Rachel Callahan

Why Alabama Lost.

January 4, 2015January 10, 2015 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Football and I have a Complicated Relationship, Gameday Fashion, I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., Weird Strange and True

So Alabama lost. Did you hear?

My husband handled it awfully well – I think he nearly tuned out the last fifteen minutes of the game, clearly as a psychological coping mechanism. But it was effective, as the children didn’t get woken up by screams of agony and defeat, which is a much better fate than most of the children in our great state.

I have a theory about what happened this year. Why they lost a game in the regular season, and why they lost this playoff game that they were clearly supposed to win.

It was the fashion.

Every year I collect the latest and greatest of Alabama Fashion Trends for you, and this year was no exception – at least, in the fact that I tried.

But the fan’s hearts just weren’t in it this year. Gone were the grown ladies wearing tutus and the grown men wearing curious houndstooth rice farming hats. No more were the bedazzled and appliqued jeans or matching full-length sequined robes (with the fur.)

And if the fans weren’t plugged in, how were the players supposed to be powered?

If the fans weren’t committed, can we really expect Saban to be able to work magic?

No, fans. We cannot.

Alabama Football is fueled just like Neverland – on belief.

If you don’t show your belief and show it loudly, Saban Pan can’t fly, the Lost Boys can’t defeat Captain Hook, and all the cheering Tinkerbells in the world won’t be able to bring magic back to the island.

No. Instead, this year’s fanwear was largely made up of dead things.

I mean. A LOT of faux animals died to be paired with a pom-pom stuck in a boot.

And I wasn’t the only one noticing.

That’s right, Houndstooth Legging Lady. You are SO last year.

Seriously. How many Ewoks should have to die for one girl to attend a football game?

And the dead things weren’t limited to vests, either. If you don’t have anything else to wear, just cut the last twelve inches off of your Abominable Snowman Outfit and wear that!

Snowman says hi.

C’mon, Alabama. We can’t fuel a team with such indifference. If you’re going to wear a dead animal, at least do it right.

Even Florida can do that.

And then there were the tight things.

Taking Lace where no lace has been before…

Everything so Boa-Constrictor tight that their owner might be the next dead thing to be worn by another fan.

Lifts and separates – all the way up!

(But I will admit that it did give me a tiny thrill to see that someone actually did buy the Ace Bandage Hosiery from HauteLook. I’m sure it was on my recommendation.)

.
And of course there were doilies as shorts.

Paired with boots,

Paired with jerseys.

Because doilies are the new black.

It’s just the facts – the fan base didn’t play offense or defense with their fashion choices this year.

Okay no there was a little offense.

But between Ill-Fitting Plaids,

Eternally confusing butt messages,

And frightening onesies,

The team just couldn’t pull it off this year.

In fact, almost all of the fans seemed much more interested in themselves than in what we were all supposedly there for – the players.

But let’s give it up for the few fans who still cared – who still believed – who still did their part to help create the ever-needed football pixie dust.

It was to them that we owe our twelve wins.

Thank you, Top Hat Man, for reducing the earth’s supply of natural houndstooth with the making of your fantastic show of belief in the team. But no thank you, for standing between me and my sunset.

Thank you, Spandex-Wearing Man, with your wig conspicuously on opposite sides than your shirt and socks, for doing your part. For showing your belief. For powering the team.

(No thank you, sunglass-wearing-man in the background, for laughing at he who is committed to the program.)

Thank you, Cruella De Vil’s daughter, for stepping right out of 1986 to come believe in your team. In our team. In the nation’s team.

Thank you, Awesomely Hip Baby, for stealing Saban’s hat to infuse it with some of your infant magic.

Thank you, Grandma who put a little something extra over your work pants and under your hoodie, for reminding us of the power of the houndstooth miniskirt, regardless of its pairing.

THANK YOU, Pom-Pom Girl, for giving Saban the pixie dust of ten Tinkerbells. No thank you, Pom-Pom Girl, for reminding me of my rather traumatic Junior High days.

Thank you, Coordinated Couple, for bringing the Yin and Yang to Gameday.

And thank you, Converse-Wearing-Santa, for asking Saban what he wanted for Christmas….

Even if you didn’t deliver.

But it’s not your fault, it’s the other fan’s.

Next year, people. I expect you to trade in your dead things and doilies and put on the Spandex, Pom-Poms, and Fuzzy Hats.

THEN we can win a National Championship again.

To see my collection of Gameday Fashion posts, click here.

A Christmas Story.

December 30, 2014December 30, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

I hate that movie because it’s a train wreck. And I despise all train wreck movies – Ben Stiller and Chevy Chase are my nemeses.

Yet, I set myself up.

Saying that we needed to reorganize Christmas by illnesses, then post-scripting it with a “no really I’m just kidding – we’ll all be okay by Christmas day.”

Don’t ever say crap like that.

On Christmas Eve, Ali woke up with a stomachache. Moments after telling me this news, she proceeded to vomit profusely.

The bright side was that Chris was at work and I could shatter his Christmas Heart via text, so I didn’t have to actually witness the implosion of his hopes and dreams. Chris had gone into work at some unholy hour so that he could leave at 2:30 and proceed as quickly as possible with our Christmas paradise.

