Tedward "Teddy" VanDyken

So, this hamster.

Nathan wanted a hamster so badly. We started discussing it and went to the library (I like the library for old-school research instead of the web.) After about a month of talking about it, we decided to get him one for his 10^th birthday. I was more sold than my husband. His arguments were: a) they smell b) they’re up at night so the wheel would drive us all crazy and c) see “b.” But I convinced (lied to) him that the wheels they make now are quiet and assured him that we wouldn’t hear it. Wanting to make his boy happy, Matt went along with the idea. So, after school on his birthday, Nathan and I set out for the pet store to choose the hamster that he promised to love honor and cherish until next Thursday when the job would fall squarely into my lap. "Teddy" (my new hamster) bit Nathan, drew blood, and that was that. But we were $100 into this thing by now so, doggone it, we were going to push through until Nathan and Teddy were compatible roommates again. I explained (since I had bonded and fallen in love with this little dude) that you cannot simply grab a hamster and pick it up like a baseball, you have to feed it by hand to establish trust and then slowly let him get used to you, “Like how I did when I met your father.” Matt didn’t think that was funny. Huh.

I was, however, *not* going to clean the cage. This was, in fact, Nathan’s hamster and he promised to do that job. I told him I’d help him the first few times until he was comfortable doing it himself. Did I mention I am a loony tunes control freak? I didn’t? Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a looney tunes control freak and once I saw how my son “cleaned” the cage I spazzed out and declared that it was “just quicker and easier if I did it” and now the transition was complete and my hamster lives in my son’s room where he talks to him and drops crackers in there every few days while I talk to, pet, clean, and manage his little hamster diet daily all because “it’s easier if I do it.”

*Don’t write me letters about how I’m not doing my kids any favors. I’m already aware of this.

Fast forward about 6 months. When I get up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night I usually make my rounds and make sure all is well. I checked on my daughter and re-covered her and then went into Nathan’s room and did the same for him. I looked in Teddy’s cage. Teddy is nocturnal so he’s usually swinging from the bars, running on his “quiet” wheel, or just enjoying hamster nightlife.

I didn’t see Teddy.

I looked more closely, trying to make my eyes focus and adjust to the darkness. In an instant, panic. Teddy had popped the top open on his little “loft” and he wasn’t in his cage. I grabbed the little flashlight my son has next to his bed and frantically shined it all over the room. Nothing. I went in to wake up my husband.

“Matt,” I whisper. “Teddy’s out of his cage.”

(Grumbly sleepy sounds.)

“Matt! Teddy’s not in his cage. Help me.”
“K” (snoring.)

Seriously. “MATT! Get up! Teddy’s out!”
“$%^&*!!”
“I know. So, help me.”

Turning on our bedroom light (so he wouldn’t step on Teddy) Matt looked around our room because I never saw him in Nathan’s. I went into the kitchen to grab the box of Honey Nut Cheerios (Teddy’s favorite. I’m so embarrassed right now. Please don’t judge.) As I opened the pantry I hear, “There you are you little @#$%^! Becki, I found him!” I come back to the room to find Matt reaching under our bed trying to grab the hamster. I throw some Cheerios under the bed and went to get the hamster ball so he wouldn’t bite in case he was scared. I threw some Cheerios in there, too, to coax him out. While Matt is swearing at the hamster, I’m laughing (because this is a completely inappropriate time to break out into laughter and that’s what I do) and trying to figure out how he got around our 80lb Labrador. Did he crawl over him? Matt, finally contains Teddy and we get him back into his cage and duct tape the loft closed. We both climb back into bed, with me still giggling and Matt contemplating using duct tape on me, and as I finally get myself under control and am about to fall asleep I hear my husband next to me mumble, “@#$%^ hamster.”

This just proves that we parents will do just about anything for our kids. Even if they have absolutely no idea that it ever even happened.

