Hey, I’m over here

Last year at a trade show I picked up this cute little blue whistle, known in my era as a “rape whistle”. The idea is, if someone is attacking you, you blow the whistle really loud. Hopefully blowing the whistle will have one or two results:

A)     The attacker will get scared and run off. Or be deafened by the loud whistle in his ear and fall to the ground screaming in agony. In my fantasy of escaping/averting an attack, they fall to the ground with a burst eardrum from the ear splitting shrill whistle. And then I do a citizen’s arrest. Then the police rush in later as I’m standing over him with my foot on his chest celebrating my victory and the attacker begs them to take his sorry tush to prison and get him away from the crazy lady.

B)      The other outcome is that other citizen’s in the area hear the shrill, don’t rape me whistle, and come rushing to the victim’s rescue. Of course, this never really happens in the movies. They all just close their doors and pretend they never heard anything.

In my mind, the rape whistle works something like this. Someone is attacking me, I blow the whistle loudly and exuberantly once or twice and then run away and find a place to hide. There’s no blowing the whistle while in hiding, that would give him a sound to follow.  Parked cars, trees, bushes are usually the best hiding spots, at least in the movies.

Sounds like a perfect way to scare them and then hide. But not this whistle, no this whistle must have been specially designed by a rapist himself. Because this whistle has a flashing blue led light! Someone actually thought it would be a cool idea to add a flashing light to a rape whistle. One might even imagine that a group of product managers sat around a table for weeks on end imagining how they could improve a common, ordinary, key chain whistle. And one genius stood up and said, “I know, let’s put an led flashing light in it.” And the rest of these rocket scientists all agreed that a flashing, led light would, in fact, transform a rape whistle from ordinary to beyond extraordinary.

Imagine blowing your rape whistle, dashing off behind a parked car only to have your attacker follow the flashing led light to your “secret” location. To the designers of this particular whistle with it’s flashing blue led light and to quote one of my favorite comedian’s Bill Engvall, “Here’s your sign.”

I blame my parents

I’ve come to a lot of realizations lately. Namely, that I blame my parents for a lot of things that are screwy about me.

1)      I blame my mom for my Double Stuff Oreo cravings. If she hadn’t baked so dang many homemade cookies when I was I kid, I wouldn’t crave the store-bought, highly processed, sugary goodness Oreos offer.

2)      I blame my dad for my dissatisfaction with cheap, plastic doll bassinets  cribs, rockers, cradles. If he hadn’t spent so many hours building me quality furniture for my dolls, I would be satisfied buying my daughters the cheap, store-bought, mass-produced crap stuff.

3)      I blame my mom for my inability to sew. Goodness knows she spent countless hours trying to teach me. But really, isn’t it the teachers fault that I didn’t learn?

4)      I blame my dad for teaching me how to change a flat tire. Now I have no excuse to pass by the poor schmuck on the side of the road with a flat.

5)      I blame both of them for my inability to call in sick. If they hadn’t instilled in my such an incredible work ethic, I would be able to use up some of my many accumulated sick days.

6)      I blame them for my inability to borrow money. Raising me to become an independent adult who pays for everything in cash has ruined my credit.

7)      I blame my father for my sense of humor. Seriously, you should have heard some of the practical jokes he pulled off in my youth. I was in awe of his awesomeness at pulling a prank.

8)      I blame my mother for my kids near nakedness at times. If she hadn’t taught me to give the shirt off my back, they would be fully clothed all the time.

9)      I blame my father for my perfectionism. If he hadn’t taught me to keep going until the job is done right, I would be finished with a lot more projects.

10)   I blame both of them for getting me to read so many books. If they’d only broke down and bought a t.v. when we were little, I wouldn’t read all the time now.

Easter, Fish Symbol and Representing

I put a church sticker on my car.

To some people that might not seem like a big deal. For me it represents a final surrender of a “holdout” area of my life. For years I have scorned the people who put the fish symbol on their vehicles and then drive rude, obnoxious and quite frankly somewhat illegal. E. G. speeding, cutting people off, tailgating, etc. I mean, come on, if you’re going to be a bad example, then don’t declare that you represent the God of the universe. Right?

