Dirty Little Secrets

I love my kids. You know I do. It's just that I'm worried that they aren't shaping up to be very...well...nice.

The glances they give each other and the critical stuff that comes out of their mouths leave my mouth agape.

For instance, they are very much into tween fashion right now. Without Molly ever uttering a word, I can tell she feels superior to other little girls who haven't caught the fashion bug yet and who are still sporting Disney princess attire at age 8 or 9. This from the girl who wore the same pair of $2.48 capri pants from Target year round from when they were ankle long until they became shorts!

My kids, who have not yet discovered a love of food, judge their friends when they raid our snack drawer, sneak food from their parents, or take a huge piece of cake. If they were to put this judgment into words, I guess it would be a "lack of self-control" but instead, they just give each other "the look."

I think they have heard a lot about "childhood obesity" and want to avoid it at all costs. They have always been underweight, so this worries me for my kids and their health, but also for the way they react to others who are different. Trust me, fat kids on tv are still the butt of jokes, and my kids have picked up on it. Ask your child if he'd rather be obese or lose a hand in an accident. Just ask.

My kids judge kids for picking noses and eating, which is ironic considering my son once tried to convince us that boogers should be their own food group.

And they love babies and old people, except for when they don't. "Adorable," "sweet," and "kind" can instead be "smelly," "disgusting," and "gross."

What about whiners, tattle-tales and drama queens? Don't get my kids started.

And appearance? Today we were out and about Jake said, "I just don't know what I'd do if I had ugly kids." Molly gave him a sympathetic cluck cluck, looked him up and down and then said, "Well, I know MINE won't be ugly."

Molly is also experiencing a bit of friend drama. If a friend gets jealous or too needy, she feels uncomfortable and wants to write her off and pull away. I want her to like everyone, all the time, and be the all-inclusive (but not coke-sniffing) Julie McCoy of the 4th grade set.

All this Judgy-McJudgment, coupled with some smart alecky behavior toward me and their poor beleaguered dad, makes me wonder if it's time to pull the plug on the Disney channel or YouTube, or even the cafeteria table and recess, where I've heard that a lot of snarky convos take place.

But before I try to blame all of this on the media or someone else, I need to look closely at myself. The same girl drama neediness that drives Molly away? Makes me run for cover and stop answering my phone.

And while I don't (usually) judge kids for taking that too-big piece of cake, I know Tom and I have felt superior when our kids turn down their sweets and Halloween candy, therefore leaving me more to eat.

I have had a hard time empathizing with my friends when I feel some of their trauma and drama is self-inflicted by poor life choices. Sounds a little like I'm judging them for a "lack of self-control," doesn't it?

It's not as if my kids have no sense of charity. Just this week Molly wanted to have a lemonade and brownie sale for the earthquake victims in Japan. If it hadn't been for an accidental squirt of Dawn into the brownie batter, forcing me to eat the entire batch, we would have done it, too.

This morning we stopped by my dear friend's house to see how she's doing after cancer surgery, and the kids were loving and wonderful. And even though it is still spring, they are already planning ahead to next Christmas when they want to fill 20 boxes with toys for children through Samaritan's Purse.

But what about in their own backyard? The admonition to "Love Your Neighbor" comes into play here. The kids have an easier time loving "neighbors" who are a far away ideal or idea than a nitty-gritty in-your-face entity in their own neighborhood, class, or home.

I, too, am quick to raise money for kids in Africa, or spearhead a clothing collection drive,but I'm also the first one to go all Linda Blair on my poor husband for the grievous offenses of turning the light on while I'm trying to sleep or EATING CEREAL within my earshot. Isn't he my neighbor, too?

And the cashier at the grocery store today, with the visible razor stubble on her chin? Who kept repeating "Thank you, come again" the entire time she scanned my stuff? Was doing nothing wrong, but I wanted to brusquely tell her to leave me the heck alone so I could tear through an entire magazine of kitchen re-do's before my purchases were rung up.