We’ve all grown to love Teddy very dearly. He’s lived in our home for just over a year now and he’s adorable. Especially with the 14 rolls of duct tape all over his cage. You see, we’ve discovered that Teddy is a bit of an escape artist. He’s either trying desperately to get away from us or he just likes to tinker with things. He’s unscrewed his little “plug” on the side of his cage and popped his little head out. Luckily, I caught him doing it because of the racket he was making. This, fortunately, was during the day. This activity also led to his second strip of duct tape. And now, even though it’s hooked on so he can’t squeeze through, he likes to climb the side of his wire cage and try to mash himself between the ceiling and the “wall.” This, unfortunately, was during the evening which resulted in an overabundance of duct tape because I was only half-awake and not in the mood for shenanigans.

(I removed some of the tape the next morning.)

The average hamster lives three years.

I’m sure there are a multitude of lessons to be learned from my experience.

But I choose denial and subjugation. Okay, maybe that’s going a little far but I’m sure I know what I’m getting myself into when I submit to taking on these critters. I remember my mom doing it for me (My guinea pig, “Elvis.” My kitten, “Blaze.”) and I’m quite sure my grandma did the same thing for my mom (I recall a hand-me-down bird story.) The bottom line is that these animals somehow find their way into our homes and because we love our kids and we’re big, fat softies for the long, fluttering eyelashes they bat at us, this cycle will most likely continue on through to my children’s children's children. Our kiddos are only young once and someday (at least I hope) they’ll grow out of this phase of their lives (just like we did) and move onto far more exciting adventures.

Until then, I’ll feed the hamster.

One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish

We’ve been talking a lot lately about how parents always end up taking care of their children’s pets. You know, the pets they have to have and promise to take care of forever and ever amen?

Many of us have been here. We love our kids and maybe it’s because we honestly think they’re going to actually learn responsibility or maybe it’s because we are trying to relive our own childhood memories of beloved pets. But whatever the reason, we seem to find ourselves adding to our already full plates for the love of those great big blue eyes staring up at us and pleading with every ounce of strength and promising to give up every other toy they own and never ever ever ask for anything ever again.

We’ve been through this more than I’d care to admit. But for the next couple of days I’m going to share a few of our more ridiculous stories for no other reason than to bring a smile to your face. You’ll laugh, you’ll roll your eyes, you’ll judge, but most of all, you’ll probably be able to relate as we have all experienced a little loss of sanity at one time or another on the road to rearing children.

This is how our journey began…

When Nathan was 3 years old, we headed out to stay-at-home mom Mecca (otherwise known as “Target.”) Our Target is located right next door to a PetCo and for whatever reason on this particular day we went inside “just to look around.”  Being that Nathan was my first child I was still under the naïve notion that you could do that with a three year old. $40 later I found out that you cannot. We had purchased a fish. A Beta to be exact with red flowing fins and random blue stripes and, of course, a cool looking rounded fish bowl with stones at the bottom to match said fish. Also, food. Oh, and a net for cleaning! Along with water conditioner so you don’t kill your fish by putting him in the bowl before the water is ready. And because Nathan spotted it before I could grab him, a little ceramic sign that said “No Fishing.”

So out we walk with our fish and fish paraphernalia to the minivan getting half way out of the parking lot before realizing that we never went to Target. *Sigh* Whatever. Home we go. I was not going to drag a fish bag through Target. Once home, we get “Red” all settled. (I know. Kids come up with the most original names, don’t they?) He’s all happy in his bowl and we have so much fun watching him swim around! 

  

Five minutes later we’ve lost interest in the fish and it’s time for Legos.

Fast forward a week. Red needs to be cleaned. I look around. My husband’s at work. Nathan is scared (???) and so that leaves me. I make a giant mess in my kitchen as I try to figure out the best and simplest way to clean this thing. He’s too fast for me to catch in the net and he’s too slippery for me to grab on to. Swearing and cursing this fish (while Nathan is watching Blue’s Clues) I finally came up with a system that worked and the fish bowl is clean and Red is alive.

