Christmas Scissorhands.

I have a confession to make.

Every year, after all is said and done for the Christmas season, I take great joy in butchering your Christmas cards.

Every last one of them.

I have this great vision of having a perfect collage of beloved faces on our refrigerator.  My children will spend the year gazing upon all of your cheery holiday smiles in admiration and love, as they are reminded daily of all of the important people in their lives.

Beautiful, no?

(And then there are those photos of people they’ve never met, of whom they ask me daily, “Who is that again??” — ok, that’s really annoying, but alas – the dream lives on.)

So to see my vision come to fruition, I get out my scissors and my roll of magnets and gleefully origamize your cards.

Because within this project, I have a quirk: No words allowed.

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No joy, no love, no bible verses, no names, no nice platitudinal statements, no wishes for a wonderful holiday.

The only exception is the year (but only if it’s in number form – NO words allowed!!), and only then if it is impossible to dissect it from the photos.

Some of you make this process easy for me, nicely separating your photos and your wording.  One chop and your card is ready for magnetization.

But some of you don’t.

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In the pleasant, euphoric place that is the inside of my head, all of the photos would magically and perfectly fit together like the puzzle pieces that make up our lives.

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But after all of the shoving, maneuvering, and cramming together, I annually resign myself to the fact that you don’t make very cooperative puzzle pieces.

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This year, the challenge was even greater, as the finished product of my collage had to be at least 30 inches off of the ground.  Because Noah loves your cards, too – he thinks you’re delicious.


Apologies are extended for the slaying of your Christmas cards.   And double apologies are given to anyone who had photos on both sides – especially to those of you that I decapitated.  Merry Christmas.

She Loves Them Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.

My Mom continuously serenaded me during my formative years.

(Later, she apologized for this, as she was quite afraid that she had crippled my musical abilities.  Her High School choir teacher had, after all, asked her to please just lip sync.)

But instead of kid’s songs (although she sang those, too), her shuffle was usually set to the music from her childhood and adolescence.  As a result, I grew up thinking that the 50’s and 60’s were extremely silly eras.

And, since I was a lot like Ali with an intensely analytical persuasion, the music raised a lot of questions.

Were the Polkadots yellow, or was the Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Bikini yellow with white polkadots?  The whole “yellow” adjective is too vague.

And if you were going to shoot the Sheriff, why not go ahead and shoot the Deputy as well?  I mean, your chances of getting caught regarding the whole Sheriff ordeal would be considerably minimized…

Why was that Magic Dragon always puffing?  Had he been running too fast?  And is that why you all lived in a yellow submarine – to get away from P. Draggy?

Why did you want Jack to hit the road?  He’d hurt his fist.  And what, exactly, does doing the Locomotion look like?  Is that what you wanted Rhonda to help you with?

And I don’t want Mister Sandman visiting me.  He sounds like he has an extremely chafing personality.  But if I had my choice, I’d definitely opt for him over the Purple People Eater.

However, I now find myself singing the songs of my childhood to Ali, and as a result, have come to realize that perhaps the 60’s weren’t the only time of silliness.

I mean really, who could eat millions of peaches?  They rot way too fast for that level of purchasing.  And of course everyone wants candy – but is it really song material?  And if life were plastic, would it really be fantastic?

But enough about me.  Back to my Mom.

Besides all of the silly songs, we also received a healthy dose of her teenage mega-crush, The Beatles.  Some of the songs might have been slightly modified – whether on purpose or due to her aging memory is unknown, but we loved them nonetheless.

So naturally, I was thrilled when she sent my kids home with a lesson from her stellar musical education, this time in the form of a slightly modified Beatles chart-topper:

Teaching a four year old and a one year old a Beatles duet: that’s a talent that only a Grandmother possesses, regardless of what her choir teacher told her.

Christmas Posers.

Because it’s expected from every good mother…

Take One: The Christmas Morning Shot.

The Malcontent.

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The Squealer.

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The Writher.

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The Escapee.

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The Tackle.

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The He-looks-happy-but-we-really-know-he’s-just-in-the-middle-of-an-objectionary-statement.

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That’ll do.


Because my Grandmother requested it, and she gets feisty when she wants something…

Take Two: The Four Generation Shot.

