Christmas Reflections, continued

On Santa

Around Thanksgiving, we started hearing talk from our little one about Santa coming.
We .. don't do Santa.
I thought it would be a very simple matter to say "he's pretend. It's fun to pretend, isn't it?"
It was not that easy. The culture of Santa permeates far and near, and it's a hard discussion"Mom," he said, condescendingly, "he's REAL."

We read the book on St. Nicholas. We talked about St. Nicholas. He was a very nice man. But he's dead now. Mommy and Daddy give you all your presents.

Aaaand then we ran into Santa out at the Christmas carnival. Handing out candy canes. Not looking very dead at all.
"What would you like for Christmas, little guy?"
"A pink and purple bus that sparkles."
"Ooookaaayyy--- you know, I've never heard a boy ask for THAT! Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Thanks for the candy cane.

Why don't we do Santa? I have a little guy with an autism spectrum disorder! He gets very tripped up by intangible nonsene (such as Santa Claus). It's also my job as a parent to help instill faith in him and give him the ability to make good decisions on his own someday, and to stand up for truth and justice! I have a valid concern that telling a black-and-white thinker that Santa is real and gives you presents, and then ripping that fantasy away from him at some point, be a bad idea if I want him to teach him about real Truth. Pretty serious thoughts, I know. Overanalyzing? Who, me?

But he really wanted someone to tell him Santa was real, even if that person wasn't me.

So he asked the lady stocking shelves in Payless shoes, he asked the dental hygienist, he asked the cashier at Penneys, he asked his grandparents, he asked his aunts and uncles, he asked his teachers, he asked his friends.

He asked me how Santa was going to put presents under the tree, since we didn't have a chimney.
"He's not real," I explained, "but if he was, he wouldn't be able to come in anyway, because the pipe to our pellet stove is too small for him to fit through."
It was a grinchy thing to say, but it didn't phase him.
He suggested Santa could come in through the sliding door in the back.
I didn't answer.

A week later he asked us about getting a Criss Cross Crash for Christmas (big noisy racecar track). We had already purchased it, but we thought it would be fun to keep him guessing.
"I don't know, bud, it looks like all the stores around here are out of it!"
"Oh, that makes sense," he reasoned. "They needed to give all the good toys to Santa Claus because SANTA BRINGS ALL THE TOYS!"

I said nothing, because it's just cruel to snuff out a child's innocent joy.

It's all those magical, warm-fuzzy Christmas movies, isn't it. They tell us that grownups are too old and tired to believe in the marvelous wonderful truth of Santa.

Was it beginning to melt my cold, grinchy exterior? Was my heart going to grow two sizes and practically explode out of my chest?

Christmas came and there were no presents from Santa.

He asked if I was sure all these presents were from us.
"Yes," I said and pointed to where the tags said Mommy or Daddy, or both.
I received a concerned little look in response.

Later, in the car he asked why Santa didn't come. He seemed sad. I relented.

"Elliott, he's not real, but... " and here I sighed big "... but you know what? We didn't write him a letter. Kids are supposed to send their letters to the North pole so Santa knows what to bring. Next year, I guess, we can write to him." Even though he's not real.

Dear Santa,

Don't expect any milk and cookies.

You're a nice man, but you're dead.

Love,

Helen

Reflections on Christmas

On Buying Presents for Michael:
I don't think I have ever surprised him with anything. I'm not a very good gift hider, and not even very good at thinking up gift ideas in the first place, so he usually has to coach me so much that he knows what I'm doing. i.e. "Well, Helen, you could get me video games." "Which one?... how do you spell that? Where should I buy it?"

So this year I got him a watch. Early in November. From the store where he works. He figured that one out pretty quickly. As far as gifts go, it's something we had already been saving for, since he sells watches and it's kind of good for him to have a watch.

Then I got him some pajamas, and I was going to surprise him, until we were having overnight guests and he said "I'm going to pick up some pajamas for myself because I can't just walk around in my underwear" (which is what he usually wears to bed) so I sighed and told him to "open this present, then...if you want it to be special I can pour you a glass of wine first".

But even then I didn't give up hope! I picked him a pair of $3 shorts, which granted, was sort of a joke anyway (he wears this pair of horrible grungy shorts that I can't wait to burn).

I discovered he is hiding other people's presents in the same spot. Do you think he saw them? I hope not.

So I thought as long as I was getting my Christmas bonus I would get him a pair of shoes, too. We were going to wait until next month but he needs them. So I bought him shoes!

They came in the wrong size.

OK, well, wrong sized-shoes would be a surprise all right. But not exactly what I was hoping for.
So, just for the sake of giving him something that he would want and enjoy and not expect - I got him a Dunkin Donuts gift card (justified by knowing that he'll spend his own money at Dunkin Donuts anyway). And then I found my purse in a different spot the next day. He had apparently been rifling through it looking for keys. What if he'd found it?

I was starting to think that if I wanted to surprise him then I would have to hide in the shower on Christmas morning, and jump out and scream when he comes in to pee.



