A Break

My mom is visiting us for the next several days, so I'm taking a break from Ye Olde Blog.

If I have time, I may post some pictures while she's here. But more than likely, I won't be back until mid January.

Enjoy some family time of your own while I do the same.

Be safe on New Year's Eve!

Merry Christmas!

The above comes courtesy of Lori at all You have to give. She does some very neat things with Photoshop (I think that's what she's using).

I like all the references in this one, so I borrowed it.

Something's up with my computer, though, and technical support (aka Bruce) is not home. So go surfing if you want to see Lori's site.

It's a Wonder-full Life

Our church's kids' Christmas program was last night. They did this play.



I love the kids' programs. Maybe because I have kids in them most often, but I think I'll like them even when my kids are out of that stage.

Here's a few pictures from the evening.



They were still practicing at that point. I took some pictures the day before during play practice, but the ones taken yesterday are better because the kids are all nice and dressed up.

What's funny is that at the practice on Saturday, Clay took one look at the manger scene on the back drop and he said, "Why are there french fries coming out of the manger?"

Hmmm. Yep. I can see where he'd get that.





I know this picture is much like the previous one, but I love Spencer's big grin here.



I have no idea what Clay is doing here. This was still during the final practice directly before the play started. It's just such typical boy stuff... "I can't sit still. But I'm bored, too. Oh, I know... I think I'll stretch my face a bit."



I even did a small part in this play, (mostly because I was asked to do it within hearing range of my kids, where I would have looked like a hypocrite if I'd passed because of my own stage fright).

So here we are... a posse of parents. Susan was Parent 1 and Parent 4 (she multi-tasks well); Arlena was Parent 2; and I was Parent 3.



Clay does not like doing the musical programs, but he loves to sing in the van and at home. He doesn't like to be on stage. Well, neither do I, but I think it's better for him to do this now and not during college when he takes a speech class, which is how I overcame my stage fright (for the most part.)

We insisted Clay do children's choir again this year after letting him off the hook last year, because I thought all three of our kids would be together this year. But then they divided the groups so that kindergartners were still with the littler kids. (I only found out after their first practice when Spencer and Allison were taken back to the younger group.)

So I did something I don't like others doing. I asked for an exception to be made.

I went to the director of the older kids' group. I said Clay did not want to be in choir but I convinced him to do it as an example to his brother and sister. I also reminded her that we held back our twins from starting school last year, so they are older kindergartners now. And I said if they were any problem at all, I'd pull them out. She was game, so all three are in choir together.

But...

Clay still does not like being in choir, and is again asking us to not "make" him do it next year. So much for me playing on his role as big brother.

Here's the whole group of talented kids. They did a great job.

Christmas For Moms

I found this on Amy's blog at The Kings Table. Good stuff for us moms.

The Night Before Christmas for Moms

It was the night before Christmas, when all through the abode
Only one creature was stirring and she was cleaning the commode.

The children were finally sleeping, all snug in their beds
While visions of Dora and Diego flipped through their heads.

The dad was snoring in front of the t.v.,
With a half-constructed bicycle on his knee.

So only the mom heard the reindeer hooves clatter,
Which made her sigh, "Now what's the matter?"

With the toilet bowl brush still clutched in her hand,
She descended the stairs and saw the old man.

He was covered in ashes and soot, which fell with a shrug.
"Oh great," muttered the mom, "Now I have to clean the rug."

"Ho-Ho-Ho!" cried Santa. "I'm glad you're awake.
"Your gift was especially difficult to create."

"Thanks, Santa, but all I want is some time alone."
"Exactly!" he chuckled, "I've made you a clone."

"A clone?" she asked. "What good is that?
"Run along Santa, I've no time for chit-chat."

Then she saw it, the mother's twin:
Same hair, same eyes, same dimpled chin.

"She'll cook, she'll dust, she'll mop every mess.
"You'll relax, take it easy, watch The Young and the Restless!"

"Fantastic!" the mom cheered. "My dream come true!
"I'll shop. I'll read. I'll sleep a whole night through."

From the room above, the youngest began to fret.
"Mommy?! I so scared... and very wet."

