You're A Mean One, Mrs. Grinch

We have an Elf on the Shelf. His name is Alex. He comes around the 1st of December through Christmas Eve to keep an exta watchful eye on the kids. Theorectically, his presence will reinforce good behavior and decision making by the kids, thus ensuring they'll be rewarded by Santa.

That didn't work exactly. For some reason, my four little angels (well, 3/4) have been crazy and out of control since Friday. Friday was the last day of school for 3 weeks for the older two. That may have played a part. Christmas is fast approaching, which adds a tremendous amount of nervous, anxious energy. Brennan has been sick, so her patience and self control are low. Nora, who is usually the kindest, most eager to please, threw a couple of fits that rivaled her worst during the terrible twos. Excuses, excuses.

I hate excuses.

I reminded them that Alex was watching and reporting back to Santa. I told them that Santa was watching too. I reminded them that it wasn't too late to take presents back to the store, the North Pole or wherever they come from. It didn't work.

The last straw was when their Grandfather, his friend Kate, and an Uncle came over Sunday for cookie decorating and dinner. Since we won't be seeing them on Christmas Day, they brought gifts. My kids, who normally are good but certainly not perfect, were crazy. Their manners went missing. Gone. Completely gone.

Later, after letting them all know how inappropriate their behavior was and sending them off to bed, I had a chat with Alex, the Elf. I instructed him to take the presents that were already under the tree up to the North Pole (temporarily). He agreed to it.

The kids woke up Monday morning, and searched for Alex (he is in a different spot every night). They found him on the mantel with a letter. Not a present was under the tree. I came downstairs to a very solemn and quiet Brennan and Brady. Strangely, they were not terribly upset, as I had thought they might be. They realized that they'd acted out of control, and upon reading the letter, knew that this was the consequence. Brennan said that she felt ashamed, and helped pen a note (with Brady and Nora's input) apologizing to Santa and promising to try harder the rest of the week.

Now before you too, call me Mrs. Grinch, know that Alex returned some of the gifts after 2 days. The kids have reined in their behavior and have tried very hard to do what has been asked of them.

Sure there are still fights, and multiple, multiple, requests (by me) to put their (insert article of clothing, toy, or other item here) away. They're kids, and they're not perfect. But I do think they'll remember this Christmas for a long time to come.

You Called Me a WHAT?

I was fortunate enough to get away for a Girls Weekend recently. We went to Asheville, NC - if you ever have the chance to go, you should. It's a great little mountain town, with an artsy, crunchy vibe to it.

Friday night, we were very lame. After the drive, some shopping, dinner and a couple of drinks, I think we all fell asleep around 11:30.

Well rested, we attacked Saturday like a bunch of starving vultures. We shopped, we ate, we stopped in for a bit of "The Truth," a local micro-brewery's latest creation, and hit the stores again.

Saturday night, we ate a great tapas style dinner, and on our way out, began talking to a nice young girl who is from Durham and works as a nanny when she's not in school at UNC-A. She was with a date and his friend, (both much closer to my age than hers). We ran into them again later at a bar and played a round of darts (we also managed to snag a business card of hers, since she's going to be in the triangle over Christmas break). Stacy Jo, you can expect a call from me this week, by the way...

In between the round of darts, I was waiting on a pitcher of beer at the bar and started chatting with a couple of boys. I'll strike up a conversation with anybody. I love talking to people. Well, to be specific, I love starting up conversations and just listening to people. It can be fascinating. But these people were young. Little boys. And by little, I mean it was someones 21st birthday type little boys, and I'd bet my pitcher of beer that several of the other ones had fake IDs. They were fairly uninteresting to listen to, so once I got my pitcher, I went back to darts.

A little while later, we were discussing the youths (who had now begun playing darts next to us). We decided that one of them had hair like my friend's 5 year old (but a 21 year old fraternity boy version). Her son has these loose, tousled, angelic little curls that you hate to cut because they might just decide to go away forever. So someone suggested that I take a picture. So I walked over, and asked if I could take his picture.

He asked me if I was a Cougar.

A COUGAR??????


I laughed, told him not to flatter himself, took the picture and walked away. Mortified.


While I recognized that they were a lot younger than I am, what I failed to recognize was that when you are 21 anything over 30 is ancient. Seeing as young men tend not to think from their cerebral cortex, in their eyes, there was only ONE reason I could have wanted to talk with them. To them, I was Mrs. Robinson.

coo coo cuh choo.

I am having a little trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that someone even thinks I am old enough to even be called a cougar. Here's my visual of a cougar: a chain smoking, bejewelled sweatsuit wearing, fake tanned, raspy voiced, white zinfandel drinking, sex-starved, divorcee.

I suppose that perhaps I should be flattered. Courtney Cox might be giving cougars a new image with her sitcom, Cougartown (I haven't seen it yet). But frankly, I just felt like a dirty old woman. I went back to my beer and thanked God that I don't have to deal with 21 year old boys anymore. I don't even think I liked them when I was 21.

I Give Up...

As you can see from my Christmas card (2007), I really try to maintain my sense of humor when it comes to balancing the demands and obligations of the holidays with managing a family.

Yes, this really was the picture I sent out that year. Yes, that was the best one out of about 50 shots.

I also am a typical first born type A who likes to (at least) have everybody think I have everything pulled together. I think I am slowly starting to lose that battle.

By no means have I ever been confused with Martha Stewart. Particularly when it comes to decorating. That being said, historically, I have taken some small amount of pride in decorating the house for Christmas. I may not have all the coordinating color ornaments and ribbons, and I often regret chintzing out and buying two small sized "things" (angels, santas, trees, you name it, I've got it) instead of ponying up and buying the large ("item") so you can actually see it sitting on my mantel. Generally though, I can pull it all together so that it looks, well, alright.

This year, I pulled down the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic. Unfortunately, the kids got to them before I could. Let's just say that any glimmer of an organized decorating event went out the window.

There are paper Santas and reindeer hanging from curling ribbon from our upstairs railing to greet you as you walk through our front door. Every home made craft, ornament, and odd collection of Christmas collectibles (none of which I recall every buying) is proudly on display on every ledge, shelf, and table. Everyone's bedroom door is adorned with some type of classroom Frosty or Santa (you know, the kind with the moveable arms and legs?). That burgundy curling ribbon that Santa and his reindeer are hanging from? There are a few strategically placed pieces of that hanging around, mixed with some green ribbon they found. Yup, just random strings of ribbon hanging from things...because "it looks like a party." Now how can I argue with that?

It's Jesus's birthday, Mom. That's a good enough reason for a party, right?

Basically, Christmas has thrown up all over our house. In all of it's tacky, technicolor, sparkly, shiny, homemade and store bought glory.

So, instead of getting annoyed, after a number of deep, very deep, cleansing breaths, I gave up. Actually, that's wrong. I didn't give up. I gave in. After all, how can you argue with a child's pure enthusiasm for and spirit of the season?

There will be years and years of picture perfect (well, "perfect" would be a stretch for me) Christmases ahead of us. But with all of that pretty, matching, coordinating Christmas decor comes the silent recognition that the magic of hanging Santa and his reindeer by red ribbons from our railings has slipped away.

So I will try and smile back at Frosty and Santa as I pass into the kids rooms to put away (another) load of laundry...and be thankful for the four little creatures that scotch taped them there.