And the Final Holiday Tradition: We're Glad It's Over!

Christmas was a success. I mean, if you can measure it by the level of tired I feel today, I'm assuming it was a huge success!

Zoey went to sleep early on Christmas Eve after being reminded that Santa never visits the homes of children who stay awake. Kind of made me wish I could throw down the Santa card more often. Anyway, she was fascinated by the concept of leaving cookies and milk on the fireplace for Santa...little did she know, shortly after she crashed for the night, the cats are the ones who made quick work of the snacks, not Santa.

Christmas morning, Zoey gave us the gift of sleeping in--all the way until 8 a.m. She then made a beeline for the cookies-and-milk plate, bypassing her gifts and stuffed stocking sitting right next to the fireplace. After jumping up and down for joy because "Santa ate his yunch!" (lunch), she finally noticed the special presents left out for her: a changing table and new stroller for her baby dolls (complete with newborn size diapers), AND a teddy bear. She made quick work of diapering every doll in sight and had to be reminded that she had other gifts to open.

The Big Family Christmas was held at our house this year, and after a quick clean-up and plenty of food prep, my extended family and Bryan's family all arrived with loads of presents and food. I had a brief moment of panic when my turkey timer popped out at 3:20 p.m.--I had planned dinner for around 4:00 but at no point in my family's history have we ACTUALLY EATEN AT THE PLANNED TIME, so I was completely unprepared for a meal at my house to be on the table on time. Luckily, my sister's vegetarian lasagna still had to cook, and we realized that Justin and Angela had forgotten to bring the card tables and chairs...when all was said and done, I think it was close to 5 p.m. when we sat down to eat. Thank God...as if I want to be the one setting the precedent for eating on time...

Gifts came shortly after dinner and I think Zoey is now the proud owner of at least a dozen new puzzles. (Which Mommy is grateful for, as the same old puzzle over and over again sounds about as appealing as the same book read over and over again.) Uncle Justin, who clearly doesn't understand what the average trip to the Urgent Care Clinic costs, bought Zoey a pop gun...fabulous. A new piggy bank from Oma and Grandpa Paul (huge hit), new jammies from Auntie Yissa (Alisa), tons of fun new books (the Lemony Snicket books from Auntie Abby and Uncle Tom look hilarious, and probably more fun for Mommy to read than Zoey), and on and on....

...Santa didn't bring me a wife, by the way, but my mother-in-law and her husband DID get us a Roomba, which is pretty close. Mom and Paul got us a nifty waffle iron, so if I could just track down a machine that plays endless hours of "doctor" and "diaper change" with a preschooler, I think I'd be set. Maybe next year.

So, the holidays were fun. Watching Zoey take in the magic of Christmas was the highlight of the year. But seriously, I'm glad Christmas is over...because I need a nap.

Best of luck to you!

Oma and Grandpa Paul have taken my child, and my niece and nephew, FOR THE WHOLE WEEKEND.

Because they are crazy.

Earlier in the week, my mom emailed and asked my sister and I to please send some tips on what the kids needed for the weekend, i.e. routines, favorite snacks, special needs, etc. I emailed her the following:

Mom, here is what you'll need for a weekend spent with my daughter:

1. Ice packs, band-aids, something useful for splinting limbs, and possibly a suture kit.

2. A copy of our insurance card, a medical release form, and a mapped out route to the nearest urgent care facility. BECAUSE ONCE I DROP HER OFF, I'M NOT COMING BACK.

3. Plenty of hot milk, the patience of Job, and a readily available time-out chair.

I don't know if that's what she had in mind, but I've received no phone calls so far, and we're nearly seven hours in to the Weekend Adventure at Oma's. And yes, I dropped Zoey off sporting a black eye (football injury) and a nearly-healed split lip (playground incident). And yes, I was the only one who left a copy of the insurance card. Just in case.

Tomorrow Bryan and I are going to Seattle to watch the Seahawks game, stay in a hotel, enjoy some uninterrupted sleep, and celebrate being married for five years.

I love you Bryan!

(And Oma and Grandpa Paul? I REALLY love you.)

The difference between moms and dads

Exhibit A:

My sister, Alisa, brought her four-year-old son Finley to Zoey's Christmas program several weeks ago. Zoey was overjoyed to have her cousin watching from the audience...and Finley looked dashing in his Christmas best, argyle sweater and all.

Exhibit B:

Finley's Christmas Sing-A-Long was yesterday, and though I was working, I encouraged Bryan to take Zoey over to his preschool to watch. Because he loves me dearly and knows my caffeine levels take dangerous dives early in the afternoon, Bryan stopped by work on his way to the program to bring me a Diet Coke. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Hi guys!! You brought me caffeine...yay!

Zoey: Yeah! Daddy said you needed Diet Coke!

Me: (taking in Zoey's ratty pink sweatpants) Thank you SO much... (upon closer inspection) hey, is that Zoey's pajama top?

Bryan: Yeah. She didn't want to take it off this morning.

Me: But...aren't you on your way to the program?

Bryan: Uh-huh.

*Pause*

Bryan: But we're totally going home to change Zoey's clothes first.

Of course you are.

You're taking her out in public wearing THAT?!?

Holiday Tradition #10: Giving back

So, it's the year of no disposable income. I think that's been fairly well established here. But I have on my hands a three-year-old who is just starting to revel in the Christmas spirit, and Target happened to be having a mad sale on board games the weekend of Thanksgiving, so I really wanted to buy at least a toy or two to donate to charity.

Normally, I'm all over taking a tag from the Giving Tree at the YMCA or the mall or helping to adopt a family through work, but this year...not so much in the budget. However, I DO think it's important to teach Zoey that, while we may not have tons and tons of toys under our tree, we still have a LOT more than some kids. This concept went completely over her head, as is evidenced by the following conversation. But that's okay...we'll try again next year.

Zoey: Mommy? What's this game?

Me: Oh, that's the one we're going to take to the store today to donate to someone who needs it.

Zoey: I need it. I want it. Can we open it?

Me: No, kiddo, we're going to give it to a kid who doesn't have many toys to play with. (*Long conversation ensues regarding how lucky Zoey is to have all her toys, and how some kids don't have ANY toys to play with, these are the kids we need to think of at Christmas time, etc etc etc...)

Zoey: (eyes glassing over) Can I go to their house?

Me: What? Who's house?

Zoey: The kids. The kids who don't have toys--can I go to their house and play the game with them?

So, we dropped off two board games in the Toys for Tots bin at McLendons Hardware. And, like I said...maybe next year she'll get it.

Holiday Tradtion #9: Preschool Christmas Program

I know you can't make anything out in this photo, but trust me when I tell you that MY child is up on that stage, preparing to sing (and hand-motion) her little heart out at her Christmas Program last week.

One thing I love about having Zoey in the Cascade Christian daycare program is that they still have "Christmas Programs", not "Winter Festivals" or "Holiday Sing-A-Longs"...it's Christmas all the way, with Jesus and all things religious being the center of what they're about. While Bryan and I are not terribly religious, we were both raised going to church and we both attended Cascade Christian preschools as well...in fact, Zoey's program the other night was in the same gym I used to sing in, what, 27 years ago? Anyway, the director of Zoey's daycare is a boisterous, cheerful woman who gets onstage at every program with a level of enthusiasm I can only envy from afar, to encourage us to 'PRAISE Jesus because our children are SUCH blessings and tonight you are going to be SO blessed by what your children have been preparing so hard to perform for you!' And then she inevitably introduces her assistant, Ms. Heather, who always looks exhausted and frazzled and kind of like 'aiy, this woman, I love her, but she told me two weeks ago about putting together a Christmas program!' Ms. Heather is the woman who gets it all done, you can tell, as she walks around behind the director picking up things that have fallen, been knocked over, or left in a state of disaster in the wake of such enthusiasm. It's always entertaining to watch.

But more on the program. Zoey's class was the first to perform two songs--Go Tell it on the Mountain, and Ring Those Bells. They filed in to the gym with jingle-bell wristbands and looks of total amazement on their faces. This was the make-it-or-break-it moment, when you could tell they were all either going to fall apart or totally ham it up for the entire assembled audience. Luckily, most of them began spotting their parents in the crowd, and there was plenty of jingle bell waving and shouts of 'Hi Mommy!' 'Hi Daddy!' Now, we've been listening to Zoey practice her songs for months now, and she wasn't about to disappoint, especially on her favorite song, Go Tell it on the Mountain. The girl had every word and hand motion memorized, although her lyrics deviated slightly from those I remember from childhood. For example, instead of "Go, tell it on the mountain, that Jesus Christ is born", Zoey prefers "Go, tell it on the mountain, that Jesus Christ is four". I hear that four is the new thirty.

I picked Zoey up in her classroom after the program and told Ms. Nicole how impressed I was that all the kids seemed so in to singing their songs, and she told me she was happy, too, because last year her class got up on stage and not one child sang one word of one song. This year, apparently, she got a class full of performers.

Christmas programs are by far one of my favorite holiday traditions!