Christmas day came and went and
1) He liked the watch even though he knew about it.
2) He was already wearing the new pajamas when he started opening presents, which made for far better Christmas morning photos than the, um, undies-as-jammies would have.
3) He somehow did not know that the wadded up shorts hidden in the training potty in the laundry room were for him.
4) He liked the shoes and tried them on just to be sure. They were not a fit but... he looks forward to getting the correct size (at no additional cost to us!)
5) Opened the DD gift card and said "Wow! How much is on here?" Visibly excited.


Tomorrow - "Elliott's Christmas" which might also be titled "All about the Who down in Whoville, who taught me that believing in Santa won't make you greedy and faithless"

Babies and Boobies and Basketballs

We'd been talking about Mary's journey to Bethlehem, and how uncomfortable she must have been, and also a little scared.  When we got to this part in our Advent preparation last year, I remember him having a lot of "babies" and "bellies" questions then, too. Oh, and let me preface this by saying I am not pregnant. I'm not being coy and hinting that I might really be. I'm not. If you saw me downing Riesling at Christmas, you know, without a doubt, that I am NOT with child, and not even gosh, giggle, maybe soon. Nope. I was throwing them back So without further ado:

Elliott has clearly been mulling over the whole Christmas-is-about-baby-Jesus-being-born thing, and had this to say about it:

"Mom, I think a baby is going to pop out of your tummy."
"I think you're wrong!"
"But babies come out of ladies' tummies." Hops up next to me, gently jogging in place on the couch.
"Well, all babies come from a lady's belly, but not all ladies' bellies have babies inside of them."
"Oh." He looks confused and slides onto the floor. I try to explain better.
"OK ok, you know how you can tell? Sometimes, if you see a lady who looks like she has a basketball in her tummy, she's actually having a baby."
*stares at me critically. I stare back, willing him not to say I that look like I have a basketball tummy*
"Mom." Looking at me over the top of his glasses. Don't say it, don't say it...
"What."
"What about these basketballs?" *points at my chest and starts jumping in place again*
My first response is to be candid and say that they're much smaller and not even the same shape- but I realized in time that it wasn't really where a mom ought to steer the conversation.
Rather, I said "WHAT? Um, I mean. That's not a baby. Those are boobies and I don't use them unless I have to give a baby nursies. Remember you used to be littler and you used to have nursies? That's what those are for." Yes, that's all anyone uses them for, no more questions, please...
He mulls this over while doing a headstand against the back of the couch, using one hand to grope at his own chest.
"Mom, I have boobs, too!"
"Yes, but you're a boy, so you don't really use them the same way. You'll probably never give a baby nursies."

... did I just say 'probably'?

Yes. I don't always think so well on my feet.

Joy To The World

So here it is, Christmas Eve for only a few more minutes. Elliott was asleep by 8PM, presents were all wrapped yesterday, and all of the goodies that had to be baked, are baked. There are no church services tomorrow and just a little bit of food prep... You know, I think we might get to have one of those idyllic family Christmases, after all.

Tonight, we attended a fabulous service at our church. It really couldn't have been more family friendly. I've never had to sit through a service with Elliott before, thanks to the Children's Church ministry, and I was a little nervous that we wouldn't make it. Sure, he's old enough, but he's ELLIOTT. He's a noise and a blur... always touching (his newest thing is patting people's cheeks - whether they like it or not) and always commenting loudly on whatever happens to cross his little mind. Like when we walked into church and Pastor John said "Hi! Merry Christmas" and Elliott replied "WHERE'S MY CROWN? I'M A WISE MAN!" Or like, "THAT GUY IS SINGING TOO LOUD" followed by clapping his hand over his ears. Oh and we were sitting right next to the family of "that guy." Lovely.

Oh but, yes. Elliott got to be a wise man. With a purple crown. Appropriate? Well, I guess all the angel parts were taken ;)

He marched right up there with his present, out of turn (the pastor's wife tried to hold him back, but she was far too gentle and it was to no avail). After plopping his gift of .. myrrh? frankincense? Gold? (not sure!) he marched right. back. down. Which wasn't what he was supposed to do at all. Redirected to return to the stage, he raced frantically past wise man #3, who was attempting to deposit the last gift in its place, and leapt dramatically onto the riser. Then jogged in place on the riser for a bit, before it occurred to him to turn in circles. This, of course, made it irresistible to the 2 1/2 year old wise man, who followed suit. The very mature 3yr old just watched them with wide eyes.

Eventually, they calmed down and held their positions, and were soon released back to their parents, after a chance to peer at the baby Jesus, as he was held safely in Mary's arms. The next half hour was quite fun, listening to a sermon with one ear and "I don't really like church!!" with the other.

At the end, our son got to go up and stand in his place once again while singing Joy to the World with the rest of the children. His "joy" was evident...before the music had even started, he had belted out the first lines to Joy to the World, and after the "real music" had begun, he was running and jumping off the steps by the pulpit, pumping his fist, clapping his hands, and running up to the other kids as if to encourage them to express themselves. The whole time singing. His exuberance was unmatched.

Michael and I stood in the second row in our usual position - hands folded, smiling politely, singing just loud enough to count. The only thing unusual was the stream of tears running down my face.

(From laughter.)

I swear he is our kid.

