Drip

Don't cry over spilled milk. Really? That saying fails to take into account the extensive splatter pattern of a full 8 oz. cup of milk escaping the hand of a child to bounce off the floor. "So-and-so spilled milk, but she's cleaning it up..." is not what a mom wants to hear first thing in the morning- especially prior to the consumption of coffee. This is a fairly regular occurrence, and that regularity makes each subsequent spill seem worse than the last.
Downstairs, the child in question was miserably attempting to sop up milk dripping from cabinets and appliances as well as pooled around her on the tile. In one of those moments guaranteed to garner Mother of the Year, I snapped at her to let me take care of the mess. Milk was everywhere. She stood aside with an expression the mister says would have been appropriate at the scene of someone who had killed off a beloved grandmother by misadventure.
Fifteen minutes later the milk was off of every surface visibly affected, and others were wiped down just-in-case, because milk dries to the consistency of shellac. By that time, we needed to hit the carpool lane. Skater Girl accepted help getting into a raincoat and covering a diorama (due yesterday) in a plastic bag to protect it as a sign of parental remorse. We headed out into the rainy morning, and made it to the drop off just before traffic began to line up. She seemed cheerier after receiving an, "I love you! Have a better day!" just before exiting the car to make a run for the school.
On the drive home, the possibilities for avoiding more incidents like this one without depriving a growing child of her daily dairy intake occupied my thoughts. I wonder if she's too old for a sippy cup? After all, her mama's afflicted by the same tendency to spill. Except that my Super Power typically manifests itself with coffee. (Thankfully, I drink it black which is easier to clean up than that doctored with milk or sweeteners.) As a result, reusable ceramic coffee cups with silicone lids have become all the rage at our house. While I can still spill despite the lids, the mess has been greatly minimized. Yes, sippy cups just might be the answer if such things can be found in patterns not suited to the toddler set.

Truth or Dare

I used to wonder why swimsuits were in stores in February. Today it's 76 degrees outside. I dare say this not only explains the swimsuits, but also the seemingly early clearance on outerwear that was displayed right next to the teeny-weenie bikinis. Middle Child picked out a swimsuit, but I opted for perusing the coat clearance instead. My decision was in part based on it being (Let's just say it again to be completely clear.) February- which is clearly a Winter month in North America. At least, it's supposed to be winter.

That preference for coats this time of year was not solely related to what sort of weather ought to be gracing Pleasant Suburb though. One ought to be honest, after all.  That said, just because honesty is a virtue does not make it a desirable trait in clothing. The swimsuits won't lie to me. Worse, they don't lie to anyone else about precisely what shape my body is in at the moment, either. The coats? They're far more likely to hide the truth. And right now, the truth could stand to be hidden for at least a few more weeks.

Coaching

The Skate Coaches signed off on the application for Off-Campus Physical Education next year. If the school district approves the application, then Skater Girl can avoid the horrors of dressing out and a gym that reeks of Eau de Feet. The Skate Coaches are heroes, and only partially because my kid may avoid the ick-factor of the middle school locker room. It's a very good thing to see the positive reinforcement and encouragement they shower on Skater Girl. Some days, I just want to cheer for the coaches because they are building up our girl in ways that extend beyond her skating technique.

After a day heavy with skating and skating-related administrative tasks, Middle Child came home and announced that she's thinking of quitting Cross Country. I'm not sure what to make of that because she's the first to admit that much of her identity is tied up in athletics. More importantly, she has spent years running because she loves it. Now, she says she doesn't love running, and, worse, that it's become a source of stress. I'd like her coach to understand that she's not motivating my kid and her version of discipline has sucked the joy out of the workouts that have long fueled Middle Child.

This weekend is our school's home meet, and Middle Child's Other Mother/small-group-leader-at-church-for-the-past-four-years will be volunteering. That's a chance for that Other Mother (OM) to break out the Rah-Rah at least. Plus, this particular OM also happens to be a former co-worker and current friend of the CC/Track Coach. Maybe the OM can shed some nonprejudicial light on whatever is going on with our kid and her coach because all I know is what I'm hearing from the runner girls. (Let's face it, the court of public opinion can be absolutely wrong when assigning motive. And this court is full of teenage girls...) Right now, the hope is simply that our girl chooses to stay with the athletic program for at least the Cross Country season next Fall before deciding to hang up her competition spikes.

