Bye Bye Christmas

I waited a whole twenty-four hours after Christmas officially ended before purging my house of everything remotely resembling a holiday decoration (Cortlen's cotton ball polar bear didn't make the cut). This is a significant improvement from last year, when I hauled the tree out to the curb at 7pm on Christmas Day.

The first year that we were married, my husband asked me why I found it necessary to pack up our gyrating Elvis Presley Santa animatronic before the real St. Nick made it back to the North Pole. I knew he wouldn't understand unless I told him the same horrific story from my childhood that I now tell you:

During my freshman year of college, I came home for Spring Break to find a 9 foot fake Douglas fir in the corner of the living room.

"Why is the Christmas tree still up? I asked the house's seven occupants.

After a long pause and several averted stares, my Dad stepped forward to speak for the group. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

I pointed to the object with the snowman tree skirt.

"Oh that," he said, laughing. "That's not a Christmas tree. It's a decorative plant."

Out of legitimate concern that I inherited the defective gene that unables my family members to distinguish between a plastic ficus tree and a pre-lit evergreen, I instituted a series of checks and balances that includes a rule to which I've dutifully adhered: when Santa departs, so does his forest friend.

How do YOU overcome the difficult challenge of remembering to take your Christmas stuff down before April?

Charity Rocks

Helping out people who don't help themselves is a special hobby of mine, along with investing in pyramid schemes and collecting pen pals from Nigeria. After years of experience, I have become quite an expert at being a sucker.

There is a mom from the YMCA whom I've known for three years but for no good reason other than my profound lack of social skills, have never engaged in a conversation that extended beyond an observation about the weather...that is, until recently.

A few weeks ago, I broke out of my warm and snugly hermit shell (where I was very happy I might add) and invited the woman's daughter to our house for a play date. I hoped that the woman would stay in her car during the drop off, or better yet, just deposit her offspring on the curb, but no such luck: she wanted to tour the premises and make sure that 1) her daughter didn't play with the matches/lighter fluid/live grenades that I had left on the kitchen counter 2) that her master bathroom was better than mine.

After finding a few reasons to feel good about herself, the mom plopped herself on my couch and proceeded to treat me to the unedited version of her life story, which included sad tales about her husband's lost job, a pet cat with unexplained diarrhea (and a $400 vet bill that they can't afford to pay to go with it), a pile of overdue medical and credit card bills, and a car with no gas that had to be turned on with a screwdriver.

Even though the woman made me feel like a prisoner in my own home, I felt really bad for her and decided after she left that I would try to do something nice for her family. Over the next few days, I mustered together a small army and together we secretly stocked the woman's fridge and bought her kids several Christmas presents.

We all felt good about our good deed. I felt even better about our collective acts of service the day after Christmas when the mom called me with the good news that she had just bought a 60" big screen television set. Yippee! She got an awesome deal that she couldn't pass up...and could pay for in monthly installments over the next three years: $2800 for everything except for the surround sound speakers, delivery, set-up and taxes, which were extra. What a bargain!

I'm so glad I brought over that honeybaked ham.

Tim thinks I should do the nice thing and volunteer to watch their tabby with IBS so they can enjoy their new home theater in peace. I'm seriously thinking about it.

Psych.

Stickers=Awesome

There is a moment in every girl's life when she is seized with the uncontrollable urge to plaster her bedroom walls with stickers. For many females, the instinct kicks in during the joyous tween years, and takes the form of a glow-in-the-dark galaxy affixed to a popcorn ceiling. For my precocious daughter, the desire to redecorate hit a bit earlier.

"AHHHH!" I shrieked upon discovering that several Disney princesses had sneaked into my daughter's bedroom overnight and vomited on her walls.

"Help me!" I cried out loud. "We have to get these things down before they take off the paint!"

My daughter was unmoved by the urgency of my request.

"I like the stickers where they are," she pouted.

"You know the rule," I repeated. "Stickers go on paper, or they go in the trash."

Snow White's forest friends began to panic.


In case you couldn't figure it out on your own, Camber chose option 3: she picked the stickers out of the trash and reapplied them to the wall after I left the room.

The Christmas Sweater: Part II

I'm sure you got a lot of great gifts for Christmas, but I KNOW none of you were as lucky as Becca, the winner of the first--and probably last--Meanest Mom Giveaway. I can't even look at the picture she sent me of her in the sexy Christmas sweater without wringing my hands in despair. Separation anxiety is the worst.

