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is it actually even possible for me to leave on a trip without an “I should be packing but…. i’m not” post…?

I think not.

I’m supposed to be leaving the house in…less than forty minutes. I’m heading to the Wedding City.

I have a pile of most of my stuff next to a suitcase. CLOSE ENOUGH. that’s PRACTICALLY the very same thing as being packed.

But i’m in a bathrobe and my hair is half wet and in a messy bun and no makeup and i’ve spent the last ten minutes trying on a bikini  - not that there will be swimwear this weekend, i’m just wasting time i do not have – and talking to dogs and thinking that i’d rather talk to y’all for juuuuust a minute. and so here i am.

the bikini was a jcrew dirt cheap clearance thingy that just came in the mail yesterday. red and white little flowers soooo cute and soooo doesn’t fit because it’s way bigger than it should be, and all dirt cheap sales are final and nonreturnable.

but that’s okay.  I haven’t taken it off yet because I keep hoping it’ll somehow start fitting. that’s fairly pathetic, but these flowers…? oh! so! cute!!

I should just go pack, but instead lemme tell you about how a few weeks ago i was at a hip hop class (even though i can’t even clap on-beat it is STILL a great workout that doesn’t require holding weights which is real important right now) and a girl next to me told me “it’s like yo booty don’t hear the music.”

I mighta bumped into her a time or two. by accident. clearly.

I thought that was a FANTASTIC description. “It’s TRUE! It’s EXACTLY LIKE THAT! MY BOOTY DOES NOT HEAR THE MUSIC!!!”

And she told me that my booty could just watch her booty because she could hear just fine.

that was an interesting suggestion.

Turns out, my booty cannot hear OR see.

That’s what I learned there. Still a great workout. All that matters.

Off to a wedding!

If you have three little boys, it is not advisable to take them to a sandwich place with varying sizes of sandwiches. Unless, of course, it doesn’t bother you at all to hear very serious discussions of “length.” Size matters, and all that. And this doesn’t bother me, so much, as it makes me want to hide my face and just die laughing because they are so earnest about it and I can’t possibly explain why I’m laughing.

“Mine is seven inches!”

“I got the ten and a half inch one so I could save some for later. That is SO LONG.”

“Mine’s bigger.”

“Mine’s longer.”

“I think mine is better because it’s THIS long and yours is THAT long.”

I stare at a speck on the wall and silently say the alphabet until the need to laugh passes. And if that doesn’t work, I pull up my shirt over my mouth and tuck my chin to my chest and just hide like a turtle. And no one notices anyway, so that works.

The boys went back to school today for the first time since before Christmas break. They were more than ready. Well, Seth-6yr was excited about the concept but not the ‘getting out of bed’ part. General refusal to get dressed. With hugs and charm. As if that helps.

I counter with the “get dressed or I will put you in the car naked and take you to school that way, even though I love you, but you do not have the power to make your brothers late for school” speech. And threatening the common nightmare scenario of at-school nudity works every time and the child loses the charm and tosses some clothes on.

Yesterday at church, I had the three years olds. And then after that, I moved next door to the Toddlers. The three year old girls were VERY interested in where my daddy was. Why he wasn’t at church with me. And why he wasn’t right there in that classroom with them where they could talk to him and see what color pants he was wearing.  (don’t you just love three year old girls? Oh my gosh. They’re so funny.) They drew pictures for my daddy. And they wanted to know his name. And generally got off on a strange tangent about knowing all things about him.  So I told them he is afraid of spiders, he’s very smart, and he had a dead bat in his workshop that he thought was lucky but then he lost it and he has really long toes that are a lot like worms. (well, he does.)  One little girl did NOT believe any of this and thought I had to be making it all up. And i can understand that. But it’s all true, of course.

I got blue playdough in my hair and baby snot on my sweater (not that I really mind these things) and one little blond headed boy screamed and clung to my neck and just thoroughly lost it when his dad dropped him off with me… and even though I was so glad to be there with these little ones, I kept thinking about today. When there would be quiet in this house.

And that is now.

This moment.

It’s beautiful.

