Another Gray Hair

Going Postal

I am not one to blame things on pregnancy. I don't buy into that whole, "delicate condition" thing. I like to be pampered just as much as the next guy but that is true whether I'm pregnant or not. I am, however, changing my tune a bit when it comes to decision making. I have made some highly suspect decisions, the most recent of which will be seen by all of my family and friends in a few short days. I sat down to the computer in late November, coupon code in hand, determined to pick and order my Christmas cards. Along with the rest of the population of the U.S., we usually do a photo card. My card last year rocked but it was done by a friend who is also a professional photographer. This year, in an effort to save some money, I decided to give it a go myself.

I sat down at the computer, logged on to all of the photo sites to see who was offering the best deals on photo cards and got started. There was no prep work, no actual photo session. Without thinking, I just decided I would use an existing photo, perused what I had and chose one that had all of the components I wanted: my son, my daughter, and my dog. It didn't occur to me to care that the picture I chose was a Halloween photo. I then took on the task of choosing a background. This took all of 45 seconds. I chose a hideous pink and red striped number with a few sparkly snow flakes here and there. It is SO UN-ME. Then I chose the message and stuck with the default font and color. I approved the final draft of my card, entered my 25% off coupon code, ordered 75 of those suckers and, voila!, I was done. The final product of this impulsive ordeal is a bizarre Halloween/Disco Christmas card that features my kids and dog in full costume. It looks like it was picked out by Paris Hilton's new BFF.

So, if you are one of the 75 lucky people to receive a 2008 Hale Family Christmas card, please accept my deepest apologies. The progesterone coursing through my body at record levels temporarily hijacked my brain and replaced my usually rational mind with that of an impulsive tweener. She thought my cards were SICK! (for those of you not familiar with tweener lingo, "sick" is the new awesome).

Such a tragedy that the rational me could have used THIS picture:

All Wrapped Up

As I was rolling up a shirt in cheap paper today, I thought back to the days of yore when I actually cared what my presents looked like. I'd buy all manner of coordinating ribbon and paper, get custom tags made and even add little touches like coordinating ornaments taped under elaborate bows on each gift. I would painstakingly wrap each present, catering my wrapping to the individual recipient. I loved the whole process.

I'm over that now. My husband took one look under our tree last night and laughed out loud at the misshapen bundles wrapped under it. When I have to wrap an article of clothing these days, I just roll up the item, roll it up in paper, and tape it shut to the best of my ability. I've bid a fond farewell to gift tags, custom or not, and replaced them instead with a big fat black sharpie. I write directly on the paper in large letters TO: and FROM:. I don't take the time to cut out a make-shift card with the wrapping paper and tape it. Who has time for that? No, I just write directly on the package. My poor children think that's the norm. They think every mom across America wraps her gifts in random three-dimensional wrinkly blobs of paper and tape.

Pretty packages are just one of the many luxuries I've happily tossed aside in favor of sanity and the true holiday joy that comes from being DONE with all of that wrapping nonsense and sitting down to enjoy the pleasure of introducing my children to the best Christmas villain of all time: the Heat Miser.

Disney Lesson #1

WARNING: I've just returned from Disney World and have it on the brain.

The joy, the pain, the financial burden, it all adds up to an often unforgettable, frequently unbearable, and undeniably fantastic experience for the family. While we are regulars at the happiest place on earth, this was a trip of firsts. It was the first time we camped (on property at Fort Wilderness) and the first time we went during the holidays. The camping experience was fabulous. Ugly Dawg was good to us and it beats the heck out of any hotel room. I do long for a camper with a shower and bathroom but I'm grateful for the Dawg and look forward to many more years of fun within her climate controlled vinyl walls.

I'm going to share some lessons from Disney World with my readers. Here's lesson number one:

Never, EVER underestimate the price of a product or service at Disney World.

As I've mentioned before, my son has a healthy Star Wars addiction. It's something both my husband and I support as we both loved the movies as children and take a certain measure of pride in his newfound discovery of the series and characters. After making a B-line to the Star Tours ride at Hollywood Studios on Day one of our Disney vacation, my son noticed someone getting their face painted like Darth Maul. He spent the remainder of the week obsessing about it and, overcome by the palpable Disney Magic (sure, it sounds like a myth people but it effects you, even the hardcore skeptics like myself) in the air, we relented promising to return to the Studios to get his face painted later in the week. Later in the week turned out to be our last day. I'm a theme park multi-tasker so I handed my husband $15, surrendered custody of both my kids, and took off across the park for a fastpass. My walk was shorter than I'd planned so I came back quickly to find my husband in line to get the kids' faces painted (my daughter had to have hers painted as well). He pointed to the cash in his hand and shook his head animatedly from side to side. What? $15 isn't enough for two face paintings? Are you kidding?

As it turns out, $15 was barely enough for one face painting. That is the going rate, in fact, for the "Sinister Sith" AKA Darth Maul face painting. My daughter's less-sinister, "sparkle kitty" paint job ran a mere $12. So, yes, I dropped $27 on two face paintings that took all of five minutes. The most painful part? There's a clown here in Cleveland, TN that does face paintings at just about every local event/party for $1 a pop and her work is JUST AS GOOD! She doesn't do "Sinister Sith," mind you but she does a rockin' "Sparkle Kitty."

