Derek's Birthday Experience

Monday evening, my mom and Mark offered to feed our kids pizza and let them watch a movie and ensure they didn't engage in the cannibalistic behavior peculiar to siblings so that Derek and I could go on a date to celebrate his birthday.

We started by going to Star Wars, which we had heard was amazing and fantastic and must-see!  We both thought it was fine.  Honestly, I know better than to let my expectations for just about anything get inflated, because no good, no good I tell you can come of it.  For those of you who have seen it:  Is it just Common Household Mom and me, or is Rey SURELY related to Keira Knightley?  Looks, certain mannerisms, everything.  Google was no help in backing my theory (when it comes to my theories, I am absolutely anti-scientific method, in that I will form my theory that I KNOW IS RIGHT and then look for evidence to support it.  Which means it's time for me to go on Oprah, write a sensational book, and form a cult-like following of people who believe anything if you say it loudly enough.  Right, so now I'm just making myself angry.), but I certainly think it's time for Ms. Knightley to start asking her parents some tough questions.

When we left the theater and trudged through the snow, Derek and I both naturally headed for his car.  I had opened the passenger door and was halfway inside when Derek said with a certain amount of feeling, "Please don't get into that car."  Because it turns out it wasn't his car.  It did look silvery-blue in the moonlight, however, so... close enough?

Evidently Derek had seen that I was headed for the wrong car, but assumed the door would be locked, then panicked a bit when it opened right up for me and I began to climb in.  We both wonder how long it would have taken me to realize I was in a stranger's vehicle.  Probably best we didn't find out.  You know that scene in The Bourne Identity when Jason Bourne is telling Marie all the things he automatically observed upon entering the diner:  The vehicles in the parking lot, the various people inside, something about running at that altitude until his hands start shaking?  I'm like the anti-that.  I do a marvelous impression of someone wandering confused around parking lots, though, except it's not so much an impression as my actual life.

After we were ensconced in the correct car, we went out and ate matching salads at a favorite restaurant because we are just adorable that way, except it's not so sweet when Derek eats his whole meal in a quarter of the time it takes me to eat half a plateful.  He is a speedy eater, and I am a slothful eater, which means Husband has a lot of downtime when we go out to eat.  They need special Fast-Eating Husband activities at restaurants, like those coloring packets they make for squirmy kids.  I don't know what it would include, though.  Maybe Slow-Eating Wife Bingo?  With spaces to cover for things like "Wife chewed piece of lettuce twenty times before swallowing," and "Wife wouldn't touch chicken until barbecue sauce arrived."  Happy Birthday to Derek, indeed.

Coffee Dates of Varying Kinds

Derek's parents asked to have the boys for a few days, and while we didn't quite throw our two male offspring at them, we did respond in the affirmative with definite alacrity.

It's now been four hours since they left.  The house is quiet, to the extent that Adelaide commented, "It is so quiet that I feel like I should scream or something, just because my brain is apparently used to almost constant noise from the boys."  She has not screamed, but she does seem to have a smile fixed almost permanently on her face.

When your two noisy, rambunctious, lovable but high-energy sons/brothers leave, here is what a mother and a daughter do with themselves:

• Read a book because it is quiet enough to do so. (Daughter)
• Go for a run in the snow.  (Mother)
• Go to the library and take as much time as you want to leisurely peruse its offerings.  (Mother and Daughter)
• Go to the coffee shop (seen above).  Order a chocolate malt and a hazelnut latte.  Sit by the fire, discuss how quiet it is, smile like a maniac, play chinese checkers, observe and discuss all the interesting people sitting around you.  (Mother and Daughter, with pleasure)
• Return home, read some more books, write a blog post, occasionally comment to each other how quiet it is, think your thoughts.  (Mother and Daughter)

So, yes.  Of course I miss our boys already, but can I just tell you how beautiful silence can be?  No word from Adelaide about missing her brothers already, and I know better than to ask.

Speaking of Adelaide and coffee and happiness, have I mentioned how much we love her teacher this year?  Because man, do we.  For a variety of reasons, Daughter is sometimes a little withdrawn at school, and as a teacher with 20+ kids in a classroom, all with varying personalities and needs, I feel like it could be so easy to overlook the shy girl who requires little help with her work, especially when she's surrounded by louder, more demonstrative kids with more obvious needs.  