I know I’m a rude driver. I’m the kind of driver that believes in conquering the road. And by road I really mean all the other drivers around me. If I wasn’t in the front of the pack, I passed and fought to battle my way to the front of the line. I refer to the white line at stop lights as the starting block. Rather than change my driving to reflect the love of Christ that supposedly lives in my heart, I just refused to put any Christian symbol on my car. Yeah, I know. It sounds just as illogical to me as it does to you reading it. But I figured if I wasn’t representing, then I could drive how I want. It was an area of my life I didn’t really want to surrender.

Recently our church changed its name to Radiant Church. The new focus of the church is to be a light in the darkness. Radiate God’s love outward. Each person was given a car sticker that clearly says “Radiant Church” on it. My response was to leave it in the packet and ignore it. Except, there’s been one huge problem, God can never just leave well enough alone. I’ve been perfectly content to represent Him in person, content to allow strangers to cut in front of me in line at stores, and at McDonald’s will even pay for the order of the person behind me in the drive thru. Just don’t ask me to give up my driving. But apparently God wants that area too.

Ever since the packets came out, it’s been sitting on my desk mocking me. Silently judging me and finding me lacking. Reminding me that I’m not as fully surrendered as I’d like to believe I am. I spent a few futile days arguing with God about all the reasons why I shouldn’t put a Christian sticker on my car. I can represent Him in person. I can represent Him on Facebook. *Double chest/fist bump. I’m His homey and I got this. He apparently didn’t buy that one either.

Instead He gently and lovingly kept reminding me that I cannot separate one area of my life from the rest of my life with Christ, Either the love of Christ lives in me and transforms me, or it doesn’t;  but I can’t give Him some areas and not others. When God calls me to change, I might as well surrender because He’s like a dog with a bone. He will keep gnawing away until I recognize the futility and absurdity of my arguments.

I always know He’s going to win. He always does. But my strong-willed nature demands me to argue, if for no other reason than the sake of argument.  But no matter what good reasons I think I come up with, He always manages to point out their insignificance. I finally gave in to the inevitable.

Today, Easter Sunday seemed like a good time to finally die to myself and give in to the idea of representing Him in all areas of my life. My car is now sporting a shiny, new “Radiant Church” bumper sticker. I have a new grace for the people out there with the big fish symbol on their cars as they seek to represent Christ too. I know my driving won’t be instantly perfect overnight, but I pray that I will be able to represent Him in this area too.

iPad Giveaway

My dear friends are still fundraising to change the life of an orphaned child in Uganda. They are currently raising the money needed to go back to Uganda and hopefully bring their precious child home.

Toward that end, they are selling a set of playing cards. $25 buys a card. For each card you purchase, your name will be written on the card. On April 1, they will draw a card. The name on that card wins an iPad mini.

How cool is that? A 1:52 chance of winning an iPad mini! And all it costs is $25. Or raise your odds to 1:26 simply by purchasing 2 playing cards from the deck.

Check out their story here as well as find the link to donate/buy a raffle card for the iPad!

As of this morning, only 14 cards remain in the deck! Will you consider helping my dear friends bring home a precious child in need of a family?

Keeping Up with the NEW Joneses

Chances are, if you’ve complimented a woman on her new sweater/dress/pants/shoes/whatever recently, you’ve probably gotten back a response like, “Thanks, it was only 9.68 at Super Savers. Can you believe it?” Did you notice that? Rather than being proud of the new item, they had to explain their savings and brag about the sale.  “I bought them on clearance at Big Box Savings Shop, shopped on a Tuesday so I could double my coupon and borrowed my mom’s membership card to save an additional 15%.”

When did keeping up with the new Joneses mean trying to out save them? There is a growing trend of save, save, save and then exclaim to everyone who notices anything new how much was saved. I’m all for saving money, don’t get me wrong. But what happened with being proud of what we worked for and enjoying it?

