Post Santa Parenting

Christmas is over.

Hallelujah!!

Seriously, I don’t know about yours, but ours was full of wonderfulness and a few presents. Of course, I didn’t get what I asked Santa for (a blow up doll to sit in the front seat with the kids so I can run irritating errands like going to the post office, etc.), but I did come up with the greatest Santa trick ever.

Harrison got a relatively nice and ridiculously expensive gift (something we can do since Rex and June can still be shopped for at the Ross clearance toy section), a Nintendo DS. But if you ask me, he didn’t really deserve the best gift. The week or two before Christmas I saw an influx of fits and stomping, and I was tempted on more than one occasion to pop him one.

And so, after all the gifts were opened and he was feeling real good like, I said the following:

“Wow, Harrison, you got some great stuff. But it’s too bad you weren’t as good as you could have been. You should have heard what Santa was going to bring you.”

This got his attention.

“What do you mean?” his little 6-year-old self asked, “there was something better?”

I got all conspiratorial, looked both ways to make sure Santa wasn’t listening, and said, “If only you hadn’t thrown so many fits, he was gonna bring you a real motorcycle!” To which he gasped and choked and looked at his lump of DS with slight distain and disgust.

I have the feeling next year Santa will have a little more power.

And that, my friends, is brilliant parenting.

No place like home.

Twas the night before Christmas Eve and my family was making a midnight ride to grandma’s house. Over rivers and through many woods, happily breezing by those glowing beacons universally recognized as McDonald play places–we passed all the usual landmarks as the kids slept snugly belted into their boosters.

Here’s the thing about going home for the holidays. I spent the first two decades of my life engrossed in what I believed to be the most wonderful way to celebrate Christmas ever. Probably one of the hardest things about getting married was giving it all up. Adhering to new traditions was about as easy as traveling through a Utah snowstorm with rear wheel drive.

But since we’ve had children, Christmas has once again morphed and changed. And while I’m so excited to be home for the family Christmas Eve party (because it never quite feels like Christmas without it), I’m incredibly conscious of the sweet little Christmas I’m leaving here.

The last two years have been kind of precious for us. These three darling kids bring so much light and enthusiasm to our home (they also sometimes stink and throw-up, but you get the point), I’m afraid I’ll get so wrapped up in all the extended family that I won’t really see them.

Because even though our babies are still too busy dreaming of sugar plums and Santa gifts to give Jesus a whole lot of attention, I know that His spirit is in our home. We love each other, and forgive the phrase, but together really is our favorite place to be (especially if Disneyland or McDonald’s is part of that place). It must make the Savior happy to see families loving to be together, and so far we do.

No matter where the holiday might take you, may your Christmas be full of the same spirit that attended our Savior on that sacred night of his birth. May there be joy and love and family bonds, may your bridges be mended and may there be an abundance of olive branches to mark your path.

And even if you don’t get to be with the people you love the most, may the Spirit of Christmas let you love the ones you’re with.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends. Merry Christmas.

December what?

It’s one in the afternoon and this is the first time my cheeks have hit the seat all day. Holy crap where has the time gone?

I don’t know about you, but my list of to-do’s is still two feet long and I’ve checked it seven times. I have a kitty and a cape to make, two loads of must-have laundry left, not a gift is wrapped and we still have to pack. That’s right, I said pack. Because we’re taking Christmas to Washington.

And June is shredding all the Christmas paper as we speak.

I feel like the season has snuck up behind me and I’ve missed all the fun. Sure, there’s been snow and constant carols, but my shopping was done by Thanksgiving and the past few weeks I’ve been suffocating under the load of our ward Christmas party (which is like putting together a wedding reception, by the way).

And to top it off, I realized today that I haven’t made a single Christmas treat this year. I stepped on the scale this morning and it was right where it was supposed to be. I was actually depressed.

I need truffles and chocolate covered bacon. I want my SIL’s homemade caramels and my mother’s fudge by the pound. My kitchen is clean, and due to time constraints, it’s probably going to stay that way.

My only consolation has been the half pound of homemade almond roca Tricia dropped off and the plate of goodies from my visiting teachers. But it’s not the same, my kitchen hasn’t pulled it’s weight this year.

For the record, if you live in the greater northern Utah area and have piles of unwanted nut-free treats hanging around, consider me a possible dumping ground.

