Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas (My Way)

Let the Christmas battles begin.

To maintain familial harmony, one must choose their battles wisely. This doesn't change just because Santa is watching.

Trust me.

Being The Queen Mom, Supreme Ruler of All Things Domestic Which Require Cleaning, Feeding, Mending, Signing, Cooking or Washing/Drying/Folding (and part-time Taxi Driver), I usually get to set the rules for general holiday decorating and celebrating at our house. I'm also the only one who knows where the decorations are stored (because I'm the one who puts them away every year), and the only one brave enough to venture to the dark recesses of the storage room where they are stored (which made it a great place to hide Christmas gifts), so I have a leg up.

With the house in disarray due to The Great Remodeling Project, I was really, really, NOT looking forward to putting up the Christmas tree this year. It's a hassle most years trying to find a home for all the crap that needs to be put away to make room for the tree. This year all that “other” storage space is already in use... as well as any flat surface I can find.

But over the weekend I decided that we didn't need a 24-inch wide path through the family room when a 18-inch wide path would do. And besides, it's not gonna get any better before Christmas, so what the heck?

Up went the tree.

Well, it wasn't quite that easy.

Despite the fact that I am a horrible housekeeper, I have a fairly involved cleaning process (some might call it anal retentive) when it comes to Putting Up The Tree. The pre-tree steps include, but are not limited to: putting away the crap that is already out (cramming everything in storage boxes and stacking those boxes on top of the boxes already in the storage area/family room), dusting (for the first time since last Christmas), vacuuming (for the second time since last Christmas), moving all the stuff that has been piled on top of the Christmas tree box since last Christmas (and cussing), hauling the box upstairs (cussing), trying to remember how to put the tree together (less cussing since I wrote myself notes on the box), carrying in the box back downstairs, piling the crap back on top of the box, and vacuuming again (cussing all the way).

Usually the rest of the family members and the cat try to “help”. This year they all made themselves scarce. I think they've finally learned.

There was a lot less cussing this year, too. Coincidence?

Once the tree is up, the real battles begin. The children would leave the lights on 24-7 if they could. The Husband would turn the lights on in the morning when he gets up and as soon as he gets home if he could and the children hadn't already beaten him to it.

I have a strict dusk to bedtime schedule for lights. This means I spend most of my daylight hours turning the Christmas lights off.

Despite my very militant enforcement of lighting hours, I would go full-on Griswold (as in Clark Griswold of “Christmas Vacation”) when it comes to exterior illumination, if I weren't so lazy and cheap, that is. (Nope, not gonna pay someone else to do it for me.)

The Husband, on the other hand, requires any exterior lights to be tasteful (Ya' lost me right there. Can you say Flamingo Santa?) and in keeping with the theme of the season. The children both now have strings of lights hung in their rooms – All. Year. Long. – so it could be three to one if we put it to a vote. But since the husband is the one we make climb the ladder, his vote counts for like, four.

As zealous as I am about appropriate lighting times, I am even more fanatical about Christmas music. Look it up in the Bible, the Constitution (both US and Russian), the Laws of Robotics, and the Prime Directive: “No Christmas Music Shall Be Played Prior to the Evening of Thanksgiving.”

Trust me. It's there.

Right after: “Thou Shalt Listen to Arlo Guthrie's “Alice's Restaurant” Prior to Noon on Thanksgiving Day.”

Unfortunately, The Husband has, due to weighted voting, ratified the “Snoopy's Christmas” Amendment, meaning that The Royal Guardsmen's “Snoopy Vs. The Red Baron” can be played immediately following Arlo Guthrie's “Motorcycle Song” (which must be played immediately following “Alice's Restaurant,” because, well, I only dust off the CD once a year), and must be played ad nauseam until February (or until The Wife hides the CD). Personally, I would listen to my Harry Connick Jr. Christmas CDs all season (and longer), if I could only find them. Hmmm....

The Little Prince and Princess have no input on the Christmas Music Debate, as they typically roll their eyes, retreat to their rooms, and put on their head phones whenever the topic is brought up for discussion.

