Have Yourself An Ugly Little Christmas Sweater

The Halloween pumpkins are moldering on the front stoop, and the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers have been left over for their last meal, ushering in the most angst-iful time of the year:

Ugly Christmas Sweater Season.

While I do loves me some Ugly Christmas Sweaters, I do hates me the potential for offending someone by complimenting them on their Ugly Christmas Sweater – which they do not consider to be an Ugly Christmas Sweater. As the mother of two teens, I am empathetic to having clothes judged so harshly. 

For example, when I asked The Little Princess what makes an Ugly Christmas Sweater ugly, she said “Anything that comes from Goodwill and looks like it was made by a Gramma.” When I asked The Little Prince the same question, he hesitated, quickly scanned what I was wearing and shrugged.

His response made me a little teary eyed, because that was the most he talked to me last week. And because I was wearing a normal, ordinary, not ugly, black sweatshirt, proudly emblazoned with “IOWA” in gold lettering.

Ugly? Or Taste Challenged?

That's the problem with Ugly Christmas Sweaters – there is no clear-cut description of what constitutes ugliness in a sweater, Christmas or otherwise. This new trend of marketing ugly as ugly has only made the situation worse. Just in case you've been living under a rock (or you shop at much nicer stores than I do) you can now buy Ugly Christmas Sweaters, Sweatshirts, T-shirts, Socks, Hats, Pants, Dresses, Pajamas and Suits. Some of these items try just a little too hard (like the suits), blowing right past Ugly Christmas Attire to Hideous Christmas Attire.

In my humble opinion, the beauty of an ugly sweater comes from the fact that it is not trying to be ugly. Are they tacky? Maybe. Tasteless? Probably. Ugly? Well . . . . It seems to me the ugliest of the Ugly Christmas Sweaters are the Ambiguously Ugly Christmas Sweaters. And this is where I struggle to know what to say, and whether or not to say it.

Trying too hard.

Should I say “I like your sweater,” and run the risk of looking like I don't recognize an ugly sweater when I see one? Or should I say “I like your ugly sweater,” and run the risk of offending the wearer, who may or may not think their sweater is ugly?

Which brings me back to my original question: What makes an Ugly Christmas Sweater Ugly?

Is it the embellishments? Does the addition of pom-poms, bells (which should be outlawed), bows, glitter, rhinestones, or puffy paint make the sweater ugly? Or is it the amount of embellishment? Personally I think lights or music (not just bells) should result in disqualification.

Is it the color? There are certain shades of pink and aqua which have taken up a firm residence in Christmas-color-land and which need to be sent back to the 1950s, from whence they escaped. Or is it the combination of colors? Red is OK, red and white are OK, but red, white and green start edging towards ugly.

Is it the pattern? There's nothing inherently ugly about snowflakes, reindeer and evergreens individually, but put them all together and the potential for ugly grows. Is it the image itself? Are reindeer, cats, dogs, penguins and elves OK? What about reindeer, cats, dogs penguins and elves wearing Santa hats? Are small images OK, and BIG images ugly? Or is it the other way around?

Ugly Christmas Sweater Season would be much less stressful if you were required to wear a button that proclaimed “Yes, I think this Christmas (fill in the blank) is ugly.”

Preferably a LARGE button, in off-pink and off-aqua, with flashing lights, music, bells and pom-poms.

And a Santa hat.

NOT an Ugly Christmas Sweater.

Trick-or- Let's Do The Time Warp-Treat

I remember being SO excited when the Little Prince was born, not just because we had one of each, but because I thought I would be exempt from bathroom-escort duty for the newcomer.

That, of course, did NOT happen. What did happen, however, was that I became exempt from trick-or-treat duty.

Even better.

The Little Princess was three-years-old when the Little Prince was born, so she was of her first, real, mobile-on-her-own, Trick-Or-Treat age, when he was most certainly not. At the time, we lived near one end of what was, arguably, the busiest street for T-O-T in W.L. – North Calhoun Street. For non-W.L. residents, this is one great big, long, almost completely un-side-streeted street that stretches for nearly a third of a mile – or the equivalent of at least 6 blocks, without any cross-streets. This was/is parent/child T-O-T paradise – let your kids out at one end, slowly drive your car up the street (and observe from warm comfort) as they go door to door to door, until they have a melt-down, their bag breaks from all that candy, or time runs out (or until you get bored), whichever comes first.

We had to take out a second mortgage to pay for all the T-O-T candy that we gave out when we lived there. (Never mind what we ate ourselves).

A side note: As a child growing up in WL, I lived two blocks (TWO BLOCKS!) south of this marathon stretch (T-O-T Nirvana/Valhalla) of North Calhoun, and never, in my recollection, did my T-O-T route venture that far north. (What kind of fool was I? What kind of kids never shared reports of this candy over-abundance?) Those were the days of grade-level class parties held at the town's churches and the Masonic Lodge – all of which (at that time) were South of the Thin, Sugared Line. (Except for the Middle School, which was 2 blocks East of NC, and therefore in a world all its own) At the time, my main concern was to plan out a route that was guaranteed to get me to my party on time! My most vivid, T-O-T memory is of the night my BFF nearly became a real, live, ghost/zombie in her haste to cross the 2-lane state highway that bisects the town. (P.S. I told her to wait.) (I blame the crappy, plastic masks of the day, of which I never was privileged to wear. Can you say perpetual hobo costume? Not that I'm bitter. Actually, Mom made me a furry Monster mask, which I wore For. Ev. Er.)

But I digress.

So we moved to a quiet sub-division of quiet W.B. A quiet sub-division, populated primarily by grandparents. There were probably eight children of T-O-T age in our subdivision that first year. But I was still in W.L. (and specifically North Calhoun) candy-buying mode. After amply supplying our approximately 20 Trick-Or-Treaters, we still had enough candy left over for one-bazillion and three kids.

The important thing is, His Royal Highness took The Little Princess Trick-Or-Treating, while I stayed home with The Little Prince, and handed out candy to the less-than-overwhelming horde.

And thus a tradition was born.

G&M, or M&M, circa a long time ago. Dang,they're cute.

The King took the Royal Progeny trick-or-treating on those cold, wet, dark (did I mention cold?) nights, for as long as they required an escort. I stayed at home, in the warm, well-lit, dry (did I mention warm and dry?) house, handing out (and eating) candy to an ever-shrinking number of trick-or-treaters.