Indecisive

In one of those, "Are you kidding?!" moments, Perfect asked Middle Child if she would rather go to the Winter Formal or Broomball. (The youth group's annual late-night broomball session is the same night as the dance.) This was an excellent opportunity for her to exercise a bit of self-restraint and not shriek, "YES! YES! YES! I have just been waiting for you to ask!" She was not only restrained, but avoided any indication that she was dying to get all dolled up to spend a whole night dancing with Perfect. He tried expressing that he would not want her to feel like she, "...had to get all prettied up if she didn't want to," attend the Winter Formal in an effort to get her to indicate a preference for one activity over the other. She responded with the reprehensibly unhelpful willingness to do whichever activity suited him.

She does not even like broomball. Oh, and she has decided that she does not like the shredded mullet dress, either.

Tidbits: Expiration

• I cleaned out the fridge. "There are starving children in Africa/China..." ran through my head as a wrinkled bell pepper, fuzzy grapes, and a bottle of French Salad Dressing (Best By AUG0811) were revealed hiding out in the nether regions of the fridge. At least there were several items discovered approaching the toss date that have been moved up on the mental priority list for use.
• A letter from the Department of Public Safety states that my driver's license must be presented at the local DPS for renewal. Oh.but.no. Pleasant Suburb's DPS is legendary for the inefficiency of its staff and the length of the line to conduct any sort of business. Avoiding that office is one of the reasons my big kids do not drive. I'm not sure that I intend to continue driving if it means going to the DPS.
• Perfect has not yet asked Middle Child to the Winter Formal. Despite the back-up dress in the closet, there is still time to order the pretty, pretty princess dress online (Now Sale-priced!) if an invitation is issued by Friday. After that, we'll just be waiting to take back the shredded mullet dress within the 30-day window for returns if the dance is not added to Middle Child's calendar.

Stretch

I need to go to the grocer. In the spirit of enabling myself, the decision to attempt one of those pantry cleansings where one makes meals with the items already stocked has been made. The idea is intended to maintain a coupon queen's stockpile, prevent items from exceeding expiration dates, and allow one to shop according to sales. It can also stretch groceries until pay day. Such a brilliant idea can be turned as easily to procrastination as thrift.
To that end, I've taken stock of what's on hand. Staring into the refrigerator and freezer, the obvious answer to, "What's for dinner?" was a glass of wine and a bowl of ice cream. Suspicious that the mister might question the nutritional benefits (and legality as the lovies are all quite underage for alcohol consumption) of this plan, a pork roast was shifted from freezer to fridge to defrost for tomorrow. Pasta, cheese, herbs, and vegetables that can serve as a meatless meal between Skater Girl's lesson, Middle Child's youth group, and the mister's band rehearsal make a busy evening easy. With rice, beans, and assorted staples, it's likely that a grocery trip can be put off for the remainder of the week at least.

