Christmas Makes Us Crazy, Part 29.

Helping!

So here's a thing.

Over this past weekend (when not putting out the blazing fire that was my toddler's 104 degree forehead), I had a realization: People cannot wait to de-Christmas.

Keeping in mind that the merchandising of the season starts roughly on September 1st...the actually acceptable Christmas Celebratory Decorative Period starts the day after Thanksgiving. That's when it's cool to wrap lights around beams and drag trees through foyers and inflate reindeer atop roofs. And people have stuff. Entire storage spaces full of ornaments and tinsel and German boots for mulled wine- lined up on window sills like so many confused little elves. (Ahem.) Fake snow is layered with smallish scenes recreated on any available counter space. Stocking are thwacked onto mantels or wall hooks. In a relatively short period of time, a goodly bunch of folks downright quadruple their existing clutter in the name of BEING FESTIVE.

But then, on December 26th? Boom. Back out come the bins. The bubble wrap for the delicate ornaments. Snowman hand towels are stacked away for another calendar year of disuse (because let's be honest; most people are way too freaked out about getting the "fancy" hand towels dirty that they probably don't even get used in the actual Christmas season, either).

We stand there and look at the corner currently being rented out by a drooping tree and say to ourselves, "Man, it'll be nice to get that space back again!" Like we're talking about finally getting the roof repaired after nearly a decade of being a main thoroughfare for squirrels.

And it's more than a little ridiculous.

Because even if you leave your decor up until January 6th to celebrate the epiphany...or to celebrate your own laziness...

That's less than five weeks between purposefully emptying the contents of our closets directly onto any nearby flat surface and the world-weary de-cluttering which is usually reserved for an episode of Hoarders.

Next year, I may just slap a few tinfoil snowflakes onto the front window and consider myself done.

Except for the army of boot-mugs. (They're so cute...)

See You Next Year!

Public Drinking And Abject Coveting. (Christmas!)

I hear you're the guy what haz the toy access. Pay no mind to the baby,
she's just a baby. She's not In The Know.

This past Saturday was the annual event that pretty much tops all other Chicago events for me: The Christkindlmarket in the Daley Plaza. That's right, the kitsch fest that contains every German ever to carve an ornament (and some of their Mexican and/or Ecuadorian compatriots with vendor stalls of their own- it's an equal opportunity kitsch fest) is the reason why I love Chicago so hard.

Yes, there's exceptional theatre here. Sure, our transit system is [generally] admirable. And absolutely, the tamale lady on my corner warrants her own spin-off show. But once a year, there exists a square wherein I can weep over miniature glass animals, force my children to be kind to Santa Claus, and drink mulled wine FROM A BOOT.

Now, some of you may recall how I am still recovering from the loss of my glass menagerie. It still stung, what with seeing my M.I.A. collection's brethren and sistren on full display for all of the shove-happy drunkards to poke and potentially break...but I was strong. For the children. (And I got a baby deer! And Nora chose a whale! And Zuzu quickly got a teddy bear! Because by the time we got to her choice, we were really in danger of being stampeded!)

But even though I haven't fully given up hope that I'll find my little glass guys in a shoe or something, I'm happy to be rebuilding my collection. Because I'm an obsessive eight year-old girl.

On a happier note, this was the year that Nora decided Santa was her friend. A good friend who brings her stuff. And all she had to do to get this prize was to be civil (and potentially cheerful- no promises) to the bearded guy. And sister, did she deliver! Unfortunately, (we found out later) Susannah was coming down with a slight cold and wasn't her usual, I Want To Hug The UPS Man self. But hey, one daughter beaming at Santa pretty much beats any other record we've ever set.

And that whole mulled wine in a boot thing? Yeah, it's still pretty much the greatest secular Christmas tradition ever.

Like, ever.

We've Traveled So Far- Like, Really Far.

Pretty normal, right?

This is the nativity set that my sister gave me. It's quite nice. It's also slightly supernatural. BECAUSE. Every time I set it up with everyone facing baby Jesus (which generally only happens once in a season- I'm rarely in there playing with them and talking for each guy like miniature Weebles)... every time I set it up and leave the room...

I come back to find this guy doing this.

Y'all.
(Also, yes, they're on a chess board. Festive.)

One of the kings likes to do his own thing. He spins. He faces the wall. He is never in the position where I left him.

P.J. tells me all sorts of things: that king's a little uneven, he's on wheels, our house is on a fault line.

Whatever.

Haunted. King.

By this point, I'm pretty sure that my house was built on a Native American burial ground.

Trees And Panic And Church. And Drinking.

"I have no idea what's happening!"- Suzy

I've been feeling very behind, rather frantic, and Not. In. The. Holiday. Spirit. At. All.

And as ads (and Facebook) have been reminding me...there's only a few short weeks left to get it all done. And this made me panic.

Until I realized that it's December 3rd. THIRD. Not twenty-third. This is actually the official start to the Christmas season. It's true. Think about it: When you were a little kid and read (or watched) aaaaaany story that concerned Christmas...did it take place in October or November? Nope. It was somewhere smackdab in the middle of December. (And generally somewhere smackdab in the middle of the Midwest. I don't know why these shows always concerned families residing in Indiana or Illinois, I just remember that they did. Maybe I'm thinking of John Hughes films.) 

Anyhow. I'm trying desperately hard to enjoy this season. We got our tree this weekend (at the traditional Home Depot tree lot) and as we pulled into the parking lot I had to reassure myself that there would still be "good" trees. On December 1st. (There were.) Nora was stoked beyond belief to choose a tree that "wasn't too thin." Susannah was rather confused but determined to enjoy herself. (And P.J. did that Guy Thing with the tree man where they spun the tree and banged the trunk officially.) 

That night, the girls were positively vibrating off the ground with tree ornament excitement. Zuzu's job was to walk across the room with larger ornaments, hide them under a shoe, squeal excitedly at them, and then fling them in the general direction of the tree. Nora's job was to carefully suspend nine ornaments on the same branch, roughly two inches from the floor. They did this for an hour and a half. And honestly? That was magical. 