And thus it came to pass, that on this All-Hallow's Eve I stayed at home where it was warm, dry, and well lit, and handed out candy to the neighborhood kids. (The grandparents have down-sized and moved away The sub-division has been re-populated by young families, of which we are not one).

And each time I answered the door I thought of my little ghost and goblin, and the costumes I sewed for them. (They were off doing who-knows-what kind of late-adolescent, it's-probably-better-I-don't-know kind of things.)

On the up-side, all the brown Tootsie-Pops have been handed out.

And I still have two bags of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

(Which I can give The Little Princess and The Little Prince when we have family dinner this weekend.)

(If there are any left.)

Good Night, Sleep Tight (But Not TOO Tight)

I haven't been sleeping well lately. Maybe it's because I've reached that age at which a woman's body goes haywire (but it's not puberty). Or maybe I worry too much. Or maybe I have an over-active imagination.

Or maybe it's my family.

Take the other night for example – it doesn't matter which night exactly, because they're all the same – I was having trouble falling asleep because The Girl Child (AKA The Princess, when I'm not so worried) is starting her second year at college, so she was not under my roof at that moment. And she's a girl so I know how she thinks, because – believe it or not – I was once a college-age girl. And because she's My Little Girl and I'm Her Mommy and I'm supposed to worry about her.

And that made me think of The Boy Child (AKA The Prince, when I'm not fretting), who is starting his junior year of high school, so he was under my roof but won't be for long. And he's a boy so I have no idea how he thinks, or even if he does sometimes. And because he's My Little Boy and I'm His mumblemumble Mom and that's just what I do.

But I forgot about those things because The Darling Husband (AKA The King, when I'm not distraught) was snoring so loud I couldn't sleep, and snoring may be a sign of sleep apnea. And just at that moment HE STOPPED SNORING and I freaked out because OBVIOUSLY HE WAS DEAD!

While I was straining to hear him breath I started wondering if I had “accidentally” smothered him with my pillow because HIS SNORING WAS DRIVING ME NUTS, but all of a sudden SNRKXSZERK he was snoring again and I was glad he was alive, but I was also kind of annoyed because HOW COULD I SLEEP WHEN HE WAS SNORING SO LOUD?

Then the cat, sensing my distress, jumped up on the bed. But instead of purring his rumbly, comforting purr, he curled up behind my knees on the outside edge of the bed, pinning the blanket down. This was a problem because TDH had pulled the blankets tight on the other side of me, so I was TRAPPED LIKE A MOUSE IN A BURRITO and I couldn't move. And between the little, furry body on one side and the bigger, furry body on the other I was HOTTER THAN HELL.

Since I have so much trouble sleeping I hate to interrupt any one else's sleep, even if it is the cat and he sleeps 26 out of 24 hours, so I reached down to scratch his little ears and maybe get him to move just a little bit BUT HE DIDN'T MOVE AT ALL and I realized that HE WASN'T PURRING EITHER, in fact I DIDN'T THINK HE WAS BREATHING and oh, great, first my husband almost dies and now my cat, when all of a sudden SNNNNNTTFF the cat started snoring.

So I was thinking “Phew, really dodged a bullet there,” and I wasn't sure which would be worse, if my husband died or the cat. Because the kids would never believe me if I lied and told them the cat “ran away,” but they might believe their dad “ran away” because they've both threatened to run away whenever I start dancing or singing. On the other hand TDH might help me dispose of the cat's body, but the cat would be ABSOLUTELY NO HELP disposing of TDH's body because I clean the litter box and I know how bad he is at burying things.

In the mean time, I was going to SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST, so TDH and the cat would both be reduced to ashes and there wouldn't be ANY bodies to dispose of.

And I'd have the entire bed to myself so I could finally get some sleep.

Sandwich Mom in the Sky With(out) Diamonds

Yesterday I made my annual trip to the happiest place in the midwest – the Iowa State Fair. Other state fairs may come close, but I agree with the marketing geniuses who declared “Nothing Compares to the Iowa State Fair.” Nothing compares to the food (deep fried, bacon-wrapped, chocolate dipped, and on a stick), the fun (outhouse races), the culture (balloon sculptures), the spectacle (the gargantuan bull, boar and ram), the long lines (for the butter cow), the butter cow (at the end of the line), or the traditions (all of the above).

And for me, nothing compares to the terror of The Sky Glider.

I've had my moments of unbridled emotion before, but nothing compares to the near-hysteria of The Sky Glider this year – not even the time my Billy Joel concert ticket was so close I could see the stage with my bare eyes!

After a full day of fair fun my fair-going friends and I decided to wrap things up with a round-trip Sky Glider ride. Twice the ride, twice the terror.

The ride got off to an rocky start when it stopped – briefly – just after we reached cruising altitude (far enough off the ground to make my palms sweat). The ride restarted and I resumed my white-knuckle grip on the safety bar just before The Princess – my daughter, rock of bravery and gondola partner – said “Oh.”

“Oh?” I asked, WITHOUT turning my head OR MOVING in any manner.

“I can't do this.”

“Oh.”

I realized I would have to dig down deep into my Super Mom Power reserves to keep it together and set a good example. I had no choice but to suck it up and my assume my resp-Mom-sibilities. I relaxed my grip a little, forced a smile, and began chatting about all the ways this ride WAS NOT ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIYING. I even managed to LET GO OF THE SAFETY BAR WITH ONE HAND long enough to point out the lovely architectural details adorning the roof line of the historic agriculture building. I pointed out the happy people in the gondolas on the return side, the lovely breeze, the dense foliage BENEATH US AND OHMYGODLOOKUP! Look UP, UP! at those fluffy, white clouds.

All the while I was mentally cataloging the things that TERRIFIED ME:

What happened to those riders?

• Looking DOWN at the roof line of the ag building.
• The riders on the return side who were smiling and laughing as if UNAWARE OF THE DANGER WE WERE IN.
• The riders who looked AS TERRIFIED AS ME BECAUSE THEY REALIZED WE COULD PLUMMET TO OUR DEATH AT ANY MOMENT.
• The gondolas which were empty BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY THE PASSENGERS ALREADY FELL TO THEIR DEATHS.
• The dense foliage BENEATH US that would IMPALE US BEFORE WE CRASHED TO THE GROUND.
• The asphalt roads BENEATH US which we would SOON BE SPLATTERED UPON.
• And the fluffy clouds WHICH SHOULD BE MUCH FARTHER ABOVE US.

