Monday, April 22, 2013
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Christmas Elf
In our house, Christmas isn't the time of giving and receiving, or the time to reflect upon past holidays. It isn't about family and friends, or a religious belief. No, in our house, Christmas is about...Elvis. Elvis the Elf, to be exact.
Most nights thereafter, Elvis was tricky. He played games with his friends:
He toilet-papered The Boy's room:
He even brought supplies to make reindeer food:
You never know; someday, YOU might wake up with pointy ears. It could happen. Anything's possible with Santa Magic.
Elvis made his first appearance last year. The Boy was so excited; I remember him jumping up and down and crying, "What is it?! What is it?!" The Girl was only a year old, so she didn't really care what it was, as long as she could play with the box.
So, the Elf on a Shelf was born out of desperation. I had an unruly 4-yr-old who was acting out because he had a sister who was not only mobile, but totally into ruining all of his "stuff." I thought Elvis could help save me from bad behavior. And he did...mostly. There was one time where Elvis and Santa were so disappointed by a certain boy's behavior towards his mother that Elvis went on a 3-day hiatus where he contemplated leaving our family for a better one. Things improved.
Fast forward to this year, and Elvis - whom we had missed ALL YEAR LONG - returned on Nov 15 or so, an entire two weeks earlier than anticipated. Why, you may ask? Well...Santa thought that the children in our house needed a behavior reminder. Things improved until about Thanksgiving.
By December, The Boy was bored looking for Elvis. "He never does anything exciting," he complained. My first thought was, Um, maybe because he's an elf who sits on a shelf? But, my filter firmly in place, I nodded sagely and suggested he have a chat with Elvis. Once The Boy went to bed that night, I began to Google, and I found some REALLY creative things for our elf to do.
The next morning, The Boy awoke to find his and his sister's socks and underwear scattered all over the Christmas tree. Now, if you're not aware, underwear is just about the funniest thing in the world to 5-yr-olds. The word, the item...doesn't matter. Underwear = hysterics. So this was a big hit.
He roasted marshmallows over an open fire:
Things were once again interesting.
Soon after these things started happening, the Elf on a Shelf movie came out. It's a cute little movie, and really gets into the hows and whys of the Elf world. Elvis - being a "scout elf" - is sent to a home to watch over children and report to Santa. There are other elves, including toy making elves, managerial elves, and mail elves (talk about bottom of the barrel, right?). But The Boy's true excitement came from a movie he saw after watching the Elf on a Shelf movie (approx. 416 times).
I let him watch The Santa Clause. The one with Tim Allen...great movie. Really fantastic, actually, and one of my favorites. I thought it'd give him a glimpse into what the North Pole looks like. My plan, simple as it was, had unintended side effects.
Prior to Christmas, The Boy wanted to be many things when he grew up, including (but not limited to) a firefighter, ice cream taster, bird, Lego minifigure, policeman, and menagerie owner.
All that's changed.
In The Santa Clause, The Boy was introduced to Secret Agent Elves. Their sole purpose for being is to rescue Santa from unsavory situations, such as jail or a dog's death-grip. These elves fly with rocket packs attached to their backs, own cool watches that beep when they synchronize them, and wear cool uniforms.
They are the elite. The best of the best. And The Boy is convinced that his dad trains them. (When questioned further, apparently The Husband - after catching bad guys all day - travels to the North Pole by "Santa Magic" and trains these elves in top-secret caves. Interesting.)
**Side note: E.L.F.S. stands for Effective Liberating Flight Squad.**
**Side note: E.L.F.S. stands for Effective Liberating Flight Squad.**
Now, instead of wanting to be an ice cream taster or policeman, The Boy wants to be a Secret Agent Elf. He wants it so badly that he told EVERY single Santa we came across - in the mall, at the farm, at parties - that he was ready and willing to synchronize his watch and fly to the rescue should the need ever arise.