From the depths of my craft room

Down to three days with three projects to go. Here is a highlight of some of the better Christmas projects I’ve commissioned myself to make from scratch. Next year I’ll cut off a hand before attempting this kind of work load again. (And did you all know that Simplicity patterns are still written in Latin?)

Note the unfinished feet (they will not be camel toes when I'm done). This is a car pillow monkey friend that my kids think is really cool. I wanted to bite off his nose, the face was so hard to figure out. *Do not attempt this if you are under any kind of duress, or taking prescription medication.

He's going to be Rex's. Yes, I had him model the pelt before hiding it away. Rex and Coo Coo Bird think he's awesome.

Did I mention I have two more of these animals to make, and that June found/opened/destroyed the pattern last night? I wonder who’ll be getting coal this year.

Because I've had so much time on my hands I decided to "throw together" a hooter-hider for a girlfriend that just delivered. I only had to rip it out three times before getting it right, and I only hit one child in the process.

Here's Rexy's stick animal. It was supposed to be a mythological T-Rex (because we all know dinosaurs are a hoax), but he looks more like a sea serpent (which are not mythological. I wanted to make a Big Foot stick animal but I thought that might be a little creepy.).

Harrison is nuts about “Harry Potta” (whose name he says with a British accent). I decided every boy needs a good invisibility cloak, so here you go. June is modeling it on his behalf (since he won’t get it until the 25th).

I told her to be invisible. She's freaky smart.

This is her, "Oh no! It's He Who Must Not Be Named!" pose. What an actress.

I’ve also thrown together some pajama pants for the boys, as well as my latest and greatest in the great big world of stick horses. This is Pepper, made with love for my darling niece Jane.

I'll finish her up this afternoon, but if I don't post her now you'll never see her.

And that is my craft room update. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to grab a diet coke and start cutting.

Down with church basketball!

Sorry, I can’t let this one go just yet.

Before I touch on The Basketball Heathens, I’ll take a moment to say that the party rocked. We ended up with twice as many potatoes and jello salads as we needed (although is there really ever enough Jello salad?), thanks to my impressive low functioning math skills. On the up side, I don’t have to cook for Jason’s work party tomorrow.

When we got to the gym this morning, what do you think we saw? Just over half of the room set up. That’s right. The basketball players from yesterday put out what looked like enough tables, spread them around real good, threw up some chairs and went home. We had two hours to decorate and no man power.

So I called my husband.

You know when you really want to say “I Told You So,” but it’s Christmas and you’re trying to be Christlike, but then fail and say it anyway? Yeah, that one felt good.

Jason came in full uniform and spent the better part of an hour redeeming himself. Good boy.

But I have to say something about Church basketball. Last week we had our dress rehearsal scheduled. We got to the building, and what do you think we found? Deacon basketball. Apparently, they have the gym EVERY THURSDAY NIGHT from here to forever. This gave me cause to panic, because the party was scheduled for a Thursday night.

So I asked the guys who were practicing for the show what they thought. Our conversation went something like this:

Me. “So, they say they have the gym every Thursday, but I’m on the schedule for next Thursday. What should I do?”

The entire lot of them stood around, wide-eyed, shaking their heads and saying things like, “Ooh, that’s bad,” and “You’d better talk to them, they do have first dibs.” First dibs? Pa-nick.

Then I headed over the room the women were practicing in and posed the exact same question.

“Kick those boys out!” and “Ward activities trump!” and “Down with Church basketball!” was the response.

See, men can’t help it. For my sister Kerry’s wedding reception (I was six), my family decorated the gym, went to the temple, came home, and a group of boys had come in and MOVED THE DECORATIONS to play church basketball. And now those same boys are grown men.

And what do you think we met on our way out of the building tonight? That’s right, the same group of single guys who show up twice a week to play. So lame. Go on a date already.

I hate church basketball.

No really, hate.

I am the activities boss for the ward right now, and tonight is our Big Fat Christmas Celebration. Now, a regular Christmas party is work, but a Big Fat one? Let’s just say I was up until 2:00 am and really shouldn’t have slept at all last night.

And like a good Activities person, I have delegated duties to every neighbor and passed an invitation to every stranger. One of the most important parts of this party is seating. Cause really, what’s a pulled pork dinner and a Christmas Jazz Show without chairs and tables? Chairs and tables are to my party what our tree is to the ornaments.