By that time we were NEARLY three-quarters of the way up the hill – or nearly three-quarters of the way to the HALFWAY point if you have forgotten AND HOW COULD YOU FORGET? that we were making a round trip – and I had begun to giggle nervously, and maybe cry a little . . . because that's just what happens when I start to giggle uncontrollably/hysterically.

It was at precisely this moment The Third Musketeer – who was riding solo in the gondola behind us – announced that she WOULD NOT BE MAKING THE ROUND TRIP ON THE SKY GLIDER OF TERROR. And I started to giggle/cry a little harder because I HAD JUST BEEN THINKING THE SAME THING! I gave her a thumbs up over my shoulder BECAUSE I COULD NOT TURN MY HEAD AND LET GO OF THE SAFETY BAR AT THE SAME TIME.

That was when we FINALLY began our descent, and I was able to take an actual breath and look around me and that stubborn, pig-headed, go-big-or-go-home, warrior-princess within me said AWWW HELL NO! I WILL NOT BE BEATEN BY AN IRRATIONAL FEAR! I WILL NOT BACK DOWN!

And in a quieter but no less convincing voice, the cheapskate in me said I will not waste a return ticket. I MAY BE A CHICKEN BUT I AM A CHEAP CHICKEN AND BY GOD I PRE-PAID FOR A ROUND TRIP RIDE SO I'M DAMN WELL GOING TO MAKE A ROUND TRIP RIDE.

So I TURNED to face The Princess and I asked her if she wanted to get off or if she wanted to ride back down the hill WITH me. She looked at me with admiration – or as if I had sprouted a horn on my forehead – and considered her answer carefully before answering.

“I will ride back with you. Because I don't think we can pry your hands off the safety bar.”

I would love to say that we bravely continued our ride and we lived happily ever after.

But the truth is I had just dried my cheeks and started to realize I HAD MADE A HORRENDOUS MISTAKE when our gondola came around the end point to begin the return ride and the nice young man checked the safety bar and smiled at us.

“Enjoy the ride,” he said.

And I started laughing so hard I SNORTED and the look of surprise on his face was so funny that I laughed HARDER and when we reached cruising altitude and the RIDE STOPPED AGAIN DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN my eyes filled with tears. And for the entire two-and-a-half hour (or five minute) return trip The Princess and I laughed and “ooohed” and “awwwed” as we watched the lights of the midway, and talked about the breeze and the architecture and the foliage and the smell of deep fried, bacon-wrapped, chocolate-dipped fun on a stick.

And made plans for doing it ALL again next year.

If you're not afraid of heights, or if you want to experience them vicariously, check out this video (not shot by me, obviously because there is no screaming): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcSwm-5V5Zs

Thank You for Not Sighing

Yes, I know we're behind schedule.

Again.

I knew we were behind schedule even before you started following me from room to room, only to stand there. Waiting. Silently.

And P.S.? Thank you for that. The silently waiting. Because if you were to audibly sigh, giving voice to your frustration, I would have to have to throat punch you. And then I'd probably feel bad and I'd have to take you to the emergency room and we would be really behind schedule.

I'm ready to go, now. Sort of.

I've been ready to go, sort of, since before you started following me from room to room, etc. It's just that about the time I was ready to go (sort of) the first time, I realized no one had fed the cat or cleaned his litter box.

So I fed and watered him. And cleaned his litter box.

And then I put everyone's breakfast dishes in the dish washer. Because I emptied the dishwasher right before I finished getting ready to go (sort of) the first time. Before you all finished breakfast. But that's beside the point.

Before that I had to round up the charging cords, double check to make sure I had the tickets, turn off the lights, sweep the floor, paint the hallway, re-roof the house, fell the tree, bale the hay, build the barn and check again for the tickets.

I wish I could be more spontaneous. I wish I could just walk out the door without a second thought.

But I can't.

Because I'm the Mom.

And if I don't feed and water the cat and clear the dishes, I will spend all day wondering how long it will take before the cat throws a fit and tears the house apart, or he at least jumps up on the counter and knocks all the dishes off. Or how long it will take before those dishes start growing mold and attracting bugs.

Or how disgusted the burglar will be when he breaks in and smells the dirty litter box and sees the moldy, bug-infested dishes scattered on the floor, and finds the cat happily stretched out on the counter, playing with the papers that should have been put in the recycling bin before we left.

Or how we will explain to the police that this is the mess the burglar made when he/she broke in, but that is the mess the cat made because we forgot to feed/water/clean his litter box, and there is the mess that we left on the table because we didn't want to be late.

And then the policeman will probably sigh.

And we'll really be late.

Double (Stuf) or Nothin'

The Health Food Tyrants have gone too far.

Have you seen a Double Stuf Oreo lately? I mean, have you actually taken the time to examine the ratio of mystery cream to bland cookie before stuffing it in your face?

There is no way Double Stuf are doubly-stuffed. They are barely single-stuffed.

Double Stuf? I don't think so.

A math teacher (with too much time on his hands) actually weighed and compared Double, Single and Thins in 2013 and – indeed – found that Double Stuf do not contain twice as much Stuf as Single Stuf. But that's not my point. My point is that Double Stuf don't contain as much Stuf as Double Stuf used to. I'd go so far as to say you have to eat double the Double Stuf to get half as much Stuf as Double Stuf used to have.

(BTW: Don't even get me started on “Thins” which look like someone whispered “stuf” from the other side of the factory as the stacks of cardboard cookie shapes were packaged.)

(While we're off the subject: Yes. I did walk five miles, uphill – both ways – through snow, while being chased by velociraptors to get to school.)

I did not buy Double Stuf Oreos because I was being health conscious. I did not buy Double Stuf Oreos thinking they were a low-calorie food. I did not buy a family-sized (Pfft! Family of pigmy mice, maybe!) package of Double Stuf Oreos, sneak them into the house under cover of darkness, hide them in the back of the cupboard behind the expired canned goods, then quietly open them at 6:30 a.m. after my morning workout while everyone else was sleeping, because I thought they were good for me.

No. That's what the bananas, which are conveniently located on the counter – splotchy brown and drawing fruit flies – are for. That's what the shriveled up apples in the crisper drawer are for. That's what the bag of mushy, liquifying, slightly grey and fuzzy . . . well, I'm not sure what it is/was . . in the veggie drawer is for.

You do not need a PhD in nutrition to know that Double Stuf Oreos (or any Oreos) are not a type of health food. Nothing that creamy and delicious, nothing that melts so delightfully on your tongue, leaving that slightly buttery, vaguely nauseating film in your mouth could be good for you. Without even looking at the package I could tell you the ingredients for that mysterious but crave-able filling are, most likely: sugar, sugar, fat, soylent green, and more sugar.

