I Like Life, Life Likes Me. I Make Life a Perpetual Spree.

Well, since once again no one has invited me to a party at which I can wear a glittery cocktail dress, enjoy an open bar, dance to a great band, and then crash in a hotel room on someone else's dime, I guess we will spend NYE as per the usual: on the couch watching the Twilight Zone. Because, really, if I'm not going with Option A (glittery cocktail party on someone else's dime) then Option B (Twilight Zone and bed at 9) sounds pretty damn good.

2014, to you I say, so long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodnight.

To Nils, I say, you are the cutest most wonderful thing to come out of this year!

We have much to give thanks for this year. A new brilliant beautiful wonderful boy. A vivacious fabulous Carolena. Family and friends. Good health all around (Halleluiah!). Sure, we encountered a few zingers this year, but overall, life is good and we give thanks to God for our many many blessings.

2015, what about you? What will you bring?
So far you have promised us foundation repairs. Come on, 2015, get a grip. We have better things to do. Let's concentrate on plenty of beach trips, time with family and friends, and the accomplishment of the one armed push up goal that I'm working toward.

For now, I'll spend the day with my beautiful family, tuck those kiddos into bed, turn on the Twilight Zone and take a cup o' kindness yet to auld lang syne.

Cup o' kindness means wine, right?

W.O.W.

Words of Wisdom
By Carolena

If you have a cold, cough. Cough often. Cough on everything. See that tv over there with Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer playing on it? Cough on the Bumble. See the serving bowl full of mashed potatoes on the table? Cough on that too. Daddy's eye? Yep, you guessed it: cough. Little brother innocently playing nearby? Cough. Cough. Cough.

If you have a cough, throw up. Nothing says, "I'm miserable and need more sympathy" like throwing up in your own bed from coughing too much.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me... Xanax?

Nothing says "Fourth Day of Christmas" like a clergy spouse standing in the rain mere steps from the narthex while the service has already started, yelling "I don't care that your raincoat isn't buttoned!" at her child while trying to balance two bags of canned goods, an umbrella, a diaper bag, and a baby in her arms. People around here are tired and we've been to church a lot this week. Thank God for the two men who came out to grab the bags and the umbrella.

But really, in a strange way, isn't that what community is all about?

Some people claim that they don't need to go to church on Sunday mornings because they worship God on their own. I think that's a cop-out. Get your lazy butt out of bed, put on real clothes, and find a community to worship with. Because community is not about the "show" of being in church. And, guess what, community doesn't have to be perfect. In fact, none are.

Having a community means having a group of people there to catch you when you are flailing and rejoice with you when you are soaring. It means having a group of people to surround you as you go through the ups and downs of life. It means having familiar faces to greet you when you are having a morning in which people are tired and yelling at one another. It means that I will see those same beautiful faces next Sunday, when we are (hopefully) more with it and not yelling at one another outside of the church doors.

One day over the summer Chris and I attended a party at which we were the youngest people by about thirty years. And you know what? That was one of the most fun parties I've been to in a long time. Or ever. If we didn't have a church community would we even know people of all ages? Or would we just hang out with other parents in our general age group? I can just picture that now: all parties with children screaming and smearing pizza sauce onto things while the adults zone out in tiredness drinking beer and talking about potty training. Actually, scratch that, when was the last time people in our age group even had a party? We'd all rather put kids into bed and crash on our own couches watching reruns of Friends. Am I right or am I right? Right? Right? Right?

I am thankful that I have a group of people who know me and I know them. They've seen my daughter learn to walk. They've seen her throw tantrums in church, eat more than her fair share of donuts, and sing like an adorable little angel on Christmas Eve. They've seen me wallow in the misery of pregnancy and celebrated with us when our son was born. They've seen Nils as a small nugget riding in my papoose grow into a wild man crawling as fast as possible down the aisle to get to the front and see Daddy.

Yes, I am thankful for community. Nothing could replace the beauty of having a church community to live life with.

...and to help grab the bags when people are getting rained on and just need to get into the building.

It Was... Soap... Poisoning!