Although, the Princess switched the radio in my car to the XM station “Holly” November first, thus losing her driving privileges for at least... until she needed my car again.

And the Little Prince routinely takes the ukulele out of my hands mid-performance (?) of Mele Kalikimaka and proceeds to play it much, much better than I can. Despite my many, many sessions of ukulele lessons and his total lack of ukulele lessons.

It's a good thing I still have a hot line to Santa.

And I'm not afraid to use it.

That's How My Cookie Crumbles

Not to brag or anything, but (Spoiler Alert: Bragging Ahead!) I make awesome cinnamon rolls. My cinnamon rolls are so light and fluffy you'll think St. Peter himself took them out of the oven just in time to greet you at the pearly gates.

My caramel pecan rolls have made a grown woman (me) cry. My breads and rolls are airy and flaky at least 90% of the time. I once made a batch of kolaches so buttery and rich that they made even the most die-hard kolache haters love kolaches.

So why can't I make slice and bake cookies?

My point is I can bake. I can bake the heck out of things. Just call me Queen Betty Jo Crocker-Pillsbury.

So why can't I make slice and bake cookies?

I can bake. But sometimes I don't want to bake. When I get a hankering for a hot, gooey, chocolate chip cookie (preferably with pecans) I barely have time to preheat the oven, let alone mix thoroughly. When I'm jonesin' for a cookie, the time and effort required for homemade, is more time and effort than I have.

All those aforementioned rolls, buns and breads have nothing to do with me being some sort of baking savant. I'm not the dough whisperer. All I do is read and follow the recipe, cross my fingers and hope for the best.

With slice and bake you don't even have to follow a recipe. There is no measuring. No proofing the yeast. No letting the dough rest or punching it down.

There are only two vital instructions: “Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake 11-12 minutes.”

How can two more minutes possibly make the difference between an oozing lump of raw dough and a dried-out charcoal briquet?

And yet, that's what I made. One dozen mummified, chocolate chip hockey pucks.

Chockey pucks.

I needed a cookie fix bad. I made a special trip to the store, dusted off the cookie sheets, and even waited for the oven to preheat. Soon the aroma of baking cookies filled the house. I ran to the oven when the timer (I used a timer!) went off, but those anemic, melty blobs were far from “golden brown.”

Back in the oven they went. Two minutes on the timer.

In an instant, the house-warming smell of baking was replaced by the house-clearing stench of carbonized cookies. I tried to snatch edibility from the jaws of defeat by quickly transferring the cookies from the pan to the cooling rack. But the damage was done, and the cookies were over-done.

“Ohhh, they're fine,” I told the Little Prince. “Just a little on the done side. See? Not a speck of black,” I said, showing him the bottom of a cookie. And it was true. Somehow they managed to burn from the inside out. There was no visible sign of burnt-ness. That's what made the taste test such a surprise.

The Little Prince stood by my side, waiting expectantly for my reaction as I took a bite. (Would I gag? Break a tooth?) I didn't say a word, but my labored chewing (and the loud crunching) must have been clue enough. He smiled and patted my arm, then took a handful of Oreos and snuck out of the kitchen.

My wonderful husband picked up two cookies and disappeared into his office. I haven't checked his trash can, but I wouldn't blame him if he threw the cookies away. That was my first thought when I bit into my cookie.

The Princess returned home. “Mmmmm, what smells so good?”

“Burnt cookies.”

“They smell delicious. It can't be that ba...”. She took one look at the chockey pucks and made herself a bag of microwave popcorn.

My Grandma once ruined a pan of Rice Krispie treats. I don't know if it was the marshmallows or the cereal or what, but those were the driest, most tasteless desert I had ever eaten. Until my last batch of slice and bake cookies.

I've been told that Grandma used to bake angel food cakes. From scratch. Multiple cakes at a time.

I wonder how she would have done with slice and bake cookies.

Super Wonder Mom

I have two superhero t-shirts that I like to wear on days I know I'll be facing overwhelming odds.