So, folks, lesson learned: Never, EVER underestimate the price of a product or service at Disney World. You and your wallet will live to regret it!

Rage Against the Machine

What's every parent's Christmas nightmare? We've all been there. We've got our Santa clothes on and finally have the kids secure in their beds. We unload the items from the attic and bring them down to the living room to begin the assembly process. Some of us drink a few cocktails and watch It's A Wonderful Life, trying to savor every minute of it. Until the minutes become hours. Why? Because of the ridiculous measures that toy manufacturers take to securely fasten the toys to the packaging so that they are displayed to utter perfection on the store shelves, catching the eye of young passer-bys. These days the displays involve all manner of torture devices from plastic wrapped wire to strategically placed rubber bands, screws and industrial staples. It all adds up to a frustration filled Christmas Eve when Santa hats become sweat bands and holiday cheer turns into yuletide rage.

Time allotted for assembly of the Littlest Pet Shop Fitness Center: 5 minutes.

Actual time required: 47 minutes

Cost: your mental health

After five or six of these episodes, you are tired, frazzled, angry and half drunk and the pile of trash that has accumulated in the corner is beginning to resemble the debris of a demolished building.

The purpose of this post is not to wallow in this misery but to let parents in on a genius little secret: THIS CAN ALL BE AVOIDED!

In a move that can only be classified as genius, Amazon.com has partnered with Mattel and other manufacturers to provide its customers with "Frustration Free Packaging." What this means for me is that the Barbie Cruise Ship (no, my daughter is not into age-appropriate toys) that I ordered yesterday will arrive on my doorstep in a big cardboard box with zero packaging. They'll be no clear plastic viewing window, no attempt at aesthetic shelf appeal, just a toy in a box, a big, glorious toy in a box. This brings me great joy and hope for humanity and, coupled with the free shipping offered on many Amazon.com products and their low prices, gives me almost no motivation to shop elsewhere.

So, get out there and rage against the department store machine and do your holiday shopping at Amazon.com. Maybe toy manufacturers will take the hint and do a little good for our collective mental health and the environment and get rid of the ridiculous over-packaging that has taken over store shelves of late.

Scrooge

No matter which candidate you were rooting for, I think we can all breath a collective sigh of relief that the election is over. The madness is through. I may go into a little CNN Ticker withdrawal but I'll be alright. And you will too.

Moving on. Let's talk about Christmas, shall we? My good friend Jacquelyn and her lovely troop of Daisy Girl Scouts are participating in a Christmas parade. The parade takes place in the perimeter of the local mall and is meant to welcome Santa Claus and his elves to the celebratory world of consumerism. What's the big deal, you ask? Why does this event even qualify for blog fodder? Well, the answer to this question has much less to do with the event itself than it does with the date of the event. The parade, you know, the one to welcome Santa Claus into his cardboard house in the climate controlled "North Pole" of the mall, is tomorrow night. Tomorrow is NOV. 6, a full 50 days before Christmas! That's 7 weeks people! Absurd.

Maybe I'm a closeted Ebenezer Scrooge but I feel like this tradition is ridiculous and should be changed. Maybe they can replace Santa and his sleigh with a perfectly prepared turkey dinner or some pilgrims, something, anything that represents a holiday within a reasonable proximity to November 6. Jacquelyn and the Daisy Girl Scouts of Troop 507, I love you all dearly but I must, on sheer principle, boycott this parade and all it stands for. Have fun ushering a fake Santa into consumer hell tomorrow night. I'll be thinking about you while I make my lowly assistant shovel coal into the wood burning stove.

Sweatin' to the Oldies

I've been struggling lately with time management, energy, and the constant desire to sleep. One of my friends asked for some help with her new website's text and I was happy to oblige but it took me a while. She asked me about it a couple days after she sent the text over and I replied honestly. I said, "Well, I've had a really busy schedule of sleeping and resting and its tough to find time to fit the other things in." I realize this is a pathetic answer but I get points for honesty, right?

I'm happy to report that things are looking up. I'm feeling more energetic, the dry heaves are on their way out and I can survive a day without a nap. Progress is welcome in my life, even if it is minimal.

In light of my lack of inspiration, I pounced on my friend, Alyson's genius costume idea for her 1 and a half year old son, Cooper. She sent me a picture and I begged her to let me include it in a blog entry. She obliged. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the funniest costume I have ever seen on a child: Cooper Tunnel as Richard Simmons:

And, for good measure, here's one of Richard Simmons as Richard Simmons:

If anyone has ever seen a more hilarious, creative costume on a child, I invite you to share it. Go Alyson!

Stealing My Thunder

I mentioned, in Tuesday's post, that the Hale/Byrne Fireworks Spectacular was a blogworthy affair that would be given due diligence in a later post. Well, Jacquelyn (a Byrne) has stolen my thunder (with my blessing and encouragement--I'm all about letting her do the work for me) and done a great job telling the story on her new blog, "Real Moms Don't Play Bunco." Check it out and give Jacquelyn a warm welcome to the Blogosphere.