Guess what? Clothes wear out. It’s ok to replace them as necessary. And it’s especially great to save money, watch for a coupon, shop smart, etc. But isn’t it enough to be happy with what you spent and proudly don your new duds and show them off rather than the price tage? Now I need to compare to the new Joneses over how much I saved on my new sweater and what they paid *gasp* for their car!!

I remember several years ago (pre kids) when my husband and I bought a new car. Not just new to us….A NEW CAR! I was pretty excited. It was a huge moment. We worked hard for our money and were enjoying a little bit of it. I was telling my friend all about it and how fast it was, the color, the features, everything. I was pleased as punch. Her response to me, “That’s great if you’re into that sort of thing.” *Whomp! Just like that I was deflated. Suddenly I felt like a money grubbing, selfish, wasteful, prideful, a**hole. She went on to proclaim how her and her DH were cutting back, living simpler, not going out to eat anymore, etc., etc. , ad nauseum.

Dh and I live on a budget. We each get money each month to go out to coffee/lunch with a friend, pedicures, etc. We use our own spending money to have lunch dates with each other. This keeps us from over spending and allows us to spend without feeling guilty. It works! Try it. So anyway, 2 years ago I saved my spending money every month for about 4 months straight. Trust me; it was hard to go without pedicures, coffee with friends, etc.  But, I had decided I wanted a tablet, so I saved every penny I got and bought a mid-range tablet. Would you believe I was too ashamed to take it to church or public because I was afraid of what people might think?! They might think I was wasteful. They might think I spent money on an “extra” when I could have given more to charity. They might wonder all kinds of nasty things about me. They might think I don’t save! *double gasp*

Recently we moved to a new home. A home that is half again as large as our last house. It’s amazing! 5 bedrooms, room to spread out, a real backyard, space! And yet I find myself feeling guilty at times that I have such an amazing house. I give to charity, give to the church, give to orphans, give to the people holding signs who may or may not be homeless…But somehow, keeping up with the new Joneses makes me feel guilty for anything nice.

I’ve decided, I’m tired of keeping up with the new Jones’ savings. Yep, still living on a budget and still paying cash for everything. But I refuse to allow the growing trend of bragging on savings to ruin my life. I’ve got a darn fine house and I’m darn proud of it! And I relax in it and play with my tablet while sitting at my $45 Craigslist table.

Tween Drama

We’ve entered a whole new stage of parenting. A stage I was ill-prepared for and quite frankly dreading. Tween drama! I love my daughter to pieces, and I remember as a teenager going upstairs and crying into my pillows because “mom didn’t understand me”. But I sure don’t remember doing all this at age 10 already. But the hormones appear to be in full-swing at our house with little sign of lessening soon.

Here’s a short list of reasons my daughter has cried this week.

-          I honked the car horn at her. Just to tell her we were all loaded up and waiting on her. Apparently car honking is a form of child abuse and pressures a 10 year old girl into moving at a pace they are not prepared to move. First and last time I’ll do that to try and move her along.

-          She didn’t get her face painted at church. She stood in line and politely let smaller girls go in front of her. By the time she got to the front, it was time to go. I had just bemoaned to DH that she was going to cry when she got in the car because we were going straight home to bed so she was going to have to wash it off 5 minutes after she got it. She circumvented all of that drama by crying for the next 30 minutes about never getting her face painted.

-          She dropped her terrarium.  A WEEK AGO. She cried about it again this week. As a 10 year old, it is vitally important to roll crying reasons up into a big 2 hour session of crying. So while crying about not getting her face painted, she took the time to cry about her terrarium, again. I believe this is how girls learn the fine art of  argument skills later in life during marriage, when they pull out all the old fights and quibbles.

-          Asked to perform a chore. Yep, I asked her to feed HER guinea pig. This too is apparently a form of abuse. For the next 10 years I might need to perform her chores so I’m not putting undue pressure on her fragile emotional state.

