Lofty goals

In the year 2011, I resolve to watch more movies.

I know.  WHOA.

It's just that I am so tired of always being the person at work who has that confused look on her face when everyone is talking about going to see the latest movie.  People have been talking incessantly about some dude named Ryan Reynolds and I have no clue who he is.  (I have been informed I may be the last living straight woman on earth who does NOT know of Ryan Reynolds.)  Maybe I could pick him out of a line-up (or a center spread of People magazine) if I didn't live in a cultural vacuum. 

I'll start slow, don't worry.  My sisters and I might take the kids to see Tangled this weekend.  Charlotte let me borrow her copy of The Joy Luck Club oh, about six months ago, maybe I'll sit down to watch that.

What's that you say?  Ryan Reynolds stars in neither of those films?

Damn.

Happy 2011, everyone.  May all your resolutions be as lofty as mine.

I'm dreaming of a new career

Abby is still here and I am becoming spoiled.

For the past two weeks, on Wednesday evenings, we have had Date Night and gone out for a nice, grown-up dinner.  Last night Alisa joined us and we wandered the aisles of Barnes and Noble as well.  It was like a dream. 

And speaking of dreams, I think I may have discovered my dream job.  While flipping through the Holiday Baking edition of Cook's Illustrated magazine, I began to wonder why in the hell I chose nursing as a career, instead of writing for this brilliant periodical.  For those of you who have never picked up an issue, the writers essentially choose a bunch of recipes, test about 60 different ways to make them, then write essays (witty, entertaining essays) on how they came to the perfect, say, cinnamon roll.  Or pumpkin pie.  Or cranberry nut bread.  Chocolate bundt cake, lemon cheesecake, crescent rolls, say it with me now....yuuuummmmy.

I can practically see it now...my tiny apartment kitchen becoming a test center for new and brilliant forms of coffee cake, Zoey as my sous chef, a flour-coated notebook containing our scribbled notes for exactly how much baking powder went in to this particular batch. 

Maybe someday.

Cookies (finally)

You all will be happy to hear that my cookie press came out of hibernation yesterday, and a double batch of Spritz miraculously made their appearance in my kitchen.  They left behind a trail of cookie dough and sugar sprinkles that required eventual mopping of the floor, but I'm quite satisfied overall and I think my cookie press was happy to escape its box.

Yes, inanimate objects seem to be developing their own personalities.  It;s a sign of craziness.  Or a clue that Christmas is two days away.  Maybe in January I will stop thinking my little-used kitchen appliances are begging to be put to use.  The waffle iron hasn't said anything about being parked in my pantry for nine months.  Just so you know.

Anyway, I attribute this burst of Christmas baking to the fact that I have a helper elf in my house right now, and no, it's not Joe.  My sister flew in from Colorado last Saturday and oh, the beauty of having another adult in the house to talk to!  Someone who can discuss life at a level higher than 'what bath toys are we going to play with tonight?'  Someone who can pluck my preschooler from her high perch on the desk, grabbing for her scissors, while I sit on the phone with an insurance company!  She also brings me coffee at work, has gone to the grocery store twice already in less than a week at my request, and when we went out for a grown-up dinner last night, she dressed me up and even plastered me in make-up that did not make me look like a hooker.  She's pretty amazing.

Anyway.  Christmas cookies.  They're here, and now I feel a bit more prepared for the holidays.

Was that a collective sigh of relief I just heard?  I thought so.

Helping hands

So I keep this ratty old toothbrush in the bottom drawer of my bathroom sink, for scrubbing nasty bits like toilet stains and fuzzies on bathtub drains.  In fact, it is so rare that I do scrub nasty bits like these, I had kind of forgotten the toothbrush was in there any more. 

Until I found it last night, lovingly placed right on top of my own toothbrush in the top drawer.

*GAK*

I can only imagine Zoey rooting around for something (a tampon, maybe?) in the bottom drawer, finding the toothbrush, thinking for sure that Mommy had simply misplaced it, and returning it to where she thought it belonged.  So helpful, those preschoolers.

