You are currently browsing the monthly archive for December 2008.
As we figured out what to get for the people on our lists, I told Jason I didn’t want a present for Christmas this year. From him. I wasn’t trying to play the ‘poor me’ card, or put up a front of false modesty. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I had everything I possibly ‘needed’; and felt particularly grateful at the end of 2008 to have my little family, employment and a place to live. Well, two places to live. But I can’t really say I’m grateful to still have an unsold house in Indiana.
And I didn’t regret my ‘no gift’ instructions, at any point. Unlike a birthday or two when I might have said ‘oh, you don’t have to get me anything,’ and then secretly hoped for a grand surprise gesture of some sort.
But, Jason couldn’t abide my [cheap] wishes and decided to get me a present anyway. He has something of a knack for gift-giving, which has surprised me over the years. Like the purse he bought me for my 29th birthday. I’d been to Paris with my sister a few months prior, where I’d admired the colorful, stripey Bronti Bay bags on display in several department stores. I’d contemplated ‘treating’ myself to a bag, but in the end, couldn’t justify the expense when I’d already had the good fortune to go to Paris.
So imagine my surprise when I opened a gift bag on my birthday, and pulled out a Bronti Bay bag. In the exact same color scheme I’d admired three months earlier. I assumed my sister had dropped the hint. But, she hadn’t. He’d just been walking through a London department store, seen the bag and knew I’d like it. And bought it for me.
This year he remembered that I’d raved about Delicious magazine. And so, he jumped online, and bought me a one-year subscription. Really, for both of us, as he wrote in his card, since he generally reaps the benefits of my culinary attempts.
Jason also received a few unexpected gifts this year. But not from me. I adhered to the no-gift policy in place, though I did buy him some fancy warm gloves in the after-Christmas sales.
We were opening gifts at my mom’s house with my sister and brother-in-law. It was Jason’s turn to open a gift, and he unwrapped a package of three presents from my mom. The first two gifts were books: ‘A Woman in Berlin‘ and a collection of poems called ‘Landing Light.‘ Puzzled about the rationale behind the gifts, he set them aside as he opened the final gift. Which was the third season of ‘Cold Feet’.
My ears perked up when he very politely said: ‘are these supposed to be for Nicola?’
When I saw all the titles before me, I recognized them from the Amazon Wish List Jason and I share. The one I sent to my mom to peruse for gift ideas for Jason. The one from which I apparently failed to remove ‘my’ selections.
It could have been worse. He could have gotten ‘The Spirited Child‘ or ‘Eating Up Italy.’
‘Maybe next year we can all just bring carrot sticks,’ I pondered aloud over a game of cards during the annual two-day Johnson Christmas gathering. My brother-in-law shot me an annoyed look: ‘you can bring carrot sticks if you want, but you’ll be taking them home at the end,’ he predicted.
I like sweets and junk food as much as the next person. Maybe even more than the next person. In fact, I’m the person who usually eats two helpings of dessert. But after spending two days near a table laden with four different kinds of fudge, buckeyes, three bags of puppy chow, two different kinds of buttery cookies, potato chips, doritos, tortilla chips, crackers, and more candy than even Santa could hold in his sleigh…..well, it feels excessive. Unnecessary.
I tried to explain my point to my sisters-in-law: ‘I only brought one pair of jeans on this trip, so they HAVE to fit me when I go back, otherwise I won’t have anything to wear.’ My one sister-in-law helpfully suggested I sleep in the jeans; that way they’d be more likely to expand and accommodate my ‘Christmas 5 [pounds].’
Which is definitely one strategy for coping with excess. Along with exercising some good old-fashioned self-control. But when there are buckeyes, fudge and puppy chow beckoning….in mass quantities…even Mother Theresa couldn’t say no.
After we left ‘Candy Land’ (aka the Johnson Gathering) we drove to my mom’s house, where the sweet fare was probably minimal by most North American standards. But not really. As I gazed upon the coconut macaroons, the fruitcake cookies, biscotti and toffee, my mom was talking about the evening meal. ‘I wasn’t going to make dessert,’ she explained (apologized).
