Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh. I really do like the game - but it's their fitness age assessment tool that's for the birds.
If you haven't tried it, Wii is really, really fun. And addicting.
In fact, Christmas day, Mark and I broke in our family's new console by playing Wii Sports, Wii Games and Blazing Angels for nearly 10 hours straight. (We were also drinking mimosas the whole time, making it easy to lose track of time.)
Anyhow... what's fun about the Wii game system is that you get up out of your chair and move around to play it. When you play tennis, you're actually swinging the remote like a racket. It's fun - and a pretty decent workout. I was sore for 3 days after our Wii marathon.
Anyhow, the game has a module that tests you on your balance, coordination and stamina during three Wii Sports games: tennis, baseball and bowling. At the end of the test, it assigns you a Wii fitness age.
Mark tried it first. I was upstairs, putting the kids to bed when I heard him yell at the TV.
"46?! Are you kidding me?!"
He's 34 years old.
Convinced the reading was a fluke, I took the assessment. I did pretty well on every sports module except baseball. I got more foul balls than fair ones during batting practice -- but when it came to bowling and tennis, I was a super. I nailed every pin and returned almost every serve.
At the end of the test, my Wii fitness age was revealed.
51.
"Gah?!"
Now I know this was not a true scientific experiment. This wasn't like wearing electrodes and jogging on a treadmill for 20 minutes. There was no measuring of my pulse rate or monitoring my breathing.
This is just a video game - a children's toy.
But still... I'm an extremely vain woman in a very delicate state. My 36th birthday is approaching, and bringing with it a new bundle of anxieties. Just last night, I noticed a new gray hair - right in front, thankyouverymuch. I really don't need a toy to make me feel worse.
I handed Mark the remote and then went over and picked up my knitting bag - announcing that I was going to engage in a hobby that's more suitable for an old lady like myself. (Secretly, I vowed to do the test again. Alone. And over and over until I get a score I'm more comfortable with.)
A few hours later when I got up to go to bed, Mark was still playing the game. He was breathing hard and his shirt was damp with sweat.
"Good night, honey."
"Huh? Yeah, whatever. Good night," he said, never taking his eyes off the screen.
Funny I learn my Wii fitness age right when I'm setting my weight loss goals for the new year. Instead of shooting for a BMI of 22, maybe I should go for a Wii fitness age that's closer to my real age. Or younger. Maybe that'd make turning 36 a little easier.
Yeah, right.
Six month countdown.
We've got officially six months until the wedding. For even a small wedding, there's a lot to do. Here's what we've checked off so far:
- Set a date. (June 20)
- Book the church / meet with the pastor.
- Book the reception site.
- Select a matron of honor. (My sister-in-law, Bees.)
And, that's where we've stalled out. Here's what we need to tackle, in no particular order, in the next few months:
- Select a best man. (We're currently accepting applications.)
- Buy The Dress.
- Order invitations.
- Pick a tux.
- Book a photographer.
- Book a florist. (I want to carry peonies - sans ants - for my bouquet.)
- Plan the ceremony, music, vows.
- Book plane tickets for the honeymoon.
I'm certain I'm missing several important items, but those, at least are the biggies.
I did manage to find a dress I really like:
Yes, I plan to stand at the alter exactly like this.
It's simple, but chic, and I really like it.
Seeing as this is my second wedding, the big poufy ballgown just doesn't feel right. This one is more my speed. I'm going to order it this week.
I had to unsubscribe from The Knot wedding-planning emails. I know their intent is to keep brides-to-be on track, but all the reminder emails (Did you find a caterer yet? Have you bought your shoes already? What's your man going to wear?) are obnoxious.
Okay, okay. Maybe if I wasn't behind the 8 ball, I'd see them as helpful, not naggy. I know what we need to do. We just need to do it.
The clock is tick, tick, ticking.
I wasn't lying.
Crowbar really did want a Scooby Doo Chia Pet for Christmas. Seeing the look on his face Christmas morning made it totally worth visiting 3 different Walgreens stores to find it.
That's my boy.