Everything you need to know is
going down in this very pic.

The next day we went to the 10am mass, which was being said for my Dad. (Thanks, Kris!!) P.J. was actually the one who got to say the intentions for my Dad, which was rather special (even though, at the time, Nora was attempting to raise and lower the kneeler onto the pregnant lady next to us and Susannah was preoccupied with peeing through her outfit onto my shirt). But being there made me think of the Christmas stuff I treasured doing with my family growing up- and especially my Dad. Like getting the tree. Hanging the lights. Watching the favorite TV specials (over and over and over). Having him read The Night Before Christmas to the four of us girls. And then the four of us girls and the five grandkids. Having a cordial glass of peppermint schnapps on the rocks in front of the fire (which, as he's repeatedly told me, is the perfect Christmastime drink). 

I would so love to be sitting in front of the fire drinking something with him right now. I'm sure he'd dig that, too.

Because I am his favorite.

But for now, I'll try really hard to slow down and not feel the Christmas Panic every morning and night.  I bet a schnapps would help. 

Maybe just a [singular] schnapp. 

A Super-Short Smattering...

...Of my favorite Christmas photos, possibly ever.

(A.k.a. Suzy Gets Flung Around And Kissed, Nora Sneaks Incredible Amounts Of Desserts, And My Dad Regrets Starting The "Night Before Christmas" Story Tradition Back In The '80s.)

Santa Baby.

Oh Mom. Zuzu looks odd.

Merriest of Christmases, everyone! Or rather, a superbly happy Boxing Day to you all. I love boxes, boxed lunches, boxty, the boxstep, and Oscar De La Hoya.

Our Christmas Eve was spent at a church in the Berkshires that we don't regularly attend, but which was quite nice, nonetheless. There were carols, there were lessons, there were snacks and books shared over the pews by miniature cousins, there were inopportunely timed 'Amens' from smallish blond children, and there was at least once incredibly good (and sleepy) infant in her finest velour duds- complete with ruffled headband.

My Dad read 'Twas The Night Before Christmas to all of his grandchildren...with extremely varied reactions. There were boys who completely dug every single line. There were girls who pointedly disagreed with the entire endeavor. There was one snoozer. But- and most importantly- it was all captured on film, including a poignant moment where I yelled at my biggie daughter to sit on the couch RIGHT NOW. (Fa la la.)

After the kids fell asleep, my father found and played a video from Christmas morning, 1991. (My finest year, fashion/face/hair-wise.) A few filmed moments were pretty incredible:
-The fact that someone- quite possibly my folks- actually gifted my 4 year-old twin sisters tinny microphones attached to tape decks.
-That my '91 Era Dad received a flannel which he recently gave to my '11 Era husband...which would have blown the mind of '91 Era Keely, playing with a porcelain doll recently positioned on the shelf of '11 Era Daughter.
-And the weird realization that an awful lot of [colorful] pens were presented back and forth that year.

On Christmas morning, my daughters actually slept in. Which was completely overruled by my nephews' excited pre-dawn pre-game.

And guess what? Santa really did a number on the under-6 set. But apparently he needlessly overdid it. For Nora was disinterested in ANY other gifts once she spied a [2 buck] Strawberry Shortcake activity book. Really. At least Susannah feigned interest in her teething rings and rainbow sock monkey. Nora was done.

As for me, Santa Husband was pretty darned terrific. Among my gifts were some pretty sweet cards for clothing which- once I get my pre-baby body back (a week from now, tops)- will be used the heck out of, a monogrammed charm for Suzy for my bracelet, a new Nora Roberts novel, and- one of the coolest things ever ever ever- an oversized mug proclaiming me to be the World's Best Mom...

...With "Somehow I Manage" on the opposing side. (Anyone? "Office" fans? What if I made a dramatic shrugging motion while saying it?)

P.J. received a day at a Russian spa/bath in Chicago for a day of relaxation/detox/potential nudity and a pair of hiking boots (which he promptly decided to exchange.) At least one present was received happily. This is better than my usual present to Peej/Peej's immediate return rate.

Nora got a personal DVD player- for all of her personal viewing needs. Susannah got a pewter baby cup and a fascinating number of sock monkeys. (A new red wagon for two is waiting for them under our tree at home- shh...thankfully my girls cannot read/are not fans of my blog.)

And- for real- we were all spoiled by a downright insane number of gifts from sisters, boyfriends, parents, nephews, aunts, uncles, and daughters. Cincinnati giftitude (in the form of delightfully Ohioan food) was shipped in from my in-laws.

I took a bath. And a nap. And read. Ate way too much terrific wonderfulness at the hands of my parents. (Well, their cooking abilities. But I used my hands.)

Suzy's first Christmas was extremely special.

But I'm not surprised- they're all extremely special.

Especially back in '91 when I was (on camera) quite stoked to receive a) a new Barbie (Really, Keely? At 11? Really?), b) hot pink paperclips, and c) shoe deodorizers.

I'm pretty sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.

Deep down.

Also "Lords A'Leaping." I Also Wish You That.

In light of the fact that I am currently traveling through Chicago's luxurious Midway Airport, I'll keep my Christmas greeting brief (yet full of love- and perhaps only a bit of pith):

During this holiday season (and anytime else, really), I wish you cookies without slightly burned undersides, rendering the whole cookie kinda smoky...

...And helpful people. Like mail carriers who remember to close the mailbox on rainy/snowy days. And toddlers who don't remove their boots in public places. Like restrooms. While we're on that note, I wish you more Helpful Toddler and less Public Restroom in general.

I wish you naps. Glorious, snuggly, 3-blanket drowsy naps with nary a responsibility in the world...except maybe to inform someone what kind of beverage you'd like upon awakening. Maybe even the type of nap where a fabulously droney documentary is playing in the background, so you can sleep with the fuzzy knowledge that, by napping on the living room couch, you're still being borderline "social."