Elliott says (part 3)

With Aunt Marybeth:

Marybeth (reading with Elliott) – “how does the triceratops protect himself?
Elliott, “he eats plants.”
Marybeth, “Yes, he does eat plants, but how does he PROTECT himself?”
Elliott, “He’s twenty feet long.”
Marybeth, “Yes…”

Regarding the new house:
“Elliott, that is NOT allowed in our house!”
After thinking for a minute, “Hey mom, can we get a new house?”

On Drinkin’
Drinking cider with Elliott. "Mom! This cider is RARY good. It's 100 Proof!"
Me, eyebrow raised "100 proof? Where did you learn about juice being 100 proof?"
Elliott, casually, "The grape juice at school says '100 proof' on it."

At the dentist:
Hygienist, “So what’s your FAVORITE color?”
Elliott, adjusting his glasses and replying matter of factly. “Well, God maked me. And God maked me like pink and purple. Those are my favorite colors.”

On The Lord:
‎"Mom, what's Holly Lou?"
"Hallelujah is something people say when they're praising God. How do YOU praise God?"
"Like rabbits."
No hesitation whatsoever.

Holding a stuffed bunny as it "talks" in falsetto, "I have buttons. Jesus made me. And the Whole. Wide. World. See ya tomorrow!!!"

Interesting Perceptions
That China is a land full of toys, because so many of his toys are Made In China. Leading to this very logical question:
“Mom, are DOGS made in China?”

After Halloween
Elliott holding up candy bar "Hi, my name is ButterFinger! What's yours?"
Me: "My name is Butterfinger EATER!"
Elliott, "No. Your name is Mommy. And it's a BEAUtiful name."
Awwwww.

Thanksgiving Morning
Elliott, hopping out of our bed "MOM! the clock says Seven-One-Four!"
Me, from under a pillow, "And what does that mean?"
Elliott: "IT'S THURSDAY!"

Things you might not expect at dinnertime
“Sour cream gives me super powers!”
*rubs it into his hands*

Love-Story
Elliott: "My books came in at school today!"
Me: "I can't wait to read them with you!"
Elliott: "Oh, you love me?"

Another kind of story
"Mommy, tonight I want to tell YOU a story.”
“OK Elliott, go for it.”
"There once was a little boy named Elliott. And he did NOT WANT TO BE OBEDIENT.”

The End.

Happy Foot in your Mouth Day!

Coworker 1: You guys were supposed to wear ugly sweaters today!


Me: Is that why you're wearing the ugly shirt?

(I immediately feel bad for saying that.)

I'm just kidding! I actually really like that shirt. If they had it in a size 4 I would totally buy it for Elliott.

Oh crap, I don't mean it's a kid shirt. I like to dress him like a little man.

Not that you're a little man.

crap crap crap I'm going to stop talking.

Coworker 2: NO KEEP GOING!

You can never have too many toy cars...

"Mom!" he wailed frantically. "Have you seen my Goodwrench car?" 

"Your what?"

"My new car!"

Oh right. The little matchbox we picked up at a garage sale.

"Nope, why don't you play with another car?"

"MOM I need it. Will you help me find it?"

You won't believe how long it was before that car showed up.

Really, Elliott, you need more cars.

After all, there are only two on the radiator covers.

(And who knows how many have fallen down under the covers... at least one that I saw with my own eyes!)

Oh look! Here's a lonely little hot wheels in the couch cushion... but you're right. He's not your GOODWRENCH nascar racing replica. You're four and this is really important. I forget these things.

Hey now, look at this! It's Lightning McQueen. Surely he rates above a faceless, tiny race car?

Or what about this Hess car, from Christmases past? He's been sitting in the dining room for days, staring at the play dough set.

And hey, this looks like fun! It's a water park for cars. Set up in the hallway, right where your toys belong.

Right, well, we'll just leave it there. Because... SURELY you can find a car you'd want to play with in your hot wheels car display. (I wonder why it's half empty.)

Oh no, not those cars. How about this bin full of cars?

or THIS bin full of cars?

What about THIS lonely playset?

Look who's hiding in your bed! (yes, I guess a mattress WOULD be considered offroading)

Bathtub cars! No? Because last week you were all about the color changing cars... Goodwrench car. Right.

What about your playdough cars?! What's more fun than rolling tracks in a mound of dough and smushing blue and yellow bits up in a mini cooper's wheel wells?! OK. Moving on.

TV CAR! Left behind when you started to veg out during Martha Speaks, if I recall correctly.

Sorry bud, no Goodwrench car in here. Maybe outside? Let's check the front porch.

How about the deck in the back... maybe it's in the garage!

No, not in the garage, and not in your other spot. Hmm. This is tough.

Hey what's that? Oh, just another pair of matchboxes that somehow escaped the lawnmower.

And this would be... the tree stump covered in ants that you love to play on. Fun!

Sorry bud, maybe you should just pick a different car and go drive it on...
Oh. Sure. That works.

Awkward!

Awkwardness at the Ballet

Last Friday, after the Great Escape (and subsequent ice cream dinner), my mom and I went to see the ballet at SPAC.

I don’t know anything about dancing, so I can’t review the performances. We were in the 13th row and I had a great view of ballerinas doing their thing. It was a little warm, everyone was using the programs as fans, and I don’t think it got comfortably cool until the performances were drawing to a close. But I can say that I really enjoyed my night out! Especially the last number, with the Leonard Bernstein music and the sailor theme – kind of slapstick and cute. Anyway, around 9PM, after an abstract romantic dance that was a little too artsy-fartsy for me to appreciate, I was getting sleepy and I think Mom was, too. So she offered to get us an iced coffee to split – sweet!