The One where nobody except me was aware that they were in a photo shoot…and something on the floor was REALLY fascinating.

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The One where the photographer didn’t realize the camera was on Continuous Shoot.

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The One where my eyelids weighed 12 pounds each.

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Aaaaand…The Overcompensatory Eyes.

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(And yes, the cameraman was still trying to recompose the shot while the continuous shutter kept shutting, hence Eli’s “special” appearance in the bottom of the photo.)

The One where everyone was looking and smiling and not looking ridiculously goofy:

(Oh. There wasn’t one.)



Because our great-great-great-grandchildren need to be able to see what amazing, sturdy, beautiful ancestors they had…

Take Three: The Full Family Photo.

They will think that my brother Nick was a giant. Or perhaps Igor the Hunchback.

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They will see Eli getting a surround-sound scolding for looking in the opposite direction.

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They will … SERIOUSLY – is Nick really ten times the size of Mammaw?!?

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They will see us all unravel in an unceremonious fashion.

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They will see a half-hearted attempt at regaining composure. And also that my brother JC is significantly too tall for these sorts of endeavors.

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But they won’t see a normal family photo. Because there isn’t one.



The only truly successful photos of the season…

Take Four: The Accidentals.

The Jump…

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And the Clause.

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Posing is for the masochist.

Zulily. Really??

The Zulily iPhone App is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever installed on my phone.

I was a latecomer to the wonderful world of Zulily, mainly because I was too lazy to actually go to their website.  But somehow I managed to stumble across the iPhone app, and here I am.  A complete Zulily addict.

“Oh! What a fabulous dress!! And only $12.99?  It will be a perfect Spring dress for Ali!”

Click.

“Ali would LOVE that tutu!! And only $10.99!!”

Click.

And then I realize that $12.99 a few times over really adds up.  And that one click ordering is a little scary.

But their stuff is so cute…..

Granted, they have a sketchily high selection of smock

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But…

(and you know how hard this is hard for me to admit)

even some of their smock is…

(gulp)

really cute.

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Now I would still never buy it, but if I were to ever lose my mind and trash my convictions, something like that would be on my shopping list.

Or this.

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Ack!! What AM I DOING???

CURSE YOU, Zulily!!

Blessedly, every time I’ve almost stabbed my eyes out for being seduced into actually liking something smocked, I’d run into a garment that was slightly less than alluring.

Like for instance, club wear for children.

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Or, perhaps, clothing that is shouting a message that I… just maybe… don’t want my daughter to be adopting as her own.

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(However, if you need a present for a Mom on Toddlers and Tiaras, I have found the one for you!)

And then there’s the uncomfortably worded boy’s clothes.

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Awkward.

But my eyes have never stretched wider and my eyeballs have never ventured further outside of their sockets than when I stumbled across this treasure.

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WHOOOOA…. what was that???

I had to see it closer.

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Well saddle up a horse and call me Daisy.

I hadn’t gotten the news that the wardrobe from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas had become acceptable infant wear!!

And this was no fluke sewing machine accident – they offered a Saloon full of choices.

Pink and white hearts, perhaps.

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Or for the more Goth babe, you can always go Vampire Black.

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Or perhaps you’re looking for the perfect Infant April Fool’s outfit. 

Or for your husband to instantaneously divorce you.

In either case, I would definitely recommend that you go with Leopard Print.

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Of course, diapers are easier to change if you go for the camisole option, so do be sure to consider it.

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And then, as if all of that wasn’t skin-crawlingly repugnant enough, there’s always the Infant Bridal Collection.

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For the love of all that is good, somebody please bring back the smock.

A Follow-Up post can be found here.

The Star of Egypt.

“You know how they make very nice, expensive replicas of Harry Potter wands and stuff?”

“Yes…”

“Well, I want to get Ali something like that for Christmas – something special just from Daddy.”

“Umm…a wand?”

“No, no, no. Not Harry Potter – something Princess related. I want to get her a real-feeling, heavy piece of treasure of some sort. Like a “real” Princess necklace or something. Does Disney make that?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m sure we could find something.”

