Last night we drove.

As we do most years.

We drove around town, listening to Christmas carols and sometimes singing along (badly, I might add), looking at Christmas lights. Watching for the houses with the best displays. Admiring those that were especially colorful, or intricate, or retina-searing.

As we drove, “The First Noel” came on the radio. It took me a minute to realize that I was lost in the song, imagining playing it on the piano when I was a girl, singing with all my pre-teen heart. “The First Noel” was one of my favorites. “Silent Night.” “Greensleeves.”  I played, and sang, and probably tortured my parents.

It was beautiful.

Christmases were beautiful. I remembered when I was five years old and got my first bicycle, dark blue and white with a sparkly banana seat and streamers flowing from the handlebars. I remembered the year my mother, inexplicably, crafted Santa and Mrs. Claus out of Reader’s Digests and red spray-paint. I remembered the Christmas Eve my cousins and I all received sleeping bags from our grandparents, unwrapping them in the glow of the tree. I remembered a shopping trip with Dad, sitting in a Hardee’s restaurant on the first day of winter in 1977. Or maybe it was 1978. He explained the solstice to me over hamburgers.

I remembered the sleigh bells that hung on the back door, and the enormous artificial wreath that my mom always put in the family room. And spaghetti dinners on Christmas Eve. And the annual sugar cookie cut-outs, when I was allowed to sort through all of Mom’s cookie cutters: the ancient metal reindeer and gingerbread man, the red plastic Santa, the green Christmas tree. And so many more. More cookie cutters. More memories.

Last night my memories of “The First Noel” told me the beautiful lie that my childhood was perfect. There is no possible way, I thought, that my children will have such magical memories. I shrank inside as I thought about yelling at them the evening before. And about the messy living room, and how a Christmas tree doesn’t look very pretty in a cluttered room.  About how we didn’t take them to Breakfast with Santa because I was just too tired. And about how I’m never able to follow through with all my Christmas plans. I never get it all done. And I will never, I thought, ever make the kind of memories that my parents made for me.

As if on cue, Evan piped up from the back seat, “Looking at all these Christmas lights makes me feel happy.” His voice was quivering with excitement. Jensen added, “I love that we do this every year.”

Of course my childhood wasn’t perfect. Of course there were arguments and tears. There was even lumpy gravy at Christmas dinner. It happens.

Nor did my parents manufacture my memories for memories’ sake. The things I remember are artifacts of a content childhood that had moments of discontent, and of a loving family that didn’t always see eye-to-eye. The memories were never the goal. The happiness was.

As we drove last night, it was this tree that made Evan’s happiness spill over. This tree is the only source of light on its street. There are no other Christmas displays, and not so much as a streetlight. Just this tree, ablaze in the pitch-black night. This tree has a name. It is called The Magic Tree.

And I don’t know if the boys will always remember this particular tree, on this particular night, at this particular Christmas.

But that is not the goal.

That thing I wrote the other day about not knowing if I regret having a daughter… remember that?

This is my fear (rational or not) about raising boys exclusively: I just don’t think, eventually, that I will understand them entirely. They are going to grow up with a different cultural reference than I have. There will come a day that Jeff will implicitly understand something about their maleness, and I will feel confused and left out.

Actually I think that day may have already come. On Wednesday, to be precise.

Within about an hour on Wednesday evening the boys:

· Used colored pencils as guns and ran around pretending to shoot each other (including the toddler);

· Upon being told that wasn’t safe, turned the pencils into swords and swash-buckled around the house;

· Rearranged the furniture (these are the same kids who claim they aren’t strong enough to carry in groceries, by the way), thus transforming the living room into an indoor football arena, and played a full-contact game with a regulation-sized football, using the Christmas tree as a goal-post;

· Cranked up the stereo and flattened an enormous cardboard box which they used as a dance floor, which was totally fine until they

· Turned dancing into a game called “Push Each Other Off The Box,” whereupon Caleb—at a distinct size disadvantage—was plowed into a wall and started crying;

· Turned the sofa into their personal stunt-man-training-facility, which also resulted in Caleb crying. And bleeding;

· Placed the flattened box at the top of the stairs and helped Caleb lay down on it and said something about “…sledding!” and were clearly planning on launching the poor baby to his death until I intervened.

They accomplished this destruction in under one hour.

The sledding incident pushed me over the edge. I may have yelled. Okay, I did yell.

