my holiday vacation

The past few days have been a whirlwind of activity for us.

There are, of course, four small children that tend to keep us busy.


Four small children who like to ride around in a clothes basket while hollering, "Ready Rudolph? LET'S GO UP, UP AND AWAY!!"


And there's playing with all the new Christmas toys in our home.


There are the holiday activities like eating all the leftover cookies, ham, turkey and consuming vast quantities of egg nog before it expires. And enjoying elegant meals.


But mostly, we've been doing a whole lot of nothing except sitting near a warm fire and loving on our children.

As a family, we've been going to bed late and waking up late. Except today, we woke up early to see the Holiday Bowl parade. And what a grand parade it was. It has been dubbed America's largest balloon parade.

Although the balloons were great, what I enjoyed the most were all of the bands. The Marine Band was there. And the Navy Band. And there were the bands from the two schools that are playing in the Holiday Bowl, scheduled for tomorrow night.

There was the band from the University of Oregon (GO DUCKS!)

And the band from Oklahoma State University (GO COWBOYS!)

There were also bands from high schools across the United States.

You know, sometimes the funniest things set me off.

Like today, when I was watching all of the bands marching down Harbor Boulevard, I could feel a lump rise up in my throat. There were a few high schools from Pennsylvania. And a few more from Wisconsin. One from Georgia. Two from Arizona. Three from Illinois. Three from Texas. One from Kansas.


While I was watching all the kids marching past me, I was looking at the little people sitting on my lap and I thought it isn't going to be much longer before they are capable of walking down the street playing a tuba. Or a piccolo.

When I happened to spot one of the young men playing the drums with tears streaming down his face as he marched along, I could only imagine what this trip must mean for so many of them. I thought of all the hard work that was required for these high school students to have the opportunity to be a part of this event. The training. The fund raising. The practices. And although I'm sure that a few parents came along as chaperones, most of the parents did not. Instead, they were left behind, hoping that their children would be safe as they boarded a plane and flew away from home - for possibly the very first time.

(When I mentioned it to my husband, he thought maybe the drummer had stubbed his toe because teenage boys don't cry because they're away from home. But then I reminded him of the boxes of letters he wrote to HIS mother when he was away at camp and he quickly said, "LOOK! There's Mighty Mouse!")

From the parade, we went on a tour of the USS Midway. This is an aircraft carrier that was taken out of commission and retired from the US Naval Fleet and subsequently opened as a Maritime Museum. As we toured this city upon the water and learned about fighter jets and bomb decks, it was difficult for me to imagine our children in the military.

It is difficult for me to imagine them ever intentionally placing themselves in harms way.

But as we walked around the ship and learned about the people who have served and do serve this country, I am very thankful for the bravery of so many men and women. (And the mother's who let them go.)

Tonight when we came home, I spent four hours on the phone with my family. Add to that the five hours I have spent over the past two days. Talking with this one. And that one. And now my father is in the hospital again because he can't handle the stress.

I can't handle the stress.

So I look to our children and I am reminded that nothing is more important than love.


Things aren't important. People are important. And kindness and respect go a long way.

The length of time that we have on this planet isn't guaranteed. Life is short and days go fast. And if we allow it to happen, we can get so caught up in the minutiae that our lives become far too complex.


But if we allow ourselves to bask in the simpleness of life, we may tap in to joy that we never knew existed.

Note to self: I'll find a whole lot of joy (and more hours to sleep) if I can remember that next year, all the children really need for Christmas are some sturdy cardboard boxes.

Thus far, they've had a wonderful time both playing AND sleeping in them.

we go together like peas and carrots

Tonight as we were driving home from the pool, Charlie confided in me that one of his New Year Resolutions is to remember all of his siblings, nieces, nephews and in-law birthdays, this coming year.

When I told him that he needed to go buy a few cards because he'd need to send out two within the next few days, he looked at me wide-eyed and asked, "For who?!"

"Well," I replied, "Your sister-in-law Kathy and your niece Alice both share a birthday on January 8th."

He nodded and said, "Oh yeah, that's right. But then, we don't have any more birthdays until my sister Susan in June." And I replied, "Actually, you have your step mother's birthday in February. Your father is in March. Your brother-in-law is in April. I AM IN APRIL. And then your nephew and niece are both in May."