There are two dogs asleep on the floor next to me, one brown, one black. My closet is not a disaster area because I finally did something about it. The air outside is cold, the air inside is warm and I’m very aware of the peacefulness around me… and within me and I couldn’t be more grateful. I know its origin. Where it comes from, Who it comes from.

Right now, little else matters.

For the parents googling Total Transformation: oops. that whole link over there that says ‘contact me’ is broken. you’re right. my apologies. i’d fix it if I could, but I can’t. so. you can still contact me. the email address is the first and last name above up there on the right that both start with the letter K, but all lower case and no spaces and then you add the little ‘at’ circle then ‘gmail’ and then the little dot and then the com and there ya go. perfectly confidential, and you don’t know me well enough to know that i’ll never tell anyone who you are or what you said about your kid or that i’d never cut and paste it into a tacky blog post, so i’ll just tell you and hope you believe me: i’d never do that.

LaLa, my sister, is getting married in… less than 2 weeks.

I know almost nothing about weddings. However. I suspected it wasn’t a new wedding trend coming into play when LaLa mentioned that she’d be sending me her Wedding Guide and Strategy document. I laughed. But it was a nervous, squeaky laugh and there was fear in my heart.

It arrived yesterday. An 11 page document complete with diagrams, maps, and photographs that will be needed in order to assist in pulling off this wedding and reception in the manner she envisions. The Wedding Guide and Strategy Document was emailed to nine individuals. Page 1 is a to-do list that includes the item “Take Kelsey to the Bra Store.”

Believe it or not, I’m a terribly private person and was thoroughly mortified. LaLa was instantly apologetic that this made the list. (also? I DON’T WANT TO GO. It sounds expensive and touchy-feely, and I’m neither of those.)

It was a Distracted Bride Minor Thingy. Ha ha, no big deal LaLa.  Today, our father hit ‘reply all’ and wrote “DOES KELSEY NEED A REMINDER TO GO TO THE PANTY FACTORY, TOO?”

Ohmygosh.

Then more emails, in which he jokingly threatened to be ‘commando.’ And follow ups from my stepmom assuring us otherwise.

So after reading page 1, I didn’t really read the rest yesterday. I decided waiting a few hours would be perfectly harmless. But Mike was curious. So he insisted on reading the whole Wedding Strategy and Guide document out loud to me last night, even though I asked him repeatedly not to do that.

The wonderful thing about this is LaLa has funneled a great deal of her bridal energy into words. And I can deal with words. She’s thought of everything and diagrammed it all, so it’s not like I need to be the matron of honor type who has to think of all the details that have fallen between the cracks. There are no cracks. This is an airtight operation.  Nine people received the document, but I think closer to… 20 individuals had assigned duties spelled out in color-coded text. It’s a team effort, led by a really wordy but highly competent bride-captain.

When it’s all over, she’ll be married to a really wonderful person who is quite perfect for her.

And I’ll have a few new papercuts from frantically consulting my Guide, but hey, small price to pay.

(my early congratulations, LaLa!)

I got out of bed on Sunday, stretched, and crashed hard to the carpet. I do that if I get up too quickly. It’s ridiculously Victorian of me. The ‘vapors’, i think they called it. But I wanted to go to church, so I tried to overpower it by popping up while I still couldn’t see anything and I smashed the back of my head and shoulder on some really hard scrape-y part of the bedframe. (there’s nothing really wrong with me. it’s a genetic weirdness. my father does it too, although he’ll deny it if asked. much of my genetic weirdness originates with him. although, in all fairness, not all.)

Mike scooped me up and put me back in bed and I started laughing about how it was the worst possible start to the new year. And… it pretty much was. He brought me breakfast I didn’t want and started planning his day.

He wanted an iPad.

This was news to me. If I had known that, I would have found Christmas shopping for him MUCH easier. I asked him to bring me back a skinny peppermint mocha.

He did not return with an iPad. And the peppermint mocha was forgotten, too, but he was on a retail therapy high that obliterated all other thought. Somehow, he’d found and purchased a leather couch, loveseat, giant chair and ottoman, and found ANOTHER couch, loveseat, super oversized ottoman thing-y he wanted me to see as well.