Her teacher this year, however (who I kind of doubted was actually old enough to be a teacher when I first met her), has gone out of her way to reach out to Adelaide, a task that takes perseverance when you have a kid that doesn't immediately respond to your efforts.  Her latest venture happened the week before Christmas break, when Adelaide came home and happily reported that her teacher let her stay in from recess and share a coffee with her.  I'm sure this isn't something they endorse in the district rule book (if such a thing exists), but it's a pretty clear sign that her teacher understands how this particular student operates.  Quality, one-on-one time?  Check.   A break from the loud, busy environment at school?  Check.  Coffee?  Check.  Not every school year has gone this well, so I fold my little hands and say a hearty "Thank you JEEEsus," every so often for the teachers we're enjoying during this one.

Quiet Catching Up

It's been over a week since I last posted, and as such, I have so many things to tell you about I'm completely overwhelmed.  I'm hoping to dedicate a bit of time each day in the coming weeks to sharing all the things you've missed (snow storms!  amazing books!  poop pillows!), but for today, it's just going to be both whatever floats to the top of my consciousness and I manage to get typed before all these children of ours stop doing whatever it is that's keeping them quiet at the moment.  I'm afraid to check on them for fear of what I'll find.

I do know what the youngest is up to:

Ten minutes ago I found him in our bed, asleep.  I'm not sure why he felt it necessary to unmake a bed that isn't even his, but then, the mind of five-year-old boys can be difficult to understand.  Knowing Caedmon, he has a detailed rationale he'll explain to me later, hopefully after a nice, long nap.  

We're all a little tired today, after the assorted merry-making that accompanies Christmas and Derek's birthday yesterday (Happy Birthday, Husband!), and a visit from my mom and Mark.  Among other things, Mom addressed the items on my list mentally titled Things I Need Mom's Help With.  She looked at the zipper on Atticus's coat that stopped working two weeks after we bought it a couple months ago, and voila!  Presto, needle-nosed-pliers-oh, it is fixed!

Aside from a now-working zipper, please note my solution to the problem:  Hand-sewing thick velcro patches on the coat (the velcro's other side is on the inner lining of the coat on the opposite zipper-side, if that makes any sense) so that our son could close his coat throughout the winter if the zipper proved to be unfixable.  Now it's just a fabulous fashion statement, like those tiny pockets you sometimes see on the upper arms of women's shirts, which I can only think must hearken back to when men rolled packets of cigarettes in their shirt sleeves?

Mom also took a look at my right hand and wrist, which has been bothering me for a couple weeks now, generally when I put any weight on it or use it to lift anything even slightly heavy.  She messed with it a bit, spoke some of her nurse-hoodoo over it, listened when I showed her that, "See, it isn't swollen at all," before showing me that it actually was swollen, just in a different spot, and suggested the possibility of a small stress fracture.  Being somewhat, um, accident-prone herself (hey, sisters, remember when Mom cut herself with a chainsaw?  Or maybe it was the tree limb that hurt her so badly.  Either way, a chainsaw was definitely involved), she understood when I couldn't recall any particular incident that might have caused this.  She did suggest compression immobility...or something... and to avoid yoga for a while, so I called her a mean, mean lady.  (Kidding.  I wasn't going to anger the woman who had within minutes just fixed a zipper that had been galling me for weeks.)

I have been following nurse's orders, avoiding yoga and wrapping my hand before I spend hours outside shoveling snow, because she said nothing about not shoveling with this hand.  It's possible she expected me to be smart enough to work this out for myself, in which case the joke's on her!  I am most certainly not that smart!  Hahahaha...ha.  My hand hurts.

In other fun news, our dishwasher has been gracing us with offerings of screws in the bottom of its basin, which I now find with disturbing frequency upon opening the door after running a load.  I can only think it has something wonderful planned for us.

Now I have not one but three children awake and clamoring for a mother who apparently does things, like fixing an already worthless pencil sharpener and reading endless Berenstain Bears books.  I hope you're all enjoying a lovely recovery time after Christmas, or at the very least you have a good book to read.  

Melchior, Gaspar, and Caedmon

Caedmon had his first ever Christmas program last Friday night.  Before we left the house, we had a stern talk with the other two offspring:  "Listen, your little brother has sat through your concerts and programs and junk for years, and it is finally his turn, so you are going to sit there and you are going to listen and you are going to LIKE IT."

