Christmas Rehab

                We spent days celebrating Christmas.  It was exhausting.  We had Christmas with Brad’s family earlier this month.  Starting Christmas Eve we had Christmas with my brother and then Christmas with my dad’s family.  On Christmas morning we (Brad, Sweetpea and I)  had our own small Christmas, followed by  Christmas without my brother and we wrapped it up with Christmas with my mom’s family.   We’re in Christmas rehab now.  Brad’s watching TV.  Sweetpea is gaming.  I’m wrapped in an electric blanket hoping that the heat will unkink the knots in my neck and back.  No one in our house is speaking to anyone else.  We smile and nod at each other in the hallway, like acquaintances passing on a busy street.  We’re eating candy for dinner.  Sweetpea once said, “In this family, we eat our feelings.”  She was right.  We each have a bag of Hershey kisses.  Oh, the irony.

                I meant to enjoy the holidays.  I meant to take time to feel the excitement in the air.  I don’t think that happened.  Remember those old-timey cartoons where some girl found herself tied to train tracks and the train was bearing down but the ropes were too tight and she couldn’t get free?  I had that feeling.  I am pretty sure it wasn’t eager anticipation.   Felt more like a panic attack.  During an episode of extreme claustrophobia.  With a sprinkling of acid reflux.  Under an umbrella of dread.

                This is starting to sound like a cry for help.  I want it to be perfectly clear that I love my family.  I love all of them, with all of their weird little quirks and sillinesses.  I just think sometimes Christmas wants too much from me.  On Christmas Eve Eve, my brother and sister-in-law got here from Greenville.  We gave my parents a fire pit and made s’mores.  We laughed at the way my mom called them  “samoas.”  She is a southern lady and very easy on her vowels.  My darling yankee husband kept teasing her about Pacific islanders and my dad and brother teased Brad about not knowing how to build a proper fire.  My little sister started streaming Christmas music through her cell phone and my sister-in-law made her family’s secret eggnog recipe.  The girls took turns holding the new puppy on the swing as we sat outside and burned Christmas tree debris and Sweetpea ended up looking like a hobo with burned marshmallow all over her face.  When I think back to Christmas this year, those are the memories I want to keep.  

 

 

This post originally appeared in Irregardless Daily.

WTH

What are they teaching kids these days?  Sweetpea is not learning cursive.  She’s not refusing - the school isn’t offering.  I guess everyone types and texts these days so they have deemed cursive antiquated and unnecessary.  WTH.  How is she supposed to sign a check?  Okay, so she’ll have debit.  But what about a deed?  How is she going to buy me a mansion with her singer/songwriter money if she can’t sign her name? 

She is struggling with division.  I asked her what part she was getting stuck on and she said, no joke, “Well, Dirty Monkeys Smell Bad, but I don’t know what to do after that.”  Sometimes I forget and curse right in front of her.  Turns out DMSB stands for Divide, Multiply, Subtract and Bring down and Dirty Monkeys Smell Bad is a study strategy.  Unfortunately, we Blake girls are easily distracted.  Don’t try and get me to focus on math by talking about monkeys because I am not that interested in numbers in the first place.  Monkeys on the other hand can provide me with hours of daydreaming entertainment.  If we had a monkey I would name it Spunky…Spunky Monkey…and she would wear dresses the color of orange sherbet…what about that lady who got attacked by a chimp, I wonder if Oprah still talks to her…do they use shampoo on the monkeys at the zoo and if so, is it Pert Plus, because I somehow think it might be…are girl monkeys moodier than boy monkeys because I think Brad would move out if there was one more drop of estrogen in this house…you ever notice how the gorillas at the zoo stare right back at you with pity…. Hours.  I could ponder monkeys for hours.  Looks like Sweetpea can too, because while she is sure monkeys stink she has no idea what’s going on with long division.

Her teacher is adorable.  She’s petite and postcard cute.  Like Skipper, Barbie’s little friend.  She’s really nice and she doesn’t take too many deep breaths during our conferences, which I personally appreciate.  Brad and I can come on a little strong.  I never quit hating school but I don’t mind teachers.  As far as I’m concerned, they are like cops - I don’t want that job but I’m glad someone’s willing to do it.  Brad never quit hating teachers but he likes school.  He has issues with figures of authority and don’t get him started on cops if you have any place to be for the next two hours.  I try to nice Sweetpea’s teachers to death and send in a lot of supplies to make up for the fact that I am not one of those class volunteer moms.  It’s not so much that I don’t want to be involved as it is that I don’t like strangers’ children.  It’s no coincidence that of my three children, two of them are imaginary.  But I digress.

