Number four child was TRYING to whisper in Jolly Old St. Nick’s ear at the Santa Village when she was interrupted.

Elf: “WHICH PHOTO PACKAGE DID YOU BUY?!” the elf barked at us.

Me: “We haven’t chosen one yet,” I said. “We wanted to get in line before it got too long.”

Elf: “WHAT?! Well, you each sat on his lap so you want FOUR photo packages, right?”

Colin:  ”Uh, actually we were going to have them all sit together–”

Elf: “So, what, you WANT to buy FIVE photo packages?”

Us: “Well, er, uh, um –”

Elf (tapping foot): “I can SEE Daddy over here being all SNEAKY with his iPhone when he’s not supposed to be. Why don’t one of you get over here and pick one of of the photo packages. Because Santa’s got a LONG line of people and only 25 minutes until lunch.”

Beat. I exchange glances with Santa. Number 4 is smiling like crazy and whispering in his ear.

Me: “Excuse me. Can my daughter please just talk to Santa for a minute?”
–

Dear Stamford Town Center Mall and Snapfish,

You are on the Naughty List. For sure.

–

This post is part of the December BIG QUESTION Series, “If Only in My Dreams.”

What’s your dream of the holidays? Or how has that dream gone horribly wrong?? Tell us in the comments!

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In which I tried to explain to the kids that our little “artificial” tree is actually “real.”

Existentialism 101

Me: We are putting up our tree this afternoon.
Kid 1: Is it a real tree?
Me: Well, yes, it is a real tree. A real tree in that it isn’t imaginary.
Kid 1: No, I mean, does it–
Kid 2: She means is it the kind with the needles, no.. wait, I mean
Kid 3: The kind that grows out of the ground! That we CHOP DOWN!
Me: Like the one we got when we went to Jones Farm.
Kid 1: I didn’t like that. It was too cold.
Me: The tree we are putting up today is a real tree. A real fake tree.
Kid 2: NO!! I mean, a tree, that like has smell!
Me: I am sure the tree we are putting up today smells. Perhaps like chemicals or petroleum byproduct.
Kid 4: Wha?
Me: Let’s put it this way: The tree is really, real. It will really be in our house.
(Silence)
Kid 3: When can I open presents?
–
Another lovely post in my December “If Only in My Dreams” series. Read more!

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Guest Post by Writer-Runner-Teacher Tricia Dowcett

Whenever my mother asks me what we would like for Christmas, I always reply that I would prefer to do rather than to have.  A show, a day in Boston, a trip to a museum.  She will usually frown and insist that at Christmas, the kids should be able to “open something.”  “They’re not going to get excited when they open Lion King tickets,” she worries.

Admittedly, a gift that is essentially a promise of a gift is a difficult concept for a young kid to wrap his tiny, Target-warped brain around.  But, should that stop us from trying to shift expectations?  Sure, the look of joyous satisfaction on a kid’s face when he gets that Razor scooter or battery-powered Jeep is a pretty rich reward, but who is really more satisfied—the kid, or the parent?  The battery will die and the Jeep will collect mud and spider eggs, and the kid will count the days until the next big holiday so he can get more stuff.

A Walk in the Dark

Tonight, Lexi and I took a walk after dinner, and she asked me if I might point out Orion.  We found the brightest star on his belt, but the clouds prevented us from seeing the rest of his “body.”

“I’ve never seen Orion,” she said, and that surprised me, because I look for him just about every night.

But it’s true: we don’t really go out into the dark and look at the stars.  When we walk in the evening, I’m usually trying to stop the dog from pulling, or the kids from running (we have no sidewalks, so nighttime strolls with the kids can be a little unnerving), so my attention is forward rather than upward.

I told Lexi that on our next camping trip, we’d lie down and look at the stars.  “We can even camp in the backyard again,” she said.

“Yep.  … Hey!” I said, an idea taking shape, “maybe we can go camping on Christmas!”

She laughed.  “Mom!  You don’t go camping on Christmas.”

