It's a survival thing

I know why God makes babies small and cute. It's so you don't hurt them. You see them and just want to talk baby talk and feed them a small morsel of something.

Oh, I don't mean my kids.

Only JD is still at that cute stage, and he is hardly a bother.

I mean my new kittens, Fred and Barney.

Tater had asked Santa for a boy cat that is good. He specified a good cat, because Lucy the Wonder Beagle had to be relocated to my Grams house. Hubby had finally lost it after she pooped in her bed after just coming back into the house. Again. Fortunately my Grams is in hog heaven having a dog again, cooking her special food and doting on her to no end. Lucy is getting quite plump.

After grieving for my George and Buddy, I finally broke down. We got the two kittens. They are all ears and tail and energy.

Oh, and fleas. I found a flea on Barney and treated them both. Yes, finding a pile of dead fleas on my pillow, where they were sleeping, was a real treat.

I am keeping their litterbox conveniently located in the kitchen until I am sure they can find it in the basement. I caught Fred trying to dig to China.

There is litter on the floor, in their food, in their water.

But they are so damn cute you can't get upset.

How I missed having kitties sleep in my lap! I love it when they curl up together and make a little furry yingyang.

They are good with the kids, and vice versa. There is no tail pulling or scratching.

As much as my husband misses his childhood dog, I suspect that he was never really responsible for any of the work. He was once "allergic" to cats. Now he is a bonafide cat person. He wasn't keen on all the work that came with Lucy (though her frequent baths due to rolling in chicken manure were no picnic, and he only did that twice).

The house feels right with cats in it once again. The nights alone don't seem quite as bad when I watch tv with my furry brethren purring in my lap.

Even if they do like to take their turds from litter box and bat them around the kitchen.

Snippets of a holiday

The holidays are stressful. The expectations that must be met, expectations of family and ritual, that do not always coincide with what is best for your family at that particular moment.

Like Mass during the witching hour. Oh, I was dreading that. Linus has not been big on church since he gained mobility. Sitting still is not in his repertoire. However, Tater would be singing in the children's choir. He wanted to do it, we agreed to let him do it, and it really is something our family should participate in.

Despite Linus writhing in agony on the floor next to the kneeler, I have to say it was a great service. Family friendly is a wonderful thing, especially if you have attended parishes that didn't seem to appreciate that children are in fact children. The kids were called up to hear the story of the birth. The kids get to run up every week to make their contribution. Those breaks may seem small, but to the kids it seems like a breath of fresh air, giving them the stamina to suffer through another reading or hymn.

A woman with her newborn child, and a man, stood at the front of the church. Our own live nativity scene. Our beloved Deacon held the baby, so tiny, as he delivered the homily.

Later, Santa Claus made a surprise appearance. He came, said a silent prayer over the baby and kissed him. He walked quickly and silently down the middle of the church to the exit. The kids, even my own, grew quiet with awe. Oh, he was a wonderful Santa. His clothing so rich, the mall Santas should weep with envy. Dignified and solemn for the occasion, not just jolly. As if Santa knew the reason for the season, but he has a job to do as well.

When the choir was called forth to sing, it was amazing. They sang Silent Night, offkey in that marvelous way of kids.. Then a little girl, with the voice of an angel, began to sing a song about happy birthday, Jesus. I had heard parts of it as Tater sang it to himself. She sang and sang. Then the others joined in. I had tears forming by then.

This is what I wanted when I agreed to convert. I wanted my children to be a part of something bigger than our own family. To belong, to believe, to have that piece of something in their hearts that I am not sure I will ever have. But if I can give it to them, maybe that empty spot in my heart might fill up along the way.

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"Santa came! Santa came!"
"I must have made the nice list!" This from Linus, sounding as if he hadn't really been sure about his status (rightfully so).

I suppose everyone does Christmas differently. Some people do not wrap the presents. They just put them under the tree. Ok, I never knew that. Ours were always wrapped.

We don't let the kids go buck wild and open everything right away. You open it, we unhook it from its myriad of enclosures. Someone else opens something while the gajillion wires are undone. Or, can you help the baby open his? They love to do that as well.