The clone replied, "I'm coming sweetheart."
"Hey," the mom smiled, "She knows her part."

The clone changed the small one and hummed a sweet tune
As she bundled the child in a blanket cocoon.

"You the best mommy ever. I really love you."
The clone smiled and sighed, "I love you too."

The mom frowned and said, "Sorry Santa, no deal.
"That's my child's love she's trying to steal."

Smiling wisely Santa said, "To me it is clear.
"Only one loving mother is needed here."

The mom kissed her child and tucked her into bed.
"Thank you Santa for clearing my head.

"I sometimes forget it won't be very long
when she'll be too old for my cradle song."

The clock on the mantle began to chime.
Santa whispered to the clone, "It works every time."

With the clone by his side Santa said, "Good night.
Merry Christmas Mom, you'll be all right!"

-Anonymous

Out of Sight

Some kids can be left to their own devices for long stretches of time. They entertain themselves, quietly, for hours. Often with nothing more than a couple of blocks or a pen and paper.

That is how our firstborn son is.

Some kids can't be out of your sight for more than a few minutes at a time. Oh, they can entertain themselves quietly, but that usually means they're into something they shouldn't be.

That is how our second son is. (Our daughter falls somewhere between the boys.)

The other day, I sent our three children upstairs, one at a time, to get their showers. I gave my standard threats.

"Five minutes and no more or I'll consider you to be playing and there will be trouble for you."

"Don't let me find a monsoon's worth of water on my bath mat because it takes four days to dry."

"If you drop the shampoo bottle on the floor, please pick it back up and make sure the lid is on so the next person will have shampoo and not slip in the shampoo that would otherwise leak onto the floor."

One of these days, my kids will be older and I won't have to repeat obvious directions to them. (But then they'll be teens, and I'll repeat other instructions to them: "Don't sip your Coke if you walk away from it at any time during a party." "Don't get in a car with someone who has had alcohol." "Just don't drink anything but bottled water that you buy yourself... and only hang around people who do the same.")

But, I digress. Allison was first into the shower. Then Clay. Two out of three down... one to go.

Spencer made it upstairs. But I didn't hear the shower running from downstairs. Five minutes passed. No water gushing. Ten minutes went by. Not even a trickle was heard.

Time for Meanie Mom to go upstairs to ruin whatever party he was having.

I got to the top of the stairs. Spencer must have heard me coming, because he looked at me so sweetly and said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I got some of daddy's white stuff on my face. I forgot to get into the shower."

One sniff of my boy confirmed that he'd been faux shaving with Bruce's shaving cream. Whatever. He gets distracted easily like his momma, so I re-routed him to the tub and shower time was finally underway.

I never thought another thing about it.

The next morning Bruce asked me who had been using his razor.

Huh? What?

Spencer has been warned not to mess with our razors. I incorrectly figured the previous night that Spencer had simply put the shaving cream on his face, but not actually used the razor.

However, upon further inspection, we found baby fine red hairs in Bruce's razor.

Great. What area of his body had that child shaved? Probably his arm or something, I thought.

Obviously he hadn't nicked himself, or I would have heard about it. Loudly. Because momma is always on duty when blood is involved. I'm the official bearer of Band Aids.

Still, it took another full day to realize where Spencer had shaved. And then it hit me while we were eating breakfast.



First, I told him never to use our razors. Or else. (Or else we'd shave his eyebrows, by golly!)

Next, I asked him why he shaved his eyebrows.

"I don't like eyebrows," he said. "I want them gone."

Now how is a mom to reply after that comment?

I told him, "Honey, God puts hair all over our bodies for one reason or another. We need to leave most of them alone."

We talked about eyelashes protecting your eyeballs from debris. We discussed nasal hairs that prevent germs from getting to the moist part of your nose and giving you strep and what-not.

(What? Like you've never flown by the seat of your pants trying desperately to come up with something that will make sense to a six-year-old?!)

I thought I was doing well. Convincing even.

But that little stinker had to ask me why God put eyebrows up there.

Some kids...

The Doctor Knows & Santa Ho's

As always, interesting conversations in our household must be blogged. Mostly so I'll remember them years from now.

Here are a couple recent ones.