I didn’t want to see it. I don’t really care about too many pieces of brown furniture. I just don’t, under ANY circumstances, want to enter a furniture store with my three sons. Maybe in twenty years. But I doubt it.

I went and saw it and shrugged and said, “yes. fine. and let’s get these three boys OUT OF HERE, I want a veggie bowl with brown rice and extra lettuce from Chipotle.”

Mike asked if I wanted to see all the other options.

UH, NO.

NO I REALLY DO NOT. IF THERE ARE OTHER OPTIONS, I DO NOT NEED TO SEE THEM OR PROLONG THIS EXPERIENCE IN ANY WAY. IT’S JUST A GLORIFIED PLACE TO SIT.

And Chipotle was closed.

I saw a chair I liked (online, NOT in a furniture store) a few months ago. I told Mike as long as he was on a massive retail therapy furniture buying spree, then I’d like the chair with the exceptionally loud and bright red botanical print. Even if it’s also just a glorified place to sit.

So we’re working on that. It turned out to be much harder to find and buy my Loud Red Chair than for Mike to buy all the available brown furniture in West Texas. He found an entertainment center last night online and bought it ON HIS PHONE as I fell asleep.

He should really stop now.

Our furniture has been falling apart for some time now. Mike has talked about replacing it for some time now. And for some time now… I’ve shrugged and said, “eh. whatever. it’s not that bad, and I don’t care, and pleeeeeease don’t make me go in a furniture store.”

But last week Caden-7yr did something strange and ended up with an ankle stuck in the broken metal framework of the current, falling apart loveseat. He couldn’t get free. His brothers thought he was just being Caden-7yr. I thought he was just being dramatic. Because he SO DOES THAT.

But he was most definitely stuck in the broken part and I had to forget my policy of pretty much not using my still messed up left hand and Incredible Hulk the metal bars away from him with one hand and reach underneath and smash his foot upward with the other hand in order to free him.  And now my hand is really screwed up again. And his ankle is really bruised.

And Seth-6yr smashed his face into a piece of furniture so hard we thought he broke his face the other day. But he probably didn’t. He has big, squishy baby cheeks still, thank goodness.

And somewhere in there a decision was made that the child-eating furniture, finally, had to go.

By ‘a decision was made’ I don’t made there was an actual conversation. I just mean it became abundantly clear that it was time and a man left the house with a stated need for an iPad and a request for a peppermint mocha and instead returned with armfuls of furniture receipts and estimated delivery dates.

That’s just how we do things around here. For now.

For now, the boys are off school and they’re playing a fishing game on Wii and they’re all wearing just a pair of inside out underwear.

I commented on this oddity, and they looked at me as if I was really being ridiculous to have even noticed. The living room is cold, so they are using my (really wonderful Christmas present) space heater.

Because that makes more sense when you’re fishing than wearing clothes, I suppose.

I was up all night writing scenes in my head that will never be read about real people rather than fictitious ones. It’s so hard to stop that once I start. And now I’m exhausted. With three almost naked boys off school and adorably screeching about the size of a catfish.

It’s 1030 a.m., but I need a nap.

No, of course that title doesn’t make sense. And it probably won’t when you’re finished reading this. But let’s try anyway, and maybe my mother or LaLa will chime in and remember the stuff I’ve forgotten that might clarify the concept.

I do not observe New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. No resolutions, no black eyed peas.  The one exception to this non-observance… i was around 11 and my mother orchestrated a bizarrely creative celebration for my sister, the two daughters of our mother’s best friend, and myself. My mother was a travel agent and so it might not have seemed bizarrely creative to HER. But… we were allowed to stay up until 10 pm on New Year’s Eve and pretend as if we were on a cruise ship… somewhere… that detail is fuzzy… and also there was some reference to our imagined proximity to the International Date Line and we had a long discussion between my mother and four giddy, nightgowned girls under the age of 14 about Greenwich Mean Time and the correct spelling and pronunciation thereof, WOW, WE WERE DORKS. The entire imagined cruise ship scenario was thought up purely to help along the idea of not actually staying up until midnight.