But no. It was destined that I would spend the morning running with my daughter to the bathroom, holding back hair, providing apple juice, and finding anything distracting for her to watch on television. All while attempting to keep her now-well brother un-bored with our couched state of affairs.

A friend suggested I get our doctor to call in dissolvable Zofran. “It’s a lifesaver”, she promised.

I called the doctor’s office. They sounded exactly like you’d expect people to sound who were seeing the world’s biggest outbreak of puking, flu, infected, nasty kids the day before Christmas. But they promised me they’d call it in.

Ali puked again. Which meant I now had a window. A small one, but a window indeed.

We gathered supplies in the attempt to make it to the pharmacy. A trash can, paper towels, and my car keys.

Right before we walked out, I thought it best to call the pharmacy and make sure they were ready for me. CVS is, after all, infamously annoying at calling me a dozen times to refill a prescription I don’t need or already refilled, but taking three days to fill a prescription when I actually need it.

“No, we don’t have any call-ins for her. I’m sorry.”

Ali was sitting by the stairs, already moaning again. I could see my window shrinking. I called the doctor’s office back. The receptionist yelled to the nurse, who yelled back.

“I called it in! I talked to a man. They have to have it.”

I whimpered, sounding exactly like Ali. Then called back my completely untrustworthy CVS.

“Hey! I’m glad you called back. We found it as soon as you hung up.”

You could’ve called me….but whatev.

I loaded the children and the economy-sized trash can and set out on Christmas Eve adventures, Ali moaning and Noah protesting.

“I wanna stay home!!”

Never mind that he’d been complaining all morning about being at home.

I did not, however, consider the proximity of my CVS to one of our city’s biggest shopping malls.

Traffic was stopped a mile from CVS.

Ali’s moans intensified. The puke-free window was barely a crack now – not even a fly could fit through.

We finally made it to CVS and it turns out the traffic wasn’t just for the mall. There was a line six cars deep at the CVS drive-thru.

There was no way I was taking an actively puking kid into the pharmacy – especially when any sort of jostling only sped up her condition. Yet I knew how long it takes one car to get through their drive-thru.

And there were six.

At five cars deep, Noah started screaming.

“I have to go to the bathrooooooom!”

Of course I’d forgotten to make him go before we left the house. I was much more concerned with his explosive sister.

“You’re gonna have to hold it.”

“Okay……AAAAAAH!! I NEEEDTOGONOW!!!”

I looked to the left. There was a CVS employee sitting out back smoking. Another walked out to join her. Cars in front of me, cars behind me – this was no time to pee outside.

So I texted my husband. Because you need a man to help solve this sort of problem.

I wasn’t a fan of the tire idea, but the water bottle idea wasn’t bad. And the Chick-Fil-A cup I found was even better – a bigger target.

“Noah – you’re going to have to pee in this cup.”

“NO!! I’ll wait till we get home. AAAAAAH! I NEEDTOGONOW!!!!”

And so, right there in full view of the two smoking ladies, I dumped the slightly moldy lemonade out the window, stood my son up, pulled down his pants, and told him to aim well.

I began to worry when I realized exactly how full his bladder was – The Yellow Lake inched nearer and nearer to the rim and I wasn’t positive that my son knew how to “cut it off” for a quick dump out the window.

But just as I thought it couldn’t hold any more without sloshing, he finished with a satisfied smile on his face.

And I dumped the cup out the window for the second time, as the CVS ladies gazed and smoked.

But not until after I sent a picture of the PeeCup to Chris (You’re welcome for cropping it out.)

Finally we made it up the the window. My introverted inhibitions had been stripped away by the whole public urination episode, so I said to the pharmacy tech,

“Holy Crap your job is awful today! I hope you’re using a lot of hand sanitizer!!”

She looked at me warily and a bit suspiciously, “I’m not personally using hand sanitizer…”

“Well you should! Your line is longer than the line at the mall!”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

Except she didn’t sound very thankful at all.

She gave us our Zofran and I ripped open the bag and gave the intensely whimpering Ali her first pill.

But alas, ten minutes later and LITERALLY ONE BLOCK FROM HOME,

she proceeded to loudly vomit in my car.

Thankfully, she had good aim.

That was at noon. And it was her last episode. So we called off our plans that evening (our traditional lasagna with my parents and other guests, hosted at our house), but tentatively kept our Christmas Day plans, with full disclosure to those involved.

Miraculously, Ali felt amazing by Christmas Eve night. We read the Christmas story, thanked God for Baby Jesus and stomach contents staying put, donned our Christmas pajamas, and had the magical night before Christmas (minus lasagna) that we needed.

The next morning was lovely, with both of the kids bright-eyed and excited and 100% healthy, reveling in the joy of Christmas day.

After all the presents had been opened, Chris and I ended up in the kitchen alone. I hugged him and said,

“You know, sometimes the happiest we can be is when we’ve just recovered from complete tragedy and uncertainty. We’re less stressed out and more thankful for Christmas than ever!”

He replied, “So you’re saying that true happiness is just north of misery?”

“Exactly. Merry Christmas, darling.”

He hugged me back.

We had our Christmas lunch with Chris’ family, then Christmas dinner with my family, all lovely and happy and not at all high-strung.