He paused for a moment and then gave me a puzzled look and very seriously asked, "Remind me again how old I am?" And after I laughed for a solid minute, I said, "You turned 42 in November and if you think I am not going to blog about this you are SADLY mistaken."

My God I love this guy.

Not only does he make me laugh more than anyone I've ever met, if not for him, not a single picture would be hung straight in this house. (Not to mention, this pirate ship, this doll house and this easel would be laying around in a million pieces beneath our Christmas tree.)

'twas the night before Christmas

There was some window shopping ...


And one last sighting of St. Nick, where the children all yelled out, "Be SAFE, Santa!"

There was the message on our answering machine from Uncle Michael Santa that we had to listen to four times because HE CALLED! OUR HOUSE!


There was a beautiful Christmas Eve service at our church and much hugging though out the day.


I've never seen such love among our children. At one point when I was trying to get the children dressed to leave for church and was feeling flustered because they were terribly busy ignoring me, William commented, "Mom. You know. Santa will not bring you a present if you are angwy, only if you are happy. So put on a smile. OK? See my smile?!"

There was the lovely fondue dinner that we ate and the one present we were each allowed to open. And there were the Christmas stories read.

There the cookies that we had planned to bake today, but then ran out of time and were so grateful that we had four boxes of Joe-Joe's on hand. We also placed out a glass of milk and nine carrots. One for each of the reindeer and Rudolph, too.

Did I mention Henry likes him some Joe-Joe's?


He likes him some Joe-Joe's alot.


What do you mean these aren't for me?


That's it. You GO brush your teeth big sister.

I'll just make sure that these are edible for the man in red.


Actually, Santa you're looking a little wide around the girth.


Consider this a favor. From me. To you. To me.


There's one cookie waiting for you and eight and a half carrots. And a glass of milk with a 1/2 carrot floating in it.

At the moment, we are tossing around in our beds too giddy to sleep and our mother and father are exhaustedly looking at the clock and hoping that maybe we'll be asleep before ELEVEN, so that they can get to bed before THREE.

But we are ready and waiting, Santa.

And not to worry, the fire will be out by the time you arrive.

wednesday weigh in

In about eight seven hours, when my husband goes for a strenuous mountain bike ride with our neighbor, I am going to take all four children on a hike. This will be the first "real" exercise I've had in the past several days ... unless you count the work out I have received from shopping.


And running all over town showing our children the lights and sounds of Christmas.

And then I did break a sweat wrapping presents and felt my heart exceed 200 beats a minute when the children recounted to their father EVERYTHING that they saw me wrap, today.

Clearly, they don't understand the meaning of the word, "surprise".

Although I have BIG exercise plans for this weekend, for the past few weeks days, I've been rather sedate. In fact, today, I didn't even bother to leave the house and instead, helped the kids to burn off energy by having them chase a laser beam we named "Rudolph" all through the house.


Next week I'll be announcing the winner of the iPod shuffle. I'm thinking the winner will be selected by taking the top five (or ten?) contestants and placing them up for a vote.

So tell me how you are doing with your goals.

Or if you'd prefer, you can tell me your favorite Christmas song.

Mine?

Good King Wenceslas by the Skydiggers.

Unfortunately, the only video I could find does this beautiful song no justice. But wow, it's the most moving rendition of this classic I've ever heard (definitely worth the $0.40 cost to download and own it). Listening to this band perform this spiritual tale affects me so profoundly, it actually makes me want to live a better life and be a better person.

And you know, not just have my children chase a laser beam up the wall.

great tidings of joy

On January 1, 1976, my maternal grandmother - Nana - died.

She was 82 years old.

(I think.)

Because her passing was sudden, my 96-year-old grandfather moved in to our house. Even though he was four years shy of a full century on the planet, he was in remarkably good health. His hearing was sharp, he could see well and although he used a cane at times, he could walk well, too.


Still, he was shocked and saddened by his wife's passing and so in an attempt to make him feel as comfortable as possible, my mother set up a hospital bed for him in our dining room.

I have extremely sharp memories of crawling in to the room where he lay, on my hands and knees, and as quietly as possible, taking Brach butterscotch candies from the bowl near his head. Despite my attempts at remaining silent, he would reach down with his cane and try swiping at me while yelling, "HEY KID!! I hear you down there!! What are you doing?! Are you eating all the CANDY?!!"

And then he'd yell for my mother, "MAAARRRY!!!! COME GET JENNNNNYYYY!!!"

