All Shook Up: So, December Happened

We're a little shook up. December happened. An earthquake or two (or let's be honest, twelve) rattled us. And, as I was inspecting the floors and walls for cracks, I realized I'm a little behind. To be honest, I'm glad I'm behind. Being behind means I've kept the right things in front of me this holiday season: my family, my friends, my job, and me. My December calendar intimidated me. There were just so many things on it. I could barely get the things written down much less contemplate actually doing all of them. But I did it! We did it!

She pointed her pretty toes, 

and we made her brother watch. 

She discovered the joy that a great pair of boots can bring. 

We celebrated the graduation of our Mizu, and

I remembered how much my family memories mean. I'm glad we're making more.

She celebrated her bestie's birthday, 

and then the party ended. 

We puzzled over brown paper packages.

And we donned our holiday finery. I can't believe the dress still fits!

The stomach flu tried to keep me and the girl down (along with bronchitis and stomach flu, the reprise). 

She rallied, and so did I. 

They survived the first half of the Nutcracker hours after the bout with the bug. 

Keeping those hands clean now!

He sang about shaggy, smelly sheep. And my computer ate my photos. I think I need therapy to get over the loss. 

And just hours after stomach flu, the reprise, the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head.

She looks like an angel and sings like one too.

She elected her hairstyle.

And her shoes. Because she likes to point her pretty toes. The boots are special to her too, 

because they're her bestie's. 

Someone should talk to her mother about teaching her to sit like a lady. 

We made it to pajama/movie day!

Exchanged some bestie Christmas gifts.

Discovered the inexplicable calm of the sanctuary at our little Lutheran school. 

Toasted the holiday with chocolate milk 

and maybe a little sugar. 

The force awakened, and RJ survived the most terrifying experience of his young life. His mother and father forced him to see the new Star Wars movie. Tears. So many tears. And when it was over, "That was a pretty good movie, Mom." No kidding. Welcome, kid. 

He'll remember this Christmas for a long time. 

Our elf, Hamilton Hank Holidae (no typo, it's derived from the Nordic elves), build graham cracker houses for us to decorate. 

The elf knows how to  build; his houses have fewer cracks than our kitchen floor does after the 4.2's this week. 

When you're a big deal, you get floor seats for the Thunder….Blue. They're minor league, and the pre-game buffet leans more toward Branson than L.A., but it's good family fun. 

Christmas is a lot of work for moms. There's the desserts, and the stocking stuffers, boxes from Amazon, and shirts to wrap. Or, it can be 65 degrees on December 23rd, and mom shakes things up. Santa can eat processed cookies; there are lorikeets to feed!

They found the golden goose!

I did not pose her. She is just this prissy.

They discovered Minecraft. 

But, her favorite will always be good old fashioned markers with a fresh page of ponies. 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. With duct tape. Because duct tape worked.

Christmas Eve came too fast.

The gifts weren't' the only things that got unwrapped quickly; Christmas dresses are itchy.

Gigi loves this picture, and she loves this toy mixer. 

Santa brought silly string. I don't know what he could be thinking!

And the darned elf gift wrapped my fridge the day after he pooped chocolate chips the day after he turned the milk blue the day after he stole our underwear. I'm glad he went back home. 

My calendar scared me, but 

we made it work, and 

we even found a few minutes to pause for snuggles. 

We're a little shook up. The pictures are crooked, and I need to move the crystal from the high shelves. December happened. 2016 is here. I'm already behind on my New Year's Resolutions; but this year, I'll be too busy keeping the right things in front of me to spend much time worrying about them. 

She Points Her Pretty Toes

Every Saturday (or some Saturdays, if we're being honest), Gigi  finds her spot on the floor of the general purpose room at the Parks Department. She waves her hands in the air and counts one, two, three, four, five. And, she waits patiently while every little ballerina tells the teacher her favorite color. Spoiler alert: it's pink. Or purple.