So I asked the most responsible person I could think of to handle the set-up: my husband. As far as commitment is concerned, Jason is like a jihad on a suicide mission (minus the virgins on the other side, if I have anything to do with it). His job was to get the young men to set up the entire gym last night after mutual so that this morning I could go decorate without breaking my back (or a sweat).

“So,” I ask, “How does the gym look?”

“Um…”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, UM????” Yes, I kind of freaked out at that first um because I’m wound up like a yo-yo right now.

“Now calm down. See, we went to set up, but there were these guys that wanted to play basketball…”

“Basketball? YOU CHOSE CHURCH BASKETBALL OVER ME??”

“No, it wasn’t like that! They promised they’d set them all up when they were done playing, so we just…”

“You just. You just what? Ignored the fact that my entire party depends on chairs and tables??”

“Anne, calm down. If they’re not set up when you get there, I’ll leave work and do it myself.”

Since he’s not willing to leave work ever for anything that doesn’t involve the death of one of our children, I decided that was a sufficient trade.

But why is it that church basketball is as much a religion as our religion? This is the third time in the last month they have attempted to ruin my life and my party. We booked the gym for a dress rehearsal last week. When we showed up, what do you think we found? A bunch of boys who insisted we let them finish because they have “Thursday night first dibs.”

I’m leaving for the church in ten minutes. There had better be tables and chairs….

How to handle naughty children in public (Link to this week’s TOUV column included)

So we went to the Stake Christmas Sing-In on Sunday night.

One thing we Mormons do not do well is congregation sing, and this event was no exception. We’re quiet singers, don’t-let-the-person-in-front-of-us-know-we’re-here singers. Frankly, there are times when I think we are way too reverent.

When I think of a Christmas Sing-in, I think families and children and lots of songs that aren’t in the hymnal. There are so many wonderful religious Christmas songs that we don’t have room for, what a great opportunity to sing them!

But did that happen? No. Not only did we sit down with the 25 other stake members  who attended (seriously, 25? Where is the love, people?), but we OPENED THE HYMNAL TO PAGE 201. That’s right, we sat down and did four straight verse of each song, standard protocol 4 part harmony. Zzzzz….

My family got two songs into it before June (who is what we like to call “less reverent”) got away from me and sprinted up to the front of the chapel. I quickly followed and snagged her, but by the looks on the faces of the people in attendance, you’d think she had just interrupted the prophet during General Conference.

So we did the only thing that seemed proper. We grabbed our kids and bolted (much to the relief of the entire group).

There are times when noisy toddlers should be tolerated, and I guess this was not one of them. Most of the congregation in attendance was blue-haired anyway, so I can’t expect them to remember the days of diapers and squeaky shoes (that’s right, she had squeaky shoes on, because I’m reverent like that).

We just got back from Michael McClean’s holiday production, The Forgotten Carols. Now there’s a Mormon who knows how to sing. Man I love that man. (I also love all Mormons, good singer’s or not, because in most cases they’re seriously good people. Just clarifying.)

And this brings me to my link. It’s that time of the month, my article in The Standard Examiner came out yesterday. Check out what I would call the WRONG way to handle a noisy child in a public place.

Want to tick me off? Easy.

Today I am mad.

So last night little Rexy got sick. Rex has asthma. We all know that asthma plus a repiratory infection plus H1N1 is a recipe for a dead kid, so it shouldn’t surprise you that we were kind of insane with worry.

He woke up at 10:30 wheezing and hacking. We weren’t sure if we should take him in, give him a treatment, what, so I called the after hours call center.

“No problem,” the girl says. “The doctor will call you right back.” Since we use this service a few times a year, I wasn’t worried. So we sat next to the phone with our dying boy and waited. And waited. And waited.

After 20 minutes, I figured they might have the wrong number so I called again.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, the page didn’t go through, but we paged him again and let him know that you’ve been waiting, so I’m sure he’ll call you right back.

11:00.

11:14.

11:25.

11:36.

One hour. We sat next to the phone, literally, for an entire hour, waiting for the delinquent doc to call us back. He’s not our regular doctor, and this isn’t the first time I’ve had trouble with him. Last year he was the doc on call during this same time of year, and we had this exact same kind of problem.