We were standing crowded together in the small landing at the top of my parents' staircase. In a huddle between my room and Hunter's, we talked about childhood. Kelly and Hunter were shocked to discover that my mouth had never been tasteless enough to be punished with soap. "You've never had your mouth washed out with soap?!" they exclaimed, looking at one another in astonishment and looking at me like I had grown antlers.

They proceeded to pull the oldest trick in the book. "It tastes good" they insisted. "Parents don't know that kids actually love it. It's all really a trick on parents" they explained to me.

So, it was then, as a teen, that I washed my own mouth out with soap.

Kelly and Hunter.
They're very persuasive.

More Like Zeroes in a Half Shell... Am I Right?

This was Carolena's first Christmas to be really excited about something specific that she wanted from Santa. Last Christmas she was excited about the idea of Santa coming. This year she was excited about what he might bring.

This was also Carolena's first time to learn the hard way that Santa doesn't always bring what you want. Bummer. Turns out if you can't be persuaded to ask Santa for something other than a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle bike and a live wombat, you're going to be disappointed. You'll shoot your eye out kid.

Come Christmas morning Carolena dashed out to the fireplace only to find a pink and white bike with flowers on it and a TMNT zippered bag attached to it. I could tell by her face that she was devastated. All visions of making the neighborhood jealous as she whipped down the street on her new black and green bike flew from her head as she stared at a bike with flowers on it. Flowers.

Carolena was insanely mature about the bike. I think she knew deep down that the wombat was a long shot, but the bike she thought was in the bag. We'd looked at bikes in stores all over town. She would stare at "the Teenage Mutant Turtle one" and tell me that was the one she was going to ask Santa to bring. She could not be persuaded otherwise. Unfortunately for Carolena, they don't make those bikes small enough for her.

They also don't make Ninja Turtle bikes for girls (uhhh... helllo?!?!) and as my mom put it, "have you ever fallen onto that bar?!" So getting the too big boy bike was not an option for Santa. Not an option at all. Except for when it was an option and in the shopping cart sleigh and then second thoughts crept in... but no, not an option.

She was a great sport about it though. She still acted happy and posed for pictures. There was no mention of disappointment or failure on the part of the right jolly old elf himself.

Later on in the day she quietly mentioned that while she had asked Santa specificially for a Ninja Turtles bike, he had instead brought her a pink and purple bike with flowers on it. Flowers, for pete's sake.

I think she had Ramona-esk visions of speeding through our streets on the TMNT bike, the envy of all other kids and these visions were destroyed by something in the form of pink and purple. Poor Carolena. It was a little heart-wrenching, but did make me think of my friend who told me recently that she wishes her parents had not raised her to believe that she could always have anything she wanted. This, she says, has led her to be thirty-something and just now having to learn the hard way that she does not and cannot in fact, "have it all."

So, yes, Carolena, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Carolenas. He might not bring you live animals from Australia or bikes that are intended for boys several inches taller than you, but thank God he lives and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Carolena, nay 10 times 10 thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

And, thankfully for mommies everywhere, making glad the heart of childhood has nothing to do with live wombats. Well, very little to do with them at least.

One Hand in My Pocket

If you are cruising along and Alanis Morissette's One Hand in My Pocket comes on the radio you know one of two things must be true: either (a) you are in a Delorian and have just crossed the space/time continuum back into 1990something OR (b) you live close enough to Houston to listen to any of their radio stations which all seem to believe that Alanis and Ace of Base have withstood the test of time.

I got one hand in my pocket and the other one is... doing a blind finger sweep to pull things out of Nils' mouth while I screech, "That's not food! What's in there?" Usually it's not food. Sometimes it's candy, in which case he sobs and I give it back. I believe it's the second child's privilege to eat floor candy.

I got one hand in my pocket and the other one is wiping a small child's rear end. And then the floor covered in urine.

I got one hand in my pocket and the other one is making dinner while a baby holds onto my legs and yells. Does he want anything? No, not in particular. Unless what he wants is to hold onto my legs and yell at me while I make dinner. In which case, score one for Nils!