Museum Piece

The Boy may well end up completing his high school education away from us. He's progressing in his new Home Away from Home. This feels like a half-life as a mom. Not a failure, but not quite what I signed up for, either. These thoughts are swimming near the surface of my thoughts of late. Not that one's offspring are ever fully banished from a mom's mind, but there are some pools of thought which are less often explored than others because they are too deep, and the danger of drowning too great.
Perhaps the thoughts are stronger today because the Boy's 16th birthday came and went with nothing more to mark it than a brief visit to the school without so much as a candle stuck in a twinkie (There are rules about bringing in outside food to the dorms, but there are vending machines with all sorts of junk. Don't get me started...) because the vending machine ate the coins without dispensing the cello-wrapped, processed mini cakes selected. The absence of the twinkie was somehow more difficult to swallow than the inability to make Evan the red velvet cake he would have really enjoyed. It just seems so pathetic to be willing to settle for the shadow of a celebration only to be unable to even pull that off successfully. Or maybe those thoughts are just more potent because I spent yesterday afternoon hanging out in what should be his bedroom?
That bedroom sits vacant in a mute testimony to what I wish. What I hope. What he did and did not choose. There have been conversations about converting the room to a space that can be used by those of us who live here in more corporeal form, but I resist. He never made that room his own. It still has the new ceiling fan to match the light fixtures in the rest of the house sitting in the unopened box on the floor because the mister and the Boy were going to install it together. The paint color was on the walls when we moved in, and he consistently deferred choosing another color despite several conversations about repainting the room to suit him. The narrow twin bed remains undisturbed by any but the old Bella cat day after day. The Boy's other furnishings speak of teenage boys in game rooms and locker rooms with a penchant for the color red. Still, I have stood guard over that room for months as if it housed my dreams.
The behavior is not terribly different from a parent who has lost a child and refuses to clean out the room or let go of possessions. This has always seemed a sad tendency to create a museum piece to the frozen last moments in time with lost loves; yet, I so understand the why and how of it. My mister began to wear the Boy's clothes because he is practical, but I was horrified by this act of betrayal as if he had voiced out loud the possibility that our son might continue on to adulthood without living under this roof we prepared for the restoration of our family of five. As if he were really gone, and we were only four. And that was not pretty. Letting go of the clothes came only after a visit when the Boy stood taller than I. The pants that I so resented seeing on my mister would be a tad too short for the Boy now. I sobbed alone later over this evidence of change and growth... but also saw in it the reality that I cannot hold on to the frozen dream of being a whole, normal family in this place at this time.
More than one crying jag, daydream of normalcy, hollow-chested desperate prayer, whistful wish, and brutally cut off thought unbidden have characterized the past months. Not unlike the Mothers with Museums, I grieve for the loss of What Could Have Been. What Should Have Been. Like those mothers, I am fumbling along trying to find the New Normal. To just be okay. Unlike those mothers, I have the possibilities of a future with my child to pull me away from the museum I would create to avoid the terror of forgetting a Lost Love. Because my love has simply chosen a route where I cannot walk alongside him, but he still travels onward toward manhood.
Yesterday, I pulled the bedding from his long unslept in twin bed, stood the mattress upright against the wall, and the mister took the frame apart. We will drive these pieces over to be donated to another family's need this weekend. Later, the mister and I drove home in the mommobile with a double mattress and bed frame in the back and a box spring tied to the roof. We wrestled the bed up the stairs and into the shambles of what was the Boy's room. The new bed still needs sheets, but I have a sense of the look of it after draping it with the quilt and the pillow shams that will match the paint on the walls. The locker room accents look wholly out of place now, and will likely be the next items to go. I feel a pull toward completing the transformation of this space into a guest bedroom not in order to cleanse it of my son's presence, but because the space will reflect the potential for future use. The unknown identity of the future guests whose heads will rest on those new pillows may well include none other than the one whose presence I have tried so hard to hold static in the place that was never really his own. Perhaps he will retreat there one night after enjoying a slice of his mother's red velvet cake...

Yoga

It was 18 degrees outside this morning. Walker suggested that we try a yoga dvd inside. With the heater on. There was instant agreement. Having slept in sweats last night, it was a simple enough thing to roll out of bed workout ready. Walker had a pair of bright yoga mats unrolled across the living room rug and the coffee table out of the way. She was failing to make the dvd work with the "intuitive" remote, and I was trying to stuff down the trepidation over trying to embrace a workout that involved something more complex than walking.
Artist wandered out of her bedroom and studied us momentarily before issuing the warning that her friend was coming over. (Goody. An audience, or maybe people to call 911...) Artist explained to Walker how to work the t.v. patiently (Seriously, Middle Child just takes the remote away from me and pushes the appropriate buttons to make Evil Electronics work in similar circumstances.), and we eventually had three women (in better shape than us) confronting us from the screen. I started to laugh while Walker and Jillian Michaels both pointed out the lady who would be doing the less painful beginner movements and poses. Of course, the poses have sometimes silly names which failed to diminish the urge to laugh.

Jillian, Walker, Beginner Lady, and More Advanced Lady all assumed the opening pose and inhaled. I tried. The attempted seriousness just led to laughter. The poses led to even more laughter. There was potential for hysteria when the poses were coupled with their names. Artist's friend arrived while Walker and I had our middle-aged behinds pointed skyward and Jillian blathered on about camels or dogs and encouraged us to keep breathing. Artist quietly informed her friend that I'd been laughing the whole time as they passed through. That, of course, struck me as funny.