We put the children to bed, happily exhausted by the day’s bliss.

Until Noah awoke at 11pm….with croup.

Like the worst croup he’s ever had…to the point that I was texting my friends at midnight asking if I should take him to the ER.

We finally got it mostly under control, so I put him in bed with me and sent Chris to the couch (rather voluntarily, since he’s not a fan of being beaten by little people in his sleep), and I proceeded to try and get my son back to sleep.

He was not, however, sleepy.

I whispered CLOSE YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP at least 6 billion times for what had to have been 48 hours straight before I finally realized what I needed to do.

I had to place myself in the most uncomfortable position possible.

I laid on my stomach next to Noah with Bob the Tomato’s plastic eyes shoved between my boobs and tearing into my ribcage, and Larry the Cucumber’s protruding eyes stabbing my appendix. It was a completely untenable position, and it was the miracle cure. He immediately fell asleep.

I waited, counting his deep breaths and watching for fluttering eyes, Finally, I felt it safe enough and pried myself away from the Veggies and went to sleep.

Until he began a calculated and strategic kicking assault. Just enough time between kicks for me to fall back asleep, kicks just hard enough to bruise my internal organs.

But we survived. And we got drugs the next morning. And he recovered. And we moved on.

Friday and Saturday were idyllic, containing zero plans and therefore having room for last minute runs and Zoolight Safari visits and plenty of time to play with new toys. Chris made a resolution to make zero plans in 2015, therefore minimizing the possibility for any future expectation shattering disappointment. Everyone was finally well, everyone was happy, everything was lovely.

After an especially beautiful family outing on Saturday where we ran as a family for the first time,

and then visited the Botanical Gardens,

we finished our fun by going to Mugshots for lunch – home of the best hamburgers in Birmingham.

They only had seating on the heated outside patio, so we bundled up and took it.

The kids continued their expulsion of energy, running around the table and such. Noah had his face and nose pressed up against the window banging it when we realized that the nice couple on the other side were staring and not at all amused.

“No more banging on the glass, son.”

They brought us our burgers and chicken and fries with zero silverware or napkins, so I tore Noah’s chicken into bigger chunks than usual, allowing it to cool off until I received a knife.

It took half of two forevers for her to bring us silverware, and by then I’d quite forgotten that Noah’s chicken needed more attention – and after all he was shoving his face quite efficiently, so he didn’t seem to need me.

Until he did.

He wasn’t taking the time to actually bite his chicken like a normal child – he was just shoving those giant hunks into his mouth, and one finally got the best of him.

He stood up in his chair and began choking. LOUDLY.

I ran over with a napkin and started pounding him on the back. Which is when he rewarded my outstretched hand with the entire contents of his stomach.

But somehow he was still choking?

He turned around, still standing in his seat, facing again the couple on the other side of the glass, hacking in grand, bubbly, piercing spasms.

And at the exact second, at just the right second, at the ideal place in the history of the world, the man turned around and stared at Noah.

Right as the contents of Noah’s second and third and apparently fourth stomach came spewing out of his mouth with more force than any movie’s CGI fake-vomit ever thought about having.

Chris threw the remaining napkins at me and I began mopping every surface.

And we began to laugh.

Great heaves of laughter that didn’t stop until we got to the car, and kept cropping up randomly throughout the day.

Because it’s true. If they really commit and get super ridiculous and completely unbelievable, train wrecks are absolutely hilarious.

2014 Parents Are the Worst.

December 29, 2014December 28, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Kids: The Experience.

Ten years ago, parents used to worry that their kids would embarrass them in the middle of their Christmas plays. Or kindergarten graduation. Or gymnastics meets.

Kids.

They’re likely to pick their nose and rub their boogers on the child next to them, or perhaps pull their dress up over their head in the middle of Joy to the World, or maybe they’re that kid that sings SO loud and SO off-key that everyone else is giggling and pointing.

That was ten years ago.

Today, kids are much more worried about their parents embarrassing them.

Because 2014 parents are the worst.

Now we come outfitted with our iPhones and our iPads and our GoPros and our DSLRs and we’re trying to use them all simultaneously because we need video AND quality photos AND photos that we can immediately post to social media while still juggling all four devices. You know, to show that we’re engaged with our kid’s lives.

Noah had his preschool Christmas program a few days ago. I was puzzled when I arrived a few minutes early and found that we would have to sit near the back of the sanctuary, then wondered at exactly what time these other parents had staked out their spot.

Each, of course, needing an extra seat on the bench for all of their electronic equipment. The room was buzzing with brain cancer waiting to happen.

The director came up and made a few announcements, explaining where to go after to program, and then stating The One Rule.

“Remember – if you step out in the aisle to take photos, please go right back to your seat, as we want to keep the aisles clear.”

Whaaaaaat? Parents are going to paparazzi the children? No…..

I had possessed the forethought to sit on the edge of the pew so that I had an aisle view. I thought this was going to be to my advantage.

Here was my actual view of the Christmas Program.

As it began, the traffic jam was so intense that I was worried fights would break out over the best aisle spots. Then people gradually settled in with their iPad videography and various forms of photography, all assuming a graduated stance, one above the other, solidly staying put in the aisle.