I got one hand in my pocket... and it just found some stale goldfish and old shriveled pieces of gnawed on apple slices in there. Damn, I was hoping it was going to be cash.

Clergy Spouse Confessions

Sometimes I like to make mental lists of career choices for my husband that would have been harder on me. So this morning as we get ready for church and look forward to his upcoming vacation days, I sip my coffee and give thanks that Chris is not an Astronaut on the ISS, 19th century whaling captain, or a hit man for hire. That I know of.

One day recently I was standing in the narthex with a heavy baby on my hip (no offense Monsieur Nils) glancing over the shoulder of the person talking to me (to make sure Carolena was in fact only taking one donut) when I saw Chris. He walked into the Narthex and slipped right into the bathroom. And it was then, in that moment, that I came to understand the feeling of pure unadulterated envy. Ah, to know the freedom of just stopping in a bathroom when one needs. No worries about how to keep a three year old from "touching everything!" and juggle a baby on one's lap while urinating. That, my friends, is freedom.

I once poured old sour milk into my coffee on a Sunday morning. I tried my best to make it work but after several sips just had to dump it. Knowing that there is always hot coffee percolating in the parish hall just gets us to church faster every Sunday morning.

This morning I'm going to remember to pee before we leave the house.

Lessons Learned

On Thursday Carolena fell out of our bed, hit her eye on the bedside table, and woke up Friday with a fairly impressive black eye.

On Friday night I found her jumping on the bed singing, "It's a hard 'nuff life for us!" at the top of her lungs (yes, "hard nuff" - it's adorable). I asked, "didn't you just learn that falling out of the bed really hurts?!" which stopped her jumping and screaming just long enough for her to breathlessly reply, "I'm not jumping in your bed! I'm jumping in my bed!"

Touche.

TGIF

Judging by the casual "we got this" attitudes of the McDoncald's employees, I think it's safe to assume that kids pee in the playplace regularly. Perhaps daily?

I didn't say anything to the kid busily prancing in the growing puddle. I mean, really, what else could it have been? My child was calling from up above, "Mommy! I tee teed in the slide!" Plus, his parent was already pushing him out of it. Parent Peepee will probably try to convince themselves it was Sprite. Until it's their turn to run screaming from the building with a baby under one arm, dragging a kid with soaking pants to the car.

Back on the home front Carolena got snuggled into Christmas pjams and we watched Annie trailers online. Daddy came home early and we all piled into Mommy & Daddy's bed to talk about our days and make plans for the evening.

And that was when Carolena fell off the bed and got what will probably turn out to be a sizeable shiner for Christmas.

Hurry Christmas, hurry fast, we've been good but it can't last.

Beau Brummelly

Earlier this week Nils and I went shopping in hopes of finding something cute for the kids to wear to church for Christmas. A relatively new mom of two, I had visions of each store displaying tons of cute matching holiday finery which I would have to narrow down for C&N. After years of my sister's complaints that there is "nothing nice for boys" you would think I would have known better.

Nils and I braved Katy Mills in the height of Christmas season and came out with... pajamas. There are racks and racks of girls' Christmas dresses and then just t-shirts for boys. T-shirts? I can just picture our family photos now: all of us standing together at church in our Christmas finery. Chris in his big chasuble, my new hat, Carolena's fluffy dress, and Nils... in a t-shirt with a reindeer pooping on it.

What I want is to walk into the Gap, or Old Navy, or Target and see a display of nice Christmas clothes all together. Matching sweater dresses and sweaters (or sweater vests). Oxford shirts for boys. Slacks. And don't even get me started on the selection of boys' church shoes. This doesn't seem complicated.

Instead... The Gap had girls' sweater dresses and boys' t-shirts together. And sweatpants! This was all on the same center display - girls' dresses, boys' tees and sweatpants. What kind of a guy wears a tee and sweatpants when the girl he's with is wearing a dress? A guy who lives in his parents' basement planning the murders of innocent neighborhood cats... that's who.

Old Navy had a girls' Christmas dresses and the nicest thing they had for boys were flannel lumber jack shirts and skull sweaters. Nice. Maybe Old Navy is the one actually catering to the murderous male?

