Christmas Eve Gift everyone.

If you are highly competitive with pointless verbal games and you are from West Texas you will understand that I just won the Christmas Eve competition by saying it first, yet you will argue that electronic delivery doesn't count. But deep down, you know you just lost.

If this makes no sense- don't worry after 29 years of marriage my husband, who isn't from far enough west, thinks shouting "Christmas Eve Gift" and then arguing about who "won" is beyond bizarre.

Having just lost the Christmas Eve verbal gifting game with both my 8 yo,  and 15 yo sons I sat on the sofa sipping cappuccino.  My 15 yo was wearing a bright yellow Pikachu onesie and wrestling around with his two younger brothers while my 22 yo daughter and I tried to wake up.  Wrestling punctuated with motherly advice.  Mom wisdom like: "don't kick the bookshelf,  no slapping- just punching, hey- no punching to the back of 15 yo's head, get your knees around, take the milk back to the kitchen.  Hey, 10 yo said he needs to use the bathroom you better get off."

The 10 yo breathed deeply on 15 yo with morning/dragon breath to finally achieve freedom.  Whereupon 15 yo jumped up to do a few pull-ups, dropped down and snagged his hoodie on the pull-up bar.  Trapping himself quite neatly.

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After martial arts classes or open mat I like to jot down things I learned or things I didn't understand and I especially write things down that I sucked at.   Note-taking after the fact was always my best learning strategy in college.  Doing a mind dump onto paper solidifies and makes real the subjects I'm studying.

Unfortunately, when I get home from martial arts class and everything is fresh and ready for writing I often don't get a chance because of that pesky little thing called Real Life.

Which leads me to the built in note-taking of jiujitsu and sometimes even karate.  Visible reminders.  Those identical bruises on each ankle? Oh yeah, we worked on ankle locks.  The bruise below my clavicle?  Oh yeah, I tried for a triangle but forgot to shimmy up first and my training partner accidentally got me with their elbow.  The Gentle Art may be gentle but accidental hard knocks are part and parcel.

I find it amusing.  My husband less so.  Especially when people look askance at him because of my "visible reminders".

Last night in karate we were training in self-defense, working on blocks.  I have the amazing  lightning response time of a sloth.   A slow sloth at that.  A slow sloth that all the other sloth relatives consider awkward and uncoordinated.

Our sensei mentioned trying to practice, building reflexes as much as possible; I immediately pictured Cato.  He would be a great aid to my martial arts journey but I'm pretty sure I couldn't afford him or the extra drywall repairs.  Instead, I told my 13 year old son, and fellow martial arts student, to please randomly strike at me during the day.

Then we laughed because a lot of caveats have to accompany that instruction.  I pictured standing in line at Starbucks, sporting some jiujitsu bruises, when my 13 year old suddenly throws a punch at my head.  Not exactly socially acceptable; DHS might be notified, or even worse; I might spill my coffee.

But I am renaming my homeschool.

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Two of my daughters somehow discovered that they harbored deep seated and complimentary desires.

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4 year olds.  Nothing can surpass a 4 year old for hug-ability and magical thinking.

9:30 a.m. our 4 year old swaggered into the kitchen past his father and I, grabbed a bowl, opened the freezer, and proceeded to pull out a sherbet container.  He must have felt our combined incredulous gaze because he looked up and nonchalantly commented, "I'm having some sherbet now."

Lately every time he goes into the bathroom and closes the door we hear through the wooden door an explosive, "Bom, bom, EVERYBODY DANCE NOW, Bom, Bom."  Followed by a rousing chorus of, "What are you looking at?  You looking at me?  You want a piece of meat?"

Then after a few minutes and sounds of hand-washing he quietly walks out.

What does this all mean?  Is he headed for a career as a quick footed professional fighter with a sweet tooth?  Or is the door to the kids bathroom in actuality a portal into a smoky room full of dancing mafia men serving steak?

It's why I adore 4 year olds.  Confidence coupled with imagination and playfulness... never a dull moment.



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Have you ever awoken wondering,
Burning, aching to know....

What is the world's grossest and most inconvenient toy?
It's taken 20 years of research, but my husband and I have finally discovered the truth.

It's not Slime with lumps that look somewhat like boogers.


It's not silly putty.  It's not even that disgusting lollypop built like a ring that is the bane of any parent that prefers not to hold sticky hands.



It's not the Barbie who's chest measurements grow if you twist her arm.

It's (drumroll please) the Grow Shark.  We  know this because my 6 year old bought one on vacation with his grandparents.  My husband and I laughed when we read the instructions; place shark toy in bathtub full of water and let grow for 6 days until shark fills the tub.