Rex was croupy and I didn’t know if I needed to take him in or give him a treatment or sit on my hands. It was the middle of the night and the good old on call doc. was obviously irritated to have his beauty sleep disturbed.

When I posed that question to him, he snapped, “How am I supposed to know?” and followed it up with something that was the politically correct version of, ARE YOU AN IDIOT?

At 11:45 we turned the phone off. Jason and I had been taking turns trying to calm him down so his cough would get better. Jason gave him a blessing, we bundled him up, and I took him for a walk in the snow. All that cool, damp air really helped and as of this morning, he’s still breathing.

I checked my phone this morning. He finally called at 11:51. Jerk.

Okay, must run. Taking Rexy into the Good Doc. (That’s Dr. Forebush at Tanner Clinic, in case anyone’s looking for an absolutely fantastic pediatrician. We love him like family.)

Now this is cool.

Okay, I have a wonderful bloggy friend name Bree who surprised me for the June Bug’s birthday with these amazing pixie pictures. She does them on the side, and I think they’re so whimsical and cute and creative, I have to show you all.

Seriously, how fun is that?

And check out this week’s column for my current “why my house is in chaos” excuse. It’s a doozy.

Santa who? Crazy Love Michael Buble is coming to town!

So I’m driving down the road this afternoon when suddenly, I hear it. The announcer says the most magical words I have ever heard in my life: Michael Buble is coming to Salt Lake City. And I live here.

That’s right, he’s coming here to see me.

He must have finally got one of my emails. As a True Fan, and president of the local unofficial fan club (at the moment there are three of us, our third member is only 14 though, so we’re not sure she counts), I am pleased to say that after all my efforts, I have personally succeeded in bringing Michael to Utah.

You’re welcome.

See, he thinks I'm funny.

I have to be honest, I didn’t think I’d ever find a musician that makes my heart keep rhythm the way Neil Diamond does, but once Michael was on the scene, my entire world changed. Seriously, have you seen this boy sing? And he’s even in my age bracket, so it’s not like I’m crushing on some minor werewolf boy. Hey, with Michael Buble and his Crazy Love tour around, who needs a fictional character anyway? Jacob, what a stupid, fake name.

So the big question is, how will I get some alone time with Michael Buble? And do you think Jason would mind if Michael Buble and I went out on a date? And Michael Buble sang to me? Then let me sing with him, Michael Buble, whose name I can’t seem to stop saying because even the letters are hot? (Oh gosh, I think I have to add that singing part to my dream board. All that stuff is going to come true, BTW. I saw it on a talk show.)

So Michael, darling, if you’re reading this blog post (and I know you are), get your cute little self to Salt Lake City as fast as that tour bus will carry you. And don’t forget who’s taking you home–you just haven’t met me yet.

(ps – in case you’re wondering, he looks an awful lot like my husband + hair, so Jason doesn’t really mind that I have a Thing for him–he takes it as a compliment.)

Christmas Card Hypocrite

This is the second week of December, and to date I have received ONE Christmas Card.

Where in the heck are all the holiday greetings?

Okay, I admit that perhaps my own cards haven’t graced the mail with their presence yet, but that’s only because I can’t think of anything to write. Yes, I’m having Christmas card writer’s block.

This is especially sad since I’m a Christmas letter addict. There have been years where my card was printed and ready by the end of October, and here I am, only three weeks left and I can’t think of a blasted thing to say.

(Actually, I’m suddenly getting inspired.)

So the big question is, where are all the other Christmas cards? Because my wall is mostly bare and awfully sad.

BTW, if we’re friends and you want to exchange cards with me, please send me an email pronto because these babies are going out in the next 48 hours.

(regardingannie@gmail.com)

Santa’s other reindeer

So I’m driving down the road the other day with Harrison and his good buddy Sammy. They’re sitting in the back having an intellectual six-year-old conversation about Santa’s reindeer.

“Well, there’s Prancer and Dasher,” Sammy says.

“Yeah, and Rudolph!” Harry says.

“Of course! Plus there’s Donner…” Sammy says.

“And Fiction! And I think there’s one called Dancer…” Harry says, then immediately breaks into song, “You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Fiction…”

Gotta love Fiction, but watch out: you can’t believe anything he says.

If you’re interested, check out this week’s post by clicking on my face.

A really really outdated post

Sometimes I think I’m missing a few switches in the old noggin.