I wish you abject joy. The kind of joy that comes from explaining- with as much technical jargon as humanly possible- how exactly Santa Claus works. I hope you have a season where you get to concretely affirm the existence of magic (at least once).  

And lights. And decorations. And really, truly, eye-poppingly crazy displays of holiday cheer that- yeah, sure- are placing obscene amounts of money directly into the pocket of ComEd...but I still wish it for you. Because garish ornamentation at Christmastime makes one feel like a seven year-old. And, for real, is there anything better than being a seven year-old at Christmas?

I wish you love, family (or a decided lack o' family, if that's your happy place), and more than your fair share of nog. (Again, only if you like it. If not- NO NOG.)

And I hope you receive the noisiest, sparkliest, newest, and pokey-eye-outiest toy this side of A Christmas Story.

Oh yeah, and I also wish- as I have since I started writing letters to Santa in 1986- for world peace. (But also the sparkly toy, if that's cool.)

(Merry Christmas.)

Go Back To Bed, Michael.

Can't we just turn off the stereo?

I thought it would be enough for me to simply list the Christmas songs that get my Christmas goose. (I was gonna say "goat," but I've never heard of a Christmas goat. Even though accuracy has never really prevented me from writing before.)


But no. My ire, annoyance, and ear-worm eye-roll  has not been tempered in the least.


So I shall expound.


Okay, Jackson 5. I get it. You saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe last night. Leaving for a moment how cloying it is whenever any adult (or half-grown adult, as in this case) refers to anyone as "Mommy," let's think this one through. Michael, your father was Joe Jackson. Being as he was a confirmed abusive fellow, maybe we should refrain from "telling [your] Dad" anything about anyone's misdeeds. I can't hear that line without cringing over the can of whoop-ass that has just inadvertently been opened.


Staying on the Jackson 5 train, can we all just agree to stop playing their positively suicide-inducing Little Christmas Tree? For the [blessedly] uninitiated, here's a sample:


I hear the Christmas bells
The happy people singing
The songs of good cheer
That only brings me tears
I sadly close my eyes
And say a little prayer
You'll be waiting there for me
I look but all I see is
Just a little Christmas tree
Looking sort of sad and lonely just like me
No one seems to care
They just went away and left it standing there
All alone on Christmas Eve.


Ohhkay. Listen, people, I don't care how many bells or trees you reference, this is NOT a good example of a holiday song. I can't imagine this is anyone's favorite Christmas chestnut. Who is requesting this song? He's saying a "little prayer," so he's clearly a praying kinda guy. Couldn't he just go to a Christmas Eve mass or something? Maybe volunteer at a soup kitchen? Anything's better than staring a small shrub. Also, come to think of it, why is Michael all alone on Christmas Eve? I can't believe that ever happened during his formative years- at least not with those Jackson 4 guys around. Not to mention LaToya and Janet. 


And the biggest offender of the Really Pushing The "Christmas Song" Category Envelope is: Last Christmas by George Michael. I know for a fact that millions of people adore this song. At least two stations in Chicago play it twice as hour (not even counting Taylor Swift's cover) and I've renamed Sirius XM's Channel 17 the Last Christmas station. ("All Last Christmas," all the time!") 


But here's the thing- this song could have taken place on any ol' day of the year: 


Last Christmas, I gave you my heart
But the very next day, You gave it away
This year, to save me from tears

I'll give it to someone special.

Look, this is basically a breakup song that just happened to have taken place on Christmas Eve. Substitute the holiday and you've got a pretty stellar Valentine's Day song. Or St. Patrick's or Arbor Day. Also, may I suggest not giving your heart as a present? Especially to someone who's clearly into December 26th store credit? Besides, wrapping up "Merry Christmas" with a note saying "I love you" (even if you meant it) is not a terrific Christmas gift. A sweet stocking stuffer at best. But if that was your only gift, I don't blame him/her for leaving you. 

I'm already questioning your serial dateitude if THIS year you're already planning on giving your heart to someone [randomly] special. 

Maybe take the season off. 

And now, I welcome your suggestions for truly abhorred overplayed Christmas ditties. This much rage should not be contained in solitude. We must stand strong, and stand together.

Or we're no better than that sad and lonely little Christmas tree.

The New Normal- Christmas Edition.

Christmassed out.

I don't think 25 year-old Keely would recognize 31 year-old Keely, nor her way of celebrating the holiday season. Nor what she considers totally par for the course.

Mid-twenties Keel would don her best grey leather boots and mod minidress for a round of Christmas shindigs that featured precariously balanced martinis/vodka tonics, extra lime.

Early-thirties me considers it a night well-spent if she gets an after-dinner dance with both of her girls (and maybe even her husband) to the sweet sounds of The Vince Guaraldi Trio's Charlie Brown soundtrack. Any time I can bust out my mad Peanuts dancing skills is a gold star moment. Nora's got the arm thing down. Zuzu excels at the floppy head part.

Christmas treats used to include the mandatory evening out at Emilio's Tapas for the seasonal triumvirate of bacon-wrapped dates, baked goat cheese marinara, sangria pitchers. Lots of them. Lots of all of them, in fact. These nights would be late. Very late. Happily, cheerfully, sloshily late.

Mama K wears the same red hoodie (dating back to 8th grade, back when we wore things awfully roomily) to determinedly bake festive cookie-like vaguely reindeer-shaped things with her daughters. Even though she [most definitely] does NOT possess this skill set. Because two year-olds (and two month-olds) need this memory with their mother. This morning activity comes right on the heels of an excruciatingly, astonishingly sober, and painfully late night. The main players in this little skit included a slightly snarfy newborn, a little kid whose overnight diaper threatened to leave without her, and a husband who remained awake to bake cookies for his wife's party- the one for reviewing the new ABBA Wii dance game the following night, obviously.

Business as usual.