We got our coffee during intermission and looked for a place to sit down – only one empty spot, where someone had left a cup with a couple of ice cubes, rather than tossing their garbage out. Tsk tsk! We sat and argued over how much sugar and cream to put in the coffee, settling for a little sweeter than I like, but not quite as sweet as Mom likes. She stuffed the garbage in the empty cup. (Oh, can you see where I’m going with this? Then maybe YOU’VE run into the Crazy Cup Lady before, too…)

About 10 minutes later, a small woman in her 50s passed by, a searching, desperate look in on her face. Her gaze fell on the cup stuffed with garbage. She gasped. Mom smiled politely. I raised an eyebrow and sort of smiled but not really.

“My… cup…” She said, eyes growing wide with shock.

My mom, clearly wanting to say, “Are you SERIOUS?” instead replied with, “Sorry?”

“I only went--” and her she sucked in a long, shuddering breath “to the bathroom!!”

Crazy Cup Lady stood, drooping and broken, and stared at us.

I gaped back, feeling my eyebrow stuck in the “what the heck” position, but had to break eye contact to avoid bursting out in laughter.

“It was just sitting here,” Mom said flatly.

Crazy Cup Lady whispered something to herself and slunk away.

I started to giggle. Mom stared after her for a moment. We got up and wandered back to our seats, ready to catch the Leonard Bernstein performance. She tossed the garbage cup in the trash.

I patted her shoulder. “Guess we can’t leave empty disposable cups within arms reach, Mom. You’ll just treat them like garbage.”

She shook her head.


Awkwardness in the Bathroom

Well, we’ve been living with my parents for 110 days (not that I’m keeping count…) which means that 6 people have been sharing the bathroom for 110 days, which means that we’ve had a pretty good run.

If you are faint of heart, be assured that the following awkward moment does not involve nudity or poop.

Last night, I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom as Michael turned off the DVD player and computer, so I knew he would be up to brush his teeth as well. I heard him knock on the door so I said “come on in!”

Except who comes on in but my dad, shuffling and half asleep, blinded by the bathroom lights, and completely unaware that I’m the one who invited him in. Maybe he thought it was my mom? Who was lying asleep in the bed he just climbed out of? Not sure.

He leaned toward the toilet.

AAAHHHH!!!! screamed my brain. With my mouth full of toothpaste, I sputtered, “Dad just let me leave first!”

He blinked, sleepy and confused, and continued to lean forward.

Ready to bolt, it was then I noticed that he was leaning forward… toward the back of the toilet… where the box of Kleenex was sitting… to pluck a tissue from the box… and shuffle back to bed.

Note: the shuffle mentioned above is the “half asleep shuffle,” not the “old person shuffle.”

I also noticed that Michael had been standing in the hallway laughing silently. Clearly, he didn’t recognize the gravity of a situation where I a) almost had a heart attack b) almost choked to death on toothpaste or c) almost knocked my dad over fleeing the bathroom. Fortunately, I was able to relax with a nervous, slightly crazy, fit of laughter.

Not Me Monday

"Not Me Monday"... an idea I am borrowing from my favorite Monday blog, Seeking Contentment

Let me tell you exactly what things are like in our home - we have RULES. And you best believe our little guy says "how high" when we say "jump." He doesn't test the limits again and again and again and again to see if we were really really serious that time.


So last night, he knew all about the No Toys at the Dinner Table rule. (It's a good rule.) He didn't plop his tushie in the chair holding Woody from Toy Story. If he had, I would have sternly instructed him to go put that toy in the toybox where it belonged. But he didn't, so there was no issue when we joined hands for grace. It wasn't like I held the toy's hand and listened to it give thanks. That sort of nonsense would never happen here. And if a child were to then hover the toy above his lasagna and make it mutter about how hot the food was? Turn a blind eye? Not me! Engage in a discussion about Woody's missing hat during family dinner time? Not me, either. I mean, you have to draw the line somewhere. Too tired to be consistent? Shame on you. That would never happen to me... after all, dinner is quality family time.


Did I just say dinner was quality family time? Right. So.

I did not stop at Stewarts on Friday and treat my family to ice cream for dinner. And we weren't all starving because I forget the meal vouchers when we went to the Great Escape for the company picnic. Not me, I wouldn't forget something important! And speaking of forgetting things, I did not smirk a little when I realized that Michelle (coworker) almost forgot her own vouchers after repeatedly reminding me about my own. Nope, I'm not that kind of lady. And when we wearily and happily left the Great Escape, after snacking on only smuggled crackers and apples, it wasn't me who decided that ice cream would be a proper meal. So, as you can plainly see, it was NOT my fault either when the ice cream dinner turned out to be a race my four year old was having with me that I knew nothing about. I can also promise you that, when he saw me take the last bite (that I did not wolf down noisily), and howled STOP BEATING ME as though he were, in fact, being beaten and not just losing an ice cream-eating race, I absolutely did not laugh out loud with a mouth full of waffle cone. What kind of mother would react that way? Not this one.

Dignity. I handle things with dignity.