Christmas Week
In my family, because it's so large (extended), Christmas lasts nearly one entire week.
We have one celebration with my dad and new step mom on Christmas Eve, do our Christmas morning thing with the kids, have a day-after Christmas party with my future in-laws, do a day-after-the-day-after Christmas thing with my mom and step dad and have a whenever-we-can-all-manage-to-get-together-after Christmas gathering with Grandma Judy.
Yes, that's five - count 'em, FIVE - separate Christmas celebrations, not even counting the one the kids spend with their Dad.
The kids have been maintaining a constant buzz since Wednesday, part adrenalin and part sugar high, from our various festivities. Crowbar's wild mood swings, while somewhat frustrating, are not entirely unexpected due it his candy-cane intake and non-existent nap schedule.
Still... it's been a great Christmas week. Here are some highlights:
Crowbar's God complex. Crowbar scored the role of shepard in his day care's Christmas program. However, when you ask him who he was, he responds, "God." When pressed, he grows increasingly irritated and says, "I said, 'I'm GOD!" He says it with the same tone and intensity as Alec Baldwin in the movie Malice.
Turns out, because his costume looks exactly like some of the illustrations in his "God Book" (a book of children's Bible stories), he called his costume "God clothes" and thus, insisted he was playing God in the pageant.
"Cha-cha-cha Chia!" Again, Crowbar amuses and amazes. He asked for (and got) a Scooby Doo Chia Pet. When he opened the gift Christmas morning, he exclaimed, "Oh man! Cha-cha-cha Chia!" Who knew that my kid could be so jazzed over pottery that grows?
We have one celebration with my dad and new step mom on Christmas Eve, do our Christmas morning thing with the kids, have a day-after Christmas party with my future in-laws, do a day-after-the-day-after Christmas thing with my mom and step dad and have a whenever-we-can-all-manage-to-get-together-after Christmas gathering with Grandma Judy.
Yes, that's five - count 'em, FIVE - separate Christmas celebrations, not even counting the one the kids spend with their Dad.
The kids have been maintaining a constant buzz since Wednesday, part adrenalin and part sugar high, from our various festivities. Crowbar's wild mood swings, while somewhat frustrating, are not entirely unexpected due it his candy-cane intake and non-existent nap schedule.
Still... it's been a great Christmas week. Here are some highlights:
Crowbar's God complex. Crowbar scored the role of shepard in his day care's Christmas program. However, when you ask him who he was, he responds, "God." When pressed, he grows increasingly irritated and says, "I said, 'I'm GOD!" He says it with the same tone and intensity as Alec Baldwin in the movie Malice.
Turns out, because his costume looks exactly like some of the illustrations in his "God Book" (a book of children's Bible stories), he called his costume "God clothes" and thus, insisted he was playing God in the pageant.
"Cha-cha-cha Chia!" Again, Crowbar amuses and amazes. He asked for (and got) a Scooby Doo Chia Pet. When he opened the gift Christmas morning, he exclaimed, "Oh man! Cha-cha-cha Chia!" Who knew that my kid could be so jazzed over pottery that grows?
Crowbar asked for this. Seriously.
Glitter and Glam. The twins got some fancy rock star duds (most of which were stamped with Hannah Montana logos) and some fun glitter hair gel. So, ever since Christmas morning, they've been styin' with their fancy outfits and funky hair. I assure you, it's all very age appropriate. They're just growing out of anything pink or girlie and into muted colors and calling themselves "tomboys."
Wii! This is fun! Mark and I splurged and bought the family a Wii game system. It's only been a few days and everyone is hooked. Mad Dog won the home-run derby this morning, The Deuce got her first turkey bowling and Mark stayed up til 1 a.m. last night playing Blazing Angels. I honestly can't see this game system getting old. Ever.
Knit one. Purl two. Mark bought me a starter kit and instruction book on how to knit. So far I've been knitting almost every free second I get. My fingers are sore and last night, I dreamed about patterns. Seriously, I'm super proud that I'm getting the hang of it solely from looking at black and white pictures in an instruction manual. I can't wait to get a cute little bag to keep all my stuff. When I completed my first practice square, I promised Mark I'd make him an ugly vest ASAP.