He checks his ears every day to see how much pointier they've become. But, as an unexpected bonus, instead of the tears and hysterics I suffered through last year when Elvis made his departure on Santa's sleigh to go back to the North Pole for the rest of the year, this time, the thought of becoming a Secret Agent Elf made it a little easier to say goodbye to Elvis this year.
Because really - it's not goodbye if eventually you're going to live forever at the North Pole. (With your mom, dad, and dogs. Note the absence of a certain family member there.)
You never know; someday, YOU might wake up with pointy ears. It could happen. Anything's possible with Santa Magic.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Why Mothers Want to be Grandmothers
Well-known fact #1: Being a mother is a thankless job.
Well-known fact #2: Being a grandmother is WAY better than being a mother.
Little-known fact #1: Mothers badger their children to have their own children because they know they'll get the joy of children without the frustration of raising them.
Little-known fact #2: You don't truly understand little-known fact #1 until you have children of your own.
When the family and I went to the Topsfield Fair on Sunday, it was hot and crowded. Because we went with my sister, her au pair, her children, and my parents, the adult-to-child ratio was 6:5. Not bad - we outnumbered them! There was barely any room to move, and we spent more time feeding and cleaning the kids than doing much of anything else. However, the kids didn't mind. In fact, they had a blast, going on some rides, eating food that was totally unhealthy, and simply playing together.
At one point, The Husband took The Boy and his Cousin to play some games. The boys were gone for about 45 minutes, and when they returned, they were toting some pretty hefty prizes: 2 frisbees, 2 large blow-up dragons, 1 large purple blow-up monkey, and 1 hideous brown stuffed thing that the Husband won for The Boy.
The Boy named the brown stuffed thing "Mike" and it became his best friend; he even slept with it that night. The next day, Mike was introduced to all his other stuffed animals (last count was 56).
Unfortunately, that's about as far as Mike went in our household, because The Boy left Mike on the floor....and any stuffed animal left on the floor is at the mercy of the trained killer, Molly:
Right after dinner on Monday, less than 24 hours after Mike was brought home, The Husband noticed a strange trail of stuffing in our bedroom. After a quick search, he discovered the carnage:
Well-known fact #2: Being a grandmother is WAY better than being a mother.
Little-known fact #1: Mothers badger their children to have their own children because they know they'll get the joy of children without the frustration of raising them.
Little-known fact #2: You don't truly understand little-known fact #1 until you have children of your own.
When the family and I went to the Topsfield Fair on Sunday, it was hot and crowded. Because we went with my sister, her au pair, her children, and my parents, the adult-to-child ratio was 6:5. Not bad - we outnumbered them! There was barely any room to move, and we spent more time feeding and cleaning the kids than doing much of anything else. However, the kids didn't mind. In fact, they had a blast, going on some rides, eating food that was totally unhealthy, and simply playing together.
At one point, The Husband took The Boy and his Cousin to play some games. The boys were gone for about 45 minutes, and when they returned, they were toting some pretty hefty prizes: 2 frisbees, 2 large blow-up dragons, 1 large purple blow-up monkey, and 1 hideous brown stuffed thing that the Husband won for The Boy.
The Boy named the brown stuffed thing "Mike" and it became his best friend; he even slept with it that night. The next day, Mike was introduced to all his other stuffed animals (last count was 56).
Unfortunately, that's about as far as Mike went in our household, because The Boy left Mike on the floor....and any stuffed animal left on the floor is at the mercy of the trained killer, Molly:
Right after dinner on Monday, less than 24 hours after Mike was brought home, The Husband noticed a strange trail of stuffing in our bedroom. After a quick search, he discovered the carnage:
Quickly, he pulled me into the room and showed me. After he showed The Boy (which he really shouldn't have done) and the extreme yet expected panic/hysteria/sadness that followed, it was determined that the only feasible solution was to give Mike to Nana so she could fix it, much like she has fixed his Blankie countless times before.
(For the record, I am not allowed to fix Blankie. I'm not sure why. When I did try to fix it once, The Boy ripped out all my stitches and had his grandmother re-stitch it. Only Nana is trusted with his most beloved possessions, so it was natural that Mike be sent to her house. This is a prime example of the frustration mentioned in little-known fact #2, above.)