The next day, when my son came up to me and announced in a loud voice "ROUND 1, FIGHT!" and put up his dukes, naturally I explained to him that violence was not acceptable in our loving, Christian home. I certainly did not bellow my husband's name, accuse him of corrupting our child, and stomp away. That sort of aggression? Emphatically not me. Furthermore, when my child repeated this behavior the next day, I did not pull a 180. I explained again (I swear!) in my quietly angelic voice that we do not put up our dukes like we are going to punch our mommy. Under no circumstances did I laugh at the innocent little one and raucously assure him "Knock yourself out, Buddy, but Mama is the Megaboss, I would OWN you." Who taunts a four year old; besides, he doesn't even know what a Megaboss is! Therefore, as I'm sure you already guessed, I concluded my morality lesson by teaching him an appropriate Bible verse, and it most certainly did not end with me swinging my puny opponent around by the feet and depositing him headfirst on the couch. Heavens, no!

A House? For us?!

We have been approved and are in contract for the house we want!

I am trying to focus on the positive which is - moving into a beautiful home. Sometimes the stress is a little overwhelming, though. I've had to invest in a dental guard because I have been clenching my teeth so much at night that my jaw hurts all the next day. And I make weird grins to ease the discomfort. And then my boss stops in the middle of a sentence to ask what the heck is the matter with me. And I'm so tweaked out with stress that I am just saying whatever comes to mind; not just "Tell us what you really think, har har har," more like "Um, are you smoking weed?"

It's frustrating getting everything going for the closing. Things keep changing. We have had some blog-worthy conversations with the realtor and mortgage person... conversations that leave us more confused than (most of) our discussions with Elliott...I swear they just make stuff up as they go along!

And did I mention that buying a house is expensive? No? Guess what? It costs money. Lots.

Mom, Can I have a drink?

Warning, it will hurt you to read this. This isn't "cute things my kid says" it's more like "someone please tell me this is just a really annoying phase, emphasis on phase."

Other disclaimer: we are working on Listening and Not Interrupting People skills. Unsuccessfully, duh.

"Mom, can I have a drink?"

"Sure, what would you like to drink?"

Louder, "Mom, can I have a drink?"

"What would you like to drink?"

Frantic, "Mom, can I have a drink?"

"Listen. To. Me."

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?"

"What did I say?"

"I don't know!!! I don't know what did you said?!!!"

"I said, what would you like to drink."

"I would like juice."

"O--"

"Juice! I would like juice."

"--K"

"I would like juice, Mom!"

"OKAYI'MGETTINGYOUSOMEJUICE!"

"Thank you"

"You're --"

"THANK YOU!"

"--Wel--"

"Thank. YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU"

...

Elliott Says (Part 2)

Putting Elliott to bed a few nights ago:

"Mommy, do you have a big [boy parts]?"

"No, I'm made a little differently than you are."
I begin panicking and pray PLEASE don't ask for more details PLEASE don't ask.--

"Oh, your pee pee is in the back and you poop in the front?"

"Um, no, that part is the same. Hey, isn't Toy Story 3 coming out tomorrow?"

---------------------------------------------------

Singing a song from Children's church...

Who's in church today, church today, church today
Who's in church today
What's your name?
Kintzakahoon!
HIIiiii Kintzakahoon!!!

Who's in church today, church today, church today

Who's in church today
What's your name?
Pujo-Pujo!
HIIiiii Pujo-pujo!!!


Aaaaannnd on and on with the unpronounceable names :P

----------------

You probably had to be there, and hear him say it, to realize what a compliment this was:

"I love my mommy and my daddy and my grandma and my aunt Marybeth and ... I LOVE MY OLD GRAY POPPOP!"

Five Reasons I Love Living with my Parents

In no particular order...

Not having to cook every night!
I’m sure my mom appreciates that reason, too. I also like that my mom cooks meat… it means I don’t have to! (Unless I really want to but, as a vegetarian, it’s a relief to be off the hook.)

My dad’s singing.
The songs he’s been singing since we were born – Janis Joplin, Disney, the usual stuff. The made up songs about worm guts and boogers. That Beyonce song you didn’t think a 60-year old man would know. The muffled but dramatic vocals coming from the shower. Best of all, I think we all love the songs he doesn’t entirely remember, where he just sings that same, beloved verse over and over again, without losing any gusto.

Elliott’s strangely normal transition.
The fact that Elliott adjusted right away and didn’t want to go back to our apartment. The first night, as it got late, he just said “can we stay here?” and I said.. “sure!”

From day one, he was home. Except for the one and only time that Poppop reprimanded him with a raised voice. Crushed, Elliott crawled on my lap and asked to go live somewhere else, like church or school.

But then they made nice and it was his home once again.

The beauty
I can just step outside and sit down, instead of walking (or driving) to a park. There are mountains, birds, fog, peace, the pond. It almost makes me want to live here forever. Except for the living-in-a-small-town part.

Reconnecting with my siblings
If it weren’t for Mom, I wouldn’t know any more about their lives than the rest of Facebook. I almost never plan my own visit to see my sisters and brother – I will just catch up with them next time we are all “home.”

Things that would make me love it even more…
If my mom and I had the same size feet.
If my dad liked eggplant.
If our cats could be friends.