I guess you could say she’s lazy. Or not truly committed to Christmas.
And then my sister arrived a few days later, fresh from her in-laws’ house. With about two pounds of chocolate fudge and something called ‘heavenly hash’ in tow. The heavenly hash looked like a lot like fudge…but had marshmallows in it. And because my sister and brother-in-law were coming, my mom had also specially prepared a bread pudding and some lime-glazed cookies.
We were driving in the car today, listening to the December CD sampler from Paste Magazine. Rosie Thomas sang wistfully about how she ‘wished it could be Christmastime all year.’
Umh, I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe if it was. It’s only been a few days of ‘Christmas’ and my stomach already seems to be sticking out past my waistband.
Guess I’d better wear those jeans to bed. After I do a couple of sit-ups.
As the kids battled colds and coughs prior to our departure for Hoosier-land, I said to Jason: ‘this year I guess WE’LL be the ones who get everyone sick [at the Johnson family Christmas].’ Since, inevitably, after spending two days sequestered with eleven adults and seven children during flu season…..it is nearly impossible to escape without one of us getting sick.
Unfortunately, we’ve arrived healthy the past three years…and left with various and sundry bacterial infections, prescriptions for antibiotics, and a week of recovery in the New Year.
But this year, I was sure we were going to be the infectors, not the infectees. Not that I was excited to pass along our snotty noses and coughs and poor appetites….
But, as usually happens when I make a prediction, it turns out completely wrong.
I knew it was going to be bad when Jason’s brother crossed the threshold of the bed and breakfast where we were staying, looking somewhat grumpy….or puny? ‘Happy birthday,’ I congratulated him, ‘how does it feel to be 33?’
‘I don’t feel too good,’ he replied. After spending a few hours languishing on the couch, his ill feelings culminated in a rigorous series of upchucking. Etc. The following morning, my niece started crying at the breakfast table, right before she started puking. Another niece followed suit a few hours later. And my newest brother-in-law succumbed by nightfall.
One minute he was calmly sitting on a chair, ensconced in a skunk pelt. The next, he was running to the bathroom. Loudly and forcefully emptying the contents of his stomach.
I once read that Jackie O let water run from the faucets when she went to use the bathroom, because she didn’t want people to know what she was doing in there. I understand such eccentricity as I have a similar aversion. I do not like to hear ‘bathroom noises.’ Of any kind. So, listening to my brother-in-law retching in the adjoining room while I was playing cards, almost sent me to the bathroom.
To make matters worse, the bed and breakfast we were staying at experienced some significant plumbing problems while we were there. I went to bed the first night, and noticed there was no running water in our private bathroom. I poked my head over the upstairs railing and announced to the Settlers players below: ‘is it weird that my bathroom doesn’t have any water?’
Turns out only two of the five bathrooms had running water the next morning. Not a good situation for eighteen people; some with stomach bugs. Buckets of water were being carried to non-functioning toilets in an effort to flush away their ill contents. By mid-afternoon, the problem appeared to have been solved. Two hours later, we were operating on one or two bathrooms again. And then the problem was momentarily corrected, again. By evening there was no running water in the kitchen but the bathrooms were fully operational. On our final morning there, after we awoke from little sleep, we were informed that there was no running water. At all.
As we packed up our cars and left the premises, the poor plumbers were still working on the explosive pipes. Two more sisters-in-law spent the day puking, and a third succumbed two days later.
We’re still waiting, with our fingers crossed.
The first harbinger of travel doom arrived in the form of an email from my mom. ‘You might want to pack some extra snacks,’ she suggested, ‘just in case you get delayed in Chicago.’
That was the day before we left.
I stopped at Wal-mart and loaded up on Teddy Grahams, Kashi crackers and granola bars, candy, chocolate and gum. In an effort to be prepared. But the fact is, when you’re stuck in an airport, or anywhere, you get pretty sick of eating snack foods. You just want a meal. And you just want to BE at your destination.