Next year I'm just going to knit a matching dress and sweater for these guys. I'll have to start in July to get it done, but oh, it will be worth it. This year, I am going to dig through Kelly's kids' hand-me-downs and doll Nils up in something Williams-worthy (which means it will be preppy and adorable).

And Cut. That's a Wrap.

When Chris and I were engaged I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table working on something for the wedding (I have no memory of what it was) and totally stressing out about it. My mom finally put an end to it by yelling politely suggesting, "Casey, everything you touch is turning to shit right now! Put it away!"

I immediately turned to my brother, grabbed his shoulder, and then cackled, "Ha! Mom just called you shit!"

Remember the time I spent months working on a handmade project for my sister and then decided right before Christmas that I didn't like it and started something new?

Last night I showed Chris the new project and we determined it is ungiftable in it's current state (which was in theory "finished"). Hopefully it's not unsalvageable. I then made a double batch of caramel corn for Carolena's teachers that was taken from the oven and dumped into the trash.

Today I woke up at 4am, drank a ton of coffee, and worked out. Caramel corn: take two. Kelly's handmade gift: take three. Coffee drinking: take one million.

Hunter, want to come over and entertain me while everything I touch turns to poo-poo again?

Expectant Waiting

For a pregnant woman, the last weeks of waiting are some of the most intense. The fear of childbirth and the unknown of when it will begin. The excitement of the baby finally arriving after so much waiting and waiting and waiting. The feeling of knowing it could be "any day now" or weeks of still more waiting.

In the gospel of Luke when we find Jesus anticipating his arrest and coming passion (ch 22), the Greek word translated "anguish" or "agony" leads us to view Jesus with every muscle tensed. That's the "agony" described. Agony is not a very good translation into English - but alas, I cannot think of a better single word either. It's not agony like the agony of stubbing your barefoot toe on concrete. Agony in this sense is more like a runner. He is like the last person in a relay waiting for the baton. Every muscle is tensed. The anticipation is palpable.

I like to see this particular agony like that of the last weeks of pregnancy. Every emotional muscle is tensed waiting. Could today be the day? Am I going to make it all the way to lunch? Will I go to bed in my own bed tonight or be in the hospital? Will we have a newborn here in a few days? Or next week? Bags are ready and by the door. A crib is set up and the nursery is clean. A carseat rides around empty in the car.

This is Advent.

This is how we are to await the second coming of Christ. Like a woman awaiting the birth of a child. Like a runner poised to grab the baton for the final lap. We are supposed to live in such a way that our spiritual muscles are tense with anticipation. Like the parents who paint the nursery and wipe off every surface in anticipation of their newborn child. Like the father who glances at his wife's enormous belly and decides to go to bed a little earlier just in case he's awakened during the night to rush her to the hospital. Advent is the first season of our church calendar year and it should not surprise us that this first season reminds us of how we are to live out our lives. We are to live in anticipation. We are to live in this type of agony. Waiting. Watching. Preparing. Living our lives in advent as we make our song, "Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel."

The Very Thirsty Butterfly

The Very Thirsty Butterfly
A sequel

Once upon a time there was a very hungry caterpillar. She ate and ate and ate until she turned into a chrysalis and yadda yadda yadda.

Then the beautiful butterfly had some caterpillar babies and that is where this tale begins.

The very thirsty butterfly was now a mother. And thus, her life was crazy. And that was what transformed her from a butterfly... into a very thirsty butterfly. She changed diapers and did laundry and fed those very very hungry caterpillars. So, she drank coffee. She cleaned the house (sometimes) and did more laundry and fed those very hungry caterpillars some more. Then she reheated yesterday's old cup of joe. She went grocery shopping and ran errands and did more laundry. She drank coffee by the gallon.

Night came and the very thirsty butterfly fed hungry caterpillars and bathed them and tucked them in. Then the very thirsty butterfly settled down on the couch with hopes of getting up for a glass of wine after just "resting her eyes for a minute..." but awoke a few hours later to find it was time for her to peel herself off the couch, take out her contacts, and get in bed.