This first one I'll preface by saying that my kids love their pediatrician. He hams it up with them every time we visit his office. He's a great doctor, and a good Christian man.

Clay: I need to gain 20 pounds.

Mom: You do not need to gain 20 pounds.

Clay: According to the Wii, my BMI is 4.10. I’m underweight.

Mom: Clay, Wii Fit is a game. We see Dr. M often enough, and they weigh you every time we’re there. Dr. M has never said any of you are overweight or underweight. We’re going to take his word for it over a game.

Clay: I bet he doesn’t know how to load computer games.

Mom: I bet he does. He has kids at home. He probably plays computer games with them the same way your dad does with you.

Clay: Really?

Allison: Yeah Clay. He’s been a kid longer than we have. He knows.

I typed up that conversation and sent a copy to Dr. M along with a Christmas card. I think he and his staff will get a kick out of that. (His wife, too. She attends BSF the same time I do, but I admit, I don't know how many kids they have. At least one though.)

This second conversation is just a peep into the life and mind of our third grader.

Clay came home from school the other day to ask me why Santa says "ho, ho, ho" if "ho" is a bad word.

I've blogged about this before... third grade has been a time of learning off-color language for Clay. We've never heard a peep about it before now.

I could knee-jerk react and yank him out of public school and homeschool him again. (He asked me just the other day if I'd homeschool him again for fourth grade, so he'd be fine with that.) But I'd rather deal with this now, when he still comes to me and we can talk about it, than after I've sent him into the real world and he's not under our protective wings.

Again, I explained what the offensive word means. And that Santa doesn't mean anything worse than "ha, ha, ha" or "hee, hee, hee" when he says "ho, ho, ho."

I thought we were finished.

But evidently, Clay has taken a particular shine to this word because he came home the next day and announced: "Christmas time is the only time I can cuss. Ho, ho, ho."

We had another talk. I think he has a better understanding of my views now. "I think" being the main point in that statement.

These babies grow up too fast. Birthdays and holidays always make that more obvious to me.

A Grad Dad

This morning, Bruce finally walked the stage to celebrate the completion of his earned Master's of Business Administration degree. He finished classes at the end of August, and today was commencement.

Here he is with the kids, before the ceremony.



Graduation wasn't as long as I expected, thankfully. Our kids stayed quiet and occupied with drawing in notebooks or playing the DS, even though they told Bruce later that the whole event was boring.





Bruce and three other dads he works with all earned this distinction concurrently. We wives and those kids who attended sat together. Bruce's parents also came along with his middle brother, Bryan and his wife, Alondra.

Here's my hubby, walking the stage. (It's a dark photo, because I took the point-and-shoot camera, not the monster camera.) He's the third one from the back of the line.



When we got home, I saw this:



I started this Christmas cactus with two sections off of a plant, either from my brother-in-law or my father-in-law. I can't remember. It's been that long that I've had this plant. And this is the first time ever that it has bloomed. I had no idea the blooms would be white. Happy Christmas surprise to me!

Every year around this time, during a visit to my in-laws' home, I see my father-in-law's Christmas cactus blooming like something out of the Garden of Eden. Lush. Full. Vibrant.

And my little sickly plant at home just seemed that much more pitiful. I realize it is still little. And puny, too. But it has blooms for the first time ever, so it deserves a little recognition.

It's the Little Cactus that Could.

I Believe I Can Fly... Maybe Not

Last night, I let the kids watch this classic.



I was hoping that I'd TiVoed it off a channel that conveniently bleeped out any cuss words. No such luck. And now the kids know one more word they aren't allowed to say, unless they're reading from the King James Version of the Bible about a donkey.

We all also agreed that little Kevin needed his mouth washed out with some liquid hand soap for the way he spoke to his mother near the beginning of the movie. Probably needed a spanking, too, just for good measure.

My favorite parts of the movie?

Marv, on ice.



And Harry, also on ice.



Silly robbers. I can't help it. I crack up every time I see it.

About 12 hours after watching the movie, I wondered if my neighbors got to see me re-enact those scenes as I walked down our front steps to get the newspaper.

