Sock Romeo

What started out as a one man party has now turned into an army….

An army of single socks mingling in my bottom drawer commiserating in their loneliness.

I always keep them, you know.

If they don’t find their mate straight out of the dryer, I let them stick around.

I look them in the eye and tell them someday their prince will come. I promise them that if they go about their lives, chin up, there eventually will be a lover’s reunion.

“Don’t settle,” I remind them when I see one of them eyeing a less than desirable suitor.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I lecture as I untangle a clingy polyester blend from a cotton athletic sock.

Other times, a different reminder is needed. “Let’s do try to stay within our own league,” I whisper to a worn out wooly who was whistling at a satiny hose.

I’ve always had a tender heart for the lovelorn. But, I do think things may have gotten out of hand.

It was a late Saturday night. Hubby and I had fallen asleep early watching a flick. I was lost in a dream about….ah, no matter.

Suddenly, I heard some rowdiness coming from the bottom drawer.

The closer I got, the louder it became.

I clearly could make out Disco music mixed with laughter and some….muffled groans?

I opened the drawer a crack and was horrified.

I don’t want to get into details, but let’s just say I have quite the wild crew residing in my bottom drawer.

Might be time to weed out the undesirables.

Anyone interested in a fishnet thigh hi?

She seems to be the root to this madness….been like a cat in heat since she’s lost her better half….

Oh, Buddy! Oh, Pal!

“So, what’s your imaginary friend’s name?” asked my preschooler.

My imaginary friend?

The thought never occurred to me. Now, of course, I had a secret pal years ago as a child. She was great on rainy days and stuck to me like glue during that week with the chicken pox. Even helped out with homework and making the bed.

Hmmm…Maybe it’s time to re-connect.

“Hi, pal. It’s been years! How about you start a load of laundry while I unwind over here on the chaise lounge?”

“We’re outta milk…Oh…imaginary frieend! Buddy, oh, pal!”

“Put a little elbow grease into it, friend. Ya gotta show that mildew whose boss.”

“Me? Of course I didn’t eat the last one, darling. But, that invisible gal in the kitchen looks a little shifty to me.”

My imaginary friend…. She really helps a gal out in a pinch.

Now, if I can just get her to fetch me a glass of wine from my imaginary wine cellar while I lounge by my imaginary pool enjoying the imaginary view, life would be so very sweet.

As you can well imagine.

Sigh.

A big thank you to Stacks and stacks for the wonderful shout out today! I made her Top 5 Mommy blog list! You can see it here. Her site also lists wonderful tips on organizing.

Stick that!

My daughters love stickers. They put them everywhere.

On books. On paper. On car seats. On themselves.

In purses. In boxes. In shoes. In backpacks.

It’s highly addictive.

And, their dealers are everywhere.

The Target cashier.

The pediatrician.

The dentist.

Trader Joe’s, even.

Usually, they are in sticker heaven enjoying their stash.

Stick.

Stick.

Stick.

But, the other day, a monkey wrench was thrown in their direction.

“Mamma. Fix!” My toddler’s eyes filled with tears.

“Mommy, it won’t unstick. It’s broken!” My preschooler was mortified.

It was quite the sticker conundrum.

A bit of a sticker orgy, really.

Clinging to each other, the stickers were in a sticker game of Twister.

An impossible situation.

I eyed the garbage, but thought better of it.

“We’ll take these stickers to the sticker hospital. The Sticker Doctor will fix it up.” I nodded enthusiastically.

Then, after a quick late night trip to Target, we replaced the mangled stickers and it was another winning mamma moment for me.

Sure, hubs felt silly at the check out stand. “Sticker, please.”

But, he’s beginning to learn to roll with the pink and polka dot punches around here.

If ya know what I mean….

Chocolate Bandit

He couldn’t be guiltier if he had been holding a smoking gun.

He was standing there wearing his boxers and a lopsided grin. And, he was holding the empty box of Dreyer’s chocolate peanut butter ice cream

“You wanted some?” He asked, attempting to display belated concern.