Oh, sure.  I'll give the Grow Shark a bathtub... for 6 days.  because I want my son to play with a 4 foot long, wet and slimy shark made of unknown chemicals that smells overpoweringly of spray paint.  Don't mind the snail trail it leaves behind after it touches something...

Poor thing only got a enormous stainless steel bowl from Target, it stunted its potential.



It made up for the indignity by being extra slimy and looking quite real submerged in its murky water.  My 6 year old checked it's progress everyday.

I had to live with the huge bowl out on my kitchen counter.  Don't laugh- that was hard for me and it kept startling visitors who wondered about our diet.

Maybe next time my son goes on vacation he can pick up a Happy Fun Ball.





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When you have an emergent reader running errands with you, the conversation can turn into a Strip Mall Alphabetarian

"That said S T O P. Stop has a P in it.  So does Panera.  It also has an S.  Starbucks starts with an S.  Look, there's a Starbucks.  McDonald's starts with M"

"No Honey, that's a Barnes & Noble.  It starts with a B."

"No it's not, I see an S, that says Starbucks."

Small hint, never argue with the distance vision of a 5 year old.  Barnes & Noble did indeed have a teeny tiny Starbucks sign.  My literacy in question, my son moved on to automobiles.

"If you see these circles," I could see wild air-drawing in the rearview mirror, "they say Toyota."

This consumer education was almost non-stop.  It was like driving with an overly enthusiastic tour guide.

"Mom, why does my foot hurt?'

"Is it asleep?" I asked.

"MY FOOT CAN FALL ASLEEP!?!"

A lesson on blood flow ensued.  Then it was time to stop to eat.  I mentioned that it was a special treat for just the two of us to eat out and that we could chat in the restaurant.  There was a pause.

"I don't think I can chat."

"Why [on earth] not?"

"Well Mom, I don't chat.  I only talk when I have something important to say...  Or if I need to ask you a question."


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Yesterday in a lull between sizzling summer heat and summer lightening storms, that also sizzled, my Littles and I played in the driveway.

They didn't want to.  They were grouchy from being stuck inside, grouchy from being sick, and envious that the big kids were off doing mysterious big kid things; they just wanted to watch a movie.

We went outside anyway.

My three year old looked at our huge double driveway, perfect for scootering and bike riding, and complained that there was nothing to do and nowhere to ride.  Until I handed out the sidewalk chalk.  Immediately they began to draw streets and lanes and stop signs.

They had a blast.  They even drew rest stops and parking lots.  It was hilarious watching them fill up their scooters at the "gas station."  They pantomimed entering their PINs before using the invisible pumps.

What is it about lines and walls and rules?  We pretend to ourselves that we desire total freedom, but when confronted with it... the first thing we do is draw boundaries.


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My oldest son took all his siblings and a few neighbors to the Summer Dollar-Movie Series yesterday morning. Thus:
I had no idea what to do, so almost hysterical with the unlimited possibilities I called a friend to say:

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I was working on my computer, pretending that the little boys were napping while they pretended to nap.  Suddenly I heard running feet.  My 4 year old appeared at my elbow with his eyes aglow.  "Mom in big-brother's Closet we found a mouse- or something like a mouse but much bigger!"

Ughhh.  I ask you, what's like a mouse, only bigger?

Last week, one of the children had opened the garage door only to have a mouse race, helter-skelter, into the house.  It took much excitement and some screaming (mine) for us to chase the mouse out the back door.  I had immediately put poison in the garage to finish off the rest of the invader's family, hoping of course, that they would have the grace to eat and die outside.

My son is still dancing at my elbow, "Mom can we play with it, Mom what's it called, CanweCanweCanwe?"

My eyes are bugging out, "Is it still alive?"  At this question my son stops dancing and suddenly looks a bit freaked out.

"Alive?" he asks.

We both hear the sound of the 3 year old running down the hall yelling, "I got it, I got it!"  Now my 3 year old has an unfortunate habit of flinging things at you that he wants you to see.  My adrenaline flushed body is trying to figure out a motherly response other than screaming and using my 4 year old's body as a shield.

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My husband got the film, Russian Arc.  It was filmed in the Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg.  It is touted as being filmed in one take- no cuts at all.  My 18 year old son and husband were skeptical, they had to watch for themselves.  Evidently their conversation was attended to much more closely by both our younger sons.

It was akin to a sporting event.  All males in the family, even the 3 year old, sat to watch this Russian language- subtitle only film, in order to find cuts.

Anytime the movie panned to a dark corner as the camera swept through the corridors of the Hermitage my 4 year old, completely caught up in the spirit of cynicism would yell, "I See A Cut!"

We are weird.