Holiday wishes for you and you and you

The 8 phases of the holiday photo

Oh, the blessed ritual of the holidays. The festivity, the preparing of home and heart to welcome miracles. The feasting, the sharing, the ushering in of a new hope, a new year. All this richness is what every mother hopes to capture in her children's holiday photo.


Phase One: Robot Children
You're just beginning. Everyone is hopeful, cooperative. They're trying. But it's just too stiff. Not warm enough.



Phase Two: Grandma tries to help
Grandma steps in and attempts to make everyone smile. From the other end of the room.



Phase Three: New Location
You decide an outside shot might be better. Everyone settles in, tries to find a comfortable pose. Especially the two-year old, whose most comfortable pose is less than modest. Also, your sister pulls into the driveway and yells, "Hi guys!" just as you're hitting the button.



Phase Four: Smile!
Everyone gets comfortable. You say, "Smile!" The two-year old really, really tries.



Phase Five: Impatience decends
Everyone is getting just a little bit anxious. "This is going to be it!" you reassure them. "Just one more!" And yes, it's a great shot! Cute! Natural! Semi-focused! Except the four-year-old forgot to sit still.



Phase Six: Hilarity
They've begun to mock your dream of a nice Christmas photo.



Phase seven:



Phase Eight: Tears
Now you've done it. You've made the baby cry.



Phase Nine: Wine
Mutter, "F it." Go inside. Pour a glass of wine. Pick a mediocre shot and live with it.

And no, you can't see it because you might be getting a Christmas card.

Holidays officially underway.

Twas the day after Christmas

Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
the children dropped toys. Mama started to grouse.
She's feeling that annual Christmas let down,
The excess, the mess, they inspire her frown.
The children are already looking for more,
And she can't even find her own damn front door.
She just wants a blanket, a coffee, a snooze,
A good book, some quiet (and later, some booze).
She's been buying, and making, and wrapping for days,
Then it's over in hours. Cue the malaise.

But she does have the memory of kids at wee hours,
eyes shining in Christmas lights, awed by the towers
of gifts left by Santa, by stockings stuffed full,
by cookies left eaten: the magical pull
of waking to find the world sparkling and shiny
The enchantment of Christmas reserved for the tiny.

Yes she's wading through pine needles, wrappers, and bows,
small parts to their games, forgotten new clothes.
Yes she's chomped the last treat of this year's holiday
And she's already threatened to throw toys away.
But the new piles of junk, the new pounds of fat
Are worth it, of course, as long as there's that:

All I wanted to say today

I said already at Babycenter's Momformation.

Happy 4 days till Christmas!

If I have one more set back...

...I'm going into hibernation. The papers lie untouched today. The Christmas coasters I so lovingly finished 75% of the way mock me from the sewing/computer/homework table in the sewing room/playroom/mud room/room for all the crap that doesn't have any other place. I woke up with a lovely sore-as-hell throat and a fever. As if I have time for lying around and whining.

But, regardless of the logistics of the thing, that's what I did all day, and now I feel panic in my bones. I absolutely HATE letting myself get this way in December. I am a big, big fan of the holidays. In me, the Christmas spirit abounds and often manifests itself in (post-exams) spontaneous rounds of baking and crafting. My inner Martha is loosed upon the household. I'm somewhat insufferable.

But if I let myself fall behind in the tasks I must do, all the fun stuff suddenly turns chore-ish, and I feel pressured to bake, pressured to make snowflakes with the kids, and pressured to wrap my gifts in my signature annoyingly cutesy way. And all of my December joy is washed away like so much curdled egg nog.

This weekend, I'm hoping to pare the list of must do's and make room for the want-to-do's, providing I'm not still sick. I'm actually hoping this is strep throat so I can knock it out with some good old fashioned amoxicillin and feel better by Saturday, which is when our babysitter is supposed to come over to watch the miscreants while John and I finish Christmas shopping. I have been looking forward to Saturday all week, anticipating a day devoted to two of my favorite things: spending money and having kidless time with hubs.