As we headed into the security area at the Calgary airport, there was a family of three staying behind. Apparently they’d planned to go to Seattle. But the Seattle Airport decided they were going to stay in Calgary. At least for the foreseeable future. I didn’t feel too badly for them. When we left them, the dad was talking on his cell phone with his snazzy laptop on his lap. Their adorable blonde boy, nearly the same age as the Hen, calmly sat in between his mom and dad. Wearing cute orange shoes and munching on some carrot sticks. He was not trying to wrest the laptop away from his dad. He was not pounding with slimy fingers on the keys. He was not using dirty fingers to touch the screen. And he was NOT climbing onto the carefully corralled wheelchairs while looking at his mother vigorously shaking her head ‘no’. The wunderkind just sat there. Eating his carrots.
So I didn’t feel like this particular family needed much of a break. Clearly they had their act together. Little did I know it was foreshadowing…what my evening would entail.
The flight from Calgary to Chicago was relatively uneventful. There were moments – mere moments, mind you – when I thought: ‘this isn’t too bad.’ The Hen was sitting on the floor by his dad and brother, playing with the little animals I’d brought along for the flight. G was busily ‘sewing’ these cardboard construction shapes, lacing the colored string through the myriad of holes along the perimeter. I was nearing the point where I considered removing the 2009 issue of the Economist from the carry-on suitcase and possibly reading an article.
And just like that, things changed. In an instant, a happy child turned into an unhappy, tired child. Boys sitting companionably near each other, suddenly started to push and pull one another. And our youngest, who really needed a nap, screamed for forty-five minutes in order to fall asleep….only to awaken forty minutes later after I’d imperceptibly adjusted my arm and feet in an effort to minimize the tingling feeling pervading my body.
My favourite parts of the flight, and the entire journey, were the messages from our flight attendant.
Justino (our male flight attendant) announced, mere minutes after we touched down at O’Hare: ‘Unfortunately our assigned gate is currently being used by another plane…..so we’ll just have to wait here until the plane departs.’ Which took more than thirty minutes. Still, no complaints from me, since we did eventually move towards the gate. Except, then we weren’t. Twenty feet away from ‘the gate’ the plane stopped again. ‘Apparently there is a shortage of ‘rampers’ so we have to wait here until one is free.’ Which easily took another twenty minutes or more. There is nothing quite as cruel as being twenty feet away from your gate….and not being able to get off the freaking plane.
I was not consoled when Justino’s voice boomed through the plane once more, after announcing the departure gates for connecting flights. ‘Don’t worry about this delay causing you to miss your connecting flight. Pretty much all of the connecting flights have been delayed.’
Excellent. It was 6pm by the time we entered the terminal, which was well over an hour past the time it would have been had we not sat parked on the tarmac..twice. Our original flight was scheduled to depart at 6.45pm. But, when we looked at our boarding passes, the time had already been changed to 7.55pm. By the time we got to the gate, the time had been changed to 8.40pm. And then 9.15pm. Then the flight was switched to another concourse altogether. And the departure time pushed back to 9.40pm. And then 10.15pm. And then 10.05pm?!
‘All’s I know’ as some fellow Hoosiers might have said….is that we were supposed to arrive in Indianapolis at 8.47pm. And it was midnight by the time we did. When all was said and done, we pulled into my in-laws’ driveway at 2.30am. ‘Luckily’…..we live in a different time zone, so it only felt like 12.30am. And luckily the kids were fairly excellent throughout (save that forty five minute screaming fit on the first flight. And the hour the Hen spent crying on the way to his grandparents’ house, because he was tired and soaking wet.)
Negatives aside, I highly recommend taking a flight with a nearly five year old, because everything is exciting. Moving sidewalks! Airplane models in airport terminals! Looking out the window in an airplane! Getting to watch Monster’s Inc on daddy’s laptop on the floor of the terminal! A strange woman handing you a piece of ‘magic string’ (crochet yarn)! Drinking a whole bottle of apple juice!