And so began the search for a treasure. Every time we went Christmas shopping, Chris would gravitate to sparkly things and feverishly search through the clearance costume jewelry, looking for a heavy, “authentic”, treasure.

And finally, he found it. A ridiculously gigantic gold sparkly bejeweled monstrosity. For $13.

He was elated.

“It’s perfect!!”

“It looks like something Flavor Flav would wear!!”

“No, it looks like a treasure.”

“Okay, babe.”

He brought it home and we admired it’s overwhelming size and sparkliness.

“Which princess story does it look like it’s from?”

“Umm…?”

We stared and stared.

Finally, I suggested, “Why don’t you write a Princess story to go with it?”

He looked intrigued. He pondered…he thought…

“It looks like it could be an Egyptian treasure. I could write a story about a little Cleopatra or something.”

“Ali HAS been obsessed with Pyramids lately…but skip the part about them being full of dead people. She’s not so thrilled about that.”

Soon after, he presented me with the rough draft.

It was perfect. There were so many touches of Ali’s personality throughout the pages, and he even used words that Ali coined, like “swoopy”. This book was written to the exact specifications of our daughter.

We were both giddy with excitement over the idea of Ali receiving a custom-written book AND an associated treasure for Christmas – could anything be more exciting and meaningful?

On Christmas morning, we opened all of the presents and stockings, all the while telling Ali that she had one more special present from Daddy. After Noah went down for his morning nap, we pulled out the much anticipated box.

She opened it.

“It’s a book.”

“Yes!! A book that Daddy wrote just for you!!

She read the name of it.

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“The st… st… star of … Ege. Egy. Egypt!! The Star of Egypt!”

She seemed excited.

We were excited.

Chris opened the book to begin to read.

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“No…I don’t think that I want to read this right now.”

“What? Why not? It’s a book that Daddy wrote JUST for you!”

“I think I’d rather play with my new toys.”

Well okay then.

We began to consider the possibility that perhaps almost-five-year-olds didn’t measure worth in the same way that thirty-plus-year-olds did.

I mean, GEEZ – I’d love to have a book custom written just for me.

Oh well.

As the day wound down, families had all been seen, and presents had all been opened, Chris and I hatched a new plan.

“We’ll read it for bedtime. She’ll totally be into it then – anything to delay bedtime.”

Yes, that was the ticket.

So we got Noah off to sleep and pulled out the book. Ali was totally tuned in as Chris read her the story of Cleo.

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Star of Egypt Cover

Star of Egypt Page 1

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Star of Egypt Page 10

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Star of Egypt Page 12

Star of Egypt Page 13

Star of Egypt Page 14

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After he got to the last page, Chris asked Ali,

“What do you think happened to the Star of Egypt?”

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“It’s pretend! It’s not real.”

“There’s another present down in the bottom of the box. Why don’t you see what it is?”

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“It’s a pretty necklace!!”

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“What does it look like?”

“I don’t know.”

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“Does it look like something in the book?”

“No.”

“Look on the front cover again.”

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“It looks like the Star of Egypt!!”

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“But that was just a story. And this is real!! How can that be, Daddy??”

…and then what followed was a ten minute interrogation into the minutia of what was and was not real, right down to the swoopy birds.

Finally, after all was as clear as the sands of Thebes, she felt comfortable relaxing and enjoying her new treasure.

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“…but be sure to tell me if you see any Swoopy Birds, okay Mommy? ANY Swoopy Birds.”

Hark the Herald Legos Sing

Last year, Chris and Ali debuted their first Nativity Scene made from Legos.  This year, they started earlier, planned better, and enlarged their panorama to encompass the entire city of Bethlehem.

However, Lego isn’t exactly a religious company, seeing as how they have custom sets for every possible historical and fictional setting, but not a single biblical one.

So, when constructing Jesus’ birth, you have to make do with the bricks you’re dealt.

Chris and Ali did a great job, considering.  In fact, with just a few minor tweaks here and there, they managed to construct a visualization of many of our favorite Christmas songs.

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“O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!

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With medieval inns and Hagrid’s Hut,

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And dragon perched on high.

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Yet in thy dark streets shineth,
A Christmas tree and lights,

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Where barmaids and King Arthur’s Court all meet in thee tonight.”

