When is it Time for Funny?

I'm not sure when the right time is for funny. I am an amateur comedian at best. In light of the death of Joan Rivers, I realize that funny can happen fast. In fact, Joan would encourage funny to happen fast. It probably happened much faster than her daughter Melissa was ready for, but she knew her mom. Joan would have wanted funny fast.

In my family, my immediate family, the one I grew up with, funny is important. If you are going to sit down with my dad, my brother, and I you better be prepared to keep up. There is a sarcasm and quick wit that runs through our blood.

My grandmother passed away in her 94th year. She was 93. We never say 93. I always say, "in her 94th year." I am both mocking her and paying tribute to her when I say, "94th year." It is a long story, but it is definitely important to note that is important she get credit for the 94th year.

At my grandmother's funeral, my brother was late. He was young, in his 24th year, and had zero concept of time or responsibility. I was old, in my 34th year, pregnant with child number three and had so much responsibility it was choking me. I was peeved at his tardiness.

Fashion and style were important to my grandmother. I have lived in the shadow of that expectation my whole life. She passed it on to her daughters, and they have passed it on to their only daughter and niece. At heart, I just may be someone that could live happily in sweats and leggings and a big fleece shirt. It is her legacy that forces me through the doors of Gap, White House Black Market, and Ann Taylor each season to "get it done" so to speak.

My mother is a fashionista. She has style. Naomi is 71, looks 50 and with grace dresses like she is 40. She was about 60 at the time of my granmother's passing, had the body of a 30 year old and was in a word, "hot." She wore leather to the funeral. She looked good.

I was prickly with my brother for being late. Until...he leaned over the pew at the church and in the middle of the service whispered in my ear, "I didn't know we were wearing costumes. Why didn't anyone tell me mom was coming as cat woman." And just like that, all was forgiven.

There is a 9/11 story I never tell. It never seems like the right time. It never seems like the right thing to do. But it is funny. It was the first funny. It was told to me about 8 that evening. And I laughed. I laughed for the first time in about 10 hours, and for me that is a really long time without laughter.

My friend Mary and I were very close. Taught together, pregnant together, similar lives. Her daughter Annie was 5 on the day of 9/11. She probably sat on the couch all day. She probably heard her mother tell our story on the phone about 100 times. She had it down cold.

The brief version of what she heard goes something like this:
Corey was in New York
Corey was in the World Trade Center
Corey was there for  Morgan Stanley training
Corey was on a break during the morning session
Corey was in the bathroom and when he came out and everyone was running
Corey never looked back and ran down 50+ flights of stairs and out the building to safety.

At five o'clock on the evening of 9/11, after hearing the above ALL day, with the news probably on the tv ALL DAY, and being left to her own devices ALL day....Annie had a friend over. And the friend asked, "what happened." And Annie said,

"Oh, our friend Corey was in New York...for bathroom training and....."

The rest doesn't matter because, I laughed. At bathroom training, I laughed. Long and hard and with total sincerity, I laughed.

I don't know when the right time for funny is. But I love that story, and today, on year 13, inspired by Joan Rivers, it seemed like the right time to tell it. You have heard all my deep thoughts on this subject, today, for me, it was time to share the laugh. Be inspired to be better, be inspired to be strong, be inspired to love, be inspired to care, but always laugh when you can. You need the laugh to get you through the moments where you never think you will again.

Never, NEVER, Say Never...

At times in your life you have a good friend that you meet through your children, and you experience life moments or milestones with them that you don't forget. My friend Robbin and I have experienced summer swim team together for many years. Our years at the pool have changed as our children grow, and each year has different stages and characteristics attached to it. It is our early years at the pool that I have been reflecting on lately. Our children are the same ages, both of us having multiple children (3 for her, 4 for me) and both of us having a younger child that kept us in the baby/toddler stage a couple of years past our tolerance for it perhaps.

The early years we shared at swim team were probably best titled, "The Drudgery Years." Those years when you are lugging a ton of crap to the pool, the kids are too little to help out, someone is always whining, someone is always at the baby pool (which is fenced off from the rest of society and slightly alienating by nature), and it was demanding both physically and mentally to get there every day. I was always grateful for her presence there and the small bit of adult conversation we were able to have in the midst of the drudgery. 