The toilet toothbrush was thrown away, and a new toothbrush for my mouth was scrounged from the hall closet.  There was Lysol, and there was hot soapy water, and order was again restored to my bathroom.

Letter to Joe

Dear Joe,

Today I was at Grandma Heather's house and I was excellent.  I wanted to tell you because you didn't see me there.  I got to see Grandpa Alex, too.

Love, Zoey

My daughter has adopted Elf on a Shelf as her new religion.  She was so concerned Joe hadn't observed her good behavior all day, she frantically scrawled the above note to him before going to bed.  She believes in him so wholeheartedly, I almost feel guilty.

Elf on the Shelf

Attention everyone with young children:  you MUST buy a copy of Elf on the Shelf, by Carol V. Aebersold and Chanda A. Bell, today.  Seriously.

The book comes in a kit, complete with your own tiny elf, whom you must name immediately (we now live with Joe).  Anyway, the story goes that Santa sends an elf to every house to scout out the Nice/Naughty list.  Every night, after the children are in bed, the elf flies home to the North Pole to give his daily report to Santa, hang out with his buddies for awhile, then flies back to his 'home' for another day of watching how kids behave.  He 'hides' in a new spot each day, so part of the fun is waking up each morning and finding out 'where is the elf now?'

I don't want to brag or jinx my luck, but Joe has been living with us for less than 24 hours and he appears to work miracles.  Zoey completely believes he is flying home each night to tattle on her, and tries her very best to act accordingly.  As she was ramping up for a bedtime-battle-tantrum last night, all I had to do was sigh and feign sadness as I reminded her that Joe was watching, and would surely be telling Santa all about this incident later on.  The tears didn't completely disappear, but we did manage to avoid the time-out chair. 

The biggest challenge is making sure your elf finds a new place to hide each night.  I have a sticky note on my cabinet that says 'JOE'.  The effort is completely worth the resulting decent behavior.

As the story goes, children may talk to their elves, but they can not touch them.  Zoey chose the top of the refrigerator as Joe's first home last night, and I heard her throughout the evening, having sweet conversations with him:

'Joe, will you tell Santa that I really want a Disney Princess keyboard for Christmas?'

'See, Joe, I'm putting away the napkins right now 'cause Mommy asked me to.'

I love anything that fosters Christmas magic for children.  An elf who reminds your children to behave seems like a win-win for everyone, right?

Time

Ohhhhh, this time of year. 

I feel as though I have lowered my Christmas-expectation standards considerably this year, and I am still not able to meet them.  Cue the Christmas-holiday-induced depression.

Example: 

Last year, not only did I make Christmas cookies, I made eight kinds of Christmas cookies.  I had freezer space and TIME and I loved it.  Everybody got cookie plates.  I felt like I was passing a time-honored tradition down to Zoey, which gives any mother warm fuzzies.  Of course, come to find out, everything else in my life was slowly spiraling out of control, BUT THERE WERE CHRISTMAS COOKIES.

This year?  Not one batch.  Not yet, and it's not looking promising.

Example #2:

Holiday decorations.  They were everywhere last year.  I love holidays lights.  This year, not so much.  I have a tree, compliments of Paul from work, and had he not literally shown up on my doorstep like Santa Claus, delighting Zoey to no end with his pine-scented delivery, I'm not sure we'd have a tree, either. 

Yes, yes, I understand.  I can hear you lecturing me from out in cyber-space and believe me, when I called my mother in tears last night, she put a voice to all your thoughts.  Apparently what we're dealing with here are some unrealistic expectations.  She assures me that not one person will care if I don't find time to make cookies.  Zoey will not fall apart if we don't whip up a batch of cinnamon ornaments (in fact, she won't even notice).  Believe me, I know.  This year I have suddenly adjusted to single parenthood balanced with full-time work, and recently have the added baggage of cleaning up my father's messy house.  I can list about eight companies from memory who are waiting for death certificates that I may or may not mail out before January.  I am trying to commit more time to writing on this blog, which means I get up very early or stay up late to write, because I want to.  I want to be more educated.  Read more, listen to more NPR.  This, perhaps, is the goal that tips me over in to the realm of tears.  I look at the stack of magazines waiting for me on my table, or the line of NPR podcasts waiting to upload to my iPod, and all I want to do is cry.