And the Hen had his own adventures. He walked up to a complete stranger and insisted she pick him up. And when she did, he put his head on her shoulder. Which was perplexing, and sweet, and also made us wonder if he was tired of his ‘original’ family. He also doled out toys and blankets to various adult travellers, who regarded his blatant violations of personal space with a mixture of bemusement and wariness.
As we prepared for takeoff to Indianapolis, the flight attendant went around telling everyone that it was a twenty-six minute flight ‘wheels up to wheels down.’
But honestly, it felt like two hours.
For some reason, whenever Christmas rolls around, I feel compelled to start making gifts for the people on my list. It seems like it’s the ‘meaningful’ thing to do. (To stress yourself out, and lash out at your family in anger and frustration, that is.) And every year, when the gifts are finally finished and wrapped, I vow ‘never again’.
I don’t even know how the ‘homemade gifts of 2008′ saga began. I learned about freezer paper stencils in a craft book; and walked past a display of Ugly Dolls at a bookstore……yada yada yada….I decided that all of my nephews and nieces should get an amorphous stuffed creature and a stencilled t-shirt from their aunt Nicola.
Right now, there are seven nephews and nieces on Jason’s side – including my two. And there are two more on the ‘docket’ for 2009, which made me think that – based on numbers alone – 2008 was the year to attempt handmade gifts for them all. Probably for the last time, since the kids are only getting older each year, and at some point, stencilled t-shirts and stuffed creatures – or homemade gifts of any kind – just won’t do.
After racking my brain for a suitable design, I decided to make stencils with a star, the individual’s name and the year. In my mind, I could just picture all the cherubs posing for a group photo wearing their adorable shirts made by their favourite aunt.
And then I started actually using an x-acto knife to stencil names onto the paper…
My cutting skills are pretty bad. I remember helping Jason make architecture models as an undergrad, and being completely unable to execute clean lines – instead producing jagged, slanted windows and walls. Luckily this usually happened at 4am on the day of a presentation, which means he was too pressed for time to harp on my incompetence.
I started with my own children’s shirts, figuring it was okay if theirs looked ‘kind of crappy’. The x-actoing was easy enough for letters like H, and N. Not so much for G, O, C, S and B. And of course all the names were at least five letters. Seriously – if only our wretched siblings had named their children Jim, Sam, Bob, or Ann, things might have been a bit easier. But ‘Isabelle’ and ‘Bennett’ and ‘Sophia’ nearly put me over the edge.
After hearing a few too many late night expletives, and after trying his own hand at ‘Isabelle’ (with atrocious results), Jason offered to put me out of my carving misery by laser-cutting the designs onto the freezer paper. Which saved the day – sort of.
I set to work one night, ironing the stencils on the shirts, having taken great care to put the right stencils with the right sized shirts; pairing the red paint with the boys’ stencils and the green with the girls’. But, apparently the stencils weren’t particularly sturdy as I realized once I’d peeled the paper off the dried shirts, the next day.
Four of the shirts looked bad. Really bad. There were lumpy stars and letters bleeding into each other. ‘Aiden’, ‘Sophia’, ‘Olivia’ and ‘Isabelle’ looked like they’d been painted by an infant. Even with my glasses off…from far away…..they looked bad.
I was mad. At myself; at the fragile stencils; at the Superstore who didn’t have any more white shirts in stock.
In the end I had to buy (different) white shirts from Wal-Mart for the oldest girls. And the price tag of my once affordable craft, quickly skyrocketed into ‘sort of pricey’ territory. As I wrapped up the shirts-and-creatures combinations, I vowed ‘never again.’ Which is what I said two years ago when I made everyone felted wool animals, despite not being able to sew a straight line on a machine….
Through some fluke of eavesdropped conversation, I learned that some schools in Calgary require parents to register their children for the next academic year as early as January. (Next month!) It pays to eavesdrop sometimes, because I was certainly NOT thinking about where to send G for Kindergarten. Not in December. I figured we had until May, at least.