Fifteen minutes later, Gigi finally gets to point her pretty toes. She loves to spin. She loves to tap. She loves to stretch, bend, twirl, and curtsey. The little girl who has made tooting a dinner sport is completely in love with dance.

It's the shoes mostly. She does love an excuse for extra shoes.

We pay a pretty penny for her to point her pretty toes. But, at the end of the lessons comes the big reward--for parents and performers alike--The Recital. Twenty-five minutes of on-stage excitement.  "G," I told her as I fixed her hair, "I hope you dance. I'd hate to go through this just to see you stand still on stage."

Mark Sanders and Tia Sillers wrote it better than I ever could, "I hope you never lose your sense of wonder…And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance."

She danced.

The butterflies in her tummy nearly stole her thunder, but "they all flew away and turned to excitement." And she danced. It was worth every pretty penny.

Got Day? Go Time: Another Year of Grateful

My purse slid off the passenger seat yesterday morning as I piloted the Swagger Wagon into the parking lot at work. My purse was unzipped. Of course it was. I heard the quarters roll under the passenger seat and the phone knocking against the console, no doubt on its way to nestle snugly in the crack, just out of reach, requiring me to scrape my knuckles to dig it out. I grumbled as I stretched across the Swagger Wagon to collect my things, and I carelessly scooped everything back into the bag.

It’s almost Thanksgiving. I haven’t posted 25 days of gratitude. Christmas teddy bears are mingling with the pilgrim bear and ceramic turkey in the dining room. I'm trying to get a jump on decorating, and frankly, I think the pilgrim and the turkey looked lonely. It’s not that I don’t feel grateful. I do. But, my Facebook "words of the year" are "Go, day, got, time." Go day, got time? Got day, go time? No matter how you arrange them, they tell the story of my life. In one word? Busy.

My purse tells the story pretty well too:

I’m grateful for pink and purple hair bows that remind me of a fluttering fairy princess preschooler who loves her teachers and her mommy too. I’m grateful that she has enough hair to pull into a ponytail and that she wants to wear a ponytail just like me.

I’m grateful for a Batman whistle that reminds me of a million weekend birthday parties—parties for the good friends of a kind hearted first grader who loves them. I’m grateful he has friends and that he wants to go to a million birthday parties to celebrate their special moments.

I’m grateful for happy meal toys that remind me of a Sunday afternoon mommy date. I’m grateful for French fries too. They’re delicious.

I’m grateful for tiny pink ballet slippers that remind me that I am loved. They were my slippers. Real Capezios, saved for 35 years in the hope that another little blonde would wear them and love them. She does.

I’m grateful for oranges and runner chow that remind me that I’m not old yet. I can run. I can swim. I can stretch. And I can bounce for hours on a trampoline with a kind hearted first grader and a fluttering fairy princess preschooler.

I’m grateful for real, vintage handkerchiefs to wipe runny noses and clean glasses that saw a rainstorm. I’m grateful for the glasses and the rainstorm too.

I’m grateful for fancy business card cases, because, well, sparkles!  I’m more grateful for the business cards inside it, because they remind me that I have a good job in good company at a good company .

I’m grateful for the three ketchup packets that I’m apparently carrying every day, because they remind me that I can feed my family food that they like whenever they like. That’s a privilege that so many don’t have right now.

I’m grateful for wet wipes because they remind me that I have the means to take care of sore bottoms. I’m more grateful that I don’t have to wipe sore bottoms all that often any more. Potty training is a blessing.

I’m grateful for lip gloss, nail polish, and hair clips because some days, they make me feel pretty or important or more like a grown up woman than a teenage girl, or on the better days, more like a teenage girl than like a grown up woman.  There’s value in self-esteem that goes far deeper than lip gloss and hair clips.

I sighed and grumbled as I gathered my scattered things. I scraped my knuckles digging my phone from the cavern between the seats. And tonight, I'm grateful for all of those things and so much more:

Happy Thanksgiving!