Crying.  It's how I roll this month.

So, last night, I found myself seriously contemplating whether I should go to my company Christmas party or grocery shop at Winco.  There are only so many Zoey-free hours in a month, you know, and I feel like I need to take advantage of them.  However, my Board of Advisors (thank you Mom, thank you Paul) informed me I'd be going to the party.

And I did.  And it was fun.  Far more fun than I had expected. 

Just that few hours of relaxing and having fun with my co-workers was all I needed.  Christmas cookies and what to do with my father's butter tub collection faded to the back of my mind.  I got to dress up and dance with my friends.  I didn't care that I had come by myself.  Nobody cared, they are my friends and they love me whether I have a date or not.  I don't have enough time to do everything I want, just like everyone else, but for a few hours, it's not what we were thinking about.

So thank you, again, to my family and friends who always pull me up when I am drowning in tears, and force me to do what is actually best for me.  Mom.  Abby.  Paul.  Grandma. 

FancyNancyAlisaCharRikkiCarrieDebbieCindyKarenKatieKellyAmyMaggieWandaKendraKimRebeccaKateDrManamWarrenErinKelly.

And Winco?  It's open 24 hours and, if you go at 11 pm, you pretty much have the whole joint to yourself.

We have a reader

Zoey has decided she's learned to read.

All this because, nearly every night, she grabs her copy of Bears In The Night, and 'reads' it to me before she goes to sleep.  The words are simple, correspond blatantly to the illustrations, and boost the egos of preschoolers everywhere, I'm sure.

I love the look on her face when she points out a word or yells 'WHOOOOOO!' (her favorite pages have the obnoxious loud owl sounds on them) and then looks up at me, completely proud of herself.  This is how it starts, right?  Sure, she's not really reading the words on the page.  She has them memorized.  But she points to each one, pauses, looks at the picture...she's putting it all together in her brain.  You can practically SEE the development, right before your very eyes.

Four is a fascinating age.  She's like a tiny little science experiment with an occasional attitude problem. 

Singing and hand motions

Last night was the annual Christmas Program at Zoey's preschool.

Her class certainly won the award, in my opinion, for most enthusiastic ensemble.

Yes, what they lacked in skill, they certainly made up for in excitement and hand motions.  They were one of few classes actually able to drown out the voice-over on the taped background music.  I give all the four-year-olds credit for coordinating the words to Away in a Manger with hand motions, all while keeping their silver tinsel halos fixed firmly on their heads.

And there were COOKIES waiting afterwards!  Cookies!  Apparently nothing motivates a preschooler to cooperate and sing like the promise of treats after a performance.

To My Four Year Old

Dear Zoey,

It is so hard to believe that four years have flown by since that early morning in December, 2006, when you flew in to the world.  This morning I woke up at 5:13 a.m., which is the exact minute you were born.  And I watched you sleeping next to me and thought...damn.  How did this big girl get here?

Kiddo, this year has been one hell of a challenge.  I will probably never know if I thought parenting a three-year-old was extremely challenging because three-year-olds in themselves are oh-so-challenging, or if the circumstances presented to us this year just made dealing with constant temper tantrums and assertions of will seem nearly impossible.  Not that I can blame you.  I had my own fair share of tantrums this year over having to leave our home and our old way of life, and I'm in my 30s.  Life isn't fair, and that's a hard lesson to learn when you're still trying to master writing your own name.