Red quickly became my fish. We called him “Nathan’s” but he was mine. I cleaned him. I fed him. I found him a babysitter when we went on vacation. Why does this happen? Has there ever been a parent in the history of Ever that this hasn’t happened to? If you’re out there, please contact me. I want to share your secret.

Red experienced excitement here and there during his seemingly endless fishy life. Once, Nathan pulled out the bottom drawer of his dresser to reach something and tipped over the entire thing. He was fine (thank goodness!) but Red’s comfortable dwelling didn’t fare so well since he enjoyed a penthouse view from atop the dresser. As I ran into Nathan’s room, I found Red lying in the middle of a big wet spot on the carpet struggling to breathe, a broken bowl, and tiny decorative rocks all over the place. Thinking quickly, I picked up Nathan and got him out of the mess making sure he wasn’t hurt. Then I picked up Red and put him in a drinking glass that was on a nightstand and filled it with tap water and in the same instant realized that I was committing aquatic homicide because the tap water a) wasn’t even close to the appropriate temperature and b) not conditioned. I ran to the kitchen cabinet, pulled out the conditioner bottle and tried to calculate the ‘drops to water’ ratio for a fish in a drinking glass of water. I’m not very good at fast math so I just put in a few, threw a towel down on the wet carpet, grabbed Nathan and headed to PetCo to purchase a new bowl. 20 minutes later, having fished Red out of the fibrous water in the glass, he was returned safely (if not a little shell-shocked) to his new bowl.

Red lived a long time. Like three years. That’s a long time for a fish. We grew to love him and we were all sad when he finally took the mighty plunge into the hereafter. But! We quickly repeated the process with Red #2 and then Blue (Red #2 was actually Red #2 AND 3, but I don’t think my son is aware of that fact to this day.) 

We're *that* house...

It was beautiful yesterday. After a long winter of negative degree temperatures and howling winds, a lovely and sunny 60+ degree day is just what we needed. One of my favorite things to do when it gets even remotely warm-ish outside is to open the windows and that’s just what I did. Birds singing, breeze blowing, 6 month old dust being stirred up and thrown about my home. It was all I could do not to dance around in my long skirt and apron singing “the hills are aliiiive with the sound of muuusiiiiccc.”

It was grand because we all knew it wasn’t going to last and we took great advantage of the fleeting glimpse into the elusive season (elusive around here, anyway) known as Spring.

My kids were enjoying this weather to the fullest playing baseball and jump rope and hopscotch and riding their bikes and anything else they could use as an excuse to stay outside. It was sweet music to hear the smack of the bat against the ball, the rhythmic tat-tat-tat of the jump rope on the driveway. So, in my delusional utopia of peace I decided to slip inside and finish folding a basket of laundry.

(*Here’s where I ask you not to judge me. I enjoy folding laundry.)

About 3 and a half minutes into it I hear, “ANNA!!! KNOCK IT OFF!” Then a scream. Then, “NATHAN! GIVE IT BACK!! MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!” I drop my head and sigh in the defeated mom stance that we have all done at one time or another…or every day…and met my wild-eyed, rabid badgers at the back door. The conversation went as follows:

Mom: “What.”

Anna and Nathan: “HesaidIshetriedtouseheneverletsmethenshescreamedandthenhetookmy..”

Mom:  (Not quietly) “ENOUGH!!!!!! Good NIGHT, you guys!! IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY AND THE SUN IS SHINING, SOMETHING THAT HASN’T HAPPENED SINCE LAST SEPTEMBER AND I COME INSIDE FOR A GRAND TOTAL OF FOUR SECONDS AND YOU START FIGHTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE NICE TO EACH OTHER??? YOU JUST GOT NEW SHIRTS FROM SCHOOL THAT SAY “BE NICE” ON THEM AND YOU TWO CAN’T BE NICE TO SAVE YOUR LIVES!!! I’M TELLING SANTA!!!! I’M ALSO GONNA MAKE YOU TWO HOLD HANDS IF YOU DON’T START GETTING ALONG!!! STOP YELLING AT EACH OTHER!!!!!!” (Yes. I yelled at my children to stop yelling.)