-          Her teddy bears fell off on the floor. We moved to a new house with larger, more prominent baseboards. Her bed is about an inch farther away from the wall. This has created an impossible situation for her innumerable bears/ponies/cats/puppies/Perry the Platypus stuffed friends. They all have a name and many of them have their own special blankie. Each night they are all tucked into place and carefully arranged. With the move away from the wall, some of them have squished through the cracks. *Gasp, and landed on the floor.

-          I asked her to speed up bedtime. That process of tucking each of the aforementioned ”friends” into bed, having their blankie appropriately wrapped around, etc. takes F-O-R-E-V-E-R. I impatiently asked her to hurry the process so I could hit the books. Bad Mommy!

-          Terrarium again – apparently it was too early for a joke. I said she could put a plant in her terrarium and take it to school and win the prize for the best growth. Bad mommy!

-          I didn’t let her have a caffeinated pop. I’m apparently a terrible mom, and the only mom on the block who hasn’t allowed my 10 year old to have caffeine yet. I will NOT be fixing this injustice anytime soon.

-          I told her she needed a shower. In my defense, it had been 3 days since her last one. However, telling a 10 year old that their hair is greasy and needs to be washed is now considered a form of verbal abuse.

-          We encouraged her to try to use a steak knife and cut her own chicken. Chicken, I might add, which could fall apart with a fork. I see myself at her senior prom date, along to cut up her food, not chaperon.

-          I told her 10 pom pom’s for around her new painting were enough. The sitter had said she could put pom pom’s all around the border. My daughter did not interpret this as only 10.

Things we managed to get right this week. These earned me huge hugs and statements declaring me “the best mom ever”.

-          I let her stay up until 9 and read after her siblings went to bed.

-          I gave her the same size cup me and DH use at dinner.

-          I bought an adult scissors for her to keep in her desk.

-          We allowed her to go into a small grocery store and purchase a carton of cottage cheese for the family while we waited outside.

-          We ordered her a Big Mac at McD’s.

The inspiration for this post came from a fabulously, hysterical blog post from Jason Good about all the possible reasons his 3 year old was crying.  Take a minute to go read it. My 10 year old is probably crying for the same reasons.

Breast Cancer & Facebook

I have a love hate thing going with Facebook. Every day, I love it. And once a year for some interminable period of time, I hate it. I don’t really know when that time is going to hit or how long it’s going to last. I’m not really even sure who institutes the chain of events that leads to my momentary (sometimes month-long) hate of Facebook.

It’s breast cancer awareness week, month, day whatever. Where it comes from, when it’s actually scheduled, who determines the subject has never been clear to me. Usually I realize that period of annoyance is upon me when I begin to get about a 100 Facebook messages a day from a variety of girls, girlfriends, friends of girlfriends, friends of friends girlfriends, pervy guy posing as a girlfriend and Bill Clinton. All delightfully excited to clue me in about the latest and greatest Facebook “raise awareness for breast cancer” meme. “Shhhhhh….it’s a big secret. Don’t tell the guys what we’re doing. Let’s keep them guessing.”

Let me fill you in on a few secrets, first off, the average guy cares about a gals vaguebook post for about 2.25 seconds. Long enough to say, “I don’t get it.” Scratch himself and go resume his online poker game. So if you think for one minute that vaguebooking about the color of your bra, where you like your purse or a random going on vacation post is going to make him get his stinky, sloppy butt up off the couch and send $10 to one of the 10 million research foundations out there, you need to take a double dose of your Haldol and lie down for a while.

Second secret, there isn’t really anyone in the world who hasn’t heard of breasts and hasn’t heard them in the same sentence as cancer.  I mean, except for that one tribe you have to ride on a swamp boat for 3 days, and trek on foot for another 2 days just so you can ride a crocodile the last 200 miles to their village. They probably haven’t heard of breast cancer. But since they don’t have a Facebook account, let alone a computer, electricity or even running water, I think breast cancer is the least of their worries. Probably the big bones pierced through their nipples hurt more than the cancer ever will. (Admit it, that’s why you read National Geographic.)

