Celebration of Life at Six - OR - I love my nephew, but my sister can never read this post!

Imagine a cinematic depiction of the most nightmarishly chaotic child's birthday party.

Now imagine that the scene lasts twice as long as necessary in this hypothetical movie: the audience has understood the point; it's time to move on.

Nothing could be that bad, right? But, for the sake of expanding one's knowledge -- or just to experience some party-crashing fun -- extend the scene into complete steadycam coverage of the 90-minute party. Except, here is the catch: while it may be theatre, it isn't film and there are no funny outtakes.

That is the how I spent my evening.

Kindergartners running rampant in the house. Toddling babies moving too quickly for their grandmas to catch them in a non-infant proof house with steps leading into every room. Food choices consisting of cold, greasy pizza and chocolate-dipped fruit arranged like flowers on plastic GIJoe spears stuck into a Sponge-Bob bucket. Drink: no sugar (good), no caffeine (bad), and wine in a jug so large, so Brobdingnagian, that it makes the extra-super, super-sized Tub-O-Coke at the QuikMart look like an palate-cleansing aperitif.

Orchestrate the scene to a soundtrack of a performance by STOMP! with harmony provided by a lively Labrador, located in the laundry, with a wood door as a washboard accompaniment, capable of performing simultaneously in two distinct voices: a high-octave yelp and a window-rattling, basso profundo woof.

And, to think that the sugar wasn't even introduced until the last half hour, served suitably, if not predictably, atop store-bought chocolate cake.

As we left the party, I turned to my recently injured son, hobbling out to the car without crutches, and asked: Got Vicodin?

For more party snarking, surf over to Cake Wrecks and laugh while you rubber-neck at some other party disasters.

I'm Still Laughing

Last night, after dinner, my sisters and I were talking about silly things our kids had done. My youngest sister made a comment revealing that she didn't know something that most everybody -- boy or girl -- would know by about age 5. Something that if you read in a novel you wouldn't find believable, unless the character had just woke up from a decades-long coma. And had functional amnesia. And been raised by wolves.

I never thought about it. she said. I can't help it that I have a boy.

I laughed so hard I peed my pants.

As we were laughing my brother calls. Little Sister tells Big Brother why we are laughing. My brother, as usual, is taciturn. I imagine the quizzical expression on his face. I think I hear his brain churning as he struggles to make sense of this.

Finally, he breaks the silence. Even though the phone is not on speaker, I hear him stammer: But...But....You're a DOCTOR!

I say: Medical license? How in the hell did she even get a driver's license?

Even a nun would know this. Sister #2 says.

How do you think I felt? It was my kid. Sister #4 says.

Her concern is ignored. The funny story about her kid has been surpassed for the rest of family history. If it is remembered, it will only be as the setup for "...and then Aunt B said...."

How do you think I feel? She's my kid -- the Doctor! my mother spurts out between gasps and giggles.

Reader, understand: this was not an issue about anatomy, physiology, or psychology. This is not something taught in school. This is something every Westerner would know.

Or so I thought. I still can't wrap my brain around this. Or stop laughing.

I'm glad that her husband is the stay-at-home parent.

I'm glad that Little Sister doesn't know about this blog. I would be deep in dirt with her. But maybe she has no recourse now that she has revealed what I can only think of as The Ultimate Stupidity.

This could be source material for Blond Jokes. No, no. It's too unbelievable.

How to spend the afternoon not reading either of two books you can't put down....

Thinking that I'd finish one book (Alan Bennett's wonderfully delightful novella, The Uncommon Reader) and then get back to Ian McEwan's Atonement which is just getting to the 'can't put down stage' as I know it's approaching the ugliness of humans bit that McEwan is so good at writing, I thought I'd let my college-age son drive back to school as I read. He had borrowed my car while I was on vacation.