The gall. The indecency. The lack of civility.

“Scoundrel!” I muttered under my breath, turning on a swift heel.

Now, let’s hope he doesn’t discover the missing Hershey’s chocolate bar that was hidden in his top desk drawer.

Because, that would make me a hypocrite.

Or something. No?

A big thank you to Babymakin' Machine for the lovely shout out! If you haven't been over to visit her yet, what are you waiting for? Jen is so bright, funny and charismatic.....

Potty Whore

“Come on! Give it to me, Baby!”

“Come to Pappa!”

“Give it up, little lassie!”

The shocking words were emanating from the bathroom. Earlier, a toy had become lodged in the commode, resulting in a bit of a ….situation. Hubs was the first to go in equipped with a plunger, snake and a bucket. The rest of us could only listen to the resulting rodeo.

“Gosh dab durn it!”

“…Give it to me, Wild Pony!!”

“Take that, Potty Whore.”

Curious, I snuck a peek. He was hunched over, firmly tugging on a plunger, boot atop the pot, giving it his all. The tug of war was brutal. The pot seemed to have the home team advantage. It firmly stood its ground, calm and confidently poised in the middle of the powder room.

The sweat poured as his red face contorted with anger and creative utterances filled the air.

“Gonna buy Pappa a new pair of shoes!”

My husband was clearly the underdog, twisting and writhing around as he put all he had into the fight. Grateful my hunky hero had come to my rescue and happy to be on the sidelines, I nonetheless felt a bit helpless. I stood aside as the battle ensued allowing my worry to get the better of me.

“You want a piece of me??!” he hollered.

Clearly, this was what the potty wanted. A piece of him. She was holding her ground, not about to give an inch.

Finally, hubs stood, wiping the sweat from his brow. Turning to me he said, “Gotta let it sit awhile. Let her stew in it a bit.”

He retreated, boots stomping loudly. And I was left with a wet floor, a befelled plunger and a rather smug looking toilet.

The battle may have been lost, my potty friend. But, we will win the war.

Indeed.

I think it’s time a woman takes the wheel. Step aside.

*Author’s Note….Much apologies for using the crude “w” word. But, as you know, we only report the truth here on Mamma Talk. No editing, just a brutal dose of reality….Now pardon me, I’ve got some laundry fairies that need some wrangling….

Ice Cream Bully

Ice cream is serious business around our house.

We’re regulars at the local ice cream parlor. We pay frequent late night visits to the ol’ ice cream aisle. And the guy at the drive thru knows our standing order. “Sundaes all around?”

We’re a regular ice cream fan club. And, I am the President.

Chocolate peanut butter. Rocky Road. Chunky Monkey.

You name it. I am an adoring fan.

Then, suddenly, my Vice President jumped ship. Claimed he was getting thick in the middle. Had to tighten his belt…so to speak…on his calorie intake. Apparently, our indulgences were slowing down his athletic performance, contributing to his middle aged spread and hanging around the ol’ caboose for a spell.

I was shocked. I felt abandoned. My bubble had burst.

I mean, what a wet blankie.

Aside from the ice cream thing, we’re pretty healthy folks. Organic meats. Lots of veggies. 8 glasses of water a day. Plenty of exercise. Vitamins.

So, I held firm with my ice cream obsession.

In fact, I became an ice cream bully.

“Want a bite?”

At first, he was steadfast in his convictions. Then, he wavered a bit. Only to steady and right himself once again.

I continued with my pursuit.

“Yum. Gotta try this new flavor.”

I just wouldn’t let him up for air.

“Yum-yum…. You’re missing out.”

Finally a firm proclamation. “No! No! No ice cream for me.”

I know. I know. I should support his new healthy goals. More ice cream for me, right?

But, sometimes, a sinful indulgence is better when shared. Don’t you agree?

“Want a bite?”

Hang on, I think he’s wavering again.