Not that Atticus and Adelaide needed much prodding; it was obvious that Caedmon was attaching a large amount of importance to this little preschool program when he began rehearsing his line two weeks beforehand.  "And myrrh,"  "AND myrrh," "And MYRRH."  This from the boy who has entire monologues memorized from the audio versions of Hank the Cowdog and The Jesus Storybook Bible, both in the narrators' Texas and English accents, respectively.  I don't think he was really worried about forgetting the words he was responsible for, exactly, he just wanted to nail them.

Ours is the wise man in the middle.

And my gosh, nail them he did.  He projected "AND MYRRH!" clear to the back of that church, after helping the first two wise men remember their own lines, of course.  Well, I don't think he was helping them remember, exactly, as much as making sure they delivered them in a fashion acceptable to our son's high performance standards.  There was whispering and prodding and I've decided that if Caedmon were a dog he would be one of those breeds that herd and nudge other animals into place.  Maybe a sheepdog.

He was this happy the entire time he was up there.  

Although you can't see them, underneath the wise man getup are his fancy duds (oxford shirt + sweater vest bought at a garage sale last summer for this exact occasion, $1.50 for both thankyouverymuch), which he was so smugly pleased with he wore them to bed post-program.  Then, after I woke him early the next morning because we had a bit of a drive to get to Crisler Christmas (which, yes, is a thing), he stumbled out of his room, all warm and rumpled and still in his Christmas program outfit, and asked if he could wear it to Crisler Christmas, all while rubbing his eyes sleepily.  Because Derek and I both have a functioning hearts, we told him he could, but to brush his teeth and wash his hands, or something.

See?  Cute as a dang button.

I did make him take them off that night, because I am a cruel mother with an unnatural penchant for washing dirty clothes, or so goes the tale of woe Caedmon is currently telling.

Sad Faces and Newsletters

It's the week before Christmas, which means I've stopped in between each word of this sentence to add something else to my grocery list.  A forgotten ingredient for the chili we're bringing to Crisler Christmas this Saturday, a can of frosting for Atticus's Polar Express party next week, ground ginger because Adelaide reminded me we haven't made any kind of gingerbread concoctions so far this year and that is a hanging offense in her book.  She tends to moderate her requests so much that when she asks for something, I jump to accommodate her.  Hang on, was I just outsmarted by Daughter?  Again?

This week has also brought things like cookie decorating day at Caedmon's preschool.

Parents were invited to stay and help decorate the creations, and it was fascinating to get a glimpse of Caedmon's time away from me.  It turns out Cade is an interesting mix of Derek and myself, which has somehow turned him into an early reader who isn't afraid to shout out the answers to every question the teacher asks, not giving anyone else a chance to answer anything.  This is why I sound like a Catholic nun anytime I'm around his teachers, constantly saying, "Bless you," and patting them in solidarity.

This week- this morning, actually- I've also been sure to brush off Caedmon's fears to go downstairs by himself, especially when he cites "the sad face in the kitchen" as the basis of his worry.  When I finally sigh in resignation and hold his hand as we go down the stairs and into the kitchen together, this is what greets me:

That is indeed a sad face in the kitchen.  It's also the back of the toaster oven, which I'd forgotten I'd moved in order to make room for our demon printer that refused to print the Christmas newsletter I finally finished last night.  Something about needing both ink and paper to work.  I'm sure once I've replenished our supply of both, it will still refuse to work simply because my IT guy won't be here.  (Note:  My IT guy is Derek.  He's also the Information Technology guy for various family members and at work, despite the fact that he is not an actual IT guy.)

At this point I'm just thankful the dang newsletter is written, because it is tortuous to write.  Scratch that; it's fun to write, but tortuous to read.  Derek asked me to read it aloud to him last night, and I got three sentences in before I thrust the laptop at him and told him to please, please, please read it to himself, silently.  I knew that if I read one more word aloud I would no longer be able to fight the compulsion to delete the whole thing because it's all TRASH, UTTER GARBAGE.  