And I'm OK with that. In moderation. On occasion.

I bought this particular package of so-called “Double Stuf” cookies because I was feeling a little down and needed some comfort food. I needed to do a little emotional eating. I needed a chance to wallow in a bad food choice and then regret it and vow never to eat them again. Or until I was feeling blue again.

What was I sad about when I bought them? I have no idea. See? It worked.

Why am I sad now?

I'm out of cookies.

Cell Phone Fable-tale

Once upon a time, a family of four bears got new cell phones.

Papa Bear and Baby Bear got their phones first. They transferred the data from their old phones to the new phones with no problem.

“Easy peasy,” said Papa Bear.

“Lemon squeezy,” said Baby Bear.

“So, all I have to do to make my new phone work is read the instructions and follow directions?” asked Mama Bear.

“That's right,” said Papa Bear.

Baby Bear rolled his eyes.

Sister Bear got her phone next. She transferred the data from her old phone to her new phone with no problem.

“Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” said Sister Bear.

“So, all I have to do to make my new phone work is read the instructions and follow directions?” asked Mama Bear.

Sister Bear rolled her eyes. Then she went online and found instructions on how to activate “Grandparent” mode, making the Galaxy s7 “super easy” to use. Then she rolled her eyes again.

At last, Mama Bear got her new phone.

“So, all I have to do to make my new phone work is read the instructions and follow directions?” Mama Bear asked Papa Bear.

Papa Bear rolled his eyes.

Mama Bear carefully took the phone and all the accessories and instructions out of the box. She read the instructions thoroughly, because the instructions had big pictures and few words. She followed the directions and called the 800 number to transfer service to her new phone. She followed directions to turn off her old phone. She followed directions to turn on her new phone. She watched the spinning circle and read the cheerful greeting.

The cheerful greeting said it could take up to five minutes to transfer service.

She waited and watched the spinning circle spin some more.

“Is it supposed to take this long?” she asked Papa Bear.

“It takes a while,” he said, rolling his eyes, “but it's easy.”

Mamma Bear waited and watched and surfed the net on her laptop and looked at all the pictures from Billy Joel's latest concert at Madison Square Garden and played a game of spider solitaire and checked her email again and repainted the Sistine Chapel.

Finally, the spinning circle stopped spinning.

The cheerful message told Momma Bear the data from her old phone could not be transferred to her new phone.

Mamma Bear considered throwing the phones across the room, but it was a very small room and she figured they would probably ricochet and hit her in the head, killing her or causing extensive brain damage. At the very least she knew she would have to clean up the mess herself.

Mamma Bear cussed and read the instructions even more carefully. She Googled “How to Transfer Service” and cussed some more. She followed the directions she found on Google. She looked through her secret files to find the WiFi password. She found the WiFi password. She found her Googlemail password, her social security number the name of her great-great-grandmother's dog's veterinarian's cousin's neighbor's first-grade teacher, the square root of Pi, and her natural hair color. She typed it all in.

None of her information transferred.

“That's OK, “ Mamma Bear sighed, “I can put all those numbers in by hand.” Then Mamma Bear tried calling the home phone land-line number, just to check out her fancy new cell phone.

It didn't ring. Service had not transferred.

Mamma Bear tried to call from her old cell phone. No service there, either.

Mamma Bear considered punching a wall, but the contractors had just installed new drywall and she didn't want to impede progress.

Mama Bear took a nice, hot, relaxing shower. She poured a glass of wine. She poured a BIG glass of wine. She took a deep breath.

Mama Bear turned the new phone off. She did another Google search. She told Google what they could do with their search results. She told Samsung what they could do with their 3-step instructions. She took a wild guess.

It worked.

“Easy peasy,” she said.

“My ass.”

Greetings From The Great Beyond

If you are reading this without an Ouiji board or a crystal ball, color me surprised.

Apparently, without my knowledge or consent, I have expired and passed to the other side. At least that is my conclusion after trying to communicate with my son – the boy child formerly known as The Little Prince, when I was not so annoyed with him.

I have become accustomed to talking at the boy, but lately I've noticed my words seem to bounce right off him and fall to the ground at his feet without so much as ruffling the bushy mass of hair hanging over his ears.

At first I assumed that the poor thing had had been struck deaf – perhaps as a result of playing the drums, or from listening to heavy metal music. But he seems perfectly capable of hearing the TV, his friends' cars arriving curb-side, and the ding of the microwave.

I accepted the increasing one-sidedness of our talks as typical teenage boy behavior. After one recent exchange – which I took to be a semi-active discussion, but turned out to be a monologue – he replied with his usual noncommittal shrug and vague grunt.

“*Shrug* Eh.”

I interpreted this as “Yes, Mom. I understand what you're saying, agree with your conclusion and will endeavor to act in accordance with your wishes.” Especially after I point blank asked him “Do you understand? Can you do that?”

Instead, what he really meant was “*Shrug* Eh.”

Or perhaps, “    .”

Maybe even, “     !”

But more likely, “      “

There is a chance I've brought on this escalation of indifference myself. Frustrated by his ever-shrinking verbal exchange rate, I told him I was going to set a daily word goal for him. I was hoping to squeeze 20 words per day out of him.

He was thinking of a smaller number.

Like zero.

Of course, if he is purposely rationing his responses, that means that he can hear me – even if he chooses not to listen.

Which is good.

Because I really hope hears me when I tell him I hope that someday (in the far, distant future) he has a child just like him.

Going Banana (Bars)

There are days I should not be allowed in the kitchen.

Today was one of them.

For lunch, I decided to try out a new recipe (first mistake) for a tuna (second mistake)-noodle casserole. It could be that this recipe, in the hands of any other cook would be just fine, and not the bland, yet colorful, left-overs-for-days nightmare that I created. It could be that I tend to use recipes as “guidelines” rather than “directions” when I am cooking, adapting them to family likes/dislikes and ingredients on hand.

It could be that I completely changed the taste of this casserole by subsituting sauteed, fresh peppers for a jar of roasted peppers (both of which are vegetables and both of which are disliked by the boy child). It could be that I angered the pasta gods by substituting penne pasta for fusilli pasta (potato, potato).

Or it could be that any recipe which combines tuna (which the boy child dislikes), and green beans (see: boy child/vegetables/dislike) was doomed from the start.