While Becca prances around in her new treasure today, I'm off to find a replacement, which I'm sure will be an additional 25% off the already reduced sale price (unless I find it in the designer purse, mattress, Nautica, Tommy Hilfiger, or fine linens departments, in which case, it is only 10% off), which is 50% off the retail price or up to 75% off the original ticketed price, unless I use a store coupon or open a store credit card, in which case, I can deduct an additional additional 20% off my total purchase price for purchases I make on all early bird purchases before noon, 15% for purchases made between 12-8pm, 20% again between 8-10pm (10% all day if it comes from the designer purse, mattress, Nautica, Tommy Hilfiger, or fine linen departments).

Christmas Morning

Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without a display of ingratitude, brought to you this year by Cortlen, who liked what Santa brought everyone else much better than what the big guy brought him.

Merry Christmas!

Christmas Eve

Sad

We're having friends from the city up for Christmas Eve dinner. In anticipation of their arrival, I asked my kids to clean the playroom.

"Every single thing in this room has to be clean before you can come out," I said while closing the door."

My kids took my instructions literally and dipped every single crayon we own into a bottle of Purell.

Double Sad

I put two cakes on the stove top to cool before frosting. My cat got to them before I did.

Merry Christmas Eve

Christmas Visitors Departing

So sad. My sister and her extremely nice unboyfriend decided to return to Ohio a day early (they're leaving tomorrow), so that they can spend Christmas with the unboyfriend's family. We exchanged gifts tonight; I didn't have time to go shopping for all of your excellent suggestions, but I did pick up a copy of Dr. Laura's fabulous read at the thrift store this afternoon. The unboyfriend was very excited about his gift, as was my sister: I got her, among other things, The Languages of Love.

Christmas Visitors

On Sunday night, my eighteen year-old sister (who is a college freshman) arrived at my house with a boy who she definitely makes out with but who is "definitely not her boyfriend."

I'm not entirely sure why my youngest sister decided to spend Christmas with us this year in Philadelphia instead of with the rest of the family in California, but I suspect that it has something to do with the fact that the family members who she is skipping out on spend the bulk of their time together flexing in front of the mirror and checking out their status on hotornot.com.

My sister was hungry when she got to my house, so I asked her what she wanted to eat. Now that she is done being a vegetarian, my sister assured me that she is really easy to please. She and the unboyfriend eat everything except vegetables, wheat bread, nuts, stuff with ham stuffed inside it, and animals that live in the sea.

The only thing in my pantry that didn't fall into one of these categories was a box of Lucky Charms.

Lest you feel sorry for my starving sister and her special friend, I want to assure you that my guests did not go to bed hungry; their bellies and bowels were filled with the melodious sounds of the acoustic guitar, which the unboyfriend played all night. You will be shocked to learn that the non-boyfriend is in a band.

This morning, I asked my house guests how long they were planning to stay. My sister shot me an eye dagger that said, "It's none of your business."

Ugh. I'm so glad that I wasn't like that when I was eighteen.


P.S. So here's my dilemma: I didn't know the unboyfriend was coming for Christmas and I don't have any presents for him. Am I supposed to buy him some? If so, what? I've already thought of Dr. Laura's book, Ten Stupid Things Men Do to Mess Up Their Lives, so if you were going to suggest that one, you'll have to think of something else.

Cortlen's Horrible Life

Life can be so cruel.

Last week, my elderly friend gave each of my children two crisp one dollar bills for Christmas. The money started burning holes in the beneficiaries' pockets the minute that the envelopes were opened, so I decided to take the eager shoppers to the local Mennonite thrift store before anyone got hurt.

Before stepping foot on the hallowed ground, I tried to persuade the newly rich to put their bills into my purse for safekeeping. I didn't get any takers.

"Then at least put your money in your pockets," I suggested.

Two children dutifully shoved their bills into their pants. The child wearing a pink dress stuck out her tongue at me. A few minutes later, a loud wail reverberated from the toy aisle.

"I can't find my money!" cried a distraught customer.
I shrugged my shoulders. "That's very sad," I said.
The customer squinted her eyes and peered suspiciously at the other shoppers.
"I think that lady stole it," she said, pointing to a woman wearing a brown floor-length dress and apron.

Cortlen spent his two dollars on a treasure that you can't find anywhere else, except for the bottom of a Happy Meal bag.

"Excellent choice," I said, examining the wind-up Ronald McDonald figurine.

Cortlen beamed..that is, until he saw Kellen's selection.
"I want that," said Cortlen, pointing at the remote controlled robot dog. "Let's trade."