Unfortunately, due to the nature of the material (cheap) and breadth of destruction (the fabric was so pulled in places that you'd have to sew on new sides), The Husband and I decided our only course of action: Lie to The Boy.
So we told him we were bringing it to Nana and ordered a new one off Amazon instead.
Two days later, "Nana" (a.k.a. Amazon) mailed The Boy a better-than-ever Mike. The reunion was, as you can imagine, full of relief and extreme gratitude for - you guessed it - Nana's capabilities with a sewing needle.
We all have hopes for our children. Mine is that someday my kids will get the chance to lie to their kids so I can look like a rockstar.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
It's Not My Fault!
We all know that person who refuses to admit they've done anything wrong. In fact, that person claims to have had nothing to do with the end result, or has an excuse as to why something turned out the way it did.
I hate that.
For goodness sake, no one is perfect. No one can claim that they've never made a mistake, or made a wrong decision. It's OK to say, "Yeah...I messed that one up. I'm sorry. I'll fix it." (You have to actually then go and fix it to make it right, in case you were wondering.)
This all stems, perhaps unsurprisingly, from my kindergartner. It's amazing the things that simply aren't his fault. The list runs the gamut, from dumping his little sister out of a small chair (of which he's gripping the back of) to the large pool of orange juice on the floor in front of him (while he's holding the now-empty bottle). But I think the best one happened the other day.
He had a paper cut. On the inside of his thumb.
Of course, this is my fault, as everything tends to be in his little mind. (By little, I mean the actual size of his brain, not the ignorance level. Because really, he's 5. He's just a child with the speech skills of a magna-cum-laude Harvard medical school graduate.)
When questioned about his paper cut, he immediately became defensive, as if I was accusing him of torturing small animals. Here's how the conversation went:
Me: Ouch! That looks like it hurts. What happened?
Him: It wasn't my fault!!
Me (slightly taken aback at the vehemence in his voice): I didn't say it was. It just looks painful. Those little cuts are sometim--
Him: You did it to me.
Me: How could I have possibly sliced the inside of your thumb open, honey? I don't think that's even possible!
Him: Yes it is. And it hurts, so I need a Band-Aid. And some cream so it stops stinging.
Me: It looks a bit...old. Are you sure it still stings?
Him (indignantly): Yeah!!!!!
Me (again, a little taken aback): OK, OK, chill out. We'll get you a Band-Aid.
Him: You know Mommy, I wouldn't even NEED a Transformers Band-Aid if you hadn't hurt me.
Me: We're out of Transformers Band-Aids. And just to be clear, I didn't cut your thumb.
Him (insulted by the lack of Transformers Band-Aids): Well, you need to think of something ELSE to put on my thumb, which SOMEBODY (insert accusatory tone here) cut open. And it wasn't me. Honest! Seriously! I'm not lying! Look at my tongue! (sticks out tongue to prove it's "not black")
Me: Looks a little dark in there, buddy.
Him: Nu-uh!! Actually, I remember The Girl was mad at me for pushing her out of my way...maybe she did it! (This last bit was delivered in his "I'm such a helpful sort, aren't I, Mommy?" voice.)
Me: You pushed your sister?
Him (realizing his mistake): It wasn't my fault!!
At this point, I have a choice. I can either walk away from the situation before I do serious damage to my cranium by banging it repeatedly against the nearest hard surface, or continue the ever-revolving circle of "It's not my fault!" in which The Boy further admits to additional transgressions while simultaneously claiming his innocence. However, before I can even make up my mind about this, The Girl comes barrelling through the kitchen, trips on her own feet, and falls. Immediately, The Boy shouts, "That wasn't my fault!"
In case you were interested, the chorus of "It's not my fault!" is never-ending, much like a bad song that gets stuck in your head.
At that point, I cut my losses and went to the medicine cabinet to get the box of Band-Aids.