It’s like they’d done this before or something.

But I couldn’t. It just felt too awkward – too exposed. And after all, they had asked that the aisles stay clear.

Apparently the other parents had heard “Let’s keep the pews clear” instead.

And so, I sat in my seat, and I quickly changed camera lenses. From my standard choice to my Veronica Mars Stalker Telephoto lens. Because that was the only way I was going to be able to snake through this crowd and see my kid.

Every now and then, there would a small window where I could nearly focus my zoom lens on him – but always with a head or device in the way.

Noah felt my angst, knowing his A-List performance had no chance of being recorded.

And superstar it was – watching his Music Director closely to see what he was supposed to do next, completely ignoring me and my mega camera lens.

Just like the classmates around him, he was fully immersed into this Christmas Program.

He was intensely focused on looking joyous,

On participating in all of the hand motions,

And never being distracted by his adoring fans,

…and all of their devices.

Because 2014 Parents are the Worst.

The Urgent Reorganization of Christmas.

December 22, 2014December 22, 2014 Rachel Callahan Just My Luck, Rachel's "Brilliant" Marketing Ideas

I began noticing the rampant nature of it last week.

Everyone I talked to told me of their illness woes, of their family’s, or of their school’s.

“My kids have been throwing up since last Wednesday.”

“Just so you know, two people who were here yesterday have been confirmed to have the flu, and I’m not feeling so hot, either.”

“Did you hear that 25% of the student body at the Middle School is out with the stomach virus?”

“Just so you know, we have a bit of the sinus crud – nothing major.”

I knew it would happen. And due to the extreme universal nature of it, there would be no clear villain to mentally pin for the deed. The entire WORLD was sick the week before Christmas, which only meant that we would be the lucky family to be sick the week of Christmas*.

Which, incidentally, is exactly how we spent last Christmas. It’s becoming a tradition so steeped that it may have to be added to our official Holiday Family Traditions Directory.

Sure enough, two out of four of us have succumbed. Though my Pharmacist assured me that the rest of the world is indeed still sick and getting sicker, right after telling me that my antibiotic was going to do absolutely terrible things to my stomach and to have a Merry Christmas. And right before telling me all about his own children’s current illnesses and all of the details of their quite messy symptoms.

I sanitized my prescription bottle.

So it’s time for some new traditions, America.

If we want to survive this Holiday Season as a nation, this year is going to have to be different. And not “let’s not have a movie about assassinating a man named Kim” different.

We must reorganize ourselves for our own good.

Forget family gatherings – we must rewrite familial lines according to related illnesses.

I’ll host the Mysterious-Bacterial-Throat-Infections-But-Not-Strep Illness Family.

I need to send Noah off to whoever’s going to host the He-Threw-Up-Once-But-Didn’t-Have-Any-Other-Symptoms(-Aside-From-His-Typical-Grouchy-Demeanor) Illness Family.

Ali and Chris will definitely need seats at the table with the We’re-Not-Sick-But-Our-Family-Is-So-We’re-Prolly-Gonna-Infect-Somebody-Or-Something-Anyway Illness Family.

My Pharmacist’s kids apparently need the We’re-Deathly-Sick-But-Our-Pharmacist-Dad-Shrugs-His-Shoulders-When-Asked-What-We-Have family (hopefully that’s a small gathering), and there’s going to be a record-breaking crowd at the We-Have-The-Flu-Even-Though-We-Got-The-Completely-Useless-2014-Flu-Shot Illness Family.

So. Organize appropriately. Spread your diseases responsibly. Lemme know what families you need to locate and where I can send Noah. And tell your real family that you’ll see them at Easter.

* Disclaimer to my actual family: We will all be in the clear by Christmas Day, unless we pick up some other delicious morsel of malaise. So don’t go mentally pinning all your future illnesses on us.

Quick and Easy Last Minute Gift Wrap Idea

December 21, 2014December 21, 2014 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational

I am feeling really lazy this Christmas.

Usually, Chris and I truly enjoy finding some sort of creative way to wrap presents, like the year we made Word Search Gift Wrap. I also usually make my own gift tags, too, but as I’ve already admitted this year, my ability to live up to my Christmas Duties has seriously declined.

So…that means I hadn’t wrapped a single present until late last week…despite Noah’s daily questions, “WHY are there no presents under the tree?” and “Will there EVER be presents under the tree with my name on them??”

I had zero ideas to make them fun this year, until I was walking through Staples.

Every time I pass a display of all of the pretty patterned tapes that Scotch makes, I stop and stare, wishing that I had a justifiable reason to buy them all – a decent use for such gorgeous patterns and pretty colors. I love mixing patterns like a crazy person, so the new line of tapes make me as happy as passing down the scrapbook paper aisle at Michaels.

This time, I had the idea I’d been waiting on.

I didn’t know if it would work, but I was willing to take the risk. I strategically bought 13 rolls of my favorite patterns and took them home to try them out. And, shockingly, it was perfect.

No ribbon? No problem. No labels? No problem. I simply taped coordinating patterns around my presents, then wrote the recipient’s name in Sharpie on the tape.

The tapes are called Washi Tape, and are very similar to Painter’s Tape, so when I got my line crooked, it was easy to peel off and try again.