Yep, we've had a busy, but insanely fun Christmas week. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday too.
Open letter of apology.
Baby, I'm so sorry for treatin' you wrong.
I've got to confess that I've been bad mouthin' you all around town. I'll admit that I've had a wandering eye. I've wondered if the grass really is greener someplace else, with someone else. And yes, it's true. I've sometimes been embarrassed to be seen together. It's just that I wasn't really sure you were... well... my type. I'm sorry I called you frumpy.
But baby, since you've gone, I've changed.
I realize now how much I need you. You've always been there for me - and for the kids. You've always been steady and dependable. And nobody else -- not even a newer, younger model -- could ever take your place. I want you back, baby. I can't live without you.
Please come home. I'm sorry. I'll never take you for granted again.
I've got to confess that I've been bad mouthin' you all around town. I'll admit that I've had a wandering eye. I've wondered if the grass really is greener someplace else, with someone else. And yes, it's true. I've sometimes been embarrassed to be seen together. It's just that I wasn't really sure you were... well... my type. I'm sorry I called you frumpy.
But baby, since you've gone, I've changed.
I realize now how much I need you. You've always been there for me - and for the kids. You've always been steady and dependable. And nobody else -- not even a newer, younger model -- could ever take your place. I want you back, baby. I can't live without you.
Please come home. I'm sorry. I'll never take you for granted again.
This letter of apology was written for my 2003 Dodge Grand Caravan. Yes, I've openly cursed my van. Yes, I've lusted over two-door hatchbacks and yearned for the day when I could throw sensibility to the wind and drive a car that didn't reek of "practicality."
They say 'you don't know what you've got until it's gone,' and that 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' - and they're right. The cliches are true. I took my minivan for granted. And it took $1,180 and one, full week of cramming three kids with bulky winter coats and 25 lb. backpacks into the back of Mark's Ford Escape to make me realize what a good thing I had going.
And now, I've finally got my baby back. No more cries of, "She's touching me!" or bloody knuckles from trying to secure safety belts between booster seats in sub-zero weather. Now, everyone can hop in, unassisted, secure their own seat belts (well... except Crowbar), and, for the most part, keep their damn hands to themselves.
Glory be! I've got my baby back.
~ ~ ~
Sorry I've been so bad about posting lately. I had to temporarily take down my PC to make room for the Christmas tree and have been using Mark's computer only sporadically. I'm not totally comfortable on it. You know how it is. It's hard to get used to someone else's desk, keyboard and chair - no matter how nice they are.
So, once the tree comes down and the holidays have passed, I promise I'll write more often. Until then, ciao, baby!
Note from teacher.
Crowbar has had a little bit of trouble at daycare lately. They just moved him to the next room up, where he now hangs out with older three year-olds and a couple of young fours.
His behavior has been pretty tame really. He's just needed a few reminders to share and to sit quietly during story time. But today, my boy came home with his first naughty note.
It read:
Actually, I burst out laughing when I read it. I know his teacher must've been pretty frustrated, trying to read to the kids while my kid is stomping around like Godzilla.
Still... just imagining it makes me giggle.
His behavior has been pretty tame really. He's just needed a few reminders to share and to sit quietly during story time. But today, my boy came home with his first naughty note.
It read:
He did okay today, but he likes to pretend he is a monster or superhero when we are doing circle time.Yeah, we'll get right on that.
Actually, I burst out laughing when I read it. I know his teacher must've been pretty frustrated, trying to read to the kids while my kid is stomping around like Godzilla.
Still... just imagining it makes me giggle.
I guess I'm just mean then.
While the poll results indicate I’m not an overprotective mom – that my intentions are to save my babies from untold dangers are well within reason – I have been dubbed The Meanest Mom in the World by my kids more than once this week.
Was I mean for not letting them risk life and limb to get to Chicago’s Shedd Aquarium with their scatter-brained troop leader? No. But my new stance on Scholastic Book orders opens the door for debate.