Bruce had just pulled his truck around the corner, off our street, and I was down about three steps and the thought hit me, "Oh, good. It didn't get as cold last night as I thought it would. No ice, just water on these steps." I had even tested those first few stairs.

And then I hit an ice patch.

Did you know that the scenes on TV go by way faster when you watch them than if you live them? I felt like everything was in slow motion when I was air borne.

I wondered to myself, "How bad is this going to hurt when I land? At least our steps are wood and not concrete. Am I going to have to call Bruce to come back here and peel me off the ground? Am I going to break a bone for the first time in my life?"

Then I landed. And it hurt. I stayed down, but curled up into a sitting position so I could assess how damaged I was. I realized my pants were getting soaked because I was sitting in a puddle of water. Yes, water. Why my feet couldn't have stepped only on the wet parts of the stairs and not find the one ice patch I don't know.

And then I stood up. I rubbed my head to make sure the knot I felt on it didn't include a gash or blood. It didn't.

So I went on to the get the newspaper and found that I felt fine.

But within 30 minutes, I started noticing aches in various places. My pinkie finger must have caught on something when I ineffectively reached out to the railing to catch myself. I've got a nice swollen area on the left side in the middle of my back. And I have a stripe where a step smacked across my whole upper back near my "wings" (you know where... your ribs on the back that stick out like wings if you contort just right.).

I'm not overly surprised that my head doesn't hurt at all. It's no secret that I'm hard-headed.

After dropping the kids off, I called Bruce to tell him about my adventures in flying. I made some comment about now realizing how quickly it happens that older folks fall and break a hip.

And he told me that I should be more careful, considering my age.

He thinks he's funny like that.

He's right about that age thing though. I am too old to be attempting flight via self propulsion.

I'm going to take an Advil now.

The Naked Truth

Want to read something scary?

I'm not talking about Freddy Krueger scary. I mean real scary.

This is for all of us folks who have kids, who teach kids, who know kids, whatever. It's for us all because we're living with these young people whether we're related to them or not.

Click here.

God Knows

We've all got circumstances that cause us to question God. Sometimes the questions are big, like "Why cancer?"; sometimes they are small, like "Why mosquitoes?".

But recently I saw something that reminds me that God knows everything. He planned everything. He has a reason for everything.

We don't have the privilege of "getting" it always.

But for a brief moment, I understood one thing about God: He knew exactly what He was doing when He planned for women to be moms, and not men.

Because here's what happens when a man child swaddles a baby (doll).



We're just glad it wasn't duct tape.

Proof

My mom's visit is right around the corner, and I'm already doing what I refer to as "stupid cleaning". (I call it "stupid cleaning" because when I first did this as a newlywed, Bruce just looked on and pronounced my efforts "stupid".) The house is a complete mess... more on why in a minute... BUT my kitchen cabinets are looking really organized.

Yes, stupid cleaning. When you don't hit the stuff that company would actually see if they came without warning, but you do finally get to the stuff that's been bugging you for way too long. When you clean junk drawers, but leave on the counter tops the piles that are leaning nearly over. When you wash curtains, but leave the grimy fingerprints smeared on the glass windows. When you scrub baseboards, but wait to mop.

I spent time over the weekend culling out-of-date items and putting some plastic containers on my shopping list. Like these canisters:



I was going to buy glass canisters, but what I planned to store in the canisters is usually shoved way back into the nether lands of my cabinet, so I thought about what would happen if they clanked together and broke. And I didn't like the image of my arm stretched into the dark recesses of a cabinet to fish out glass shards. Plastic is my friend.

Right now, my three canisters are snug in the rear section of one of my cabinets, holding pinto beans, elbow macaroni and rice.

I also bought two plastic shoe-box sized containers to hold stuff that I found in triplicate when I cleaned the cabinet out. I kept buying Lipton onion soup mix, taco seasoning, Italian dressing mix and buttermilk cornbread mix over and over again... because I couldn't find them in the cabinet.

Proof that just because you don't see something doesn't mean it's not there. (I'm sure there's a deep theological meaning in there somewhere, but I'm already tired of digging deep.)

Moving right on into theology... I missed church Sunday because Clay vomited Saturday night. Thanks to the Lord, he did not have the virus that is makings its rounds at the school.