One might think that my grandfather didn't care much for me, the youngest of his 40 grandchildren.

But I know he did.

And I cared for him, too.

Which is why when he fell asleep in a chair while sitting in the sun room, I gently wrapped garland and brightly colored lights that had recently been removed from our Christmas tree, neatly around him. I hung a few ornaments for flare and then plugged the lights in to a socket. And then I stood back and admired my 96-year old grandpa, asleep in a chair, with bright Christmas lights strung around his whole body.

It was such a shock for everyone when my grandfather followed my grandmother to heaven on January 6, 1976 ... a mere five days after she had died. But my grandfather told my mother that now his Margaret was gone, he needed to be with her. So that's just what he did.

His decision to leave this life had nothing to do with me.

(I hope.)

Even though I was only five-years-old, I have such great memories of my grandfather living at our home. It was a short period of time, but the experiences in my mind are sharp and crisp. Whenever I eat a butterscotch candy, I am instantly transported back to that time. I can see him in the chair with flashing lights. I can see him in his bed as I stealthily crawl underneath. I can even feel the whoosh! of the cane, in a futile search for me.

Yesterday, I was reminded of my grandfather when my four-year-old daughter used our coaxial computer cable to decorate our Christmas tree.

I was reminded again this morning when our three four-year-old children used 100 yards of curling ribbon to wrap around anything that didn't move in our house. I knew what they were doing. I just figured that since they weren't hurting anything, I'd let them stay busy so I could finish wrapping their father's presents.

Watching these children, makes me remember what it feels like to be a small child.

The excitement. The joy. The anticipation.

I am caught up in it, with them.

This afternoon, when I introduce the children to butterscotch candy for the first time when we decorate our gingerbread house, (where I'm sure I'll be heard saying, "Don't eat all the candy!!") I am going to tell the kids about their great-grandfather. I am going to tell them that because they were born on his 125th birthday, they have a lot of grandpa in them. They are wonderful and the greatest gifts I have ever received.

But I think they are a little payback, too.

these are my people

In the midst of my tough day last week, I called and left a message for my sister, Eileen, who lives in Michigan. When she came home from work, she heard me casually explaining on a voice recording, that it was "my" expectation that in "her" role as Godmother, I can call on her at any time to help with raising our children.

So, she should keep her eyes peeled because within the next day or so - she would be receiving a large cardboard box from California and she needs to open it promptly because the children inside will probably be hungry.

Today, I received this Christmas card from Eileen.

It read, "Wishing you a warm holiday season and a HOT New Year!"

Notice how they are wearing their bathing suits.

IN THE SNOW.

I think our children would fit in perfectly fine with Auntie Eileen.

Charlie went shopping today at Trader Joe's. He took two of the children with him, while I stayed home with the other two and tried to made a dent in the 14 loads of laundry that have piled up since we've neglected everything in an effort to get our Christmas cards finished.

Apparently, he no sooner stepped foot in the store and the kids started to have meltdowns. It was just around nap time and they needed to use the potty and they didn't want to walk, they wanted to RIDE in the cart and an innumerable list of other preschooler issues were fiercely working against my husband.

So he ditched the well thought out shopping list I had crafted and bought only those items that he knew he couldn't come home without. Those items which we absolutely need to survive until one of us could get back to the store later this week.


Two loaves of bread.

A gallon of yogurt.

Six bottles of red wine.

A box of candy cane Joe-Joe's.

A box of chocolate covered candy cane Joe-Joe's.

And a box of peppermint bark.

It's cool though. I think the kids had fruit last week.

winter solstice

The first day of winter perfectly coincided with our children realizing that they were cold.


So they donned a hat and fleece bathrobe over their bathing suits.

This afternoon I rushed about town trying to finish our last minute shopping.

Then, while the children watched a Christmas movie (or three), I tried to complete the 120 Christmas cards I started last week. We would have been done with our cards sooner, if not for the Christmas picture copyright infringement fiasco that cost us two full days.

Charlie finally caved and drove an hour north - spent 45 minutes finding a parking space - another 30 minutes getting in to the mall and purchasing a CD - and another hour driving home.

And then another two hours uploading the pictures to the Costco website and driving over to pick them up once they were completed. If there is nothing else that you take away from this blog, take away that one tidbit.

ALWAYS PURCHASE YOUR PROFESSIONAL PHOTOS ON CD.

(Oh and also! Costco sells 100 $0.42 stamps for $41.75.)