They both looked at me like I just grew an extra appendage before their very eyes and said, “sorry, mom” then went back outside. I exhaled and went back to folding laundry only to look up and notice, oh that’s right, my windows are open. And there go some of my neighbors walking by. Outstanding.

I wanted to run outside and explain my situation. To make them understand that I’m not a lunatic that screams at her kids (even though I probably am.) I’m just a mom that didn’t want her peaceful afternoon defiled by fighting children and arguing. But then I decided to do something more fun. I decided to post an abbreviated version of this scenario on facebook and you know what I got? Solidarity. Moms (and dads) who’ve all been there. No one judged. No one scolded. In fact, it made people laugh. My neighbor, Jodi, even told me that the police were called to her house one night by some passersby because her son was screaming so loudly and throwing such a fit that they thought he was being hurt. Nope. Turns out mom was just trying to get her son to brush his teeth. She added, “As it turns out, cops don’t assist with teeth brushing. But 2 cop cars in the driveway and 3 officers in the house did, in fact, bring an end to the tantrum.”

Everyone can relate to this stuff. It’s real life. Not this “I’m pretending everything is perfect” garbage that everyone rolls their eyes at. So next time you find yourself in a situation where you are embarrassed because you let reality show, don’t beat yourself up too badly. It happens to all of us.

You’re normal.

A blonde pulls up to a railroad crossing...

I just did an insanely idiotic thing. And instead of pretending it didn't happen, I’m going to blog about it. Because who among us has not been a bonehead at least once in their life?

I just dropped the kids off at school. As you come around a curve there are railroad tracks. As I approached the tracks I noticed the lights were flashing.

So I stopped. Immediately.

Why is this stupid? Well, let me share! The lights had *just* started to flash which means I had time to just go through. There was a car right behind me that expected me to keep going right on through since that is what a normal non-moron would do. She, of course, had to slam on her brakes. She didn't hit me (thank goodness!) but I can imagine after what I was about to do next she certainly wanted to. Since I stopped just short of the actual tracks (not even behind the “safety zone” for Pete’s sake!!) she was stuck under where the arms were coming down. I noticed this unfortunate fact as I watched this all happen in my rear view mirror. So, panicking, I frantically searched for the train which I knew was approaching quickly since I heard his whistle. I saw the light (about a quarter of a mile away) so I went for it.

Yes. I know. You’re not calling me anything I haven’t already called myself.

(Please remember, thank the Good Lord Almighty, that my children were not in the car to witness their mother being a complete and total ass hat.)

So, what did I do after crossing the tracks? I sped home like a coward, trying to become invisible, and turned onto my street on two wheels. I pulled into my garage, closed the door, and sat there congratulating myself on being such an enormous imbecile.

The icing on the cake? I totally know the woman whom I did this to. We’re not facebook friends so she won’t read this…however…some of you know her, as well, and will most likely hear about how I nearly killed myself and created my very own blonde joke in the process.

Why write this all down? Because I’m thoroughly embarrassed and want to own what I did and make you all feel better the next time you find yourself on this end of stupid. Human is as human does, right?

**I also want to say, in my defense, that the arms at this particular crossing are fairly new. Like, less than a year old. My brain misfired for a second. Also I was not anywhere near my phone and the radio was not on. I was simply a dork-a-saurus.

Thank You.

Welcome 2014!

Happy New Year’s Eve!

I hope 2013 was good to you and yours. But if it wasn’t, I wish you a wonderful 2014.

If you've made resolutions, I applaud you and pray you are able to stay focused and follow through with the decisions you've made. Go get ‘em!

I like to make resolutions. I think they’re healthy as long as they’re kept in perspective. Any time you make a commitment to improve yourself should be cause for celebration! I feel, however, that the word resolution can be extremely intimidating to some and should be replaced with a better word like goal, target, or ambition. It’s just my opinion, but those words seem a bit more personal than the clichéd “resolution.” Again, just my opinion.