And Jensen, offended at being told (in nicer words of course) that he was a complete bonehead, threw up his hands and rolled his eyes and said, “But, Mom, there isn’t anything to do that doesn’t involve hurting each other!”

I fell into stunned silence and looked at Jeff with pleading eyes. “What is wrong with your children?” I asked silently. And he smiled. And shrugged. And he understood them with absolute clarity. I was the only one not in the loop.

It has happened.

Two years ago today you completed us.

Two months you waited until you decided to grow.

Two sparkly blue eyes which are flecked with gold.

Two dimpled hands that hold my cheeks as you kiss my nose.

Two chubby legs that carry you away from me. And bring you back. For now.

Two syllables to say my name. “Ma. Ma.”

Two tragic minutes in time-out when you hit.

Two older brothers to get you into trouble and maybe even get you out of it.

Two parents, one of whom gave you blonde hair and the other who made it curly. Who love you. To the moon. To the sun. And back. And again.

Two.

You are perfectly two.

I am not a morning person.

This is perhaps an understatement.

But I get up early to beat the child-rush and to quietly come to grips with consciousness, and after 15 minutes and a cup of coffee I’m good. Sometimes I even like being up.

I sit at the table (coffee in hand) and watch the deck get brighter as the sun comes up. And the daylight brings the birds to the feeders. And if I’m really lucky, Evan will creep down the stairs and crawl up on my lap and watch with me.

“Mom,” he’ll whisper, “there’s a mother red-bellied woodpecker.” Except he says, “muddah wed-bellied woodpeckew,” and part of me hopes he never corrects his pronunciation.

Evan is my bird boy.

With Jensen, it’s football. We sit and watch football for hours and may not even speak a word and we are content. Together. I used to do the same with my dad. I didn’t even understand the game. But I sat next to Dad and watched him watch and I was satisfied. The memory still makes me smile.

I don’t know what Caleb will be. But I know that we will share something that will make us both happy to the center of our beings.

And if whatever he is requires me to get up early, so be it. I will do it.

Because that is love.

My husband has a dependency problem. We work through it, mostly. It’s the same old story. Sometimes he manages it well, sometimes he slips into old patterns of using and avoidance and defensiveness and untruthiness. Sometimes I get mad. Sometimes I just let him withdraw from us. It threatens us. But, so far, we have survived.

His drug of choice? The Economist. Cross my heart and hope to die, he is strung out on global financial affairs. Could be worse, I suppose.

But if anything’s going to ruin our marriage, it will be that damned magazine. He has them stashed all over the house… tucked into bathroom drawers, behind sofa cushions, in the storeroom. He is probably never more than five steps away from a fix. Maybe an article about rule of law in Russia. 5:30 on any given weeknight, and I’m in the kitchen tripping over 73 Legos and Hot Wheels and am openly swearing and burning my hand on the oven and the older boys are engaged in a battle to see who can remove the other’s eyes first and the baby has taken off his diaper and peed on the floor and the decibel level in our house approaches the output of a jackhammer. (When did we become this stereotype? That is another post for another day.)

And with pupils that I’m sure are dilated, Jeff sits in the middle of it all, blissfully reading about the rise in India’s manufacturing output in the past decade.

He looks confused when I ask calmly (albeit with a perceptibly bad attitude) if he would kindly put down the magazine and remove the propane tank from Evan’s grubby hands.

Then he gets mad when I not-quite-yell, five minutes later, for him to put away the damned (I whisper that word, so the kids don’t know I’m mad) magazine and engage with us for a few minutes.

“Just let me finish this article,” he says. Every. Single. Night.

I do not exaggerate.

___________________

Jeff was home on Monday. Late in the afternoon I ran some errands. I came home to a crying toddler who was pouring dried pasta all over the floor; an eight-year-old who was screaming, “Fine!” and slamming his bedroom door;  and a preschooler who, wearing nothing but underwear, was repeatedly jumping off the back of the sofa and yelling maniacally about… something. Jeff was cooking dinner. Or trying to. (If you ever stop breathing my husband will save your life without batting an eyelash, but putting dinner on the table for a family of five without splattering tomato sauce on the ceiling and breaking something is beyond his skill set.) His jaw was set. He threw a pot in the sink. The house was a disaster.

I surveyed. I sat down at the table and opened my laptop. I read. I typed. He stared aghast at me from the stove as Caleb attempted to eat a Christmas ornament.

“I can’t get a single thing done,” Jeff said, and threw something else in the general direction of the sink.