He had gone to two birthday parties Saturday and the last one was a sleepover. Clay does not do sleepovers well, so we've suspended them for now. There's only so many times I'm willing to pick a child up in the middle of the night. I told him to let me know when he thinks he's ready to try again. He hasn't let me know yet.

But at the second party he did stay late. And he came home with a list of all the things he had ingested. A Coke, an orange Fanta, four brownies, "tons" of popcorn, some cocktail wienies... I can't remember the rest.

After he got home and started getting ready for bed, he said he was hungry. I asked, "Clay, how can you be hungry? You just told me all the stuff you had to eat there."

He rubbed his stomach and said, "You're right. I actually feel stuffed."

Proof that God is merciful. Because any more put in would have come right back out.

Also proof that gluttony is not good.

Two hours later, Clay did his best to make it to the garbage can we'd put by his bed, "just in case". After a few minutes of cleaning, I informed Bruce that we'd be renting a carpet cleaner for the Sabbath day.

Sunday morning, Bruce took Spencer and Allison to church and I stayed home with Clay. That afternoon, when everyone was home from church, I rented a steam cleaner and we spent the rest of Sunday moving furniture and cleaning our carpet, the inside of the van, a used couch and loveseat we bought a few months back for the kids' playroom, and our couch and loveseat in the den.

Monday morning, the exposed carpet was mostly dry, so I moved pieces of furniture back to their normal spots and let the areas they were sitting on dry. On Tuesday, I picked up all the pieces of plastic garbage bags that I had cut up to put under all the wood and metal furniture bases and legs.

Proof that sometimes you have to make a mess to clean a mess.

Here we are on Wednesday. I'm finally starting the normal housecleaning.

But I'm expecting more "stupid cleaning" in the next week or so, too.

I Wish

I'm not a huge fan of country music. I am also not a rabid fan of Point of Grace. But I do love this new song by that group, and it does have a country twang to it.

"I Wish" by Point of Grace.



Oh, how I do wish all those things. By the time they mention "baby girl" I am tearing up like one.

Hope you like it.

When In Rome...

We received our new credit card in the mail recently because ours was nearing its expiration date.

(All Dave Ramsey followers... we didn't get rid of our card during Financial Peace University. Bruce and I each have our own card, with the same account, through one company. Our credit card is not, and never has been, a problem for us. We rarely use it, and we pay it off immediately when we do. The card company does not benefit from us being their customer. We use them; they don't use us.)

But this is not a post about credit card debt. This is a post about a pet peeve of mine.

When you get a new card, you have to call the company and activate the account. You must navigate through automated, voice-activated, irritating pre-recorded prompts. And I have grudgingly become accustomed to the prompt of various companies that speak briefly in Spanish, I assume asking the listener to push a 1 if they would like to hear the rest of the recording in Spanish. (I don't speak Spanish, so that's why it's an assumption.)

This time, I heard this version instead: "If you would like to hear this recording in English, please push 1."

I am an American. I live in the United States of America. Our native language is English. It should be a foregone conclusion that I want to activate my credit card while using the English language. If someone else needs special instruction beyond that, they should get the stupid prompt for preferential treatment.

Better yet, get rid of the prompts for foreign languages altogether and let people learn English when they live here.

I have strong opinions about this, most of which are generated from the family in which I was raised.

My mom is German. Born and bred in Germany. She met my dad, an Air Force sergeant, while he was stationed in Germany, and they married. While my dad lived in Germany, he learned the language. And when he brought his young bride back to the United States, she learned English. As a homemaker, my mom learned English at first largely by watching The Flintstones and The Price is Right.

When we children were older, mom went to work, in American companies, where the only language spoken was English. Nobody learned German to make things easier for my mom. There were no stickers in public offices written in her native language that gave her instruction on how to function in a land that was foreign to her.

My mom was not a university-educated professional when she came here. She wasn't much more than a teenager, raised in a tiny village in Germany that boasted only one factory where linens were made, one school, one church, one bakery and one Gasthaus (a combination Bed and Breakfast, pub and restaurant all in one.). A bus, much like our blood mobiles these days, would come to my mom's village from a nearby larger town every so often to meet the banking needs of the community. And those are the businesses I recall from visits when I was a girl, so I'm not even sure they were all there when my mother was being raised.