Some patterns covered better than others, but I didn’t mind its translucent properties too much.

The writing is easier to read in person than it is in the pictures, but the ones that take a bit of scrutiny don’t bother me – after all, people should have to work for their gifts.

….Especially the lucky people whose presents got decorated with the one roll of patterned duct tape that I bought.

So in conclusion, this was the easiest decorating of presents I’ve ever done, the rolls of tape look barely used (as opposed to rolls of ribbon that last for all of one-and-a-half presents), and I’m beyond thrilled to finally be able to use those pretty, pretty tapes.

How did you wrap this year?

The Thumb of Christmas Present.

December 18, 2014December 18, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

My husband is Clark Griswold. I’ve mentioned this a few times – in his house lighting projects, in his pining and chasing the perfect holiday moments, and definitely in his reaction when those holiday moments are ruined.

I have come to realize this, and so I prep him before Christmas morning.

“Honey, someone is probably going to whine. Brunch might get burned. A kid is going to fall down and hit their head and cry. Let’s agree to not react about it just because it’s Christmas and everything is supposed to be perfect. Let’s stay calm, let’s be ready for it, and let’s just let it go.”

But this year, it started too early for me to be prepared to prepare him.

At the end of November, we were setting out to see the Festival of Lights. There is nothing my husband appreciates more than a good Christmas lights show, and this was the first year of the first drive-through lights in Birmingham – an event indeed.

We all bundled up (for we heard there were fun activities afterward), and we began to head down the stairs to the car.

“Load up, kids! We’re on our way!”

As we descended the stairs to the garage, we all sang a rousing family chorus.

“Happy holidays!”

“Happy HOLidays!”

“Happy Holidays!”

“Happy HOLidays!”

“And the merry bells keep ringing, Happy Holidays….”

“TOOOOOOOOO YOUUUUUUU.”

The kids and I arrived to the garage first, and I began putting my camera and various accessories in the front seat. I half listened to the children as I worked.

”I wanna get in on your side, Ali!”

“No, go get in on your side!”

Slam

SCRRRRRREEEEEAAAAAM

It took me one second to realize what happened, and two seconds to open the car door in order to be able to REMOVE MY SON’S THUMB FROM IT.

Yes. It was his first finger slam, and it was actually lodged in the door.

In moments of panic, I somehow become completely calm. I picked him up and hugged him, going outside into the dark to allow his screams more air for reverberation.

I tried to calm the situation before Chris-Clark came down and realized that his Christmas Moment had been smashed in the car door, because then he’d need a Santa to kick across the lawn and we just didn’t have one available at that moment.

…but it didn’t take long.

So now I had Noah freaking out, Chris freaking out, Ali crying because she felt terrible (she is, after all, an eternally cautious child), and all I wanted to do was STOP ALL THE NOISE.

I walked Noah inside so I could sit down, which is when I realized it was worse than I thought: his entire thumbnail was filled with blood and seeping slowly outward.

(You’re welcome for not sharing a photo here.)

I sent Chris upstairs for paper towels and a band-aid, trying to get rid of him for a moment.

Which is when I heard a loud crash above my head.

Way too many minutes later, he came back down with a band-aid.

“There were no paper towels. Now I need to go back upstairs and clean up the garbage. And by the way, was that chocolate syrup in the trash can??”

“No. Really watery finger paints all mixed together. So you kicked over the trash can because there were no paper towels?”

“Well, of course!”

I tried to think of another errand to send him to afterward – Tylenol! We need Tylenol.

Finally, everyone was moderately calmed down, and we set off on our journey. But Noah’s screams of pain every two minutes mingling in with the Christmas music that I kept turning up louder and louder was later described by Chris as adding dog poo to brownies, so I guess the music might have not been the best idea.

We arrived at the light show and it was exactly the distraction that our family needed.

Noah adored every minute of it and nearly forgot about his thumb, especially as the synchronized snowman frantically lit up to “Let it Go.”

But it didn’t take him long to remember.

“It feels like something’s bonkin’ my fumb over and over.”

“That’s called throbbing.”

“Frobbing?? What’s THAT?”

“What your thumb’s doing.”

After the light show, we went to the kid area, where we were greeted by Olaf, Mickey, and many more characters.

To each one, Noah stuck his throbbing thumb in their face and said, “Ali smashed my fumb in the door. See?”

(Don’t miss Chris/Clark behind the nose-picking kid. Obviously still attempting to recover his shorn Christmas Magic. I bet it really helped to occasionally get holiday boogers flicked in his face.)

Noah was far too grumpy to actually get his picture taken with these creatures, but he sure wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to let his injured hand photobomb his sister’s shining moment.

We loaded back in the car and Noah casually stated,

“Ali, you don’t like me anymore cause look.”, then stuck his thumb in her face.

A few minutes later, “Why did you slam my fumb in the door, Ali?”

For nearly four years old, he’s acing a College-Level Advanced Guilt Trip Exam.

Several weeks later, the thumbnail has let go, although Noah has yet to do so himself.

He still shows his now naked thumb to everyone he meets, explaining, “Ali slammed my fumb in the car door.”

And, he often adds a fashion statement – or perhaps a layer of protection – for the rest of his digits.