“Hmmm. Wonder how that feels?” I replied. Calmly. Sweetly.

He not-quite-yelled, “How about if you put away the computer and help?!”

We looked at each other for a good long minute. I closed the laptop and rescued Caleb from himself, then checked the bread in the oven. Jeff turned to the sink. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I think some sort of intervention occurred in that moment.

We’ve been clean now for 37 hours. Here’s hoping for a sober holiday season.

Okay. Thanksgiving is over. I am so glad we got all that “thankfulness” stuff out of the way. Now we can move onto what really matters: spending money we don’t have on crap we don’t need and for which there is no need to be thankful.

Dutifully, my kids are making Christmas lists for themselves. And wondering what they should buy Dad. And me. And this morning the Sunday paper came and it was 81% ads and the kids pored over them with excitement I haven’t seen since, well, last Christmas. And then there are the 12 mail-order catalogs we get every day. The kids have a cumulative attention span of 43 seconds. Unless they’re looking for stuff to buy. Then they’re good for about 3 hours.

Anyway. After watching them look at the ads this morning, I’m gonna help them out a little. This is a list of things they should categorically NOT give me for Christmas. Period.

• A 6.2-carat genuine cultured faux Christmas-tree shaped topaz adjustable-size ring with matching earrings and a coordinating belt buckle. Any “fashion jewelry” is not. Fashionable. Or, arguably, jewelry.
• A Roomba. Unless my husband is secretly itching for a life of celibacy. In which case any small household appliance would make a perfectly fine gift.
• “Fine fragrance.” Again: anything that feels the need to specify is, most assuredly, not fine.
• A Snuggie. Well, actually, maybe. But no. No.
• A Snuggie for my dog. (If I had a dog.) I actually read a “news report” about Black Friday in which a woman cited not purchasing a Snuggie for her dog last Friday as an example of her new-found fiscal restraint, given These Current Economic Times. To her I say: way to stand firm. It’s personal responsibility like this that makes Our Nation Great.
• A Baby Alive doll that eats. And poops. Granted, I’m probably not the target demographic for this one, but Evan thought it would be perfect for me. I guess a pooping doll is the gift that keeps on giving. This? Is one ugly doll. And it poops. The stuff of nightmares.
• A spare-toilet-paper-roll-holder. Shaped like a giraffe. Its neck is really long and you store TP rolls over said long neck. Yes: this really exists. Ain’t capitalism grand?
• A massager, back or foot variety. Even if it does shiatsu.
• An electric shaver. Apparently Christmas is to the electric shaver industry what Easter is to the egg industry. Here’s hoping I don’t need one.
• A 4-shooter rotating liquor dispenser. Actually, this one may be very practical. I can install it in the laundry room and toss back a couple every time I take stuff out of the dryer. Efficient.
• A DIY doggie DNA test. For anybody who’s just been dying to find out if their ugly, mean chihuahua has a long-lost Rottweilian ancestor. I might get this and secretly test Jeff to see if he has any poodle blood. Seriously, if you’ve seen the dude’s hair recently, you understand.
• A money-sorting jar. The kids found this one in the “For Dad!” section of the ads. Fortunately the ads designate gifts for each parent so we don’t accidentally get a a Dad Gift for Mom or vice versa. But the kids, in their progressive stereotype-crashing ways,  still thought I might like the money-sorter. And I’m totally going to tell them they should get their dad a purple leather purse. A Fashion Handbag, no less. And maybe a zebra-striped bra.
• A Zhu-zhu pet. Mostly because I don’t want my family members to risk closed cranial trauma in the pursuit of one of these stupid things.

What I really want: a Nook. But Barnes & Noble didn’t foresee that this would be a popular gift (how could they have possibly known?!) (oh, and who’s a sucker for marketing?) and they’re sold out until, like, 2013. And I also want a Christmas sweater. Monogrammed. With the letters “WTF” instead of my initials. (Thanks, Becky. I cannot get this out of my head now.) Oh, and if there just happened to be a white Lexus with an enormous red bow on its roof in the driveway on Christmas morning, I probably wouldn’t complain.

But. Marketing being what it is, and my kids being who they are, there’s a good chance I’ll end up with one or more of the items on the Do Not Gift List. Or a home karaoke machine. Or a hand-crafted clay ashtray. And me being who I am, whatever they get me I will declare it The Best Christmas Gift Ever. And I will mean it. Even if it’s a Chia Pet.