One thing that has stayed- painfully- the same is the number of awful, annoying, and atrocious songs that are played in mind-numbing repetition on holiday stations. I mean, come on, Sirius XM- you have access to literally thousands of Christmas and seasonal songs. Yet I still hear this combo once an hour: Dominick the Donkey (hee HAW), I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas, and- more recently- that ol' Spongebob classic, Don't Be A Jerk (It's Christmas).

They should just play Josh Groban's O Holy Night and anything by Mannheim Steamroller/Transiberian Orchestra (whom I'm not entirely convinced are NOT the same group. They might also be Manhattan Transfer).

And this afternoon? It's the traditional crafting of the Christmas paper chain while viewing Jeopardy.

I'm not even gonna pretend that one's new or different.

More Sibling Love And A Play Doh Rudolph.

Dragging Kids About Town.

The past few days have been great.

Unless you ask my children. Then, the time has been rotten.

For starters, we rocked Nora's world with the trifecta of terror: Santa, first haircut, and meeting new people.

We thought she'd dig seeing Santa, seeing as how she's been obsessed with all of the classic Christmas movies and telling everyone how KIND she's been. (Saturday morning she excitedly told me that Santa would even give her a treat because she's been so KIND.) But no. After standing in that line and being greeted by a positively dour Mrs. Claus, she lost her nerve. Zuzu was placed in Santa's arms and Nora reluctantly sat on his lap.

Nooope...

"Hi there!"

Waaaaaaail. She bolted. Susannah stayed put and even blinked happily up at him. He offered to take a picture with "the little one." (I'm sure she was a refreshing drink of water after the terrified children of the morning. By the way, Nora and Susannah were the tenth kids inside Santa's workshop that day. Poor guy.)

As we exited, Nora told me brightly- "I met Santa!" And then a moment later. "I was scared."

Frightened by the person behind me.

We remained at the Christkindlmarket because we had yet to get our mulled wine in a boot, obvie. Even when it began a torrential downpour, we stayed the course. For we couldn't find the booth with the miniature blown glass animals. (Never did find it, actually, but that sure as heck didn't stop us from trying for a goodly while.) Susannah was in the Bjorn and Nora in the backpack- 'cause that scene doesn't exactly encourage the stroller set. And nothing says the Advent Season like a fever brought on by one's mother's quest for the cutest glass frog.

Nora ate her lunch in the car so as to prevent her from falling asleep. Did I mention we kept her up past her nap for optimal Santa meetin'/crowd evadin' time? And the second she woke up from her later nap, we whisked her off for her first ever haircut? Good afternoon.

Is this what you wanted, Mom?

We went to Pickle's Playroom in Lincoln Square, because a) it looked cute, and b) I feared my own ability to not give my daughter a mullet. She chose to sit in a pink car and watch an episode of Dora for her big shearing- as you do. (It still felt wrong to even be cutting one lock of her hair- she was a cueball until, like, last Christmas. Why am I mocking the gods?) She was unsure of the spray bottle, the comb, the scissors, and especially the blow dryer. But when she found out that the haircut came with a free half hour in the business' stellar playroom, she was totally on board. So, ten minutes after the haircut, she was fine.

And now she has bangs. Which are completely adorbs.

After the trim, we stopped by a lovely Christmas party at P.J.'s coworker's home. So Nora got to meet new people- which, surprisingly, she was really rather good at that evening. (It helped that they had a good under-7 crowd.)

Naturally, she went to bed an hour and a half later than usual and- shockingly- slept until 10:30 the next morning. It was SO crazy that we actually got nothing done...because we spent way too much time announcing how CRAZY it was that she was still asleep.

Look at us smushing our children.

After breakfast for lunch, we went out to Home Depot and picked up what may have been their last Frasier Fir. (Place was seriously picked over. "Had a busy Saturday," they said. No kidding. There was our tree, some Charlie Browns, and a trail of mutilated garlands leading to the parking lot.) That said, our tree is boss. Made even more so by the fact that Nora carefully helped me decorate it- taking the time to first organize ornaments by shape and color on the floor (I am so proud). The smallish cup of "warm cocoa" she had ingested made her a little more forceful than normal whilst placing the decorations on the actual tree, but the overall effect is still pretty nice. And those suckers are ON THERE.

While we mangled the tree, P.J. magnificently Daddified the front yard with garlands, lights, wreaths, windows boxes, and power strips.

And where was Susannah during all of this? She was doing what she does best- just being. Being in a bouncer seat, being in a sling, being in our arms, smiling all the while. Pleased as punch to watch Nora bodyslam the tree, stoked to be bundled into the freezing cold, happy as a clam to sleep against me during her sister's events. She's just a bucket full of Christmas goodwill.

I'm fine. No, really. Fine.

All of which I squandered this morning during her two month checkup and the battery of four vaccinations. Nothing like watching a sweetly shy smile turn to despairing pain and betrayal.

I have quite a bit of trust-rebuilding to do this week.

Nora thinks I should say it with waffles. She may be onto something.

I Still Want A Hula Hoop.

Last year's questionable meet-up

We've really been pushing The Christmas.

Mostly for myself. It's kind of hard to be in the spirit of things when really (reallyreallyreally) tired, but the [advent] calendar waits for no man!

So we've been rocking the Sirius XM holiday station. Expected side effect: I remember how much I adore renditions of 'O Holy Night' (except for Jewel's- blechity blech) and any incarnation of Canon in D. Especially if a children's choir is singing in the background. UNexpected side effect: Nora cannot stop singing 'You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch." (Or, as it's more commonly known, 'Meanie.')

Frosty The Snowman has been viewed. (As has the shockingly inferior sequel- Frosty Returns. Seriously. Come on. It's just... For real.) We love Frosty. We hate the part where he melts. Can. Not. Deal. When. He. Melts. There's a good ten minutes of "Frosty will melt, but it'll be okay" before the dude even gets trapped in the greenhouse. And then after his soaky demise, "SANTA WILL FIX HIM" is wailed straight into the credits. And then we sing the song until bedtime and ask when we can watch it again.