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“Away in the manger, no crib for a bed,
no patterned comforter to lay his sweet head.”

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“What Child is This, who laid to rest, in a treasure chest is sleeping?

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Whose giant head, and missing limbs, and jaundiced face are keeping.”

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“Hark the Herald Angel Sings, glory to the newborn King!


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Dressed as a ghost with a magic scroll, just as uncanonized prophets foretold.

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“We three kings of Orient are, Bearing gifts we traverse afar.

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Knight and Wizard, trailer and phaser, following Yonder Star.

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O magic wand of wonder, magic wand of night, magic wand that shines but not so bright,

To the  dining room leading, not proceeding, guide us to thy glow-in-the-dark Light.

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We three kings, scurry away, avoiding Herod, and his extra-large crown,

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Eastward fleeing, Angry Birds feeding, guide us to our Asian town.”

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“Said the RobotSheep to the little boy, do you hear what I hear?

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Ringing through the sky, shepherd boy, do you hear why I hear?
A cauldron boiling, Hedwig the Owl, and a Dragon eating lunch,

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and a Dragon eating lunch.”

Merry Christmas from Chris and Ali!!!

A Holiday Breakdown.

You all did as I asked and chipped in your holiday tradition likes and dislikes. So now it’s my turn to fulfill my promise and provide excessively geeky charts and graphs to break down the holidays.

But first, I would like to draw some conclusions and propose some Holiday Protocol Changes based on our Highly Scientific Holiday Survey.

1. “Santa Baby” is, without one single disputing vote, completely despised by all who celebrate, or are even vaguely familiar with, the holiday that is Christmas. As such, it should immediately be banned from all airwaves.

2. “Christmas Shoes” was actually hated by more people than “Santa Baby”, but alas – there were three dissenting votes. So instead of completely banning it, we will allow it – but only on the island of Vanuatu, and you three can move there to enjoy it, hugging each other and crying sappy tears to your heart’s delight.

3. Unfortunately for me, 29% of people actually love “A Christmas Story”. But I would be willing to move to Vanuatu to escape it’s oppressing awfulness.

…if it weren’t for the small Vanuatan colony Christmas Shoes lovers. I guess I’ll have to find my own island.

4. There are some things we all agree on. So clearly, I now know how to throw the most fabulous Christmas Party in history. It will be in my lit-up house, and I’ll be serving Starbucks coffee with Christmas Flavored Creamers and home-baked cookies as we all gather around a real Christmas tree in our Christmas Jammies singing O Come O Come Emmanuel and watching the cartoon version of The Grinch.

Who’s coming?

Okay. Without further ado, here’s the data…

Christmas Traditions Grid

And, as I DID promise a graph, here it is, in all of it’s too-tiny-to-be-legible glory:

Christmas Traditions

Also. Since this post is quickly becoming a rambling array of holiday-related minutia, I must now give a much-deserved honorable mention to my husband, who proved that he did read my blog when he gifted my car with these:

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… but unfortunately, after only one small drive in all of my reindeer glory, I became uniantlered. I still haven’t figured out how one could have fallen off, so to whomever stole the right antler off of a Pilot parked at CVS, I do hope you enjoy my involuntary contribution to your Christmas cheer.

And finally (I swear the rambling will stop soon), one tradition afterthought: I totally forgot about my favorite holiday movie of all, Noëlle.

(Mainly because it isn’t a tradition yet as we only discovered it last Christmas, but I plan on watching it tonight and thereby solidifying it as such immediately.)

We happened across it last year while browsing the On Demand holiday genre, and looked at each other sketchily after it started – it’s totally artsy and independent filmy and a painfully slow starter. But the ending is so worth it. It kinda reminds me of one of my favorite movies ever, Dragonfly (which apparently was hated by everyone else as it is also nearly unheard of by the general public), as it has that slightly-eery-culmination-type-ending.

Okay. Rambling over. May your holidays be lacking of Christmas Shoes and full of Holiday-Flavored Coffee.

Awkwardly Intense Busybody Club: Mall Task Force.

The mall becomes a dangerous place during the Christmas holidays.

…Busy shoppers crowd the walkways, sending claustrophobics gasping for a tiny piece of fresh, un-fouled by Chinese-Mall-Food-Breath.

