Rudolph the Semi-Decapitated Reindeer

Yesterday, my husband suggested that instead of driving to the nearest Redbox to return a movie that we had watched on New Year’s Eve (we are super big party animals) that we ride our bikes there instead.

“That sounds like fun,” I agreed.

“Fun” we learned very quickly, is a relative term. The event that followed was certainly more fun than getting impaled by a hot poker, but considerably less fun than just about anything else.

The minute our caravan turned out of neighborhood, Cameron started pinching my back. “OUT!” he screamed while trying to propel himself out of his bike seat. About the same time as he managed to rip off his helmet and throw it in the middle of the road, Cortlen announced that he had to urinate so bad he thought he was going to die. He pointed to a storm drain conveniently located at his feet as he made his request.

“I’m going to pretend like I didn’t hear you say that,” I replied.

Meanwhile, my daughter was doing everything in her power to hold on to the coveted spot of leader of the pack. This included recklessly weaving her bike back and forth on the sidewalk and using her body as a barricade while yelling “Get away from me!” whenever one of her brothers tried to pass her.

“Knock it off!” I growled.

In the end, no amount of sibling hostility or intimidation or parental warnings or common sense could prevent Kellen from making his move. The reward was worth the risk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him surge ahead—off the sidewalk, around his sister, and then straight into a family of animatronic deer.



If New Year's weekend is a sign of things to come in 2012, I am in serious trouble.

One of the robotic deer was nearly decapitated.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the owners of the house weren’t at home at the time of the accident. “They’ll be back on Thursday,” a woman who was walking her dog told me.

That’s a conversation I’m looking forward to.

Not.

I didn’t know what to do, so I laid Rudolph's corpse across the people’s welcome mat. I drove by the house this morning to check for signs of life and take pictures, but much to my surprise and horror, Rudolph had mysteriously disappeared.

“Santa must have came and got him,” I told my kids as I chuckled nervously.

Seriously-I have no idea what happened to the deer and I’m kind of scared to find out.

Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. After all, his family is still alive and well.



And despite faking signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, my family is doing fine too.

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All right friends--we need to talk...

No, I'm not breaking up with you, :) but I am going to take a break from writing for a little bit in 2012. Over the past few months, I have been struck with the urge to write beyond my blog, and in order to create the time and creative energy to do things the right way, I need to put The Meanest Mom into hibernation mode.

It makes me sad too.

Just because I won’t be invading your lives on a semi-daily basis for awhile, however, doesn’t mean that I won't miss you terribly. Writing this blog has been one of the unexpected joys in my life, in large part because of your support and encouragement. Thank you for reading my blog and sharing it with your friends and family. I love every minute of it and feel incredibly honored to have been welcomed into your life. You guys are awesome.

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