Holiday Tradition #8: Christmas cards

Here is where I sat this afternoon while my child was clearly not napping in the room next door--at my desk, working on the Christmas Tradition I Love to Hate, or, the prepping before mailing of Christmas letters.

Holiday letters, in my opinion, are for sending to nearly everyone in your address book, regardless of whether you have talked to them in the past year or not. Or the past five years. Like the guy who married us five years ago and his wife, whom we have not seen in, well, five years. Every year, this means that my fat pack of 100 holiday photo cards is always waiting for me at the Costco photo center in late November, despite the fact that no matter how lofty my goals, they will not be mailed until a week and a half before Christmas. Because honestly, going through your address book annually requires a lot of fact checking and always makes me wish I could hire a personal assistant...let's see, Aunt Louise passed away in July, and did Bryan's cousin Dawn move this year, or was it last? Anyway, you can see the amount of work involved, not to mention the hand cramping and OH MY GOD, do you have any idea what a postage stamp costs these days??

I know, I know. *whiner*

Anyway, address-research and carpal tunnel aside, I always enjoy sitting down to write the annual Christmas letter, although I'll admit, I'm struggling a bit with it this year. I'm never one to go the 'let me present to you my perfect life' letter, as in something way too perky with too many exclamation points and statements like 'our daughter is just perfect! a little princess! never has temper tantrums and she potty trained in two days, can you even believe it?!' that make you want to stick a fork down your throat. Of course, there's always the opposite approach, the one where you touch on every misfortune ever graced on you and leave people questioning humanity in the wake of this festive season. But we all know that's what I have this blog for, so don't worry about wanting to drink excessively or anything when my letter arrives in your mailbox, okay?

Some years it's harder than others to hit that happy medium, and this happens to be one of them. And since giving up the binky appears to be the catalyst for my child also shaking that pesky afternoon-nap-habit, I will be finishing the work sitting on that desk sometime in mid-January and oh, my Grandma will be disappointed.

Sleepless in Puyallup

Scene: our bed, 5 a.m.

Zoey: (whispering at the side of the bed) Mommy? Mommy?

Me: Mmmpff. What, sweetie?

Zoey: Mommy, I want to be two again. I don't want to be fwee (three).

Me: What? Why?

Zoey: Because. I just don't want to be fwee. I'm only two.

Me: No, Zoey, you're three. Do you want to get in bed with me?

Zoey: Yes...but I'm just two. (Snuggling in next to me.)

Me: Why don't you want to be three? Three means fun things! Like...like...singing in your Christmas program! And...getting your own library card! (I have no idea if this is true or not. But it sounded good, and grown-up, and better than 'you can start drinking coffee!' while in the moment.)

Zoey: I don't want to be fwee. I just want my binky back.

Saddest. Thing. Ever.

Last night, while she DID manage to nod off without aid of sucking on her fingers, she still was awake until almost 11 p.m. Which pretty much guarantees she'll be in a stellar mood all day today, especially for her three-year check up, which she has suddenly decided she wants no part of.

*sigh*

Do braces really cost that much? Does anybody know?

Grieving the loss of the binky

Sobbing.

Calls of "I just want my binky!"

Sadness, tears, etc.

All of the above can be heard from my daughter's bedroom right now. I'm letting Bryan field this particular episode, but if nap time was just a preview of what our night is about to be like, I'm moving out.

'B' Day

Today, B stands for binkies and birthdays. And baby dolls.

To say that I am regretting the decision to take Zoey to Toys R Us on her birthday and let her "buy" a new baby doll with her binkie would be something like the biggest understatement of our year so far.

Want to know what time I put her down for her nap today? 12:30 p.m. Want to know what time it is now? 2 p.m. Want to guess who has been in her room for the past hour and a half, alternately hiccup-sobbing and sucking desperately on two fingers from her left hand?

I'll start at the beginning.

This morning started off famously--Zoey was up early, happy to be the Birthday Girl, and even happier to open the presents that have been waiting for her for several days. (Thank you to everyone who sent gifts despite the canceled party!) My Grandma came over, we met Alisa and her kids for donuts, and then it was off to Toys R Us...Zoey getting one last final moment with her binkie in the back seat, all the way to Tacoma.

She was having no part of giving up the bink until we actually hit the inside of the toy store. And once we found the Promised Land of baby doll aisle, she was all for giving up anything, if it meant picking a new doll. Ushering her quickly past the Baby Alive section (boasting a horrid array of dolls with creepy eyes and disgustingly real dirty diapers), we started scanning for a new member of our family made entirely of plastic. Because, in my daughter's eyes, taking that doll in the bath tub with her was going to be the pinnacle of her existence. And then...we saw her. With packaging printed entirely in Spanish, she was the holy grail of baby dolls (if you happen to be Zoey): plastic, complete with her own small bath tub and bottle, sporting her very own runny nose (because on the scale of dolls-with-gross-bodily-fluids, this was at the bottom of the spectrum), and--AND--a nurse's cap, glasses, and syringe, for all those occasions that warrant taking your baby to the doctor's office in the 1940's when nurses actually wore caps. And glasses, apparently.

Spanish baby also carried a price tag of $39.99.

But Zoey was hooked, so this was the baby we chose to go home with. And my daughter, God love her, marched proudly up to the counter where, after scoping the scene for the kindliest cashier I could see, she placed her binkie in a plastic bag and turned it over. Just like that.

She was rewarded with a Geoffery balloon and paper crown, while I was busy being swindled in to buying nine dollars worth of AA batteries. (Because the doll talks, did I mention that? Isn't that neat?) And we were off.

And I am not lying when I tell you it took nearly 10 minutes of cutting, sawing, cursing and pulling to release that freaking doll from the evil clutches of plastic-and-wire packaging.

Zoey was totally thrilled with her new baby for approximately 20 minutes. Then it was time to choose a birthday lunch: Cheerios and peas, because she's weird like that. After lunch, she announced she was ready for bed, although now that we're two hours in to the process of getting her to sleep, I'm wondering if she was just hoping her binkie would be lying there in bed waiting for her the minute she crawled in for a nap.

So, it's looking like the trauma of giving up the binkie is going to be every bit as awful as I had imagined, possibly resulting, in the end, with a finger-sucking habit.

And you can't turn your fingers in for a new baby doll. Or so I hear.

Because the right color animal cookie is KEY.

It is 10:24 p.m. on a Sunday night. I just returned from driving to three different stores to find pink and white Circus Animal Cookies for Zoey to take to school tomorrow as her birthday treat. After striking out completely at the first Safeway, running to Albertsons and thinking I had scored with the Holiday edition cookies (no pink to be found, but look Zoey, red and green sprinkles!), only to be met with a disgruntled 3-year-old insisting "NO, Mommy, I want pink!", and not having the heart to argue with said 3-year-old who missed her birthday party this weekend, I finally hit the jackpot at Safeway #2.

She will be hearing about this later on in life.

As in, "I labored for 17 hours before giving birth to you, and on your third birthday drove to three separate grocery stores in 29 degree weather to find precisely the right animal cookies for you to take to preschool".

But at least she's on the mend!

Holiday Tradition #7: Cookies

How many of my Holiday Tradition stories so far have started out with "My Grandma...." Well, here's another one.

Grandma is known for her Christmas cookies. Dozens and dozens and dozens of them, every single year. Everyone has a favorite, and every year, shortly after Thanksgiving, Grandma sets out to bake everybody's favorite cookie. And because we have something ridiculous like 29 relatives living nearby and clamoring for peanut blossoms and wreaths and chocolate mint cookies and (my personal favorite, which I hog from the cookie platter every year) spritz, she's kept busy with the baking right up until December 25.

Now, I can bake a mean cookie if I do say so myself. But, with the exception of the Holiday Season of 2006, in which I was nesting and very close to giving birth to my lovely daughter and so I baked somewhere in the vicinity of 14 different kinds of cookies, some of which have no ties to the Christmas holiday at all, and made it so nothing besides cookies could fit in our freezer for weeks afterward, I don't usually come close to the sheer volume of baked goods that my 72-year-old Grandma can generate each and every year. (One of my favorite memories of late November 2006 is waddling through Barnes and Noble with my sister Abby, who found me in the cookbook aisle yet again, perusing Martha Stewart's Christmas Cookie Collection. Abby staged her own version of a one-man Intervention and basically told me that if she wasn't able to start storing her soy products in the freezer any time soon, she'd be moving out and wouldn't I be in a world of hurt then? Who was going to roll me down the street to Dairy Queen, huh? QUIT WITH THE COOKIE BAKING ALREADY.)

This year, I have partnered with the matriarch of the family and Abby will be thrilled to hear that my house is quickly becoming Cookie Central once again.

Grandma dropped off her cookie sheets and a tub of chocolate cookie batter yesterday, which I wasted no time turning in to a batch of yummy chocolate mint cookies. And, you guys? I am not joking when I tell you that I made the best batch of spritz cookies I've ever tasted this morning. Seriously, I think it might be the cookie sheets...like some type of 1960's Teflon-coated magic. The trick--and I'm beginning to wonder why this tidbit of knowledge has been withheld from me for all these many years--is to keep your cookie sheets in the fridge between batches of the yummy little butter cookies, so the butter doesn't begin to melt before hitting the oven. They melt in your mouth and totally make all the work that goes in to cleaning the f***ing cookie press afterward worth it. Serious.