…Indoor fake snow causes small children to slip and fall and break their precious limbs.

Kiosk Predators get desperate to sell their unwanted merchandise and begin shooting their helicopters into people’s hair, hopelessly tangling them within and therefore forcing them to stop and listen to their desperate sales pitch while they try to regain control of their follicular situation.

But one constant never changes: Old Men at the Mall.

This is actually an oddly foreign concept that has left me puzzled and pondering for many years.  My Dad isn’t old, but he’s getting there.  And I can’t imagine ANYTHING that he would less likely do with his golden years than hang out at the mall.

(Okay, maybe being a contestant on Project Runway.  Or watching Project Runway.  Or not scowling at me when I talk about Project Runway.  But aside from that, nothing comes to mind.)

But yet there are dozens of them – milling about, drinking coffee, watching the carousel, asking moms if they can sit with them and their kids at the food court (yes, really!), reading the newspapers, and grumpily scowling at children’s lunch messes.

So naturally, the Awkwardly Intense Busybody Club has begun employing these Old Men at the Mall to handle their mall duties.

I took the kids to the mall last week to do some last minute shopping.  After we finished, we headed to the food court to enjoy our customary Chick-Fil-A lunch.  It was uneventful for us, but the people at the next table spilled a drink.  They gathered all of their napkins and sopped up most of it, then went on about their dinner.

A few minutes after they had resumed eating, an Old Man at the Mall walked up and hovered awkwardly close to them and their lunch.

“Excuse me, but I saw you trying to clean up your mess there.”

“Yes, we were…”

“Well, they have crews that do that for you around here.”

He looked around with determined (and a little bit scary) eyes, spotted a janitor across the food court, lifted his arm and pointed at her, then made some weird combination of a cat-call/whistle/belch in her direction.

“Ma’am!!!  Come clean this up!!”

The family trying to eat their meal looked horrified.  I felt their pain…through my intense amusement.

Miss Janitor looked quite familiar with the OMATM, shrugged her shoulders, and indicated that she’d be there when she finished what she was obviously in the middle of accomplishing.

He chatted with the mortified family for a couple minutes about the mall cleanup crew’s responsibilities.  The spilling family quickly picked up their food and scampered off as fast as they could, in a certain attempt to reclaim their dignity.

The AIBC-OMATM was not satisfied with the slow turnaround of the still uncleaned mess at the now empty table, so he set off in the other direction.

I watched him, obsessively fascinated, as he found another janitor.  I saw him talking and motioning urgently toward the small spill.  Other Janitor walked over, inspected the mess, and radioed for cleanup.

Old Man at the Mall resumed his pacing of the food court, looking more important than ever, poking out his chest where he most certainly expected a Badge of Honor to be placed at any moment.

As he should have, since he’d just saved the world from sure disaster.

 

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Uno.

Hi there, Noah here.

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So The Servant Who Calls Herself Mommy claims that she was already too mushy about me last week, and I’m only entitled to one mushy post per diaper size. 

So, says she, if I wanted a birthday post, I was going to have to jolly well write it myself.

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Typical – the second child always gets the shaft, don’t they?

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I digress.

It’s really okay, because I don’t mind going on and on and on about myself – I mean, what more interesting subject could there be??

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Well, maybe remote controls and phones.

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So, its been good to be 0, but I’ve really been looking forward to 1. Its really a vast exponential increase, if you think about it. Way bigger than 4 to 5, like that little girl that lives here. I mean, I’m about to be an integer with VALUE rather than a numerical placeholder for nothing!

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So with my newfound age of numerical significance, I’m looking for some upgrades in privilege and responsibility. Kicking my morning nap to the curb. Trying to walk. Maybe petition for a bigger allowance. Maybe I’ll even Occupy the Kitchen and be a little more demanding with my dietary requirements.

(I’m getting the feeling like the Mommy spigot may be cut off soon, anyway.)

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Speaking of, I better back off with the new teeth. Instead, I’m practicing some fierceness to help enforce my demands. I expect significant results.

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Whatever.

So anyway, it’s been an interesting year.  A year ago today, I was torturing The Servant Who Calls Herself Mommy in a way that she had never experienced before.