These days our children are older, independent teens and our younger children out of the baby pool and somewhat self sufficient. We have become the mothers we used to stare at longingly from inside the baby pool fence. We are able to drop off at swim practice and run errands,  go work out while they practice, or not even show up and have an older child drive them. We see each other in passing, we wave from our cars, and our time together is fleeting compared to our daily hours together in those early years.

In fact, my life has changed so much that this summer I didn't even make it to the first two meets. My mother handled meet number one while I was on a real vacation with just my husband, and my husband handled meet number two while I was on my annual girls' weekend. It was actually sad for me when I missed the second meet and my husband had to send me pictures and updates. These days swim meets and banquets are where Robbin and tend to have our time to catch up, and I haven't been there so we are behind this summer in a really big way.  Last week she caught me in the parking lot. We were laughing at her first sentence.

She wanted to tell me what a beautiful swimmer Paige was. This shouldn't make us laugh, but it does. We laugh because we share the history and evolution that is Paige and swimming. And, if you follow my blog, you share the history of Paige and swim as well. During the drudgery years I wrote a blog about it. After laughing in the parking lot, I reread my blog on Paige and swim. It is one of my favorites, and I will repost with this one for those that are new readers and may need the history to appreciate the update. Upon the reread, I was reminded that we learn the best lessons from our children and our parenting of them. The title of the post was, Never Say Never, my parenting motto. And after rereading I realized, once again, that when I forget that motto...it bites me in the ass...always! Even when I least expect it. Even when it doesn't seem even remotely possible that I could be wrong. Always where Paige is concerned.

This weekend I made it to my first summer swim meet. Paige basically took first in backstroke, first in her A team relay, and second or third in everything else. I knew this going in because I had heard about it from everyone even though I hadn't seen it live. Hearing it, and seeing it are two completely different things. I stood humbled as I watched this beautiful girl swim to victory and success. Now, I cried a little instead of laughed. She is perfection in the water.

I wish I had two things to go with this blog. I will do my best to give you the visual in words because one of these things I don't possess, and the second I probably can't figure out how to attach.

Number one: A photo of 7 year old Paige. Seven year old Paige forced to be on a swim team with older sisters who swim easily, well, and with confidence. Seven year old Paige in goggles that are two tight for her face and pinch in her eyes, but she deems necessary so that NO water gets near her eyes in any way. Seven year old Paige in her flippers walking the perimeter of the pool (with the tight goggles still on). A slow, purposeful, exaggerated, high lifting walk intent on just making it too her spot. Seven year old Paige smiling at our tent on Sunday of championship weekend, a day that in her own words goes like this, "Is Sunday the day I get to sit and read and play games while my sisters swim? I love Sunday!" Seven year old Paige never once complaining about her hatred of it all. Seven year old Paige determined to make it through.(I know Robbin has this visual locked in).

 Number two: Video of 12 year old Paige swimming to first place with the ease, grace,and confidence that true swimmers have.(Robbin's idea)

Somewhere between my blog of 7 year old Paige and 12 year old Paige, a swimmer was born. I wrote in that last blog something along the lines of, "...and while she may never be an Olympic swimmer..."  I remember thinking at the time that I was so proud of her, but that we would probably quit swim about this time. Drop summer swim and swimming all together when high school started. Because it was OBVIOUS she would never want to continue, or excel at it.

Paige has requested to swim year round after summer swim. She wants be ready to swim in high school in a year. Summer swim championships are next weekend. Paige will swim on finals day..Sunday, multiple times.

Please note the capitalization in the second never in the title of this piece. I stand corrected. I am humbled I was wrong...in every way.

I think I will end the blog in this way...please look for Paige in the Summer Olympics 2020! Never say never...

Entitled

This is what I know about parenting...it is difficult. There are moments of great success and then those damn kids turn on you and there are such lows you think you will never climb back out of them. I also know that with four kids, enjoying the moments of their success is fleeting because you are really just jumping from one kid's low to the next. All while they yell, say, demand, ask, whisper, sign, smoke signal the words...mom, mommy, mother, mama. They never yell for dad, even when he is standing right there.

