Christmas Comes But Once a Year (Thank You, Jesus)

Christmas 2006 in the McPhail household is officially over.

Relatives have been seen, gifts exchanged, and the tree has been undecorated, dragged outside and set aflame for a giant weenie and s'mores roast (good thinkin', baby brother).

Fortunately for us all, this year was pretty uneventful--especially compared to years past. I know that one year, my Grandma faked a heart attack and we all spent the night in the ER (somebody needed attention, apparently). One year, while passing out gifts, the hulking 9-foot Christmas tree (fully loaded with enough glass ornaments to fill a Pier One) fell over and almost took me and my brother out permanently. (A vast majority of the ornaments shattered on the tile floor, which added to the fun.) One year, my house burned down. Yep, true story.

When I was younger, Christmas was this anticipatory date of tremendous excitement and endless contemplation. It seems as though it eventually became more of a chore--so much work shopping and decorating, visiting relatives that I would rather not see at all, arranging travel plans and work schedules in order to meet deadlines and such. Having kids brought the excitement back, for sure, and reestablished the pleasure of so many Christmas customs. For that I am thankful.

However, there is a part of me that is always relieved to take down the tree, clear out the tinsel and lights, and throw away the boxes and bows. To feel relieved that we made it through another Christmas with family intact, loved ones nearby, and to mourn the loss of those whom we are without for the first time at the holidays. And to take a breath and say a prayer that we will all be together to celebrate Christmas another year.

The Real Thankful Things

On Thanksgiving, it's pretty normal for somebody to ask me what I'm thankful for at some point. That's a good thing, it makes me think. However, I often find myself hesitating and mentally running through my list of "Things I'm Thankful For" in search of a response that is actually appropriate. Because, you see, due to my natural sarcasm, most of the things I'm thankful for, are not, in fact, appropriate dinner conversation material.

For example, I'm thankful for the privacy fence my neighbors put up because although I can still smell the weed they smoke on a regular basis, I don't have to watch them do it in front of the toddlers that they keep in their home daycare.

I'm thankful for vodka, because when my son takes off his diaper, dumps out the poop, and then crawls through it on the living room rug, I can take take the edge off once it's been cleaned up and the kids are in bed.

I'm thankful for my husband's many talents and abilities. (We'll just stop there with that one.)

I'm thankful for whomever invented reality tv marathons. I don't actually have television in my house, but when I go to visit my parents, I can become completely absorbed in "My Fair Brady," (which might actually star the two most stupid people of all time--"Peter," from the Brady Bunch and some girl named Adrian from some model show) and revel in the fascinating lives of such entertaining people.

I'm thankful for scanners. I would like to explain why, but then I might go to jail. And from what I hear, Thanksgiving in jail is not my kind of thing.

I guess what I'm saying is that while I am thankful for my family, my health (minus the diabetes), my home, etc., etc., I am also most immensely thankful for tank tops with built-in bras. And that's exactly what I'll be thinking of if you ask me.

Hot Black Shoes

Last Friday night, Blaker and I got to do something that is precious and rare in our household--have a night without the munchkins. My Mom was up visiting to babysit, we had reservations for a super-fancy restaurant, concert tickets, hotel reservations downtown, the works. It was going to be a night to remember.

As I was slipping on my best CFM shoes--black, sexy, with extremely high heels--Bellamy wandered into the room. "Hey, Mommy, what are you doing?" I explained that Daddy and I were going to have a grown-up night and I was getting dressed so that we could get going in time to make our dinner reservation. She sat for a minute and watched as I put on my lipstick and jewelry. Then she said just what I've always longed to hear from my three-year old daughter. "I like your hot black shoes and your sexy butt."

Yes, you heard me. I LIKE YOUR HOT BLACK SHOES AND YOUR SEXY BUTT.

What happened to the days of "Mommy, you look pretty," and "Mommy, you need a hairbow like me"? The child DOES spend an eerie amount of time perusing my latest edition of InStyle each month, but she can't actually read it, so how damaging can it be? She doesn't watch television, and her movie experience is limited to Little Einstein and Disney. Last time I checked, Prince Charming never said to Snow White, "Hey, Baby, I like your hot black shoes and your sexy butt." So she formulated this on her own. Yes, my shoes WERE hot, and my butt did look pretty damn good, if I do say so myself, but I'd still rather have received a more toned-down compliment from Little Miss.

Ah, well, The evening DID go fantastically, and now I have yet another crazy memory of my crazy girl.

Misfit Mom

I have come to the realization that I am never going to fit in with the other Moms at preschool. I've tried-- I've struggled and molded my regular-Haley self into my preschool-Haley self, and they are still not convinced. As they shouldn't be. It's all a big, calculated illusion for the masses.