We're off on a much-needed vacation tomorrow. I'll probably check in from time to time but it will be quiet around here for a while.

Faux Guitar Prowess

How do you celebrate your patriotism? Me, I spend the day with good friends on the water fearing brain-eating amoebas and drowning my fears in Bud Light. Then, I head back to their house where I find myself, in particular my arm, between the bared teeth of two sweet but suddenly very territorial dogs (one of them my own). This incident left me with some nasty teeth marks in my arm and the need to recall the date of my last tetanus shot, which if memory serves me right, was 1992. Off to the emergency room we went.

Thankfully, there wasn't a soul in the waiting room and, hot damn!, Jeopardy was on. Jacquelyn kicked some butt in the country music category during the double Jeopardy round while I had a little visit with Dr. McDreamy. He cleaned my wound, shot me up with a tetanus vaccination, wrote me a script for some pain pills and antibiotics, and sent me on my way. I spent the next two days with my wrist wrapped in guaze and tape, looking like someone who had made a half-assed attempt at suicide.

All was not lost as Jacquelyn and I got back to her house in time to enjoy some delicious ribs and the Hale/Byrne Firework Spectacular (another blog for another day). During this time my son uttered these words several times with elaborate body gesturing, "This is the best night of my life!" It was A-freakin'-dorable and me and my dog bite injury (pity party anyone?) ate it up with a spoon. The grownups closed the night with a little Guitar Hero on the Byrne's Wii. I thought I would rocked the house but I was terrible, garnishing the title of, "The worst Wii player we have ever seen" by the Byrne Family. Go me! I have been singing, "Dream Police," a song that I only mildly enjoyed to begin with ever since.

My next mission: buying a Wii and Guitar Hero of my own to prove my prowess on a faux guitar. After all, what is a 33 year old mother without faux guitar prowess?

THREE

My baby girl turned 3 yesterday in perhaps the most gratifying birthday celebration ever. She was aware that it was her birthday from the moment she woke up and soaked up every ounce of attention. She smiled as she ate her pancake breakfast and asked several times if it was, in fact, her birthday, "It my dirday?" Sometimes it seemed like less of a question and more of an affirmation. She and her brother went with me to the store to pick out her balloons and she sang about three choruses of, "Happy Birthday to Me"while I paid for the balloons and cake. About an hour before her party guests arrived she insisted on changing into her princess dress, tiara and all. She leaped and twirled in her dress when the doorbell rang and greeted Grandma and Pop-pop and the Byrne family with her affirmation, "It my dirday!" She savored every bite of cake, every slice of hot dog (her birthday request) and every note of her birthday song. She was so anxious to blow the candles out that we had to have a redo for the purpose of preserving the staged moment forever in pixel format. It felt like a scene from The Hills.

For all of those new parents or expectant parents out there, be warned. You will hear the phrases, "Time flies" and "It all goes so fast" and "Before you know it, they'll be driving" countless times in the coming years. They may feel like the cliché sound bites of jaded parents but there is real truth and wisdom in these statements. My daughter can't be three. She was a baby fighting for her place in this world in the NICU just a couple weeks ago. It seems like just yesterday that she was causing me extreme anxiety with her refusal to walk until she was good and ready (almost 17 months). She's off to preschool in a mere three months. She started solo swimming lessons today (no Mommy and Me needed). She can dress herself, use the potty, has preferences about what she wears, watches, eats. She's three. THREE. I feel like I've only known her a short while but I can't imagine my life without her.  Happy Birthday Tater Pie!

Fear of Furries

D

My tummy not feel better!

My tummy not feel better!

This is what my daughter says every time she feels vulnerable. It started about a week ago and, like any good neurotic mother, I ran through all of the worst-case scenarios in my head:

• Stomach cancer
• Obstructed bowel
• Constipation due to a diet of chicken nuggets and bread (she's at that stage where she boycotts all nutritionally valuable foods)
• Anxiety

With the help of some careful observation and sage advice from an experienced YMCA child watch center worker, I have come to the conclusion that none of these scenarios apply. What is happening when my daughter utters these five words is nothing more than pure manipulation. At the ripe old age of two and a half she has figured out how to play me like a fiddle. She senses my hypersensitivity when it comes to her well-being. She knows that her one ace in the hole is her health and I will always err on the side of caution when she cries "sick."

In the past week, my daughter's stomach has hurt during the following scenarios:

• when I drop her off in the Y nursery
• when I deny her request for candy
• when she sees the Easter Bunny (she's terrified of all furries)
• when she is in the company of someone new and feels shy
• at bedtime 

Anyone detecting a pattern here?

I'm wise to her games. It took me seven days but I've finally decoded the two-and-a-half-year-old mind. Impressive huh? Now I just use her fear of furries against her. Whenever she feigns illness, I threaten a visit to the Easter Bunny. It works like a charm! Sure, I might be damaging her enjoyment of Easter for life but, oh well, it works. I never liked the Easter Bunny all that much anyway. He gives me the creeps with his giant head and ridiculous outfit.