Nicole is leaving for college in August. When I started this blog she was starting high school. I am busy this weekend getting off announcements, cleaning my crack-like house for a party, and shuffling children to sporting events. Same old, same old. I am not going to lie. Nicole has been an easy kid to get to college. Maybe she is setting me up for a ridiculous fall into disaster when she gets there, but she has been easy. She did the hard work, she got in to the college she wanted, she had back up choices in case it didn't happen, and blah...blah...blah...she has been easy. That being said, she can also be very entitled.

I am not sure how this happened. I think some of it comes naturally to children living in suburbia in the year 2014. I think some of it is innately part of her personality, and I think some of it is our fault as parents, because in many ways she has lived a life of, in my humble opinion, great privilege. She has a car. It is our old Navigator. To be fair she loves it. She was happy to get it, embraces the odd awkwardness of it's size, smiles at it's squeaks and creaks, and never once has asked or insinuated a new car would be nice. Our driveway is often seen with a BMW, or convertible this or that when her friends come over, and Nicole always happily jumps in her old SUV and drives off. She also has a job. A good job. She does parties and camps at the local gymnastics place. Great hours, good pay, nice boss and she has a great work ethic. Super proud of all this. She has been diligently saving for months so that she can help pay for sorority costs at college next year.

Two weeks ago she had a fender/bender in the school parking lot. Her fault. And here is where the entitled aspect of her personality comes roaring in. It bothered her so little, or she found it so unimportant, that she did not tell us for two days. When it did come up, she was very dismissive of the whole thing. Rather nonchalant. As though it was no big deal. "Not really any damage," says she "But,oh by the way I gave him my insurance information and now he is calling me. Can dad talk to his dad?"

 As it turns out it was a big deal and there WAS some damage. To the tune of about $800.00. She was still very dismissive. And here is a synopsis of what followed and was revisited several times over several days

-Oh, great, insurance can pay for that.
-Ummmm...No, you will pay for that.
-What? I can't pay for that.
-Ummm, yes you can. You have the money in your account.
-Yes, but I have been working really hard for that.
-Thank goodness you have, now you have the money to take care of it instead of having a payment plan with this guy
-When my friends wrecked cars they got new ones and insurance paid for that
-Hmmm? Well, in this house you are writing a check and paying for the damage
-This is very unfair. Why can't you pay for it?
-We did not hit his back bumper
-Why can't insurance pay for it and so on and so on and so on... Exhausting

In the end he paid the man. She was a humble Tigger, a quiet Tigger. And a Tigger that pulls out of our driveway and cul de sac at a much, more cautious pace. I am sure the lesson is learned, for the moment. As I write this I am reminded of my high school car accident. Where in reality, I did not pay for the damages, my father did. I am reminded that there is an extreme amount of hypocrisy in my parenting (some of which I have touched upon in an earlier blog). I am reminded that what I first said is true.

Parenting is difficult. Raising good children is difficult, having them take responsibility is difficult, and here's the thing...sometimes parents aren't honest about how difficult that is. This blog is all about my honesty. I am big on calling a spade a spade. An idiom I guess. I am not even sure of it's origin.

The Blind Side

I watched the Blind Side with Mary last night. Her choice at red box after grocery shopping just the two of us. Our teenager drove off to a swim party, the preteen and fifth grader had sleepovers and that left Mary, Daddy and I. It is a movie of inspiration I think. A reminder that there is a bigger picture, that we can all do better. I watched it differently than I did the first time. This time I was thinking of her children. I watched the scene where her teenage daughter ignores and defies her friends to go sit with her new 7ft, 350lb, African American brother, and I was thoughtful. I realized the attention and hype has always been about what that woman gave Michael Ohr. In reality she gave her birth children much more. She gave them a perspective on life that makes each of them a person of character. I am refocused. I would feel like I had done my job if I could do that.

Summer is a week out. I haven't blogged since September, and I have been less than committed since starting this two years ago. I loved the summer I started. Quiet mornings before the girls got up, typing and drinking coffee. I am sensing that I will make my way back to it this summer.