I don't know how they do that.

Still, the whole activity of writing Christmas cards, which I always assume we'll be able to finish in a single evening, tends to take us three evenings. And that doesn't even include the time it takes to pick out the Christmas cards or have our pictures taken.

So, we've got one evening to review the "send to" list, figure out who has moved and who we haven't heard from in three years {have they moved? died? read our blog and decided they no longer want to correspond with us?} print labels and go to the store to buy more labels;

One evening to affix send and return labels to envelopes; affix pictures to cards; cut and fold Christmas letters; add stamps;

And finally, one evening to sign all the cards, stuff the cards in to the envelopes and seal.

Once upon a time not so long ago, I wrote an annual Christmas letter that would summarize the highlights of the year in a rhyming poem. But it seems that this blog more than satisfies the writer in me, so instead of spending a few days creating my annual masterpiece, my letter has been reduced to a few lines. This year I wrote,

"May the Spirit of the Season fill your heart with love and your soul with cheer… May you have an abundance of good health and joy for the coming New Year.
There is a lot more you can learn about us if you don’t already know… Just take a peek at our family blog. Merry Christmas, Ho! Ho! Ho!"

Because I absolutely must get our cards out in the mail tomorrow if there is any hope of them being delivered before Christmas, I couldn't let anything slow me down. Not even the baby that I thought for sure would wean before he hit 18 months old, but at the moment, I question if he'll wean before he is 18 years old. Hence, I unveil my newest skill. Signing Christmas cards while nursing a baby.

I am a multi-tasking extraordinaire.

(edited to add: During a final QA/QC, Charlie just discovered that several of the cards I wrote this afternoon [while nursing] I dated December 2006. As in ... two years ago. So. Uh. Perhaps my multi-tasking skills aren't quite so stellar.)

favorite thing friday

Now that winter is here in southern California and the temperatures have dropped to the 60's, I am doing the best I can to stay warm. As I write this, I have on a flannel shirt, fleece pants, fleece socks and a scarf.

Oh, you might laugh - but at night when the temperatures are in the 50's (or maybe 40's!) (brrrr), my thin blood really can't handle the cold. For as long as we've been married, Charlie and I have had a down comforter on our bed. We will put on flannel sheets in the wintertime and almost always have a warm cup of tea before settling down for the night.

(That's not entirely true but it sure sounds good).

Even with flannel sheets and flannel pajamas and a down comforter, whenever I would climb in to bed at night, the feeling of cold sheets would take my breath away. Inevitably, I would stick my ice cold popsicle toes beneath my husband's always warm legs, he'd yell and I'd have to plead to keep my place next to the man whose internal thermostat is stuck on high.

A few years ago, when I was in the market for a new mattress pad, I happened to stumble upon an electric version. At first I pondered whether I would want an electric mattress pad because I have read my fair share of reports on electric magnetic fields (EMF) and the potential that they might cause brain tumors, leukemia, breast cancer, birth defects, miscarriages, chronic fatigue and headaches.

And a host of other health problems, if that list above doesn't scare you enough.

I've already expressed my opinion that there appears to be risks associated with everything. But considering part of my job (outside of digging poopy diapers out of toilets at 5 AM) is to evaluate human health risk from environmental sources, it should not be surprising that more often than not - the concern generated by what people "perceive" to be risk, far exceeds the real risk posed.

We're human and it's part of our biological make up to worry.

(And this only gets worse when you're a mother.)

Ultimately, I decided to buy the heated mattress pad. Then I came home and scoured the internet for details surrounding my purchase.

One particular study I read regarding an increase in breast cancer rates from electric bed warmers, indicated "The use of electric bedding devices, especially electric blankets, may be the greatest contributor to electromagnetic exposure from residential appliances, because of high EMF intensity, prolonged exposure, and intimate contact (7). Although an EMF-breast cancer association is biologically possible, most studies on the use of electric bedding devices have not supported it, while a number of occupational studies have shown an association (8–10)."

Association.

Well, I've also heard of an "association" with brain cancer and cell phone usage. And leukemia and computer or microwave usage. And fluorescent lights and birth defects, autism, attention deficit disorder, miscarriages and various forms of cancer.

So I read more articles and I was not entirely convinced that there was a strong enough link to persuade me that we were frying our insides by sleeping on electric mattress pads. And when Charlie spent an entire week going through an intensive training course at the Radiation Safety Academy and told me how we are constantly being bombarded by radiation - the sun, the earth, television, computers, lights but the concentrations are not high enough to hurt us, I felt more reassured with my purchase.

