Aha!

I had several revelations about The Christmas Season this weekend -- mostly about why I hate it so much. So, I thought I'd share. 'Cause my mother always taught me to share. ;)

You have to understand that I didn't grow up hating The Christmas Season. I liked it well enough as a kid. When I was a single gal, I didn't hate it. I pretty much did what I wanted, bought cute presents for my niece and nephew, and got good invites for Christmas dinner. I liked it after I was married. I decorated the house with long garlands of pine, made Christmas for me and The Husband, cooked outrageous foods for the IT Christmas Feeding Trough at work. Gee, that takes me right up to... the day I had kids. Oops.

So that's what it's about, is it? Why?

At The Christmas Season, we're supposed to go all out for out kids, making their life as exciting and magical as we can, so they'll remember it for the rest of their lives and tell their children about in glowing terms. Sorry, but as a homeschooling mother of autistic children, that's what I have to do each and every day. I'm working flat-out to get these kids as much enrichment and education as will fit into our schedule. I pour my entire heart and soul into these kids every day of the year, and I have to kick it up a notch for The Christmas Season? That's SO not happening. Like I'm not running on fumes the other 50 weeks of the year...

So let's look back at the people who invented The Christmas Season: the Victorians. (You thought I was going somewhere else, didn't you?) The Victorians made Christmas for their kids by loosening up a little and indulging them in improper and uncharacteristic ways. They'd let the kids eat cookies and candy, stay up late, decorate trees in the house. They invented a ficitonal character in a red suit that would bring them a present, so the kids wouldn't get any ideas about their parents being too, too indulgent. And I honestly think the adults had fun doing it.

So, I've decided that my mission this year is to be a little more indulgent and laid back. I'm gonna let them pick things to do and help them do it. I'm gonna let them decorate every flat surface in the house. I'm gonna let them make and eat red and green foods. I'm putting The Boy in charge of instigating any and all Christmas Cheer he wants. And I'll gladly join in. I just can't give any more.

Peel, chop, repeat...

We had dinner at my mother's today. She made the turkey, stuffing, gravy, green beans, corn, cranberry jelly (with the can marks!) and rolls. I was supposed to bring pumpkin pie, apple crisp, baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, and rutabagas.



Naturally, I got up late and got all my food cooked in 45 minutes.

I set the oven for 425 degrees, scrubbed some potatoes, nuked them for five minutes, then threw them in the hot oven. I scrubbed the rest of the potatoes, peeled them. chopped them, and put them on to boil. I peeled the rutabaga, chopped it, and put it on to boil. I peeled the apples, whacked them with the apple chopper, mixed them with a little sugar, a handful of cranberries and a little lemon juice, and threw them in a casserole. I mixed up the oatmeal crisp stuff in the same bowl and threw it on top of the apples. (We always cook the apple crisp after the turkey comes out of the oven, hence the lemon.)

By then, the potatoes were soft, so I drained them, added butter, milk and salt/pepper, mashed them in the pot, and dumped them in a casserole with butter on top. By then, the rutabagas were soft, so I drained them, added butter and salt/pepper, mashed them, and dumped them in a casserole with butter on top. By then, the baked potatoes were done, so I was done. The other half of Team Verge (The Husband!) packed it all up as I finished it, and we were outta here! *whew* Oh, and we remembered to take the pie I made yesterday! Score!!

What I want to know is, how did my mom stick me with all the peeling and chopping jobs? ;)

Adding insolence to injury

So, it's not broken anyway. My parents swooped in like vultures this morning and carried me off to have my ankle x-rayed. "You can't mess around with stuff like this!" they tell me.

Anyway, the ankle is fine, but I pulled the tendons on the top of my foot. Or something like that. I'm in an ankle brace and a "shoe". They were going to put me in a "boot", but decided not to when they found out that I have crazy children and I need to drive.

This whole injury thing is disturbing to me. I find now that I do not have that The Force and cannot move things with my mind. I can only sit and think, "Gee, the bed needs to be made, the sink is full of dishes, I have to get dinner in the oven, and the kids don't do anything I ask unless I stand up first." Seriously, that last one is true. Unless I stand up, they figure I won't enforce any request. It's a "You and what army?" sort of moment.