The last week of school is difficult for me. I am looking forward to the down time with my own children. We aren't doing summer swim team this year. First time in twelve years. This should make writing difficult to some extent, as my best stories always come from summer swim team. But, it is time for a change. A summer of no schedules and relaxation. A time to focus on the girls and their friends. Do the things I don't have time for all year.

I don't have time during the year because I teach. And this is why the last week of school is difficult for me. I love my class. It was a great year. I had amazing students and amazing parents. I am never ready to say good-bye. I said this last year, I will say it again next year, and I am sure the year after that. Blessed.

Tomorrow is my oldest daughters last dance competition. She is moving on to Lodi High Drill team next year. Bittersweet. I did NOT want to do competitive dance. I forbade it. I said NO. I said HELL NO. But, in this house sometimes hell no means, "Yeah, ok, maybe. Let's give it a try." So, try we did and it has been amazing for her. She is beautiful and confident and poised and talented. I am grateful to Miss Wendy for seeing all of that in my daughter and bringing it to the surface.

But, next year drill. Which brings a new commitment to Lodi High, football, basketball and all things red. I wasn't good at Lodi High the first time in 1986. There was no drill team (not talented enough),no proms (but, funny stories that I just might get to this summer), and a lack of understanding of who I was, and what I was all about. This would come to me later, in college. I tell my best friend (the best part of Lodi High for me, so I kept her), "I get to do everything I wanted to do in high school ...I just had to wait until I was 43."

Summer 2012...I am ready and inspired by the Blind Side...thank you Mary good movie choice! Next blog ...funny...I promise!,

9/11 Ten Years Later...

September 11, 2001 changed my life in many ways, but not in the same way most people will reflect and say it changed theirs. It didn’t change the way I feel about national security, it didn’t make me a more patriotic citizen, and it didn’t make me think about why this bad thing had happened to this great country.

The reality is it changed my life for the better. And that fact, the fact that what was such a devastating tragedy for so many made my life better, is difficult for me to come to terms with.

I have basically lived my whole life in Lodi, arriving here when I was six, taking a break for college and early adulthood. It was a surprise to end up back here at age 31, pregnant with our third child. Transplants from the Bay Area, we had sold a house for a ridiculous amount of money, and we were headed to Sacramento for a job change for my husband. I left him here in Lodi, by himself, while I finished a job in the Bay Area. My conservative husband fell in love, and Lodi was where we stayed and settled down.

My whole life in Lodi had been under the radar, quiet, not easily recognized. I was the girl who didn’t show up in snapshots in the yearbook, just that one posed picture from picture day. I was an attorney’s daughter, and then later, my brother the bartender’s sister. No real identity of my own. September 11th would happen not long after our move here, bringing with it my newest supporting identity…the woman whose husband survived the 9/11 tragedy.

On that day, while a nation sat by TV’s in shocked silence, while people came to terms with the loss of loved ones, while the world began to mourn the losses…I was relieved, I was rewarded, I fell to the ground in gratitude upon hearing my husband’s voice on the other end of the phone. I would spend less than an hour thinking he was dead, and then the next ten years grateful for his survival.

There have been years when the actual day of September 11th has not bothered me. I have gone to work, taken the children to practices, paid bills, run errands and lived life like any other day. Often times, I end the current September 11th with my husband watching the footage from 2001. Many years the footage is new to me, as though I have not seen it before. The reality is… I probably haven’t. Because while the world watched their TV sets that day and into the next week, I did not. That week in 2001, I returned phone calls, talked to family, friends and business associates. I answered the door to reporters who had tracked us down. I waited for Corey to call when he could get through on phone lines, and later I made the travel arrangements that brought him home to us that next Sunday, the 16th.

There have also been years when half way through the day I want to curl up in the fetal position and cry. This year is ten years. The babies of 9/11 will turn ten. This is always the hardest for me to see on news specials or read about in magazines. Our daughter Paige will turn ten in November. She loves her father, she knows her father, and she is blessed to have him in her life. It is difficult for me to see the children, just like her, who never knew their father. We went on to have a fourth child in 2004. We have four girls. People assume we were trying for a boy I am sure. I wasn’t. Our last girl is our 9/11 baby. Proof that hope springs eternal, and in the end what is important is family, love, and the eternity that awaits us all.