Just a few miles onto the interstate, far enough to get past the city speed limits, he states:

I wouldn't have bought this car. There's a lot that I don't like about it. He proceeded with a long list of ridiculous issues that surely are more important to college-aged freshman males than they are to their mothers. Little 'issues' like the staid color navy blue, the crappy factory-installed stereo with no mp3 player, the lack of power seats, the funky day-glo indigo color of the dashboard lights (which I have to agree is weird but I didn't test drive it at night) or the ridiculous expense -- given their relative safety value -- of side-curtain air bags. This last comment, I'm sure, was a test to see if I was listening. It was only a lead-in for the next comment, one that was too good to have been sacrificed to a book:

But it does handle nicely on the road. Why, when I took a road trip to St Louis last weekend, I was amazed how you can get over 100mph before you even know it! The car doesn't even shake until you're way past that.

Good German engineering. I said, trying to mask a "Pull over this second! You're never driving one of my cars again! Ever!" tone of voice that was combined with a rising sense of panic as I noticed that we were sandwiched between two semis with little breathing space.

Silently, I cursed that my reading glasses didn't allow me to see the speedometer from the passenger side seat. Couldn't decide for the next 60 miles if reading was a distraction from the certainty of imminent highway disaster, or if it only made the quick glances from page to pavement more agonizing.

I'm grateful that Freshman aren't allowed vehicles on campus at Big 10 Engineering school with a train for its mascot. And I'm happy that it only took my dear son three days and two parking tickets to realize that having to move a car parked on city streets every day was more hassle than it was worth.

Back to work tomorrow and, sadly, back to reduced reading time. Ah! if only vacations could be the routine, and I could always spend my afternoons reading and my evenings taking pictures like this from boats at dock or at sea:

Star People and Angel People

3rd Post for Carl's G.I.F.T Challenge

For some, it may seem a bit late to be putting up the Christmas tree today, but traditionally, I rarely put up the tree until a few days before Christmas. When I was a child, we never put the tree up until after December 17th, my father's birthday.


Each year, I buy a set of ornaments, usually following a certain theme or design. I mark each with our initials and the year. I have done this every year since my son was born. Although as I sorted through the ornaments today I realized that I hadn't put the year on each one. But, he does have one ornament for each of his 18 Christmases, even if we didn't record the year. This year I bought three birds. They'll roost on the tree with several others I've collected over the years. Birds on a tree just seem right to me.


The Santa Forest
Another ornament tradition that we have is to buy Santa ornaments. I buy at least one or two each year. We have so many now, that they don't fit on the tree. So, we have what is known in our house as the 'Santa Forest'. Santa Forest used to be on the piano. Other years it has been located on the mantel. This year, it's the bookcase, which doesn't have much room, so the Santas look rather cozy.



The Angelic Choir
The other type of ornaments that adorn our tree are angels. There are two types of people who decorate Christmas trees: Star people and Angel people. If you're a Star person, Angels just look wrong atop the tree. The same is true for Angel people: Stars don't belong crowning a Yule tree. What started out as a compromise many years ago -- I got my Star where it belong and there was at least one angel on the tree -- has turned into a collection of Angel ornaments, a representation of the Heavenly Host on the tree. I usually hum "Angels, We Have Heard on High" when I decorate the tree. At the last Annual Holiday Angel Count, I had 105 Angel Ornaments.



Speaking of Annual Counts, The Audubon Society's Annual Christmas Bird Count, continues through January 5. Follow the link to find out how you can participate and to see a photo album of birds -- the real ones that are so much more beautiful than any ornament on a tree!

Christmas Gift(s): A Memory

2nd post for Carl's G.I.F.T. Challenge....

One year when my son was about six years old, Christmas looked bleak, at least from a gift-giving perspective due to the thinness of my wallet. Say anything you want regarding the 'true meaning of Christmas', but few or no packages under the tree means nothing but disappointment for a child.

I had been ambivalent about the idea of Santa Claus, but my son's father was adamant about not misleading children about some jolly old man bringing 'good' kids presents. So, there were never presents labeled from Santa under my tree, although there were plenty without any tags at all. A bit of a compromise, but one that I stood by, even when my son's dad was no longer a member of our household. Over time, although I never said anything about Santa, B. began to believe in Santa. I realized how pervasive this idea of Christmas is in our culture. Wondering how non-Christian children in America must feel -- that Santa is not only for "good" kids, but only for "good Christian" kids -- really annoyed me and so I continued with the no Santa rule in my house.