And less likely to go make a necklace for myself out of dielectric resonators.

What I have since determined is that the greatest risk of electric mattress pads comes in the form of fire danger.

"Modern electric blankets are relatively safe, though the United States Consumer Product Safety Commission says that there are still several hundred fires caused by them each year. Many of the fires can be blamed on old blankets made before 1988, when the circuitry was less reliable than the type used today. Fires from electric blankets are much higher in the United Kingdom, where 90 percent of such devices are actually heated mattress pads that you sleep on, as opposed to the blanket-style devices we Americans prefer."

(Except THIS American. I love my heated mattress pad. Almost more than I love chocolate.)

The electric mattress pads that we own, turn off automatically after ten hours. So if I turn our blanket on a few hours before I go to bed, it will turn off automatically in case I forget to turn it off in the morning.

Every night, I turn it on a few hours before we go to bed and either turn it down to low or turn it off, before we go to sleep for the night. And let me tell you what, easing my weary body in to a toasty warm bed at the end of the day is the most glorious thing I do for myself all day long.

And when I eat a bowl of ice cream while in bed ... well, it doesn't get ANY better than that.

Recently, when the children started leaving their beds and coming in to our bed at 2, 3, 4 AM with their ice cold popsicle toes that they would stick beneath my warm body parts, I bought electric mattress pads for their beds, too. Because even though they have flannel sheets and down comforters, I would need to staple the covers to the frame of the bed if there was any chance to keep them covered up.

And even then, they'd probably still climb out.

By the children staying warm from beneath, they are less likely to wake up cold and come wandering in to our room at 2, 3, or 4 AM. Although they do sell a waterproof heated mattress pad, I put a waterproof mattress pad over the electric pad in case someone springs a leak in the middle of the night.

During the winter months, I will turn the thermostat down at night because waking up totally dried out with a sore throat is just as bad as waking up cold. Hence, the upside of warming our beds is a substantial cost savings on our utility bill and children who are so happy about their own cozy beds that they don't wander in to my mine.

(Although sometimes they still do.)

let's try this again

Ok, so what I meant to write yesterday was that when I took our children to gymnastics on Monday, I really wished that I had remembered to bring my camera.

Because, training alongside my four-year-olds, were world-class athletes from the nearby Olympic Training Center.

It turns out that our children's gymnastics coach lends her support to help several of the athletes in flexibility training. I've seen the athletes at the gymnastics complex before. And they've seen me, trying to get four little people to all walk in the same direction.

When I've commented to them that I am really impressed at their ability to do back handsprings across the floor, they have commented to me that they are really impressed I can manage four small children with two arms.

This group of athletes consists of both men and women and any one of them could easily grace the cover of a Wheaties box.

They are athletes that have participated in the Olympics - and/or - are hopefuls for the next Olympic games.

Seeing these athletes up close who have devoted their lives to their sport and are at the absolute height of physical fitness and on their way to representing our country in the next Olympic games, helping my little children on the bars - or beam - or pommel horse - and then giving them high fives when the session is over, conjures up a feeling in me I can't quite describe.

On Monday, while standing in the lobby and looking through the large plate glass window in to the gymnasium, my eyes welled with tears as I imagined our children stepping up on the podium to recieve their gold medals as they clutched their bouquets of fresh flowers while the Star Spangled Banner played overhead and they gazed up at the American flag hanging before them.

I can dream, right?

At home, our children are watching their father prepare for his next triathlon in March. And they're watching their mother have small nervous breakdowns almost daily. Which believe me, that burns a lot of calories. I'm down three pant sizes since last year at this same time.

Since childhood obesity is on the rise, I'm really thankful that I am able to surround our children with such positive influences for physical activity (and borderline mental stability) at this point in their young lives. And I'm also excited about the various sports we will enroll our children in next year, when they are out of school, and will need an outlet to burn COPIOUS amounts of four-year-old energy so that when they come home they are completely exhausted and ready to sleep.

Ah yes. I can dream.

Sometimes I think that I need to put a filter on my thoughts.

Or at a minimum, the thoughts that I express here.