But I have to say. When I read all of your sympathetic “Oh poor pitiful Mommy” comments on her post, I just shook my head.

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Um, HELLO??

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Did you SEE my head after they finally got me out of there?

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You know what happens when you try to fit a soccer ball through a keyhole? It ends up looking like a football. 

And getting STUCK. 

Sure, the keyhole might be a little uncomfortable, but the SOCCER BALL JUST GOT TURNED INTO A FOOTBALL.

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Anyway.  I’m glad I got that off of my chest.

Once I got over the whole eviction trauma, it didn’t take the servants long to start finding new and more humiliating ways to heap affliction on me.

There was the facial hair incident

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And the dress situation

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And the Cousinly Invasion of Personal Space occurrence.

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But that’s okay, because I was a master at escaping all of their attempts in keeping me repressed.

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Also? The Servants tasted pretty good.

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But primarily, I spent my first year perfecting my unbelievably fantastic talent in the art of Facial Expressionism.

And so, at this time, in celebration of my birthday, with all of the pomp and circumstance a one year old can muster, I’d like to present my first art collection, a year in the making, for your enjoyment.

“Bald Monkey” 

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“Betrayal”

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“They Feed Me Dog Food”

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“How YOU Doin’?”

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“The Loaded Diaper of Happiness”

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“Sucking Face.”

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“Kiss me, beneath the evening starlight.”

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“I Scoff at Your Poo-Wiping Abilities.”

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“But Wait! If you call right now, we’ll double your order!!”

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“If I stay really still I might not spew goldfish chunks.”

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“Future Biggest Loser”

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Overall, it’s been a good year.  For me, and for The Servants. 

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But how could it not be?  They’ve had ME to look at for twelve months.

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Okay.  I’m off to bury my face in a cake, and I will make sure that the event deserves an immediate bath. It’s gonna take me a solid 12 hours to sleep off this party.

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So it’s time to get my Uno on. And the best birthday present of all: I still get full diaper service for another year!

Score!!

A Giveaway to Give Back

The next month at our house will be an onslaught of complete and total overwhelming piles of toys and such being bestowed upon my children.

December 19th is Noah’s Birthday…Then Christmas…and then January 8th is Ali’s Birthday.

They will get more stuff than they possibly need for the year – and they won’t realize it, but I’ll put up about half of it for months down the road.

In all of the “getting”, I don’t want them to miss out on two very important things: the true gift of Jesus, and the joy of giving to others.

(Well, Ali anyway.  Noah doesn’t so much get any of that yet.)

As you may have read, Build-A-Bear has given me the privilege of working with them on two recent projects to give back to others.  One of our gifts ended up with a cancer patient who, unbeknownst to us at the time, loved and collected teddy bears.  The others went to tornado survivors as Christmas Gifts.

And this week, they gave me one more opportunity to give to others.  But not just for us this time – they’ve offered to include some of you as well, so they have set aside $50 in gift cards for me to give to you to use to give to others.

We decided to make our bears to send to orphans in the Dominican Republic.  Two of our Church’s missionaries are here for the holidays, and they said that they would be glad to take the bears back when they go.

Ali picked out the bears – she decided that one for a boy and one for a girl was what we needed to make.

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She warmed their hearts in her hands while the bears went through the stuffing process,

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And then thought long and hard about what their names should be.

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And let me tell you, “Lovey Bear” and “Camo Bear” really appreciate all of that deep thinking she did for the sake of their oh-so-creative identities.

We’ll be delivering the bears to our missionaries to take back with them, and hopefully there will be a couple of very happy children in the DR in a few weeks.

If you would like to join us and Build-A-Bear in giving back to someone in your world that you know would be cheered up by a furry friend, leave a comment and tell me how you would bless someone else if you won.  It can be anyone – just someone that you know a bear would put a smile on their face.

There will be two winners selected randomly – one will receive $20 and the other will receive $30 in gift cards to be used online or in-store.

This opportunity closes on Monday, December 19th, and the winners will be announced on my giveaway winner’s page on Tuesday, December 20th.

Good luck, and thank you for giving back this holiday season!


Disclosure: I was not compensated in any way to write this post.  My opinions are always my own.