Grandma, I'll be returning your cookie sheets sometime in January.

Maybe.

Holiday Tradition #6: A visit from St. Nick...or, our cousin Nick.

New tradition in our house!

Yesterday, I was trying to think of ways to cheer Zoey up for having to miss her birthday party (and, I'll admit, some way to cheer myself up too--everybody was feeling a little bummed around here) so I decided we'd celebrate St. Nick Day a little early.

I explained (or, rather, TRIED to explain) the concept to Zoey: you leave your shoe out tonight, and St. Nick will come fill it with goodies while you're sleeping--kind of like a Santa Claus warm-up. This quickly led to confusion, as she assumed our cousin Nick would be dropping by sometime in the middle of the night to leave her a present. I clarified, several times, the difference between St. Nick and Cousin Nick. Totally over her head. But she was excited about the overall idea.

So, shortly after 7:00 this morning, Zoey was thrilled to find that my Aunt Cindy's 17-year-old son had snuck in late last night to leave her a Dora DVD, a Snoopy ornament, and some blue jelly beans.

Thanks, Nick!

Couldn't you just get H1N1 like everyone else?

I'll interrupt my festive holiday posting to update you on why Zoey's birthday party has been canceled:

Last night, right around 2 a.m., Zoey shows up in our bed hotter than hell and telling me 'everything hurts!' No good. A little Motrin and a few hours later, she and I both drift off to sleep. Luckily, I was scheduled to have the day off, you know--TO GET READY FOR HER PARTY. And to help with my mother-in-law's surprise 60th birthday party, which Zoey and I should be attending...right about now.

So, I'm no dummy. It's taken me roughly nine months of living back in Puyallup to figure out that if I want Zoey to have an appointment with her pediatrician, and not the janitor who will charge me $100 to tell me she has nothing wrong with her, I had better get the office on speed dial at precisely 8 a.m. SHARP. I am quite sure I was the first phone call answered by the receptionist today. I explained what was wrong and was rewarded with a coveted spot on Dr. Grubb's schedule at 10:15.

Of course, at this point, Zoey is walking and talking like nothing much is wrong. In fact, she looks pretty darn smug that she's fenagled an extra day at home with Mommy, instead of going to daycare. I retreated to the shower to begin the debate in my head...do I take her in? Keep her home? Cancel the party? Load her up on Tylenol and have everyone come anyway? How in the name of God can someone charge you $100 when nothing is wrong with your child? Why did I choose the insurance plan with such a high deductible?

We kept the appointment, if for no other reason than I totally trust Dr. Grubb and if he told me she was completely fine, at least I would believe him. And I knew he would spend a good 15 to 20 minutes in the room with us before charging us an arm and a leg and sending us on our way.

Now, the thing is, at 2:00 this morning, I could have sworn my child had the flu. Or was well on her way to getting the flu. With no H1N1 shot on board, I thought 'well, this is what you get for not standing in line all day with the rest of Pierce County and your anxious two-year-old to maybe-possibly-if-we-have-enough-but-we'll-probably-run-out get a vaccine that is in such high demand. I was totally willing to accept that, and the five to seven days of confinement it would take to get her back on the mend. Lord knows enough of my friends and my friend's children have had the freaking flu bug this year for me to know what to expect.

Which is why, when Dr. Grubb pointed out how abnormally huge and horrible looking her left tonsil was, it kind of threw me for a loop.

Seriously? Tonsilitis?

The weird thing (I guess, me not knowing much about tonsils) is that when only one tonsil becomes really large (like, large to the point of wondering how in the world she's gone on swallowing all this time), it is at an increased risk of developing an abscess behind it. I was sent home with the following instructions:

1. Keep Zoey home, resting, and hydrated
2. Monitor for signs of trouble swallowing
3. Call Dr. Grubb right away (as in, ON HIS CELL PHONE OVER THE WEEKEND) if she starts to drool, spikes a high fever, or complains of painful swallowing

I have never been given a pediatrician's personal cell phone number before. It was the most alarming part of the entire visit. That, and his parting comment. "I'm sure we'll be chatting again this weekend."

Great.

So there you have it. No surprise party for Grandma tonight. No birthday party tomorrow. Only a new Curious George DVD as a consolation prize. And the knowledge that you won't be seeing your mother wear anything but pajama pants and ratty sweatshirts alllllll weekend.

I am planning to reschedule her party for sometime in June.

Holiday Tradition #5: Premature Christmas Tunes

Yes, that is my favorite ornament. Which has nothing to do with this particular post, other than I could not find a picture of the Oakridge Boys, circa 1980, to post here and I'm trying to keep up with the holiday photos coinciding with holidays posts.

I need a digital camera. Because I know that's a Starbucks ornament, but I'm wearing my glasses. I can just see my mother right now, backing away from the computer screen and squinting...go get your readers, Mom. Because Santa has a much, much bigger order to fill this year and 'digital camera' won't make the wish list until 2010.

Moving on.

Family lore states that when my Mom and her siblings were kids and living overseas due to Grandpa being in the military, Grandma always wrote her Christmas letter sometime around Halloween, to make sure it would arrive back in the States by Christmas time. In order to get "in the mood" to write a festive holiday letter while her kids were surely running around dressing up like witches and ghosts, she'd crank up the Christmas tunes and get busy with her writing. Sounds crazy, but the tradition stuck, and (at least in my Mom's branch of the family tree) we see nothing wrong with busting out the Manheim Steamroller and the Michael W. Smith and the Burl Ives sometime around, oh, say my birthday. In early October.

Oh sure, there are variations on this trend. Some, like Alisa, want to gradually ease in to the holiday music, warming up in October with the Manheim Steamroller, maybe a little Jim Brickman--stuff that's more seasonal and less blatantly Christmas--before breaking out tunes like 'Thank God For Kids' and the soundtrack to Charlie Brown Christmas in the more sensible month of December. I'm more of a whole-hogger myself, gleefully setting up an all-inclusive 'Christmas Music!' playlist on the iPod faster than Costco can get their trees out on display in mid-October.

So next year, before you go snickering when I call in to the local soft rock station mid-November, demanding to know when my Christmas music will be hitting the airwaves, just think of my Grandma. Doing what needed to be done to get those letters out on time. Because nobody appreciates a Valentine's Day letter, am I right?

Holiday Tradition #4: Wake up early, stare at tree

I think traditions that surround the Christmas tree are my favorites. Which totally didn't occur to me until I realized that three out of four Holiday Posts have centered around the selection of, decoration of, and now gazing at said tree.

I remember as a little kid waking up early in the morning for school, curling up on the couch with only the Christmas tree lights on in the livingroom, and thinking it was a very peaceful way to start out a day. Fast forward 30 years, and I still feel the same way. Maybe because this time of year feels like it's enveloped in SO much darkness...you know, when you think 'hey, I go to work in the dark, come home in the dark, and NEVER see daylight?' All that darkness is made tolerable by the presence of Christmas lights, which explains the dozens of strands of small white lights we have going on in our house right now.

So this morning I woke up about a half hour before Zoey, snuck out to the livingroom with my coffee, and just sat and stared at the tree lights. For, like, five whole minutes before I remembered I could be checking my email and reading some of my favorite blogs at the same time. But for those five whole minutes, while my mind drifted over all the upcoming daily activities, I felt very zen. And zen is something that is seriously lacking in my life lately.

So I think we'll keep the tree up until March. Maybe August.

Holiday Tradition #3: Tree Decorating

Because we're just knocking 'em out one by one this weekend. That's how we roll.

Tonight's agenda included decorating the tree we put up this morning. (Funny story: Bryan had to knock on the door for us to open it as he brought in the tree. Zoey ran to open the door, was greeted by nothing but trunk and branches, and had a brief moment of terror as she realized the tree was COMING INSIDE THE HOUSE. She looked exactly like the cats do every year on tree-decorating day...wide-eyed, panicked, and just BEGGING the question 'what the hell is a tree doing IN our house?')

Anyway. Totally pumped about decorating the tree, since Bryan and I both love love love dragging out all the ornaments...his parents bought him an ornament every year until, I swear, like three years ago when I finally begged them to STOP THE MADNESS because our tree was going to fall over from the sheer weight of his childhood memories. Plus we have an ornament for just about every year we've been married, the ornaments we bought on our honeymoon in Maui...all very sentimental stuff. (You will be un-surprised and pleased to know that my Starbucks Cup ornament is displayed front and center this year.) We're carrying on Bryan's childhood tradition with Zoey by picking out an ornament each year representing something she's seriously in to at the moment. So far, she has several "Baby's 1st Christmas" ornaments, two kitties playing in a basket (her first favorite word was kitty), and last year's owl selection. This year we're trying to decide between something with Dora, Snoopy, or a gigantic Time-Out chair. It's a toss-up. And I'm sure that, when she's 31, she'll be all "Mom, for God's sake, quit with the ornaments already! I already have three Starbucks cups!"