Now that I think about it, it's a pretty horrifying scenario. Sorry, kid.

I am determined to make Nora pals with Mr. Ol' Saint Nick, so I've really been talking him up to her. Kinda feels like a middle school relationship. ("No, he really likes you. Do you like him, too? Do you really like him? He's so fun. He has cool toys!")  I think she's keying into what he's all about, though, because every good deed or successful trip to the potty is followed up by a pointed "That was very kind, Mommy. I am kind."

Hopefully this budding relationship will last until at least this Saturday, which is when the fateful (second) meeting will go down. At the Christkindlmarket to be exact. (Mulled wine in a boot! Miniature blown-glass animals! Ohboyohboy! And, uh, Santa!)

Last year's meet n' greet had mixed results. She was perfectly fine until she actually saw Santa. And had to sit on his lap. And until he spoke to her. Not to mention having to smile for a picture. And there were elves who were all like- How are you, today?

She was horrified.

The picture we captured was remarkably calm. Those picture-takin' elves really know what they're about.

This year will be different, I can just tell. Shy Thumbelina will be joined by her miniature sidekick, Cheerful Buttercup. Gotta put on a brave face for The Littles.

Or at least be pleasant enough to get your Santa treat.

Gotta work the system.

Nora Just Learned ALL The Words To 'Jingle Bells.'

Cousins are for hugging.

Well, it's officially the Christmas Season.

It was rung in by the Official 7.5 Hour Gridlock Post-Thanksgiving Trans-Indiana Commute Day (Observed).

Thankfully, Peej and I have been blessed by some pretty rockin' travel companions. I think you'll recognize the archetypes: One likes to read the entire time, occasionally stopping to inquire about snacks. Seated next to her is that one person who always dozes off for entire states, waking momentarily to announce that they'll drive the next leg...before sleeping well into Ohio. Then there's the gal who Just Has A Little Work To Finish Up, but still berates anyone who doesn't acknowledge the stellar harmonies and transitions on her playlist. She also has to pee a lot. Finally, we've got the guy who has taken up the glove thrown down by I-65. And Is NOT Driving Too Fast, Thanks. He also has a positively Rain Man reaction to various townships' gas prices. And will recite and repeat them with regret until the vehicle passes into a better county with even cheaper gas. WHY DIDN'T WE STOP!?

Thanksgiving itself was a whirl of fabulous meals (and meal reduxes) and insanely good pie (and redux plus a thousand), plus lots of lovely family- and an incredibly large number of Zuzu-holdin' arms. I even took a nap. I got my Graeter's and Skyline fixes, saw Nora lose her shiz with excitement over Cousin Time, and- awesomesauciest of all- saw my mother-in-law onstage in a musical revue. (Due to various Susannah-related constraints, I actually got to see a preview performance and had the whole theatre to myself. No big deal, just the kinda V.I.P. stuff I do in Ohio.)

And now, aside from a few moments of head-cold snarfiness (as a result of germy hands/toys, etc. shoved directly into my ocular cavities), I'm fully ready to embrace the holidays.

My Christmasness cannot be rushed. I'm a big fan of not celebrating one holiday until another has had its due. I realize I'm in an ever-dwindling crew of folks who do not care for Santa sales in August, but it's something I really try to hold to. Among this is my (perhaps misinformed?) disdain for midnight or 4am sales on Black Friday. Why? Well, it's because we're shockingly wealthy. (Oh, P.J. hates that joke. I think it's a rollicker.) Okay, the real reason is this: when I hear of people camping out immediately after Thanksgiving dinner, I wonder if they've done the math. For every hour they're sitting in the cold, waiting to "save" money, is pretty much an hour on the ol' personal time clock. And even if they only value themselves at minimum wage (which I do not- I'm downright six figures on the payroll of Me Time), you really hafta add that total to the items on which you've saved. I'd rather spend extra money than stand in the cold for even an hour.

Okay, I think I just gave my husband an aneurysm.

Besides, if Christmas feels thrust upon me too soon, I'm not really in the whole Christmas spirit thing. And if I'm not listening to fabulous holiday music and sipping a [large] peppermint schnapps on ice while signing cards and comfily shopping online, well then...I might as well just do an automatic transfer into each person's bank account and call it a day. ("Five dollars for you...and five dollars for you...")

But now I'm ready. And I've taken the ol' WishBook and circled pages 4-271 with easily decoded margin notes for optimum toy purchasing. (Okay, only two people will get that reference. And they are both my parents.)

Fa la la.

By the numbers.

This was Nora's holiday week- let's break it down.

On Wednesday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members were hugged.

Thursday: (5) meat products were consumed, (30) family members were hugged.

Friday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members- not including her touchy/feely parents.

Saturday: (6) meat products were consumed...plus (5) cheese appetizers, (29) family members were hugged.

Sunday: (5) meat products were consumed, plus the rest of the cheese/etc., appetizers, (10) family members were hugged.

This a.m. is too soon to calculate. But I can imagine it'll be a doozy on the food/smooch front. Some other important numbers:

- (500) rows of large families with small babies at the family mass- and (1) Nora who began singing her own "song" any time a new intro was played. Also, (1) freakout when an elderly lady belted the descant.
- (2) Baby dolls that smell like vanilla powder. That Nora will get to play with REAL soon.
- (1) Plush rocking horse with realer-than-real whinny. (Thanks, Aunties.)
- (300) Dessert-esque things. (Gotta keep your energy up to digest all of the protein.)
- (1) Really nice camera For The Family- but which Santa will have to pry outta my greedy, snappy hands.
- (2) Trips to Skyline, each time warranting (1) cheese coney and (1) small 4-way, extra onions. (Why, what are the rest of you having?)
- (1) (6)-hour trip back to Chicago, roughly (4) hours from now. In addition, (3) loads of ruffly socks of which to wash/pack.
- (40) miniature creatures: snails, kitties, bears, firefighters, policeman-in-car, at least one Bushwoolie, and a Doc Bullfrog to pack into the car along with the full size ones.
- (1) meat-stuffed and overstimulated toddler, laughing herself into a frenzied half-sleep every few hours. Only to wake at 3am. And then sleep past 8am, burning the morning nap. Which threw off the afternoon nap. Which would, obviously, make her wake up at 3am. HahAhaHahAhaH.

