Busted

Easter-Eve of last year found Nate and I strategically hiding those multi-colored eggs when a then 2-(almost 3) year-old Liam came downstairs for water? A hug? I don't remember. I do know that we really thought he didn't know what we were up to, and had he known, he was only two. So. No harm done.

I had completely and totally forgotten about this event until tonight at bath time when I had a conversation with Liam that went like this:

Me: Hey Liam, did you know that the Easter Bunny is coming tonight?

Liam: I know. And then you're going to hide the Easter eggs.

Me: Well, I don't hide the Easter Eggs. The Easter Bunny does, remember?

Liam: (In a somewhat exasperated tone.) Mom. I saw you hiding the Easter eggs last year.

I couldn't recover. I hadn't remembered and therefore didn't have any excuse prepared. He knows the secret and there was nothing I could say to protect my cover. He just kept giving me this look that said, "I know what I saw, why are you lying?"

Notes to self: 1. Never assume your child is too young to remember. 2. Wait until your children are actually asleep before playing the part of pretend holiday creatures.

In All My Grace

I didn't imagine that I'd be spending the vacation day I took, on the day after Christmas, completely incapacitated and knocked out on narcotics. But, in all of my grace, that's exactly where I ended up.

Christmas day began strong. Liam woke around 7 AM, and once he figured out what lay beneath the tree for him, he dropped his precious blankie and stuffed monkey and took off at a run. We made breakfast and hot cider. Grandma and Grandpa came to join in the festivities. Both of my children absolutely cleaned up and Liam was practically drunk on play by 10 AM.

We ate dinner, as most people do, at mid-afternoon. The whole family was playing or lounging, full and happy, by 4 PM. Then, IT happened.

I learned many important things on Christmas Day, but probably the most important would be that while I can walk down the stairs and talk on the phone OR I can walk down the stairs and hold a can of soda, apparently I cannot do both. It was all a blur really, I was headed down the stairs to inform by husband, with hand gestures, that he needed to tend to a crying Quin, because I was on the phone. I was up, and then the next thing I knew I was down. Very down. And in A LOT of pain.

I tried, through screams, to inform my dad on the other end of the line that, "I have to go...I fell." I quickly hung up the phone, writhing in pain. (He didn't get that message, however, and called the house a few minutes later...I can only imagine what he must've been thinking!) My husband heard the commotion and quickly came running, clearly unsure what to make of my screams.

"What do you want to do?" he asked. "Go to the ER?"

"YES!" I managed through near tears now. I needed the searing pain to come down, just a bit, before I could even think about making it out to the car.

Fortunately, Nate's parents were at our house at the time, so we were able to make a quick exit without having to worry about the children. On the car ride to the hospital, I noted that the pain was worse than any contraction I've ever had. And I wasn't kidding.

Nate ran into not one, but two random people he knows at the hospital. In the emergency room. On Christmas Day. Go ahead, try and figure that one out.

I learned that I was the third person to come through the ER who'd fallen down the stairs that day. Nate joked with the records person that it was a shame it didn't happen in a more exciting fashion. I seethed. I was in ridiculous pain, but apparently was not very original. I oscillated between laughter and tears.

X-rays were taken, no broken bones. Hallelujah. But I do have a seriously sprained ankle. And one gigantic knob to go with it. I'll spare you the actual picture. More than one person mentioned that they "heard" sprains hurt more than breaks. Not sure if they're just trying to make me feel better about being a whimp, or if it's really true.

I did learn a couple more interesting lessons, however. The first would be that no matter what time of year, it is always important to keep your legs shaved and toe nails painted. And, according to the guy who taught me to use crutches (yep, they have people around to teach such things), I have disproportionate arms. Sigh.

And that was my Merry Christmas. Started off with a bang, and ended with a sprain. Leave it to me to be so graceful.

Goggies

Recently, Liam and I had an exchange that went something like this.

Me: Liam, let's sing Christmas songs!

Liam: No!

Me: Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle...

Liam: I don't want to!

Me: ...all the way. Oh what fun...

Liam: STOP! I don't wanna sing songs.

Me: ...it is to ride...

Liam: NO! STOP! I don't wanna hear it!

Me: ...in a one horse open...

Liam: Goggies.

Me: ...sleigh. Jingle bells, jingle...

Liam: Goggies.

Me: ...bells, Jingle all the...

Liam: Goggies. Waaay.

Me: Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open...

Liam: ...sleigh.


Handy definitions:

Goggies-(noun; gog-gies) Random word Liam uses at various times, for various reasons. Origin unknown.

Success-(noun; suhk-ses) Annoying your child so much that he simply gives in and plays along.

Christmas Strife

I've got a problem. My quest to seek out the ultimate gifts for my children leaves me a nervous wreck, stressed out and hopeless.

I know what you're thinking. They're too young to care. But I care. I want to be the hero on Christmas morning who sought after and found the perfect, most amazing gift my two-year-old could ever possibly imagine.