Laptop Romeo

My laptop and I are having a torrid affair. I didn’t mean for this to happen. It’s shocking how easily one slips into these little indiscretions. Sometimes, these things just…well…sorta happen.

I am simply addicted to the time we spend together. I sneak in moments whenever I can. Early morning. Nap time. Late nights.

You see….my laptop makes me feel like a new woman. He listens. He sends me messages. Makes me feel noticed. Adored. He gets me.

There’s never an argument. No demands. No nit picking.

It’s just easy.

But, after last night, I think it may be over. I’ve been so engrossed in my little affair, that I have been negligent of hubby. Noticing hubby was missing, I wandered into his home office only to catch him with a slinky little I-Mac.

He claims it was just a little innocent flirtation, but I suspect otherwise. During our argument, that trampy I-Mac took off running out the back door hand in hand with my Romeo of a laptop.

Typical.

Acknowledging our foolishness, hubby and I kissed and made up. We’re good at that.

But, I must confess. Temptation has reared it’s ugly head again.

It’s that Blackberry.

Keeps giving me the eye.

Road Trip Fun

I do not recommend taking a road trip with a toddler.

We spent half the trip debating whether it was a Pterodactyl or a chicken strapped in the back car seat.

Of course, it was inarguably a chicken that we wrestled back into the car seat after our frequent pit stops….a greased chicken at that.

The argument was whether or not her more piercing squeals resembled a winged Triassic creature or a common dime store barnyard fowl.

“EEEEYAAAAKK!”

Hubby insisted that a human ear has never heard a flying dinosaur’s screech. Therefore, we could never be certain.

I argued that a chicken comparison did our daughter’s unique vocalizations a disservice.

And so it went. Our lengthy pitter patter helped pitter away the miles and hours spent on the road.

Until we pulled into a parking lot for another quick pit stop.

Next to us, was a minivan, complete with a husband and wife wrestling their chicken-Pterodactyl combo back into the car seat.

“EEEEEYAAAKKK!”

It was here that hubby relinquished the fight.

“OK, You win. A Pterodactyl. Most definitely.”

Apparently, a little perspective was gained.

And, another win for me.

Micromanage this!

I admit it. I am a bit of a micromanager. I bark directions and yelp orders all day long. I am bossy and controlling. I just never let anyone up for air.

“Get up. Get dressed. Drink your milk. Brush your teeth. Out the door. In the car. Buckle up. Don’t yell. Don’t run. Say hello. Please share. Don’t hit. Please be nice. Eat your snack. Wipe your mouth. Say goodbye. Wash your hands. Eat your lunch. Close your mouth. Clean up. Play nice. Share your things. Take a rest. Time to eat. Sit down. Eat your peas. Drink your juice. No dessert. Did ya wipe? Don’t whine. Mind your manners. No TV. Take a bath. Don’t splash. In your jammies. Brush your teeth. Say your prayers. Kiss goodnight. Turn off the light. Go to sleep. Sweet dreams.”

And, then, I turn my wrath on hubby.

“Remote, please. Rub my feet. Not now. Go to sleep.”

Happy Birthday, Cowboy!

Chocolate Bandit

He couldn’t be guiltier if he had been holding a smoking gun.

He was standing there wearing his boxers and a lopsided grin. And, he was holding the empty box of Dreyer’s chocolate peanut butter ice cream

“You wanted some?” He asked, attempting to display belated concern.

The gall. The indecency. The lack of civility.

“Scoundrel!” I muttered under my breath, turning on a swift heel.

Now, let’s hope he doesn’t discover the missing Hershey’s chocolate bar that was hidden in his top desk drawer.

Because, that would make me a hypocrite.

Or something. No?

Toddler Hair Salon

I should have known what I was getting into. Really. What did I expect?

But, when my preschooler came at me with that hair brush and my toddler joined in with the glittery hair clips, my heart went a flutter. I gave in. Caved. Surrendered.

I figured, as long as no scissors were involved…what the heck?