I know. I said no posting. But here I am, well-rested. (Thank you Ambien.) And feeling better than I’ve felt in over a week: so far I haven’t been tasered one single time this morning and only my left hand is numb and I was able to make it out of bed this morning without falling against a wall or a doorjamb. (Thank you steroids.) And my children are still sleeping. (I don’t know whom to thank for this minor miracle.) So. A good morning.

And now I’m getting ready to peel and braise a big pot of sweet potatoes. Last night before bed (but after the Ambien) I took the second batch of dinner rolls out of the oven. (Well, technically the third batch. But one of the many joys of MS is that sometimes it makes me unable to concentrate enough to, say, follow a recipe. Even one that I know by heart.  I had to throw away a sodden mess of bread dough on the first attempt which seemed pretty pathetically symbolic at the time.) Tomorrow will be pumpkin cheesecake and pecan pie.

Thanksgiving Friday is almost here!

No: we are not Communists or heathens or just a little slow on the uptake. Thanksgiving Friday. My husband has a job that doesn’t necessarily stop on holidays or weekends or during the night, so he will leave us Thanksgiving morning before 6:00. He’ll be back sometime Friday morning and we’ll trek the eight miles over the river (creek) and through the woods to Grandmother’s house. Together. If we can’t be together, I’d rather not do it.

I’ve been cooking a lot lately, with a compulsion that was almost confusing. Until I stumbled across this lovely blog: The Kitchen Witch. The food, the family, the love… she brings all the perfect imperfections together in a beautiful way in her posts. And, probably, in her life. I’ve always loved to cook. But this is why I’ve been going about it with such reckless abandon in the past weeks. It’s been a sad, scary year. Now I’ve finally recovered enough that I (well, except for this week) recognize myself, and I recognize how much I love these people who live in my house and I recognize how badly I want to stay well enough to keep giving them all of me. I want to spend hours preparing their meals, treating them and nourishing them and every once in a while making them turn up their noses at me or at what I put on their plates. Letting them snitch tastes out of the mixing bowls. And hugging them. And, just maybe, yelling at them a little. Oh, and hugging them. I have the energy to do it right now, and I have to do it while I can.

So Thanksgiving Friday. And the sentiment is this: I will be with people that I love (though not all of them, sadly). I am thankful for them. I want to pour every surge of love, quiet or heart-rending, that I can find in my body into the food I prepare for them. The cooking will take several hours over a few days. One ruined batch of bread dough, two extra trips to the grocery store, one great big burn on my right hand, about 600,041 calories. And hours and hours of love.

It doesn’t seem like nearly enough.

Happy Thanksgiving.  I hope you are as blessed as I am.

In the light of the moon, an eight-year-old boy lay snuggled up in his bed.

One Sunday morning the warm sun came up and-pop!-out of his bedroom came a medium-sized and very hungry third-grader.

He began to look for some food.

On Monday he ate through a plate of barbequed chicken and mashed potatoes and turnip greens*. But he was still hungry.

On Tuesday he ate through a big bowl of pasta with roasted cauliflower. But he was still hungry.

On Wednesday he ate through a dish of stir-fried tofu and spinach and lima beans. But he was still hungry.

On Thursday he ate through a bowl of pasta salad with chicken and vegetables. But he was still hungry.

On Friday he ate through two cheeseburgers and some French fries. But he was still hungry. And he went to his Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

On Saturday at Grandma and Grandpa’s he ate through two waffles soaked in syrup, one Little Debbie Zebra Cake, one hot dog, one enormous soft pretzel, one package of Rolos candy, some Hershey’s kisses, a lot of Reese’s peanut butter cups, one juice box, one container of movie theater nachos with processed cheese food topping, some leftover popcorn, and three slices of pepperoni pizza.

That night he had a stomachache! Also, he puked.

The next day was Sunday again. He returned home and had a nice dinner of chicken and black beans and sweet potatoes and after that he felt much better.

Shockingly, he was still hungry. And, equally shocking, he was still just a normal-sized eight-year-old, even after the repulsive food orgy in which his grandparents allowed him to indulge.

That evening he rolled up into a cocoon in his bed, and he stayed there all night long. The next morning his mother dragged his whiney butt out of bed and he stumbled down the stairs rubbing his eyes and…

he was a grouchy little boy who looked at his bowl of oatmeal and growled, “Why can’t I eat Froot Loops for breakfast like all the other kids? You don’t love me!”

