Dearest Sammie,
Ahhh...at long last, bedtime. That means I don't have to limit myself to a mere 45 minute window to wax nostalgic about all that was done in the past month for the Christmas season.
It begins after Thanksgiving. As soon as we make the trek back to Fresno from my Aunt's ranch, I get anxious to decorate the house for Christmas. Because it's tradition. And that's what we do. We decorate our house for Christmas. And we listen to Christmas music. Because it's tradition. And that's what we do. We listen to sappy Christmas music on the radio when it's "legal" between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.
Another tradition that's carried out year after year is the pangs of regret I have two boxes into the unpacking of our Christmas decoration. It generally goes something like this: Grumble, grumble, why do we have so much Christmas junk?, grumble, grumble Why won't anyone help me?, Grumble, grumble, I wish I were tall enough to reach the top of the Christmas tree, Grumble grumble J-uh-AYYYY! Hang up the outside lights please! It's tradition!
Then it's daddy's turn to Grumble grumble.
Christmas is, after all, the season of giving.
This year, however, your father enlisted the help of Grandpa Michael, who dutifully came over one day to hang up all of our outside Christmas garland (seeing our house all aglow is, after all, one of my favorite warm-fuzzy Christmas traditions and I'm not willing to let that one go just yet). When grandpa went to plug in the lights, however, we were reminded of something we had forgotten the previous Christmas season: something happened to the lights to prevent them from working.
Whoops. Grandpa Michael's turn to Grumble grumble while he took the whole thing down again.
Somehow, it became my job to go to Home Depot and buy the circut and bulb checker gun thing.
Grumble grumble.
Two hours and many more Grumble grumbles later, I gave up and hung up my circut/bulb checker gun thing. It wasn't worth the hours it was taking to go through fifty feet of garland and painstakingly replace each one. Even if the gun thing was super cool. So much for that warm fuzzy tradition!
Grumble grumble.
Even though the outside lights didn't make it to our house this year, I still admit that I enjoyed seeing our tree dressed up in all its fake pine glory. Your father and I went back and forth, trying to decide what to do with the tree this year. We'd heard the horror stories about toddlers and Christmas trees, and we weren't about to let ourselves be a part of a tragic Christmas tree statistic (although, really, how many toddlers REALLY succeed in taking a forty pound tree down? Yeah, I didn't think so). Do we (option a) put it in the other room where it's safe from your reach? Do we (option b) get a small tree and put it on the table? Put the whole thing in a play pen (option c)? Block the evil evergreen off with a massive baby gate (option d)?
We settled for option e: none of the above. We stuck the tree in the corner of the living room and prayed for the best. I, in all of my infinite motherly wisdom, tried to take matters into my own hands the first day the tree was up.
Once you were up from your nap, I led you out into the living room so we could sit by the tree together. You must've thought your parents were nuts at this point. You went to bed with a perfectly tree-free living room and woke up to find a 7 foot tall pine structure adorned with lights and fragile ornaments that scream "TOUCH ME PLEASE!"
Fortunately, the fragile "touch me please" ornaments were placed high on the tree and the less enticing fabric "ignore me because I really belong on the back of the tree--otherwise known as 'tree graveyard'--" ornaments were placed in the bottom third of the tree. I put my hand on the branch, pulled it back quickly and said "OUCHIE!"
I don't want to brag or anything, but I think my ten years of teaching theatre paid off in that very moment. Your eyes got huge and you backed as far away from the dangerous pine needles as you could. You knew what "ouchie" meant and you weren't taking any chances.
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| Before the "ouchie" moment/irrational fear of Christmas trees began. |
Now it was your turn to grumble grumble.
The perfect mommies of the world--the ones who keep their toddlers away from their Christmas trees without threatening "ouchie" to them--must've really slapped their hands to their foreheads at what I did next: dragged your most treasured toy (the rocking horse) in front of the tree to try to entice you back to the tree to get a picture of you. Because it's tradition. And by tradition, I mean that I got some cute pictures of you last year in front of the tree and I'm trying my luck again, ok?
You thought I was crazy, but you did pose long enough for me to get a few semi decent pictures. Then you promptly grabbed your rocking horse and dragged him to safety clear across the room.
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| I got a few cute pictures that morning. This isn't one of them. Must be on the other computer. |
If you're ever in therapy from a ridiculous need to rescue horses from the attacking Christmas trees, you now know where this
Regardless, that's how we roll. If you haven't figured it out by now, Christmas is not something that's taken lightly in our household. Some families celebrate once--we get to celebrate six times. Each time, my dearest darling Sammie, you got spoiled. In a good way. Not in a snot-nosed brat kind of way.