“Just you wait! Princess hair for you,” my preschooler piped.

“Clips! Clips!...Mine!!” my toddler told me.

I imagined this as a milestone. All mothers of girls must participate in this ritual, right? Our hair twisted and snarled around assorted barrettes…tufts of hair missing from our overzealous stylist…. Eyes tearing from the pain…. The mist of a mysterious aerosol can in the air.

Hubby found me later in the kitchen happily cooking with my glittery Princess-Medusa-Pippi Longstocking hair do. He stoically complimented me on the new elegant look. The fella’s gotten used to living with a gaggle of gals, after all….

But, his mood shifted when he saw the cat.

“Ah….Um…M-M-Mr.Kitty??”


Author’s note…Don’t worry. No kitties were harmed during this style session. Adorned, maybe. Primped, definitely. Improved, absolutely. Harmed, never!

The Kissing Bandit Strikes!

My toddler is a kissing bandit.

She steals kisses whenever the opportunity presents itself. She blows kisses to strangers across grocery stores. She dashes around blowing air kisses all day, diva that she is. And she firmly plants one on you when you least expect it.

Her sister often falls victim.

“Mommy!! She broke my dolly, she won’t give back my Triceratops, and, and …..

MMMMMPPPAAAHHH!!!!!!

..…and she won’t stop kissing my knee! Ick.”

Cashiers frequently are targeted.

“And your total is 48 even. Got any coupons?”

Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.

Kitty’s efforts to escape are fruitless.

Smack.Smack.Smack.Smack.Smack.

Granny happily offers herself up as a sacrificial lamb.

Peck.Peck.Peck.Peck.Peck.Peck. Peck. (Squeeze!)

Sometimes it comes in handy. Her charm helped me out of that awkward moment on the highway.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

Kiss.Wave.Smile.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.

And, she’s always the one to diffuse a tense moment.

‘Well, ain’t that like the pot calling the kettle black, Mr.Shopoholic?!”

Kissity.Kiss.Kissity.Kiss.Kiss.

Needless to say, she has many fans. She is adored, cherished and loved…all over town.

She will outgrow this by prom, ya think?

Wanted Poster

Wanted Dead or Alive

MY FREE TIME

Aliases: Me time, leisure time, naptime, shower time, curled-up-with-a-book-time, down time, shopping time, occasional-spa-time, wasting time, killing time, vegging time

Last seen: Heading south of the border with partner in crime, “My Spare Cash”

Reward: Am short on cash (see above), but am willing to clean, vacuum or fold laundry for whomever apprehends suspect. After all, if caught I will have the time.

Wanted for: Cruel abandonment and petty theft (see above)

Description: Has that "just back from the islands" pre-kids glow, drink in hand, looking for the next party

Watch out ladies everywhere! You could be next. Crime usually occurs shortly after storky visit.
Not armed, not dangerous…but certainly wanted….NOW!

1,000 Dates

First Date vs. 1,000th Date

Hubby and I will have been together seven years this Spring. We calculated that we’ve had approximately 1,000 dates in those seven years, 99.99% of which were during those early pre-kids years. In honor of our upcoming seven year itch, I’d like to compare and contrast some snippets of some “dately” conversations.

First Date

Hubby: “Pardon me for staring. I am a bit, well, overcome.”

Me: “Tee-Hee.”

1000th Date

Hubby: “Pardon me for staring. Is that a Laker’s game on TV?”

Me: “Grrr.”

First Date

Hubby: “So, what is a typical day like in the life of a third grade teacher? Tell me ALL about it. I am all ears.”

Me: “Well, Brian was 20 minutes tardy today….again! So, blah, blah, blah, SPITWADS, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE ! blah ,blah, blah, blah, blah, LUNCH DETENTION! blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, CORRECTING SPELLING TESTS! blah, blah, blah, blah, BROKE MY CHALK, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, LUNCHROOM HELL blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah ,BUDGET CUTS, blah, blah, blah, blah, PAPER CUT, blah, blah, blah…
And, that’s just before morning recess! After recess.….”