Glorious Commute

Ignition. Clock starts
Multitasking killed my brain
Racing down the road

Road work. Halts. The Flow.
Blood pressure soars. A long sigh.
Late to work again?

Foiled at every turn
Short cuts turn to scenic routes
Rows of orange cones

On the open road
Aged drivers creeping along
I sigh, defeated

On your mark, Get set, PRAY!

One of the things that we do, as Christians, is pray. We routinely pray before bed and meals. One of the things that we do NOT do, as non-denominational Christians, is the sign of the cross, or genuflecting, or that sort of thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I was raised with the sign of the cross… but if Elliott starts doing that, he’s really going to look like an oddball among his evangelical peers, and we prefer to conform. Ha ha.


Actually, it’s nothing I’ve ever given a lot of thought to, until now.

Living with my parents means family mealtime, and a big family prayer. Before last night, there was always comedy at prayer time, but it was usually because Michael tended to get the spot next to Dad, and then when everyone went to hold hands and pray, there would be that awkward moment.

Last night, Elliott watched my parents do the sign of the cross before praying, and decided to give it a try. (This should give you some insight as to what goes on in the mind of a curious four year old.)

He rapidly fanned himself while yelling “On your mark, get set, GO!” rattled out a prayer before anyone could say a word, and then smacked his hands together with gusto and shouted “AMEN!”

The One Thing I Didn't Realize I'd Need...

"Me time," something all mothers joke/dramatically complain about not having, is something I apparently had a little of, because now it's REALLY gone.

My place to scream, or sing along really loud to music. A time to be irrational and hysterical.

I don't really do the emotional thing because I find it embarrassing. Most of my meltdowns happen in bed, and there's no talking. Michael will feel the mattress shaking with sobs and wrap his arms around me.
 
This morning I woke up late, so the typical morning routine was severely compressed. Driving in to work, which is a 30 minute commute, I did the following things:

• Ate my breakfast
• Fed my son breakfast (a healthy breakfast, she added, patting herself on the back...)
• Fixed my hair
• Put on my makeup (with my eyes on the road, yes my mascara is frightening)
• Brushed my teeth
• Gave my son a nebulizer treatment for his asthma
• Picked a piece of apple peel out of my son's teeth
• Handed Elliott a toothbrush so he could brush his teeth
• Tracked the number of miles I had driven since the gas tank light came on.
• Dropped Elliott off at preschool
• Raced to work like a madwoman
• Sauntered in with my sunglasses on, just before 8:30

 Today, on my drive home, I do not have to stop and pick up the child - he's already home. Obviously, I have to get gas. But I plan to take full advantage of the commute. I intend to do the following things as I drive home:

• Drive slowly
• Turn the music all the way up
• Scream loudly / cry hysterically / possibly swear a little
• Hyperventilate
• Wear sunglasses so my fellow drivers can be blissfully unaware of the full extent of my insanity

Here's hoping my big crazy display of emotion will last me a few months.

No longer a Modern Warfare widow!

Because my husband plays Battlefield now.

"Is this a different killing game?" I ask

"What do you mean, 'is it different,' it's totally different," he replies.

"What do you mean, what do I mean, you're dressed like an army guy and you have a big gun." I shrug.

I don't get it. Isn't shooting... just shooting? Come on. Someone tell me.

Asthma

Still exhausted from 3 days in the hospital with little guy.

Not really sure how we ended up there, it started with a doctor visit. A quiet listen with the stethoscope. A breathing treatment. The doctor is saying "we can't do anything else for him here" and for some reason I tell him we are doing this Autism walk tomorrow, does this mean we can' t go, and the doctor is saying. "No. You don't understand." Next thing... I am sitting in a wheelchair, in the elevator, in the hospital, holding my lethargic child. A child who normally cannot sit still for a whole 60 seconds. But today, he just wants to be carried. I settle him on the hospital bed, and he looks at the nurse sadly, sighs, as she draws blood and inserts an IV. Falls back asleep, after protesting briefly about wearing pajamas (the hospital gown) during the day time.

Now it is the middle of the night, and I am listening to the IV drip like a freaking coffee percolator all.night.long. Phones ringing and machine dinging. Haven't left this tiny room except to move the car. Wrapped around his little body in a bed too short to straighten my legs. "We don't really encourage cosleeping" says the nurse, who doesn't push the subject after I say "Ok." and stay put. Michael won't leave either, sleeping in the pullout chair next to us. Something is still wrong with Elliott's sleeping. He breathes in quick little pants, not long, calm breaths. My sister listened to him, at home with a stethoscope, and said "asthma." I said no. This kid can run for miles.. but I took him in anyway, and now here we are.

I lay with my ear against his face, afraid to hear his breath go all fast again. It is still too fast for me to settle down and sleep. I lay still and stare at him. Smooth down his hair. Kiss his cheek. Rub his tummy. Check that his IV line is not tangled or caught on something. Rinse and repeat. Every time someone walks in I sit up tensely, and watch, asking questions. What is his oxygen up to. What are you doing with that IV bag. At 3AM, Elliott wakes up screaming and coughing in pain and fear. He is soaking and feverish. The nurse gives him tylenol, and I promise him that it will make him feel better. Then I pray to God that it really will make him feel better. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the insurance went into effect, like it was supposed to today, or if we will be paying for this for the next ten years. So I pray for that, too.