The point is, if my mom can do it, others can too. Moreover, they should.

This past Thanksgiving, I bought the audio recording of Thanksgiving: A Time to Remember by Barbara Rainey. I wanted my kids to hear the real story, the whole story, about what the pilgrims went through to make a home in America. It's an excellent resource... and I learned as much as the kids did.

Those people suffered incredible hardships so they could worship freely. Death, near starvation, illness, severe cold, fear of the Indians. But they worked through those first years here and eventually flourished.

Those of us who have been born in this country owe gratitude to those early settlers. And to others who have worked for our various freedoms since then. Somewhere in our lineage someone worked to make things better for us.

If you are going to a new country to make a new life for yourself and your family, then by all means, make it. Don't take it.

I worked with a woman in Texas who was originally from Asia. She and her husband were both working toward their American citizenship. They had a little boy and wanted to raise him here, not back in their native land.

Sonya told me some of what she and her spouse went through to even take the test. It's expensive. They waited hours upon hours to even get inside the place where testing took place. They were turned away once because they waited in line all day, only to have the day pass and the office close. It was awful.

I also quizzed her during lunch breaks a couple of times on the questions that would be asked. Let me assure you that most native-born Americans, college-educated included, would not pass that test. I wouldn't have. It's tough.

They both eventually passed the test and became American citizens, because they worked hard. They'll pass on that gumption to their son. And not only will he be better for their efforts, but we as a society will be as well. They learned how to function here, in a land that was at first foreign to them, but is now home.

We have enough "pure bred" Americans born in this country who are lazy, uninspired, and quite content to be spoon fed and live off the system. We don't need to import more of the same. Those who are in the welfare system and successfully get out of it and go on to live productive lives, they work. Hard.

When our country panders to foreigners by allowing them to live here in a bubble but not forcing them to assimilate, we cheat ourselves from productive citizens, and we cheat those newcomers from ever developing self sufficiency. They become a burden to the rest of us, and we become their caretakers. And they pass on a sense of entitlement to their children.

It's disgusting.

I don't have all the solutions. I may not have many.

But it's not brain surgery to lower the cost of taking a test for citizenship (I do think they should still pay to take it though). And it's not rocket science to expect people living here to be able to order a hamburger at McDonald's in English.

Living in the land of the free, home of the brave, should not be free. Foreigners should be brave to take on the task and not scurry into our country asking us to scratch their bellies.

The Reason

After my mini-series length post yesterday, just a quick post today.

For anyone else struggling to feel joy in the holiday, while also enjoying the holy-day, read this.

We've polluted the pleasure of this season. Just a reminder to get back to the basics.

Finally!

I've had five boxes of Christmas decorations in my dining room since the weekend before Thanksgiving. Two more boxes sit, unopened, in the kid's playroom downstairs.

My original plan was to have everything up and done the weekend before Thanksgiving, because I knew we'd be too busy to do anything over Thanksgiving.

Bruce did his part. He pulled the tree out of the box. He strung the lights.

And then all holiday decorating ceased.

From the street, at night, our home looked respectably decorated. The necessary outline of an evergreen tree highlighted with clear lights. (We did colored lights last year for the kids. And I discovered that I've become a light snob... I only like the white lights on a tree now.)

Every day since Bruce put the tree up, the kids have begged to decorate it. But someone was either not feeling well or we were running somewhere or we were out of town.

I have had zero Christmas spirit so far this year. I'm overwhelmed by all the "stuff" of the holiday. This year before the boxes get put back up, I'm paring down what I have and getting rid of some stuff.

I am tired of stuff. It takes too much time to drag it out, put it up, pull it back down and store it again.

Today, for the second day in a row, I was in Allison's classroom, helping the kids do their Christmas crafts. And that's where the Christmas spirit found me. With those kids. Surrounded by Elmer's glue. Messy, but merry.

Let me clarify that when I say Christmas spirit, I actually mean the superficial junk surrounding our blessed holiday. I do not mean that I was not involved in the knowledge of the upcoming birthday of my Savior. I've got that kind of Spirit all year long. And I don't need cranberry or pine-scented candles to invoke it.