Let's break down your second Christmas season down:
Christmas #1: Daddy's Family
It was a lovely time. You ate your first verinike and sweiboch like the good little semi-German Schnitzel you are. At least, you're a better German Schnitzel than I am. The Irish in me will gladly scarf down corned beef, Irish soda bread and Colcanon, but the German thing was something I married into. I don't get what the big deal is about cheese-filled potstickers smothered in gravy. That's why I eat ham every year. Fortunately, you won't embarrass your father the way I do: you downed that verinke like it was hopping on a plane and going back to its home country.
Things went slightly downhill after that when we all caravanned down to Fresno again to visit Grandma Pat in the nursing home. It was a very poetic moment, all of daddy's cousins and their families marching down the hall to surprise their grandmother whilst carolers sang in a nearby corridor. I don't think there was a dry eye in the house! We, however, were crying with joy because of the happiness we brought Grandma Pat by visiting her so she wouldn't miss out on the Christmas festivities she loves so much. You, on the other hand, were screaming to the high heavens because you were missing your afternoon nap. Eventually my back and I got tired of picking you up and lugging you around the hallways, so we highfooted it back to Kingsburg to finish off the Pat family Christmas party.
Fortunately, the rest of the night ended on a more positive note thanks to the nap you got in the car...you even cheered up enough to take a bath with your cousin Keston later that night. Someone got pictures of the cuteness that was the two of you bathing together. Be grateful, darling dear, that that someone wasn't me, because I am the kind of mother who would post embarrassing pictures like that of you for all the world to see. And by "all the world to see" I mean people who have the password to this blog because I sure as heck am not THAT kind of mom, either.
Christmas #2: Mama's Family
The day after the Pat party, it was time to put on our big girl tights and go to Nonni and Poppa's house for even more fun. The Pat family may have their cheesy potstickers, but the Willis family has Santa.
Yep, the big guy himself. I mean, I don't want to brag or anything, but he's not so easy to get a mere week before Christmas. It took some finagling on our part, but we made it happen. He even brought you an early Christmas present: an Elmo book with a special music player.
Yeah, you didn't care about what strings we pulled to get the Jolly Red guy because you came down with a major case of "The Sammies" and lunged off of St. Nick's lap as fast as you could.
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| Dear Santa, for Christmas, I want to get off of your lap and go back to mama, please. PS. You sound like my Poppa. |
Once Santa leaves, it's time for more pictures. Just as Thanksgiving has the "put the babies on the couch and take pictures of them while they scream" tradition, Christmas brings about the "put the babies in boxes in front of the tree and take pictures of them while they scream" tradition. And we do it. We put you in boxes and watch you scream. Because it's tradition. Actually, to fully clarify it, your cousins were just fine in their boxes. It was you, dear child, who stood up and threatened to lead a tot-sized rebellion as we snapped away.
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| The non-comformist. |
You recovered from your traumatic moment of being stuck in a box long enough to open your present from my grandmother: your very own shopping cart with food! If you still like shopping this much when you're old enough to read this blog, please feel free to take over this chore for me. Bring me back some bread, a gallon of milk, and yogurt. Thanks!Christmas #3: Pullen Family
We had a break for a few days before our third Christmas celebration with my family. It was a low key day of games and a few presents. It was super fun for your father and I because we got to be on the receiving end of a whole lotta gift cards. The "tradition" of it being a Very Elmo Christmas continued because, while I don't remember what you got exactly, I'm fairly certain it involved a great deal of the furry red guy. Apparently word got out that you love Elmo, because one out of two toys you received this Christmas featured "EL-mo" as you've taken to calling him. On a related note, this past Christmas was a "Very Bath and Body Works Foaming Soap" Christmas for me. I got a total of seven bottles of the stuff from various friends and family members. If they're trying to send me a subtle hint, I hope it's not that I smell.
Christmas #4: Vogt Family
While preparing for daddy's family to come over for our annual soup and gifts tradition, you and I did a little holiday baking, making cupcakes for Jesus' birthday. I thought it would make for fun memories and cute pictures. Someday, dear child, I will remember that you aren't ten. You're nineteen months old. Baking and crafting aren't on your radar yet. Eating, however, most definitely IS something you know how to do.