The next day is an improvement, except that Elliott can't wait to leave "the hossable." He is up at 6am singing at the top of his lungs. All of the other families smile politely and close their doors. We guiltily close ours as well, to lock in the happy shouts. A nurse comes by and takes him out of isolation - h1n1 has been officially ruled out and he is allowed to have a friend visit. Gwynnie comes by to play, our pastor's wife comes to pray.

We watch a million VHS movies and color pictures and play with trucks. My parents watch Elliott while Michael and I take a lunch break. During a meal I can barely eat, everything starts to hit me. Michael holds my hand and says a prayer, right there in the restaurant. My eyes continue to well up. No more sitting and feeling bad. It's time to go back and be a mom again.

In between The Little Mermaid and Arthur, Elliott gets a trip to the hospital playroom. It is a Big Deal. The nurses crack up as he hops out of bed in his little red sneakers, triumphantly pulling the IV pole. Michael discovers foam swords and cars. Joyful shrieks ensue.

The following night is better. Elliott's breathing is calmer. I sleep for three hours during the early morning.

The doctor comes in and listens to Elliott breathe. "I hear kitties and doggies inside you!" she says, in her perky I-work-with-kids voice. (I'm not judging her. I have one of those voices, too.) Elliott looks at her dubiously without commenting. Later, when the nurses remove the IV and say "Look what's going to come out!" he stares at the back of his hand like he just might be expecting doggies and kitties to come marching out.

We are released with a nebulizer kit and a book about asthma. I call the insurance company and, when I confirm that we are indeed covered, I profusely thank the customer service rep, who actually seems to care that my son is going to be okay.

Discharge involves dragging my son out of the playroom, where he is having a swordfight with 3 student nurses.

That was almost a week ago, and yes, it has taken THIS LONG to have a somewhat coherent accounting of it.

The Plumber, cont'd

If you read this blog entry from the other week, then you know that we dropped cookies off at a random house, based on my Dad noticing that the dog at the house looked like the sort of dog the plumber would have.

Surprise, surprise. NOT the plumber's house. The occupants of the house stated that the cookies were delicious, however. (The plumber owns the house, but he rents it. So his tenants passed along their gratitude.)

User Error: When TV brings out the best in all of us

This scene opens, as so many of my scenes seem to, with all of us sitting around the TV. Except this time, there is one character missing. A main character. The character who knows how to actually use the TV.

It's time for Bones to come on. I've settled Elliott into bed and am coming down the stairs when I see my dad shaking the remote emphatically at the TV. Pressing random buttons. No, just kidding, he totally knows what he’s doing, it’s the TV’s fault. Nothing appears to be happening. But we all keep staring at the TV, just in case.

“Oh here, let me do it,” I say helpfully, in a tone that probably sounds patronizing but is actually, as I have already stated, helpful. Perhaps I am also rolling my eyes playfully and not at all in a Miss Smarty Pants way.

I push the power button. I push the cable button. I stand in front of the TV and give my parents a lecture on the difference between the cable remote and the TV remote, before dramatically pressing the power button and stepping out of the way to demonstrate…

Well. Let’s just say it was anti-climactic.

When the shiny, black screen fails to spring to life (there is sound but no picture), I shake the remote emphatically at the TV and press random buttons. Clearly, this is the TV’s fault, because nothing appears to be happening.

I turn the TV on. Off. On. Off. Nothing but the start-up whine, and the sudden stop.

Mom shifts her weight. She mutters something about whether I “have to keep doing that.” I can feel her purse her lips and exude misery about missing the one show she had been waiting to see all week.

Dad mutters about how he only pressed the one button.

I mutter about how I never had this problem before my parents started messing with the TV.

Long minutes pass, and I am at last defeated. I weakly ask if they want to just listen to the TV. Mom sighs and pulls the laptop out. I wander off to play on Facebook. I mean, read the Bible. Dad leans his head into the back off the couch and snores on cue.

This morning, I wake up to find a note on the entertainment center, explaining the difference between the cable remote and the TV remote. Except in this case, someone actually knew what he was talking about. In addition to the written instructions, Michael had heroically set the TV so that my parents just had to press one button, and the morning news was ready and waiting for them.

The saga could at last draw to a peaceful close.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Elliott says

As we wait for Daddy to come home from work.

Elliott says, "Mommy, I love Daddy."

I reply, "I love him, too. That's why I married him."

"Oh, can I get married?"

"Well, when you grow up, maybe you will meet a nice lady."

"But Mommy, when I grow up, I am going to be a dog."
==================================================

Elliott has just been put in time out. Through his tears, the stubborn little boy is trying to think of something shocking to say to me. Out of that sweet little mouth comes his version of cussing, a line from Toy Story:

"S-s-s-omeone's p-p-oisoned the WATER HOLE!" he sputters.

Different day, but again, in Time Out.

Me "Time out, mister! When the [digital] timer looks like oh oh oh, you can get off of the chair."

Elliott matter-of-factly correct me: "Zero zero zero"

===================================================

Describing a sunset:
"And the sun climbed up a ladder and SPLATTED on the window!"

===================================================

Elliott's version of following directions.