Hubby: “Fascinating. Tell me more.”

1000th Date

Hubby : “Hmmm?”

Me: “I said …I had to put her in time out twice…and then the baby ate some Play Doh…and…”

Hubby: “Oh. Is the remote over by you?”

First Date

Hubby: “Yes, I’d like a bottle of 1992 Lovey-Dovey-St. Châteaux-Bordeaux -Fancy -Wancy Expensive wine please…”

Me: (Blush) “Tee-Hee”

1000th Date

Hubby: “Hey, Baby, can ya get me a beer outta the ‘frig?”

Me: “Grrrr.”

First Date

Hubby: The ambiance here is incredible!

Me: Yes, that string quartet is breath taking!

1000th Date

Hubby: What did you say?!!!

Preschooler: I HAVE TO GO POTTY!

Toddler: AHHHHHH!

Barney: “Heads and shoulders knees and toes!”

Me: Not now. I am blogging.

First Date:

Hubby: Yes, that fork is for the fish. This one is for the salad and this one….

Me: *gush*

1000th Date:

Hubby: (In between finger licks and greasy mouth wipes) How ‘bout this bucket of chicken?

Me: Yum!

First Date:

Hubby: Yes, waiter, my date and I would like to start with the oysters…

Me: Yes, Yes!

1000th Date

Hubby: …and throw in a couple of Happy Meals…

Me: And the fries! The fries!!

First Date

Hubby: “I like you. I’d like to see you again.”

Me: “OK..” sigh... Eyelash flutter.

1000th Date

Hubby: “Baby, I really, really love you. I couldn’t ask for a better wife and mother for our kids.”

Me: “Tee-Hee…Purrrrrrr.”

The Laundry Fairy

A family of two becomes a family of four. Laundry doubles, right? Somehow, the math doesn’t work that way in our house. After the birth of two children, our laundry room exploded. Full hampers were multiplied by 10. Smelly socks reproduced like gerbils. And laundry baskets ceased to empty.

I sort and wash. I sort and fold. I sort and put away. I turn around to find myself knee deep in the Pacific Ocean of freshly soiled clothing. I am convinced an evil laundry fairy feathered her nest behind my dryer. She cackles with delight turning each lone stinky sock into three, filling laundry baskets to the rim, and spewing lipstick all over whites. With one wave of her wand, the tide of laundry rolls back into one mega tsunami of assorted soiled garments primed and ready to drown the lady of the house.

I know she’s there. She curls up with the dust bunnies in the dead of night, taking a joy ride in the dryer and washing up in the cat bowl in the morning. She giggles as she dozes, malice in her heart, dreaming up new ways to work me to death.

Not sure if she came with the house or if she followed me home from the maternity ward. How does one rid themselves of such a pest? Didn’t see any Fairy Lures or Tinkerbell traps for sale at Home Depot. Weren’t any poisoned apples in the produce aisle. No Fairy B Gone in the garden section.

Does one need to seek the assistance of some unsavory types for a solution? “I want her gone. And not in front of the children.”

Or do I seek the advice from a leaf reading character. “I see winged beasts plaguing your living space...I’ll give ya a two for one on a house cleanse.”

Maybe it’s time for a new pet. “So, ya got any big, ugly, mouse catching type kitties for sale?”

Hubby always offers to assist with the extra loads. “Thanks, hon, but I think I got it under control,” I lie. After all, one evil laundry fairy is about all I can take.

Hmmmmm…Think this what-cha-ma-call-it might fix her wagon?

Toddler Pox

My doctor peered over his glasses as I whispered my secrets.

“I think something’s a little off with me lately.”

He leaned closer.

“I’m exhausted at the end of the day. I am distracted. I can’t seem to finish a sentence. I run circles in my home. I have a flabby belly, stretch marks and saggy boobs. I obsessively make macaroni and can’t break my Barney addiction.”