And some people question why I'm not a stay-at-home mother...There isn't enough wine in the world...
I hate that.
For goodness sake, no one is perfect. No one can claim that they've never made a mistake, or made a wrong decision. It's OK to say, "Yeah...I messed that one up. I'm sorry. I'll fix it." (You have to actually then go and fix it to make it right, in case you were wondering.)
This all stems, perhaps unsurprisingly, from my kindergartner. It's amazing the things that simply aren't his fault. The list runs the gamut, from dumping his little sister out of a small chair (of which he's gripping the back of) to the large pool of orange juice on the floor in front of him (while he's holding the now-empty bottle). But I think the best one happened the other day.
He had a paper cut. On the inside of his thumb.
Of course, this is my fault, as everything tends to be in his little mind. (By little, I mean the actual size of his brain, not the ignorance level. Because really, he's 5. He's just a child with the speech skills of a magna-cum-laude Harvard medical school graduate.)
When questioned about his paper cut, he immediately became defensive, as if I was accusing him of torturing small animals. Here's how the conversation went:
Me: Ouch! That looks like it hurts. What happened?
Him: It wasn't my fault!!
Me (slightly taken aback at the vehemence in his voice): I didn't say it was. It just looks painful. Those little cuts are sometim--
Him: You did it to me.
Me: How could I have possibly sliced the inside of your thumb open, honey? I don't think that's even possible!
Him: Yes it is. And it hurts, so I need a Band-Aid. And some cream so it stops stinging.
Me: It looks a bit...old. Are you sure it still stings?
Him (indignantly): Yeah!!!!!
Me (again, a little taken aback): OK, OK, chill out. We'll get you a Band-Aid.
Him: You know Mommy, I wouldn't even NEED a Transformers Band-Aid if you hadn't hurt me.
Me: We're out of Transformers Band-Aids. And just to be clear, I didn't cut your thumb.
Him (insulted by the lack of Transformers Band-Aids): Well, you need to think of something ELSE to put on my thumb, which SOMEBODY (insert accusatory tone here) cut open. And it wasn't me. Honest! Seriously! I'm not lying! Look at my tongue! (sticks out tongue to prove it's "not black")
Me: Looks a little dark in there, buddy.
Him: Nu-uh!! Actually, I remember The Girl was mad at me for pushing her out of my way...maybe she did it! (This last bit was delivered in his "I'm such a helpful sort, aren't I, Mommy?" voice.)
Me: You pushed your sister?
Him (realizing his mistake): It wasn't my fault!!
At this point, I have a choice. I can either walk away from the situation before I do serious damage to my cranium by banging it repeatedly against the nearest hard surface, or continue the ever-revolving circle of "It's not my fault!" in which The Boy further admits to additional transgressions while simultaneously claiming his innocence. However, before I can even make up my mind about this, The Girl comes barrelling through the kitchen, trips on her own feet, and falls. Immediately, The Boy shouts, "That wasn't my fault!"
In case you were interested, the chorus of "It's not my fault!" is never-ending, much like a bad song that gets stuck in your head.
At that point, I cut my losses and went to the medicine cabinet to get the box of Band-Aids.
And some people question why I'm not a stay-at-home mother...There isn't enough wine in the world...
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
It's Almost Here!!
I can't believe it. I mean, I wait for this ALL YEAR LONG - it's better than Christmas Eve! It's better than chocolate! And it's even better than SHOPPING!! Can you guess?
It's THE FALL!!
It's THE FALL!!
Some people love the winter - the outdoor sports, snowmen, the holiday season (another awesome time of the year!). The magic of nighttime snowflakes lit up by streetlights as they drift downward, the beauty in the first snowfall of the season, and the joy in a child's (or my) face when the first Christmas song is played on the radio; yes, all those things have merit, too.
And spring. It's a reawakening of the world, when new life comes out of its long sleep to stretch its little legs and dance around in the rain. The first time you realize that the trees have a hue of green about the branches, the smell of the air is fresh and clean, and the front yard begins to show itself through the snow. For me, it's the most transitional season. But...