In 2003, we went back to “ground zero”. The trip to New York that Corey had always promised me, made difficult by the fact that it seemed shallow and wrong to look forward to the things I had once dreamed of…the shopping, Broadway shows, a taping of Regis and Kelly. When people ask me about that day, and our place in history, the word that most often comes to mind is surreal. Standing at ground zero, surrounded by quiet whispers in a city of noise, surreal seemed more fitting than it ever had. To retrace his steps and listen to him talk of the events and the day, to listen to both the small and big things that he remembered, it all just seemed surreal. We went on to enjoy the trip…the shopping, the Broadway Shows, all of it, because in the end New York had survived, and that is how it survived and thrived, by people loving New York and all that it stood for.

On Sunday, September 11, 2011 our family will be at our church. We will be grateful. We will remember what is important. I will struggle to balance the guilt and celebration of the day. The guilt for all that I have because he survived, and the celebration for all that I have because he survived.

I wrote a piece for the paper on the one year anniversary. I ended it with this quote,

“Sept. 11th took so much away from our Country. God willing, I will cherish all that it gave me for a very long time.”

It is nine years later…I am still cherishing.


A quote from Corey, my husband: “Never forget September 11th. Never forget those months that followed. Months filled with nationalism, patriotism, volunteerism, bipartisanship, God’s love, giving and unity that galvanized us as one nation. Those qualities are still in each and every one of us today.”

And Then There Was Mary...

This is how my day started not too long ago. My youngest and I were in the car and she said, “I had the weirdest dream last night.” She is 6, the youngest of four sisters, and is known to have a bit of a dark side. So I thought I was prepared when I said, “Oh really? What was it about?” She responded with something like this…and I will not be exaggerating or taking creative license, however you will think that I am, “I was married to Brandon…you remember Brandon my love from kindergarten, but I was cheating on him with Austin. That was fine, but one day I went to dinner with Austin…and here’s where it gets awkward…Brandon my husband was there. When Austin went to the bathroom my husband came over to ask what was going on, and I told him…oh him? He’s my boss.” I will stop the dream retell there, although in all honesty I am nowhere near done and what you just heard was practically verbatim. I am not often speechless, but here it was the one moment in time when I found I had NOTHING to say in response.
A few hours later we were with Naomi (who currently lives with me, but that is a story or stories for another day) and I asked my little darling about the dream. She repeated it again with the same details. To her credit Naomi didn’t bat an eye and told her that it sounded like a very interesting dream, she then turned to me and said, “We need to do something with that one…there is talent there. Do you think she is a clairvoyant?”

This isn’t my first trip to the rodeo with this gal. She has a personality all unto her own, and I worry because she is number four and let’s be honest…how much energy will we have left to raise this one with any kind of high standard? Mary was in first grade this year. She is bright, but I am not going to lie, I didn’t actually know this because, again, she is number four and I let some things slip through the cracks. I have never done homework with her. Naomi did it in Kindergarten and in first grade she went to the after school program where lovely supportive after school teachers helped her. At report card time we always have a 4 in homework (that’s an A if you don’t live in liberal California where we don’t want anyone to KNOW they are failing…how’s that working out for us?). So it was strange, or just Mary’s bad luck, that one day in February out of the blue I said to her, “Mary let me check your homework?” When she handed it to me that Friday morning (homework is due on Friday) I realized that there was a page not finished. I said something to her, and she said, “Oh, I forgot.” I said, “Uh, no…you didn’t forget, it is February and we have been in school 7 months and you know what is expected of you, you didn’t FORGET you chose not to do it.” The end result was that she did it very quickly, turned it in on time and I told her this was NOT to happen again. And with my first three children the lesson would have been learned and this would NOT have happened again. And I thought that was exactly what would happen in this circumstance. Hah!