Imaginary cruises aside, there was nothing nautical about our celebration. Actually, the only festive thing to our celebration was the VERY rare treat of ginger ale in clear plastic cups that read “happy new year’s!” in blue letters surrounded by pink and yellow confetti. The extra cups hung around our kitchen for years. The four girls were allowed to toast one another with ginger ale at 10 pm and then we were supposed to fall asleep and DEFINITELY not stay up until midnight, as my mother tended toward early bedtimes herself, particularly in the winter. But of COURSE we stayed awake. I slept on the floor outside my sister’s bedroom, first staring at the orange-y glow of her childhood clock  and waiting for it to be 12, and then falling asleep almost immediately after, only to awake because of  an awareness of the uncomfortable imprint of grayish berber carpet on my cheek whenever I slipped away from my pillow.

I think this is a fantastically odd and wonderful glimpse of my childhood and it cracks me up to remember it every year.  Actually, i don’t really remember it. As is evidenced above. But that’s because whenever people go on and on about imaginary cruises or international date lines or greenwich mean time, i tune out and then cannot retain the information in order to accurately report it 20+ years later.

I do not apologize for that. I think it’s a sound policy.

I have no idea why mom didn’t just say, ‘hush, girls, i’m going to bed.’ but i’m glad she didn’t.

Happy New Year’s, however YOU choose to observe the day, and please remember your life jackets.

From Geekwif, about the possible shoe needs to be a successful Christmas Fairy:

“Were you wearing boots? Because fairies wear boots. You gotta believe me.”

How utterly intriguing, this little comment!! (please tell us more, GW!)

And the answer is… Yes. And no. And sorta, I WAS and I also was NOT wearing boots, and that might completely confirm the boot needs of a Christmas Fairy all on its own because I was and was not successful and it’s blurry to me if that was in direct correlation to my booted/bootless state.

I was wearing my favorite boots when I became The Christmas Fairy.

It happened in a therapy session.

Are we surprised? Oh no. Like EVERYTHING good that goes on in my head these days often has its beginning in a therapy session. She’s good, this lovely therapist lady. And thanks to Life In General, I’ve had LOTS of interactions with various therapy types and this is the only time I’ve ever repeatedly called anyone a  Lovely Therapist Lady or anything like that.  Thanks to my Life in General, there has been a LOT of therapy with various people, mostly assigned to us through programs and we couldn’t pick them OR their spiritual beliefs and sometimes there was definite conflict.

Although at one point, I was oddly fond of a Weird Therapist Type from New Mexico who, IN TOTAL SERIOUSNESS, had Mike look into my eyes and tell me that he loved me even though I was “OBVIOUSLY HIGH MAINTENANCE.”

Mike smiled and obeyed her request.

I looked back into his eyes with wide eyed wonder that I had just been thoroughly unfairly called out and criticized in the middle of what was supposed to be a loving and affirming load of garbage exercise. I was trying HARD not to laugh in Mike’s face as he ‘affirmed his love’ for me, Train Wreck of a High Maintenance Woman that I supposedly was. In my defense, I was a bit unhappy because someone was trying to kill me. BUT EXCUSE ME,  I THINK THAT’S DIFFERENT.  And?? Weird Therapist Type?!  I am NOT high maintenance. I’m a woman from Texas, and that is ALSO DIFFERENT. There are high maintenance Texan women, of course. A lot of them, to be honest. But I am not one of them. I am like the lowest of the low maintenance women, and the cute shoes and mascara and my interest in staying alive to mother my children totally  fooled her. She was not a Texan. She clearly did not understand me at all and my wearing of lip gloss too easily confounded her.

So this post was supposed to be about something else. And it will be. We’ll get back to boots and fairies. BUT. It’s a few years too late for getting annoyed, but WHATEVER it just happened, so let’s go with it.

WEIRD THERAPIST TYPE from New Mexico:

I am NOT high maintenance. I wasn’t then, and I am not now. I was just too polite to say so at the time, which TOTALLY KINDA PROVES MY POINT EVEN MORE. Ha! But I’m not that polite now.