The husband, who likes to eat much better than he likes to cook, declared the casserole was “tasty.” This was a bold-faced lie and we both knew it. He continues to lie to me this way because I am currently enjoying a 60% success rate in terms of tasty cooking. I am coming off a string of hits including, but not limited to potato soup, monster bars, and scotcheroos.

The boy child, on the other hand, has not figured out the link between bolstering Mom's ego and a continued supply of monster bars. Within an hour, he was digging through the freezer searching for un-frostbitten pizza rolls.

Undeterred by my lunchtime loss, I decided to try a new recipe for banana cake. “Baking,” unlike “cooking,” is a mystical art that is part chemistry, part sorcery. I make every attempt to follow the recipe carefully, if not obsessively, while baking.

I mashed the bananas and set them aside; I mixed the dry ingredients and set them aside; I creamed the butter until it was light and fluffy. I added the eggs.

Only when I noticed my light and fluffy butter becoming bumpy, clumps of butter surrounded by snotty egg whites, did I realized I had forgotten to cream the sugar and the butter before adding the eggs. During my brief stint as a half-baked home ec teacher I drilled that important step into the minds of my students. But it was too late to turn back. What was the worst that could happen? I knew the worst that could happen, and it did.

Instead of the “smooth, slightly thick batter with some lumps” the recipe said I would have, I had a runny batter with a lot of gloopy, curdy lumps.

I was frustrated, because I had waited all week to try out this recipe. But my frustration was half-hearted, because I am the only one in the house who actually likes banana bars/cakes/bread. And if I'm being honest, the only reason I like them is because I can use up the ripe bananas, relieving some of my guilt over letting them go to waste.

The good news is the banana cake turned out ok. It is banana cake, after all, not brain surgery. And the cake features a thick layer of cream cheese frosting.

Cream cheese frosting makes everything better.

Everything except tuna casserole. (But I wouldn't bet against it.)

Night of the Living Brocco-tot

Once upon a time, in a quiet home on a quiet lane in a quiet town, something happened. Something so horrible, so terrifying, so unnatural, that even now – nearly four days later – it is referred to by shocked locals as ...

The House on Brocco-Lane.

It was a peaceful evening, like countless others in this unassuming home. The tranquility was broken only by the frenzied racing of a wild-eyed grey cat, running his nightly crazy-laps up and down the hallway with all the grace and elegance of a drunken zombie horde.

The mouth-watering aroma of cheesy chicken casserole filled the cozy home, luring the Little Prince and the King of the Castle from the dark depths of the basement, up the creaking staircase and into the kitchen. A solitary figure stood by the oven, waving a hot pad over a steaming cauldron and muttering an ancient incantation:

Double, double, toil and trouble;

Casserole's not browned, but at least it's bubbled.

It was … The Mom-ster! A toxic health-food spill in the freezer section of the local grocery mart had turned this normally mild-mannered housewife into a veggie-pushing mad chef!

“What's ... that?” the Little Prince asked cautiously, peering into the 9x12 baking dish.

“Chicken casserole,” The Mom-ster replied. “Mwaa-haa-haa!”

“What's on top of the casserole?” The Little Prince asked, suspicious of The Mom-ster's maniacal cackling and creepy hand wringing. “They look like … undercooked sausages.”

The Mom-ster hesitated a moment too long before replying.

“Yes! Yes, they are!”

“No they're not.” The Little Prince was not fooled by The Mom-ster's overzealous enthusiasm. He crossed his arms in a classic Picky Eater defensive move.

“You're right! They're …” the Mom-ster paused dramatically, waiting for the ominous music to play. Duh-duh-DUHHHH! There was no music, of course, because this was real life, not some horror movie. It was much, much more frightening than any movie could ever be. This was ... dinnertime! And those strange, grey-ish green blobs on top of the casserole? 

“They're Brocco-tots.”

The Little Prince gasped. The King of the Castle looked up from his magazine in shock. Even the cat screeched to a stop and hovered protectively over his food dish.

“Oh just eat them. They're good for you. One bite won't kill you.” Duh-duh-DUHHHH!

Before she could dish up steaming plates of chicken casserole with proportional amounts of the some-what healthy, albeit odd-looking, garnish the Mom-ster was called away to a meeting. She returned to find a decidedly dis-proportionate amount of brocco-tot leftovers.

“Curses! My attempts to foist somewhat healthy eating habits on my family have been foiled again!" the Mom-ster cried out in anguish, but not surprise.

When the brocco-scarred Little Prince related his tale to his sister The Princess, at first she reacted with mild disappointment.

“Sounds like a waste of perfectly good tater-tots. And broccoli.” She did not share his aversion to all things vegetable.

“But... but you don't understand!” The Little Prince protested. “There was no tater in these tots! Just broccoli!”

The Princess fixed The Mom-ster with an ice-cold glare.

“That's just … wrong.” The Princess said. “If she tries that again, let me know. I'll call protective services.”

They say that when the moon is full, and the wind whistles through the trees, and the weather calls out for the comfort of a home-baked casserole, if you listen carefully you can still hear the siren song of …

The Cauli-tot!

Picture This

I have been organizing The Princess' official pictures – school, dance and sports – in a last-minute attempt to prepare for graduation. Nothing like a hard deadline to make you take a look around and ask “Crap, where has the time gone?”

By extension, I've been sorting The Little Prince's photos as well, because my usual style of photo organization is to slip the envelope full of pictures into whichever tote marked “scrapbook” is nearest the storeroom door. This is after the envelope sits atop the bookshelf for six months, or until the next set of pictures comes home.

Regardless of where they were stashed, or how long (or if) they were displayed, each portrait stirs memories – the haircuts, the clothes, the braces, the glasses. The Princess' reviews of these photos have ranged from laughter to indignation – “Why did you cut my hair that way? Why did you make me wear that?” As if I had any control over anything picture-related after she started school.

The Little Prince has, as usual, taken everything in stride. Each time his sister runs down the hall waving one of his pictures in the air and laughing, he shrugs, grins and rolls his eyes.

He is suffering from Second Child Photo Deficiency Syndrome, combined with a healthy dose of Digital Technology Affliction. Where as The Princess has a ginormous tote full of baby pictures (along with 10 completed scrapbook pages... ok, maybe only five... ish), The Little Prince has only one medium tote. Half-full. And an empty scrapbook.