I love the fall. Everything about it - from the smell of apples to the changing leaves - inspires me, reinvigorates my spirit and gives me a sense of joy that makes me so thankful that I'm alive every year to see this season. In the beginning of August, I begin dreaming of harvest colors, decorations for my home, apple picking, and hayrides. I love the crispness to the air; the sight of a school bus driving down a yellow-and-orange tree-lined street...even the clothes suit me. Sweaters, jeans, boots...yes, everything is perfect when fall comes around. The world is once again showing her beauty in all its glory, as the leaves change their colors in a magnificent display of autumal bliss. (Was that over the top? Seems like it. Eh, I'll leave it - might use it in a book, and the wording won't come to me again. I digress.)
All summer long, gardeners prune their plants to pick off the dead leaves and buds to allow for new growth; that is much like what happens in these upcoming months. In my own beliefs, fall is a transitional time like spring, but instead of new life emerging, nature begins to prune what has lived its life to make room for the new generation.
My favorite month is September. For me, September is when I begin my own pruning; I make concrete decisions and lay out the upcoming year. How do I get to next September successfully? What does "successful" mean this year? And how can I live every day like it's the first day of fall - so full of beauty and - for me - hope?
While those of you who live for summer enjoy this last month for what it is, I'll be scouring the stores to find that perfect little scarecrow to sit on the little bales of hay on my front porch. (It always comes back to shopping, I know, I know...)
While those of you who live for summer enjoy this last month for what it is, I'll be scouring the stores to find that perfect little scarecrow to sit on the little bales of hay on my front porch. (It always comes back to shopping, I know, I know...)
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Possibilities Are Endless
As I drive around New Jersey (which is anti-left-turn, by the way), I can't help but think of the differences in the places I've lived. First, there was Florida - my first experience with gridded streets. I couldn't figure it out for the life of me...I think I was too used to the winding dead-ends of Massachusetts to really appreciate the simplicity of the grid. Then, there was Texas - a lot of dirt roads and tumbleweeds. Then England, with it's 10-foot hedges on either side of a 1.5-lane road. Then back to Massachusetts again...
Panama City, FL wasn't anything to call home about; it was dirty and industrial. However, once we moved onto the AF base, what I remember most is the palm trees, white sand beaches and aquamarine water. I remember trying to crab-fish, letting the dogs run into the water on the base beach, going to the clubs just to realize that we weren't really clubbers, and how our front yard was made up of white sand and beach weeds. I hated that place for the first 4 months, but then I just loved it. Liking your house and neighborhood really makes all the difference, doesn't it?
Next up was Texas. God, how I hated that place. Everything about it sucked - the "city," the heat, the culture, the people, the accent (*shudder*)...I tried to embrace it, but the only saving grace was the sorority alumna group. And I didn't even bother staying in contact with any of them, so I guess that says something. Moving swiftly along....
England. I loved England. Correction: Love England. The people were warm and wonderful, despite the reputation the English have. The little sandwich shop, Webb's, in "downtown" Mildenhall; the "Bits and Bobs" stores; the afternoon teas; the real farmer's market every Friday. I felt at home there from the minute I stepped off the plane. London was crowded but fun, and you could go anywhere from there. Ireland, Scotland, Spain...I miss it. But truly, the best thing was the rural lifestyle. Tractors and lorries shared the tiny roads; driving on the left-hand side as slowly or quickly as you wanted (they were going to pass you anyway); walking everywhere. It was a dream I didn't even know I had come true. More often than not I think of Mildenhall, and it's always with a smile. The friends I made out there - the AF wives, the sorority sisters, everyone - are ones I'll never forget and love to think about and talk to. Amazing, amazing, amazing.