Kellen, who hates confrontation and will do anything to please his siblings, would have handed the dog over to his brother if I hadn't intervened.

"Oh no you don't," I said, pulling Cortlen away from the dog.

Cortlen screamed the entire way home.

The sore loser cried even harder after I put fresh batteries in the dog and he learned that in addition to scooting clumsily along the floor, the animal could also bark.

"I want that dog so baaaaad!" he cried.

Kellen had seen his brother suffer enough. He asked me if he could give Cortlen the dog.

"Why don't we ask the dog who HE wants to live with?" I suggested.

Cortlen clapped his hands with excitement.

With the push of a button, the dog let out a loud bark.

"He picked Kellen," I translated.

Cortlen threw himself off the couch...but not before I snapped a picture.

My Day in Numbers

50: percent I overpaid for 5 tickets to the Duke v. Xavier college basketball game by buying the tickets through the Duke Alumni Association instead of Ticketmaster.

4: number of hours we spent together today as a family...on the New Jersey Turnpike (the game was played in northern New Jersey).

4 million: number of hours the same drive felt like listening to three kids sing every Christmas carol known to man in Giglimish, a make believe language.

33: number of DVDs and CDs that fell into a gigantic mud/ice puddle when I opened my car door in the arena parking lot.

15: number of people who were excited to learn that my family was sitting in their row.

3, 453, 876: number of calories consumed within in two hour period by my three children in the form of popcorn, cotton candy, hot dogs, chips, and M&M's.

4: number of times Kellen went to the bathroom during the first half.

1: number of contact lenses that inexplicably fell out of my eye as I was changing Cameron's pants on an empty seat on the top (abandoned) row in our seating section during halftime.

2: number of my husband's former classmates who stopped by to say "hi" while Tim was holding a screaming half-dressed baby and I was on my hands and knees digging through candy wrappers and peanut shells looking for my missing contact lens.

200: number of my husband's former classmates who will hear through the alumni grapevine how well we are handling four children.

0: number of moving blobs I could distinguish as life forms after failing to find my contact lens (I have 20/400 vision).

523: number of times Cortlen accidentally kicked the back of the man's chair in front of us.

523: number of times I asked the man in front of Cortlen if I could buy him a Coke, soft pretzel, nacho plate, or illegal narcotic.

3: number of children who asked me with a straight face if they could have ice cream when we got home.

Googleplex: Number of times we'll do this again if we get the chance. It was worth every penny, tear, apology, and minute of temporary blindness.

Cameron Update

It's been awhile since I posted about Cameron and I'm happy to report that he's doing a lot better than he was a few weeks ago. His most recent round of IVIG and RBC transfusions gave him a much needed boost. However, Cameron's most recent labs show that the virus is starting to attack his bone marrow again, albeit at a slower rate than before. He'll probably have another set of transfusions in the near future, but we'll probably make it through the holidays without having to be hospitalized again. We have a lot to be grateful for and feel very happy with his progress to date.

Prednisone

The other night my phone rang at 8:30pm. Normally I wouldn't pick up at such an ungodly hour, but I didn't recognize the number, so of course I did.

"I have a rectal fissure!" whispered the raspy voice at the other end.

I sighed with relief. Thankfully it wasn't some weirdo calling me in the middle of the night; just a stranger with Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

"Who is this?" I demanded.
The woman on the line identified herself as a friend of a friend of a friend from the community pool. I had never officially met her, but I remembered her gold lamé swimsuit. She had heard through the grapevine that I was an expert in bleeding butt ulcers and wanted to meet in person to discuss hers.

I told her to meet me in back of the local 7-11 in ten minutes. I would be wearing sunglasses and driving a black sedan.

The woman did not show up wearing her gold swimsuit, but she did look pretty darn good for just having been diagnosed with Crohn's Disease.

I complimented the woman on her appearance before telling her that Prednisone would change all of that.

"Steroids make you F-A-T," I said authoritatively. The drug also makes you grow facial hair and gives you blurred vision, adult acne and stretch marks, but I kept all of this to myself. I didn't want to ruin the surprise.

"I knew that's what you were going to say," she said, nodding solemnly. The woman was taking the news so well that I thought that she also would be receptive to my thoughts on various brands of adult diapers.

I was wrong.

"My life is OVER!" she wailed.
"That depends on how you look at it," I replied and started to giggle.

I could tell by the woman's facial expression that it wasn't a good time to ask if she wanted to sell me her swimsuit. I'm not that worried though. After two weeks on 60 milligrams, she'll change her mind.