I console myself with the thought (unverified) that all his childhood pictures are safely stored on a flash drive or SD card. Somewhere. I hope. I have three years before he graduates, so I'm sure I'll come up with something by then. Somehow. I hope.

The official school and team pictures capture the essence of different children than the candid shots that eat up space on my phone. I sigh and roll my eyes – where'd I learn that? – every time I try to take a “serious” picture of them. It seems impossible to get them to hold still and stand next to each other (within arms length, as if they possibly know and/or like each other, but without employing a sleeper hold). Getting them to both smile at the same time, with neither of them caught mid-blink, is … impossible-er.

And yet, when I look at those snapshots of my two teenagers happily hanging upside down on the playground, my heart fills to overflowing. I hear them shouting and laughing and urging me to “hurry up and take the picture already,” their faces reddening as the blood rushes to their heads.

I look at the picture of them trying to squeeze into the kiddie swings and I remember all the playgrounds we've visited. All the slides and swings and teeter-totters and climbing walls. All the ways they used to scare me as they explored their independence. I remember rushing around behind them, arms outstretched, ready to catch them or give them a boost or to applaud (nervously) when they reached the apex and turned around, so excited and proud.

When I organize the official portraits, I hear a different voice. I remember a different type of dread and pride. As I study the familiar-unfamiliar faces captured in these photos I remember sliding each picture from its packaging. I marveled over the changes brought about by another year. So serious. So mature.

So grown up.

Now I look at the portrait of the second grader missing all his front teeth, or the apple-cheeked fifth grader with her new glasses, and I think how young, how long ago.

I compare those pictures to the lanky freshman towering over me, to the brown-eyed beauty in the senior pictures.

Again I think, “They are so grown up.”

And yet I hope, I know, I make plans, to take them to as many playgrounds as possible. I will take the pictures that capture the laughter, and the love, and the fears, and the pride.

And I will save them on the computer and print them out and store them in boxes and paste them in scrapbooks, and share them, and keep them close.

Where has the time gone?

Show (Me) Choir

 I have heard there are places in the world that do not know the wonders of High School Show Choir.

Places where the spotlights never shine, sequins aren't a way of life, and drama is largely relegated to telenovelas.

I weep for these places.

Or I would, but I'm afraid my cat eye eyeliner might run.

Or my wiglet might fall off, skitter away and frighten small children.

Or my bumpit might slip askew making me look (even more) like a crazed unicorn (because I only have, like, 10 strands of very thin, fine hair on top of my already pointy head).

Sigh.

How I was ever able to reach 50... I mean 39... years of age without wearing excessive amounts of sequins, glitter, faux hair pieces, massive amounts of eyeliner and “50 dolla' make you holla'-” red lipstick – and – and this IS important – make it look good – is beyond me.

'Cuz let me tell you.

I would have rocked that shit.

Sigh.

Back in the day, our swing choir – I believe we still called it swing choir, because every once in a while I slip up and still call it that and today's show choir kids look at me like I'm speaking Klingon – put on a little extra makeup, but nothing fancy – and – and this is a BIG AND – AND – we had (Are you ready for this? Are you sitting down? Fair warning. Don't say I didn't tell you.) (Take a deep breath.)

One outfit.

Yes.

You read that right.

There was no costume change.

None.

At.

All.

I'm not really sure, because I was part of the band. Because, as I've said in past blog-posts, I can't carry a tune in a bucket with two hands. And I can barely walk across a perfectly smooth, level floor, let alone dance on a wobbly stage in heels while looking up, smiling and singing.

But as long as you are fanning yourself and feeling faint...

I don't remember a lot of glitter or sequins.

There.

I said it.

We suffered from glitter under load.

Imagine there's no glitter/ It's easy if you try...

Unless you've just spent the day at a modern Iowa High School Show Choir Competition, in which case you are HAVING trouble FOCusing BeCauSe You are SUFfering from SPARKLE and FOG overload and you have the uncontrollable desire to app – CLAPCLAPCLAP – laud and randomly shhh – WOOT WOOT – ouuuuut and scrEEEEEAAAAmmmm for no apparent reason other than because the ten million other people jammed into this high school gymnasium (max. occ. 800) are SCREAMING for no apparent reason other than they are supporting the talented, brave, be-sequined, eye-linered, pouf-haired, sweating, singing, panting, dancing, amazing, high school students performing up on the (swaying from all that energy) stage.

Boom.

(well deserved) Mic Drop.

Because these days that's where I spend my Saturdays.

Out in the audience.

Cheering and clapping and screaming and beaming and cringing and smiling while the show choirs perform.

Because that's my boy – the drummer with all the hair and the timing and the talent, the one who won't speak to me in the hallway but who isn't opposed to taking money or snacks. And I know all those kids in the – AMAZING – band (didn't they just blow you away?). And can you believe the kids in that crew that get everything put together just right without freaking out (much)? And I know those kids who are singinganddancing andsweatingandpanting andmakingitlooksoeasy and Sounding. So. Good.

Because I'm a show choir mom.

But not just a show choir mom.

Because you can't be just a show choir mom or dad or grandparent, aunt, uncle, sibling, cousin, coach, director, choreographer, accompanist, or... anything.

You are a hair-fixing, tie-straightening, emergency-drum-head-buying, lunch-money-providing, bobby pin- and safety pin- carrying, tear-drying, concession stand-working, concession stand-consuming, alteration-making, stage hand, hugging, clapping, cheering, shouting fool for show choir.

Because once you've been exposed to glitter and sequins and cat-eye eyeliner and bumpits...

Well.

What can I say?

Other than I'm gonna make that shit look good.

Tomorrow.

While I'm grocery shopping.

Fair warning.

We Wish You A Happy Chris-Val-Fourth-Giving

Every year it seems like there's that one Christmas decoration that gets overlooked when all the others are put away at the end of the season. You know the one. The little figurine or picture or table runner or towel that gets overlooked in all the re-boxing and storing and cussing, and then – WaBam! – it's July and someone asks “Why do you still have this life-size Santa standing in the corner of your living room, half-buried under a pile of unfolded laundry?”

You know the one.

Eventually you find it and set it at the top of the stairs with all the other stuff you plan on taking downstairs on your next trip to the laundry room, and then – WaBam! – it's November and you're going to be getting the Christmas decorations out soon anyway, so, why bother?

Or maybe you do take it downstairs, but all the Christmas decoration boxes are full, and you've piled a bunch of stuff on the floor in front of them so you can't get to them to store it away properly (and you'd like to say the storage area is a mess because of The Great Remodel, but the truth is it's always higgledy-piggledy) and so you end up putting it in with a pile of random holiday decorations and it's never seen again or at least not for a couple of years and by then everyone's forgotten about it and – WaBam! – it's like having a brand new decoration to display.