Whenever time allows and I have the opportunity to visit other blogs, I am always surprised at how upbeat they are. Children don't fight. Parents don't freak out. There are no poopy diapers being flushed down toilets by four-year-olds at 5 AM. They chase their cloth-diapered babies in fields of green clover and drink organic goat milk and fresh carrots as a snack in their modest homeschool classroom, while plentifully living on a single income budget.

Raising voices and spanking, it doesn't happen.

They would never yell at or swat at the people they love!

Then there's me. Never quite able to figure it out. Not quite sure what to do next. Wondering when I'm going to get my game on, consistently. Taking everything in my life one step at a time. Backing up and doing things differently. Not sure where we'll be a year from now. Not sure what we'll have for dinner three hours from now.

Frequently overwhelmed that motherhood is the most important job that I will ever have in my entire life ... but often believing that God shouldn't have entrusted me to a task more complex then making sure our toilets are clean.

You mean it is MY job is to mold and influence four small people?

You mean that they are watching me during my good moments and not so good moments and storing all of these experiences that they have with me - their first teacher, away in their brain as part of the operation manual that they will rely upon as they go out in to the world?

Get the smelling salts. I think I'm blacking out.

While I don't think people should make it common practice to air their dirty laundry on the internet, it sure would help ME if every so often they did. I can't tell you how nice it would be if just once I could step away from the computer and think, "Wow. I'm not the only one."

So, please send me a link if you write a post that will make me feel better about my often sub-par parenting moments. And if it's a really good post (or bad, depending upon whether you are the one that had the experience), I might even send you a box of Joe-Joe's.

(They always help me.)

By the way. Jesus was found.

I discovered him under my pillow this morning.

I like to think that he was gently placed there by small hands who probably figured I needed some Heavenly contact ... and not lost when the kids were jumping on the bed.

wednesday weigh in

Yesterday when we took the children to have their Christmas photos taken with Santa Claus, I purchased two separate packages totaling $50.00 that contained a variety of different sized pictures. I did not, however, purchase the $25.00 CD because I figured, why would I need the CD if I have a scanner that could just as easily get my photos uploaded to my computer?

Today when I went to pick up the 120 pictures that I had printed out at Costco for $0.13 a photo that I had planned to include in the 120 Christmas cards that I wanted to send out tomorrow, I was asked if I had a copy of the CD that relinquished the photocopy right to me for the 120 pictures of my children that were sitting right there, just a few inches away.

And of course I said, "Huh?"

So it turns out that what I should have done is purchase the $25.00 CD and not the photo sheets for $50.00 because legally, I am not authorized to reproduce any of the photos without the copyright relinquishing code, that comes on the CD. Considering I've done it this exact way for the past three years, I had no idea that I was breaking the law.

Did I mention that we spent more than four hours yesterday getting those pictures taken?

Did I mention that we drove to hell and back through Southern California traffic IN THE RAIN because we were too ignorant to drive five minutes down the street to the new mall and Santa that is just as "photogenic" as the Santa(s) the mall an hour north always hires and that we've visited for the past three years?

Although I am extremely sensitive to issues of copyright infringement, instead of driving an hour north to pay the $25.00 for the CD so that I can "legally" print out pictures of my children, I instead, uploaded the photo on to my scan disk - took it to a local photography shop and tomorrow at noon, will hopefully pick up the 120 photos that I need for our Christmas cards.

And if they ask if it is a professional photograph, so help me I will LIE and tell them that NO, it's a photograph that was taken by a friend from a neighborhood Christmas party.

Go ahead, judge me. Tell me how lame I am. Tell me that even though I gave the photography company $50.00 when I could have only given them $25.00, I will burn for eternity.

Regardless of whether or not I am successful in the illegal reproduction of pictures of our family, I'm feeling the burning fires of Hell on my feet. It seems that on the way home from Costco this afternoon, I flipped out on the kids.

It was raining. It was pouring.

Henry was strapped in my baby carrier on my back. The triplets all want to carry our one umbrella. They are running away from me in the parking lot. Not intentionally, probably - but because they were so distracted by the gargantuan black umbrella that they were carrying that they couldn't pay attention to me. They couldn't see me. They are walking behind cars, staggering about like a bunch of small drunk people, until I finally take the umbrella away and listen to their cries of protest the rest of the way across the parking lot.