Morning came and the very thirsty butterfly brewed another pot.

Wove and Mawwiage

I think the key to a healthy marriage is forgiveness.

Clearly you should take my word for it, I've been married all of 8.5 years.

Seriously though, it's forgiveness.

Sometimes you have to forgive your husband for telling the pregnant woman that you said you already could tell she was pregnant. I thought I'd said that in private.

Sometimes you have to forgive your wife for getting rid of your expensive comfortable desk chair because "it was ugly." I was young and stupid.

Sometimes you have to forgive your husband for undercooking her steak. I need to drink more wine before I eat something that can still moo.

Sometimes you have to forgive your wife for calling you and saying, "dinner is a huge burned mess please come home with pizza." Heh, yeahh...

Sometimes you have to forgive your husband for repeatedly leaving his clothes on the bathtub ledge.
Sometimes you have to forgive your wife for repeatedly leaving her clothes anywhere she damn well pleases.

Sometimes you have to forgive your wife for blogging about you.

Wove and Mawwiage... forgiveness is the key.

Love Is

One of my favorite people in the whole world just made the cut to be featured in this:
http://www.refinery29.com/love-definitions#slide
Beth is just too damn cool.

So, for me, today...

Love is waking up with a killer migraine, no medicine, and wanting to wallow in bed for the rest of my life, but getting up anyway to change someone's diaper and play "Santa" to someone being "Frosty the Snowman."

Love is a husband who drives halfway across one of the largest cities in the US to track down one of the only boxes of migraine medicine available right at that moment.

Love is telling Carolena that I feel better and we can go out to lunch today. Love is Carolena showing me a dingy old penny in her pocket as though it is a special secret while whispering that she is going to buy lunch today for all of us.

Love is waking up each morning in this beautiful life that Chris and I have built together.

Know When to Hold 'Em and Know When to Fold 'Em

I don't play poker (just because I don't know how, not for moral reasons you weirdos). I don't play poker, but I do know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.

And by that I mean the one handmade item I've been working on for months, the one item I planned out last year and put into motion this fall, got folded last night. Well, not literally, as it is lying in a big heap on the countertop, but I finally set it aside as a loss.

Kelly was supposed to receive a beautiful handmade surprise from me this Christmas. I've been working on it and working on it and working on it.

But, mama said there'd be days like this, and it was time to set it aside. Evidently, announcing months ago "I'm not going to be too anal about this because I want it to look homey" resulted in a project that looks like Prince Gerhardt made it.

When I make something for someone I like to pour love and good vibrations into it. Though I love the idea of what I was making (which is why it's still a secret), the reality made me grumpy. So, there was that. Plus, last night when I imagined Kelly's friends asking her about the item and her saying that I made it, the humiliation that washed over me made me realize it's time to call it a loss.

So, December 8th, here we are. Nice to see you. Joann's, watch out here we come. New day. New plan. Luckily I have until Epiphany to get it together.

Clergy Spouse Confessions

Life on this side of the church can be strange. Beautiful. But strange. Especially when it comes to the laundry.

Recently I washed what I would estimate to be 30,000 white tablecloths belonging to our church. Is that my job? No. Was I happy to do it? Sure. I'm a mom. What's a few more loads of laundry? Like a few more drops to Niagara. Plus, I like helping out in ways that require little more than dumping things into the washing machine, dryer, and then sending them out the door with my hubby. That's easy cheesey. Yumm... cheese...

The laundry around here can get weird though. It seems common place now to search black shirt collars for forgotten collar studs abandoned by their wearer and sure to rip holes in my bed sheets (true story - the hole was totally round like a crop circle).

Black shirts fade to gray and yet continue to fall out of my dryer warm and ready to be hung. No need for ironing work shirts around here.

Albs are a different story. When I head toward our laundry room and see a large white ghost hanging out nearby it I know it's time for the oxiclean. Ring around the collar (eeww - tmi), port wine stains (yummm... wine...), and candle drippings are just a few of the things that can grace the alb. Have you ever ironed a huge tablecloth that has a hood and billowing sleeves? Yes? Great, then you're ready to be part of a clergy family.