I realize I am just as hateful and hypercritical as my kids are, but I have a more adult filter so I can get by without owning up to my critical spirit and doing something about it.

And the booger picking? When I was little I went to our middle-aged neighbors' house, knocked on their door, and self-righteously informed them with disdain: "Lisa (my sister) picks her boogers and eats them!"

Hey apples? Meet your tree.

A Swish and a Wish

So what do you do when the adorable kid with special needs is the one your kid is to guard in basketball? I’m sure you would say a silent prayer that the other child does well and that your kid remains calm and positive when the boy keeps grabbing his arms, or knocks him over in his exuberance. For 4 periods, your prayer is working, and life is good.

What about when this adorable kid with a heart of gold and awesome attitude “GREEAAAT Game!!” manages to break away from the defender (your son), hooks the ball one-handed over his head and sinks a glorious shot, possibly his first ever? Would you whistle and cheer with the rest of the crowd—an explosion of admiration and awe?

Well, I would and I did. It was stunning and beautiful!

What would you do when your kid, hearing your hoots and the thunderous applause, sags and crumples, chokes back tears for as long as he can, then ultimately gives in to his emotions and needs to sit out for a while? What do you do when the entire gym falls silent, while the coach tries to talk to your son, whose body language says, “I’m done with this! Don’t even bother?”

Well, I tell you what I did, later in the car. I apologized for seeming to betray him, but I explained that this beautiful moment probably meant the world to the other boy, his dad (the coach), and the bystanders who don’t even know the family. It meant even more to the boy that no one just let him score, but that he got that gorgeous shot by working his tail off against a great defender. I explained what a wonderful example the boy’s stick-to-it spirit was to all of us, even the 40-somethings who are prone to give up when things are hard.

Our cheers were for the boy and his accomplishment, not against my son.

As I write this, I am struck by several things:

…how inspiring it is to see someone work extra hard with an awesome attitude to do what comes so much easier to others, and what others take for granted. This makes me want to try harder when faced with challenges, and remember to APPRECIATE what comes easily to me.

…that some people’s struggles are overt, told by a stumbling gait, a too-loud voice or other mannerisms, while others struggle in ways we can’t see, until they come bubbling up like they did for my son.

While most people do not face anything as difficult as the challenges the little boy, Nate, has to deal with every day, many people struggle in small ways every day—ways we can’t see.

It is so much easier for me to show grace to those kids and adults with overt struggles, such as physical challenges, than those which I can’t see immediately or to which I can’t relate.

To Nate, I’d like to say thank you. Thank you for the joy you brought the crowd by trying your hardest. Your heart is huge. You even tried to comfort my son when he was crying.

And to my son, I’d like to say: Trying something new like basketball is not easy for you, but you accepted the challenge. I like the way you have taken chances with hard things like going to camp by yourself, playing on teams, and navigating difficult friendships. Being coachable and staying positive take extra effort from you. I see how hard you are trying. Some days are better than others.

My wish is that you remember these words and that they go all the way into your heart: Your emotions may seem too powerful to you, and that is hard, but they are part of what makes you you. I love you, I love the way you are made, and I am proud to be your mom.

I Resemble That Statement

Artwork by Molly, which MAY allude to the fact that I've never learned how to remove my eye makeup properly at night.

I really don't know what she's referring to.

Stomping Around the Christmas Tree

So on Christmas Eve morning, before our annual Mexican lunch at Chevy’s, dropping cookies off for local firefighters, watching “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and going to church, Mom had a pity party.

I hadn’t slept well because I was disappointed and disgruntled. Tom and I had gone to pick up our new car (my first car ever with power windows!) just in time for Christmas. I pictured something like this, without the BMW part, of course.