Luckily we live in a city where there are a lot of options for schooling. Language immersion, arts-infused, Waldorf, Montessori and private schools that charge gazillions of dollars each year. So G can hang out with kids driving mini-Lexus’ and wearing mini-Rolexes on their tiny wrists; who probably bring catered lunches to school in gold plated lunch boxes.
One of the ‘cheaper’ educational possibilities nearby is a Spanish immersion school, which sounds like a nice option. Since Spanish is, after all, spoken by a few (million) more people than French. Of course there are also French immersion schools aplenty, but I can’t justify sending G to school to learn the language… just so he can read the bilingual labels in the grocery store. He could just turn to the English side.
I asked the little man where he might like to go to ‘big school’ and the conversation sparked huge interest on his part. Now, when we drive in the car, he pipes up from the back seat about ‘how [he] wants to go to big school’ and ‘when can [he] go to big school,’ and ‘[he]’s going to ride his bike to big school…and take the bus.’
Now my oldest son, for all his ’smartitude’ as Mallory quipped in an episode of Family Ties, has shown little interest in acquiring some of the skills he seemingly requires to go to school. For instance, he can’t – and doesn’t seem to want to – ride a bike. His interest in the particular method of transport was so marginal we didn’t even bother bringing his bike to Calgary. So there is much work to be done in this area. If one could get to school by naming different kinds of excavators, or making two-dimensional models of the Big Dipper….he’d be set.
He’s also shown little interest in dressing himself. Something his pediatrician never failed to bring up during his annual well check. ‘Is he dressing himself?’ Well, no, not really. ‘Well, he should. And he should want to.’ But he doesn’t and it’s so much faster if I do it. And I’d leave the office ‘promising’ to ‘work’ with him on dressing himself.
But a few weeks ago, as I observed a girl – nearly a year younger than he – remove her own shoes, coat, hat and gloves with great skill and carefully stow them in the appropriate place…..I realized it was, perhaps, time I forced the issue a bit.
I had leverage, after all.
‘You know….you can’t go to big school if you don’t dress yourself,’ I casually mentioned one morning.
And, that was it. That was all the incentive he needed to start picking out his own clothes and dressing himself. And unveil a style that is….out of this world. (Photos on the flickr feed since our computer has died and I no longer have access to Photoshop.) I managed to capture his first unusual outfit on camera: grey cords with dark grey stripes, a red and navy striped rugby shirt with white collar, and a blue argyle sweater vest over it. His dad, a crazy dresser wannabe, swelled with pride. I didn’t quite know what to say when I saw him, mostly because I couldn’t decide if the outfit was ‘cool’ or just ‘off’.
Another day yielded a royal blue long-sleeved polo shirt with a red and grey striped t shirt over it. Which was clearly cool. Today’s combination was a greyish shirt, with a bright green shirt over it, paired with brown cords. As he pulled the last shirt over his head, he said: ‘I need to go downstairs to show my outfit to dad….because I look cute.’
Kindred spirits, those two.
I decided I needed to kick my own outfit up a notch. So I put a black and white striped t shirt underneath a muted orange sweater. Which, in the end, was probably more ‘Halloween’ than ‘cool’. I’ll keep watching and learning from the master.
It’s my little/only sister’s birthday today which is always a great opportunity for her to remind me that I am older (and much grayer) than she. Though only by eighteen months.
As I watch my boys interact with each other, I inevitably think back to when she and I were younger and equally ’spirited’. The similarities are uncanny….though my boys are blonde and we were always brunette.
She bit me often – to exact revenge or get something she wanted. The Hen has also decided his jaws speak much louder than words. If big brother, really anyone, is out of line in any way, he opens up and clamps down – a man of few words.
G and I apparently share the same childhood haircut if this picture is any indication. (A boy in a blue and white dress -thanks mom!) And the Hen and my sister (at that age) have the same apple cheeks and uncooperative hair.
I laughed as I watched my boys sitting in the kitchen today; taking turns squawking at each other and slapping one another’s hands in a wordless game of pat-a-cake.