Our laundry is never ending. If I were to write one of those online quizzes titled something like, "Are you ready to be a Mom?" one of the questions would be, "To what degree is your sanity based on the amount of laundry you do?" and if people answer in such a way that demonstrates a strong correlation between amount of laundry looming and sanity, I'll recommend they get a goldfish instead.

Escalators

Remember last week when I gave up caffeine cold turkey for like three or four days? No? Me neither. Yesterday I had three cups of coffee and limited myself (it was hard) to one Diet Coke at lunch.

Yesterday Carolena announced that she no longer going to ask Santa for a bike but instead is now going to ask for a real live wombat.

Is There a Doctor in the House?

This morning as Chris was leaving for work he stopped to say this:
"If your dermatologist turns out to be a handsome Scandinavian man again, please let him look at your body this time instead of just giggling and letting him only examine your face and arms."

My husband just told me to take my clothes off for gorgeous Scandinavians with names like Dr. Handsome.

Deal.

Here's hoping my new dermatologist has a sub in the office today!

*This is officially the least "becoming Leona" thing I've ever posted.

Giving Thanks Without Giving Anything?

This Thanksgiving was very low key in our house, which made it a little odd, but full of thanks and love nonetheless. That day I had time to reflect upon Thanksgiving and it occurred to me that we, as a culture, treat Thanksgiving Day as Opposite Day. We set aside a national day of giving thanks, and then what do we do to practice this thankfulness?

We get together with people we love rather than people who are disenfranchised. Is this thankfulness? Well, yes, but perhaps not in it's entirety.

Then, we cook a ton of food and eat it. We eat all day until we are full. We call that appetizers. Then, we sit down to a Thanksgiving feast and stuff more food into our already full bellies. Once the meal is over, we take some time to lie on the couch and "make a little room" for dessert, which we then indulge in freely. Is this thankfulness? No, I believe this is called gluttony.

Then, that evening and the next day we (not my family in particular, but culturally speaking "we") crowd into stores for Black Friday. We push and shove and heap things into our arms. We buy and buy and buy. Is this thankfulness? Nope, I'm pretty sure this is hoarding.

What a strange way for us to spend our day of thankfulness. As far as I can see we don't do anything that exhibits thankfulness other than offering thanks before one of our meals that day. Our Thanksgiving doesn't actually look like giving thanks does it?

All of this has led me to think that it might be impossible to truly give thanks by taking instead of giving.

Alfred Hitchcock Presents

As I was falling asleep the other night I found myself in that weird twilight zone somewhere between being awake and being asleep. I was asleep enough to feel like I was somewhere else entirely, but awake enough to know it was a memory and not a dream. Perhaps I had fallen into a pensieve? I was sitting in the front row of a packed theater. Sitting on either sides of me were my mom and siblings. My dad was on stage wearing... well... how can I best explain it?

My dad was dressed as Norman Bates dressed as Mother.

How's that for an unsettling image of the guy who tucks you in at night?

I vividly remember watching the performance. It was an Alfred Hitchcock Behind the Scenes kind of show in Disney World. Near the end of the show a bright light shone in the faces of me and my family and a camera cut to the four of us in the front row. Blinded by the light, we were surprised when Norman Bates suddenly appeared in front of us dressed in full Mother regalia and wielding a knife. I remember my family around me jumping in surprise and all of us laughing. I am sure that I initially jumped, but I remember instantly thinking, "That's not my Dad. They've switched him out" and sitting back into my chair. I remember knowing without a shadow of a doubt that while my dad would willingly dress as psychotic Norman Bates in front of a hundred people, he would not, even in jest, come after his family with a knife.

Yeah, my dad, he's a pretty cool dude.

If anyone ever wonders where I got my strong sense of family and insane sense of humor from... look no further than this guy:

 

He can also be held liable for my uncommonly strong love for caffeine, the Twilight Zone, and A Confederacy of Dunces. He's a man of many fine tastes if I do say so myself.