I'm off to sigh and whimper my way through the rest of the coasters. (By god, the kindergarten teachers WILL have somewhere to put their coffee cups this Christmas!) But I can't go without sending a happy birthday wish to my big sis (who needs to update her blog!)

Here's a special birthday image, just for you:

What, are we in Australia?

It reached 80 degrees today. On December 11th. The end days are here.

How is one supposed to enjoy her newly trimmed Christmas tree in BALMY weather? It's a drain on the Christmas spirit, I tell you.

Luckily, this year, Christmas at our house comes with a one year old, so that balances things out in the spirit department. It's impossible not to feel full of love for friends, family, fireplaces, the Three Tenors, and baby Jesus while watching your 13 month old's first Christmas tree lighting. The moment John plugged in the lights for our Christmas tree reveal, Paige stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide, her mouth open. Then she slowly lifted her hand to point at the tree in a gesture that said, "Holy. Crap. Do you guys SEE this?" She stood pointing for a good minute and a half, yawping in glee every few seconds. Then she attacked the ornaments.

Throughout the day today she's been happily carrying around all the holiday tchotches that I've placed around the house. They're all baby safe, but her swiping is putting a damper on my attempts to fancy up the house. Her favorites are the red pillar candles that I put out on the hearth, the kind that come in graduating sizes and fill a room with eau de noel. She enjoys the challenge of carrying things with a bit of heft, living dangerously and all that.

Tonight is just a quickie entry and then it's back to the grindstone, which for now is a folder fat with research papers. When the tide of papers ebbs, I'll be back to warm your hearts with tales of holiday joy and Christmas pickles (when I'm not chained to the sewing machine, trying to stay true to that mother#$%#$% handmade pledge)

p.s. The picture I used with this post captures perfectly Paige's expression when she saw our tree all lit up for the first time. No, no, not the baby...the giraffe.

Handmade hullabaloo

So a couple of weeks ago, I sorta took this pledge to buy/make handmade gifts for everyone on my Christmas list this year. I say "sorta" because I still haven't thought up any handmade items to suit my 9 and 12 year old nephews--I can't picture them getting really excited about a tote bag or a quilted belt. And I can't whittle.

Anyway, this new sewing hobby has me a little high right now. I can't tell you how exhilarating it is to finish a project, to feel the pride of having created something beautiful(ish). So to have an excuse to sew has made me a bit of a hermit. I have a gift/project list a mile long, a closet stuffed with vintage fabric that I scored at a yard sale last weekend, and a permanent crick in my neck. John misses me. When he complains, I remind him how much money I'm saving by making our Christmas gifts. Nevermind the twice weekly trips to Jo-Ann's and the notions and needles and interfacing and dish towels and sewing books I've bought. I'm saving money, dammit!

I would love to share my f.o.'s here (it's sewing lingo--you wouldn't understand), but I have family lurking about, and I'd hate to blow any surprises. Maybe I'll set up a flickr group and relatives can be on the no-snoop honor system. I'll just enforce the rule that my parents handed down when we were little: if you snoop and discover your present, you take it then and there, and you'll have nothing under the tree for Christmas. So there. Remember, I can trace your outclicks, people.

I think a great deal about all the other work I should be doing while I sew: blogging here and at BabyCenter...grading papers...taking care of the children...nurturing my marriage...watching my DVR'ed episodes of The Hills. But the Singer calls to me every night (Singer, you know, like a siren). I think (hope?) some of my enthusiasm is bound to wear off, but until then, miss me. I'm busy doing all of this:

(okay, okay, f.o. = finished object. And I just learned that yesterday.)

If I were truly mean...

My two little potty mouths, lately hell bent on slipping the words "pee" "poop" "puke" and "penis" into every conversation, would wake up on Christmas morning to find these, and only these, under the tree, with a note attached:

"I noticed how much you boys love pee and poop. Thought this would be the perfect present. Merry Christmas! Love, Santa"