In spite of all the crap, you have mastered so many big-kid skills this year it is astounding.  You can write your own name now!  You can help set the table, clear your dishes, feed the cats, spit out your toothpaste, and undress yourself completely...all skills you hadn't mastered at this time last year.  You also believe you are fully capable of microwaving your own heat pack, answering the door for the pizza delivery person, and reading me bedtime stories.  You refuse to believe you need help with anything, a trait that is equal parts endearing and aggravating, depending on what kind of day we're having.

Your speech has grown and changed so much in the past several months, I can hardly keep up with you...not a day goes by when I am not amazed at the questions you ask, the vocabulary you possess, the fact that you can now pronounce nearly all your r's and l's.  Your Boston accent is fading and it makes me a little sad.  You speak more like a grown-up and less like a baby every day.  But just when I think you are so grown up, you will mix up a phrase or throw in a 'w' in place of an 'r' (where is the caw, Mommy?) and I am reminded of your babyhood all over again.  You try so hard to sound like the big people in your life, but sometimes it just doesn't come out right.  Some of my favorite phrases are 'it happens to the best of us' (used frequently, when discussing why accidents are not so traumatic, after all) and 'you know the drill' (used nearly every day, when trying to motivate you to do things like get dressed or get out of the car).  You try and use these phrases as well, but instead you say 'it happens to the most of us, Mommy' or 'you know the fire drill'.  So close.  Also, since you spend so much time with Gigi, you have picked up a habit of speaking like a little old lady, which delights me to no end.  Your favorite phrases to express excitement/disgust/astonishment are 'OH MY GOODNESS' and 'Well, good golly'.  You throw in a 'good golly Moses' for good measure if you are particularly impressed with your circumstances.  Your old-lady speak makes me smile.  And feel relieved, because Mommy has a bit of a potty mouth and your expressions could be soooo much worse.

This year your imagination has taken off almost as fast as your speech.  You play house with your dolls and Barbies and construct elaborate scenarios where, typically, someone involved is heading to the time-out chair.  You love to be in charge, and to lecture your stuffed animals.  I am not sure if this is a phase typical of all four-year-olds, or if you are going to develop an overall bossy personality.  Not that I would have a CLUE where that comes from, if you did.  Anyway.  You re-create your favorite movie, Cinderella, using all your small princess dolls, and you firmly believe that wearing your t-shirt with a horse on it actually causes you to become the horse.  Ditto with the Tinkerbell shirt.  You frequently request that we play 'Queen and Princess', during which I am the Queen (naturally) and you are the Princess, and you haven't caught on yet that all I am doing is requesting you do everything I want you to do but adding about five 'royals' to every request.  Example:  'Would the royal Princess Zoey place her royal tennis shoes by the royal door where they belong?'  And, all decked out in your Cinderella dress and plastic high heels, you respond 'Yes, Queen Mommy!'  I am wondering how long it will take before you catch on to what's really happening here. 

And can we talk about your sleep habits for a minute, here?  You still sleep with me, a habit you started when we moved in March and which doesn't bother me enough to want to change it and upset you further.  You take comfort in being close to me.  Totally okay with that.  However, if you would just sleep a little bit more, that's all I'm asking!  You need 10 hours of sleep per day, you know that (right?) and I know that.  So, if you're up past 9:00, you must sleep in until at least 7:00.  Trust me on this.  Otherwise, we will all be miserable the following day.

You wake up grumpy nearly every morning.  Disheveled and disoriented, your first question is always 'what day is it?', followed closely by 'what does that day mean?'.  What you want to know is, am I staying home or going to school?  There is always a brief meltdown at the prospect of getting up and ready for school, or your mood changes quickly to happiness at the thought of getting to stay home.  Staying home means starting the day at your own pace...sitting on the couch with your hot milk, watching a cartoon, easing in to the day.  You are much like me in that regard.

Now, the past year has not been all fun and imagination.  We have had plenty of days filled with no cooperation, dragging your feet when asked to do anything, and multiple trips to the time-out chair.  Nothing brings out your grumpy side like being cold, hungry, tired, rained on, or a combination of all these things.  The rain, in particular, really pisses you off.  When your pant legs get wet, it's all over for you.  Total devastation.