“Hmmm.” My doctor smiled knowingly. “My wife had a bout of this in the 80’s.”

“She did?” I felt instant relief. “What is it?”

“Toddler Pox,” he stated.

I gasped in horror. “Is there a cure?”

“No. No end to this. Rather, it evolves. It starts with Baby Pox. Then, Toddler Pox, of course. Preschool Pox is around the corner. Then you’ll catch a nasty case of Elementary Fever….giving way to The Tweenie Plague… graduating to the contagious Teenage-itis. We will have to quarantine during this time, naturally.” He paused reflectively.

Hands over my face, I took it all in as he continued. “It is cyclical, recurring every 25-35 years. But, for the second cycle, you serve more as a witness rather than a victim. Makes for interesting retirement years.”

“Don’t they inoculate for this?” I asked in outrage.

“The drug companies pushed for a vaccine, of course, but the diaper lobbyists have a strong grip on Washington.” He winked. “I have heard rumor about a certain doctor that can help.” He paused, scratching his head.

“His name is on the tip of my tongue,” he continued, “….Dr. Snik….no…Dr. Snitch….No. Um, that’s not it.….Snit….No,…..Snipity…Ah…yes….Doctor Snippy Snip. That’s him. This will stop a reoccurrence. If you can just get your husband in the car, they’ll fix him up good.”

Hmmmmm?

Author’s note….tongue in cheek, of course. I loooove and appreciate my toddler. Just driven a little crazy this week due to four large molars erupting in her little, mostly always wide-open-and-screaming mouth. Makes for a very screamy, screamy day! If you hear sirens blaring from my blog, you’ll know they have finally come after me with a big net.

Pass the Pampers

It was our first day at home with our first baby. I was busy running circles around the house frantically wondering what to do with my new bundle. Hubby had run to Costco to buy last minute baby accessories.

My cell phone rang.

“Honey, I’m here at Costco and I noticed they have…Um….feminine napkins here. Ya can buy a box of 100. Do ya need 'em?”

My heart glowed. This was the man I married. White knight that he was, remembering my most personal items. Doing my thinking for me when my brain was so fuzzy.

I threw kisses and a pet name or two into the phone and sighed. What a fella.

Over the next few days, I began to notice how odd these discount feminine napkins were. Stiff and unusually curved…I certainly won’t buy these again, I noted. Too bad there were a few hundred left. Thinking hubby bought the wrong absorbency, I read the back.

As I strained to read the finer writing, I learned about this pad’s wonderful Absorb-loc core, its soft comfort and the amazing protection it would offer me. I learned how this absorbent pad would offer the greatest level of coverage for the woman with medium-light bladder leakage…. Back up. Pop her in reverse. Hubby bought me diapers? Yes, the light bulb above my head began to light up as I stood there in my, um…..yes, adult diapers. I had thought it was an odd brand for a great price. In fact, Poise is one of the most popular bladder control pads out there.

After a good hyena laugh which threatened to bust my C-section stitches, I attempted to send hubby back to the store with the box.

Hubby refused. Wouldn’t do it. Apparently, it was embarrassing enough to buy a mega box of menstrual pads in a crowded Costco on a Saturday. Now, the thought of returning an open box of adult diapers unnerved him. Wouldn’t do it.

“Couldn’t you…um…maybe use them?” he ventured to ask. “They work, right?”

“What?!” My voice was more shrill than I had expected.

“Couldn’t you save them for later?” he continued.

“Later? As in 40 years later?”

“Well, maybe you could give them away?” He still had hope in his voice.

“And, I could give these to…?”

“A homeless shelter…Maybe a church?...A retirement home?”

I admired his sense of charity, but once again the thought of carrying that opened box out into the brightly lit, very public world horrified us both.

So, trash bin it went in the dead of the night. And, I still feel guilty.

Such is the story of my one day spent in adult diapers. May it be my last.



PS I hope I didn’t offend my Poise wearing bloggy friends with this post. I do have more to add to the confession. If this were to happen today, with this economy, I’d use the darn things! What a couple of wasteful chumps!