Putting on that Wonder Woman t-shirt or the Superman t-shirt helps me gird my loins on those days I'm heading into battle with rampaging mutant laundry monsters, or thwarting an evil genius bent on burying the world in meaningless paperwork, or attending meetings that bend the time-space continuum all out of shape, or just shrugging off the lingering after-effects of soul-sucking Blue Meanies. Pretty much any day I'm just not sure how I'm ever going to get it all done.

I know those t-shirts don't give me any real superpowers, except maybe added self-confidence. Wearing them is more like a little joke to myself. I imagine striking the superhero pose – feet shoulder-width apart, fists on my hips, chest up and out, head tilted to the side – and announcing “Stand aside citizens, I'll finish that report, whip up some soup and deliver it to the school, attend the birthday party at the nursing home, and still be back in time to take the Princess to the gym. I'm (dramatic pause) Wonder Mom.”

But lately I've started to think maybe I have developed some... unique superpowers of my own.

It all started when I was grousing to myself about the four baskets of clean laundry sitting in the living room just waiting for someone – anyone – to fold and/or put them away. “It's like no one else in this family can even see them,” I thought to myself. Then it occurred to me, “maybe no one else in this family really CAN see them!”

Crazy? Maybe, but how else can you explain why the rest of the family had been walking around these baskets for days without even touching them?

Then there were other incidents: dirty dishes left downstairs or next to – but not in – the dishwasher, popcorn bags on the Princess' bedroom floor, pop cans on the Prince's desk, piles of shoes, backpacks, books and papers everywhere. I was the only one bothered by these things... because I was the only one who could see them!

I have developed... Super Clutter Vision!

Sure, it's not quite as exciting as X-Ray Vision, or even night vision, but still... it's something.

To test my theory I gathered the children for a little fun family bonding over laundry folding. “Where? Why?” they asked. Mmmm hmmm, I suspected as much. After I led them to the baskets and guided their little hands to the handles, it was like a fog had lifted.

But another surprise awaited!

After explaining the basics of folding (don't wad, roll or crumple), I discovered that I could easily fold three baskets-full of clothes in the same amount of time it took the two of them to fold one basket-full... together!

I have developed... Super Folding Powers!

This led to the discovery that I am the only one who can put folded clothes away so that they stay folded! Apparently there is some sort of gravitational force around the children's dressers that disrupts the orderliness of folded laundry, so that what starts out as folded in the basket ends up as a blob when placed in the drawers. It is I, and I alone, who have the power to overcome this trans-dimensional distortion.

Super Laundry Putting-Away Power!

OK, that one might be stretching it a bit, but what about these super powers:

Cat Telepathy – I'm the only one who can tell when it's time to clean the cat's litter box (well, at least the only one who ever does anything about it), and usually the only one who knows it's time to feed him (Max's powers are getting stronger here).

Enhanced Hearing – I can actually hear the Princess rolling her eyes at me... from the other room. When atmospheric pressure is just right I can hear that rattle from down the hall, in the basement, even over the phone, or via text message!

ESTPP – Extrasensory Toilet Paper Perception. Not only am I usually the only person to know when the bathroom is out of toilet paper, I'm the only one with the ability to load it correctly!

So, in light of all the speculation that I was involved in the cleaning events that occurred in the living room, the kitchen and the bathroom... the wild accusations that I'm a superhero... the truth is...

I am Iron Mom.

Reality Gets Really Real (Almost)

With the proliferation of reality tv, it's only a matter of time before everyone has their own show. I'm sad to report my own dreams of unscripted stardom have crashed and burned, even before they hit the small screen. To paraphrase A Few Good Men, “You want my reality? You can't handle my reality!”

Planned Shooting Script

5:30 a.m.: They start the day early in the Midwest! Cameras will start rolling at the crack of dawn to capture the cheerful scene as Housewife rises and prepares breakfast for her family.

Reality

Shooting was delayed 2 hours while Camera One was repaired following early morning incident with Housewife. Producer's assumption about “early morning riser” does not apply to this subject. Cameraman is requesting hazardous duty pay.