After signing all the papers and paying, we took the keys and walked out to drive home. It was the wrong car. Crap. Weeks of deciding, and figuring and waiting--- for what? Of course on the way over I had told Tom very dramatically, “I am so sick of car shopping. If I have to go back to the dealer after tonight, I will poke my eyes out with a screwdriver.” Ooops.

So I tossed and turned, wondering when I’d ever get my new car. Wondering how we were going to cram the 4 of us PLUS THE DOG into a Volkswagen Jetta for our 5 hour trip to my sister’s. Picturing my feet scrunched up on the dash like they were for our Thanksgiving trip. Imagining blod clots and much pissed-off -ness by me.

I grumped around downstairs for a while then crawled back in bed to stew.

Then I noticed I had my period. Three days of fantasizing about a surprise after-40 pregnancy went up in smoke. The whole scenario of having teenagers and a toddler at the same time, with an unplanned (and therefore surely meant to be) child who would be easy, docile, and bring the whole family together just like a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie disappeared too.

When I finally got a grip and put on my big girl underwear (NOT panties, mind you) to start the day, Molly and I began baking. Seconds later, in her exuberance to point out something incredibly important (colorful sprinkles?), she clocked my in the left eye. Stinging tears, a possibly detached retina, and we kept on baking. It wasn’t exactly a screwdriver through the eye, but it wasn’t fun, either.

I thought I was hiding my grumpiness pretty well (unless the zits gave me away) until we got to Chevy’s. Molly announced to Tom and Jake, and anyone else in the parking lot, “Watch out. Mom’s grouchy because she has her period.”

30 Days and 30 Nights

No, not since I last updated this blog with any meaningful content.

That's the time that elapsed between when I realized Molly's hermit crab LuLu was dead and when she finally noticed.

In my defense, I discovered the dead crab the night before the first day of school. Not the best timing for weeping and gnashing of teeth. Remember the new school? The huge class size? The weeping blogger Mom in the cafeteria? The switch from plaid uniforms to go-go boots? The riding the bus for the first time? Yeah.

And it wasn't just Molly's reaction I was worried about. Jake hasn't turned on his ceiling fan in over a year, even though his room is down the hall from the crabs, because he read once that hermit crabs need a warm environment to survive. We've assured him that under no circumstances will his fan kill the crabs, but he's not buying it.

So, yeah, I tucked LuLu's leggy little self back into the shell, clamped my mouth shut really fast, and prayed the kids wouldn't notice her demise for a day or two. I had the utter pigsty of Molly's room going for me on this one.

The good news? The dead crab wasn't Smiley (the beloved crab we almost buried alive over a year ago ) and who appears to thrive on benign neglect. LuLu, the newer (and now departed) crab, apparently needed things like food, water, and attention. Diva.

Best line when Molly finally discovered LuLu's shriveled up body: "Mom, I think LuLu's dead. But it's okay, I didn't have that much time to get to know her anyway."

Yeah, like 30 days and 30 nights?

Quick Question

If you could choose, which of course you can't...

Would you rather have a kid who behaves perfectly at school, yet gives YOU a run for your money in the privacy of your own home...

OR

A kid who is relatively mild-mannered at home, but who gets in trouble at school. A lot?

Decisions, decisions. Well, I guess I couldn't make up my mind, so God gave me one of each.

Yay.

Was that First Period?

If you are in a position to plan such things, I do not suggest attending the Open House for your daughter’s new school on the first day of your period.

When you start to weep in the cafeteria/cafetorium/”multi-purpose space,” you may startle onlookers, and your daughter might detect that you are having second thoughts about this little game of parenting roulette you call her life. In addition, she may prohibit you from ever volunteering to help in her classroom.

Period.

The Lack of Good Humor Woman

Dear Jake and Molly,

The ice cream truck came today. Yep, right to the bottom of our driveway. I cringed when I heard the music. I wasn’t sure where you were, but I knew you would come running, quoting back to me my big promise to buy you ice cream every single time the ice cream truck came around.