Third secret, these Facebook memes are nothing more than a huge advertising push by the 10 million research organizations. Someone in marketing had the brilliant idea that if I’m worried that I might possibly, potentially, maybe have felt a small, weird lump the last time I groped myself, not only will I get my own sloppy, stinky butt off the couch and drag myself to my PCP (Primary Care Provider), I might also get enough of a scare to send a few dollars their way to so they can do more “research”.

I’m all for finding a cure. Research is the only way to find it. But take the Susan G. Komen Foundation  for example. This particular organization spends millions every year retaining staff lawyers. NOT, so they can make sure and conduct ethical research and not erroneously grope the wrong pair, nope, these high-priced suits are hired for their ability to scour web, news and radio for any mention of the phrase, “For the Cure”. They then take another huge chunk of the “research” monies you have guiltily sent them and spend it suing the hapless person who might possibly have slighted their marketing department in the use of their catch-phrase. Hmmm…I’ll be expecting a call from a suit any day now, thanks to my reference to it.

By now, if you haven’t already stopped reading, you’re probably ready to write me all kinds of hate mail about your dearly departed friends, mother’s, sister-in-law’s best girl who died from breast cancer. Hold your hate mail for a second and hear me out.

Yes, breast cancer sucks. My grandmother died of it. All cancer sucks. DH fought and beat the living crap out of colon cancer. Get it, the colon produces crap…never mind. It was a funny pun in my head. Anyway, he is now 3 years cancer free. By all means, we need to find a cure for cancer and kick it out of our planet. What we don’t need is more hysteria, raising awareness for a disease 99.9% of the civilized world has heard of.

If you want to feel you are doing something, by all means, find a legitimate research organization and send a few dollars their way. Better yet, volunteer for a few hours a month at a free clinic and remind women to do BSE’s (Breast Self-Exams). Or even better still, if you’re married, teach your hubby to do your BSE on you.  You can return the favor and do his PSE (Prostate Self-Exam). I’ll be waiting for his thank-you comments to me later.

But please, for the love of all that is buxom and plump, can we leave Facebook out of it? I’m not going to France for 9 months. I don’t like it on the kitchen table. And beige isn’t really anything to brag about unless you’re 85 and proud of the fact that you are still a perky 42 DD and not a 42 long like the rest of your old and saggy friends.

If You Give a Mom a Cocktail

If you give a mom a cocktail,
She’ll want another to go with it.
Having the cocktail will help her forget about the pile of wet laundry in the washer
And the “Call Me” note she just got from a child’s teacher.

While she’s sipping the cocktail,
She’ll reflect on the “good ol’ days”.
Days when she went for a pedicure, followed by a wash, cut and style.
She’ll picture long lunch dates with close friends and laughing over bad dates.
She’ll remember calling in sick to work, just for a day of staying in her pajama’s.
She’ll dream of watching reruns of her favorite t.v. show for an entire weekend.

As she continues to sip her cocktail,
Her eyes will drift to the corner of the room.
There she’ll see the dirty plate someone left setting.
And next to it she’ll find a worn pair of tennis shoes.
She bristles at the thought of more work left lying around.

But as she continues to sip her cocktail, she’ll remember the times before when the house was too quiet,
And she remembers being a tad bit lonely back in the “good ol’ days”.
A time when her life wasn’t filled with hugs, tickle fests and butterfly kisses.
She’ll see the hand prints on the wall as another sign of the love in her house,
Her heart will probably grow another size.

Looking around the room too long though will remind of her of all the work she has left to do.
And chances are, if she sees the work she needs to do,
She’ll want a cocktail to forget about it.

Open Letter to my Kids

Dear Kids,

When you were little I would lock myself in the bathroom. It became my sanctuary. When I needed a timeout, into the bathroom I went. When I needed a moment of peace…bathroom. When the options were curl in the fetal position in the corner of a room or go to prison for justifiable homicide, I chose the bathroom. When I felt like screaming, into the bathroom I went. When I wasn’t sure I was going to make it as a mom, it was the bathroom where I found the strength to carry on.