And (1) shocking revelation that it's currently Monday morning at 9am Eastern, not Wednesday at 1am, any time zone.

See you Thursday, at some morning hour.

At some time zone.

With some semblance of sentence structure and throughline.

One can dream.

You're gonna want to sing this one aloud.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…a mortgage and a baby.


On the second day of Christmas, Chicago gave to me…two parking fines, and a Volkswagen and a Bitsy.


On the third day of Christmas, my kiddos gave to me…three blanket tents, two museum free days, and a "Sleep in 'til seven thirty."


On the fourth day of Christmas, my parents gave to me…four words of wisdom, three No Way naptimes, two ethnic bake shops, and a "Sorry the Brita's empty."


On the fifth day of Christmas, my kitties gave to me…FIVE YUCKY THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Do it now’s,” three paper airplanes, two taco joints, and a plate full of pasta for me.


On the sixth day of Christmas, my good friends gave to me…six rolls o’ sushi, FIVE HALF-DEAD THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Doing great's,” three sticker books, two festivals, and some Kombat on the Wii.


On the seventh day of Christmas, my sisters gave to me…seven calls o’ gossip, six dates with bacon, FIVE INNARD THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Write your thank-you’s,” three twigs and leaves, two clean playlots, and a kiss on my bruise-d knee.


On the eighth day of Christmas, my homestead gave to me…eight wonky fixtures, seven rants o’ lifestyle, six Pinot Grigios, FIVE MASSAGE-Y THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Go to bed’s," three trampolines, two new parades, and some programmes on the TV.


On the ninth day of Christmas, my daughter gave to me…nine gleeful babbles, eight missing light bulbs, seven money crises, six spicy tunas, FIVE SCRATCHED-UP THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Have you done it’s," three princess wands, two vintage shops, and a love song sung on key.


On the tenth day of Christmas, my Blogger gave to me…ten featured postings, nine bossy gurgles, eight crazy neighbors, seven Call You Right Back's, six fried-up dumplings, FIVE COUGHED-UP THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four "You're my favorite's," three tutus, two car alarms, and a bag of my favorite coffee.


On the eleventh day of Christmas, the theatre gave to me…eleven brand new playwrights, ten front page write-ups, nine pointed mandates, eight scary thuddings, seven belly-laughings, six pickled gingers, FIVE LOUD YOWLIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four "Eat your crust's," three mysteries, two barking dogs, and a trip to see the sea.


On the twelfth day of Christmas, my conscience gave to me…twelve thankful feelings, eleven non-eq epics, ten full page ads, nine 'dis' and 'dats,' eight "The smell is fading's," seven "Love you- bye now's," six sauce with goat cheese, FIVE GLAD PURRIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four thumbs way up, three crayon hearts, two lakefront naps, and permission to Feng Shui.


(Merry Christmas!)

We Won't Go Until We Get Some.

I am not remotely done with the Christmas songs.

Whilst in the car the other day, Nora and I heard the cheerful lyrics of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. This is one of those songs that, for me, is so completely ingrained in my mind and memory of Christmas that I have fully stopped noticing the words. Until the car ride. Can you imagine if actual carolers came to your door one night? (This sort of merriment may occur in more refined and neighborhoody places- but if someone rings the bell in Albany Park after 8pm, your left hand's on the door and a Louisville Slugger's in your right.)

Okay, with me so far? It's late at night (yes, 8pm is LATE) and people are non-violently in front of your house. They are singing at you- which, as anyone with a schoolyear birth date can attest- can be rather awkward.

And then they want snacks.

Not just any snacks.

Pudding.

Figgy pudding.

(At this point in the song I'm wondering if 'figgy pudding' is the kind of treat that these folks are used to in the comfort of their own homes, or if they're just hoping to hit the snack lottery. Like if I went to my neighbor's house and screamed "Mussels fra diavolo!")

All of the aforementioned is weird, right? Especially towards the end of the song when they start outright demanding it. Give it right here. Merry Christmas.

Side note- (Also, did you know that 'Side Note' is the actual title to this blog?)- ever since my scree on Dominick the Donkey, it now plays no less than four times a night on our XM radio. P.J. can back me up on this, since it's usually he who sprints to change the channel.

And on the topic of radio stations, does anyone in Chicago listen to Lite FM's Christmas Wish shebang? (That is not the real name, I was just feeling jaunty.) Basically, people call or write in with their big Christmas wish and the radio station grants them multiple times per day. (I have tried to figure out a rhyme or reason or schedule for these free-for-alls. I cannot.)

Early in the season, I briefly entertained the idea of writing and begging for a Vespa or a closet with a shelf or two and a lightbulb. Then, once I heard the wishes being fulfilled on the air, I realized why I could never ever ever go through with my paltry demands.

These folks that get chosen? They have STORIES. Most of them have lost their jobs, someone in the family's always ridiculously sick and/or has died, the Mom has run off in more than a few of the cases, and no one has socks.

The only thing we really have in common is that I do not currently possess an abundance of matched, non-holey socks.

And they want one present for their kid. Or something to make for Christmas dinner. This one woman the other morning was the sole breadwinner for her son and his kids ('cause the mother had run off and her son had lost his job.) She was 72.

These stories always make me tear up and make me feel like the spoiled, white, middle class kid that I am. They're wishing for a special meal and I'm whining about carbs.

So to add to the mother guilt and Catholic guilt and American guilt...I can now safely acknowledge my Christmas guilt.

So I donated to the Arbor Day Foundation. (Yes, I am a card-carrying member, thankyouverymuch.)

And I gave to St. Jude's Children Hospital. (I CANNOT handle the St. Jude letters. Ugly cry x a million.)