Remember Scholastic Books?
The colorful, comic-book-like brochures of books and trinkets they sell to grade school kids? I ordered them as a kid. I remember the thrill and excitement of browsing through the little catalog of books, trying to decide what to order. But the best part was delivery day. It felt like Christmas when my teacher would hand out our orders.
I remember ordering and reading Shoeshine Girl by Clyde Robert Bulla when I was in the third grade. It's the first book I can remember that had me riveted. And, it was the first book I ever read that did not have a predictable, cookie-cutter happy ending. It was so dramatic, so different. I got it from Scholastic Books... I remember it exactly.
Well, friends. Times have changed.
While they still make Scholastic Books available to kids, the products offered have greatly expanded.
They now sell toys.
For most of them, you can easily spot the educational value, but some offered are more of a stretch. But even if they were all 100% guaranteed to help my kids jump three grade levels in a week, I simply don't think toys belong in a book order. It's bad enough there are toys at the grocery store. It feels like I can't go anywhere without being solicited.
And now, standing in my own kitchen, Mad Dog and The Deuce are in tears, begging me to buy each of them $30 Nintendo DS games via Scholastic Books. (Yeah, $60 total.) It doesn't matter that we don't even own a Nintendo DS system, all of their friends have them and all of their friends are ordering games.
This leads me to a new series of house rules surrounding Scholastic Book orders:
Was I mean for not letting them risk life and limb to get to Chicago’s Shedd Aquarium with their scatter-brained troop leader? No. But my new stance on Scholastic Book orders opens the door for debate.
Remember Scholastic Books?
The colorful, comic-book-like brochures of books and trinkets they sell to grade school kids? I ordered them as a kid. I remember the thrill and excitement of browsing through the little catalog of books, trying to decide what to order. But the best part was delivery day. It felt like Christmas when my teacher would hand out our orders.
I remember ordering and reading Shoeshine Girl by Clyde Robert Bulla when I was in the third grade. It's the first book I can remember that had me riveted. And, it was the first book I ever read that did not have a predictable, cookie-cutter happy ending. It was so dramatic, so different. I got it from Scholastic Books... I remember it exactly.
Well, friends. Times have changed.
While they still make Scholastic Books available to kids, the products offered have greatly expanded.
They now sell toys.
For most of them, you can easily spot the educational value, but some offered are more of a stretch. But even if they were all 100% guaranteed to help my kids jump three grade levels in a week, I simply don't think toys belong in a book order. It's bad enough there are toys at the grocery store. It feels like I can't go anywhere without being solicited.
And now, standing in my own kitchen, Mad Dog and The Deuce are in tears, begging me to buy each of them $30 Nintendo DS games via Scholastic Books. (Yeah, $60 total.) It doesn't matter that we don't even own a Nintendo DS system, all of their friends have them and all of their friends are ordering games.
This leads me to a new series of house rules surrounding Scholastic Book orders:
- Book orders are for books. This means no teddy bears, necklaces or video games - unless they have pages and a cover.
- If we order a book - and I mean IF... there’s a $10 limit per kid.
- Book orders are a privilege, not a right. Kids that misbehave don’t get to place orders.
The last rule is a tag-on to mitigate the whining and complaining associated with rules 1 & 2.
I know this probably does sound mean, but they distribute book orders at least every two months. And these things aren't exactly cheap anymore. Sure, they've still got paperbacks for $3.95, but they also sell sets of books that cost upwards of $20. The most expensive thing I've seen in a catalog was nearly $50.
Sorry, darling. We all have library cards. And, when you're bored with all the books we've checked out, we'll return them and get another batch for free.
So, all this has reinforced my standing as The Meanest Mom in the World. I dunno. It doesn't really bother me. I've decided to embrace it. So, every other month at my house, expect to hear a conversation like this:
"Mom, can I get the texting pen set?"
"What is it?"
"They are pens that have little keyboards on them. I can text my friends."
"How much does it cost?"
"$19.95."
"Is it a book?"
"Uh...no. But all my friends are getting them - so we can text each other in class."