Usually my trips to the bathroom included bringing along my sole possession which kept my sanity connected by a thread, my cell phone. I would call my sister, mom or friend and say, “I’m locked in the bathroom. But I’ll be ok because I’ve got my cell phone.” They would talk me down from the ledge (or the top of the toilet bowl) and I would find my way back out to where you were waiting.

When you were little it was cute when you’re little fingers came snaking under the door. I would reach down and touch them and you would giggle in your sweet little voice. Then I knew all would be ok and I could come back out.

Over the past 10 years, I’ve continued to head to the bathroom for moments of peace, sanity checks and mommy timeouts. When you hit 5 it was no longer cute when your little fingers came snaking under the doors and your obnoxious voice rang out with, “Mommy, when are you coming out?” Instead of reaching down to tickle your fingers and hear your little giggles, I wanted to slap them away and demand you leave me alone for a moment.

Always, I had my cell phone. It comforted me. Even if I didn’t call anyone, I knew there was a big, huge outside world waiting to comfort me, laugh with me, cry with me and remind me that CPS/DHS was watching me. Mommy was locked in the bathroom but I  had my cell phone, so I knew I would be ok.

By age 8, the amount of times per week I needed to lock myself in the bathroom diminished. Having you away at school 7.5 hours a day definitely helped. Now my trips to the bathroom were usually reserved for moments when I wanted to raise my voice at you for picking your grape stems off and casually dropping them off to the side of the chair you were lounging on, or cutting up your pants because you wanted to see what they were lined with, or spilling a gallon of milk after I’d asked you to stop horsing around in the kitchen. To the bathroom I would go when I needed to calm down again and get a healthy perspective on the situation and figure out a suitable punishment for these new weird and obnoxious infractions. My trusty cell phone came along. I called your father at work to get his input. Called my sister with, “You’re not going to believe what they did this time!” And called my mom to say, “Was I like this?!”

By that age it got really annoying when you would wait until I went to my sanctuary and proceed to stand at the door knocking and yelling questions. “Mom, can I have a cookie? Why are you crying? Is that Aunt Chelle? Can I talk to her too?” The new habit of sliding things under the door became a huge annoyance. I can sign your homework later. Your fingers are no longer cute they’re dirty, go wash them and trim your nails. And I definitely did not want to open the door a crack to peek at what you were trying to show me. I would beg you to leave me alone for 5 minutes while I found “happy mommy” and desperately wished toilet water could be transformed into cranberry vodka punch with a push of the magic silver button on the side of the tank.

Now you are 10, 9 and 7 the bathroom etiquette seems to have gone out the door. No longer do you even knock, you just walk in and start asking questions or handing me my ringing cell phone. Yes, I heard it ringing. I was hoping to escape for a minute. If I needed to lock myself in the bathroom with my phone, I would have brought it with me. And even though I thought it was smart that you figured out how to unlock the door from the outside and asked you to show me how to do it when you brother locked us out of all the bathrooms in the house, I’m quite certain that locking picking skill won’t take you very far in life. Especially if you continue to use that skill on my bathroom while I’m in it. You just might not get the chance to lead a long, productive life.

I can no longer be accountable for what happens when you open that sanctuary and waltz in. I’m sorry that you’ve been exposed to saggy, old things no child should have to experience. You are probably wishing now that Rohypnol came in a Pez dispenser so you could forget the entire moment. However, I refuse to pay for the therapy bill your charging into the bathroom unannounced has caused.

I don’t ask for much in life. I’ve already given you my dignity and what remained of my sanity. The last nerve you found and jumped on is yours too. You can keep it all. All I’m asking for, begging really, is that you leave the bathroom door closed and let me have my last remaining sanctuary.