Mommy says "How many times do I have to ask you to do something, before you actually do it?"

Elliott, thinking, "Four."

===================================================

So, we get "Go Potty Go" from the library, hoping for a poop breakthrough. We didn't get one. But he did like the potty song. The potty song goes like this:
"Babies need diapers, and that's okay. I'd rather be a big kid doing big kid stuff all day."

Elliott's version goes like this "Babies eat diapers and nuts. OK?" And then he trails off..."Mommy does Gwynnie [younger cousin] eat popcorn? She eats butter in her mouth."

===================================================

Preschool teacher to me, "Elliott told us you're having a baby. Congratulations!!"

Me "What."

===================================================

Elliott receives a balloon animal at a Christmas festival. He peers at it intently. At last, he speaks.

Er, bellows.

"I AM A TALKING ELEPHANT. I WANT TO GET PAID."

====================================================

Age is one of those intangible things. When in doubt, just change it.

"I'm 21, Daddy, can I have a drink of a beer?"

"I'm 12 now Mommy, I'm just going to sit in the front seat, ok?"

"Can I drive? I am 16."

"Mommy, I'm 4, I can have coffee now!"

Yeah, that last one... we may have told him that it's cool for 4 year olds to drink coffee. You know, when he was 3 and that 4 year old mark was just eons away.

Love notes

Grandma had the opportunity to make lunch for Elliott. Turkey sandwich with the crust trimmed off. Apple sauce. Cheese stick. Cookie. Juice box. Love note.

“Dear Elliott, I hope you have a great day, Love Grandma”

Awwwwwww

I turned it over.

To a page of drug side effects, most of them sexual. Yes, she wrote a lunch note on the back of paper that had words like “ejaculatory” and “coitus.” I wonder what the teachers thought.

Grandma is not a teacher, though, Grandma is a nurse. Nothing phases her. Not toddler poop, not vomit, not even a page full of sexual side effects.

But we have the big green shamrock sign!

When we moved in with my parents, we brought with us a cable package that included phone,which we were contractually obligated to pay for. In the interest of saving money, Mom and Dad dropped the landline they'd kept for 27 years.

Monday night, we had just climbed into our pajamas and gathered in the living room when the doorbell buzzed. (It doesn't ring; rather, it emits the obnoxious bray of metal pieces rubbing together.) Anyway. Someone was at the door.

It was our town librarian.

"I tried to call," she whispered sadly.

"Ohhh," my mom said, as though that explained why the librarian was stopping by at 8PM. "Yes, we changed our phone number when the kids moved in." She motioned to indicate that we were indeed living there, and Mrs. H stepped into the living room a bit. I waved self-consciously, feeling extremely pink and fuzzy in my pink, fuzzy pajamas.

"Oh, okay. Well. I just wanted to let you know I saved the new Jodi Picoult book for you. You requested it. And it just came in. Normally, I would call you..."

"Thanks." said Mom. Politely.

There was a promise of supplying the new number and Mrs. H walked back to her car.

"I bet she thinks you guys moved." I said to Mom, after I heard the car start up. "Maybe there's a rumor going around town."

She looked at me, shocked. "MOVED? But we have the big green shamrock sign in front with our name on it!"

The Plumber

So of course, our first week there we run into a plumbing problem. Fortunately, it did not involve the toilet. I cannot handle those kind of plumbing emergencies. It was just a thing with the hot water.

Dad called the plumber. The next day, the plumber came over and fixed it.

Naturally, mom needed to bring some baked goods to his house. (If you know my mom at all, this does not surprise you... ) She decided on chocolate chip bars.

So, Elliott and Grandma mixed up some chocolate chip cookie dough and pressed it into pans.



Soon they were done baking, and we found ourselves in the car, ready to drop off the goodies and head to dinner.

We pulled up to the plumber's alleged house. This is about when I realized that they didn't know if he lived there. I mean, his shop was next to it. There is a good possibility that he would live in the house next to his shop. I guess they figured that they'd know he lived there if he came to the door. Thing was, no one was home.



A dog came to the screen door wagging its tail.



"That looks like the kind of dog he'd have," Dad observed.



Mom left the tray on the porch.

Easter

A crazy day! But I guess it's a little crazy every year. After attending the 9AM service at church so I could serve in the Children's Church at the 11AM service, we made it to 1PM "brunch" (I have a hard time calling a 1PM meal brunch, hence the quotes).




At the Algoquin, chowing down:





Taking a walk on the docks:





After several plates each, we made it back home in time for an egg hunt and 15 lbs of candy.

The Move

I guess the first post should be titled, "The Decision," but there wasn't much to it.

My mom floated a silly idea by us. The silly idea that we should move in and save some money so we could live in a house. As much as I admit we've outgrown apartment living, I couldn't see the five of us peacefully coexisting. I said no.

She mentioned it again. Michael mentioned it to me. I gave him ALL the reasons why it was bad, bad, bad... but in the end, here we were, in a moving truck going up the Northway.





To Grandma and Poppop's house






With a happy little boy who can't wait to play outside all summer.






Last time I lived with my parents I was in high school, you know. I didn't live there on breaks from school, or over the summer. For the past 12 years I've been a visitor, and perfectly happy with their arrangement. I sure hope we know what we're getting into.