Proof I am not high maintenance:

no hair styling products of ANY kind even though i AM  from Texas and am thus entitled to a LOT of them;

no manicures, massages, hair coloring sessions, etc.;

I do get pedicures now, but not often at all because they tickle and I scream and the pedicure people haaaate me I’m so bad at them;

seriously not ENOUGH haircuts, mainly because I can’t be bothered;

i don’t really like to shop and i can be very cheap;

i do not go on and on about feelings and drama and emotions to anyone except the internet;

i don’t expect other people to take on any of my emotional ‘stuff’;

i hate to inconvenience people and i look out for myself – it’s no one else’s job, ever.

BOOTS AND FAIRIES. Getting back to them now.

I was wearing my favorite boots to a counseling appointment. It was December 21, 2011. I remember the date because when I morphed into a fairy,   I realized how much fairy-ing I had to cram into 4 days, and it was a bit overwhelming. So of course I prayed while driving STRAIGHT to Target, because, well, obviously. I only had 15 minutes before I needed to be at a Christmas party for Ethan-11yr and I had Fairy Supplies to first conceive, then purchase.

But back to the Moment of Transition. The human grinch to yuletide fairy transition. It was INSTANT. There wasn’t a poof of smoke or anything. But it was so dramatic that no poof of smoke was needed. 

The Lovely Therapist Lady said, “So who is the engaged, emotionally present parent who creates all the Christmas magic for the boys?”

I thought of Mike, who was in Albuquerque that day and therefore not eligible for consideration. Even if he were… I don’t know if either of us was actually ready to say that we were reaching the parental success in her description.  The only thing that mattered was MY answer for ME would have to be clearly I’m not doing any of that Christmas Magic Crap for anyone. And… how sad. I must have had a deer in headlights, frozen face  going on as she continued, “They need that. They can’t create all of that for themselves.”

POOF!

And… a fairy in boots was born.

We talked about all the options for what that could look like. And the options are endless. And fun, and meaningful, and spiritual, and silly, and absolutely endless. I thought of y’all. And ALL the wonderful things you do and say and share about your families and friends and food at Christmastime. I remembered things you’ve said HERE, but also things you’ve blogged about this year and even in past years. Y’all are already Christmas fairies. I just never wanted to be like you in that particular way until right at that moment.

I left, in my boots, and went to Target, praying the whole way there about Christmas Fairies for Dummies, God-style, and then I bought all the junky cereals I hate and never ever buy and then I went to a Christmas party and smiled. I SMILED. A LOT. And the smiles were genuine.

(Creepy, right?)

Then I took the boys over to my mom’s and we went out for fish tacos and I took the Sweet Christmas Fairy thing too far and let the boys have Dr. Pepper and OH MY GOSH, don’t do that, ever. Caden-7yr was highly amused by a small blob of guacamole on his nose that looked just… like…. a …. yeah, you get it. He insisted it stay there. They were hyper and caffeinated and I was oddly patient and amused mostly, but still smart enough to regret the Dr. Pepper decision.

Then I took the boys home and sat them down. I said we were having a meeting. Caden-7yr complained about the number of family meetings I call. “WHO KNEW THAT BEING IN A FAMILY MEANT ALL THESE MEETINGS? IT”S TOO MUCH, MOM.”  He had wiped his nose by this point. Seth-6yr panicked. “WHO IS RUNNING THIS MEETING ANYWAY? OH! MY! GOSH! AM I RUNNING THIS MEETING?! AM I?”

“uh… no. Seth-6yr. Do you even know what this meeting is about?”

“NO! THAT’S WHY I NEED TO KNOW IF I’M RUNNING IT!”

Never AGAIN, Dr. Pepper.

I apologized to them about my past attitude and actions about Christmas. I asked them to forgive me and was about to start talking to them about what I wanted to do NEXT that would be different, when I realized that all 3 of them were hiding their faces. They were covering their mouths with blankets or hands. Three little HORRIFIED faces. It was as if I’d just told them I’d been taking on part time shifts for Satan himself.

it had not ONCE occurred to me that they had never noticed that their mother is the grinch.