Daddatalk Revisited

Rewind to March 2007….

Mammatalk: Oh, hooooney! I can’t believe we are having another baby girl! What should we name this one? After your Grandma? Mine? What do you think about seashell pink with scalloped border for the nursery and pink toile for the bedding? Let’s go antiquing and find a lovely old fashioned dresser to re-finish. Maybe paint it white? What about a baby shower? Do you have a shower for the second baby? They will be born in opposite seasons…Should I register? I want to breastfeed so I will need a new breastpump , a sling and some sort of booby cover up. How about a Hooter Hider? They have great funky fabric…Should we get a new baby stroller or stick with the old one? I’ll do a quick websearch for recalls….

Daddatalk…Ahh….Yeah.

Fast forward to…August 2007

Daddatalk: And they painted her belly with this orange antiseptic. It was huge just sticking through a hole in her sheets, all big and round and painted orange….kinda like a pumpkin. The anesthesiologist gave me a stool to sit on, but I kicked it away and said “Oh, no bud, I am watching this.” I looked over the barrier the whole time. They cauterized her incision and you could smell the burning flesh. They used this tool to spread open the incision wiiiiide….and then out came this baby head! Kinda like Alien, but no…not really…Huh-huh-huh-.Afterward, they actually took out her uterus and put it on her belly and examined it with this magnifying glass…..

Mammatalk:.. Ahhh…..yeah.

This just may be the glue that keeps us together. We each know when to smile and nod.

Merry Grinchmas

(This post is dedicated to The Secret is in the Sauce on today, their First Annual Merry SITSmas blogathon! Grand prize is a $200 Target gift card and the chance to be Friday’s Featured Blogger.)


“Where are the stockings? The STOCKINGS!!!!”

My three year ran wildly among our Christmas paraphernalia, tossing aside old holiday cards, dusty garland and jingly bells.

“Christmas ‘posey gots to have stockings!!” Lower lip quivered, breathing accelerated and watery eyes fixed in my direction.

I had been informed. Educated. Enlightened I was. By a three year old.

“Perhaps this will stop Christmas from coming?” I pondered silently.

Witnessing this lost stocking preschool panic attack made me re-think my typical commercial Christmas cheer. Forget jolly ol’ Saint Nick. I’d prefer a visit from that green little Christmas bandit, Dr. Seuss’ Grinch. I would even help out. Set the alarm for midnight. Wait for him with a plate of cookies. Enlist a hand from hubby.

I would stuff all the baubles, gifts and packages in his enormous bag. I’d gleefully hand over the holiday DVDs and CDs. Surrender the glittery decorations and lights. Hand him the oversized Costco eggnog jug. Present my endless Christmas card list, my fruitcake recipe, my Secret Santa organizational binder, my supersize rolls of wrapping paper, the LED blinking holiday wreath, and yes, even offer up my perky sprig of mistletoe.

Yes, readers, I would even assist as he shoved that tree up!!

I can hear the collective hisses and gasps echo across the blogosphere. Maybe I am the grinchy, witchy one here, green fur and all.

But, for just a moment, could you set traditions aside and join me in my Grinchy Christmas temper tantrum? Visualize a non-commercial Christmas? A Christmas highlighted with a circle of hand holding neighbors, singing songs of joy, delighted to receive nothing-ZIP-Nada-Zero on Christmas morn? A holiday filled with only expectations of a shared Christmas meal with loved ones, good will to men and peace on Earth?

Maybe the Whos were on to something?



PS. Santa, please disregard. It’s that monthly dragon thing again.

PPS. I know this does not qualify as a holiday card. For some real Holiday cheer, check out these crafty ladies…..Christie and Cherry.

Daddatalk Wonders

Daddatalk: So, ah, why do you always blog about my a**?

Mammatalk: An artist is compelled to write about her passion. And I am a slave to my art.

Daddatalk: Sounds good. Keep it up.