Anyway! Let’s talk brand new year! I put together a little visual. I hope you can relate.

If you're anything like me, your year can go something like this...

A brand new, squeaky clean sheet of paper. Isn't it pretty? All pristine and lovely. No marks or smudges or anything to make it appear less than perfect. Aww…

                                                           

By March or April, my paper has some life to it. A crumple here, a smudge there. Nothing too major but, hey, it’s still early, right?

                                                                         

By June, I’m not feeling very proud of my paper. A thoughtless word, a disappointing choice, one too many trips to the Hershey Kiss bag and it starts to feel like my good intentions are slipping away. BUT!! I have made the conscious choice to keep my paper from any more harm.

Oh my. Look at October. Look what I've done to my paper!! Yikes! Is there any hope to finish out the year with my head held high??? I've really tried! Really! *sigh*

Well, here we are at December 31^st. My paper has really taken some hits. I've broken promises (to myself and others), I’m not eating the way I should, my jeans fit the same (or maybe a little tighter) than they did last December, I've said things I shouldn't have, I've judged, I've pouted, I've been jealous, I've yelled, I've let others down, I've let myself down. Gee whiz! Look at that!..

I’ve been human.

Whether we want to admit it or not, every one of us has a paper that looks like this at the end of the year. And if we’re going to be really honest, for many of us, our papers look like this at the end of the day. We don’t need a whole year to make a garbage dump of our paper.

Can I just say?....thank goodness for forgiveness!! From our Savior, from our family and friends, FOR those that we have to forgive. If there weren't forgiveness, we’d all be walking around with a torn, stained, crumpled, sopping wet sheet of paper in our pockets all day every day. Yuck!

So this year, whether you need a new sheet of paper every day or every month, strive to keep your paper as clean as you can, but if you screw up, keep trying. We’re human. That’s what we do. We screw up.

Ask for forgiveness.

Forgive someone else.

We’re all in 2014 together. Let’s make it great.

Oh, Christmas Tree

Well, the Christmas season is off to an interesting start this year! But then again, we’re us, so this is pretty much normal.

We started our day by heading off to cut down the annual “VanDyken Family Christmas Tree.” We like to get a real tree because it’s “green” (no landfill here!), it smells good, and it’s been our tradition for 10 years. So, off we go into the cold winter air with our coats, boots, hats, ..and saw. After 45 minutes of winding through acres of possible winners, we come upon a pretty little spruce tree, all happy and fluffy and ready to stand in our living room as a beacon of peace, joy, hope, and all that represents Christmas. My husband asks me repeatedly, “Is this the tree you want? Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure that you want this tree in our living room for a month?” I answer with a confident “yes!” (Yeesh. Of course. You’d think by the way he asked a hundred times that I’m the kind that changes her mind all the time, or something.)

Anyway, he starts to saw, the tree falls over…..and I see it. And I immediately realize that I have made a horrible mistake. Her undercarriage (for lack of a better word) is all dead, brown and full of leaves. I also notice that she has just shrunk about a foot and a half. I stare at her hoping that it’s just a bad angle. I take in a big breath and Matt looks at me (with the look of a husband that knew this was coming) and says, “What?”
“Nothing”, I say with a forced smile. My perfect, pretty little tree has just turned to a giant crap pile. That’s all.

So we go and wait for the tree people to shake her silly and wrap her in string. As we wait in line I look around at all the families with their *pretty* trees. Perfectly spaced branches, nice stiff needles, straight trunks. I look back at our tree and notice she has now shrunk another foot, her branches are droopy, we’ve left a trail of brown needles in our wake, and…wait…did that lady just smirk??!? Seriously. I’ll cut you. I’m not in the mood, Woman.

The man puts our 3 foot tree in the shaker and I can’t watch…nor can I look away. I feel sick. He puts her in the string machine and ties her up all tight. She looks like a splintered baseball bat. As I watch all these families take their stately, elegant trees away (one person at one end and another person at the other), Matt throws our tree under his arm, bungees it to the hitch hauler on the back of the SUV, and we drive home in silence.