Too Small for Presents

One of my favorite Christmas Eves, I told her, was spent under the stars, in a natural hot spring in Colorado.  The pool was full of snow-drunk revelers— families, older folks, young couples —all joyously creating an alternative Christmas.  I slept in a cabin about the size of Thoreau’s hut, too small for presents, but large enough to fit a little wood stove, our wet hiking boots, and a bottle of champagne.

I’ve celebrated 39 Christmases, and this is the one I still hold close to me, in a little sachet under my sweater.

Why not, Lexi?  Why not go camping on Christmas?

–

This post is part of the December Series “If Only in My Dreams.” Click here to read more.

Feel free to tweet (#BigQDreams), comment, or if you have more to say, click here to submit.

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Blue plastic comb
Rosemary Spray
Bother the louse
And its tedium.
Glass-half full?
Long sessions
Together on a
Sun-warmed stoop
Hand in her hair.

Day 17, A River of Stones

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The Entire World – Small Stone

You see
“small”–
But me, Mom,
This Smoothie
We Contain
The Entire World

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Maine waters, very good for meditation

This picture reminded me instantly of our summer vacation in Maine and of floating on my back, gazing at the blue sky and hearing only the sound of my own breath.

But then, it also reminded me of this new feeling I own… a tight grip on my heart that comes from the constant stress of responsibility.

After those few moments of perfect me time on the cool lake, I came back to reality, and regained my senses.

After all, there is no real “me” time anymore. Even if I steal away while Colin is with the kids, they are always leaning against my heart, poking me, asking me questions, asking more of me than I’m at first willing to offer– more than I believe I am capable of offering.

And this, I am happy to say, is a mutual feeling.

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Day 16, #reverb10, Prompt: Friendship… How has a friendship changed you this year?

I don’t even WANT to talk about PLAYDATES. But this post is reminding me that so many things I thought I knew about friendship got themselves imploded in 2010 when I really had to start to understand the intricacies of PLAYDATES.

Are they for Mommy? Or for the kids?

Can I them drop off? Who is this kid again?

What do I do with my other kids while this one is playing with her friend?

Why do I need them? (you can ask that question a couple different ways.)

What do I do if I like the mom but not the kids?

What do I do if the kids like each other but I can’t stand the parents?

What do I do if the none of these people seem to like me or our kids?

And then there’s the whole “I have a nanny” vs. “Yours go to daycare?” issue, which means some kids aren’t available. Or I’m not. Or they feel weird about dropping them off. With the nanny.

My crash course in finding friends for the kids is happening in the midst of trying to make friends of my own: through work (most of my colleagues are older with kids in college or none at all) or through common interests and the neighborhood. Most of those friends are younger, with no kids of their own. So these friendships have, naturally, been stunted by our posse of small people.

Which leads me back to the original dilemma: Where are all the interesting, fun parents with young kids? And what are they doing with their time?

People With Kids Are Everywhere, But Where You’d Like Them to Be

Well, they seem to be circling in these strange modern extrapolation of fun called “playdates.” These are generally awkward “get-together” of moms, their kids, and goldfish crackers — often arranged merely because the kids are the same age — where everyone makes half-hearted attempts to talk about anything else but teething, A.D.D. meds, and nutrition.

But no one is able to talk about anything interesting at ALL since:

1. You don’t actually know each other and may not have anything in common and

2.  the conversation swirls around preschoolers. So hence it sounds like a stuttering Tourette’s sufferer who interrupts every nearly complete thought with things like “GET DOWN,” “No-no-no”  and “Not-in-the-mouth!”

Playdates, I think, are like a perfect metaphor for modern family life. I need them– to get out and see people who don’t drool and stomp their feet — and yet they come with all sorts of unintended consequences. Like if I have a playdate with friend Billy and his mommy, but it doesn’t go well, now what? Do I have to keep calling? How does one break up with a playdater? It’s as if we moms, having been married awhile, got lonely for the nasty break-up heartache. And decided to torture ourselves again.

Two good things have come out of the Year of Playdates: I realized that the kids (despite their clamoring for Chuck E. Cheese excursions) are far happier playing with the neighbor kids in our yard or theirs. Regardless of age and gender differences. Big surprise.

And at least one of the regular playdates has started to sound more like a tuned in radio station and less like loud static. The kids play together without the use of cattle prods or bribery most of the time, and the other Moms and I don’t have to say things like “What’s your husband’s name again?”