For more information about Crohn's Disease and its sexy relatives, visit CCFA:

http://www.ccfa.org/

2 Really Good Ideas

My first really good idea was to let each of my three older children invite a friend over to our house after school.

Once the six five year-olds were assembled on my couch, I was able to inspect them individually and as a group. My overall assessment of the situation was positive; only half of the group had chest colds and those who were sick were doing a great job of fighting the pull of gravity and the spread of germs by repeatedly snorting their mucosal drippings back up into their brain tissue.

After giving our guests a guided tour of the most important room in our house--the bathroom--I told the group about my second really good idea.

"Who wants to make a Christmas craft?" I asked.

"Can you eat it?" asked a guest.

My eyes scanned the stack of construction paper and mound of glue sticks on the table. Then I looked at my children, who were licking their lips.

"Some people might," I replied.

No one was impressed by the sample paper chain that I had put together the night before.

"I already made one of those at school," whined a guest and my sons in unison.

In an attempt to mix things up a little bit, I suggested that the experienced crafters write messages to their parents on the pieces of paper.

"What nice things does your mom do for you?" I asked the guests.

I was scribbling so fast that I didn't have time to dot my lower-case "i" letters with tiny hearts.

Although my hand hurt from documenting all that praise, I still had enough energy left to transcribe a few nice things about myself.

"What nice things do I do for you?" I asked my three offspring.

It took Cortlen a minute to think but finally he came up with a really thoughtful response.
"I don't know," he said.

Camber tossed her half-made chain on the table.
"This is boring! I don't want to do this anymore!" she chirped and danced away.

To his credit, Kellen was busy rolling his upper eyelid over his eyeball and didn't hear me.

"Are you a good cook?" asked a guest, trying to be helpful. "If you are, you can write that down on a piece of paper."

I wrote "Good Baker" on a strip of green construction paper. Then I remembered the

batch of what were supposed to be Hershey Kiss cookies that I made last night.

I did the right thing and crossed it out.

Presents!

Every day, my kids ask me a million times each if they can open a present. Overwhelmed by the endless barrage of requests, I finally gave in.

"Hey! This is MY transformer!" screamed Cortlen when he opened his gift.

He looked at me like I had a screw loose. I assured him that wrapping up someone's possessions and regifting it to them was perfectly normal.

Cortlen cast an uneasy eye toward the packages under the tree.

While one son ran up to his room to take inventory of all of his earthly possessions, another threw his gift bag across the room. A pair of dirty socks tumbled out.

"That's not a present!" yelled Kellen as he pointed to the offensive object.

I explained that technically it was. Since I confiscate anything that is left on the ground after three requests to pick it up, the chance to reclaim the socks without having to do a chore was, in fact, a very valuable gift.

Kellen stomped into the playroom to write a thank you note and draw a picture of a blob with fangs.

Camber put her present back on the table. For some strange reason, she didn't want to open it.

"Open it! Open it!" I chanted, clapping my hands. I love watching people open presents. Giving makes me feel warm and tingly inside.

"I don't want to!" she said, folding her arms.

I explained that it was actually necessary for her to open her gift, which was shaped like a box of spaghetti noodles. I couldn't make dinner until she did.

The Christmas Concert Mosh Pit

Last week was the preschool's annual Christmas caroling event at the local VA rehabilitation center. Last year, my boys brought the holiday spirit to the sick and aged veterans by reenacting the Civil War during the school's rendition of "Silent Night." Much to the delight of all who were present, Kellen succumbed to a stab wound to his upper thigh during the last line of the song, and collapsed to the floor with a gigantic thud.

This year, we reviewed the rules for proper rehabilitation center behavior before getting out of the car. Everyone agreed to wear the Santa hat provided by the preschool and keep all finger muskets in their pockets.

Two songs into the show, hats and hands were still where they belonged. During the third song--"Frosty the Snowman"--I slipped into the bathroom to change Cameron's diaper. When I returned, Cortlen's hat was completely over his head and Kellen's fingers were deep inside his nostrils.

I tried to make eye contact with the two carolers, but my efforts were in vain. They only had eyes for each other. Civil War II erupted in the middle of the next song when Kellen, who was giggling uncontrollably, wiped a booger on his brother's shirt. Cortlen responded by wrestling Kellen to the ground. Before the teacher's aide could get to them, another boy decided that what was going on behind him was much more fun than singing "Where is Santa?" to the tune of "Where is Thumbkin?" and jumped in the pile too.

I wanted to make sure that I got credit for ruining two Christmas shows in a row, so the minute that the performance was over, I dragged my boys to the car and tore out of the parking lot.