You weren't even on the counter for two seconds before your little hands dropped the frosting spatula to grab one of the cupcakes in front of you. I initially wrestled the cupcake from your grip, thinking I might get away with frosting over your bite mark, but my conscience got the better of me and I let you have the cupcake while I frosted the rest of the batch solo, even if that did mean that I was working with EXACTLY the number of cupcakes I needed to spell out "Happy Birthday Jesus 2010."  |
| Inhaling the chocolatey goodness before your mean mama tries to take it away again. |
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| Before Grandpa Michael chowed down on the "J" |
I shouldn't have worried too much. Before we could light the candle and sing our special Happy Birthday Jesus song, your grandfather swiped the "J" cupcake and left me with mere crumbs. I couldn't bring myself to take a picture of our "Happy Birthday Esus 2010" cupcakes so I just gave up and let Uncle Tom have at 'em, too.
After the "Happy Birthday Esus" fiasco, we took a brief break to schlep across town and visit Grandma Pat before returning to our house for more merriment. Mrs. Claus left you a gift under the tree: pajamas. You weren't so stoked about that part, but at least you humored me and let me put them on you before opening the rest of your gifts. Grandma and Grandpa gave you your very own Elmo so you wouldn't need to steal Benji's toy again. Aunt Beth and Uncle Tom gave you a HUGE Radio Flyer wagon that could probably take flight if it had wings and an engine. While the Elmo on Prozac made you break out in giggles and gasps of surprise, the wagon terrified you and you refused to get within three feet of its molded plastic awesomeness. *Sigh*
We ended the night by leaving out carrots and cookies for Santa. You may have been over tired by this point, but that didn't stop you from eyeing the cookies while chomping on a carrot. I'm the same way kiddo--I don't blame you one bit!
Christmas #5: Our Family
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| Your very own kitchen! |
Christmas morning rolled around, and boy were you surprised to get your very own KITCHEN with your NAME on it. You rewarded us by promptly hiding the remote controlls in your oven. I laugh about it now, but we weren't laughing at the time when we spent 45 minutes tearing the house (and trash cans) apart looking for the clickers. In the name of tradition, 
I tried desperately to take a picture of our little family on Christmas morning (after all, one of the favorite pictures I have of the three of us is from last Christmas when we posed in front of the tree), but you were having none of it. Sigh. At least I look decent. Yay me for taking the time to put on make up and running a brush through my hair before waking you up that morning (yes. we might very well be the only parents in the world who have to wake up their toddler at 10AM on Christmas morning because child you like to sleep in!).
I tried desperately to take a picture of our little family on Christmas morning (after all, one of the favorite pictures I have of the three of us is from last Christmas when we posed in front of the tree), but you were having none of it. Sigh. At least I look decent. Yay me for taking the time to put on make up and running a brush through my hair before waking you up that morning (yes. we might very well be the only parents in the world who have to wake up their toddler at 10AM on Christmas morning because child you like to sleep in!).Christmas #6: Pullen Part 2
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| Note that your father is taking the walk of shame back to the house after doing a "pop-a-wheelie" with your trike. |
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| Before the fear set in. |
Once we got over the shock of almost losing a vital part of our lives the remote controls, we packed up the car to go to Nonni and Poppa's house again. This time, you and Benji were in for quite a shock: you got your very own triclyes! I was worried that you would be hesitant to climb on your first bike, but you surprised me by plopping down and happily ringing your bell.
Then it was daddy's turn to "drive" your tricycle. He tried to spice things up a bit by popping the front wheel up while we went down the sidewalk. I shouldn't be that surprised that you hopped off the tricycle one minute later and refused to ride the thing back to Nonni and Poppa's house, opting instead to walk the rest of the way. I also shouldn't be surprised that you didn't want Benji on his tricycle, either.
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| C'Mon Benji--this thing is possessed! Its front wheels pop up for no reason at all! Get off while it's safe! |
I don't think you convinced him too much. He was too busy shouting "Oh BOY!" while ringing the bell.
There you have it. The tale of Six Christmases. It's been over a week since we carried out our last Christmas tradition and hung our last stocking, and I'm still tired. Frankly, I'm tired all over again just recounting all of the different days of merriment. Maybe that's way I was overly anxious to put all of our Christmas stuff away earlier than normal this year, leaving me to feel a bit like the Grinch as you saw me packing away the ornaments that I had worked so hard to keep you away from this past month.
Grumble, grumble.
Love you, cindy lou hoo,
your mama
PS Stay Tuned for New Year's, 2011 (otherwise known as "why do we have the only 19 month old on the block that stays up to midnight on New Year's two years in a row?")