The kids are not great at this. We remind them, if we open it all right away, then it is DONE. It is OVER. Let's enjoy it slowly.

By the time the last present opened, everyone was pleased. The boys had each gotten that one thing that thrilled them to the very core. Plus a big surprise, something they had not known existed or that they could ever possibly get.

A Wii. Video games??? A video game? Linus knew he had seen it at the store, and what it was. What can I say? We shop while Tater is in school.

Tater looked at me, wondering what my reaction would be. Video games are not allowed. His pleas for a Nintendo DS fell on deaf ears since kindergarten.

"I guess Mommy didn't make the nice list this year, if you guys got a video game!"

This made them quite smug, and there was much rejoicing that Mommy must have been naughty.

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Later: the inlaws house. The temperature in the house was somewhere around 78 degrees. I was sweltering. Not a single item of the meal was something my picky children would eat.

It was raining. On Christmas Day.

Linus cried the whole way home. Tater never stopped talking, even to take a breath. A sure sign he is tired.

I bathed them. Linus cried because he had to have a shampoo. Tater cried because we were not playing the Wii. The baby, oblivious to anything but his knowledge that he was next to get a bath (routine), babbled and bounced in his Johnny Jump Up.

I hugged Linus and coaxed him into his jammies. I made Tater some instant mashed potatoes as he wolfed down some fresh fruit during that horrific five minutes it took. As I was rubbing lotion on the baby, who was practically crawling away from me, my hubby comes into the bathroom.

"You know, you are better at this parenting thing than I am. You just get it all done. I guess it is out of necessity." And he disappears to put a movie on for the bigger boys.

As I wrestle the squirming baby into a diaper and jammies, I think to myself, damn straight I am better at this!

It isn't a competition, and he is a good parent. It wasn't about that.

It was a compliment. It was an acknowledgement of all I do, all I have to do, on my own, while he is at work. We prayed he would move to all first shift, but it didn't happen. The transition has been difficult, for both of us.

It was a compliment, and it was better than anything that could have come in a gift wrapped box.

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We agreed it was a good Christmas. We didn't get everything we wanted, but that is probably a good thing. We got what matters, and then some.

It isn't myrrh; it's me!

My goodness, what a busy season Christmas is. Ok, everyone is thinking "duh!"

With the kids not having school, the baking, the candy making, the everything, I realized I had become majorly lax in the hygiene department.

I cannot shower in the morning because everyone needs to be fed. I end up cleaning the kitchen. Then hubby gets up. We try and talk over the dull roar of the boys. Then it is time for HIS shower. This means there will be no hot water for a while. I don't think my shower time for the week adds up to his daily shower. I have tp pack his lunch.

This means that not only have I cooked breakfast, I probably have cooked lunch/dinner for his lunch box. While attempting to make truffles, fudge, or who knows what. The baby has been fed something off of a spoon, and the kids are working their way toward their third meal of the day (they are birds, I swear).

By the time he leaves for work, I am exhausted. A shower might perk me up, BUT

1) the baby inevitably is unhappy or wakes up

2) even over the water running I can hear the thundering hoofbeats of my kids

3) "Mom? The baby is crying"

or even better

4) "Mom, I have to poop and I need my privacy." Even though I am the one who will have to wipe his tush.

5) the white chocolate dipped pretzels setting on the waxed paper will dwindle by half.

So I skipped the shower. And skipped the shower. The PTA baths were working.

Until I caught sight of my hair.

Whoa.

I know some people can do the shampoo thing a few times a week, but with my baby fine hair? No.

I took my socks off and I swear, my jagged heel callouses snagged the cotton. As I rubbed some Vaseline on my heels, I noticed my pinky toenail was reaching new lengths. The kind that make your shoes not fit.

Good grief!

Between wrapping and shopping and cooking and cleaning and oh dear God did I wash diapers? Where are all the bibs?

I let myself fall to pieces.

Eyebrows? Mustache? Actual facial care routine? The huge zit forming on my nose says it all.

I try to floss my teeth and the phone rings. Again.

I am still in my pajama pants when the UPS guy comes.