2008 Christmas Letter

Our front yard

Dear Family and Friends,

Happy Holidays! We have had a pretty much perfect 2008 and can't wait to share what our family has been up to over the past few months.

Camber started school this year, but her time in kindergarten was short lived. She is really mature for her age and wasn't really being challenged academically (she can read chapter books), so school officials moved her up to first grade after the first week of classes. In addition to taking piano, oil painting, horseback riding, ballroom dance, and Chinese language lessons, Camber also plays the violin on a third grade level.

Kellen and Cortlen are five years old and are twins, as in they were both in my belly together and were born at the same time and have the same birthday. Even though they are two different people with radically different personalities and interests, I like to talk about them as if they were one entity because it's cute and I get a lot more attention as a mother of multiples instead of a mother of multiple children. KC as I like to call them, is the smartest kid in preschool, as evidenced by the fact that he is given double the amount of work as his classmates. When he's not ripping through alphabet worksheets and linear algebra equations at the speed of light, you can find KC getting a head start on his Eagle Project or inventing ancient civilizations on the Internet.

Cameron ties with his three older siblings as THE BEST BABY EVER!!! He slept through the night on his first day home from the hospital and never cries. He also inherited the family genius genes. You would hardly know that he's only 11 weeks old just by looking at him; he's that advanced for his age.

I was one of the lucky few to have an easy pregnancy and even easier labor and delivery. I only pushed three times and out he came! Within a week after delivery, I was back into my skinny jeans and skintight see-through sweaters. My doctors call me a medical marvel because instead of shriveling up and drooping down like most women's breasts do after pregnancy, my boobs miraculously blossomed into the perfectly perky specimens that they are today. I can't explain why I have such a large and buoyant rack, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with God rewarding me for being such a good mom and perfect wife.

My hubby loves his job more than ever, especially now that he can work from home 4 days each week. While the kids are at school (and Cameron sleeps of course), we take long walks on the beach, cuddle on the couch, and go grocery shopping together.

We hope but highly doubt that your 2009 will be as good as ours.


With love and a great big group hug,

The Mathews Family

The Christmas Star

Decorating the Christmas tree is a cherished family tradition in the Mathews household. Every year, we drink store brand hot chocolate and listen to the Jingle Dogs bark out holiday favorites as we hang our extensive collection of foam ornaments on a 6 ft fir tree purchased from a Home Depot parking lot.

This year, we sang the carols a little bit louder in order to muffle the sound of Cortlen kicking his bedroom door upstairs. He was upset by the video evidence that proved that it wasn't his turn to put the star on top of the tree.

"Christmas is yuck!" he screamed through the air duct.

"Knock it off!" growled Tim through the vent. Cortlen's crying was drowning out the singing poodles.

"I'm going to get a chair and knock that star off the tree!" threatened the air duct. "Really, I am! You just watch me!"

I began to fear for the safety of the foam ornaments.

In order to protect our investments, we were left with no choice but to tell the Grinch that he had to stay locked up until the tree was decorated or he could control himself, whatever came first.

The Grinch chose to stay in his cave and announce (through the vent) what he had bought me and Tim for Christmas. Unless I let him put the star on the tree, I would not be getting a hot pink plunger.

In a failed attempt to soften the Grinch's heart, we turned up the Jingle Dogs and put the speakers next to the air duct.

Super Stylish Boys' Blessing Outfits

One of the advantages of having a boy baby is that you actually get a choice when it comes to his blessing/christening outfit. Girls are pretty much stuck with some variation of the long white dress, but with a boy, you get to choose between two different but equally flattering looks: the turn-of-the-century sailor or the 1980s bridegroom.

Our decision to bless Cameron at church last Sunday was kind of last minute, so I didn't have enough time to order a little Lord Fauntleroy outfit off the Internet. When I tried to hunt one down at the mall, I encountered unexpected difficulties. I learned from a perky sales clerk at Macy's that most department stores in my area only stock christening outfits during the farm animal birthing season. Human freaks of nature who are born in the Fall and Winter months are

punished accordingly for their rebellion.

I was counting on the mall to produce at least one handsome all-white tuxedo with tails or, at the bare minimum, an attractive pair of puffy white pantaloons. Eventually I did find the tuxedo, but it wasn't made of polyester, so I put it back on the rack.

My disappointment over not being able to spend at least $75 for a pair of newborn capris and matching silk-feel vest was palpable. Everyone felt awful for me, including my usually unsympathetic husband.