Which is what having a sibling is all about, I suppose: someone to do nothing with. A person who bears (eye)witness to the ridiculousness that is, or was, your parents. Someone who will forever remember your clown perms in high school; when you taped up your nose to look like a pig; your unabashed love of Whitney Houston and your top secret love of Barbra Streisand’s Yentl soundtrack.
Happy Birthday Nilla!
You are the wind beneath my wings.
The driveway leading from the main road to G’s preschool is paved without any good intentions. It has a pretty steep slope, probably about 45 degrees, and is mostly hidden from the sun. Which means snow and ice take an especially long time to melt.
The rumblings started in early November. The other moms would talk about how hard it was to drive up the hill when it was snowy or icy. I hadn’t yet had any problems, so I smugly thought either my little station wagon was alright….or I was an especially adept driver. I watched some of their cars strain and struggle to make it up the hilly drive while mine zipped right along.
But one day Jason came home after doing pick-up duty and reported the same difficulty. Which made me wonder if I’d declared victory over the hill a little too soon.
And last week confirmed I had. Mysterious weather patterns dumped many inches of snow on Calgary’s streets. And it appears Calgary doesn’t have quite the same level of snow plowing/removal as another cold, northern city – Minneapolis. Which means my car spun and sputtered just to make it TO school. And when I saw the hill below, I decided not to chance it. I just parked my car on the side of the main road and walked down the hill to the school.
But on Friday I had to assemble those pesky graham cracker houses. And I hadn’t worn my snowboots. So I had no choice but to park at the bottom of the driveway.
Two hours later, it was time to go home. And I was openly nervous about the car’s (my) ability to ascend the hill successfully. The moms doled out tips: start as far back as possible, gun it, and go wide. When I mentioned that I had actually tried all of those tactics on Wednesday with dubious success, one mom suggested I switch to a lower gear. (Which raises the question.. what ARE all those other gears for….4, 3, 2, L? The only time I’ve ever used N is at the car wash. Otherwise I’m pretty much a P, R and D girl.)
One of the dads suggested I take the alley out to another main street. But a mom cautioned that if there was anything blocking my exit I’d have to reverse all the way back to the preschool. The dad kindly volunteered to drive through the alley and see if it was clear.
With a nervous belly, I headed to the car with G. I spent a few minutes scraping off the layer of snow that had settled over the course of two hours. And then prepared myself for the ‘drive of my life.’ The kind dad reappeared to tell me that all was clear in the alley, should I wish to go that way instead. After thinking about it for a second I decided to stick with that I knew – the treacherous hill.
Before I could reverse my car to the most auspicious starting point, another dad started ‘the climb.’ He’d never done pick up duty before, judging from his unfamiliarity with ‘the driveway of death.’ I chuckled quietly when he briskly reversed his Honda Odyssey from its parking spot – halfway up the hill – and pressed down on the gas. As though his car was actually going to move.
Silly man – he had no idea.
I watched as the van lurched forward and dug in its wheels, refusing to budge despite all manner of turning and twisting. Perplexed, newbie-dad reversed a few feet and started again. He really didn’t know. The gargled sound of the tires spinning in the snow was too much. I jumped out of the car and ran to his window.
I imparted the myth of the hill to him: ‘you need to start all the way from the back, gun it and go wide.’
Perhaps he was embarassed that someone had witnessed his clumsy attempts, for he gave me barely discernible nod. Then he reversed as far back as he could go for attempt number three, which worked. Though none too easily.
I was up next, feeling like an Olympian who needed to earn a 10 to win the gold.
I reversed. Switched to 4 instead of D. I watched as one mom stood on the side of the parking lot, giving me a nervous thumbs up, willing me to make it. I pressed down on the gas, and aimed wide. It should be mentioned that I really couldn’t see out of the windshield because one of the wipers is pretty crappy and actually diminishes visibility. As I was halfway up the hill; the car making furious sounds, and the tires seemingly unable to follow a linear path, I started worrying instead that I’d crash the car into the fences on either side.
But I made it.
I’ll be parking at the top of the hill today.