The next week on Friday morning I said to her again, “Hey Mary let me check your homework?” The reply was, “Oh, that.” It turns out this time NONE of it was done. I asked her what her plan was when she got to class and she said, once again, “Well, I forgot.” And I patiently laid out for her, for the second time, that she did NOT forget. This was February, we had been doing homework for seven months, and every day at after school program they announce “WHO HAS HOMEWORK?” You didn’t forget, you chose not to do it. She just stood there. Finally I said, “Do you want me to write a note?” Relief swept over her body and she said, “Yes, that would be great!”

So I wrote:

Dear Mrs. Weybret,
Mary chose not to do her homework this week. Please make sure she has whatever consequence is needed.
Thank You,
Kim Daniel

Mary read it over my shoulder and then screamed, “WAIT! This is a BAD note.” Certainly THIS was the end of our homework issues.
Because hadn’t I made myself crystal clear?

The next week I am in the cafeteria after school. This is where the after school program children gather. Miss Maria, a lovely woman who has helped all my children with their homework and gets that there is a certain level of capability within them and they are teacher’s kids, approaches me and asks, “Is Mary smart in the first grade at math and things?” I was stumped. Oh Jesus, I don’t actually know Mary’s math capabilities. My mind starts racing…no one has said anything to me. Is she behind? When was the last time I saw her DO her math? She used to write her numbers backwards. Damn it! Why hadn’t I been paying better attention? What I say uncertainly is, “I don’t know, I think she can keep up.” Miss Maria says, “What about the reading? She can’t read?” Wait a second, slow down, we can read…she just read the note with the word consequence in it last week…no she can read. I say, “Why?” Miss Maria says, “Well, today I read all of her homework to her because she said she couldn’t read. Then I went to find her teacher. She was gone, but the other first grade teacher laughed and said…Mary can read just fine.” Hmmm? So it turns out our homework issue is not resolved. Shocking!

At this point Mary enters and I motion her over. When questioned she replies, “I meant I was tired, very tired it is Valentines Day there was a lot going on and I didn’t FEEL like reading all the homework.” A less then pleasant response follows from me, (picture steam coming out of my ears) followed by daily visits to the cafeteria where I stand next to the person who shouts out, “Homework time…Who has homework?” and glare at Mary. She would then grab her homework and stomp over to the homework table, one time muttering, “Really? We have to do this every week? It is so boring.” I am certain this will not be the semi-quiet end to this story.

First grade has ended and summer has begun. Swim team has started. Because I have some experience under my belt, and because people can change…instead of being my typical intense, crazy, psycho bitch, I have heart and say to Mary, who may not be the most skilled swimmer, “Let’s just do the practices. You don’t have to do the meets until you feel more comfortable.” (If you have read my third daughter’s swim story, you know this is huge progress for me in terms of relaxing and going with your child’s strengths) She agrees and on the first day we head to practice. It is unfortunate that sunny California is under a blanket of rain and clouds during our first week of swim team, but I push on (yeah, yeah, so much for my relaxed go with the flow garbage I just fed you). I get her in the pool…she throws her goggles at me and yells, “NO!.” It isn’t like we are alone. The same thing is happening with the kid next to us. Herein lies the difference…the kid next us has a mother who says something like this for the rest of the week, “Come on baby…just one lap and then we will put on your jeans and we can cuddle with the blanket I brought. I will meet you at the end of the pool.” I say, “We are here all summer and you will be in the pool all summer. You can swim or sit there and cry, but I am working out during this time.”

I’m not going to make any judgments or tell you who has the better mothering skills…but guess whose kid is in the pool swimming and guess who still has to cuddle after each lap?

THe Year It All Went To Hell...(or My Crazy Obsession With Pink)

This year we are going away for Thanksgiving. I have cooked the traditional bird and had my family over for eighteen years. This year I decided to take a break. We are heading up to Tahoe and replacing the traditional Thanksgiving activities of turkey, family, and parade watching with arcade, dinner out (think Sammy Hagar’s Cabo Wabo), gambling and parade watching (look, some small tradition needed to stay in tact).

This decision has turned out to be both freeing and a downward, spiraling out of control madness that is quickly changing the traditions of Christmas as well.