__________________________

*I assure you that this is our actual menu from last week. A little heavy on the chicken, but it happens. And, yes, my children DO eat tofu. Willingly. Spinach, too.

While you’ll have to wait until next month to see our actual Christmas card, it is my great pleasure to share with you now our 2009 Christmas Card Reject Photos. Enjoy.

Caleb's immediate reaction upon seeing the camera was to throw himself on the floor and start screaming. This was shockingly similar to Jeff's reaction when I told him it was time to take the pictures.

Red-eye from the camera flash? Or photographic evidence of demonic possession? I think the answer is obvious.

In my fictional world, this is Jensen being really excited to have his picture taken. More likely, he was this happy because I promised him candy when we were done. Seriously, isn't Christmas all about bribery? If you don't pull out "If you're not good, Santa won't bring you a cool present" at least once in the next month, you're a better parent than I. You're probably a better parent than I am, anyway.

My fantasy continues: "Yes!" he shouts. "I love posing for pictures! And I have the awesomest parents in the world! And they definitely don't yell at me during Christmas picture-taking!"

Reality check. "You want me to smile?" he asks, truly perplexed. "As if."

My minimum expectation is that the kids actually look at the camera. Which is apparently asking too much.

Okay, seriously. Look at the camera. No! Look! Dammit. (And so the swearing begins.)

Right. While nose-picking is very festive and all, could you maybe not? I'll give you candy if you don't pick your nose. And puppies! I promise.

There are no words that adequately describe this child. None.

Temporarily ignoring this look of anguish, I must explain that I have no idea why two-thirds of our children are not wearing shirts for their Christmas pictures. But, let's be honest: Christmas would be a whole lot more fun if we were ALL half-naked. Am I right?

All I can say is that this one came dangerously close to making the final cut. Best. Christmas card. Ever.*

Shortly after this last shot, Jeff and I indulged in our now-traditional Christmas Card Picture Stiff Drink while the kids withdrew to their bedrooms to flip through the yellow pages for therapists and to plot their revenge for this annual torture session.  This is the stuff memories are made of. God, I love the holidays.

———————–

How does one learn to live with MS? There’s one consistent theme to the advice I’ve gotten: “simplify.” As if that’s gonna happen with three little boys. But I’m trying. That’s one of the reasons Jensen rides the bus. (That, and waiting in line at parent pick-up in the school parking lot makes me want to jab my eyeballs out with a sharp object. But that’s another story.) It’s one less thing I have to do. One less thing I have to worry about.  

I’m a fool.

School started Monday. Jensen also had football practice at 6:00. His bus is due home at 4:04, and I figured it would be late on the first day. But we didn’t have to leave until 5:20. We’d have plenty of time.

Again: a fool.

Being the relaxed parent that I am, I didn’t start watching for the bus until 4:30, and even then I didn’t really expect it. By about 4:40, I was watching a little more attentively, but was still totally chill.  

4:45. No bus. And my my “relaxed” facade is getting a little shakey.

4:49. No bus. I call the bus company to casually inquire as to my son’s whereabouts. Busy signal. Despite my best intentions, I’m getting anxious.

4:55: No bus. I call the busy company again, determined to be cool about this. But still. Could he have gotten on the wrong bus? Could he still be at school? Is the bus in a ditch? Could the driver be on his way to Kentucky? And how in the hell am I going to get my kid ready for practice in time? My heart rate is climbing, ever-so-slightly.

4:57-4:04: No bus. I am continuously dialing the bus company. Continuous busy signal.

4:05: No bus yet, but a human answers the phone. Progress. Maybe. A completely bitchy voice demands, “Whaddya want?” I answer completely cheerfully with a very subtle whiff of sarcasm, “You all are responsible for my son getting home and he’s an hour late and I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t… oh, I don’t know… abducted.” She is unimpressed and puts me on hold. Perfect.

4:10: No bus. On hold. I am now sweating.

4:15: No bus. On hold. My child is missing and we’re going to be late for practice. I have a headache.  I make a mental note to not get lippy with the bus company in the future.

4:19: Exactly one hour and 15 minutes late, Jensen bursts through the door, looking a little like a POW. And Suzie Sunshine picks up the phone at the bus company. “Who are you waiting for?” she demands . “My son. He’s home,” I say, and hang up and wrestle his sweaty little body into full football pads and throw a PB&J into his starving mouth and run out the door and drive across town like a bat out of hell.

We made it to practice on time. But I may need to rethink my stress-reduction plan.