And we adopted a family for Christmas presents.

We over-tipped our paper route kid and mail carrier and cat sitter.

Basically, I am trying to be generous and thank those around me and attempt to atone for the fact that, the other eleven months of the year, I am a horrid human being who does not eat bread crusts and instead throws them away.

I will strive to be less awful in 2011.

Anyone have any favorite charities that I haven't even realized I should acknowledge and fret over? Please list them below. 2011= Philanthropy Year!

Peej is gonna love this one.

The menagerie's full.

Many of you are hyper aware of my love affair with Earnest Music. (I initially typed 'Ernest.' That would be amazing. And most likely earnest as well. 'Camp' and 'jail' will do that to you.)

My earnestitude hits a whole new high around Christmastime. Holiday songs = country music + rhyming poetry on the scale of I Mean This Message Quite Deeply. But I dig 'em anyhow. A lot. Our radio has been tuned to the Christmas station since two weeks before Thanksgiving. That can cause some serious holiday earworms.

[Side note- If ever I am forced to hear Dominick the Donkey again, I will perhaps become homicidal. HEE haw HEE haw.]

[Side side note- A darling friend from middle school loved this song so much that she put it on a holiday mix CD for me. Twice. Intentionally. Despite this, I was thrilled to count her among my bridesmaids much, much later. But seriously. In the age of digital recording...I really could've easily skipped backwards on the track listing to hear Dominick bray again. Which would never, ever willingly happen.]

But there are certain holiday songs that just GET me. Quite embarrassingly, too. For instance- O Holy Night. Oh sure, it starts off innocuously enough with mention of how brightly the stars are shining and how special that evening is. Yep, I'm thinking- sure is a nice holiday song. Then the chorus hits. [Faaaaaaaaall...on your kneeeeeeeeeeees...] And suddenly I'm all like- wow. The notes are going up and up and up and the singer's gonna unleash a descant in a second or two. And then they do. Full voice. And I WEEP.

And Peej usually starts laughing, because- more often than not- I'm in the car with him when this happens. Or washing dishes at the end of the day. Then POW. Goosebumps and actual tears in the eyes. And then I do my embarrassed sniffle, the one that makes it more awkward that I'm clearly crying over nothing. And lemme tell you- there are few things worse than pretending you're not crying over something trivial while someone laughs [at you.]

Okay, there are many, many things worse than that scenario. But it's still pretty pathetic.

It gets worse.

You know who frequently covers songs like this? Crooners. Full-voiced, multi-octaved soft rock singers. That's right, let's add some more fuel to my furnace of shame. I am bawling to the melodic stylings of JOSH GROBAN AND CELINE DION. (Whom, let's not forget, I can seriously jam out to.) But it really doesn't help my case.

I recently stumbled across this version as well. I do not cry to it. Except with laughter. (Please do yourself a favor and listen to it in its [glorious] entirety. He really lets it wail at the end. Even replaying it in my mind, I'm trying super hard not to pee.)

So there's that.

Another semi-awkward bout with outward emotion always occurs when I watch Claymation Christmas. (Jim Henson Productions equate buckets of tears, apparently.) Man oh man, We Three Kings sung by the wise men and some sunglass-wearing camels is the absolute tops. And Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer as jammed out by The California Raisins is epic. (Does it bother me in the least that I'm thoroughly believing the activities of walking and talking raisins? Nope. I once watched an episode of their TV show in the '80s and was incredibly invested in the unfolding story of one of the female Raisins' (Raisinettes?) struggle with self confidence. When she managed to rock out a solo at the end of the show and shared a kiss with the lead(?) Raisin, I remember being really choked up. This is so true.)

However, I'd still choose the O Holy Night dude AND public sobbing (maybe even public California Raisin admiration) over Dominick the Donkey.

Hee haw, indeed.

December 6th...that day sounds familiar...

Happy Feast of Saint Nicholas!

Just what I asked for!

Here is how we celebrated this morning:
 -One of us filled a miniature boot and two normal-sized boots with candy, advent calendars and a rubber reindeer duck.
-One of us peed through one of our jammies/bedding/lovies/sleepsack.
-One of us spilled coffee on ourselves whilst trying to eat a Snickers bar shaped like a Nutcracker.

I'll leave it as anonymously as that.

Okay, so now it's fully and terrifically the Christmas season. We've got two of the major checklist items already notched; the tree and the Christkindlmarket boot.

The tree is courtesy of Home Depot (thirty buck tree and they tie it onto your car? Boy, long gone are the days of me having to heft the thing with P.J./whine about it until he threatens to cancel the holiday.) And boy oh boy- is there any more 'Dad' thing than the whole tree endeavor? I'm pretty sure it's one of those events that automatically straps a Bjorn onto your chest and peppers your temples with grey.

The choosing. The turning. The "helping" the guy attach it to the roof. Lugging it inside. Standing it up. Adjusting it. Adjusting it. Adjusting- (Keely, it's fine!) Watering it. Adjusting it. Looking in the circular for a cheaper holiday greenery coupon. Having remorse. Being convinced that all of the needles are falling off. Hoping you got a fresh tree. [Taking a break to listen to NPR and Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.] Going outside to hang the lights. Coming back inside and muttering about the needles. Admitting a balsam does smell best. Emoting at the string of non-working lights. Randomly announcing that they work, you just saw them work. "Helping" your wife hang ornaments- if she lets you. Setting the timer for the Christmas lights and staring them down, as if into submission. Bed.

Nora wants one, too.

And the Market is a must for a true Chicagoan...who doesn't mind hordes of pushy crowds and overpriced mulled wine in a smallish boot. This year it's red. The boot, that is. (The crowds were multi-colored on their outers and crabby on their inners.) The newly redesigned boot (more of a heel and a narrower toe- like a city boot) is going to join his brethren on our kitchen countertop for the holidays...it's like an elf came and lost his footwear every year from 2006 'til now. And there's a mug from '02- how boring- and, inexplicably, nothing from '03-'05. (Anyone have those years? I would happily swap it out for another mug in my collection- perhaps one with an ironic saying? Let's not forget Elsie the cow.)