Walker continued to follow Jillian and the Wonder Twins through the workout. Sometimes I figured out what they were doing before they were all done with it. I eventually quit laughing after a sharp pain radiated from my lower back in response to one of the suddenly less funny poses. Ow. I looked over at Walker and remarked that it was going to be kind of pathetic to have thrown my back out doing the Level 1 Yoga workout. (What the heck do they do at Level 2 anyway?!) She nodded in sympathy and managed to simultaneously keep thrusting her leg into the air in time to her breathing.
After our experimental workout, Walker mentioned that Half Price Books might have a copy of the yoga dvd. Then I could do yoga at my house, too. Mmmph. I thought about the assorted movements and poses. Then I reconsidered them from the male perspective since my mister works from home. Mmm. No. The only way I could see yoga at home being helpful would be if we were trying to get pregnant.

Circling

Uh-oh. Walker texted last night with the great news that she had found a trustworthy mechanic with fair prices. She said her truck was not running well, so she took it in to discover that it needed a new coil. I have no idea what a coil might be or do. I do know that my same make and model Mom Mobile gets a nasty case of the shakes on an incline. This seemed like a good time to ask if her version of "not well" might include a vibration. Uh-huh. Oh. With confirmation that the vibration tends to get more exciting on an incline or while accelerating, I asked that she please pass along the contact. I'm not going to mention a coil when I call the guy, but I will not be too surprised if it turns out that our similar issues turn out to have a similar cause.

The truck is currently very likely to end up as the learning vehicle for the kids. (If they can park an Expedition in a tiny parking spot, then they might be ready to drive.) As we considered the potential for teen drivers looming on the horizon, my mister commented that it's time for my Mom Mobile to go kablooey. (Actually, he used a rather effective sound effect, but I cannot spell that, so be content with the relatively clear, "kablooey".) This conversation, of course, came a day or so ahead of Walker's text. We're more accurate than Murphy's Law around here. The conversation is one that has been ongoing as part of the larger one on whether or not to consider a third vehicle because it is time for The Boy to be in possession of his learner's permit, and our intent had been to put him in driver's classes in January with an eye toward a license in the Summer.
Instead, he will probably end up eligible to drive about the same time as Middle Child. That way we can add not one, but two teen drivers to the insurance at one time. And "Why not?!" since that pair have so often hit milestones together despite their two year age difference. The reality of the Daring Duo being behind the wheel in three years... wait a minute. Today is the 30th... so from 2011 that's two years. They can both be driving without a grown-up in the car to stomp ineffectually on the absentee passenger side brake while hissing and hyperventilating in 2013. So my math is still off. That means a permit could be in Middle Child's hands in 2012.
It seems like so many decisions come back around to the unknowns around the Boy... Should we save for a replacement Mom Mobile, and let the offspring learn to drive in the tank-like safety of the Expedition? Will we be able to afford both of them driving at once? I think that simply getting whatever is giving the Expedition the shimmy, shimmy, shake-shakes fixed is about as far into the future as I am prepared to peer this morning. Everything else just circles back in on itself. Raspberries. And how could I have failed to realize that my girl is only seventeen months from eligibility for a driver's permit?! She's still kind of little. In my head.

Tidbits: Should

• Walker and I met before dawn for Girly Coffee while our guys had their weekly Man Meeting. We really ought to be walking, but it was both too early and too cold for either of us to feel remotely motivated.
• Ow.  I had a crown seated. Woo. Or, perhaps Boo. My theory that this should be a quick and done appointment flew out the window with the administration of antibiotics because, "...this might be a little complicated." Eh? No. Just pop out the temporary crown, and cement the new one in place. Mmm. No. There were bad things happenin', and now I am sore despite having been numbed so that I cannot feel my nostrils two hours later even though the medication should have been a fast-acting one that wore off quickly.
• The mister had a cleaning while I was being poked and prodded. He? Still has his wisdom teeth. At least, he does for the moment. Those should have already been taken out. Lovely.
• I should knock out a couple of loads of laundry, e-mail the Familia Alastero sponsors to invite them to send letters, cards, photos, and/or gifts to their sponsor children, finish bagging some donations, and take down the Christmas decorations.
• Words like "should" and "ought" tend to force some small rebellious seed buried within me to sprout into a writhing, live thing from time to time. This is usually a strong internal hint that a Day Off is due. Sooo... since it's cold, I am going to crawl back under the covers and catch a movie or read instead of working on the things that could perhaps otherwise (not better, just otherwise) occupy the afternoon.

