A Tale of Six Christmases: Because It's Tradition!

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.


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.


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 totally reasonable unsubstantiated fear comes from. And you're welcome.

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.


Dear Santa, for Christmas, I want to get off of your lap and go back to mama, please.
 PS. You sound like my Poppa.

 Then you decided that Ben's gift (an Elmo toy that giggled) was way more fun than your measly music player. Good thing he decided that your music player was more cool than his frantically hysterical Elmo toy.

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.


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.



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

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!).

Christmas #6: Pullen Part 2

Note that your father is taking the walk
of shame back to the house after doing a
"pop-a-wheelie" with your trike.



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.

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?")

The Holidays: Cliff's Notes Edition Part 1

Dearest Sammie Girl,

 

I'm going to spare you the full on details of the last two months' events. To fully capture each story and moment would require me to type from now until the last day of our precious Christmas break, and that's just not something I'm willing to do at this time. Actually, that's not quite the truth. I'd LOVE to go on and on in honest, humorous and frank prose about each and every moment of your young life, but to carve out the time to write requires that you be entertained while I'm click-clacking away, and the VeggieTales DVD is buying me exactly 42 minutes to sum up the past two months. Scratch that. I've wasted exactly two minutes of precious DVD time moaning about how I don't have the time to type and blog, and I'm just wasting more time now bemoaning the fact that I've got to keep it short which is soooo hard for me to do. *sigh* I'll cut my losses and get on with the (brief) show before your (briefer) show ends:

Halloween

Go Team!

Halloween was a hoot and a holler. Literally. You had a blast showing off your cheerleading costume to daddy's family in the comforts of your own home. When it came time to show off your cute costume to MY family at Nonni and Poppa's, you were hollering a different tune. Apparently seeing your cousin dressed as Curious George is a very terrifying thing. You calmed down long enough for us to take you trick or treating to nearby houses. That lasted for one house, then you had an epic meltdown to end all epic meltdown. If I'm every diagnosed wtih tinninitis, it's because you spent the better part of Halloween night screaming in my ear.

Veteran's Day

Veteran's Day (if I'm going to be brief I may as well cover ALL of the holidays, thankyouverymuch) was spent with your cousin (thankfully out of his Curious George costume this time) at the zoo. Benji, being the lovely boy that he is, was quite interested in all that the zoo had to offer (Except for the elephants. He did not care for those big pachyderms too much). You, on the other hand, were more intrested in what Benji had to offer. Namely, his lunch. Aunt Erin had the foresight to bring a sandwich and goodies for her son. I brought Taco Bell. You finished your quesadilla in the car and were hungry for more. Needless to say, the bulk of the zoo trip was spent with you scheming for ways to get your cousin's food when he wasn't looking. My personal favorite was the "handshake" move. You offered your hand for a handshake, and went in for his sandwich when he fell for that trap.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was a bit of a blur.  I was able to show off your artwork when I brought the pumpkin bread to my family's gathering (attempt #2 at making the plate was, fortunately, a success--in part because your father took you home right after you left your mark on the clay platter). Your favorite part of this holiday was, no doubt, eating. I don't blame you. It was good grub! We capped the evening off by trying to recapture the "Babies on the Couch" tradition that we started last year. It didn't go so well. Last year, you all may have been blobs, but at least you kept your hands to yourself. You were having none of it until we thrust a robey in your hand. That at least kept your fists free from pummeling your poor cousin Benji.

Gulp. Only ten minutes left in the video, and I haven't even gotten to Christmas yet!

Christmas season---um, wait. I can't do it justice in ten minutes. I just can't. Besides, the video has lost your attention and you're now "grooming" the dogs. If, of course, by "grooming the dogs" you mean pulling at their fur from all angles.

More later. I promise.

Lotsa love,

your mama

It's Craft Time! Cue the Crazy Mama

Dear Sammie Joy,

As if the epic fail from August’s handprint fiasco wasn’t enough, last week, I dared to bring you to the local paint your own ceramics store. Somehow, I got it in my brain that something had changed in the last month and that you were now a crafting queen.

I envisioned pictures of the two of us, sitting side by side at the craft boutique and wearing matching aprons while we happily painted platters using your hand prints.

One handprint, I dreamed, would be perfectly centered in the middle of the plate and painted brown with colorful fingers. I’d decorate that one up to look like the typical handprint turkey that every kid does growing up. The other plate would be for Christmas. Somehow, I would turn your hand and footprints into a beautiful reindeer.

Maybe you would like painting so much that I would get a tile from the rack and have you paint your own tile so we could start a new tradition: the yearly tile painted by Sammie. Over time, perhaps, we’d be able to put all of your tiles together and have a crafting table, made out of the tiles that you (and your future sibling) had made over the years!

While I was having these visions of happy crafting dancing in my head, the boutique was running a half off deal, so I took that as a sign: it was time to get our craft on.