Of course I know that it doesn't really matter what I buy, it will always be the most innocuous gift he receives that will win over his heart. But despite this knowledge, I can't help but obsess about this decision every year.

His first Christmas brought this:

And although we did get one hilarious picture out of it, I'm pretty sure his friend Noah has since gotten much more enjoyment out of it than Liam ever did.

Then last year he received all things Thomas the Tank Engine. And while he loves his trains now, on Christmas morning he was so tired an crabby when he woke up that the sight of new presents under the tree thrilled him about as much as a trip to the dentist thrills me.

So this year, I am determined. On Christmas morning Liam will see this. Because on a recent trip to the children's museum, he spent most of his time doing this:

I'm sure I've (or, ahem, Santa) hit it out of the ballpark this year.

But I'm still not saved. Now I need to find a way to dazzle and amaze my 4-month-old. And if you didn't know, that's easier imagined...in dreams...than accomplished. It was going to be this. Then was changed to this. But has now become this (because I saw it in a magazine).

And so my search continues. Relentlessly, though maybe not entirely fruitfully.

Ho, Ho, Ho.

Seven Years Ago Today

In May 2001, my beautiful sister got married. It was on this fateful night that I would meet my future husband and father of my children. I couldn't possibly have known that, however, because the guy I met had long curly hair, a dragon shirt, a leather jacket, and flames on his shoes.

I was an 18-year-old cheerleader who was about to graduate high school and my idea of being crazy was drinking too much soda. Leather jackets? Flame shoes? Long hair? These things did not define normal in my book. Nevermind the fact that I had a boyfriend.

Several months later, I would meet this strange guy again at, of all places, my grandparents house. It was August and I was about to go dorm accessory shopping with my mother. My sister and her eccentric friend were headed to the mountains for some camping and for whatever reason we all met in the middle. That day, I left my grandparents house knowing I was in trouble. This guy was charming, he had the brightest smile I'd ever seen, he was no longer sporting flame shoes. We clicked instantly. But, I still had a boyfriend.

After the candle blew out on my previous relationship, I let my sister know that I thought her friend was cute. I was shocked when he called, and after a few dates I was completely smitten.

One night I had a dream that I was in his apartment (which I'd never seen) and there were marshmallows everywhere. On the counter, the stove, covering the couch and the floor, positively everywhere. Now, I'm not much for astrology, dream interpretation, matters of the cosmic kind. But, I decided to research the meaning of "marshmallow" in a dream dictionary. The definition I received was something to the effect of meeting an unusual friend of the opposite sex. We both had a good laugh.

Which brings me to one year ago today. Thanksgiving 2001. I spent the holiday with my family while my future husband ate burnt turkey legs alone. Although in the previous couple of weeks he'd determined I lived too far away to pursue a relationship, we decided to get together that night.

My bright idea? To come bearing gifts. Marshmallows to be exact. The problem? Most stores prefer to give their employees Thanksgiving off. So, I went to the only open store I could find, K-Mart. They did not carry marshmallows. But, they did have the next best thing. Dinner mints.

That night, after enjoying a movie, good company, and some laughs over dinner mints, we both agreed to pursue the relationship, distance be damned. The rest is history. But that's how it started. A squeaky clean teenage girl diving in head first with a not-so-eccentric boy, dinner mints in hand.

And today, I give thanks for all that followed. And all that's to come.

Too Much, Too Soon

I am a firm believer that Christmas tidings should be strictly reserved to the time frame of The Day After Thanksgiving to New Years Day. This is the rule. It should not be broken, and I cringe when it is.

I broke my own rule.

In an attempt to get Liam, who at 2-1/2 is assumed to finally be old enough to "get" Christmas, excited for the holiday, we may have started the season a bit too early. My evidence?

Exhibit A: While traveling down the street he notices "Christmas" on other peoples houses (the lights other people, who have also broken the rules, prematurely hung). He gets excited, until we pass and he whines for Christmas to come back.

Exhibit B: We've already read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas enough times that he has it memorized.

Exhibit C: One morning last week he woke before I left for work. I asked if he'd like to go downstairs to wait for Grandma. He replied, "No, let's do Christmas first."

Exhibit D: How the Grinch Stole Christmas mysteriously appeared in Liam's book collection. Yes, we had this book last year, but I really thought I'd stashed it somewhere, because you know, no Christmas before Thanksgiving! (Apparently I didn't apply this rule to Exhibit B, however.) You try explaining to a 2-1/2-year-old why the Grinch is mad.

Exhibit E: He's been sleeping with a Santa Claus stuffed bear, and one Santa Claus slipper he found in his closet. They are apparently "Mommy Christmas" and "Baby Christmas."

Now, a month is an awfully long time for a kid to have to wait for such excitement, and I'm already burnt out on reading 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, and explaining that "No, we cannot do Christmas before Grandma shows up for the day." Let's just hope that Ho Ho Ho doesn't become Ho Ho Humbug!

Next year, I'm sticking to my rules.