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.