Santa

Belief in Santa seems to follow many of the rules of religion: there are basic tenants common to many variations on a central theme, it's an idea most commonly perpetuated between generations, there's some very hot debate over it, and there always comes a time when you really have to question its basic existence. 

Oh, come on!  Like you havn't questioned religion's basic existence.  Yes, you, the one who's been a good, faithful Christian your whole life.  No one's fooled. 

I don't remember how old I was when I stopped believing in Santa.  It wasn't cool to believe in baby things when I got to be an older-kid (called The Age of Not Believing in Bedknobs and Broomsticks) but a little piece of innocence sobbed and withered when that childhood magic was abjured. 

Man and I decided long ago to "not do" Santa with the kids.  Some people nod politely, others are shocked.  One little girl in Princess' class was completely floored upon learning that Princess doesn't believe in ol' Saint Nick, declaring "but Santa is as real as God!"  Man and I chuckled and felt good about our decision from nine years ago.

Tonight we had a chance to do a little shopping at our local PX.  I felt an old ache when I saw Santa loitering near a counter set up for Christmas photos.  This Santa was richly dressed in brocade and heavy velvet, and his long white beard was very real.  It appeared slightly yellow next to the pure white of his fur trim.  His coat was the longer sort, an apparent crossover between the old Saint and our own jolly Elf.  His eyes were blue and twinkly and his voice, though not deep, revealed inexpressibly endearing kindness.  My son loudly proclaimed that "Santa's not real!" right to the man's face and Santa merely smiled patiently. 

Later, as I wandered aisles with my two littlest girls, he came to play with the toys in a slow, deliberate manner as if taking both enjoyment and mental notes, and struck up a conversation with Pebbles.  He was generous in speaking with her, always inquiring about her interests and actively listening to whatever she wanted to share.  He enjoyed some interaction with Freida and remarked on her strong grasp of colors and counting, his eyes lingering over her smile and the fascination she had for one particular toy. 

I walked away from that encounter with one thought ringing through my head: if I had met that particular Santa at any time during my childhood, I would have believed for much longer.  I might still believe.  I wanted at that moment to buoy my children with innocent wonder and a rich understanding of the ancient myths of stockings and reindeer and an improbable but imminently possible race against time and science. 

I thought about his interest in my girls and the soothing kindness of his voice.  He didn't "HO!HO!HO!" with gusto, but merely chuckled quietly.  Nowadays, some parents might keep their kids as far as possible from a man who would randomly converse with a child in the toy aisle, no matter how he was dressed.  Santas only belong on ornate chairs in front of cameras or in front of stores swinging bells for charity and some Santas don't even have kids sit in their laps anymore.  Litigation and bitter fear have broken whatever lingering sweetness we might have felt about our childhood dreams. 

This Santa might have creeped out those who read too much into him, and those caught up in the traditions for tradition's sake would merely have seen him as a prop for the Christmas card this year and future memories already planned out in soccer mom style. 

I made my purchases and bundled my shivering babes into the van and longed once again for that old magic.  There was a thrill at seeing a full stocking Christmas morning; a thrill at seeing a plate, intended for cookies, sporting merely crumbs after a night of fitful sleep; and a thrill at wondering what miracles Santa might bring to pass on my behalf to make at least one day out of the year completely special and safe.  Perhaps such times as these make us long for simple miracles.  Perhaps we perpetuate that magic to feel like rockstars when we know that Santa's miracles are our own doing. 

All I know is that, tonight, the whiskers were real, the clothes looked incredibly gorgeous, the voice was like a hug, and I felt an odd sort of honor that he would take a special interest in my own children.  And there's nothing wrong with any of that.

Room swap and good weekend

You know those weekends that leave you tired but oddly refreshed?  Yeah.

Friday night we had the missionaries over.  They always, no matter who, where, what, or how you are, ask whether there's anything they can do to help you.  We've always said no after a polite pause where we pretended to ponder the question.  However, Man's shoulder prevents him from doing some things around the house like lifting entertainment centers and it's nice to have strapping young lads willing to lend a hand.

My beautiful, wee girl-children don't need as much sleep as their old mom and they go to bed early besides.  We moved into this house a year and a half ago in the spring and unwittingly put them into the coldest room.  Couple that with two windows that seem to catch every vibration of the 0630 Reveille and you end up with a 0632 Reveille for one tired mom in the form of two giggling, shivering, bickering lumps fighting over who gets to lay directly on top of me and who gets to wiggle into the warm spot at the small of my back.  Even if I kick them out of bed so I can doze until my 7:30 alarm, they can't reach the cereal and their rumbling stomachs soon get the better of their good natures and my rest.  I've considered leaving some sort of small food offering on the table overnight, as a Breakfast option to be followed by Second Breakfast after I wake up, to buy me some time.  The fear of pests has prevented any action in this direction.

At any rate, warmth and less noise has meant a weekend of little girls leaving us alone until 0800.  Bliss, I tell you.  Even if we only have a few more months to enjoy this arrangement, it's worth it and I don't have to grit my teeth and remind myself why it would be unethical to dose them with Nyquil every eve during tooth care time. 