"No deal. It's got to be a book and it's got to cost $10 or less."
"You're so mean!" (Storms off to flop on her bed and sob.)
** Sigh. ** Remind me to write a thank you note to the principal.
Poll: Am I being overprotective?
Okay, dear friends. I need your opinion here.
About a week ago, the girls brought home a note saying their Brownie troop would be taking a field trip to Chicago's Shedd Aquarium.
Now, a little background first:
Their troop leader is not the most organized person in the world. She's shown up late to outings and has forgotten to send out permission slips. She's also notorious for giving zero notice to hold or cancel impromptu meetings and field trips.
My favorite is when she gives less than 1 day notice to bring supplies for troop craft projects. One time, she asked us to send along an empty gallon-sized milk jug for a project they'd be constructing the next afternoon. And no, she wouldn't have extras. (Yes, I only had one, full gallon in the fridge at the time. And yes, I have two girls in the troop.)
So, when I heard this woman was planning on taking my babies to downtown Chicago -- and read how she planned to do it, I just couldn't let them go.
Here's a snippet from her email, explaining how she planned to take 20 third graders to Chicago:
About a week ago, the girls brought home a note saying their Brownie troop would be taking a field trip to Chicago's Shedd Aquarium.
Now, a little background first:
Their troop leader is not the most organized person in the world. She's shown up late to outings and has forgotten to send out permission slips. She's also notorious for giving zero notice to hold or cancel impromptu meetings and field trips.
My favorite is when she gives less than 1 day notice to bring supplies for troop craft projects. One time, she asked us to send along an empty gallon-sized milk jug for a project they'd be constructing the next afternoon. And no, she wouldn't have extras. (Yes, I only had one, full gallon in the fridge at the time. And yes, I have two girls in the troop.)
So, when I heard this woman was planning on taking my babies to downtown Chicago -- and read how she planned to do it, I just couldn't let them go.
Here's a snippet from her email, explaining how she planned to take 20 third graders to Chicago:
Yes, our field trip is this Saturday and we are going to the Shedd. I feel that it would be in everyone's best interest if we did not drive to Kenosha to catch the Metra. The Metra ride from Kenosha to Chicago is almost 90 minutes due to the amount of stops the train is scheduled to make. We could drive directly to the Shedd but it costs about $18 per car just to park.
I also know that most of the girls are looking forward to riding the Metra. Therefore, I feel we should drive a bit further into Ill. to catch the train. There are 3 possible stations we could stop at. They are:
- Highland Park leave at 9:34 and arrive in Chicago at 10:30= 56 minute ride (beautiful station)
- Glencoe leave at 9:43 and arrive at 10:30= 47 minute ride, nice station
- Kenilworth leave at 9:53 and arrive at 10:30=37 minute ride, also a very nice station
You can view any of these stations if you google "Kenosha Metra", go to the site, pull up the schedule and scroll down to each stop. Click on the name of the station.
When we leave to come home the times are:
- Chicago to Highland park are leave at 4:35 and arrive at 5:24= 49 min ride
- Chicago to Glencoe are leave at 4:35 and arrive at 5:16= 41 min ride
- Chicago to Kenilworth are leave at 4:35 and arrive at 5:06= 31 min ride
Based on the above information I feel it would be best for all involved if we left school and drove to the Kenilworth Metra station. That would allow the girls to have the experience of the train but with the least amount of travel time. It would allow us to arrive back there just after 5 p.m. and home shortly after 6 p.m. so the girls can eat dinner.
We will arrive at school at 8 a.m. Leave by 8:15ish. It is about 80 miles to Kenilworth, so it should be about an hour and 15 min. to get there. This will give us 20+ minutes to get our tickets and organized.
We will arrive in Chicago at 10:30 a.m.
From the Metra we will catch the trolley that will take us directly to the Shedd. We will arrive there, get tickets and enjoy the Shedd.
Each girl will need to pack a lunch and 2 snacks. One for the morning and one for the afternoon. I will need each chaperone to bring a backpack to help carry the lunches. I do not have a trolley schedule, yet, but we will be leaving the Shedd at about 3:30 to catch the return trolley to get to the train by 4:35. This should give us 4.5 hours at the Shedd. We should arrive back home by 6:30 p.m.
