 followers.  Which reminds me:  we here at The Daze Of Us have 99.  Can I offer a prize to Ms. or Mr. 100?  Some homemade dark chocolate truffles?  A sappy card from Hallmark?  My love and adoration?  A pony?

Looking up these new blogs will give you something to do if you too are getting embarrassed at how many times you've tried to find out the winners of the homeschool blog awards.

So here you go...pop over...give them some love...leave them some comments...leave me some comments...leave the world some comments.

mommy sorority

tybekah

hillbilly

I'm supposed to pick five, but I have to stop now.  Nooo, not because I'm going to check in on the winners again, but because Moose is trying to break my vacuum.  And anyone who hurts my Dyson will have to pay the piper.  Probably with his Halloween candy.  Also, I'm not supposed to be blogging right now; I'm supposed to be cleaning and folding laundry and then running off to teach munchkins how to chasse, and then come home to welcome my good buddy, Tawni, who is coming for Thanksgiving.  And she told me something about wanting her guest room to shine like the top of the Chrysler Building.  Whatevah, Miss Hanigan.  I am NOT letting her make moonshine in the bathtub.  Plus, she's preggers which means I have to forgo the turkey on Thursday and make pickles and ice cream sundaes instead.  So I have a lot to do.  Also, I may or may not have remembered to brush my teeth this morning.

Bye.