So we drag the two big Rubbermaid bins filled with tree decor up the stairs, get all set for the ensuing mushy sentimentality, only to discover that Zoey wants to hang approximately two ornaments and call it good. Seriously, kid? Are you kidding? How can two gung-ho tree decorators produce someone so obviously missing the ORNAMENT GENE? (And they weren't even her ornaments. She plucked a random Winnie the Pooh from the box and then snuck off with a ceramic bell from her Daddy's childhood and proceeded to bang it around until I'm pretty sure Bryan had a mini-stroke.)

So, tree decorating. A big hit with the above-30 set in this household, not so much for the younger generation. I was left marveling that choosing a tree with many, many branches lends itself to many, many more ornaments than years past. I swear, last year we couldn't even fit them all on the tree...this year, we've got room to spare. Perhaps, Heather, you'd like to re-start the Ornament Every Year tradition?

Holiday Tradition #2: Wreath Making

Every year, or nearly every year, my mother-in-law, Heather, hosts a wreath-making party the weekend of Thanksgiving. She has the perfect house for it, with a wrap-around porch that provides plenty of space for everyone to stretch out and show off their mad wreath-making skillz.

Auntie Gail happens to have some mad swag-making skillz.

Everyone brings greens from their yard (or, like me, they make their husband hack off a few branches from the Christmas tree they just cut down that day), throws them in a pile in the yard, and it's a wreath-decorating free-for-all. My sister, Alisa, brought holly from the holly tree in her front yard, Angela brought some really pretty winter berries, and word on the street has it that Heather has been stopping along the sides of random country roads for weeks now to collect pretty moss.

We take wreath-making very seriously. As you can see.

Heather goes all out for this party, providing hot cider, soup for dinner afterward, and free tutorials on how to make pretty bows. There was, of course, the requisite mocking of my somewhat-sparse first attempt at wrapping greens around that tricky wreath frame. I will never live down my love of Charlie Brown decor. It took awhile, but I think the finished product turned out pretty nice. Now I just need to get Bryan to hang it on the front door!

(I am noticing in all these pictures I'm posting just how difficult it is to see who's who in the group shots. Oh well. I'm over on the right hand side with my not-so-sparse completed wreath, and my sister is standing behind me with her much-fuller version, complete with bow. Show-off.)

Holiday Tradition #1: Tree Hike

This holiday season I've decided to blog about the traditions we have in our family that we are happily passing on to Zoey. Some are traditions we started waaaaay back when we were first dating (10 years ago!), some were put on hold while we were living in Vancouver, and some are new things we're trying out now that we're back home and close to family. 2009, in all it's crappiness, still marks the beginning of that wondrous age of childhood in which Zoey actually GETS the joy of the holidays, and is completely willing to be swept up in the excitement of it all. Which makes writing about our holiday traditions seem all the more festive and totally fun.

I have, however, decided to skim over the Thanksgiving tradition we have of skipping the gym, gorging ourselves on nothing but junk for four days straight, and rolling our tubby, bloated selves back to real life on Monday. (So not looking forward to Monday.)

Thanksgiving weekend is always the time we plow up to the mountain and pick out our Christmas tree. This is something Bryan's family has done since he and his brother, Justin, were little kids (I was raised in more of a let's-hit-up-the-tree-farm-down-the-street sort of family). Before we moved, we usually went with Justin and his fiancee, Angela, and when we lived in Vancouver, I generally sent Bryan up to Mt. Hood on his own--it wasn't quite the same without Justin and Angela, and besides, there was the whole 'let's not be out on a bumpy mountain road far from civilization when your wife is ready to pop out a kid any day now' issue of 2006. Anyway. We did take Zoey up to Mt. Hood one year, just the three of us...fun, but not AS FUN as Mt. Rainier with Justin and Angela.

*Honesty moment* I feel way safer traveling up bumpy mountain roads far from civilization with my brother-in-law than I do with only my husband. Justin is certainly the older, more cautious, and dare I say more mature of the two boys, and far less likely than Bryan to try stupid shit like "let's see how close we can get to the edge of that cliff in this dinky old Datsun pick-up". Bryan is fun, don't get me wrong...but safety appeals to my cautious nature and I was oh-so-thankful to be riding in the backseat of Justin's large, gas-guzzling tank of a truck. Knowing I will return from our yearly trip up the mountain in one piece is, you know, COMFORTING. So, when I say "it just isn't as much fun without Justin and Angela", what I really mean is "I don't want to die".

So we hit the road early this morning, around 8 a.m., which seems far less obnoxious to me now than it ever did back in the day ("the day" being pre-Zoey). It took just under two hours to get to the spot where we would finally quit jostling along horribly-maintained back roads, park, and get out and hike. (Would have made better time if some genius ahead of us hadn't decided to drive his wee Saturn way too far up the road, bury himself up to his axles, and require the assistance of many of the dozen large trucks behind him to pull him out and to the side of the road.)

Before we got out of the truck I informed Zoey she'd be partaking in the very first peeing-in-the-snow moment of her life. As in, BEFORE the snowsuit, winter coat, and mittens were in place. And pee in the snow she did--without so much as a whimper or a dribble on her pants or boots. Total champ.

I think we hiked--steeply uphill--for quite awhile before finding the perfect tree. Seriously, a perfect tree. Turns out that, if you hike up far enough, you are far less likely to return with the Charlie Brown tree your family still mocks you for. (Honestly, people, you come home with a straggler a couple years in a row and you never live it down.)

Are you wondering yet what hiking uphill in the snow with a two year old was like? Are you?

Zoey was awesome.

For the first 45 minutes or so.

And I'd say that the last third of the hike down was just miserable for all. At one point, as Bryan kept pointing farther up the mountain and saying "let's go look at that one!", I was like "dude, pick a tree, because have you seen your daughter?". Sliding around on her bottom and dealing with a constant runny nose only kept her occupied for so long. And seeing as how I am balance-challenged on the easiest of walking routes, my sole job on the way back down was to remain upright and carry the handsaw. (Because giving the one who trips over her own two feet THE SAW TO CARRY actually WAS the only option, seeing as Bryan was carrying Zoey AND dragging the perfect tree behind him for the last leg of the jaunt back down the mountain.)

We made it back to flat land safely, although I was having visions of Bryan tripping and hurtling our child head-over-feet the last 20 feet or so, at which time I would trip and end up slicing my leg off, and wouldn't that be the highlight of the 2009 Christmas season? Concussions and amputations? GO 2009.

Zoey regained trooper-mentality as soon as we were flat again, and bravely tried to keep up behind Angela and I...but we could actually feel ourselves starting to age as we patiently waited for her to catch up. Finally, Angela, in what was the kindest moment of the whole trek down, offered Zoey a piggyback ride. I'm assuming this was because she wanted to make it back to the truck before nightfall. Zoey happily accepted, made it back to the truck, ate her weight in cheese and crackers, and promptly fell sound asleep all the way home, despite a few potholes here and there that made it look like her neck might snap from the bouncing around it was doing in her carseat.

Going to pick out a tree is one of my favorite Christmas traditions, because it truly kicks off the season in our household. Tomorrow it will be lights, decorations, and a post on wreath-making at my mother-in-law's house.

Giving thanks

Zoey's bedtime "thankful" prayer from earlier this week:

"Thank you for my Mommy, and my Daddy, and my Puywahwup (Puyallup) house, and my bed, and my cousins, and my binky, and my baby dolls. I yuv my baby dolls. Amen."

Mommy's bedtime "thankful" prayer from the same night:

"Thank you for a child who actually fell asleep before 10 p.m. Amen."

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Welcome, Winter. We're so happy you've arrived.

Yesterday turned out to be the perfect day for my mother-in-law to pick Zoey up from daycare, take her home, and keep her overnight. Because back here, at the homestead, it's a perfectly pleasant 40-something degrees in our house because WE RAN OUT OF OIL TO HEAT THE DAMN PLACE.

How does this happen??

2009. That's all I can throw out. Of course we run out of heat in our house in this, the year of Hell and All Other Things Shitty. (I believe I have just reached the title for this year's Christmas letter.)

Bryan and I had just discussed last month the need to check the oil level and call the oil company to come add some fuel so that we could, you know, get through the winter without walking around the house wrapped in large blankets and feeling like Laura Ingalls Wilder. I just walked downstairs to start a load of laundry and my fingertips went numb. Anyway, apparently we didn't get far beyond the discussion phase of add-oil-to-the-tank, because here we are...cold. I probably forgot to put "call the oil company" on one of his to-do lists, and since my co-wife is on back order, it just didn't get done.

I am normally SO MUCH MORE ORGANIZED THAN THIS.

Anyway. Bryan and I discovered last night that the fireplace in our livingroom is really more decor-oriented as opposed to heat-your-house-practical, so he's on his way to Home Depot to buy some oil. (I had no idea you could do this.) Last night it was semi-romantic to sit in front of the fireplace and enjoy the absolute quiet of having no small child running around the house...but the minute you move two feet from the fire, it was back to hey, I can see my breath!