My point is...

This year's front-runner for mis-stored Christmas decoration is Max's stocking. He thinks it's still in the living room, under the Christmas tree, hidden among the empty boxes and the last few (practical) gifts (like the socks that I lovingly picked out because they desperately needed them and the jigsaw puzzles I gave them even though I am the one who ends up putting them together although they all appear out of no where to put that last piece in). Gifts that I will add to the assorted piles in their rooms when I take down the Christmas tree.

Taking down the Christmas tree, of course, reveals that one Christmas ornament that gets overlooked when all the other ornaments are carefully taken off the tree for re-boxing and storing, so when it comes time to take apart and store the Christmas tree – WaBam! – there it is and you have to set it aside while you continue to unfluff and unplug and fold up and squish the pokey, dusty, fake-needle dropping tree sections back into the box because they all came out of there and so they must all go back in but now they don't fit and you're hot and sweaty and dusty and where did that freaking decoration go and where is the cat and why is the box meowing?

Except!

Except that this year the children were in charge of putting the decorations on the tree and they took one look at the piles of stuff on the floor in front of the Christmas tree decoration boxes  and decided that we would do a minimalist tree, enjoying the sparse beauty of a semi-fluffed, pre-lit artificial tree upon which most of (well, some of) the lights worked.

In the quiet darkness, those twinkling white lights (the ones that lit, anyway) were quite lovely and peaceful. Or they were until the cat decided to claim the tree as his own fortress of solitude and hid beneath it to launch nightly surprise attacks upon the unsuspecting ankles of anyone passing by.

Eventually The Princess decided to add some hand-crafted decorations to the tree, just like she did

when she was little. But instead of hanging glitter-covered cut-outs, or Popsicle stick creations, or beaded... somethings... she decorated the tree with Buffalo Wild Wings crowns, using it as an excuse to eat there almost exclusively the week before Christmas. (Note: Buy B-Dubs stock. Now. In large quantities.)

I am hoping that Max's stocking turns up eventually, but if not it will join the Santa decoration which has sat on top of the entertainment center year-round for the past three years. Santa's become a fixture up there, along side the family photos in the inspirational, catch-phrase photo frames (“Good Times,” “The Boys,” “Family Fun”). The photos that are now five years out of date – except for the “Family Fun” frame which still has two empty spots – in the frames that caused The Princess to roll her eyes so hard they still haven't focused.

“Mooooom,” she said, rolling her eyes, “we're not that kind of people.”

What kind of people? I asked.

“The kind of people who put signs with words on them everywhere.” Which is kind of funny, because since then she has painted approximately ninehundredseventythree canvases with inspirational sayings and snippets of songs and they cover Every. Square. Inch. of previously bare wall space in her room.

And she's right, because I'm fairly certain the kind of people who routinely display inspirational messages on their walls would never leave a Santa decoration up all year. For multiple years.

Sometimes I worry that I'm shortchanging my kids by not decorating for each season. But at least once a month I do try to rotate the pile of mail, newspapers and assorted school papers needing to be signed and returned – or at least clear off enough space on the dining room table for three plates (we're never all four home for dinner at the same time anyway). And the laundry is always folded and moved out of the living room within two weeks. And there isn't (hardly) any expired food (from 2009) in the refrigerator.

And in addition to the year-round Santa decoration, I also have a pink-glittered Valentine heart on my bookshelf, a red-white-and-blue flower arrangement over my sewing table and a solar-powered, head-bobbing, Thanksgiving turkey figure on my desk, so it's not that I don't decorate for the holidays, but more like I decorate for all of them all the time.

I'm multi-decorational. Continual celebrational.

Happy Chris-Val-Fourth-Giving.

When the Face on the Milk Carton is a Milk Carton

When I got home from the grocery store yesterday I decided to have some Oreos and milk to reward myself for remembering all the things on my grocery list. Things like Oreos… which I had forgotten to pick up the day before, when I went grocery shopping.

Except... we were out of milk.

I just got home from my second trip to the grocery store in two days, and I needed groceries.

The story of my life.

If only... I thought.

If only there were some way for the milk carton to let me know that it was almost empty and that I first trip to the store, but the children and the husband have been on a cereal-for-breakfast kick lately and I hadn't factored in the increased milk usage when I made out my shopping list.

should probably think about picking up more the next time I was at the store. I could swear I had checked the milk before my

If only... I thought.

If only someone who had – oh, I don't know – used almost all of the milk had told me “Hey, we're almost out of milk.” Or if only someone who had – oh, I don't know – actually used the last of the milk had told me “Hey, we are now actually out of milk.” Then maybe I would have remembered to add milk to the grocery list, and maybe I would have picked up milk either the day before, when we were almost out of milk, or yesterday, when we were actually out of milk.

I say “maybe,” because I have, on occasion, been known to forget to pick up items that are on my grocery list. And I have, on occasion, been known to forget to put things on my list thinking “Oh, I won't forget to get that, because that is totally the only reason I am even going to the grocery store.” And that is why I usually call or text my family while I'm sitting in the grocery store parking lot to ask them if they've thought of anything else I need to pick up.

That's when I thought “If only someone would invent a little microchip that you could put on a milk carton to remind you it's time to get more milk.” Then, when I'm writing out my grocery list and I shout “Is there anything else I need to get when I'm at the grocery store?” the milk carton could beep, or somehow reply “Why yes! You are almost out of milk! Please remember to put milk on your list and pick up milk when you are at the grocery store.”

Although I have to admit, hearing a voice call out from inside the refrigerator would be a little weird.

You know what wouldn't be weird? Having my children or my husband reply “Why yes! I used almost all the milk this morning on my cereal (even though I didn't actually drink the milk that was left over after I ate my cereal and basically wasted a whole cup of delicious, sugary-sweet, vitamin-enhanced milk by pouring it down the drain). Please remember to put milk on your list and pick up milk when you are at the grocery store.”

And then I thought, “If only that little microchip in my milk carton could send me a text message or just call me up when I'm at the store and say 'Hey! It's me, your milk carton. I know I wasn't almost empty when you left to go to the grocery store, but I am now, so could you please pick up more milk while you are at the grocery store?”

Although, expecting a microchip in a milk carton not only to have that kind of self-awareness, but also to know my shopping schedule would be a little weird.