I love reading the holiday newsletters that come in our mail from our loved ones.  It's one of my very favorite things!  I don't put any of those newsletters through the interrogation that our own has to go through:  Is this thing too braggy?  Boring?  Overly long?  Cutesy?  Too detailed?  Am I making our imperfect lives seem too perfect?  The structure seems off.  My syntax is a travesty.  When did my vocabulary disintegrate?  WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER WITH ANY OF THIS?

Then I remind myself for the millionth time that reading these same things from our friends and family is ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS, and trust all the recipients to be gentle and forgiving of any flaws, because that is what relationships are about, and why we do silly things like Christmas cards:  To build and continue relationships.

Except for that one family whose photos and letter and very lives seem like one flawless package, delivered specially to our mailbox every December.  They suck.

A List for Monday

• I miss a bunch of things about the traditional Lutheran church I grew up attending, but this time of year, it's probably the advent wreath that I miss the most.  Unless, of course, it's the hymns; at the church we're a part of now, it's apparently against, well, their religion to sing christmas carols the way they've been sung for hundreds of years, oh no, they have to be tweaked and revamped and messed with until everyone is struggling to sing along even though we all know all the words.  Not that this bothers me.  Everyone knows I am very flexible and easy to work with.

ANYWAY.  

Somehow it never occurred to me that I could have an advent wreath of my very own right in our house, heck, smack dab in the middle of our kitchen table, if I wanted.  Which I did.

Our children evidently wanted to give you a good idea of how things normally look around these parts.  But also note the advent wreath!

I found the box of advent candles at a garage sale a few years ago, which is the moment that made me pause and say to myself, "I'm pretty sure the Lutheran police aren't going to come to our house and smite me if I use these outside of a church," and fifty cents later they were all mine.  There's no doubt they languished in that box for years before I adopted them; the pink candle is maybe 1% pink now and 99% white.  The wreath is one that I found at Goodwill years ago for $1 and then stashed in a cabinet, sure that I'd use it someday.  Its day finally arrived, after I'd made it a little more naked, of course, as is befitting an advent wreath.  Or something.

The carnage

• The mother of one of Caedmon's preschool classmates spent some time talking to the class about their family's celebration of Hanukkah, which made a big impression on our son.  We hadn't yet reached home afterward when he began brandishing a small object at me, informing me that "This is a Hanukker!" to which my response was, "Do you mean 'dreidel'?"  He acknowledged that yes, it was a dreidel, then asked why we didn't celebrate Hanukkah.  A series of questions and answers followed, ending in Caedmon gasping and saying, "Does that mean Max is one of God's chosen people?!"  I confirmed that he was, and our Cade was in awe.  Easily one of the best parts of my week.

• Those caramelized stars from the previous post are made by pouring the molten sugar into metal cookie cutters placed on a cookie sheet covered in aluminum foil.  I greased both the foil and the inside of the cookie cutters with cooking spray.  You let the sugar cool and harden for a couple hours on the sheet, then gently tap the shapes out of the cookie cutters.  

Seasonal Beauty

It's no wonder I love this time of year; everything is just prettier.  Isn't everything prettier?

Yes, my caramelized stars turned out a little darker than planned, because sugar is like teenage girls and cats:  All are mostly sweet but will turn on you in seconds.  I subsequently had to explain to our confused children that the stars made entirely out of food were not to be eaten unless they enjoyed a certain burnt taste that lingers on the tongue.

Or how about this pretty sight:

I feel like at nine years old Adelaide has a taste in clothing that's a little more timeless than mine was at the same age:

That's me on the right, easily identifiable by the gold lamé and air traffic controller ears.  Thankfully the photo is of a low enough quality that you can't get a good look at those glasses.  (Rhinestones.  Butterfly.  Pink.  Adelaide was hysterical/mortified when I described them to her.)  I haven't shaken my love of metallics, either:

Upside down white tapers drying in glasses, due to having just been spray painted by yours truly.  Oleander and Palm has the best and simplest teacher gift ideas.  I just can't decide which I prefer, the classic gold or rose gold.  

Naturally, it didn't take Caedmon long to turn them into weapons.  At least he waited until the paint had dried.

And some might call our recent weather dreary (Derek), but I love fog on fallow fields.  

I also love that I can finally see a landscape that's been next to my running trail year-round, but which I'm unable to see except when all the foliage dies away.

What pretty things have caught your eye lately?  Had any good-intentioned projects turn on you like my sugar stars?