Good gawd.
If you were able to follow her note (I was only barely able to keep up), you'll see that she'd planned a pretty damn complicated way to transport 20 eight-year olds to one of the biggest cities in the U.S.
Hey, I've got an idea! How about you check out one of the many fine museums in our own town? Or, if you insist on taking them to Chicago, why don't you charter a bus. What she suggested sounded less like a typical kid's field trip and more like the synopsis of Planes, Trains and Automobiles.
I politely notified her that my two Brownies would not be participating. I tried to delicately explain that I wasn't comfortable with the logistics involved.
She never responded to my email.
When the girls learned they couldn't go, I was deemed, The Meanest Mom in the World. And yes, there were tears.
In the end, a dozen girls took the trip. And thankfully, it sounds like all 12 made it back. Frankly I'm surprised anyone let their kids participate.
Which brings me to ask you... Was I being overprotective by not letting them go? Am I, in fact, The Meanest Mom in the World?
Please vote using the poll, located at the top, right of the screen. I'd like to know if you guys think I'm on track or if I need to loosen up and relax a little.
Thanks, in advance, for sharing your opinion.
Dead weight.
Last night, St. Nick visited our house and filled the kids' stockings with chocolates and other goodies.
We waited until the kids were asleep to take care of business. It took a little while to get everyone settled since we'd had an exciting night stringing popcorn, watching Christmas specials and drinking orange soda.
So when Mad Dog and The Deuce burst through our bedroom door in a frenzy at 5:45 a.m., I was a little groggy to say the least.
"Mom! Mom!" Deuce exclaimed. "He came! Come and see!"
"What? What is it?"
"St. Nick! He came! There's something in our stockings. Let's go!!"
"Wait, let's tell Mark."
"No," she said. "There's no time!" She had the same sense of urgency as if the house was on fire. "Let's go! Let's go NOW. Besides, he's impossible to wake up!"
Sure, Mark can be a little slow before his first cup of coffee, but that's no excuse to leave him for dead on such an important morning.
"Now, c'mon. We've got to wake him."
Deuce groaned. "Fine."
Ultimately, Mark wasn't all that tough to wake. In fact, he barely slowed us down from the candy canes and chocolates waiting downstairs. Still, to a kid, seconds feel like hours when stuffed stockings are concerned.
It's funny. To a kid on St. Nick's, any one of us grown ups are just dead weight, despite the important role we play.
We waited until the kids were asleep to take care of business. It took a little while to get everyone settled since we'd had an exciting night stringing popcorn, watching Christmas specials and drinking orange soda.
So when Mad Dog and The Deuce burst through our bedroom door in a frenzy at 5:45 a.m., I was a little groggy to say the least.
"Mom! Mom!" Deuce exclaimed. "He came! Come and see!"
"What? What is it?"
"St. Nick! He came! There's something in our stockings. Let's go!!"
"Wait, let's tell Mark."
"No," she said. "There's no time!" She had the same sense of urgency as if the house was on fire. "Let's go! Let's go NOW. Besides, he's impossible to wake up!"
Sure, Mark can be a little slow before his first cup of coffee, but that's no excuse to leave him for dead on such an important morning.
"Now, c'mon. We've got to wake him."
Deuce groaned. "Fine."
Ultimately, Mark wasn't all that tough to wake. In fact, he barely slowed us down from the candy canes and chocolates waiting downstairs. Still, to a kid, seconds feel like hours when stuffed stockings are concerned.
It's funny. To a kid on St. Nick's, any one of us grown ups are just dead weight, despite the important role we play.
It's the most wonderful time of the year.
Now that we’re officially into December, the countdown to Christmas has begun. The tree is up, the rotation for the chocolate Advent calendar has been determined, and the discussion on who has been naughty or nice is ramping up in both frequency and intensity.
The twins are in third grade and even though some of their classmates have tried their best to debunk the whole Santa thing, their confidence in the big guy is only slightly shaken.