And Chris? Chris is manically finding other holiday activities for us to do, trying desperately to wash the memories of Christmas Ground Zero from his mind.

And every time we head down to get in the car, he reminds us all.

“Don’t slam anyone in the door!”

How to Properly Dress Your Children for the Holidays.

December 16, 2014December 15, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

It was a bit of a last minute decision. Chris came home from work and was like, “Hey! Let’s go to the mall tonight and soak up some Christmas atmosphere. And see Santa if the line isn’t too long!”

So I did what any sane mother would do.

I hurriedly redressed my children, changing them out of their mismatched, stained, and non-Christmas colored clothing and put them in shades of Christmas.

Because that’s what you do when you go see Santa.

Right?

I never go all crazy and dress them in matching Christmas pajamas or a custom-smocked dress and john-john or anything. I just do my best to find the cleanest Christmas colored item of clothing they have. I don’t try to compete with all the other moms (that clearly plan the outfits six months in advance and have their visiting Santa clothes commissioned by a garment artist) – I just try to blend into the crowd, something I feel like we’ve achieved the last two years.

But.

As we were walking out the door, Ali realized she had a hole in her pants, so she stuck on some pink-and-purple leggings that decisively didn’t match her dress.

And then.

As we got closer even to the door, Noah decided that he needed to accessorize, and added his sheep ears from his Christmas play the night before.

Oh but wait.

Then Ali needed a corresponding headpiece and grabbed her Princess Unikitty hat to complete her outfit.

Finally, everyone was satisfied with their looks and we departed for the mall – the “Little Mall”, as my kids call it – the boutique one strategically placed in and around the most wealthy zip codes in the state. Only because we knew the lines would be more manageable.

The line was short, but the children in it were perfectly outfitted in lace and smock and ruffles and feathers and coordinating tights, looking ready to model for an article in the Southern Belle Magazine Christmas Edition called How to Properly Dress Your Children for the Holidays.

Except for my children, who felt that my only wish,

that they “blend in”,

was really quite out of the question.

Yes – even Noah’s shoes were on the wrong feet.

That look on Santa’s face was not posed – I think, perhaps, that they were the most interesting creatures that he had seen all day.

They walked up and he couldn’t contain his emotions.

“What is that on your head??”

“He’s got sheep ears.”

“Oh. Well what about your head?! Are you a Unicorn?”

“No. I’m a UniKITTY.”

“Of course.”

Meanwhile, the Veruca Salts that had gone before us that were now walking away with their parents were craning their necks to see these two oddities who had obviously been allowed to dress themselves.

Their parents tugged them onward, whispering hushed “don’t look at that”s as they walked.

My kids, despite their appearances, were not unprepared for the night’s events. They had lists ready to test Santa’s ability to decrypt seven-year-old handwriting and descriptions of toys that only a parent could understand. Noah sat, ready to judge harshly any Santa that couldn’t perform.

Noah forgot his list, making the conversation even more fun.

“And what do you want, Sheep Ears?”

“I want a cranky!”

“You want a car key?”

“No!! A cranky!”

“You want…candy?”

“NO! I WANT A CRANKY!!”

“Okay then. I will get you that.”

I didn’t feel it necessary to take a moment and explain to him that a Cranky refers to anything with a crane or boom or lift because of Cranky the Crane in Thomas the Train.

He’s Santa. He can figure it out.

As they were finishing up their overviews with Santa, the photographer snapped one more picture.

I think she felt the need to fully capture the Cousin Eddie-esque presentation of my children. It was like it was her own personal game or something. And I certainly couldn’t blame her.

She pointed it out to me on the screen and said, “This is the one you need to keep to use as blackmail when she gets into high school.”

If you can’t pick your nose with Santa, then really, who can you?

What’s That Sound, Volume Five

December 15, 2014December 15, 2014 Rachel Callahan Toddlers: The Experience, What's That Sound

Preschool has been a treasure trove of puzzling stories and observations from Noah. Since his godmother is his teacher, it’s been an unspoken agreement that I will text her Noah’s version of the events of the day, and then she texts me back with what actually happened.

Disclaimer: Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Or not so innocent.

As Noah is an introvert, he is usually silent when I pick him up, and the stories start trickling out as the day goes on. But one day he was bursting to tell me this story, and started it before I even had him buckled in.

“There was something that looked like POOP in the middle of the floor!”
“What? What was it?”
“It was poop. Joe did it.”
“HOW did Joe POOP in the middle of the floor?!”
“He just did.”
“Did anyone see him?”
“No. He pooped in the middle of the floor though. No – wait. Miss Janey said it wasn’t poop. She said it was mud from the bottom of someone’s shoe.”

I really appreciated his storytelling cadence. He controlled the narrative to allow me to feel the moment alongside him – to experience the emotions of what he and his classmates must have felt while observing what they were sure was poop in their classroom.

Upon relaying this story to Miss Janey and asking how “Joe” managed to get blamed for it, she said that it was indeed mud, but that Joe had just come out of the classroom bathroom and announced that he had pooped.

I’m sure the smell wafting through really helped the storyline along.