Today Zoey and I will head to Vancouver for her friend's birthday party and spend the night with one of my more responsible friends who remembers to do things like pay people to keep her house warm.

Dear Santa,

It's me. Amy. You know, that overly-caffeinated, sarcastic, hyped-up mother down here in Puyallup, Washington, who has managed to (miraculously) not kill anyone in the year 2009 despite the fact that nothing--well, next to nothing--has gone according to plan and nothing irks her more than things that don't go according to plan? I've given a lot of thought to my needs and wants now that the holiday season is upon us, and I'm calling in all my favors this year. I'm willing to wipe from my memory that year when you decided to bestow upon me a baseball glove and bat, in what could only be seen as a blatant mocking of my lack of athletic skills. I'll even let God, your evil partner in crime, off the hook for raining down upon my household a torrent of fleas that no powder, manufactured product, or exterminator service seems able to effectively kill off this year. All for this one little thing...

This year, for Christmas, I'd really like a wife of my own.

Yes, you read that right. Now, before you go getting your red-and-white panties in a knot, keep in mind that I don't need anyone fancy. Lord knows I could care less about age, beauty, and geographical location of things like boobs or a butt. (Gravity is a bitch and nobody understands that better than a fellow female.) I'm talking the basics. I've compiled a list you can use while scanning your inventory:

1. I'm going to need someone with that sixth sense that intuitively knows when the garbage needs emptying, work clothes need washing, cat box needs cleaning, floor needs mopping, child needs napping, etc. and opts to jump in and partake of these activities instead of, say, flopping down on the couch for the seventh football game of the weekend.

2. Helpful Advanced Skills such as entertaining a child without audiovisual aid while preparing a healthy meal that said child will refuse to eat, stating "I don't yike it" before even trying it, are a must.

3. I'd really love a partner around here who greets me at the door each night with a meal prepared, a house picked up, and a small child washed and ready for bed. As a bonus, I won't even bitch about the lack of meat/repetitiveness of menu selection/small amount of leftovers available to me. At this point, I'll also need her to lovingly pack whatever happens to be leftover in to a lunch bag which I will promptly forget in the morning and charge $7.46 on the debit card for a greasy, meat-filled lunch at Jack In The Box instead.

4. And while we're on the topic of meal prep, I'll need someone willing to wake at 7 a.m. on Saturday morning to painstakingly paw through cookbooks, looking for healthy, economical meal options that will be carefully mapped out on a weekly menu, organized in such a fashion that utilizes all leftovers and takes in to consideration the upcoming week's evening obligations and schedules. Because nothing throws a monkey wrench in to homemade chili night faster than a 10 hour work day, followed by daycare pick-up and haircuts. Anyway, I will be sleeping soundly while she works on this project. I may or may not wake up shortly after she has carefully crafted a grocery shopping list organized by aisle-layout at Winco and cross-referenced with coupons clipped from the previous Sunday's newspaper. But I promise to be out of bed before she leaves for Winco, the store she hates more than any place on earth, so I can entertain our child by allowing her to stay in her pajamas all day, feed her Frosted Flakes, and allow her to kick a football listlessly around the room while I watch a little more TV.

5. But, because she's a woman, when she gets back, I will help her unload the groceries while we debate the various wardrobe choices of fellow Winco shoppers seen out on the prowl today. Top on the list of things to discuss will be Women Who Wear Flannel Pants Printed with Dr. Pepper Cans...because really? Have you no yoga pants? Wouldn't a monochromatic sweat suit be preferable to pajama pants printed in soda cans? We won't solve this world's problem, of course, but we'll get a good chuckle out of it while we sip on Diet Coke and forget to feed ourselves lunch because suddenly the whining pajama-clad, low-blood-sugared child of the house will have appeared demanding an egg salad sandwich for lunch and honest to God, if we have to eat one more egg salad sandwich, we might die.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're jaunting on over to that section in your warehouse marked "Hired Housekeeping", but that is so not what I'm looking for. Wives are useful for more than grocery shopping and child-raising and working full-time jobs outside the home, don't you know Santa? IN ADDITION TO THE ABOVE, a wife worth her weight in salt will also be able to:

1. Encourage me, even though she has about 3000 other things she'd love for me to do around the house, to go out with the girls, because really, honey! You hardly ever do that! Then pretend not to notice that it takes me seven days to mop the floors even though I promised I would do it immediately upon return from the outing with, what were they called? Oh yes. Friends. I'll have to round me up some of those if you can pull this whole endeavor off, Santa.

2. Notice that my purse is looking a little worn, last year's selection of long-sleeved t-shirts from Old Navy are fraying at the seams, and/or notice that I ripped a page from one of the aforementioned barely-read magazines suggesting an eye-liner shade that would look ravishing with my blue eyes, set aside a little money from her paycheck, find a babysitter, organize a shopping trip just for the two of us (perhaps right around the time of my birthday), and buy me a few practical but still fun little things. Then she will take me out to dinner, for a meal that I will neither prepare nor clean up after. Don't worry, I'll force her to come back home afterwards, even though she won't want to.

3. Maintain in the back of her head, always and at every moment of the day, a running list of things that need doing, birthday parties that need planning, Christmas gifts that need budgeting for, library book due dates, which color Play-Doh needs to be made next month for the preschool class, and how many hours are likely left before the daycare calls to say 'Game over, lady, the Tylenol wore off, now come and get your sick kid. And shame on you.'

I know it looks like a long list, Santa, but if anyone can do it, it's you. But if you find yourself scratching your head and wondering where in the hell you're going to find some frazzled woman her own WIFE, forward this list on to Mrs. Claus. She'll know just what I'm looking for. And thanks. Really.

Love, Amy

Drumroll, please.

December 8 will be a big, big day in this house.

Not only because Zoey will turn three years old.

But also because, that morning, she and I will trek down the road to Toys R Us, where she will use her binky to buy a brand-new baby doll.

Thinking about my child without a binky is almost a little sad. Okay, it freaks me out. Because seriously? For the past three years straight? Nothing has calmed her down quicker than getting that bink in her mouth. Seriously. She'd throw me under a bus if it meant she could save her binky. And in my opinion, quiet and calm rank right up there with 'roof over head' and 'food on table' when I am making a mental tally of things I deem important in life. So, on December 8, I will effectively be turning in my one ticket to guaranteed quiet and calm.

I'm feeling a bit nervous about this. Zoey, on the other hand, seems thrilled with the idea and can't wait to acquire a baby doll that can go with her in the bath tub. Yesterday she asked if we could go to the toy store NOW and turn in her binky, to which I responded "Stop with the crazy talk, you who thought a flu shot sounded like a walk in the park and also tried to tell me going to the dentist was no big thing".

She can talk the talk, but can she walk the walk?

Somehow, I don't think so. But I try to tell myself that a $30 baby doll and several nights of feeling as though we've made the worst mistake in the world might, in the end, be cheaper than headgear and braces.

Because 'Z' words are hard to come by

Zoey has learned how to spell her name. Since this is a newly acquired skill, compliments of many hours devoted to her Cheez-It Scrabble crackers, she is now forever on the lookout for her "name". (Note: If you ask her to spell her name, she'll tell you Z-O-E-Y. But she is easily distracted and understandably excited whenever she discovers a new 'Z' word, so there's been a bit of Z-word confusion in our house lately.)

Scene: The Library Park, playing in an old concrete structure that has been overgrown with vines. Zoey is climbing on one side of the heavily-graffitied concrete pillar, while I am doing my best to climb on the other.

Zoey: Yook, Mommy, yook! This spells my name! It has a 'Z' and an 'O' in it! Yook!

I walk over to where she is climbing to inspect the graffiti. What I find is the word "LEZBO" scrawled across the cement.

Me: Oh...no, honey. That does not say your name. It says...something different.

Zoey: (stubbornly) No it doesn't, Mommy! It has a 'Z' and an 'O', so it says Zoey!

Me: Um. Okay. Let's go for a walk!

So thank you, Mr. or Ms. Graffiti Artist, wherever you are, for coming up with new and creative ways to incorporate my daughter's favorite letter in to your everyday work. Perhaps you could apply for a job at Sesame Street. I hear they're hiring.

The Halloween Review

Remember this blog post from last year? How it took me roughly 18 days to convince my child to even let her monkey costume be in the same room as her, let alone put it on? And even then, I measured success by the fact that she would only put the pants on, still screaming in terror when the monkey jacket came out of the bag?

I know. The bar was set pretty low.

And what a difference a year makes.

This is the year that holidays have truly clicked with Zoey. As in, last year's trick-or-treating experience was fun, but still her attitude remained one of "eh, I could live without this". Not so much this year! Racing around my auntie's neighborhood with my chicken-costume-clad cousin, collecting candy from random strangers and shrieking "I'M A BALLERINA!" every time someone opens a door? Totally in to it.

What you don't see in the photo from this year is the fact that Zoey flat-out refused to wear the ballet slippers my sister picked up at a garage sale for her, opting instead for the use of her more practical rain boots.

Totally adorable.

Christmas this year is going to be a blast.