You see, my memory was that the ice cream truck came to my house about 4 times my entire childhood. When it did, my mom would buy me an orange Push-Up. I would sit on the curb barefoot with my skinned knees pulled up to my chest as I savored my treat. Sometimes a little would drip on my terry cloth shorts.

With regret, I’d eventually lick the little plastic disc clean, and hope the ice cream man would return—someday. As a kid, I vowed I would always say, “YES” to the ice cream truck.

If I had realized that when I became a mom the ice cream truck would show up several times a summer, as well as park in front of our beach rental each and every day of vacation, I might have amended my statement.

For a while, however, I held fast to my promise. I remember the first time we saw an ice cream truck cruising through a local neighborhood…not our own. I was so excited I could barely stand it. We chased it down in the car and I was your hero.

Another time, we heard the music from our screened porch. I sent Molly, barely a toddler, running for my wallet, and I sent you, Jake, up the hill to stall. I set off on foot in the other direction to make sure there was no way the ice cream man could get away. It didn’t matter that dinner wasn’t finished—I was being FUN MOM.

Today, I wasn’t feeling so fun. I knew that between my working and our wacky summer schedule, we’ve been eating a lot of junk, and I was loathe to bring more of it into the house. Also, I knew we had a freezer full of frozen treats already, and I didn’t want to spend $4 each on those neon green concoctions the ice cream man tries to sell these days.

What happened to classics like Chocolate Éclairs, Nutty Buddies and Push-Ups? I mean, what’s an Atomic Sourball? And Ice Cream shaped like Sponge Bob and Dora? Puh-lease.

Truthfully, I was grumpy because I had just tried to renew our library books online and found I couldn’t because I owed too much money. And no one had read any of the books anyway. Oh, and I had just started my period. Is that too weird to hear from your mom?

And? I was in a hurry to get my act together so I could join a few friends at the local wine bar in the hopes that although FUN MOM was gone forever, perhaps we could re-locate FUN ANNA.

I know, it probably doesn’t seem fair that I got my wine, but you got no ice cream.

When you appeared out of the neighbor’s house the second the truck pulled away, oblivious to the hoopla that had just taken place in our very own cul-de-sac, I didn’t try to flag the driver down, and I kept my mouth shut.

I’m sorry. Sort of.

Love and Hugs, Mom

The Suite Life

The above photo is of Molly’s bed.

Here’s Jake’s:

Which kid do you think is earning $1.00 a day to make Mom and Dad’s bed?

Yep. Bereft at the idea that he is broke and there are apparently more Legos in this world not yet residing in our house, Jake had to find money to feed his habit.

His birthday is almost 10 months away, and the kids don’t get an allowance, so things were not looking good. When he proposed making the bed for me, I said sure. Now I’m realizing that if he keeps this up all year I’ll be out $365!

I’ve got to say, he is a great bed maker. All 6 pillows plumped and lined up. Sheets tucked in, not just pulled up the way I usually do before I sneak out my side.

There is something to be said for being able to climb into a bed made my someone else. It feels decadent and luxurious. I get the same feeling when I eat a meal someone else has cooked.

I'm not sure how long this will last, but I’m really enjoying it. It’s kind of like being in a hotel but without having the whole blue light, body fluid heebie-jeebie thing going on-- or am I the only one who thinks about those things?

Anyway, I plan to enjoy this luxury while it lasts. Do you think I can get him to put chocolate on the pillows next week?

Brand New Look, Same Low Price!

Several of you have sent me dear compliments on my blog’s new look! Thank you so much! I just LOVE it, too. It seemed like the right time to make a change from the basic Blogger template, since I knew my subtitle was no longer accurate.

It said, “A 30-something At-Home Mom…” Well, in a few short months the “30-something” will no longer be true (yikes!), and now that I have new job, my time “At-Home” is greatly reduced. Not that At-Home moms are home all day anyway, but I know you know what I mean.