So Brad and I conferenced with Sweetpea’s darling teacher who has eyes that are still full of hope and we voiced our concerns that Sweetpea  just isn’t digging math.  We inquired about extra work, flash cards and tutoring, all of which were acceptable education supplements when we were in school.  Apparently our suggestions were trés last century.  Instead, we were given some websites to hit and an app to put on our phones. 

Sweetpea may struggle with math and her signature may be mostly block letters, but she’s learned this lesson: when things get tough, Apple has the answer.



This post originally appeared in Irregardless Daily.

Chick Date

I was nineteen years old the last time I went on a first date.  Had I known it was a first date, I probably would have paid more attention to my appearance.  Tipped off by my incessant whining and cursing, Brad knew that I was less than thrilled with our small college town and he offered to take me out for pizza to assuage my boredom.  When the waitress asked what to do with the leftovers Brad told her to put them into two boxes.  That's when I figured out that my good buddy Brad was on a different program.  By the time our waitress had returned with two boxes and one check, at the end of our date, my nerves kicked in.

The other day I met a fellow mommy and blogger for brunch.  It was a chick date.  This time, I had the good sense to be nervous from the beginning.  I went so far as to solicit Brad's opinion on my outfit.  This is a futile exercise in which I typically refrain from engaging.  He did not disappoint.  "I don't understand the difference between skinny jeans and leggings anyway," he said.  "You look nice in both."  Thanks, Dude.  Helpful. 

I got to the restaurant first and then committed to a table.  I was terrified that she was going to come and horrified that she had forgotten to meet me.  I ordered a Diet Coke and mentally reviewed a list of topics that I should NOT bring up...politics, religion, bladder retention, and that weird charcoal smell that I can't identify but permeates my master bathroom.  Finally, I saw her curls through the window.  I waved, like the big fat dork that I will always be, my butterflies kicked into high gear and then...she smiled.

The rest of brunch was amazing.  Conversation was easy and I managed to suppress all of the creepy things that usually pop out of my mouth at the worst possible times while the rational part of my brain screams, "SHUT UP!  STOP TALKING!" before it moans, "There goes another one..."  It appears that she had a good time too.

There is nothing left to do except to wait for her call.  What's the rule?  Two days?  Seven?  Ya'll let me know when to get worried.

Holiday Glaze

“The holidays are coming! The holidays are coming!”  a disembodied voice shrieks in my ear.   Lucky for Brad, I’m the only one who hears it.  It wakes me up almost every night at 3:00 AM, demanding answers.  “The holidays are coming,” it taunts me.  “What are you going to DO about it?”  

Honestly?  I can’t do anything about it.  I am going to make the right food, take it to the events I am expected to attend, and come December, I’ll buy gifts for a whole list of people who will be disappointed in them.  I’m going to do the best I can and it won’t be good enough and I know this going in.  

Poor Brad and Sweetpea.  They have to live with me.  Brad was raised by Yankees so a tense Christmas is nothing new to him, but I owe Sweetpea a better experience.  She is so sensitive that I never had to tell her that I hate the holidays.  She figured it out on her own, and bless her heart, she tries really hard not to ask for anything – no gifts, no special favors, no dinner menu requests – between Halloween and the Super Bowl.  I love her for trying to help me but my guilt is excruciating.  

This is not to say that I am not thankful at Thanksgiving or that I boot the Christ out of Christmas.  I do have plenty to be thankful for.  Brad and Sweetpea top that list.  I have a family who cares enough about me not to give me a pass on holiday gatherings.  I have a few good friends.  I have a job.  Financially, things could be better but they could also be much worse.  I am grateful for what we have and I try not to be envious of the things we cannot afford.  And while we do not spend the entire month of December attending church services at all hours of the days and nights, we certainly acknowledge the reason for the season.  

The holidays may give me hives but I still love Santa Claus.  Sweetpea and I will attend a breakfast with the big guy in a couple of weeks.  She is getting a little old for that kind of thing.  I have no idea what she believes.  She has asked me if I believe, and I’ve told her about that night when I was little and I woke up and saw Santa standing over me.  I stared at him, fascinated and unafraid, then blinked and he was gone.  I was probably seven that year.  I’ve always wanted to see him again but so far I haven’t caught him. I never sleep on Christmas Eve because I’m too excited so I just lay there and listen for jingle bells.  I have heard that he’s not real, but I hope the people that told me that are wrong.  She accepts these stories because they are the truth.  I do hope everyone is wrong.  I hope there is a guy with flying reindeer and a sleigh full of toys who loves children so much that the idea of a little B & E doesn’t deter him from his gift-giving mission.  

And there it is.  I may have holiday blues but I am not without hope.