The Kangawoo in the room

Zoey has been obsessed with hopping lately. Hopping everywhere. Off of everything. Makes me thankful we never did decide to rent out our downstairs--any renter would pack their shit and run after a day or two of what sounds like a small earthquake overhead. And no matter how many times we tell her to please, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP LEAPING OFF THINGS, she just can't. It's in her blood.

Recently, perhaps as an explanation for her obsessive new habit, she has been telling us she is now a kangaroo. Or, kangawoo. She wishes to be a kangaroo in that sweet way of small children, who think if they practice enough, they can actually become the bird or the airplane so they can really fly.

We've even gone so far as to tuck small stuffed animals in the waistband of our underpants to complete the kangawoo persona. Yes. I said WE.

The other night, after a 3 a.m. potty run, Zoey crawled in to bed between Bryan and I.

Bryan: Who is that in my bed? Is it my Zo-bug?

Zoey: (sleepily, already half-dreaming) No, Daddy...I a kangawoo.

Be the kangaroo, Zoey. BE THE KANGAROO.

Gimme an M! For Mommy!

Another example of the sheer awe and adoration a nearly-three-year-old will bestow upon her wise and all-knowing Mommy:

We bought Cheez-It crackers shaped like Scrabble playing pieces. Each cracker has a letter on it, and Zoey loves to sit at the table with me, a bowl of these crackers in hand, and hold them up one by one and say "R! What does R mean, Mommy?!?...E! What does E mean, Mommy??" I then proceed to name off as many "R" words or "E" words or "P" words or "A" words I can possibly think of. Trust me, it's a fun way to pass a 20 minute chunk of time. Or a 40 minute chunk of time.

The other day, as the bowl was nearing empty, Zoey suddenly stopped short and asked "Mommy? Do you know all the letters?" Like this thought had just dawned on her and holy crap, she was in the midst of GENIUS. I told her that yes, I was pretty sure I knew all the letters in the alphabet.

And there they were again--those adoring brown eyes, looking damn near reverent as she whispered "Wow...."

When they say that children are easy to please, I think this is what they're talking about. How long will I pass as the smartest person ever to walk this earth, based solely on my alphabet-mastery merits? Probably not long.

No rest for the weary

Last night, Zoey was putting up her typical bedtime-battle. Typical kid stuff, the going to the bathroom three times, the I-want-one-more-story routine, the please-turn-on-the-hall-light battle cry, etc. The problem, lately, is that Bryan gets home from work somewhere between 8:00 and 8:30 most nights. This is problematic because it makes every day in my life seem like a crazed go-to-the-gym-go-to-work-pick-up-Zoey-fix-dinner-bath-time-fight-with-bedtime-lapse-in-to-coma-get-up-repeat cycle. Most nights I am pretty okay with this routine, but last night I was just so. freaking. tired.

And by 10:00 she was still awake.

Bryan was home, but downstairs watching TV. I was finally dozing off, because I had finally quit caring that I was going to be asleep while my child was still wide awake and had the potential to be out dancing on the dining room table while I snoozed away in my warm, comfy bed. So I rolled over to find...Zoey standing at the side of the bed.

Me: What, Zoey? Why are you NOT IN BED?

Zoey: Because, Mommy! Because....I just yike you so much! I just want to sweep wiss you!

Score: Zoey 1, Mommy 0.

Little Bruiser

This shot was taken in our bathroom, shortly after returning home from Urgent Care last week. Note the blood-stained t-shirt. I am happy to report that Zout spray will, in fact, remove blood stains. I'd like to have the information on file here as I'm quite certain I'll need it again in the not-so-distant future. I spent equal amounts of time that day scrubbing blood from, oh, everything, and blue marker from every square surface of skin NOT covered in blood. Because that is just life with Zoey.

I managed to get the stitch out myself last night with the aid of tweezers, fingernail clippers, and my grandmother holding her in a headlock. Never underestimate the power of a 72 year old woman on a mission.

Major malfunction

So, yesterday, after returning from yet another trip to Convenience Care (because Zoey woke up Thursday night with a fever and by Friday was complaining that her ear hurt, and because I just can't get enough of that germ-ridden waiting room), I had her sitting on the counter getting ready to warm up her milk, while Bryan was downstairs in the garage trying to fix a fuse that had blown, cutting out power to our refrigerator and the laptop sitting on the desk in the eat-in area. I have my back to the stove as I'm half-rocking my sicky child against my chest, when I hear:

BBBFFFTTT!!!! ffffffttt! ffffftt!

I turn towards the stove and see sparks literally arcing and raining down from the fan above the stove top. It sounds like we've employed a welder to come in and start a fire in our kitchen. And it just...doesn't LOOK right, you know what I mean?

Bryan!!

As I'm yelling for my husband, we experience another rain shower of sparks and Zoey points out that she doesn't yike this at all.

I grab Zoey and run for the garage. Bryan! What the hell are you doing?!?

After explaining what just went down in the kitchen, we all trek back upstairs and are greeted by the lovely scent of electrical fire emanating from the stove area. Bryan proceeds to pull the fan apart and locate the frayed and fried wire that had tripped the fuse in the first place. He explains a lesson in Electricity 101--the reason we have fuse boxes is to detect old, decrepid wiring such as this, and shut down power to the area to prevent things like, you know, HOUSE FIRES.

Because doesn't that seem like the next logical step in 2009? Having our house burn down?

So, with a newfound appreciation for things like fuse boxes, I cleaned up the mess after Bryan removed the smoldering remnants of kitchen fan to the back porch. And, after several hours of Yankee Candle burning, the smell was mostly gone. And now we have to go shopping for something to replace the fan...ironically, Bryan said months ago that he'd love to buy a microwave/fan combo to put over the stovetop with his first "real" paycheck. And since his first "real" paycheck is due this week, I'd say a trip to Home Depot is in order.

Here's my recommendation for ways to build your child's library.

This whole not-necessarily-bad-but-pretty-spendy habit started about a month ago, when I had to pick up Zoey from daycare and take her in to the Convenience Care clinic for an ear infection. They wanted to make sure she didn't have the flu, so they did a nasal swab--and as she was sobbing after having her "nose tickled", I promised her if she could be brave, we'd go to the bookstore and she'd get a new book when we were done at the doctor's office.

Which turned in to two new Little Critter books.

Then, the next day, she still wasn't feeling great, so I bought a new Dora book at Target so we could read something new. Because Little Critter is entertaining and all, but when read over and over and over, he loses some of his appeal.

Then she had a flu shot a couple weeks later. Another new book.

And there was the trip to the dentist last week. Yet another Dora book to add to our collection.

So just as I'm starting to think I am the sole person keeping the kids section at Borders alive, we happened to be at lunch at "Old McDonalds" today with my grandma, stationed at a booth next to the window, which was just toooo much temptation for my active daughter who makes it seem like sitting still through one meal is the greatest torture of her life. I warned her not to stand on the sill between the window and the table. I made her sit back down. She slithered back to her precarious position. I had to remind her yet again to sit on her bottom while eating. And then I gave up. Which is precisely when she slipped and fell, slamming her little mouth in to the table top, and came up screaming the silent-scream while drooling blood EVERYWHERE.

Once we got the bleeding to stop (a very helpful McDonalds employee was suddenly our own personal servant, running to grab napkins and ice and a bag to stuff all the bloody napkins in so it "wouldn't look so gruesome in the trash!") I was able to determine that all teeth were intact and still attached to the gums...and that Zoey had bitten clean through her bottom lip.

It took awhile to assure the hovering employee that we were fine, or rather, that we weren't thinking LAWSUIT, and before we left, Zoey was devouring an ice cream cone. Not so bad, right? I mean really, how are they going to stitch up a lip?

Are you laughing yet?

The more I thought about it, and the more I watched the gash on the outside of her lip ooze each time she dragged her teeth across it (a nasty habit she's picked up to replace the near-constant use of the binky), the more I wondered how well it would heal on it's own. Oma thought I should call the pediatrician. After 20 minutes of waiting on hold for someone (anyone, really) to answer my question, I gave up. And called my work to talk to one of my doctors (you know, the ones who specialize in colons and guts) to get their opinion. I was told "sounds like stitches to me!"

Awesome. Just. Freaking. Awesome.

I'll spare you all the gory details. If you've ever had to tether your child to an exam table for stitches, you know what I'm talking about, and if you haven't, you don't want to know. It will make you not want to ever have children and/or trade in your non-stitched children on house cats.

After nearly two hours, we left the clinic with a fat lip, one stitch, and a tearful request to go to the bookstore.

And now we are the proud owners of Dora's Spooky Halloween and some random Baby Einstein farm animal book.

I remind myself that if I were rewarding her bravery with candy, she'd be close to 100 pounds by now. Because that makes me feel better.

True yuv

Just when you start to think you can understand how some forms of species eat their young, your child will inevitably run up to you, arms flung wide, dive-bomb your knees and look up at you with an angelic glow to her face as she proclaims "I yuv you SOOOO much, Mommy!".

And then you will understand how it is that the human race continues to thrive.