When I consider my new look I wonder—is it too pretty and pristine for me? The colors and style reflect the things I love, and even the way I try to decorate my house. But, I wonder, does it fail to capture the Gray Areas? The gray on my head, along with the gray areas of mothering, being married, or being a friend?

Ever since I became a mom I’ve tried to be transparent with others, according to my own experiences. That’s one of the reasons I love the blogging community so much and wish I’d known about it when my kids were tiny. Everyone needs to be able to be real with someone. Face to face, this is sometimes hard.

I was lucky to have a few friends and my sister when my kids were very young, to whom I could say things like, “About 3 weeks after your baby is born you are going to start hating your husband for a while,” or “Are you so tired you wish you could go to sleep and never wake up?” or “Do you ever get mad at your baby when she won’t stop crying?” I think letting others know of our struggles, through blogging or face to face, and being real about the gray areas in our lives, helps both us and them.

I think of the idea file I keep of the dream kitchen I hope to have one day. You know I’m a house junkie, right? My idea files are my House Porn. Every kitchen in my file has creamy off-white cabinets, carrera marble or black soapstone countertops, and stainless steel appliances.

Throw in a laughing model dishing up dinner for well-dressed friends or placing a nutritious after-school snack on the capacious breakfast bar for a well-dressed (barefoot, flowing white dress—preferably smocked) child and the picture is complete.

The file holds the ideals, yet I know if I ever do get my dream kitchen, there will still be a stack of papers on the counter, waiting to be dealt with. Dog hair will still be ever present, and the pile of shoes will still seem to copulate and multiply when I’m not looking. A mudroom area, deep storage doors and even a walk-in pantry (oooh, sigh!) could help with this, but real life is still real life.


So I guess my new blog look is an ideal. It’s a peaceful break from the clutter that is every day life, just as my magazine photos provide an escape and a fantasy for me. Most importantly to me, however, is that this pur-ty blog is a place where I can write openly about my days—and some days ARE better than others.

What The???

We’ve been talking about dirty words around here a lot lately. The kids being told by some helpful soul that the “F word” starts with the letters “f” and “u” and hearing someone say “Ass Head” helped get the ball rolling. “My Dog Skip” added “titties” to the word bank. Let’s just say that the days of the “S” word meaning “stupid” are over in this house.

Anyway, as soon as Jake hears a dirty word, he starts to talk about it in lightly veiled terms (“the S word, the D word”) which while under the guise of protecting Molly’s innocence, just gets her more intrigued.

We’ve talked about how certain words or phases can be problematic because they are right on the verge of cursing. Thus my aversion to the current preschool trend of little kids saying “What the??? What the????” Ewww, I do not like that.

Anyway, now that they are 10 and almost 8 we have been giving the kids more freedom of speech than before: Toot has become Fart and Bottom has become Butt.

This pleases them to no end. I’m sure the slight hesitation and sheepish looks that precede the use of these words will not last forever, if they last till the end of the week.

During our most recent conversation they quizzed me on what is and isn’t allowed in our house (“Is darn allowed? Yes. “Suck?” No--use “Stink” instead. “Oh my God?” Absolutely not. “Oh my Gosh?” Well, yes), then Molly came up with this phrase crammed full of Mom and Dad-sanctioned expression.

“So you’re saying it’s okay to say,

Darn it my stink butt farted. Oh my Gosh!”

Much giggling ensued.

I’m sure we’ll look back at these as the Good Old Days.

Don't Get Your Undies in a Bunch

I barely ever go to the mall. As a teen I used to scoff at my mom when she said she hated the mall, because I loved the place. Our excursions, however, especially the bra-buying ones, were painful until she got me my own credit card at age 15 and turned me loose. Hard on the family budget, good for our relationship.

These days I avoid the mall because of the parking, the crowds and the excess. However, on the last day of Easter Break I took the kids to the mall to see a movie. Molly seemed to come alive as soon as we walked through the doors. We passed by Victoria’s Secret and I realized I had a gift card for “A Free Panty” that had come in the mail and it wasn't even expired!