Love,

Mom

In the Holiday Spirit

I’ve started about a bazillion pre-Christmas themed blog posts. Tried writing a new version of The Night Before Christmas based on a mom’s lack of ability (as in no design skills) to decorate. Even tried writing about songs I love and songs I hate, but all of them lay in the scrap pile of abandoned blog posts. None of them worked. None of them was really going anywhere. And I kept wondering why I had this unbelievably bad writers block about Christmas. Then it hit me. Because Christmas doesn’t effect me the way it does some people.

*Gasp* I know, right? Here I am a mom, a Christian, a student, a volunteer and more and Christmas doesn’t effect me?!  Ok, before you get your knickers all in a knot let me explain. Yes, I do love Christmas and yes, we do celebrate it.

However:

1. We don’t get many Christmas gifts for our kids, so I’m rarely stressed about what to get them. They usually each get 2 gifts and some stocking stuffers. This year they’re all getting the same gift and nothing else. No stockings, no small side presents, that’s it. One gift. Totally un-American of us, but the reality is they just don’t need anything else. Despite my eldest trying to convince me that she’s the only 10 year old on the planet without a DS, cell phone or computer.
2. Because we don’t give our kids very many gifts AND because we don’t buy for everyone else in the family or everyone else’s dog/kid/niece/teacher/bff/lunch buddy we don’t have a lot of shopping to do. Not shopping means not experiencing the mall crazy, Wal-mart shoving, Target price-matching, Toys R Us fighting we see other families “enjoy”. I can peacefully enter Target or Wal-mart at 3 in the afternoon in the middle of the week and do my grocery shopping and relax and smile with the checkout girl. No lines, no fighting. No drama. I love a drama free Christmas season.
3. This is probably the craziest reason of all: I like almost all Christmas music! But, if a song comes on the radio that I don’t particularly care for, I exercise my God-given ability to press a button and change the station. Apparently some people out there don’t know this is possible because I’ve heard a lot of complaints about, “If I hear this song one more time, I’m going to quit Christmas!” And in a store, I totally tune out the music playing on the speakers anyway. The music in my head is usually better anyway. Something like Phineas and Ferb “Perry the Platypus” or The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, “London Tipton is really great, really great, really great.” is frequently running through my head thanks to my heads endless fascination with those shows. (For the record, I’m able to change the channel in my head too if I don’t like the song it’s playing.)
4. This year I’m not stressed about my inability to decorate because I’m not decorating it. That’s right. There are zero decorations up inside my house. On my lawn there is a pathetically small blow up that usually is unplugged with the tree flopped over the penguin holding presents. And there’s one small, plastic nativity scene. Only 2 of the lights work and half the time Mary has  allen and can’t get up. Thanks to my sisters’ wedding on Dec. 22, we won’t be in our own home over Christmas or New Years, so I used the excuse to not drag it all out of storage, flop it haphazardly at the mantle and window sills, only to stuff it all back away 15 days later. And even bigger than her wedding, our house is currently on the market which means I get the pleasure of keeping it clean and clutter free. Christmas decorations always feel like clutter to me, so not having them around the house helps me be “show ready”.
5. My kids are all in school! This year, I’m enjoying a season of my kids all being in school, I didn’t agree to volunteer in ten bazillion capacities and thus I’ve been able to relax and have coffee with friends whenever my little heart desires. I’m enjoying these few moments before the storm of nursing school hits in January. Which coincidentally is my fallback excuse for not accepting anything I don’t feel like doing. I’m having some much needed “me” time. It’s helping me to be a better mom, wife and friend.

No shoving and fighting, no overspending on gifts no one needs, no Christmas decorations to trip over, no hours and hours of classroom crafts and endless carpool has left me in a permanent holiday spirit. I can’t write about the miseries of this time of year because I refuse to participate in that side of Christmas. This momma has discovered the secret to a peaceful and relaxing Christmas. Just don’t do it. Yep, refuse to be sucked into all the chaos and you’ll fly through the season sipping white chocolate peppermint lattes, campfire mochas and  passion tea. Raise a glass with me, put up your feet and enjoy the season.

“So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger.” Luke 2:16 (NIV)  This is the only hurrying I plan to do this Christmas!