One day B. approached me tearfully. He told me that he really wanted Santa to come and bring him gifts and he had even written a letter, but his dad had told him that Santa was "just some old guy working at the mall in a cheap costume and ski hat". B. was crushed! I realized how important the idea of Santa was to him. I was in a pickle. I told my mother about the conversation. I soon realized that was not my wisest move.

Quicker than you could say "Rudolph, the red-nosed", she had sprung into action. She contacted a neighbor who had played Santa at a "Breakfast with Santa" event at her church the previous week -- an event which I had declined to attend. "He's such a good Santa", she said. "And, it isn't a cheap costume! Come over here tomorrow for dinner and he'll stop by."

I knew there would be little peace if I didn't go along with her idea, and I was saddened by my little inconsolable boy with his heart crushed by discovering that the Santa I had never said existed, in fact, didn't. So to the other side of town we went the following evening.

Around 8pm, there was a heavy knock on the back door. Before we could answer it, in strolled the best costumed Santa I'd ever seen. My mother's friend, J., was unrecognizable. White hair, realistic beard, ruddy checks, heavy black boots, black workmen's gloves -- the kind you'd need to hold reindeer reins.

"I heard that B. was here. Where is he?" Santa laughed in a friendly way. But my son was no where in sight. Frightened, he had jumped behind the sofa. I don't know what he thought at first. That some itinerant mall worker had broken into G-Ma's house? That his father was so wrong? That Santa really existed and missed him at the Breakfast the previous week?

It took a few minutes, but B. finally emerged from behind the cushions, trembling, walked up to Santa and pinched him, confirming that he was, in fact, quite pinchable and real. Santa asked B. what he wanted for Christmas.

"Roller blades" he said. "For me and for my mommy. And books."

"Well," Santa said, "if your Grandmother and your teacher Mrs. H. report to me that you've been good, those gifts will be under your tree on Christmas morning."

"Rollerblades. For me and my mommy."

"My reindeer are ready to leave. I have to go. They spook real easy, so you can't go outside until you count to 100." With that, he left out the back door. After the quickest counting to 100 he had done to date, B. rushed to the back door, trying to push past his grandfather to get to the outside door. Somehow, J. had managed to get around the corner of the house, through the neighbors' yards and to his house before B. saw him. B. of course wasn't thinking about looking at the lawn; he was focused on the roofline and the sky beyond.

"Look" he said, "a piece of the reindeer's harness", pointing to a roof clamp that had been left by the roofing crew earlier in the day. "I hope the sleigh is safe."

"I can't wait to get my rollerblades!"

One problem solved, but another had taken it's place. This was the first mention of rollerblades and I am not the most athletic adult you'll ever encounter. Christmas was looking a little bleaker now that I had to buy myself a present too. But, Santa had promised.

I served the most inexpensive meals I could find for the next few weeks, and frequently showed up to shop for groceries at my mother's refrigerator. I had a little money saved, and somehow managed to save enough to buy two pair of new skates, helmets and pads. They even matched in color.

Christmas morning, B's eyes lit up when he saw the presents under the tree. Books and Rollerblades for him and for his mommy -- exactly what he had asked Santa for. He had so much fun putting on his new skates. He wanted to show me how to skate but it was very cold that day, too cold to skate outside. After I made B. swear that he wouldn't tell G'ma, we moved all of the furniture out of the family and dining rooms and created an inside rollerblade rink. We skated around the rooms for a couple of hours, leaving fingerprints on the walls as we bumped along, and leaving tracks that eventually came out of the carpet with a steamer. It was a too big of a promise -- and too much fun -- for a six year old to not tell his grandmother, and as predicted she was appalled that I would allow such 'horseplay' in the house. But, it didn't matter. It was the most memorable Christmas morning we ever shared.

He was a good dog.

DIZ 10/1992 - 11/24/2006