Or god forbid, “What’s YOUR name?”

Which I’d say is progress.

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One of Colin’s and my favorite things to do is a road trip.

We are at our most relaxed on the way to somewhere, with him driving, and me organizing whatever podcast or playlist or wrong turn is up next.

Our first road trip, en masse however, had me on edge. I had sweet-fond memories of long car trips with my own brothers and sisters when we were young, but I was a happy passenger. No planning required. I know Colin and his family drove across Canada as well (in the winter!) and arrived with some of the best family memories ever, including the image of their family cat running away across the plains.

It’s different when you are in the front seat. You have a better view, and less likely to get car sick. But on our shoulders is the job of making sure everyone is happy.

Highway 12 through the Adirondacks helped. And the snack bag. And Colin’s joy behind the wheel. And easy going kids.

7 hours down. 17 to go.

No related posts.

So I’m just emptying the dishwasher this morning and number one son runs out the the kitchen and says:

“Mom! I just saw this guy on TV! He says he can finish your basement!”

“Oh yeah?”

My mind is spinning. I start to do the math. Local news is on. Commercial jingles ring. TiVo has made my children Commercial-illiterate.  (good) Son thinks man on remodel commercial is talking to him!

“Yeah!” he says excited, but matter-of-fact. “He can put in walls and floors and toys and even a tree!”

“A tree!?”

“Not the big kind, Mom. Just the plant kind.”

It’s easy to cast your eyes away from so-called “failures” when you live with them everyday.Kids are great at reminding us of them in so many hilarious ways.

OK, so yes, I suppose we have some excuses for not getting our projects done around here…oh yeah, like having four new people coming to live with us and having to rearrange every part of our life to make room for them.

The hardest part of that is seeing the death of our “free” time. This year we did in fact get the garden put in again (more on that next post), but our house is literally backlog of unfinished projects that make living here an often less-than-fulfilling experience for Colin and I. Take a walk around and you can see where the time dried up.

The regret at this unfinished life has its own happy countenance.

Yes, of course we love running around with the family to soccer and swimming lessons, to grocery stores and baseball. But as a result, Colin can’t spend a full day installing drywall or skylights. And, of course sitting together with our feet in the sandbox is exactly what is needed right now… it just means one or even two less pairs of hands to clear out the mess at the back of the garage,  to tend to the overgrowth around the pine trees, or to finish the half-done basement.

And, yes, we do get the kids involved in some of the work. They helped me get the garden in this year. But nail guns aren’t quite their speed yet.

Suffice to say, the kids don’t go into the magical mystery basement– it’s just the doorway that mom and dad disappear into occasionally to bring up laundry or tools. But they know about it. They can peek down there and see the workbench mess and the half-completed walls. And while we keep most things under control in the rest of the house, it’s telling that behind this door (and one upstairs too!) Colin and I stash and hide our piles of messy unfinished business.

It reflects the diabolical impact their arrival had on our lives 14 months ago.  But it also reminds me, too, of all the things we are willing to put aside to just spend an hour, a day, a week, a year with them. Doing whatever.

(Overheard)

Daughter 2: What can the man build down there???

Son: Yeah, even a pool, and couches, and windows, and a tank!

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Wow there is SO much “content” out there in the World (Wide Web) to inform, amuse, and berate today’s parent.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Some of it is actually useful. Such as the answers to basic questions like “Which end is up, again?”  “Will it ever stop pooping?” and the classic follow up, “Will the poop ever make it to the toilet bowl?”

The BEST part about parenting website, blogs, advice columns and books is the one inherent truth in parenting: all parents simultaneously feel like a big fat failure in child raising while also believing that they are 100 percent right about their parenting method.

So basically, reading parenting tips is like self-flagellation that has been outsourced.

The breadth of knowledge we have available only leads me to believe we might actually be approaching the end of the world, led by a pack of rabid Moms who all insist that Their Child is “Gifted.”

They will only shortly be followed by the Homeschoolers, Welfare Moms/Dads with More Than Four Kids, and Perpetual Playdaters.

Is it spring yet?

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