The Law Of Diminishing Returns...

...is the only concept I remember learning from my high school Economics class. And only because Mr. Carlson explained it using pizza as an example. The gist, if I'm remembering correctly, is that the first slice of pizza is going to taste infinitely better than your third, or fourth, or seventh. Nothing will be more satisfying than the first hunk of saucy, cheesy dough melting in your mouth.

And so it is with coffee.

Try as I might, that third cup is never near as satisfying as the first. Maybe because, by the third cup, my heart is starting to feel like it might beat out of my chest and my brain is starting to whirl around at anxiety-producing speeds. Maybe because nothing motivates me to get out of bed more in the morning than the thought of that first warm cup of coffee-with-hazelnut-creamer.

Anyway, I'm happy to know that at least one concept from my junior year of high school seems to have stuck with me.

Happy Sunday!

De-flea-ing

So yeah. Let's talk for a minute about bugs.

Namely fleas.

I think I may be in love with Ed at Whitworth Pest Solutions because he has, definitively (I'm banking on definitively), finally rid my house of those wretched little beasts. As Zoey napped, I swept my floors and counted seven--SEVEN, PEOPLE--dead fleas in my dust pan. One of them still writhing in near-death misery. If I hadn't been so grossed out and on my way to grab my mop bucket full of scalding hot water, I would have paused to whisper "that's what you get for moving in to my house, buster".

And then there's the fruit flies.

That's right. On my way back through the kitchen to empty the scalding hot, now dirty mop water, I detected a buzzing flock of movement on the counter near the fruit bowl. Further inspection revealed a herd of fruit flies trying to do away with the (still gigantic) pile of tomatoes left over from my mother-in-law last weekend. Okay, so "stew remaining tomatoes and freeze for future spaghetti sauce" wasn't on the to-do list for the day, but in no time I had a bubbling pot of tomatoes, onions and garlic on the stove. And more soap and hot water applied to the counter tops.

I believe that should do it for bug infestations for the year. Or the rest of my life. RIGHT, GOD?

Bug removal and a trip to the dentist

Today's to-do list is seeming particularly long. A bulk of the items need to be accomplished before 9:45 a.m. Let's hope that blue marker stationed right next to the list can keep both Zoey and I motivated to zip through all we need to do. Because...wow. Was I high when I made this list last night?? Or just standard-issue delusional?

Two big ticket items on the agenda today:

1. Exterminators are coming at 9:45 to spray the house for fleas. Because my child is getting eaten alive, and I can only run so many loads of laundry. Seriously. I almost died when I opened our Puget Sound Energy bill last month. So I have scraped together enough money to bring me peace of mind and an end to my daughter's scabby little legs. Just writing about these vile little bugs makes me scratch.

2. Zoey goes to the dentist. Which should be, you know, LOTS of fun. We've been reading The Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist and Mercer Mayer's Little Critter book about visiting the dentist, to no avail. Any mention of the dentist trip today brings on the quivery lip and tears to the big brown eyes. However, she HAS informed me that she will be a "very brave girl" so she can go to the bookstore and pick out a new book afterwards. If the whole flu-shot incident of several weeks ago is any indicator, then we will be defining "very brave girl" quite loosely and I may have created a monster by always linking trips to the doctor with trips to the bookstore in her wee little mind.

Ahhh, the quiet. I am sitting back just now to enjoy it. Soon the entire household will be up and hustling around...Bryan to get out the door for work (and let me tell you how happy and relieved I am to be saying that), me to get showered and somehow corral our two cats in the garage, Zoey to slowly make her way through the morning routine while weilding her big, fat blue marker...always ready to cross something off the list.

Coffee, give me strength to get through the day. Amen.

Why yes I am ready to go back to work tomorrow. Thanks for asking.

Today was not all sunshine and list making. (See post below, which could also be titled 'Traits I am most proud of passing on to the future generation'.)

We did make it to the park with my sister and her kids. All was good. It was one of those really beautiful fall days where the sky is clear blue and the air is just this side of nippy.

And then we walked across the street to mail something at the post office. Which is where It All Fell Apart.

After Zoey's action-packed weekend, a semi-late bedtime last night, and her burning desire to get up with me at 6:30 this morning, I could smell a meltdown coming long before it happened. Despite the fact that she had been warned there would be no walking to the bakery for donuts after the post office if she couldn't mind her manners and listen to me, she proceeded to wander off repeatedly, causing me to dart back and forth in the long long line and drag her back to my side. When asked to get up off the floor, she pulled the Limp Noodle Maneuver that only a kid can perfect. And she did it all with the trademark naughty look in her big brown eyes that always sets my teeth on edge.

So. I probably could have let it all slide and still walked to the bakery...because I wanted a donut too...but she's been pushing her luck more often than not in these past few weeks, and I decided it was time to pull the Mean Mommy card even though I knew this would mean my own life would not be worth living for the next hour or so.

Her veeeeeery long temper tantrum after learning there would be no donuts in her near future earned her one time-out in front of the coffee shop across the street from the post office, and another in front of the library, 10 feet away from our car.

Her continued wailing/slapping/screaming spectacle bought her a one-way ticket to bed once we got home with NO STORIES and (brace yourselves) NO HOT MILK.

I've never pulled out all the stops like that and I have to say it was highly effective.

The kid has never gone down for bed without hot milk and stories. Ever. And finally, at that point where I was holding her sobbing body and telling her how very sorry I was that she had chosen to behave so badly, and that when we behave badly, we can't have the things we want...the look in her (now un-naughty) brown eyes was just heart-breaking. She knew Mommy wasn't backing down and she was so incredibly sad. It made me realize how hard it must be to be two years old.

And then she slept for three hours and woke up a completely different person. Polite. Funny. Cooperative.

Please tell me all nearly-three-year-olds are this challenging. And borderline bipolar.

Future List Makers of America

Today I made a "Mommy and Zoey To-Do List". You know, with things like "play at the park" and "make leaf shaped crackers" on it.

And then I had her cross each item off the list as soon as it was accomplished.

And you know I made it in to a big, fun game.

And then she asked if we could make a list for 'amommow' (tomorrow).

And my heart swelled with pride.

Best news I've heard in a long time

Bryan has a job!

That's right. After that whole experience with not getting paid at his last job, having to quit, spending months and months interviewing, hearing nothing, then generally getting jerked around by a couple chiropractors who didn't know what they wanted, BRYAN. GOT. HIRED.

Not only did he get hired, he got hired by a guy who seems to have a clear plan for the future of his business, and a chiropractic style that isn't too far off from the way Bryan would like to practice. Two major bonuses when it comes to finding your first job as a chiropractor.

The job is in Silverdale, which is about 40 minutes from where we live. Not ideal, but not terrible, either. Now that Bryan is sporting his new 1992 Toyota Camry, at least we know he's in a vehicle that will save on gas money! The salary is decent and the hours aren't bad either--he'll start out at five days a week, with the possibility of some weekend work, but then go down to four days a week, which is just...wow. Perfect.

He starts tomorrow and I just know he's going to rock this clinic with his sheer awesomeness.

Good thing we didn't worry about her at all this weekend

Um, if you all thought my weekend was fabulous, wait until you hear about ZOEY'S weekend. She has assured me (many times already) that my weekend was total crap compared to hers. BECAUSE EATING IN A GROWN-UP RESTAURANT DOES NOT COMPARE TO SEEING A SNOW OWL LIVE AND IN PERSON AT THE ZOO. Sorry, Mommy.

As mentioned previously, Zoey was whisked away by my MIL early in the morning. Heather took both Zoey and Finley to Northwest Trek, which, if I remember correctly from my one field trip there in the third grade, is a zoo-ish setting complete with tram ride and wandering amongst animals native to the Northwest. I figured, with the gray, drippy weather hanging around yesterday morning, they might spend a couple hours there at the most. From what I gather, they didn't return home until nearly 4 p.m. The trip has rekindled Zoey's love of owls, and she has spoken of few things other than the snow owl she got to see while she was at the zoo.

I take that back. If you ask her what animals she saw yesterday at the zoo, her first response will be "A SHWUG." (Slug.) Followed by an appropriately long 'eewwwww' accompanied by a grossed-out face. And after she reviews with you in infinite detail the shortcomings of the slug species, she will move on to more dignified and less slimey Snow Owl. But please be prepared for a rather lengthy slime monologue.

But I digress. Zoey and Finley both made paper cut-outs of owls (Zoey made three, actually, and added hair to one of them), picked out 'special rocks' at the gift shop (because only a grandmother will spend MONEY on ROCKS), and rode the tram and walked around the park to their hearts content. There was no napping. There was a lot of snacking. Because that's how Grandma Heather rolls.

Then they were off to Grandma Heather's house where Grandpa "Aggix" (Alex) was waiting. Apparently my child scarfed down a dinner of roasted pork loin and swiss chard. I think this part of the story might be a lie.

Even bedtime was relatively stress-free BECAUSE OH MY GOD GRANDMA HEATHER LET ME SLEEP IN A CASTLE, MOMMY! A castle! Like the one I used to love and adore in our dining room that you so heartlessly dismantled weeks ago!