I have also come to realize that I do not simply walk -- I stride the earth. Me and my running shoes and my 34-inch inseam. It's almost biblical sometimes. "In fury, you stride the earth; in anger you tread the nations." When I stand up to work or fight, people take notice. At 5'11", at least my short people take notice.

I've cancelled dance and my trip tomorrow to The Big City. I'm home with team insolence. Yayyyy...

Further shame and pain

Oy. I sprained my ankle wicked bad this afternoon.

I was trying to get The Boy to balance and glide on the bike, but he started screaming, "NO! NO! I'm gonna CRASH! I'M GONNA CRASH!!" Naturally, after that outburst, the first thing he did was crash. On top of me. He scraped his knee pretty badly, but rest assured, he did NOT take it like a man. And the whole neighborhood knows. Shame added to my injury.

Insult added to injury was that I still had to walk home -- after assuring the nice lady that tottered out of the nearest house that I wasn't dying. Fortunately, The Girl was throwing a tantrum because she had forgotten to wear a sweater on a sunny 85 degree day. (Apparently, helmet and sweater are both required for biking.) It was fortunate because I got to push the bike home, using it like a walking frame. When we got home, she put on her sweater and asked to go out again. I just smirked and said, "Get in the house."

I seem to be able to walk on my heel, but I can't move my toes without extreme pain. What could that mean? Time to go to Urgent Care? I would, except it's my driving foot.

Maybe I'll wait and see. I'm just afraid to see what gets added to shame, insult and injury. I'm thinking more pain. Those x-ray techs are brutal...

Friday's Wall of Shame

In the spirit of Suburban Correspondent's refrigerator confessions, I now offer you my Friday Wall of Shame.

I have reached a low in housekeeping that I can not possibly excuse. "Oh, I have two bathrooms, and no one uses the master bathroom. Oh, there are two sinks, so it doesn't really matter if mine is scrubbed all the time. Oh, blah, blah, blah."

So it's come to this: I have weeds in my sink drain.


The last time I carried the lawn waste to the curb, it covered my shirt in hitchhiker seeds. I picked them off and washed them down the drain. Apparently, they caught in the gasket around my drain plug. And apparently, they're immune to toothpaste.

I have no idea which is scarier -- that my sink is dirty enough to support plant life or that these seeds seem to thrive after being washed with toothpaste twice a day.

I think I'll blame the seeds. 'Cause in Florida, anything's possible.

And they're off...

Well, looks like I haven't been on in a while. Let's see what's happened since my last manicure...

I taught The Girl to ride a two-wheeler. Yes, you heard me!! My baby is on a real bike!!

Two or three years ago, I bought her a bike with training wheels and taught her to steer. I pushed her up and down the street (every day for three weeks) until she figured out that she was responsible for keeping it between the lines.

Last year, I bought her a larger bike, retrofitted training wheels, and made her push the pedals herself. But the bike kept dumping a training wheel off the sidewalk and chucking her off.

This year, I bought an even larger bike and followed the advice from Bike New York on how to get a kid off training wheels. Their method is to take off the pedals and training wheels, put the seat all the way down, and let the kids scoot around until they figure out how to balance. Why take off the pedals? Two reasons: so the poor kid doesn't scrape up their ankles on the pedals and the ground is easier to reach when they stop. Voila, no more maiming injuries or crashes; hence, less fear of falling.

She never did push herself with her own feet, but I pushed her until she allowed herself to glide. Then, I put the pedals back on, and now, if I get her started, she can pedal and balance for the width of four or five houses. Somehow, between her OT, Braingym, and a little more age, she has figured it out! It's quite a sight to see.

And by "quite a sight", I do mean me -- cheering and yelling, "Pedal! Pedal! Right! Left! Right! Look up! Eyes up!! Don't look at the fire hydrant or you'll crash into it! You go girl!" Yup, I'm quite a sight.

But so proud!