I felt torn for several reasons. First of all, I have never, ever owned a pair of panties. Before you get all grossed out at my personal hygiene, I will clarify—I wear underwear, not panties. My mother, God rest her soul, wore underwear. My sister wears underwear, and I am raising an underwear-wearing girl.

I’m not trying to offend any panty-wearers out there. I know I am very much in the minority, but still. The word panty just doesn’t work for me. Kind of like “slacks.” I wear pants, not slacks. And here’s a bonus: I go pee, not tinkle. Never have, never will. These words make me squinch up my face when I say them, at least in my head. I don't think I've ever said them out loud.

Okay, so I felt a little weird clutching my “free panty card” because of my own weirdness about the word, and because I was fully aware of the two impressionable kids who were with me.

But you know how I like free stuff, so I sauntered into V.S. as if it were the most natural place in the world to be with a 7 and 10 year old on a Monday afternoon. We were in for quite a show. The current display was titled: “Cheeky, Cheekier, and Cheekiest!”

All mannequins were decked out with various amounts of cheek showing. The kids’ eyes were like saucers. It was if Opie Taylor and Gomer Pyle had been plopped down in the red-light district in Amsterdam.

I knew I had to act fast, but I was overwhelmed by the colors, the choices, the words proudly splashed across the fronts and, when possible, the backs of each “panty.” I started to sweat. Eventually I found a plain gray cotton pair and headed to the register.

The kids had started to process, and they began to share their thoughts. Jake’s comment on the 10 foot high boobalicious photo on the wall: "I think it’s inappropriate for that lady to be standing in the middle of her garden in her underwear.” Yes, underwear. Good boy.

Molly’s thoughts: “This place seems really weird, but I can see myself loving it as a teenager.” Great.

I was in line forever when the salesMAN said to me. “You’re going to kill me, but the FREE PANTY (loud!) needs to be black or white.”

I hissed in my quietest hiss possible: “Look, I have 2 little kids here who have seen enough mannequin butt to last a lifetime. Make it work.” And he did.

The whole rest of the way to the theater, I felt guilty for dragging them in there. Were they scarred for life? Did I just sell out my kids to save $7.50 on "panties" (aargh!) that will probably ride up anyway?

No fear. Even if we’d never graced V.S.’s walls, we still had to walk by Abercrombie and Fitch with a 12 foot photo of a bare chested young man with his hand down the front of his pants. Not to be confused with the GUESS store next door: Shirtless man and woman kissing, with HER hand down HIS pants.

A few minutes later, we asked a nice young woman for directions to the elevator, except she turned out to be a “HE,” a fact not lost on the kids.

The movie may have been PG, but the mall was PG-13. I guess you won’t blame me for eating a purse full of candy during the movie to settle my nerves.

Snip Snip

Molly was working on a craft and needed some yarn. I sent her down to the pit of disaster that is the unfinished part of our basement to find some. I told her she would find a clear plastic tub on the top of one of the shelves that had yarn in it. I knew this would keep her busy for a while, trying to navigate through piles of crap.

30 minutes later she came back, bearing some colorful string that didn’t look familiar to me. She was very proud of herself. Later, we were in the basement again and she showed me where she got the “yarn.”

Ooops. She had chopped off the end of my hammock, saved from my mid-80’s mission trips to Mexico. She was mortified. Oh well. If I haven’t found a place to hang it in the past 25 years, I don’t think I’ll be needing it any time soon.

You're Gonna Miss This?

I found this list today on a piece of paper shoved in a blank journal. It just says “Summer 2004,” which would have made Jake 5 and Molly almost 3. You don’t have to read the whole thing, or any of it all. It's not that interesting. I think it captures the grueling, often mundane aspects of being home all day with kids, on a “typical day.” It could just as easily have been 2002 (like the above picture), 2003 or 2005. For those of you slogging through the mud today, hang in there. Reading this, I missed it…sort of. I realize now that while the days are LONG, the years are SHORT. And at least we have blogging now!