     We get home and I get out of the car and give our baseball bat, I mean “tree”, a dirty look. She lied!!! She pretended to be something she wasn't! I was misled! Disgusted, I went inside to figure out how to rearrange the living room in order to hide our shame.

     Matt hauls her scrawny carcass into the house and gets her all situated in the stand. He has the audacity to smile sweetly at me and say, “There! Perfect!” I’m pretty sure I was bleeding out of my ears. You know what would have been “perfect?” Tree-topper Matt. That’s what would have been perfect. As our tree leans precariously at a 45 degree angle I am ordering my husband to hack off her bottom branches because they’re dragging on the carpet. Omigod, I hate this tree. Because he’s a decent human, he doesn't bat an eye, knowing I’m at “stage: lunatic” (we've been married a long time) and gingerly starts trimming her ridiculous branches. I can’t take it anymore. “I’ll just do it.” He gives me the trimmers and I start angrily lopping off limbs in an attempt to make her behave. I decide to take a deep breath before I completely blow an o-ring. I give Matt his trimmers back and stand back and size her up. Yep! Hate her.

     I went to the basement to get the decorations. Maybe, just maybe, if we put enough crap on her she can somehow redeem herself. I grab the lights, bring them upstairs, pull out a strand and plug them in. Nothing. I stared. I grabbed another strand and plugged those in. Nothing. “Sonofa#@$%^!!!!!!!!!!!” I grabbed my keys and went to buy more lights.

     I came back, tore the lights out of the box and stuffed them into the tree. Her stupid, floppy branches bent under the weight of the strand of lights. I was in full-fledged temper tantrum mode now, folks. Not my proudest moment. It’s around this time that Matt is getting the heck out of there. He left to go hunting. I can’t say I blamed him.

     My son had excused himself to play the Wii. Can’t say I blamed him, either. His mother was acting like an angry honey badger. My daughter, bless her, said to me, “Mommy? When I don’t like a Christmas tree, you know what I do? I pretend it isn't there.” It was then that I snapped out of my demon possession and stepped back into reality. There was no way I was going to ruin Christmas for my family because our tree was a non-conformist. I gave her a hug, went downstairs to get the rest of the ornaments, called Nathan into the living room and we threw every ornament in the house on our heinous tree. And something strange happened. I started to look at our tree differently. I still thought she was an ass but she didn't seem to be ruining Christmas anymore. I actually kind of could tolerate her. And to top her off, we even put our Christmas train around her. Sweet, stupid, droopy, floppy, kind of okay tree.
                                                                   

    Oh! But we’re not done at the VanDyken house yet! Our kids each have a little (artificial) tree that they decorate however they like for their bedrooms. This year, Anna wanted to string popcorn around hers. So we popped some, ate half of it and then I found a blunt-tipped needle and some thread and she got to work. After a few minutes I heard a scream and I came tearing into the living room. “Charlie ate my popcorn!!!!” I look over at the dog, who’s licking his chops and sniffing the carpet for more. That sounds about right. So, I get her more thread and she starts over again and ends up with a lovely little garland for her own little tree. It’s around this time that Nathan informs me that the train is running too slowly and needs new batteries. We need four “C” batteries. We have two. Of course! So we head to Walgreen’s, buy batteries and come back home. To make a long story short, I’m in Anna’s room later and notice that her little tree is on the floor…and the popcorn is missing. “Charlie!!??! Did you eat the popcorn???” He answered by making his face about 4 times longer than normal (if you own a dog, you know exactly the look I’m talking about.) I panicked a little when I realized that he not only ate the popcorn but the thread that held it together and the beads we put on each end to keep the popcorn in place. That’s great, Charlie. Just to let you know, you’re in for a rough day tomorrow, Buddy.*

                                                                           

Wishing you all a wonderful holiday season. Hopefully, my embarrassing temper tantrum was enough to remind you to “not sweat the small stuff” and to enjoy every blessing that is thrown your way.