And… oops.

I rushed on to describe my transformation. I told them I wanted to make a list of things that we could do together that would be fun or meaningful or spiritually relevant or silly or whatever.

Caden-7yr suggested we dine at Dairy Queen.

So I explained a little more, since I wasn’t making myself clear. I told them about all the nasty cereal I’d bought and explained that I hoped they would make edible garlands for the tree with me while we watched Christmas movies. And then we did that. And it was WONDERFUL. (except Trix smell REVOLTING. And I let them use gummy worms, too, and so they’re pretty gross looking.)

We made Star Wars snowflakes, Chex mix (who KNEW it took so long?!), and I had the kids act out the parts of the animals that were possibly present at Jesus’ birth while I read the Christmas story to them by the tree. We watched Christmas movies and made peppermint brownies (that got delegated to Mike as I was at Mom’s chopping veggies) and had a great time with visiting relatives and generally had a much more Christmas-y Christmas than ever. For us.

That was how most of my first few fairy days went. And then there was the multiple hour long disagreement in the bathroom incident on Christmas Eve which was distinctly UNChristmas-y but highly necessary. And then someone had broken into my truck and stolen stuff while it was parked in the driveway. And then there was the giant, GIANT dead rat in the driveway. And there were lesser disagreements. And greater ones. And stuff that made it just really difficult to get my fairy on. And sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t.  I don’t think I was wearing cute boots during any of the incidences listed above. Hmm.

But I see the whole season in a brand new way. And that hasn’t changed, even with the theft and the rat and everything else. And THAT will be there next year, long before December 21.

Because those three boys need it. And so do I.

I can do this.

“Please stop hypnotizing the dog. It’s upsetting your brother. He thinks she’s going to do embarrassing things if you succeed, so could you please just stop?”

Filed under “Things you don’t think you’ll ever say, and then you DO, and then it seems perfectly reasonable and so you wonder why you never thought you’d have to say it in the first place.”*

Also. I don’t know what sorts of embarrassing things the dog might be feared to do. To my credit, I did not ask.

I’m working on the “How I Became a Christmas Fairy” post. I’ll get that going later. Spoiler alert: I started strong and wilted by Christmas Eve due to a long, uh, disagreement between the Mr. Fairy and I.

I did NOT mean that how it sounded. The Mr. is not a fairy and any implication otherwise will lead to a SERIOUSLY big, uh, disagreement that will make the Christmas Eve Disagreement look minor in comparison. He’s no fairy. Unfortunately, I wasn’t much of one either. I probably didn’t have the right shoes. But i will blog it anyway.

*I’ve never been very good at filing.

Y’all are the kindest, most wonderful people. And I’d LOVE to tell you in detail exactly how you contributed to a Wildly Unexpected Christmas Epiphany that has transformed me from the Grinch to the Christmas Fairy (and YALL. THAT TOTALLY HAPPENED, I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING.)

BUT!  i had the unfortunate ill timing of morphing into a Christmas Fairy on Dec 21, and I’ve been BUSY because I am waaaaay behind. Yesterday I spent hours stringing cereal and candy into edible garlands for the Christmas tree while watching the Polar Express with the kids. (have y’all seen that movie? I find it VERY weird) And then today there is a marathon of Christmas-y festivities planned.

THANK YOU.

I look forward to telling you what happened. In the meantime, Merry Christmas. You’re so, so  precious to me.

*I know I’m new to this gig, but doesn’t it make sense that Christmas Fairies should totally be exempt from all symptoms possibly related to PMS? I really think that needs to be part of the deal.

*** Ooooh Y’ALL. I am SORRY. But this is the post in which my good intentions fail and you witness my pre-Christmas anxiety unfold in real time. Feel no obligation to read further.

I just tucked Seth-6yr in for a nap, leaning over and whispering that I love him and reminding him that God has amazing and wonderful things planned especially for him.

“Yeah, I know that,” he said.