This same “Joe” also seems to be good at telling fantastic stories. Last week, this was the report:

“I played with my favorite friend today, Joe.”
“Yeah? What did y’all talk about?”
“About the time he got run over by a train.”
“How exactly did he manage to do that?”
“He was standing on a train track.”
“I think he would be dead if that happened…”
“Nope. He didn’t get deaded and he didn’t even cry! He’s so brave.”

They have many classroom sayings that they repeat back and forth. I’ve learned a lot from these.

“GOODNESS GRACIOUS gray balls of fire!!”
”Um. Do you mean great balls of fire?”
”Pah! No!! Why would there be great balls of fire? It’s GRAY balls of fire.”

Another day, Noah explained,

“Miss Janey says ‘Ready to rock?’, and we have to answer, ‘Ready to roll!’”
”Where do you rock and roll to?”
”Well, hmm…..I rock in the rocking chair and roll in the car.”

We got home late for nap one day, and Noah said,

“I’m too tired to walk. I need you to carry me!”
”My hands are completely full. I can’t!”
”I guess I’ll have to lay down on my own shoulder, then.”

It almost worked.

Random deep thoughts by Noah.…

“I put it somewhere you will NEVER find it!!! In my room. Underneaf my bed.”

“I’m like a construction worker because construction workers has pants.”

“If I burp, that doesn’t mean I’m sick. That just means I’m excused.”

“I used to be a grownup but how I became a baby is that I got squooshed. I don’t remember what it was like to be a grownup.”

One day, I was trying to convey great truths to Noah.
”God made you special. Did you know that?”
”I don’t want to be special – I want to be cool. God made me just…cool. Race cars are cool.”

A neighbor we’d never met was walking by our house one day. He stopped to talk, and after a few minutes, he turned to Noah and said, “How old are you?”

Noah answered forlornly, “Not old enough for bubblegum….”

Cynical and cryptic. It runs in the family.

For the record, I’d allowed him to try bubblegum a few days before. It went like this.

“Okay. You can try this. But don’t swallow it.”
”Okay Mommy!”
Two seconds later, it was gone.
”Did you swallow your gum?”
”No!”
”Well where is it?”
”In my tummy.”
”So you swallowed it.”
”I DIDN’T SWALLOW IT! I bited it.”
”Did it go down your throat?”
”No! It went in my teeth.”

After about four rounds of this, I told him “I don’t think you’re old enough for bubblegum yet.”

And ever since, that statement has defined his existence.

From the backseat, Noah had a brilliant idea.

“If you died when it was dark then Daddy wouldn’t have to go to work the next day! That’s a good plan.”

Finally, a couple of deep thoughts from Ali…

“Noah’s more of a silly than a jokester because most of his jokes are just yelling ‘poopy’.”

“I really love the new superpower I’ve discovered that I possess. I can see through the windows of cars and look at the people inside!”

“Do you think that reading the words on grave stones would give me ideas for my Christmas List?”

Ali: “We’re going to the mall!”

Noah: “Is it like a store?”

Ali: “No – it’s the Store of Stores – just like the King of Kings!”

The Stages of FaceTune Guilt.

December 11, 2014December 11, 2014 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., It's Tough Being a Girl

A few weeks ago, I discovered this amazing new app. I actually think Apple tempted me with it. Somehow they suggested it to me – I don’t remember where, but I do clearly remember the wording.

“Wondering how all your friend’s selfies are so amazing? This is what they’re using.”

I was intrigued, because all of my selfies make my face look like the landscape of mars, and the size of it too.

I downloaded the app, FaceTune, and was immediately overwhelmed by the auto-loading tutorials. They were intense. There was a LOT going on here.

But I slowly started playing with one setting at a time….

And there began my downward spiral into tuning my face.

It didn’t help at all that we had family photos the next week, and I suddenly had hundreds of pictures with which to tinker.

I mean sure, I played with the kid’s eyes to make them brighter and less shadowy, but this app was really about me, not them. Their skin hasn’t yet been ruined by the ravages of sun and lack of sleep and poor skincare like mine has.

And so I played. I smoothed out my skin, erasing wrinkles and sun spots and crater-pores. I was amazed!! If only I had airbrush makeup (or a skin transplant), I could look like this every day!

Then I erased under-eye shadows. Surely they’re just because I’m terrible at putting on mascara – it’s not what I really look like. I am just erasing my own mistakes – that’s all!

It was so easy! Just a swipe of my finger here and there…

But FaceTune is a lot like Plastic Surgery.

A little is great.

But the longer you play, the more likely you are to turn yourself into something grotesque.

I mean sure, I don’t have any wrinkles, but my face nearly lost all natural contours in the process. Magic always has a price.

And then there was this edit.

Yes, my skin looks like it could be in a beauty pageant. But I also look like an American Girl Doll replica of myself. She ain’t real.

Despite my slight misgivings about my somewhat deceptive editing, I posted two of the photos as my new profile pictures on all of my social media accounts:

And the comments began.

“You look so young!”

“I swear you’re aging backwards!”

“You look fifteen!”

“Is your hair blue?”

Aside from the last one, each pricked my conscience a little more forcefully.

I mean sure, I’ve always edited my photos (who doesn’t?), but FaceTune gave me a level of control the likes of which I’d never wielded before. And with much power comes much…facial contortion.