*Disclaimer:

Charlie is a Labrador Retriever. Intestines of steel. We love this dog as if he were a person. He is a member of our family. We will make sure he’s well taken care of.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!...(if you have the right frame of mind.)

Well, school just started a few short months ago, Halloween just passed, Thanksgiving isn’t even here yet so it seems the perfect time to start talking about Christmas. I mean, why not? Right? Walgreens and Hobby Lobby have had their Christmas trees out since July. I guess, by their standards, I’m way behind!

                                                                                

                                                     

     While the commercialism and pushing it up earlier and earlier to make a profit irritates me, the general overall feeling and meaning of the holidays makes me very nostalgic. I love thinking back to when I was a little girl and my grandma would make thousands of different Christmas cookies and deliver them all over town to the people and businesses that took care of her all year; the grocer, the bank, the mailman, the salon, etc. It was something I loved to do with her and it was a tradition I always looked forward to. Her house was, and still is, a place of warmth, faith, family, and friendship. Every Christmas Eve, there would be a gathering at her house of family, friends, and neighbors. I loved it. There would be candles lit and, in addition to the big tree in the living room,  she had a small artificial tree with little lights that would sit on her buffet table in the dining room. She also had a gold candle holder that held four tiny candles and when you lit them it would make the little angels go around in a circle above the candles. They’d make a very delicate ring as their tiny golden sticks struck the little golden loops they passed. If the angels got moving fast enough, it sounded like little wind chimes. It sat at her dining room table and would watch it for what could have been hours. She had the “Mitch Miller Holiday Sing Along” album (yes, album) and I’d sit on the landing on her staircase with the album cover in my lap and listen to the songs over and over again. To this day, I still remember all of it, even when I visit during the rest of the year, like it was yesterday. Grandma’s house is still my favorite place on this Earth.

    One of the best things grandma and I used to do in the winter was cross-country ski. She bought me my first pair of skis when I was about 8. We’d go skiing through the neighborhood (she lives near the woods) and we’d go back into the woods and she’d snip pine boughs off the trees and place them over her windows when we got back. Then she’d make hot chocolate and we’d have cookies. It was our own little Currier & Ives painting.

                                                                                

     Now, with my own family, I love to tell my kids stories about my good fortune to have an amazing grandmother and tell them about all our old traditions. But honestly, I’m finding it a little challenging to come up with our own. Of course, every year, my husband and myself bundle up the kiddos and we head out to get our Christmas tree. That is definitely something we have enjoyed for the past decade. But doggone Pinterest has gone and made me feel like I should be doing a thousand other things in order to give my children fond memories of their childhood. Well, I‘m sorry but I hate clowns and that stupid Elf on the Shelf is *not* ever making its way into our home. To me it’s too clown-like. A clown cousin, if you will. I won’t have it pooping Raisinettes all over my counter nor will it be pouring sugar all over my kitchen floor or scrubbing its butt with my toothbrush.

                                                                             

                                                        Honestly. There are no words.

     We read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” on Christmas Eve and we always read the Christmas story from the Bible and watch classic Christmas movies like “Christmas Vacation,” “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown,” “It’s a Wonderful Life,” etc… so why am I being made to feel like a failure if we don’t roast chestnuts like the pioneers and hold hands around the hearth as we sing “O Tannenbaum?” I don’t have a hearth!! I’m not going to make an advent calendar by folding impossibly tiny pockets of paper with even smaller bows and put a homemade “goody” inside each pocket.

                                   

                  (Do any of these, by any chance, contain expired gray chocolate?)

 I’m not going to do this. But you know what??? I’m still a good mom. My kids will have a wonderful Christmas with memories of parents who weren't so stressed out by trying to do everything “right” that they ended up making everyone around them miserable. We’ll laugh, we’ll have fun, we’ll celebrate our Lord and Savior’s birth, we’ll eat ridiculous amounts of sugar, and we’ll gain 50 pounds. Just like a normal family. Guilt free. And I wish the same for your family.