I load them in to the car, quickly, quickly I plead. The baby is getting wet and I am getting drenched. They are so slow. I've seen snails move faster. They climb in to the car and promptly begin fighting over which seats they are going to sit in. Someone is in the driver seat. Someone is trying to climb in to the trunk where they spot several of the Christmas presents that I had bought for them while I was at the neighborhood mall earlier in the day (Which is also where I spotted the awesome looking Santa Clause. Five minutes from our house. You can probably guess where I'm going next year.)

The baby starts wailing. I'm already agitated because I have to figure out a Plan B for getting my 120 pictures without spending three hours driving back and forth to the mall north and buying a CD. Or, printing all of them out at home which would take no less than fifteen hours and $200.00 in print supplies.

But now, as they are in the trunk and picking up presents and saying "WOW! LOOK AT THIS!!" I'm furious. I start yelling at the kids and people walking by are undoubtedly thinking, "Damn, what's HER problem? Relax lady!"

We drive 15 minutes home and three of the four children are asleep in their seats. I bring Carolyn in to the house (who had received the brunt of my anger in the car - quite possibly a manifestation of the frustration that had been building when I discovered that she was trying to flush a poopy diaper down the toilet this morning) and I notice that UPS has dropped off a package by our front door.

I pick it up and see that it is from the Catholic Supply Store.

How gloriously timely!

The nativity set that I had bought for the children for Christmas has arrived. I decide that instead of waiting until Christmas morning to present the gift - I will give it to Carolyn, now. She will have some quiet, undisturbed time to play and I will have a chance to play with her while repenting my sins of motherhood to the small Holy wooden figurines.

Less than five minutes have passed and the children in the car all wake up crying. I bring them in to the house and they immediately rip things apart.

Bed spreads are being pulled out of rooms and dragged across floors, drawers are being emptied of clothes. They are running around bouncing off the walls. I do my best to restore order and then remember that the reason my mother use to threaten us with the BLOOD spatula is because hitting us with her bare hand hurt too bad.

For the first time in my life, I find myself threatening my children with a BLOOD spatula.

My mother calls and I tell her that I'm losing my mind. How am I supposed to home school our kids? Maybe if I was medicated, I could handle it. Or maybe if I had a lobotomy. Could I call DSS and ask for help??

Mom tells me that my Aunt Barbara did that once. She actually drove to DSS and told them that she couldn't handle her children any more. Could they please take them.

I'm in awe.

Really?? That's an OPTION??

Charlie comes home. Instead of staying for the pathetic looking turkey dinner I had started earlier in the day, I tell him that I need to run off to the store and see if I can get pictures printed.

I knew that if I didn't get out of the house, I'd lock myself in the broom closet and start sobbing.

I am sick. Again.

Our children's last day of school is on Friday.

We have no backup plans for child care if our homeschool strategy tanks.

I am being forced to return to work full-time in a few months. If I keep my job and bring in full-time help, I will miss out on the "joy" of raising our children that I waited so long and worked so hard for.

But to give up my job would be to give up 75% of our income; benefits; pension. But if I stay home with the children, maybe I'll have more patience. Maybe I'll be a better mother if I'm not torn between family life and work life. Especially if I do have a lobotomy and am medicated.

I reflect on the heated conversations I've been having with my various siblings over the past week.

My father has been divorced for less than two years and has now settled in to a relationship with a woman who is living with him. As my father's health continues to fail, she takes care of him, completely. She dresses him, washes him, shops and cooks for him.

Over the past few months as his relationship with his friend has continued to evolve, my father no longer wants my sister - who has been his closest ally for the past 30 years - to be his health care proxy or power of attorney. He wants for my sister to return all of his checkbooks, credit cards and financial statements. Not only is this a kick in the teeth to my sister that has been there through everything for my father and handled his recent divorce completely, there is concern that my father might not have the mental capacity to know what is happening in his life.

My sister, who holds the titles of chemist, pharmacist and attorney is questioning his competency and in my opinion, rightly so.

As much as I appreciate that my father has a companion in his life - is it really wise for him to assume complete control of his financial matters when his health is clearly slipping?

I want to support my father and have him live the best life he can. But I also feel that it is important that he be protected. And what if. WHAT IF. What if Dad is led not once but twice in to a relationship with someone who is after him only for money?

It certainly appears that way from the outside.

Dad is in denial about the whole thing. He just wants for everyone to support him without question. But why haven't any of his assets been tied up in a trust yet?? Why does Dad keep stalling?! He just lost 40% of his estate. The rest may be gone soon if he isn't careful and it really doesn't seem like he cares. But we do. Is that wrong??