“So… what do you think some of those things might be?” I asked. I like to ask the boys specifically what they think God has going on in their lives right now, and also in the future. (And then I bite my tongue when they tell me something that I really hope God does not have planned for my little guys.)

But Seth-6yr was not having it today.

“MOM. I need my nap. I have basketball practice later. We can talk after I wake up. GoodNIGHT.” He yawned, just in case I needed more of a hint.

And… Okaaay.

When the boys are older, they will not look back on these years and remember my amazing cooking and reminisce about their favorite ‘mom’ recipes. But I hope they’ll remember those moments and conversations and prayers. Those are such precious, sweet times. I wonder if they’ll remember.

I wonder if they’ll remember that I’m always up for an impromptu adventure. We’ll go chase dirt devils. Or u-turn for unique, inflatable Yeti Christmas yard art. Or for the unfortunate “Santa holding a baby Jesus” yard art in my mother’s otherwise nice neighborhood. Or to go chase tumbleweeds.

The other day Ethan-11yr wanted to go on a driving tour past all the local businesses that force their employees to dress up in weird costumes and stand on the sidewalk to advertise. So we started with waving at the giant hot dog guy at Wienerschnitzel and then going past the car wash with the pink gorilla. There’s not a lot to do in this town. Chasing dirt devils or tumbleweeds and waving at the hot dog guy counts as entertainment for the under-11 crowd.

Or maybe they’ll remember all the times I got us lost. It’s not a big town, but I’m always getting turned around. (yesterday I sent a text to a friend saying, ‘i’m late. i got lust.’  And THAT was fun. She knew what i meant. She’s driven with me.)  Or maybe they’ll remember that I completely forgot to show up at a Christmas party. (yesterday. seth-6yr’s. ugh.)    Or that I’ll put up the tree and tolerate the Christmas music for that one day only, and that really if you look closely, you can totally tell how much I can’t stand it.

And I hope they don’t look back and remember that stuff. But they probably will. My mother is often amazed at how I an quote something she said from more than 25 years prior, verbatim, when she didn’t think i was even listening and we’ve never discussed it in the interim. I inherited my dad’s highly accurate ‘playback’ feature.

The other night Mom was over and Seth-6yr got out of bed for the umpteenth time and said he needed a tissue. The child did NOT need a tissue. I’d given in to various requests already, and it was time to say ‘nooooo and don’t get out of bed again.’ But instead I told him to come closer and i inspected his nose VERY closely and declared that there was no tissue-requiring issue on either side and all was clear. He giggled and went back to bed.

Mom pointed out that years later he might remember that I was the tissue police and did a nostril check instead of letting him have a tissue.

And he probably will. He’ll probably remember that I’m the nostril-checking, grinch-y mom who hates Christmas and who can’t cook or drive directly from point a to point b or remember what day his Christmas party is. And all of that’s true.

I just hope he remembers the good stuff, too.

I just hope there’s more good than bad. Maybe there isn’t. And maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I already had one kid out of four  and I did everything I could think of to do RIGHT for her, and it didn’t matter AT ALL and it all went so terribly wrong anyway and certainly there’s no happy mom memories for THAT kid. And there’s three more. And maybe I’m kidding myself that they’ll have a different version of the story. And I know I wasn’t supposed to blog through all my Christmas style anxiety, but you know? I”M SORRY. That’s kinda what I do. I’m panicking. I think it’s the stockings and the tree.

Mike usually does the silver bead garlands on the tree and i did it this year and they don’t reach all the way to the top because I ran out and then was all WHATEVER, IT’S FINE instead of rearranging them so they look right and now the tree is particularly well stamped with my personal brand of apathy and it’s right there in front of me looking all… bottom heavy.

This is ridiculous. I have one kid happily reading in his room. Two kids napping who are shhhh, don’t tell them, but technically too old to need naps, and three animals asleep in front of the fire under the stockings and next to the Christmas tree and I am blogging and crying over…? I don’t know. What 3 of my 4 kids MIGHT think of me one day 25 years from now. Sounds like a control issue.

OH MY GOSH, pass the egg nog and spike it with something first please.

I need a tissue. (There is NO doubt this time.)