I don't drive a minivan. I will NEVER drive a minivan. I don't wear capri pants. I don't LIKE capri pants. They are for Grandmas and people who join the PTA. I don't want to help with the Silent Auction or the School Planning Committee, or Field Day.  I don't want to make costumes for the Christmas Show.  I don't want to be Class Mom, Preschool Representative, or a chaperone for a trip to the fire station.

 I want to roll into school wearing jeans, flip flops, and a Drop Kick Murphys t-shirt and organize a trip to the zoo where we will formulate a plan to free the giraffes. (Unless, of course, they enjoy their living arrangements. Then they are welcome to stay.)  I want to teach a Friday class for the kids on how to mix Mommy a strong cocktail and send them home with a gift bag containing a bottle of vodka and some olives. I want to blow off the fall party, take the kids on a ghost walk, and then make Edgar Allan Poe crafts with feathers and a lot of glitter.  

Somehow, I doubt the other preschool Moms would go for that.

This is why I don't have any Mom friends.

I Know My Way Around A Stick

Today I learned something new. Today I learned how to drive a stick.

Back in January when Sutton was 8 weeks old, he got really sick. Blaker took him to the ER in the middle of the night because his fever was so high, and I had to stay home with Bellamy, who was sleeping. Blaker drove my car because that's where Sutt's car seat was located. After hours of awful tests (blood work, catheters, spinal taps), Sutton was diagnosed with meningitis. Nobody was sure if he was going to live. And where was I? Stuck at home with only Blaker's car to drive, which was a stick. I was horribly upset, and didn't want to try to learn to drive his car with Bellamy there and while I was such an emotional wreck. I had to find a neighbor to drive me to the hospital (an hour away). A neighbor who thought I was crazy because I was running through the neighborhood in January in my pajamas, no shoes, crying hysterically, carrying Bellamy, trying to find someone to drive me all the way to St. Mary's.

I vowed I would never be in that position again.

Today, Blaker took my car and hauled both of the babies to Durham to visit his crazy mother. All of my planets must have been in alignment because I was able to stay home. (Whoo-hoo! No mother-in-law time for me!!) Of course, he had to take my Xterra because both of the car seats won't fit in his Volkswagen GTI. Feeling brave, I took advantage of the situation. I waited until they were gone, strapped myself in and took off. I figured if I could drive a stick through Saturday traffic in Richmond, I would never be scared to drive it again.

And you want to know what happened? I did it. I didn't crash, run over anyone, or stall the car.
That's one more thing to cross of my list of stuff to learn before I kick the bucket. Way to go, Me.

Don't Hiss At Your Brother!

Before I became a mother, there was a world of things I never thought I'd ever have to even consider, much less say. For example, "No, sweetie, the Easter Bunny does NOT want to see your girl parts," (as we are at the mall, fearfully dodging the 7-foot pink rabbit who wants to give my children a bath toy and, most likely, nightmares). Yes, my daughter is a flasher, but that's another story. I've already had to explain to her where babies come from (see Mommy's c-section scar?) and why wine is inappropriate for her sippy cups. Most of the time, I don't put much thought into how bizarre our conversations are, or how far from my parental ideal I have had to venture. Yet today I happened to take notice. Why? Because as we were riding along Interstate today, I heard my daughter hissing (yes, HISSING) from the backseat. This was not a "let's pretend we're a snake" hiss, as I've heard that one before. This was a guttural, growling, let's-call-an-Exorcist-quick-stat-stat hiss. Trying to sound nonchalant, I asked, "Sweetie, are you hissing at Sutton?" The hissing stops. "Yes, Mommy." Pause.  "Why are you hissing at your brother?" "'Cause he's looking at MY HAIR!"

Yes, folks, my daughter was hissing at her brother because he was looking at her hair.

Now, Sutton is 8 months old. He doesn't even know what hair is--just that he likes to pull it whenever he can get his hands on it. It is most likely he was looking at Bellamy's hair from his rear-facing car seat thinking, "If only I could get my hands on THAT stuff...." So I can understand why she doesn't want him looking at her hair. Sort of. But why the hissing? What makes a 3-year-old hiss like something out of a Wes Craven movie?

And, more importantly, what does one do when one's child hisses at her brother for looking at her hair? If you happen to know a definitive answer on that one, please let me know. WHAT TO EXPECT IN THE TODDLER YEARS does not have section on either hissing or demonic possession (trust me, I've checked and rechecked). And until T. Berry Brazelton or Ferber or whoever the "in" baby guru of the moment is writes one, I guess I'll just keep telling my precious, gorgeous, demon-possessed baby girl, "Don't hiss at your brother!"