You know what wouldn't be weird? If, when I text or call my family and tell them I'm sitting in the grocery store parking lot about to go into the store and I ask them if they have thought of anything else we need, like milk, they would actually go to the refrigerator, open it up, check the milk and let me know if I need to get more.

But until microchip milk cartons – or helpful family members – become a reality I'm stuck making frequent trips to the grocery store. Even if that means going to the grocery store three days in a row. Or sometimes going to the grocery store three times in one day.

And so this morning I made a special trip to the grocery store just to pick up a gallon of milk. Then I came home to have Oreos and milk. I knew we had Oreos at home because I had just bought them yesterday.

Except I hid them.

And I don't remember where.

If only... I thought.

“If only someone would invent a little microchip that you could put on a package of Oreos to remind you where you hid it.”

  

Yo No Hablo Teenage Boy-O

When the children were little I wished they came with instructions.

I realize that was a very silly wish. They don't listen to instructions, and I never read them.

They are both teenagers now and I know what I really need is some sort of Rosetta Stone for teen speak. Or teen non-speak, as the case may be.

The Princess is getting easier to understand. I'm not sure whether that is because she is quickly approaching the end of her teenage years, or because I have some personal experience with teenage girl speak. She may not want to believe it, but I once was a teenage girl myself. It's like they say: if you learn a language as a child, you never completely forget it. Teenage girl and adult girl also have some common linguistic components.

I remember, or have learned, that a girl-child can change the meaning of the word “Mother” simply by changing which syllable is emphasized (“MO-ther” vs. “moth-ER”). Likewise, the volume, tone and spoken length of any individual sound (“Mmmmmmmmother” vs. “Motherrrrrrr” for example) can be altered to adjust the meaning.

Teenage girl non-verbal communication is just as, if not more, complicated. The simple eye roll can have many and varied meanings, from “I can't believe you're such a dork,” to “of course I love you.” Sometimes it can have more than one meaning simultaneously.

When it comes to The Little Prince, however, I am completely at a linguistic loss. Yo no hablo boy-o.

The Little Prince has become a surly foreign exchange student skulking about our house, leaving his room only to procure food (to take back to his room) or to scowl at the printer. He speaks an undocumented dialect of an unrecorded language that, for all of its complexity apparently consists of only three phrases: “Uh-huh" (affirmative?), "Nuh-uh" (negative?), and "Dunno" (everything else). His eye rolls, shoulder shrugs and grunts are in a dialect that is completely different than his sister's.

Last night, when I returned from a four-day absence, I stood, smiling, in his doorway waiting for a “Hi, Mom! Welcome back.” What I got was an impatient “Yeah?”

I hugged him anyway.

It's hard to believe that this towering stranger, with facial hair and deepening voice was once my cuddly, little boy. OK, so he was never that cuddly, but he was the little boy I held tight in my mother-arms. The little boy who exactly matched and filled the little-boy shaped space that had been formed in my mother-heart.

Now my head rests against his shoulder on the rare occasion when I am able to ambush him from behind to wrap him up in a tackle/hug. More often than not he turns around and heads the other way when he sees me coming. Much like dogs sense fear, teenage boys sense incoming Mom hugs. Although, sometimes I like to think that his evasive maneuvers are purposefully a step slow, or that he waits an extra beat before attempting an escape, allowing me time to sigh contentedly as that little-boy shaped space fills in once again.

This morning he stopped by my desk as he headed out the door to school. For a moment he just stood there looking at me expectantly.

“Do you need something, honey? ” I asked, my Mom-radar pinging away.

“My laundry basket is overflowing,” he said.

“Well, I'd be happy to teach you...” I started, my temper flaring.

Then I saw the smirk on his face, and I understood him perfectly. No translation was needed.

I love you too, Little Prince.

Jacks And Better

I saw a package of Jacks by the checkout counter at the craft store the other day and I had to smile.

That simple, classic kids' toy reminded me of the stories Mom and her cousin Eloise used to tell about when they were little girls. They were distant cousins but since the families got together so often, and Eloise was an only child while Mom had just one older brother, the two girls were much closer than most cousins. Eloise was at all our family gatherings – she and Mom rotated hosting duties for the holidays – and I always thought of her as Aunt Eloise.

The two of them told me of the hours and hours they spent playing Jacks. They talked about “onsies” and “twosies,” how to bounce the ball just the right way -- once, twice, or not at all. And always – always – they remembered “the concrete sidewalk was so hot on our little, bare legs!”

And they laughed.

They laughed so hard and smiled so much at the memories that I figured Jacks must be the most fun game in the entire world. So I would run to get my over-sized set of plastic Jacks and I'd go outside to sit on the big, flat square of concrete between the sidewalk and our front stairs. I sat out there practicing for what seemed like hours and hours, bouncing and grabbing, scraping my knuckles raw on the concrete, sweating as the sun beat down on me, feeling the hot concrete burning the backs of my little, bare legs.

Mom and Eloise would watch from the cool shade of the front porch, where they sat gently swaying on the porch swing. Dinner was over, the dishes were done, there was nothing to do but visit until it was time to serve dessert.

They would occasionally offer up advice, or chastise me for cheating. (Is it really cheating if you're playing by yourself?) Every once in a while, if my offenses were particularly greivious, one of them would kneel down beside me and show me the right way to do it.

“Ooof, that used to be a lot easier!” they would say as they struggled to stand up again, girdle and nylons, high heels, age and gravity conspiring against them.

And they would erupt into laughter all over again.

The memory of that laughter warmed me as I stood there at the store, weighing the pros and cons of an impulse buy. A surprise gift for Mom.

“Remember when you and Eloise used to play Jacks, when you were little girls?” I would ask.

But....

But... what if she didn't remember? What would I do if she looked at me with that sweet, placid smile and just shrugged her shoulders?

I've lost so much of her already. I couldn't take loosing any more.

And so I put the package back on the hook.

But....

But... the stories, the laughter, the kneeling in polyester skirts and nylons and heels and struggling to get back up, those are my memories.

So I bought the Jacks.

And that night as I sat on the kitchen floor, the cool of the linoleum tile chilling my (not so little or bare) legs, I practiced the bouncing and the grabbing, calling out “onsies” and “twosies.”

“Ooof, that used to be a lot easier!” I said to the cat as I struggled to stand up again, achy knees and hips, age and gravity conspiring against me.

And I smiled, knowing that through the telling and sharing, memories can live on and on.