His presence is real to me. If not for every single moment of the day, at least for most of my moments every single day.

After guiding kindergartners gluing snowflakes on an Oriental Trading Post foam picture frame, I was feeling ready to tackle the job of tree decorating. And for me it is a job. I don't always enjoy it.

Partly because our fake tree is anemic. Just a fraction better than this real deal.



I never like how it looks post decorating. That might have something to do with the stinkin' holiday issue of Southern Living arriving at my house right around the time our tree is put up. Maybe. Probably.

I also don't enjoy the help of my little elves when putting up the tree decorations. I know that sounds terrible to admit. Whatever. Label me a bad mom if you wish. (I also do not enjoy cooking with my kids. Put another nail in the coffin of superior motherhood for me.)

Today, I came up with a genius idea. No, really. It worked that well for me.

I banned the kids from the dining room and told them I'd call them to decorate the tree when I was ready. Then I opened up the boxes, one at a time, and pulled out each decoration before deciding which pile it would go into on the dining room table: Clay's, Spencer's or Allison's.

No bickering over who hangs what.

Then I called them all into the dining room and let them have at it. And they did a great job. No fighting. No stress. It's done. And I didn't have to do it. (Well, except for hanging a few breakable ornaments on the high parts of the tree.)

(Update: The following picture was actually taken the morning after they decorated the tree. It was too dark for me to get a good picture the night they decorated. Bruce could have done it, but I haven't played with our camera enough to get it right.)



This little plan is a keeper for me. Until they're old enough to go through the boxes themselves and hang all the decorations their precious hearts desire. At that point, I'll sit in the den with a mug of hot tea and wait for them to call me into the dining room to show me their masterpiece.

I can dream.

The last 24 hours have been a sweet reprieve from stress for me. Courtesy of Jesus, I'm certain.

I had a bad morning yesterday. A combination of stress, what looked like another looming case of strep that just turned out to be a cold it seems, hormones, lack of sleep, irritation over some stuff at home and disappointment over some extended family situations.

Before I dropped the kids off at school, I had a fit over something not working easily for me, cried in frustration (which made Allison cry along and Spencer giggle. Night and day kids!), prayed and asked my kids to forgive me, too. I led my group of ladies at BSF feeling like the worst parent, spouse and Christian. Before lunch, I called Bruce and apologized to him because, even though he didn't witness it, I vented out loud in front of the kids some of my frustration with him being gone in the evenings, working on the fixer-upper house.

I ran around doing errands after BSF until going up to the school for the first craft day with Allison's class. Then all three kiddos came home with me. While Bruce was driving home from work, I called him on the cell and asked him if we could skip Awanas and church and just have a normal evening at home alone with the kids, doing nothing.

Bruce is a good, wise man. He can pick up on notes of hysteria in the voice of his wife when she calls on the verge of tears.

So we relaxed last night. The whole fam. It was bliss. Balm-for-my-soul kind of stuff.

And this morning, I didn't have to set my alarm for anything. Yay! Bruce and Clay ate breakfast quietly, alone. And I woke up around the time that Spencer and Allison did.

God is good to me.

Icing on the cake? I got to meet Bruce for lunch. Salsarita's followed by a visit to Lowe's. Awww... how romantic.

During our mid-day date, Bruce got a call from his dad who was down the road at another Lowe's. He had found the pre-lit, on-sale Christmas tree Bruce was wanting and picked it up for us. Once we pay him back, we'll pack that baby away until next year.

This evening after the tree was decorated, I took the kids out to look at Christmas lights. And the best part wasn't the lights, although they were great.

We saw a family of six deer in one neighborhood and a very large buck in another neighborhood (he actually scared me a little bit because I was rubber-necking to look at lights and then there he was, right in front of my van and we were still moving in his direction before I tapped the brakes and he pranced off. Because that's what all deer do. Prance. I love deer.)

Count me as officially decompressed.

Now it's time for me to get the kids nestled all snug in their beds so they can dream about some figgy pudding... or St. Nick... or a new Nintendo DS with a Kung Fu Panda game. Something like that.

Merry Christmas!