And so began my downward spiral of angst and conflicting emotions.

1. I should admit that objects in this photo are not as young as they appear.

2. They don’t even look like me. I mean, those photos were taken when I looked my best, so there is no way I could ever achieve the post-edit skin tone on my own.

3. But it could! If I were better at makeup! Or had my own professional airbrush cosmetics studio!

4. Okay not really .This is what I would look like if I had a proper skin care regimen AND started it twenty years ago. And maybe wasn’t prone to freckling.

5. But I could be this person if I lived entirely on the internet. Oh – I wonder if I could do that?! Then I could have all the perfect skin tone I wanted….

6. I NEED NEW MAKEUP!!

7. Oh dang. There’s another comment. I need to admit my trespasses. I have to. I’m losing all credibility. The only way to regain it is to post a no-makeup selfie.

Or not.

8. But if the photo were overexposed, my skin would look that good, too! Cameras always lie – everyone knows that!

9. And anyway. I bet all the people on the internet with perfect skin are just FaceTuned. That’s what Apple told me, didn’t they?!

10. MAKEUP. I MUST GET NEW MAKEUP.

11. Argh. The photographer just liked my photo on Facebook. He’s probably judging me for smoothing myself. HE knows what I really looked like. HE knows I’m lying through my wrinkles.

12. I wonder how you can shrink pores as big as mine?

13. FaceTune. Oh, FaceTune. Why can’t you transform my skin like you lie about my photograph? Why can’t you be a real boy?

14. If God didn’t want me to be able to smooth my skin on the internet then He wouldn’t have created FaceTune. So there.

…But He could’ve cut out the middle man and just given me flawless skin to start with…

15. Guilt. Nothing but guilt. (But not quite enough to change my profile picture.)

FaceTune should have been called Pandora’s Face. That’s all there is to it.

Things In Which You Shouldn’t Run.

December 9, 2014December 9, 2014 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, HauteLook, It's Tough Being a Girl, Running, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend, Weird Strange and True

Okay.

So I wear leggings as pants.

Clearly, that came as a terrible shock to many of you – at least based on the comments, the Facebook conversations, and the in-real-life justifications I’ve had to offer since making my grand admission.

So, in an effort to regain your confidence, I’d like to present you with a few “At least I don’t wear these” items, compliments of HauteLook and Target.

(I realize that I’m simply yet again setting myself up for later recants, but surely not. Surely. Not.)

I may be wearing athletic leggings as pants now, but at least I don’t wear these.

“When leggings as pants aren’t edgy enough for you anymore, try hose as pants wrapped in brightly colored Ace Bandages!”

I cannot help but wonder the state of the crotch. Are we talking mummy-in-a-diaper or celebrity peek-a-boo?

If you prefer to mix and match your hosiery and metallic Lycra, there’s this variety:

* Note: anyone without thigh gap, which includes me and 99% of the world, will get exactly one wear out of these pants before getting a run in that frighteningly thin seam.

If you prefer to look like the Tin Man halfway through the shredder rather than C-3PO, they have you covered as well.

However. Any and all leggings ever made are better than a dropped-crotch pant.

Especially a dropped-crotch sweat pant. With heeled boots.

Because nothing says “I wear granny panties and Depends and maybe Pampers too” like a crotch that intentionally comes down to your knees.

Speaking of Granny Panties.

Can anyone explain to me why you want Granny in the front, party in the back?

No.

If you’re going to wear a thong, wear a thong. If you’re going to cover the bottom half of your rib cage with your underwear, cover the bottom half of your rib cage with your underwear. You can’t have it all.

But let’s talk about what we’ve come here to talk about: What not to wear when running.

1. Don’t wear a sports bra that looks like it may have been hired to strangle you.

2. Or a sports bra that looks like it just finished touring with Lady Gaga.

3. In general, don’t give your boobs the opportunity to jump out the top of your top. It’s not good for aerodynamics.

4. Don’t wear pants that were upcycled from your fifth grade class photo backdrop.

Because no one needs flashbacks of their pimply tween face when they see your butt.

5. Don’t wear “pants” that look like you just escaped from a cult.

Because then everyone will assume you’re running from a bearded long-haired dude with 15 wives and 167 children, and you’ll be slowed down by dozens of offers to help.

6. Running skirts are weird. And they’re weirder still if printed with a 3-D Magic Eye poster from 1992.

After all, you don’t want to make other runners go cross-eyed trying to see your secret message. Unless you’re in a race. Then by all means make the other contestants trip.

7. Shoulder Peek-A-Boo is not meant for running. We’re running, ladies, not clubbing in Miami.

8. Unless you’re thighless, Dr.-Seuss-colored vertical stripes and spandex aren’t usually a good mix.

And most importantly,

9. Do not. I say DO NOT. Run. In a Thong.

I don’t care if it claims to be a performance thong.

So what if it says it wicks moisture. Exactly where do you think it’s going to send it?!

And you think your shoes rubbing your feet can cause chafing…you do not want chafing in the places a thong can travel.

And after a marathon, no amount of laundry detergent could make that thing sterile again. Assuming it doesn’t pop and smack you in the face on mile 22.

Let’s all just agree that VPL is okay when running – because the alternatives are deadly.