“Mom?” The Deuce asked me the other day. “Is Santa real?”
“What do you think?” I asked, treading carefully.
“I think he’s real because remember, last year, we didn’t have enough money for the slushie maker, and I got it anyway. I'm pretty sure that Santa brought it.”
I don’t remember that exchange quite the same way. I think I was trying to give a lesson on wants vs. needs and how you have to spend your money accordingly. I give lots of reasons why I don't buy the kids this or that, but I'm certain I never used, 'we don't have enough money' as an excuse.
No matter, the miscommunication seems to have bought me some more Santa time. And after Mr. Elf shows up this weekend, I think we're in the clear for a little while longer.
The magic elf is an old family tradition that I remember as a kid. We had this little elf that my grandma made out of felt and pipe cleaners. Mom told us he was magic. Actually, to be specific, we were told that he was sent from the North Pole to do some reconnaissance work for Santa. It was his job to report back to the big guy if we were being naughty or nice.
My brothers and I knew he was really magical because he would mysteriously move from spot to spot in the living room -- looking for an ideal vantage point for his surveillance, no doubt. And each time he'd move, our candy dish would be filled with chocolates or candy canes. We kids were at once in awe and a little afraid of Mr. Elf.
Of course nobody ever saw him move, but one time, after staring really hard, I thought I saw him blink.
It's exciting for me to continue the magic elf tradition with my kids. Every year he shows up on St. Nick's Eve and then disappears by Christmas morning. And let me tell you - that span is one of my favorite times of the year.
At the first sign of naughty, all I have to do is say, "I hope Mr. Elf didn't see that," and the kids are totally freaking out, apologizing to the little spy.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Elf. Really. Please don't tell Santa, PLEASE!"
Sure it's a little sneaky, but c'mon. Even with Mark around, I'm still outnumbered here. I've got to use every trick in the book. Besides, it makes the Christmas season that much more special for the kids - and for me, a little extra peace and joy never hurts.
The twins are in third grade and even though some of their classmates have tried their best to debunk the whole Santa thing, their confidence in the big guy is only slightly shaken.
“Mom?” The Deuce asked me the other day. “Is Santa real?”
“What do you think?” I asked, treading carefully.
“I think he’s real because remember, last year, we didn’t have enough money for the slushie maker, and I got it anyway. I'm pretty sure that Santa brought it.”
I don’t remember that exchange quite the same way. I think I was trying to give a lesson on wants vs. needs and how you have to spend your money accordingly. I give lots of reasons why I don't buy the kids this or that, but I'm certain I never used, 'we don't have enough money' as an excuse.
No matter, the miscommunication seems to have bought me some more Santa time. And after Mr. Elf shows up this weekend, I think we're in the clear for a little while longer.
The magic elf is an old family tradition that I remember as a kid. We had this little elf that my grandma made out of felt and pipe cleaners. Mom told us he was magic. Actually, to be specific, we were told that he was sent from the North Pole to do some reconnaissance work for Santa. It was his job to report back to the big guy if we were being naughty or nice.
My brothers and I knew he was really magical because he would mysteriously move from spot to spot in the living room -- looking for an ideal vantage point for his surveillance, no doubt. And each time he'd move, our candy dish would be filled with chocolates or candy canes. We kids were at once in awe and a little afraid of Mr. Elf.
Of course nobody ever saw him move, but one time, after staring really hard, I thought I saw him blink.
It's exciting for me to continue the magic elf tradition with my kids. Every year he shows up on St. Nick's Eve and then disappears by Christmas morning. And let me tell you - that span is one of my favorite times of the year.
At the first sign of naughty, all I have to do is say, "I hope Mr. Elf didn't see that," and the kids are totally freaking out, apologizing to the little spy.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Elf. Really. Please don't tell Santa, PLEASE!"
Sure it's a little sneaky, but c'mon. Even with Mark around, I'm still outnumbered here. I've got to use every trick in the book. Besides, it makes the Christmas season that much more special for the kids - and for me, a little extra peace and joy never hurts.
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