Away

*sigh*Our family endured almost a year of separation while the Boy was "away" for his freshman year in high school. It was a bit like what has been described in amputees as a "phantom limb" where one can feel a limb that is no longer present after an amputation. Still, there was more joy in the reattachment of our missing limb to the family body last Summer for having come through the time of separation.
The week before the girls and I left for Honduras, a phone call came as I sat with a friend in the hospital waiting for medical tests on her son. The call was one of the few that could have taken me from her side at that moment. Our son was in trouble at school, and we were being notified of an In School Suspension. Oh.but.no. Stomach clenched into a hard, cold knot and mind numb, I phoned the people who have authority over our son thanks to his previous poor choices to ask what would come next. Listening to the instructions, the grief carefully walled away long enough to manage the brief explanation to my friend as to why I would leave in her time of need. The drive north was uneventful, or at least unnoticed. I pulled into the driveway, and the Boy climbed into the Mom Mobile. As we drove, I fielded phone calls from the various people who have the power to dictate our lives based on our son's choices.
The meeting we attended yielded several results. I was instructed to go to Honduras. To keep plans made with our daughters. To hold our family together as it splintered again. The mister would remain home over Thanksgiving not for the Guys' Week anticipated with the Boy, but alone. Home alone in the house we chose to provide our family with a fresh start. The place we chose for our Boy to come home to... The Boy was to be returned to his previous housing.
Yesterday, I sat waiting. Our advisor was on vacation, and the Boy's provider was not present. Nothing would be resolved. I received approval for a "pass" that will enable us to wait until next week to hear The Boy's fate decreed by those who seek to help him. We pray for him, we miss him, and we wait for him to realize his potential. Most of all, we love him. It is expected that he will be taken further away this time. A year of him across town produced a constant awareness that he was just out of reach. The delight and the strain of having him home was a challenge, but worthwhile. Having him torn away again is a grief that I cannot quite give myself over to while we are as yet unsettled.

Aired

A friend's child shot his mouth off. She promptly banished Sir Mouths-off-a-lot to his bedroom. He went to his room. He took his cell phone along. Once the door was closed, he proceeded to call his Daddy to complain about the meanness of Mommy. Daddy presented a united front with Mommy, and the fellow who came out of the bedroom after the chat with dear Daddy was apologetic and respectful. Of course, Mommy was less-than-thrilled to discover that this change of heart had been initiated by Dad.
I know all of this because it was on Facebook. I started to commiserate as I imagined Middle Child being sent to her room only to whip out her cell phone in a fit of temper. Except that MC would probably hop on Facebook rather than call her Daddy for wise counsel. I began to type a comment saying that she could at least be thankful that the whole disagreement was not being aired on Facebook for the whole world to read... oh. Yeah. Hee. Delete. That would've gone over like a ton of bricks--- however well intended the commiseration.

Morning People

Sure. We can be up and out the door before dawn for a few days with coffee in hand and a cheery, "Good Morning!" to greet my sleepy-headed teen as I slap a yogurt and a breakfast sandwich in his hand to be eaten (oh, shame...) in the car. No big deal. The sunrise is pretty reflected through all the highway emissions. Yes, it is. Makin' with the sunshine...
Um, wait. The information imparted at last week's Cross Country meeting clicked into place as I plied my too-bright morning cheer during the early morning cruise in the mom-mobile to get The Boy to practice. The regular school day practices will begin at 6:15. The boys are supposed to be on campus by 6:00. That means driving him to school before 6:00. Every single day. Oh, my. I wonder if it is possible to un-know this tidbit to spare my thoughts from the anticipation of the return to being Morning People that, all too soon, heralds the dawn of the new school year?