It's also a smaller room which suits the mass of their possessions and persons. 

Tag has also needed less space.  I considered putting him into the room in which his sisters now live, but that seemed to be a little tight.  He has shelves and a desk and a powerful need for a room that's calming and safe.  First thing he did when he moved into the little girls' old room was take the butterflies off the wall.  It's a cozier fit and he no longer shares a room when the pantry and some miscellaneous storage.  The one closet is easier to close, which is important to him since it "freaks me out, mom."  The room he was in before has closets that have to be beaten shut.

So now we're all happier with the current arrangement.  I'm glad for the extra rest we've been getting.

Yesterday we went to a ward Christmas Party where the food was a little ugh but the company was great.  Someone actually cooked bacon and then kept it warm in a crockpot...  it was spooned on to plates.  I reiterate: ugh.  Tag asked Santa for a motorcycle, Freida asked for a birthday, and Pebbles asked for a flashlight.   Princess was too old for such foolishness and uttered a tween harrumph at the thought of visiting with the patient, old elf, but happily made reindeer candy canes and sugar cookies. 

We set out to visit my sister in law and had a blast!  Clam chowder for lunch and then we decorated cookies.  Her husband "went out and got a deer" because our state is so thick with the critters that you can drive 10 mins down the road and bow hunt, field dress, and return with your trophy in a mere two hours.  The cookies were exceptionally delicious and it was the first time I've ever seen a fresh kill that close before.  Once again, it was some excellent company but the food was also excellent. 

We stopped at the temple on the way home and enjoyed the breath taking glory of the Christmas lights.  The colors were rich and magnificent but had the inexplicable understatement of LED lights. Every tree and bush around the parking lot was embraced with Christmas celebration.  It was so crowded that evening that the stake center parking lot next door was filling up fast and parking lot attendants worked chilly shifts making sure that patrons of the temple had closer access than light voyeurs.  Tag almost got creamed by a bus once and I found the voice of a crazed grisly bear ripped out of my chest in warning.  It worked and he jumped back in time but we were both shaken. 

A quick stop at Chipotle brought us home in time for a bite and a timely bed time. 

All in all, a great weekend. 

Home shopping

Man wants to buy.  He wants to buy soon.  I'm nervous about that idea.

Here are the current plans: He has the opportunity to participate in occupational rehabilitation which will help guide him to a job that utilizes his various talents, which he will then either enjoy or have to swallow the tangy pill of realization that when you're upset at your ideal job it's time to buck up and get over it.  He seems to be hopeful, which is nice.

So, part of the occupational therapy is training in the field of his choosing.  Yes, more school.  He is, even now, enrolled in an online college where he's taking the one capstone class he needs to graduate with a Bachelor's degree in liberal arts.  I was a little upset by that, seeing as he could quintuple major in Chinese, Music, German, Computer Crap, and National Defense.  Whatevs.  At any rate, he's doing this online class in ethics, which has brought up some lively debate regarding euthanasia and the fundamentals of morals themselves.  He'll be getting his degree some time in the spring at which point I'll be throwing a party to which you all are invited.  Details to follow. 

So, we'll be moving at some nebulous point in the future.  The idea is that we'll move to where the job is.  Failing a decent job, we'll move to Kansas which is where my people are.  Now he wants to move to Colorado because the houses seem to be about $100k cheaper due to the tanking of the housing market out here which he says will make up for the difference in living expenses.  Right, says I, but it's still far from my family.  Well, replies he, at least it's way closer than any other place we've lived the past 4 years.  Whatever, sigh I, living that far away has taught me longing and appreciation.  Closer is better, but I'll go to CO if the job is good.  A day's drive is much better than a full days' drive (9 hours vs almost 24 if you factor in hourly potty breaks for little people), but I've got this pit in my stomach over it that says "I don't wanna and you're not the boss of me!"  That's the same pit that sometimes wins when I do my own menu planning and contemplate scrubbing behind the toilet. 

The problem with moving where the job is that he won't be getting a job while doing the occupational rehabilitation.  Really?  Really.  Makes me nervous?  You bet your sweet Sosa.  Which means that there isn't likely to be the sweet job in CO that'll make it ok for me to be far from home.  All of this is still in the incubation/theoretical stage which means that we're still arguing about it none of the above may ever come to pass.  He could land a sweet job in Europe or Iceland just in time for the cancer cure and common global language to shake hands.  Who the heck knows.


Anyway, looking at the price difference on these houses has got me thinking.  In real life, cheaper isn't always a good thing.  A decent rule of thumb can be to determine the level of quality you want to go for, often associated with a brand, and then find the cheapest price on that exact item.  Houses don't often have brands.  When they do, they're out of my price range in any case.  How do you know what the true value of a house is?  How do you know it won't be a money pit?  How do you know if you can afford it even if the price is great?  Do I have to learn a new level of home maintenance when we buy a house?  Dude, it's a headache. 