8 a.m.: Reminiscent of 1950's sitcoms, we'll tape Housewife handing out lovingly made sack lunches and kisses to the Children and Hubby as they cheerfully leave the house to start their day. Transition to housewife doing light cleaning chores around the house – have costume department find June Cleaver-esque housedress, pearls and heels?

Request upgrade to heavy duty, impact-resistant cameras used by imbedded journalists. Camera Two damaged as Children, Housewife and Husband ran amok in frantic attempt to finish school work, pack backpacks, find shoes and jackets, gather a variety of prepackaged foods that may or may not have nutritional value, and get out of house on time.

Side note: Producer sent to Urgent Care to have high heeled shoe removed from sensitive area after suggesting chaos may have been avoided if Housewife had gotten up at 5:30 according to schedule.

10 a.m.: Chores done for the morning, Housewife will enjoy a cup of tea while sharing reflections on the joys of motherhood.

Cameraman cowers in corner while Housewife frantically searches cabinets for coffee. Housewife vows to shove coffee maker up Producer's nose for using the last of the coffee at 5:30 a.m. and not replenishing supply.

11 a.m.: Housewife will head into nearby State City to run errands. Boooring! Suggest lunch at upscale bistro, introduce element of intrigue.

Housewife's departure is delayed when it is discovered the cat has hacked up a hairball. Housewife cleans up hairball. Cameraman realizes “hairball” is euphemism for “vomit.” Cameraman hacks up “hairball.” Housewife cleans.

Housewife is on way out the door when Child One calls from school requesting delivery of homework. While searching for missing homework, Child Two texts requesting delivery of signed permission slip to be found “somewhere near the table.” On way out the door again when Husband calls reminding Housewife to deliver bill payments on fridge. One foot in garage when Producer calls from Urgent Care asking why she is still at home. Also, he has been discharged from Urgent Care and needs a ride. Housewife's reply to be bleeped out.

Only 30 minutes behind schedule, Housewife makes deliveries to both Children, drops off bill payments, picks up mail at post office, fills car with gas and gets a large coffee. Cameraman breaths a sigh of relief.

Video and audio for drive to State City cannot be used. Housewife swearing at other drivers, Cameraman trembling and screaming.

Housewife arrives in State City. First item on shopping list requires trips to three different stores to locate. Grocery list is MIA, as are items to be returned (last seen before “hairball” incidents). Coupons have expired. Again, audio is unusable.

Producer is surprised to learn that “Chez Donald's” is not, in fact, an upscale steakhouse, and that “al fresco” dining is, in fact, the drive-thru. Housewife tells him to shut up and eat his Happy Meal.

2 p.m. Housewife will visit her Mother in the nursing home. Potential for drama is high.

Excellent footage! Mother is charming. Their conversation is touching although repetitive. Quick replay seems to be five takes of the same exchange. Cameraman is teary eyed. I smell an Emmy!

Update: Footage and camera destroyed, Producer injured after musing aloud about plans to juxtapose footage of Housewife's “I Lost 10 Pounds” Happy-Dance with footage of Mother patting HW's knee and gently saying “You're getting really big.”

HW and Cameraman stop to get chocolate shakes after taking Producer back to Urgent Care. HW eats the whipped cream and top half of both. Cameraman wisely says nothing.

6-10 p.m. End of day video captures family interaction as they share a bountiful meal. Suggest family game night to increase opportunities for Rockwell-esque shots of peaceful family time.

Family dinner becomes “Make Your Own Dinner Night.” Family eats in shifts as Daughter has school activities, Housewife has meeting, Husband works late, Son slips out to play with friends. Cameraman and Producer share quiet meal of Pizza Rolls, reflect on their day.

Family Game Night ends after 10 minutes, amid accusations of cheating. Housewife says this is five minutes longer than last Family Game Night. Calls it a success. Family members exchange fist bumps, head off to their respective computers.

Housewife at computer writing for NaNoWriMo. Two hours later she has Googled spelling of 4 words, won 5 games of solitaire, liked 10 Facebook posts, and has written half a page about why she could never have her own reality show.

Day ends with only 5 minutes of usable audio. Suggest pulling plug on this pilot.