To care about Dad's finances makes us appear like we are money grubbers.

Honestly, if Dad spent every last dime on a life that made HIM happy, great. But to potentially funnel everything to a woman who he just met seems irresponsible and well ... stupid.

Meanwhile, there is a battle brewing between my father, my sister, and my brother - who has been called in by my father to serve as his "advocate".

The whole thing is a nightmare.

I come home from ordering the pictures where they will charge me $0.27 per print (more than twice the cost from Costco) and the house is even more upside down then when I left. I start cleaning up and am requesting our children to help. I spot that parts of the nativity scene are scattered in different rooms and although I shouldn't be bothered, I am.

I mean, it's just a toy.

But it seems like sacrilege.

I find Mary and Joseph underneath the changing table.

The donkey, lamb and ox are under the couch.

I find the three wise men in the bathroom sink.

The angel of the Lord and the shepard are on top of the trash can.

I can't find baby Jesus.


I'm looking and looking. Then I start yelling, "WHERE IS JESUS?! WHERE THE HECK IS JESUS? WHO LOST JESUS?! FIND HIM!! I NEED HIM NOW!!"

Please Jesus. Where are you?

****

So. Let's see. What was the purpose of this post?

Oh yes. How are you doing with your goals?

it's raining, it's pouring

Life ...


Is either ...

A daring adventure...


Or nothing at all!

santa and a brief history of time

The first time the triplets met Santa, I thought for sure this was the worst picture ever taken. But I've since heard from scores of people, from around the world, who are convinced that this is quite possibly, the best picture ever taken.


The second time the triplets met Santa, it didn't go much better. This Santa clearly needs a vacation. Or a shot of whiskey. Or maybe a career change.


By the third time the children met Santa, we had grown by two feet and and unless we wanted six of those feet to run away, we needed to sit in the photo to help contain everyone. Elizabeth is afraid to put her arm down, I am whispering between clenched teeth to William, "LOOK AT THE CAMERA!" and to this day, I've never seen Carolyn look so forlorn.


This year, three of of our four children have clued in that Santa is a good thing. There was so much talking (and talking and talking) that after five minutes of asking if Santa could bring a blue batman, and dragon puppet, and pink princesses, and purple ponies, and what kind of cookies Santa likes to eat and whether the reindeers would like carrots or hay, Or both! And apples too? And what about cewewy? Santa handed them hand fulls of peppermint sticks and said "Maybe you'd like this now? Please?"

I figure by the year 2010, all of our children will be smiling.

they are heat sinks

The children have been going through a "less is more" clothing phase.

Which means, they will begrudgingly wear clothes whenever we go out in public, but as soon as they are home again, they like nothing more than to run around in their skivvies. They call it "Being Tarzan!"

It takes a lot of effort (emphasis on the word A LOT) to get the children to wear clothes. Even when they go out and they understand that they have to wear clothes, they resist something fierce. I don't understand it. These are little people with far less body fat than me.

And I'm cold.

One day last week, the girls wanted to wear their gymnastics leotards to school with their plastic high-heeled princess shoes.

"But why?!" they moaned at me, when I held pants and long-sleeved shirts up for them, instead.

"Because," I replied, "It is December. And although that doesn't mean much to you, it means that it's nearly winter to me. And although we live in Southern California, it is fifty degrees today and raining. And even though I know that you would probably be perfectly fine wearing a sleeveless leotard to school all day under these weather conditions, I would feel a little negligent dropping my children off for school wearing the equivalent of a bathing suit when it is so cold I can see my breath."

Whenever I do drop them off to school in their short sleeves, and I see all the other children are wearing jackets and hats, I feel like shouting, "I tried to get them to wear a coat! I tried! They ransacked the summer clothes that I had tucked away in the GARAGE and insisted on wearing tank tops!!"

So what does it say about me that I'm more concerned that the other parents will think I'm irresponsible, than I'm worried about my children freezing their hinnies off?

If the truth be told, I'd like for them to be uncomfortable so that maybe, just maybe, they will realize that their mother - that lady that just gabs and gabs and gabs - perhaps she really does KNOW WHAT SHE IS TALKING ABOUT.

Tonight when I didn't turn the heat on in the house and instead bundled myself and Henry up in sweaters and hats, Elizabeth decided that maybe it was a little chilly.

So she fashioned herself some leg warmers.