You hate to help me carry things in from the car.  You can be carrying only your blanket and teddy bear, while I am loaded down with a purse, your backpack, and four grocery bags, yet you complain loudly and passionately that you have the short end of the stick, here.  I have had thoughts of deserting you in the parking lots more times than you know.

Oh, Zoey, I could go on and on about how much you've grown this year.  You fascinate me, always, because here we have a child who's life has been essentially dumped upside down, and yet you continue to thrive and develop normally.  Nothing seems to dampen your spirit for long, a quality I admire greatly in you.  You are an incredible, smart, funny little girl and my greatest joy is watching how you grow and change every day. 

2011 will be a very busy, entertaining year for us, I can tell.  Your constant chatter and growth will keep it that way.  You've come so far from the tiny baby you were four years ago.  And yet, we have work to do, child.  I still have to sell you on the wonders of peanut butter, Michael Bolton, and sensible shoes.  Maybe by the time you are five.

I love you, Zoey.  I love every bit of your wondeful, magical self.

Love, Mommy

Hot Yoga

YOU GUYS.

Hot yoga is the most amazing yoga class you will ever take!  Seriously.  EVERYONE GO OUT AND SIGN UP FOR A CLASS RIGHT NOW.  Even you menopausal women who hot flash every five seconds.  You will feel right at home in this class, trust me.

I had my reservations about trying this style of yoga, but after several months of taking a weekly yoga class at the Y, I thought it was time to step up my game and see if I could hack it in a class that basically takes place with 20 other people in a sauna.  Several aspects seemed intimidating...90 minutes of hotness...the hotness itself...and what does one wear to hot yoga, anyway?  The website advertised many women wearing as little as possible and that just isn't my style. 

But, as I have learned over and over and over again in 2010, that which seems intimidating and impossible on the surface is really not as bad as I imagine. 

Yes, it was hot.  Plenty hot.  But the 90 minutes flew by, and even though I had completely soaked my tank top and shorts in sweat by the time we were down on our mats, I was still surprised to hear the instructor announce we were doing our last pose. 

And when I walked out of that studio, I felt like a million bucks.  The sore neck I had when I walked in to the class was miraculously gone, and my skin, after I showered off the salt, was glowing.  During the class, because the heat stretches your muscles so well, I was nearly able to touch my toes...a pose I am never able to accomplish in my regular yoga class. 

So, I highly recommend everyone run out immediately and find the hot yoga studio nearest you.  You won't be disappointed.

I'm back. Pretty much.

Hey, here's to the first post in, what, over two weeks?

Yes, 2010, I admire your dedication to sucking right up 'till the very end.  You weren't going to let me off the hook with two easy months before ringing in the new year, were you? 

While contemplating a timeline of 2010 in my mind, it was quickly decided that I won't be sending out Christmas cards this year.  Because, as a good friend pointed out, you just CAN'T send out cards saying '2010 sucked even more than 2009!'. 

The past several weeks have been a blur of my dad's funeral, work, cleaning out so very, very much of dad's stuff (deadline looming: we have to have it all out by January 1), and keeping up with Zoey.  Ah, Zoey.  The person who keeps me grounded in reality, and the only reason I am not personally cancelling Christmas this year.  Because four-year-olds make this time of year magic no matter the crappy circumstances surrounding them...there are still Christmas programs to attend (will Zoey finally understand before Thursday that 'The Cattle Are Lowing' is not an actual song, but only the second verse in Away In A Manger?) and gifts to track down as Santa's #1 helper. 

And, this weekend, I have a break!  My mom took Zoey Friday evening and won't be bringing her back until tonight.  This has cleared up plenty of time to accomplish some things on my to-do list, and my first Hot Yoga class is looming later on this morning...wish me luck.  If I don't pass out from heat exhaustion, I will try to blog more on the experience later.  For now, I'd best be googling the address of the yoga studio so I know where I'm going.