At dinner time.

Today was the worst. I had showered yesterday (to the tune of the baby crying and "Mom, where's the remote?"). My cold went into that joyful chills/sweats phase. My sinuses let up enough today to give me a whiff of myself after 9 hours of sweating the crud out.

Oh boy. I could put a hat on my gnarly hair, but there was no covering up the sweats. I had to shower before we hit the library (lest we rack up major fines).

Naturally, the baby is crying before I am done, and I didn't even have time to shave my legs. Oh well, that's an extra layer of warmth, right? I am drying myself off as my offspring start moaning about how they are dying of thirst. Apparently they broke their legs in the five minutes I was allowed for hygiene. They also cannot hear their brother crying, a foot away from them, and think to give him a toy or smile at him or SOMETHING.

And you would think that the baby, who spends more time near my armpits more than anyone, would think that a shower is a good idea.

Once the baby nearly tore my eye out with his jagged little fingernails, I realized I had been neglecting them as well. We had a major nail clipping party, much to their dismay. They hate getting their toenails trimmed, even if it means their shoes will actually fit again. I have had to sit next to them during their Wow Wow Wubbzy trance to sneak some fingers in.

Ah, Christmas. It's the most wonderful time of the year, right?

Christmas Treats

My kids are not good eaters. I cannot put just anything in front of them and think they will actually ingest it.

Linus? He will look over a banana with the eye of a CSI agent, looking for clues or smushy spots.

Tater, well, he is improving. He is growing, and therefore starving. Constantly. He has been known to eat things just because he is too darn hungry to object to them.

The baby, he is at that great point. I could put anything on a spoon, and he would eat it. Today he tried to grab my coffee cup, dousing us both. But be it Chinese food or boiled dinner, JD is all about eating. I have vowed to foster that so he isn't part of the "what do you mean we aren't having grilled cheese sandwiches for the sixth time this week?" club.

The one area my kids aren't picky in is sweets. I know, duh, right?

But apparently, I was wrong.

When Tater was in preschool, I made sugar cookies for his class. Rather than frost them, I sprinkled colored sugar on top before I baked them.

Tater told me that "so and so" didn't like the cookies. Yes, they were lacking in that sugary goodness on top, but they were still quite tasty. And let's face it, do four year olds need more sugar?

This year I made goodie bags for each boy's class. I had scored some festive holiday zipper bags last year on clearance (woo hoo!). I put in a truffle, some homemade caramel corn, and a homemade Dreamsicle marshmallow.

Hubby was smitten with those marshmallows. He raved about those marshmallows. I almost didn't have enough to give to the kids due to that fondness.

Tater comes home that fateful day, when I had arrived at his school wearing my Santa hat. Ok, I didn't have time to fix my hair, and JD thought it was funny. Anyway, Tater comes home and says "everyone wanted to eat their truffle first, but they weren't sure about the marshmallow."

"Did you eat your marshmallow?" I ask him.

He gives me that LOOK and says "of course!" as if that was the stupidest question ever.

"But Lily was afraid to eat hers."

It makes me sad that kids are not willing to try anything that doesn't look like what they get at the store. My own are guilty of it. If the nuggets don't look like Mc Donalds, Linus won't eat them. Tater will, now, but only because he is so darn hungry almost anything looks good.

My kids know the only cookies we buy at the store are Oreos. Why? Because I cannot make them myself.

The one area they have no fear in is my baking.

My kids will gladly dip pretzels in chocolate, frost cookies, and lick anything they can come Christmas.

They will also lick the spoons along the way, which is why they get to eat what they make.

My aunt told me that her dog loved my marshmallows.

That did not help.

But at least my boys will have the memories of making Christmas treats. Even if we are the only ones who appreciate them!

Semantics

My 6 year old shouting at me from the playroom:

Our room is NOT a pig style!

It is not a pig style!

Ok, sweetie. But you know what? It IS a pig sty if I cannot 1) walk to your room without tripping over a toy and 2) cannot vaccuum because of all of the toys and clothes on your floor.

Thankfully you get "cute" points for saying "style" rather than "sty".