"If you really want to buy Cameron a pair of white Daisy Dukes with suspenders," he said, "I'm not going to stand in your way."

It's too late for the blessing, but I'm definitely going to order the outfit. Cameron will want to bless his own son in it someday.

Caramels

Tim's parents were in town this weekend. Last night, Tim's mom taught me how to make her famous caramels. They are super easy and only take 2 hours (of non-stop stirring) to make. Clean-up is a breeze as well. I'm definitely going to be making them a lot this holiday season.

The Holy Grail of Christmas Gifts

This is the fifth Christmas in a row that my sister Amy (who is 24 and a graduate student at a fancy university) will spend with my family. Every year, she gets me something nice and practical like a picture frame or S'mores maker.

I prefer to give people on my shopping list--including my sister--luxury items: things that they desperately want but would never buy for themselves. Last year, I got my sister volumes 14-23 of the Babysitters' Club series; the year before, she found a sexy denim jumper under the tree. I thought about giving her the Christmas sweater this year, but she wouldn't appreciate it. At least not as much as Becca.

Last week, my sister politely asked me to steer clear of the clothing and book departments at my favorite stores. That was just as well, because I had already decided to move on to housewares. Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to happen upon a collection of rhinestone-encrusted goblets at Ross-Dress for Less. Each goblet cost a little bit more than I wanted to spend--$14.99--but the suggested retail price was $29.99, so I felt good knowing that I got a good deal.

For obvious reasons, it was really hard deciding between the cup that said "Gold Digga" and the one that said "Shorty." In the end, I chose the "Gold Digga" cup because it combines two of my favorite things: street slang and phonetic spelling.

Plus, my sister is single and the cup's inspirational message will help her to keep her priorities straight.

What are you getting the special people on your list?

I am green with envy

http://www.thedailygreen.com/green-homes/latest/ugly-christmas-sweaters-461208?src=syn&dom=yah_buzz&mag=tdg&ha=1

Holiday Shop

I always spend my money wisely and enjoy helping other people--especially young people--do the same. That's why I jumped at the chance to volunteer at the elementary school's annual holiday shop fundraiser.

On this special day, the school cafeteria is converted into a shopping mall where the PTA sells Dollar Store merchandise for a 200% profit. Every student gets 20 minutes to spend an envelope full of money that their parents give them on presents for specific family members... unless, of course, their parents don't give them any money, in which case, they spend their 20 minutes trying to talk their classmates into sharing the wealth.

When I saw that Camber was among the throngs of moochers, I gave her $8 and told her to buy gifts for me, Tim, and Tim's parents. Once my daughter disappeared into the sea of pint-sized shoppers, I turned my attention to the two kindergartners whom I was assigned to assist.

Jason didn't need any help from me. He made really good selections all on his own. His purchases included a $3 flying angel porcelain figurine with sparkly wings for his mom, a tube of hot pink lipstick for his Dad, and a pair of plaid-checked oven mitts imprinted with the phrase "World's Best Cook" for his baby sister.

After Jason cashed out, I told him to sit against the cafeteria wall and wait for his classmates to finish up. When I went to check on him five minutes later, he was wearing the oven mitts...and the lipstick.

By the time I got to Kylie, she was mostly done. Her shopping bag was overflowing with high-quality loot including 3 Phillies pennants, a "bleeding eye" bouncy ball, and a small arsenal of personalized office supplies.

"That's a lot of stuff," I observed when the bag became so heavy that Kylie began dragging it across the floor. "I wish that I had that many presents."

Kylie looked at me like I was missing some marbles.

"You can, silly," she said as she grabbed a ruler off of the table that read "Grandma keeps me in line!" and put it in her bag.

That's when I realized that all of Kylie's gifts were stolen.

I was in the midst of trying to console the hysterical kindergartner when another kindergartner approached, carrying a $7 purple lava lamp.

"You and grandma and Dad can all share this," Camber said. "But we'll keep it in my room, so you don't fight over it."

Ahhhhh, money well spent.

In case you're wondering, Camber's last dollar was spent on a gift for Tim's Dad. It's a magnet that says, appropriately, #1 Uncle.

The Sweater

I apologize for posting this so late. The fact that so many people wanted the sweater made me have second thoughts about giving it away. I've been crying over my loss all afternoon (actually, I got sucked into helping out at an elementary school fundraiser today...details to follow!). So many of you are so deserving (I've been cracking up all week)...but I must go with the crowd on this one and award it to Becca. Plus, she's from North Carolina and I have a soft spot for the South. Congratulations! I hope you cherish this treasure forever...and maybe consider taking Ninny's suggestion of giving it away on your blog at some point as well. I want a chance to win it back!