In the mean time, Tag's teacher called in a tizzy the other day.  Apparently he's still refusing to do his work in class so I've gone all Mr. Monk on him with checklists and consequences with if-then statements and loud lectures which (bless the little guy) he took with humility and resignation.  It breaks my heart.  It's looking like a strong possibility that he'll fail the 9 weeks, which could lead to failing the year, No Child Left Behind notwithstanding.  He will, however, get an IEP which might help somewhat.  Yes, ADHD is finally official, diagnosed, on the record, and snickering at us as we glare at it and frantically research our eyeballs out and work with at least four entities besides his normal doctor to come up with a way to get this child some academic and behavioral success.  I don't want him to fail the second grade especially if it's because of frustration as opposed to a real intellectual deficiency.  I wouldn't mind a dumb kid.  Someone's gotta have them.  But he isn't dumb by any stretch and my sense of justice is not ok with a failure of this nature when something could be done about it.  Yes, I'm taking it personally.  He really is trying, sits (mostly) nicely to do his homework at home and finishes it in reasonable time with only occasional intervention.  The problem is primarily in the classroom and I'm not there to see it.  All I have is the teacher's word against his and that poor lady has 28 kids who are all precious snowflakes wilting under the burden of his squeaky-wheel-ness. 

I love my boy.  He doesn't hurt anyone at school, doesn't break stuff, doesn't vandalize the bathroom, I've heard no reports of name calling or bullying.  All he does is refuse to do academic work while his teacher hovers over him.  I strongly suspect that we have a serious case of bad behavior cycle.  Once again, whatevs.

Two classes have come back with A's, just waiting on one class to see if the GPA stays at a 4.0.  I should know by this afternoon.

That's all from H land at the moment.  Happy holidays, Reader!

the delicious end

Oh, there are delicious ends.  There are heels of fine bread, the last lukewarm sweetness of an herbal mocha, the last end woven into a deep, fluffy scarf, and a final exam that takes 30 mins to whip out.

I wrote until my hand shook, which wasn't much considering my generation Y upbringing.  Then I sold back my text books and skipped down the hall with a whistle on my lips and a laugh in my throat.  An odd combination, but I didn't care.  The door to my freedom opened with a blast of frozen air that felt like baptism on my flushed face. 

It was most welcome.

I'm taking spring off, unless I take just one online class.  House hunting, job searching, school looking, but first, there is Christmas.  I'm going to take off my shoes and take a hot bath.

Oh, and I had another book idea when Freida came to visit my bed at 3 am, complaining of her fear of crickets.  It kept me up for an hour. 

From my facebook page:

From my facebook updates:

For the first time in (mumble mumble) weeks, my house is almost clean. I'm sure the Chesapeake isn't thanking [me] for all the spraying and scrubbing, but neither are several trillion microscopic beasties.

 Vacuuming in the blackness of space beneath furnishings, I'm very carefully curbing my curiosity about the blub-cha-clank going on in my long suffering vacuum. Was that a toy? A hair clip? No, don't think about it! FWOOMP!! Oh, crud, that had to have been a sock or a tissue... NO! Don't think about it. Crackling hiss! Sand. It had to have been. Or cracker crumbs. Rattling clink might have been money... No. No. Don't think about it.

 I did end up taking those two finals yesterday.   The psych final was my one and only chance (as far as I know), but the sociology test is a three striker, with the prof taking the highest score out of all three.  He'll email on Monday to let me know if I need to take another whack at it, but with 38 points of extra credit to apply to a 100 point test, I'm feeling pretty darn good.  

 Last but certainly not least, my English final is this Thursday.  It's going to be four questions regarding the plays A Doll's House by Henrik Ibsen and Fences by August Wilson.  If you have the chance, A Doll's House is a completely haunting movie as well (1973 version), starring a startlingly young Anthony Hopkins and including the lady who plays Miss Prism in The Importance of Being Earnest.   

 It's felt really good to feel like I have the time and energy to give the house a good scrubbing.  I've gone through a lot of cleaning supplies today and I may actually go through more than one whole vacuum bag.  Of course the kids havn't been as enthusiastic as I, but everyone seems to breathe much more easily when you can stride through a room without kicking anything, or easily find towels and clothes and cups and forks.  We're starting to get the rearrangement itch as we learn that the three youngest kids seem to have too much room.  We're moving the spare room into the former master bedroom on one side, which is where Bren is living.  We're going to get him a smaller bed and a smaller room and a room with fewer closets to worry about.  So that's going to begin in earnest this week, and then we'll have missionaries over for dinner to do the heavy lifting since Man isn't up to that sort of thing anymore.   

 Also, the kids are getting older and wanting more money.  So now I have to start calculating how much money I'm going to offer for extra chores.  Hehe.  The chores have worked very well in the past but they've been more sporadic.  One time I charged Bren a lot of money to let him make a dinner on a night he didn't like what I made, but I let him do chores to earn it all back.  We havn't repeated that since then, since the little stinker really needs to eat the food I make and I don't want him thinking he can just throw money at something he doesn't like to fix it.  So I'm wondering what it is they can do for money that isn't something they should be doing for themselves or the family anyway.  Claire should be doing her own laundry here pretty soon, I'm thinking at the beginning of the next school year.  Basic yard care, dishes, caring for their own and public space, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, and cooking once in a while are all part of being in a family.  So what's left?