My son got invited to a Halloween party this year. He had so much fun and was so thrilled by the experience, all he’s been able to talk about for a month is how he wants to have a party. Since I am a similar soul (aka Party Bound), it didn’t take much convincing for me to agree that yes, he could most certainly have himself a party.

A Turkey Party.

The Day Before Thanksgiving.

Because I Am An Idiot.

I thought to myself, no sweat! I’m not hosting Thanksgiving this year, all I have to do is prepare rolls and a few desserts, I can certainly work a little podunk party for some six-year-olds into the mix.

The problem is, I don’t like podunk parties, I like overdone, spectacular bash-like parties. So, I bit off an entire turkey breast and got to work preparing for my kid’s holiday feast. Here are a few of the things we did (most of these ideas were filched from the internet). And let me tell you, if my cute SIL hadn’t popped by and saved me from complete to-do list chaos, there would have been no party. Thank you Aunt Tiffany, from the bottom of my turkey roaster.

I tried to buy decorations two days before, but there wasn’t a Thankful doodad to be had. So, we made our own.

Once everyone was there, the boys sat down and madeTurkey hats. To wear at the Turkey party. Also a good way to get glue on the carpet.

We made Rice Krispy like Corn on the Cobs wrapped in fruit roll-ups as part of our feast. The kids went crazy for these, I give them five stars. Plus, Harrison was able to help make them, which was good. (He was also forced to slave away cleaning the house all day. Hey, it was his party.)

Ice cream cone Tepee’s. These were a disaster. Do not ever try them at home. They are a total mess, and they’re also really messy. (The kids did like them, though.)

Turkey tracks. This is just a quick way to throw out crackers and cheese with Chinese noodles on top and call it something fancy. Smart, easy, eight points.

I helped them play a few games, sent them outside to hunt for natives, and topped off the party with Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. All things considered, it was a total hit.

(After the party, I prepared two desserts and a batch of rolls, and ended up having to take Loratab a for my back by the time the night was over. Nothing like a good narcotic to make you puke the night before Thanksgiving.)

A little Sunday humor

So my girlfriend was telling a funny story that happened at her niece’s ward.

It was testimony meeting and a little five year old got up in front of the whole congregation to bear his testimony.

“My mom just had a new baby,” he said. “She nurses her.” Now, if I were this kid’s mother I think I’d start to panic just about now. When I bring a new baby  home, I spend a lot of time flashing my goodies to the world as I try to remember how in the heck the whole process works.

“I was watching her the other day,” he continued, “and I thought to myself, you know, I think i’d like to try that sometime!”

Men; they’re all alike. Just give it a few years, kid.

Two down, sixteen to go.

My baby is two today. I would say that I’m nervous for the Terrible Two’s, but I think she hit them about eight months ago. When we told Harrison she was going to be two, he said, “Huh uh, she’s three!” Yeah, in my dreams.

Having a daughter has changed my life. It’s made me look at who I am as a woman and reevaluate some of my personal beliefs. Like how I feel about my body. Since my beautiful June Bug came along, everything I do matters because there is someone out there who wants to be just like me.

I decided two years ago that I was done asking questions like, “Does this make me look fat?” or saying things out loud like, “I hate the way my ____ looks in this!” Fill in the blank because most of us say this kind of thing a dozen times a week.

But I’m done with that because I want my daughter to grow up thinking she’s beautiful. The best way I can teach her that is feel that way about myself. So I do, and as long as I’m her mommy, she’ll never hear me trash who I am inside or out.

And June? She’s wild and fun and full of zest. The girl has personality running out her ears, she loves shopping and people and snuggling with mommy when she’s supposed to be asleep. She still gets a sippy cup with chocolate milk at bedtime and I can’t seem to resist her sticky little face, ever. She loves the creepy old Care Bare movies, Dora, Split Pea Soup, and dresses. She also likes baseball bats. If you’re looking for well-rounded, she’s it.

Here’s a few shots of my baby gorilla, I mean girl, at age two.

The Apple Thief

This is her power stance.

The signature move.

I'm thankful for my little built-in best friend.

This is what happens when she dresses herself. She can't decide whether she's a princess or a football player.

Note the "pretty nightgown" she put on under her BYU football jersey.

Happy Birthday, baby girl. We wouldn’t trade you for anything, even if it came toilet trained.