Wallflower

Standing in the kitchen with the mister, I commented on the Holy Discontent discussionn group's increasing number of what can be described as conversation with feeling. Those exchanges of words when the speaker's convictions pop up and say, "Hello!" There is no absence of passion in that group of women. Commenting on the notably increasing occurences of feminine passion conveyed in our talk, I told the mister that these particular ladies were not, "Wallflower Women," and he was quiet for a moment or two before replying that he did not think there was such a thing.
I thought about how desperately I can wish to melt into the floor or a wall if thrust into a group of Pleasant Suburban PTA Mommies. Of how my spirit quails at the idea of being surrounded by semi-strangers at one of those parties where the hostess is earning free stuff by selling the guests some exciting product. Of how much reliance there is on a cup of coffee or punch in hand to keep from fidgeting in social situations. (I once fled an engagement party where everyone was of the closest relations. Worse, it was an engagement party in honor of the mister and I.) I can go all sorts of wallflower in under sixty seconds unless an escape route makes itself known. Yet, our subject matter has been that searching for what stirs us. The question, "How is God shaking your tree?" Is one that fails to encourage shrinkage.
I figure that says more about God than it does those women, though the women still have that free will thing going on... but we are not going down the Free Will and Predestination rabbit trail today. I was just taking a few minutes to marvel at the way that passion bubbles up. The author is encouraging each reader to seek out that place where God has built in a unique passion, and to feed it. Each week, the ladies come together and, whether the sparks of our little firestorms of frustrations are large or small, there is something of a conflagration coming that will prevent any of us from remaining ignorant of how we may serve.

Inconsequential

Nothing big today. Just a few little things.

• The Boy is feeling no pain, but he looks a little like a chipmunk with his post-extraction swelling.
• I have an appointment with another in the slow parade of -ologists on the 28th. Still no idea why my spleen and liver are enlarged.
• Little Bit has become enamored of a blue shirt with a star on it. I am going to hide it because she has been wearing it since Sunday. First, I will have to extricate her from it.
• Middle Child has somehow managed to murder the computer she saved to buy herself for her 12th birthday. I hope the mister and I sprung for the "no matter what" replacement plan.
• My closet may have a moth. I am finding an increasing number of articles of clothing with holes in them. Shopping is not my happy place. The full-length mirrors and inconsistent sizes tend to highlight the body image issues that are otherwise held at bay by ice cream.

Grudge

November, 2000: Library books helped maintain my sanity while stuck on bed rest in the final trimester of pregnancy with Erin. The mister turned in the last batch of books while I was in the hospital after delivery.
March, 2001: Library notification of a missing book and the bill for replacement cost arrived. (Mad search ensued. Book found under bed. Uh-oh.) The book was returned to the library and the baby displayed to the librarian along with the bill. Despite the explanation of, "I was GIVING BIRTH," the librarian in charge of fines proved unsympathetic to the circumstances. She decreased the amount owed to reflect the $21 late fee rather than the $22 book price. How gracious. Irate library patron left without paying the fine, and vowing to forgo the benefits of an active library card in the face of stupidity.

June, 2010: Leaving Erin at home under her Daddy's care to watch t.v. while clutching her glitter-covered plastic box of baby teeth and chomping on gauze post-extraction, the elder offspring and I headed for the new library branch a couple of blocks from the house. The big kids have lived with Mom's enmity toward the Pleasant Suburban Library since Evan was in kindergarten. It seemed reasonable that they should accompany Mom on this errand of restoration.
We entered the long avoided coolness of my one-time haven as defensive supplicants. I explained a tad too cheerfully to the nice lady that, "I need to pay the most asinine library fine ever levied." She took a step backward, but then proceeded to the keyboard to look up the offense. I paid the fine while explaining how it came to be. The lady very apologetically explained that there would be a $1 fee for a replacement card. (The original was recycled into confetti. Very small bits of confetti.) Fair enough.
The big kids and I each picked a couple of volumes off the shelves, checked out, and stepped out of the building with our shiny renewed library cards. The kids waited very patiently while I entered an abbreviated portion of each title into my phone so the calendar will alarm two days prior to the due date. We are reinstated into good patron status, and none of us is anxious to sacrifice another decade of library access over late fees anytime soon.

Boxy

There are still boxes left to be unloaded. All six are packed full of papers, photographs, decorative items, and a hodgepodge of whatnot from batteries to ballpoint pens. These are the boxes of stuff I did not know what to do with before we moved. Somehow, I thought they would have a home once we found our new one. Not so much. I wonder how the new Homeowner's Association regards backyard bonfires?