7:15 a.m. up, Tom already at work
Paper and Shower, kids parked in front of PBS
Breakfast, I eat, kids don’t
2 Tantrums
Period on shorts
Out door, w/ snacks
Preschool to pick up form
Playground
Oak Hill for forgotten toy
Dumpster dive—new sprinkler!
Let kids go in new sprinkler, fully clothed
Naked Lunch
Nice playing
Put away clothes, organize toy room
Kids rearrange everything to play made up game, “Disney on Ice”
Ants in kitchen
Tantrum (Things not EXACTLY right)
Mom suggests movie
Calls exterminator, does laundry, emails
Molly bites Jake, hard, during movie
M to timeout, J gets popsicle
4 neighbor kids waltz in, uninvited
Mom shoos out—not in the mood
Molly screaming, trying to get out of room. Sticking little hands under the door.
Both kids outside
Back inside, 2 extra kids to play “Disney on Ice” to Jake’s EXACT specifications. (furniture rearranged, toys dumped again)
Make zucchini bread w/ Molly – messy
Call exterminator. Again.
Show neighbors sprinkler, all wet and naked again
Come inside, Stormy weather.
Play game
Raining in kitchen, leaky roof
Lecture Jake about “chilling out” again
Meltdown
Dinner
Spilled milk
Ice Cream
Meltdown, Molly wasn’t doing dishes to Jake’s EXACT specifications
Jake’s ice cream falls on floor, tries to eat it off, weeping
Timeout
Spilled milk #2 and 3
Sweep floor
Baths
7:30 pm Dad comes home
Dad reads to kids
Mom finally goes to change feminine protection. Shorts # 2 stained.

Friday Confession

This is the image my family tends to project at Christmas.

Sometimes, the reality is more zany and snuggly like this:

But a lot of the time, like this morning, it's more like this:

Minus any hint of a smile on my face.

When Jake threw a pen at Molly this morning in anger, I went all Linda Blair on him. I started screaming and ordered him to his room. When he gave me a shocked, angry, defiant look on his way up the stairs, I even grabbed him by the collar and yelled some more. Nice.

Molly told me later that she got caught in a stream of spit coming out of my mouth as I screamed. After I sent them off to school-- Isn't it nice to start their day on such a positive note? You're welcome, teachers!-- I had time to think about what kind of example I was setting.

My anger at his getting angry was about 100 times more intense than his was, minus the flying object. Any message I was trying to send him about self-control was lost in my own venomous rage.

I was really probably pissed because I hadn't had any caffeine, I was freaked about how much I was going to spend at Costco later ($400 to be exact), and I was feeling pressured to pick the "perfect" family Christmas card photo that captured us in all our adorableness. Hmmm.

I used the teachable moment to apologize, explain the irony of the situation (former English teachers like to get that in when we can), give hugs, and ask for forgiveness. All is back to red-plaid "perfection" in the See household again.

For all of us who have screamed at our kids seconds before pulling into the church parking lot, huffed and puffed around our "too small" houses while lamenting our kids' stubbornness and lack of gratitude, and any others who fall short on a daily basis--

I wish a Christmas of Peace, from the Prince of Peace, who loves us no matter what.

Anna's Free Gift Guide

Jake's very detailed Christmas list contains Legos, Legos, and more Legos. I wasn't sure what Molly wanted, so I set her to work on her list. Here it is with corrected spelling:

1. Big surprise is a mouse!

2. Tickets to a Jonas Brothers' concert (please)

3. Do not take me to Home Depot ever again.

#1 gives me the creeps, no way in heck for #2, and I'm seriously considering making a fancy gift certificate for #3. I mean, she's not exactly a whole lot of fun to take to Home Depot anyway. This could be the gift that keeps on giving...