Since we are not going to be here for Thanksgiving I packed up all of the Halloween and fall decorations the day after Halloween. With an empty house on December 1st I did not feel sad or regretful, not even for one tiny minute…I was both joyous and elated. Then my husband and girls went away for a Sunday in mid December and left me with a day and night entirely to myself. Since the house was empty I decided to get the Christmas decorations down early and get it set up so it would all be done upon our return from Tahoe.

To do this my husband had to get down all the boxes from the attic. A process that takes him all day and one that is done with such an extreme amount of deep sighing, exasperation and grumbling that you would think he was preparing to head off to war. But we are 16 years in, he knows the drill, and it goes fairly smoothly. I also suggested he go ahead and put up the lights since we would be gone on the day after Thanksgiving which is when we traditionally fight about, I mean work on, hanging our lights.

So he put up the lights, got down all the boxes and then left for the day. Here it was…my day alone to gleefully put up my decorations, “Christmasfy” the house, and really do it up in style.

Only when I walked into the dining room and saw the 25 boxes instead of my usual glee and delight…I thought I might throw up. This was the first sign that maybe I was in a different place in life.

It all really seemed to be too much. But, I started in, pulling things out and separating, laying things out and starting to get a vision. Only my vision kept returning to the idea of…getting rid of most of it.

The second sign that things were going a little differently is that instead of listening to my traditional Christmas CD’s with Bing and friends filling the house with ideas of chestnuts, snow and happiness, I had Pink’s Greatest Hits CD blasting out. Nothing says Christmas like lyrics that scream of dysfunction and angst. For those that are concerned, I do listen to this CD a lot…it is small obsession right now, I do listen to it with my children, they do know all the words, even the bad ones…but we have had a long talk about how Pink is an artist and sometimes in the name of “art” and “your craft” a bad word is needed to make your point (please note the title of this writing…I am an artist, mush like Pink, thus my need to suffer for my “art” and “craft”).

After about an hour I called Corey and told him I was getting rid of a lot of Christmas stuff this year. There was too much and it was time to downsize. Honestly, his reaction was greater than if I had called and told him we won the lottery. I had not heard him this giddy and elated since the niners were in a winning season, and I think we all know how LONG that has been.

So I set about setting up some things and boxing up the rest for Craigslist. I listed the items and included the beautiful red and green plastic storage containers I keep it in too.

Naomi, who is not a traditionalist in any way and has been after me for years to get a fake tree and call it day, sensed my weakness and began calling every ten minutes throughout the day. Each call with the suggestion of really keeping it simple and getting a very small tree (think potted plant that you give as housewarming gifts size) and just sticking the ornaments back up in the attic for another year. In years past I would have been irritated with her, frustrated that she didn’t get me or understand my desire to have the real tree with all my sentimental ornaments. This time (with my pal Pink reminding me that I was rock star and still had my rock moves in the background), I remembered that last year the two older girls weren’t home to do the tree (and didn’t really care they missed it), the year before I had left it for them to do with a babysitter (and didn’t really care that I missed it), and most other years everyone would bail out after the first few minutes of “Oh remember this ornament?,” and I would be left alone to finish and get all the ornaments off the ground and onto the tree.

In the end there is stuff up, I am going to get a tree (a small one, although not potted plant small), and I did find the Bing CD’s as it turns out after a quick search on google that Pink does not have a F*%#ing Christmas album out yet (note to Pink…that would be a great title).

Listen, my girls are all in the Nutcracker, the school Christmas play (yes, we still call it a Christmas play NOT a winter performance), the church Christmas play (where I do not listen to Pink), and several holiday choir performances…hmmm? Maybe this is why I don’t have the energy for decorating. I still love Christmas, just maybe in a different way.

So, Christmas is changing, I’m changing, and that’s OK. I can change. Change is good. No worries, I haven’t changed completely…I didn’t throw out all of the girls’ Christmas art I have saved (although I thought about it, but with the announcement of Pink’s pregnancy I was feeling a little sentimental…key word root “mental”).

Upon returning from their day away not one child commented on the Christmas decorations that had been set up. Onward we go.