Collectibles

The children, and sometimes the mister and I, choose or are given a special ornament to mark each year. Some reflect interests or hobbies while others are simply expressions of personal taste. This year, staring at the rows of ornaments in the store, it was with an overwhelming awareness that The Boy would not get to choose an ornament. Turning to leave empty-handed, I narrowly avoided crashing into a stand with small sled ornaments featuring names. Selecting one with each of my children's names regardless of where they call home this year, I proceeded to the checkout with a heaviness not typical of this usually fun errand.
This was not the spirit of the tradition. We joyfully select ornaments when given choices, and are typically tickled when someone opts to give us one such as the hand-carved works of art (2007's angel representation is shown at left.) my parents bring from Arkansas each year. While the pride of our tree are absolutely the handmade ornaments of paper, aluminum foil, pipe cleaner, and toilet paper roll created by our children over the years, Mama collects Hallmark ornaments which means the offspring receive them. (Those no longer go on the tree after discovering that cats climb Christmas Trees. Now they are primarily attached to the garlands that are not going up this year. When the lovies are grown, their collected Hallmark ornaments from over the years will go with them to begin their own trees. Ours? Will still be covered in the children's handmade treasures.) The girls and I made a trip to the Hallmark store after they asked about those ornaments. Faced with the clear indication that this was important to them, it was back to standing before the ornament display. To avoid my previous situation, I suggested a family ornament this year. The only one the girls agreed on was "The Corpse Bride". Really. *sigh*

The girls each picked out their own ornament with the caveat that anything dead or the representation thereof would be vetoed. It tickled me no end that Middle Child selected the fra-gee-lay Major Award of "A Christmas Story" fame. Little Bit went with a star of Bethlehem ornament. Loving that the girls had rather nicely represented both our Christian celebration of the birth of Christ and a bit of favored pop culture goodness, I was rather glad to see the new additions on the tree despite the dangers of not one, but two, cats and the pair of rough-housing dogs.

Open and Shut

It has been pointed out that most individuals would opt to redo something indoors, like a bathroom in winter and replace doors in warmer weather. Not us. We tear up the bathroom before it gets so hot that everyone feels perpetually sticky from heat and humidity. And doors? Well, we finally pulled the trigger on the patio doors despite temperatures cold enough to allow Texas to see an early snow recently. Because we can bundle up if it happens to get cold inside, but once one is maked there's little to do about the heat. Not that we run around here naked in the Summer with or without workmen on the premises. This is solely an example intended to clarify the logic in our out-of-season home improvement projects.

The mister and I tend to set a glacier's pace in our replacement plans. The old sliding glass door was installed when the house was built in the 80's. The seals on the glass gave way around 2004, but there were some hiccups in replacing them. We could not simply replace the glass, but would have to rip out the whole door. If we were ripping the doors out, then why not explore the option of french doors? It turns out that the hole in which the original doors fit is no longer a standard size for either a sliding glass or french door to be found in-stock at every Big Box Retailer. Nope. Big Box also seemed conflicted as to whether the sliding glass door or the french door was the variety unavailable for our patio entry and exit. Oh, and, just so we could prepare for the added demolition needed for installation of our shiny new doors? Head's up: the builder opted to fit the door in before covering the frame over with brick and mortar on one side and drywall on the other.
The new doors were delivered a couple of weeks earlier than the expected post-Christmas arrival. While we were in the midst of the church's Christmas Festival. Uh-oh. The installer opted to work Saturday, and "Ta-Da!" The whole thing looks rather nice, I think. Better still? In addition to the job being completed earlier than expected and at the price quoted, the doors will qualify for a tax credit. Bonus.

Tree

The tree has been up since the day after Thanksgiving. It stood naked inviting all sorts of feline predations for the first couple of days. Then the mister stepped in to apply lights, garlands, a tree skirt, and the star so the thing would look less pitiful. The girls and I wrapped gifts and tucked them beneath the largely bare branches. The cats continued their games in the newly created maze.
Last night, the mister and I put on our party clothes and headed into Dallas for a dinner out with his coworkers and their spouses. 3 Forks was decked out in all sorts of greenery garlands and wreaths while our home featured a half-naked tree. After the Christmas Party, it began to seem a bit odd to have a partially decorated tree parked in the living room. (Then again, there's a still as yet unnamed cat hiding beneath the tree in living testimony to my failure to meet convention.) The mister and the girls rather wanted the tree decorations completed, so the ornaments were applied tonight. And the whole effect really is rather festive. Especially with the reemergence of last year's pink flannel sock monkey pajamas.