That's right, Zoey. Your mother loves you but both your grandmothers love you way more.

This morning, after chatting with Zoey on the phone and getting the low-down on the slugs and rocks and castle-sleeping, the whole team headed to the swimming pool where Grandma Heather didn't even make her wash her hair after getting out of the pool. See! The love!

Bryan went to retrieve our blissed-out child late this afternoon and apparently had to pry her (complete with kicking and screaming) away from Grandma and Grandpa's house.

We'll be dropping her off again on the 23rd, for Bryan's birthday, and picking her up sometime in January.

Sleep. Uninterrupted.

Let me tell you about my fabulous birthday.

My mother-in-law picked up Zoey at 9:30 yesterday morning and I have not seen her since. I then shopped with my sister (at the Goodwill, very budget-friendly), worked out at the gym with Bryan (something we never do together...but so nice to have the company...), napped at home (again...NEVER...), and ate dinner at a restaurant that was not kid-friendly. And then...then...are you sitting down, people? I slept. All night. No interruptions. No cries of "my bed is wet!" or "Mommy! I need you!". Seven hours straight. And it was heaven.

And now I am propped up in bed most likely driving Bryan crazy as he tries to continue the loveliness of sleep next to me while I, ever the morning person as I get older, bang away on the laptop keyboard next to him. But it's my birthday and I can do whatever I want.

(I love birthdays and personally think they should last for weeks, not just one day.)

(His birthday is the 23rd and I'm guessing he'll kick me out of our room at sunrise and demand to be left alone until noon. Whatever. But this morning...I think I may not get out of my bed at all. Until I need more coffee, anyway.)

How I wrecked my daughter's existence on Friday afternoon

Remember Friday? The phone call to the Department of Health with all that farting going on in the background? Long day, but you know, we finished early! Dr. McFussy finished early! Do you know how unheard of that is?? NO? Well, rest assured, it's rare. I happily buzzed across the street to daycare to pick up my darling daughter at the prime hour of 4:45 p.m. to be greeted by the following scene:

Me: (Bouncing in to Zoey's classroom, certain she will be thrilled to see me) Hi Zoey!! Mommy came to get you early!

Zoey: (Total look of annoyance on her scowling face) No! I want to watch the moobee! (movie)

Me: Well, but bug, Mommy is here, so it's time to go home...come on, let's get your blanket!

Zoey: (Tears are starting, as well as the shrieking) No! NO!! It's moobee day! I WANT TO WATCH THE MOOBEE!

Apparently, the last Friday of every month is Movie Day at daycare. And Zoey's mother, because she is obviously wicked and only out to ruin her daughter's life, had the audacity to show up before the movie started and prevent Zoey from having any fun in her life, ever.

Because that is so my job.

So anyway, after a lot of shrieking and kicking and juggling of art projects and thrashing and hissing-Mommy-voice and a well-deserved time-out in the hallway, I dragged my devastated child from her beloved daycare, wrangled her in to her carseat, and proceeded to listen to her cry and tell me she wanted Daddy to pick her up, not Mommy!! all the way home.

I was somewhat crushed by how this whole pick-up process had played out, but you know what I realized, after thinking about it like all weekend? I think I stress myself out about having Zoey picked up as early in the day as possible, because I feel like she'll be so unbelievably sad if she's the last kid standing in her big, empty classroom. Clearly, this is not the case. This is just another form of Mommy Guilt playing out--I feel guilty that she has to be in daycare for three long days each week, and I assume that she wants nothing more than to see her Mom walk through the door at the end of the day. What I forget is that my small child is nothing if not a social butterfly, and at an age where routine and consistency are key. If Moobee Time is what's on the agenda for the day and what she's expecting to have happen next, well, then we should all pity the mother who walks in the door to tell her otherwise, as this mother's life will be a holy living hell as she tries to re-route her daughter's plans. What I should have done on Friday afternoon was zip up the hill to Target for some much-needed Mommy time, returning to daycare at a more respectable hour and far past the start of Moobee Time, and we both would have been happy. She's not even three yet, but she's already got her own ideas of how she'd like to spend her time...and it isn't always with Mommy.

I guess that's okay.

Because your mind is the first to go

My birthday is coming up. One week from today. This thought truly did not occur to me until my mother called this week and asked if she could come down next Friday and cook dinner for me. (I totally refused. Or...not.) I mean, I guess I knew that October was coming up, and with it my birthday, and then Bryan's...but the only happiness this caused in my brain was the knowledge that we are one month closer to getting this year the hell over with and hopefully moving on to bigger, better, more employed things in the year 2010. (I actually told Zoey this week that I can't wait for her to turn three. Her birthday is December 8 and do you know that, at that point, we will be 23 days away from the end of the year?)

But anyway.

I was manning the recovery room yesterday when I got to thinking that birthdays mean renewing of medical licenses...and don't you usually get a reminder thingy in the mail, like, four weeks before your birthday? I didn't get one this year! Oh yeah...because we moved. So after settling in yet another post-colonoscopy patient I got on the internet and did a little research as to how I could renew my license online.

Washington, of course, does not have an online renewal option.

So, to the backdrop of someone farting REALLY LOUD in the background, I sat on hold for forever and finally got ahold of Tom at the Washington State Department of Health and explained my dilemna. Could I mail my payment in now? (*Loud, trumpeting fart in the background*) No, it wouldn't be processed in time. (*Long, low sad-sounding fart from bed #3*) What were my options? (*Bubbles. Lots and lots of tiny, musical bubbles*) Oh, you can drive down to Tumwater and renew it in person. And by the way, the cost has gone up from $70 to $90. (*What sounds like the loudest, most high-pitched, rivaling-any-old-man fart in the whole world*)

So next week, on my day off, I will be giving myself the gift of sitting in traffic to be the first one at the Department of Health in Tumwater (still not clear on where that is, exactly) where I will renew my nursing license in person, hand over a check for $90 (NINETY. DOLLARS. Do not even get me started on the $550 we have to come up with to renew Bryan's license three weeks after mine.) AND fill out a change of address form so this little problem doesn't crop up again next year.

I am not sure how this little matter of renewing my license fell off my organizational radar when we moved here in March. I am generally much more on-the-ball than this. I must be getting old.

Waving the white flag

My laundry room has waged a war against me.

And I am so losing the battle.

Did I mention that last week the fleas invaded? As in, tiny little almost-microscopic BUGS IN MY HOUSE? IN MY HOUSE?!?

That's right. Lack of funding has led to a lack of flea medication for our two cats and because pestilence has been, to date, one of the few remaining ways in which 2009 has kicked my ass, the fleas moved themselves on in late last week.

Which led to compulsive cleaning levels unheard of in recent months as I scrubbed, mopped, vacuumed, pulled apart, put back together, and scoured the entire inside of my house.

Remember the dining-room-table-turned-castle from my post last week? It was dismantled amidst many anguished cries (until I let the cryer crawl up on the table and help take it apart) so all the assembled blankets could be washed. All bedding was stripped and brought downstairs to wash. Extra blankets, throw pillows, cushion covers, you name it--if it's made of anything that resembles durable fabric, it's been washed in hot water and dried on mega-high-heat in the past several days.

Add this to the fact that Zoey has had an unprecedented number of mid-nap and middle of the night accidents in the past several days, and you can see why I am losing the Battle of the Laundry Room. Believe me when I tell you that I could convert all 40 of my outside-job working hours to hours spent slaving away in front of my washer and dryer and still run the risk of not seeing my laundry room floor by the end of the week.

So, just to recap, we've weathered unemployment, uber-budgeting, potty training, the stomach flu, fleas, a laundry room floor that looks like it's tiled in wet bedding, and the brink of insanity on my part, all in less than a year.

I'm penciling in the herd of locusts for October, a tentative Swine Flu outbreak in November, and the eruption of Mt. Rainier for late December.

I'll bet you all can't wait to read my Christmas letter this year.

Break out the Visine

I love having Wednesdays off.

This has been a particularly crazy work week (two 10-hour shifts so far, complicated by a three hour required class after work on Monday night) and it's nice to have a break in the middle of it all.

Of course, because it's an insane week, I'm totally striving to stock my freezer with homemade soups that will carry us through many harried work-night dinners to come. Because I can totally handle insanity like that.

Last night I glanced at myself in the mirror shortly after my batch of homemade Roasted Tomato Basil Soup was put aside to cool before going in the fridge to chill. My eyes were totally bloodshot. The red was offset by the dark circles underneath. I looked like I had pulled a few too many all-nighters in the casino.

Not pretty.

And because I'd like to show up at the playground with my daughter today and NOT look like I just finished smoking a bunch of weed, I went to bed at 8:45. I think I got approximately seven minutes in to my book before I passed out.

And the great thing about conking out shortly before 9 p.m. is that you can roll out of bed at 6:20 a.m. feeling somewhat refreshed and ready for a day of laundry, playing, cooking, freezing, and trying to convince a certain someone to be brave in the face of a flu shot.

The bags under the eyes are still there, but the whites have restored their whiteness. Thank God.