Then, we moved back home, to Chelmsford. It, too, was a place I loved. Aside from having quite possibly the best neighbors known to mankind, we were close to family. My kids adore their relatives and are best friends with their cousins. I was familiar with the streets, restaurants, hair salons, highways, traffic patterns, etc etc etc. It was comfortable. I love my house (still hasn't sold....), and worked really hard on making it a home. My dogs enjoyed the backyard, and the kids enjoyed riding their bikes there. The only thing that was missing was the white picket fence (which didn't really go with the neighborhood, so I put up a wooden fence around the backyard instead).
In all these places (with the exception of Texas, which I think should melt into Mexico and therefore no longer be part of this country), I remember the good. There was plenty of not-so-good, but I really have to stretch to remember the bad times. I'm sure it'll be the same with this new adventure. New Jersey isn't great right now, but in a couple years, this blip in time will show me the good - such as how Chris loves swimming in the hotel pool "at night" with Sean, or how Evelyn screams "Daddy!" in unabandoned glee when Sean walks in the door after work. Or the fireflies I saw last night while walking the dogs. Or the nice lady with two small kids across the hall. Or...or...or...the possibilities for good memories are endless, and I'm thrilled that I now have the experience to realize that. It makes getting through even the toughest of times easier to bear, especially when the light at the end of the tunnel is, er, New Jersey.
Panama City, FL wasn't anything to call home about; it was dirty and industrial. However, once we moved onto the AF base, what I remember most is the palm trees, white sand beaches and aquamarine water. I remember trying to crab-fish, letting the dogs run into the water on the base beach, going to the clubs just to realize that we weren't really clubbers, and how our front yard was made up of white sand and beach weeds. I hated that place for the first 4 months, but then I just loved it. Liking your house and neighborhood really makes all the difference, doesn't it?
Next up was Texas. God, how I hated that place. Everything about it sucked - the "city," the heat, the culture, the people, the accent (*shudder*)...I tried to embrace it, but the only saving grace was the sorority alumna group. And I didn't even bother staying in contact with any of them, so I guess that says something. Moving swiftly along....
England. I loved England. Correction: Love England. The people were warm and wonderful, despite the reputation the English have. The little sandwich shop, Webb's, in "downtown" Mildenhall; the "Bits and Bobs" stores; the afternoon teas; the real farmer's market every Friday. I felt at home there from the minute I stepped off the plane. London was crowded but fun, and you could go anywhere from there. Ireland, Scotland, Spain...I miss it. But truly, the best thing was the rural lifestyle. Tractors and lorries shared the tiny roads; driving on the left-hand side as slowly or quickly as you wanted (they were going to pass you anyway); walking everywhere. It was a dream I didn't even know I had come true. More often than not I think of Mildenhall, and it's always with a smile. The friends I made out there - the AF wives, the sorority sisters, everyone - are ones I'll never forget and love to think about and talk to. Amazing, amazing, amazing.
Then, we moved back home, to Chelmsford. It, too, was a place I loved. Aside from having quite possibly the best neighbors known to mankind, we were close to family. My kids adore their relatives and are best friends with their cousins. I was familiar with the streets, restaurants, hair salons, highways, traffic patterns, etc etc etc. It was comfortable. I love my house (still hasn't sold....), and worked really hard on making it a home. My dogs enjoyed the backyard, and the kids enjoyed riding their bikes there. The only thing that was missing was the white picket fence (which didn't really go with the neighborhood, so I put up a wooden fence around the backyard instead).
In all these places (with the exception of Texas, which I think should melt into Mexico and therefore no longer be part of this country), I remember the good. There was plenty of not-so-good, but I really have to stretch to remember the bad times. I'm sure it'll be the same with this new adventure. New Jersey isn't great right now, but in a couple years, this blip in time will show me the good - such as how Chris loves swimming in the hotel pool "at night" with Sean, or how Evelyn screams "Daddy!" in unabandoned glee when Sean walks in the door after work. Or the fireflies I saw last night while walking the dogs. Or the nice lady with two small kids across the hall. Or...or...or...the possibilities for good memories are endless, and I'm thrilled that I now have the experience to realize that. It makes getting through even the toughest of times easier to bear, especially when the light at the end of the tunnel is, er, New Jersey.
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