Santa Claus really did come to my chimney this year.
It all started with that blasted matriushka penguin, again. While doing some clean-up last week, the top half of the penguin accidentally fell off my pile-of-stuff-to-put-away and tumbled into the abyss that is the (faux?) gas fireplace. I heard the tinny sound as it hit the metal surround, and then it was gone.
Crap.
I did not dig through leaves and dirt only to lose that penguin in my own home.
So today while we were doing ‘Johnson family clean-up’ I asked J to see if he could find the penguin. My cursory investigation beneath the fireplace hadn’t yielded anything other than a desiccated carrot, a Winnie the Pooh band-aid and countless cheerios and dust bunnies.
[Side note: 'someone' had also stuck the tiny tree that fits inside said penguin in a house ornament. I asked Mr Magic to see if he could retrieve it, before we forgot about it and had a nightmarish tantrum on our hands in December 2009.]
He stuck his arm in the narrow gap between the surround and the wall, blindly trying to find a penguin. Nothing turned up. Eventually he felt something like a CD cover and pulled it out. A Monster’s Inc DVD appeared. It’s not a movie we own, so it must have been left by the last family who lived here.
He kept reaching for the penguin, but found something else. A Chicken Little DVD. Also not ours. His third attempt yielded 3 Franklin DVDs, 1 Thomas DVD and a Dora the Explorer DVD. The cheapskate in me rejoiced. Two movies and five kids’ shows all for the price of sticking one’s arm behind the fireplace?
After cleaning off the grimy disks, I played Monsters’ Inc on my laptop. Which G begged to see, despite having to cover his eyes for the opening scene.
J walked in with the matriushka and handed it to me. ‘Did you find it?’ I asked. He shrugged and motioned for me to open it.
After removing the first two snowmen, the blasted (magical) penguin appeared, with a teeny tiny tree nestled inside.
Which I immediately hid high on the mantle, so no one can (hopefully) reach it.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me…..twelve gingerbread houses, eleven fairtrade beads, ten minutes walking, nine minutes sledding, eight pieces pizza, seven inches snow, six chocolatechip cookies, five hours alone, four people dressed, three frozen fruit treats, two burning snowmen and a queasy feeling in my tummy….
I’m not the type of mom to go volunteer at my kid’s school, or organize a fundraiser – you know, ‘get involved.’ It must be a combination of laziness and disinterest. And having a one year old companion who does not believe in staying in one place for more than a minute. So I often feel like a complete slacker when I see other mothers emerge from the preschool room, having spent two hours helping all the kids color, or decorate the craft du jour. (Note to preschools everywhere….less glitter and less gluing objects on other objects; more painting and drawing. And perhaps leave the painted projects at school until next time because they’re never dry when we take them home. I’ve got paint on my dashboard, pants, and back seat to prove it.)
So I decided to be a better citizen and volunteered to assemble the gingerbread houses which the kids will decorate next week. Really, they are graham cracker houses, but that doesn’t sound seasonally appropriate.
I arrived at the school and joined the other volunteer mom. She was mixing the ‘icing’ when I got there, while talking on her cell phone. Suddenly the mixer started spinning out of control and she had to pull the plug out of the wall. Globs of thick white stuff all over the countertop. A near disaster.
We spent the better part of thirty minutes trying to get the icing to the right consistency. We’d started with something the consistency of loose playdough, decided it was too stiff and started diluting it until we ended up with white water. And then worked our way back, adding powdered sugar bit by bit, to exactly where we started: icing the consistency of playdough. Talk about a waste of time.
If there’s a way to put six squares of graham crackers together without (1) thick globs of icing oozing out all over the cookie surfaces; (2) getting icing all over one’s hands; (3) producing houses that look like they were made by three year olds, then I’m not aware of it.
Uniformity is next to impossible.
Each roof had a vastly different slope, some walls caved in while others bowed out and icing appeared in places it should not. Part of me was a little embarassed to hand the houses over to the preschool teacher. And part of me thought who cares.
They’ll look even worse when the little people are done with them.