Here is Becca's winning entry:

Dear Jana,
I should win your sweater because, being newly postpartum, I am currently a cup size FF. (Yeah. Double *F*.) I just can't seem to find a sweater that flatters my new figure, but I'm pretty sure--wearing this lovely fashion statement, with it's bells--people might be so enamored with what's *on* the sweater, they'd ignore the "good heaven's, they're the size of TEXAS" knockers *under* it. Bless you.

And here is her beautiful and well-written blog for your viewing pleasure:
http://thelittleauthorthatcould.blogspot.com/

So That's What They're For

On the way to preschool yesterday morning, Cortlen began squeezing his nipples.

"Does milk come out of boys' breasts?" he wanted to know.

I want to be truthful with my children, so I took a deep breath and answered "yes."

My knowledge of male lactation comes from a very reliable source: a book that I purchased at the thrift store last week titled So That's What They're For! I was willing to part with 35 cents in hopes that the book would reveal a function of female breasts of which I am not aware. For example, maybe they conduct electricity.

I was disappointed to discover that the book's discussion of breasts was limited to breastfeeding. By the time I got to the chapter on breast infections and inverted nipples, however, I had forgotten all about alternative energy sources. I had no idea. Something else that I learned from this book is that all mammals have mammary glands. Even males. This information led me to conduct a detailed online search of men and breastfeeding which, in turn, led me to an article about fathers who nurse their sons.

Cortlen was visibly disturbed when I asked him if he wanted to try to feed Cameron. He was not disturbed enough, however, to stop pinching his chest. He squeezed all the way into preschool. By the time I picked him up, he appeared to have gotten over the urge.

"For some strange reason, Cortlen thinks men can lactate," my son's teacher told me at the front door. She giggled nervously and looked at me for reassurance that this information did not come from me.

This is our third year at the preschool; the teacher should know better by now.

I'm finished with So That's What They're For! and I think that Cortlen's teacher will really enjoy reading it. Thank goodness Christmas is just around the corner.

Play Doh Ornaments

In my desperate search for a kids' Christmas craft that does not involve the use of foam stickers, I came across a recipe for "Family Face Ornaments" in a magazine from a doctor's office waiting room.

Instead of making dinner yesterday afternoon, I decided to make ornaments. After mixing the ingredients, however, I realized that I had been tricked into making something at home that I could buy for twice as much at the store. What the magazine called "salt dough" was really play-doh. Despite feeling deeply betrayed, I decided against throwing the mixture into the garbage can. Instead, I helped my kids shape the dough into golf ball-sized likenesses of family members and friends. People who we like got big heads and all of their facial features; people who we like less got small heads without noses.

Toward the end of the activity, Camber held up a mound of dough that she called "mommy." I was happy to see that "mommy" had nostrils. When I asked her why the ornament looked like it also sported an impressive set of dredlocks, she didn't answer. A brief peek in the bathroom mirror answered the question.


I can't remember the name of the magazine where I got this recipe (Parents? Family Fun?) but if I can do it, then you know it's pretty much foolproof. The recipe makes a small city worth of people, so beware.

3 c flour
1 c salt
1-1 1/2 c water

Beat ingredients together on medium and knead dough until it is smooth. Roll the dough into golf ball-size balls and then flatten them with hand. Make noses, ears, etc. out of small pieces of dough. Poke a hole through the top of the ornament (for the string). Bake at 275 degrees for 2 hours on a foil-lined cookie sheet.

After people are cooled, paint with acrylic paint. Seal with Mod Podge.

This was my first time using Mod Podge. I liked it immensely. There are so many things one potentially could do with liquid glue, especially the kind with glitter added to it. I couldn't sleep last night thinking about all of them.

All I Want For Christmas is a Normal Christmas Picture

December is a busy month for professional photographers. Fortunately, when I called last week to make an appointment to get my kids' Christmas picture taken, my favorite studio--which is conveniently located next to the deodorant aisle in a large superstore--still had slots available.

I knew the photo shoot was going to be a big success the moment that I met Brad, our photographer. Brad graduated from high school in 2008, a fact I gleaned from the writing on the t-shirt that he was wearing. Despite his youthfulness, I was relieved to learn that Brad was an experienced and highly trained photographer, having worked at Target since September.

Brad took one look at the pack of wild things heaving in the corner and assured me that he was not a man who was easily intimidated by a hoard of wiggly five year-olds. He changed his mind after trying to arrange the beasts on a small bench draped with a white sheet.