This jaunt to the Christkindlmarket was the very first time that I cared more about the line to meet Santa Claus as opposed to the line to get the mulled boot. If that's not indicative of something, then...I don't know what is. Maybe something else Nora-related. But if I was gonna force Nora to interact with someone whom she probably wasn't going to enjoy hugging, I really didn't want to stand outside in the cold with her for an hour beforehand.

But I needn't have worried. The North Pole beneath the gigantic tree had it together. We were in line for less than ten minutes. Mrs. Claus let us inside. (We got a picture. Nora is warily eyeing The Missus.) A few minutes later- the big guy himself! And he was the real deal. Kinder and gentler than I would've been at that point in the day. And even when Nora shifted from concern to outright doneitude, he patted her arm and told her what a good job she had done. Or maybe he was talking to us. Either way, he made our first Santa visit a screaming success.

Now Nora and I are off to celebrate the rest of my half birthd- Feast of St. Nicholas. I imagine that there will be a lot of "patpatpatting" of the lower tree branches [Nora] and a bit more chocolate-nabbing [me.]

Maybe some sheet-washing and boot-emptying.

'Tis the season.

3...2...1...

P.S...See that 'Vote For Me' box up there on the left-hand side? If you click it once, you'll give me a vote. (Of confidence.) Basically, they've restructured their site- yet again- and I've lost all of my votes. I miss them dearly. One click- reduced from two!- and no emails, etc., needed. Do it every day! Or...maybe just today?

Okay, I love you, back to the candy. 

Eight weeks! Also, Christmas Eve! Also, naptime.

Being home is fun.

Take, for instance, the bonding, the "face time" that you get when sitting next to your big sister, also updating her blog. On warring laptops. It's this kind of togetherness that warms the cockles of my heart. So does her blog. [ www.grant-wishes.com ] Also, what's a cockle? Is it like a ventricle? Do those need warming? Discuss.

So. New England. The holidays. The holiday TRAVEL. The holiday travel over-packing. Why does Nora need her own full size suitcase? She barely has hands, does she really need multiple mittens? Let alone four different blankets? (Nap, bedtime, travel and play? Okay, fine. Yes.) I was worried about taking her through the airport and the crazy amount of time it would take to prove that she was under the age of two (an actual airline concern) and that she wasn't concealing anything under her pointy elf hat.

However, from the moment we stepped outta the car for curbside check-in to the moment we got to the gate: 25 minutes. And for all of the hilarious moments I was PLANNING to blog about concerning a traveling infant? They never occurred. Smooth sailing. (Damn you, Midway efficiency!) When we got to the airport, I expected a madcap scramble to check the bags. Nope. There were five people in line ahead of me and they oohed over Nora's Santa hat (as planned- never underestimate the benevolence that holiday-esque newborns evoke.) P.J. had to park the car, leaving me with Nora in a sling, a carry-on bag, and a piece of luggage in each hand. Something hilarious HAS to happen here, right? A skycap took my bags and wished Nora a happy and safe flight. Hmm.

Tickets in hand, we got into the Family & Medical security line (this hurt my soul, personally. I have been an Expert Traveler for as long as the term has existed.) I planned on hanging out, screaming child stuck to me, for at least three hours. Five minutes later, I removed my boots and carried a sleeping baby through security. (I DID have to remove her from her sling and they DID have to squeeze the tip of her hat- I removed the baby sized derringer moments before.)

Carried her to the gate, preparing for a crushing crowd of irate travelers. I was guided to a comfy seat and was soon regaled by VICTORIAN CAROLERS. They called Nora "darling" and "so Christmassy." They were correct.

The flight was delayed, due to the lateness of our flight crew. Okay, NOW it was gonna get ugly, right? An hour later, Nora was still sleeping and the arriving flight crew was APPLAUDED. We boarded in the family section (Group A and half, baby!) and settled into the easiest, quietest flight in the history of Southwest Airlines.

That'll teach me to travel during the holidays.

And now, a slice of Christmas Eve afternoon in the Flynn household of Pittsfield, Massachusetts:

Emily and P.J. walk back into the house from running errands in my mother's car. Emily informs my mother that Peej filled the tank on the way home.

"He didn't have to do that," my mother exclaims, full of Christmas spirit towards her second son-in-law.

"The light was on," Emily says.

"Oh. I guess maybe he did."

Laughter abounds in the living room, and a few chuckles are heard in the kitchen as well.

"Don't put that in the blog," my mother scolds me.

Rachel dances into the room, singing 'Police Navidad.' P.J. hands me a Ritter Sport candy bar, under the guise of getting me a treat at Target. He's just biding his time until he can gracefully steal it back. Emily is eating something unidentifiable and commenting harshly on reality television. I think my Mom just asked if something was Rachel's "personal seltzer." It may have been seltzer. There's a very good chance that "Chasing Liberty" will be played for the second time in 24 hours. Nope. It's "White House Christmas." Much more holiday-appropriate. Kate is still blogging her "daily updates." She's up to December 21st. My daughter is sleeping in my mother's arms- my mother asked if kissing Nora would wake her. Yes. She kisses her anyhow. (The baby has recently been bathed. This is powerfully magnetic.) Tom has walked through twice in his runner's tights. He doesn't like when we call them tights. Em just said something unrepeatable about a Christmas tree on TV. Quinn and Cole are still sleeping upstairs, after an hour long battle with their beds, each other, and Auntie Rachel (the turning point- "Auntie Rachel, I like your nose.")

"Don't put the thing about gas in there. I mean it."

And tonight we put out our first presents from Santa Claus, ever. Does this mean that I'm officially an adult? Or just Santa?

Nora has been so good and we can't wait to spoil her with presents.

Hint- One's a large stuffed otter.

As three-year old Jack tells me- "Sleep in heavenly peas. Like the kind in your macaroni."

(Merry Christmas!)