Brad learned the hard way that crossing one's ankles and repressing the desire to flare one's nostrils for three second intervals are reasonable requests. "Leaning in real close" and "putting your arms around the person sitting next to you" are not.

The first frame captured Kellen pinching Camber's stomach.

Kellen is absent from the second frame (having been shoved off the bench by the hand of God), save a small portion of his right leg which is visible in the bottom right corner.

After shot 3, I retrieved a bag of Blow-Pops from my purse. As the three man-eaters watched, I unwrapped a sucker and licked it a few times.

"Mmmmmm!" I chirped. "This sucker is sooooooo good. Whoever sits still and smiles really nice can have one when we're done." Brad asked if the offer was open to him as well.

"I just need one picture!" I said, ignoring the man-child. "Just one!" I said again in a tone that was more begging than threatening.

It was not meant to be. In the 18 shots that followed, there was not a single one where at least half of my children do not look stoned or look like they are being stoned. Toward the end of the sequence, Camber decided that it was just as good of time as any to see if Cameron could put some weight on his legs. The last six frames show Cameron in a number of unnatural poses, including one where he is slumped across Camber's lap, his head flung back and mouth wide open.

The quality of the family pictures dramatically improved once I started deleting members of the family from the picture. We got a couple really good shots of Camber and Kellen together, but the best shot by far was of Cortlen standing alone, hands in his pockets.

"I'll take that one!" I said to Brad, pointing triumphantly at the picture of Cortlen.
Brad was confused. "I thought you wanted a picture of all your kids together," he said.

"Close enough!" I shouted gleefully as I handed Brad a coupon...and a Blow-Pop.

P.S. I made a second pass at the "family picture" when we got home from Target. As you can see, they turned out a lot better than the ones Brad took.

Sleeveless Dresses

Of all the mysteries in life, perhaps the greatest is the sleeveless holiday dress. A few weeks ago, I took Camber shopping for a Christmas dress and was hard pressed to find something in her size that wasn't strapless, sleeveless, or off the shoulder. A quick glance at the objects dangling from the hangers in the women's dress department at the mall revealed where girls' clothing designers get their inspiration.

Sleeveless holiday dresses are great, if you happen to live along the equator. For all of us lucky souls who are fortunate to live in climates where the temperature hovers just above freezing throughout the month of December, the sleeveless dress is an open invitation for frostbite. In my house, it's also an invitation to employ one's resourcefulness in devising a way to make this year's specimen--a red and black plaid number--functional.

My daughter's solution--a pink and yellow flower-print Easter sweater--was not my first choice, nor my second, third, fourth, fifth or sixth. Camber looked ridiculous in the sweater...but significantly less ridiculous, I reasoned, than walking around Philadelphia in the dead of winter without it.

P.S. Some of you may be wondering why I didn't just buy a sweater to go over the sleeveless dress in the first place. I would have, if there were any to be found. The absence of costly and preferably bejeweled matching cover-ups for sleeveless dresses is yet another great and hitherto unsolved mystery of the modern world. Maybe you can help.

The First Meanest Mom Giveaway!

The difference between a mediocre mom blog and a great one is that the latter gives stuff away. I've always aspired to take my blog to the next level, but have been held back on account of the fact that I haven't had anything desirable to give away...that is, until now.

Announcing the first ever Meanest Mom Giveaway!

Up for grabs is a must-have for every woman this holiday season: a sophisticated, yet understated machine-made Christmas sweater! Guaranteed to impress your friends and breed jealousy in all who behold it, this one of a kind beauty comes to you straight from my city's most upscale shopping establishment (the same one that brought me my air hockey table and my kids' Halloween costumes). The price tag reads $3.99, but do not be fooled! Low cost does not equal low quality in this case. Although it is not nearly as fashionable as the ice skating teddy bear sweatshirt that was temporarily in my shopping cart at Wal-Mart last week, this one size fits all wonder promises to elevate one lucky lady's holiday wardrobe to new and remarkable heights.

(ultra flattering striped pants not included!)

If, like me, you fell in love with this sweater at first sight, then here's what you need to do to make it yours:

Reply to this entry with a comment that explains why you want the sweater so badly and/or what you plan to do with it. I'll evaluate your heartfelt pleas on Thursday night and on Friday, I'll announce the winner.

Because this sweater means so much to me, I'll only be willing to part with it if I know that it's going to a good home. If you win, you have to agree to send me a picture of the sweater in its new habitat so I can post it on my blog.