Someday, however, I’ll realize that baby + crafting = disaster.

Sigh.

It went like this: your dad and I dressed you up cute (so you’d look good for the pictures). Actually, I dressed you up cute. If your father has anything to say about what you wear, you’d be in whatever clothes were in the drawer nearest to him and are easy to put on. For the record, if you ever look back at your pictures and find shots of you wearing neon watermelon shorts with a red and orange Elmo shirt and disheveled hair, it’s because your father dressed you that day:

If you see pictures of you wearing outfits that coordinate with your matching hairbows, you’ll know that dear ol’ mama was responsible for clothing you that day.

Once you were dressed in your black princess shirt (I reasoned that black would be an easier color to clean should you get paint on your coordinating clothes), we ran a few quick errands and made our way to the paint your own ceramics place.

It started off well: there was hardly anyone in the store so I found the plates and quickly sponged them down so we could paint away as soon as the store’s only worker could help us. I had the foresight, at least, to remember our past experience and swallow my pride and take her up on her offer to help us put your handprint on the plate. Unfortunately, the day we went must have also been the same day the manager was hiring ALL of their employees in the greater Fresno-Clovis area because there were nonstop interviews while we were there. This meant we sat at our table for a long time waiting for her to finish the interviews so she could help us.

I tried to keep you happy, little one.

We took pictures by the paint.

You know, for the perfect scrapbook page that will go in the scrapbook that I’ve STILL yet to get started on.

I forgot to tell your father that *I* wanted to be in the picture, too, but when we tried for picture number two, the tide started to turn.

*Enter the unhappy baby who’s just now realizing she’s tired hungry and desperate for a nap and/or food. Preferably at the same time, and most definitely NOW*

I sent you and your father off to the nearby play area where I waited and killed time by painting a bottom coat of paint on both of the plates.

Finally, ions later, the manager was done conducting interviews, fielding phone calls and sending one of the newly hired employees off to buy her lunch. I called you guys in, and we quickly put you back in your apron and set about painting your hand brown.

You realized at about that point that I was attempting to craft with you again, and you must’ve had flashbacks from the previous crafting project involving your hands.

*Enter the unhappy baby who’s just now realizing she’s tired hungry and desperate for a nap and/or food and NOT wanting to craft with her mama.*

You rewarded our efforts by clawing away at the handprint, leaving a brown blob on both of the plates.

I gave up trying to craft with a seventeen month old at that point and sent you off to eat lunch with your father while I tried hopelessly to salvage whatever I could of the gobs of paint on the plates.

So much for painting your own tile each year. Hmph.

Crafting, I reasoned, would have to happen solo that day. I spent the next two hours painting and scraping and wiping and painting again because I forgot that you have to paint each color THREE times to get anything more than a washed out color.

The last twenty minutes of painting went by in a blur. I literally had a paintbrush in each hand and was frantically trying to finish everything off in time to meet a friend across town.

Fast forward four days. The pieces were supposed to be ready by 6PM on Tuesday (yesterday), and I couldn’t wait any longer. I was so hoping that we’d created two masterpieces that we’d use with fond memories each year.

The manager (a different one than the previous day) warned me about setting the plates upright in the bag before handing them off to me. I nodded politely and ran back to my car to tear off the protective paper from the plates and see how they turned out.

The Christmas one was so-so. I didn’t have the patience to paint THREE coats and so I ended up with a washed out red color on the edge. I also was a little annoyed that the lettering was funky on the “M” and “C.”

I give myself 2 paintbrushes out of a possible 4.

 

The Thanksgiving one, however, was PERFECT. Just as I had hoped it would look. I could see myself taking it to family Thanksgiving functions with freshly baked pumpkin bread and banana nut bread on it. I give myself 3.5 paintbrushes out of a possible 4. I would have given myself 4 paintbrushes, but the black paint outlining the turkey was a little too thick for my liking.

If you’re wondering why I’m not posting pictures of the turkey plate, it’s because this happened:

Yep. I should’ve listened to the paint manager lady when she told me to keep the bag flat instead of upright. I set the plates upright on the counter while I was preparing dinner. The clutter on the island was killing me, so I tried to tidy it up (I think kitchen islands should be renamed “throw all of your junk here in the middle of the kitchen stations”). I grabbed your diaper bag, and somehow it got caught on the plate bag. This domino effect translated into the bag tipping over and flying off of the island and onto the wood floor below. My mom powers were rendered useless—I couldn’t do anything but stand there hopelessly while I heard the tell-tale crunch of the ceramic plates.

Maybe I should’ve wrapped them better after looking at them in the car earlier.

Wouldn’t you know it if the mediocre Christmas plate survived while the epicly awesome Thanksgiving plate broke into three different pieces?

Sigh. I’d like to say that I learned my lesson and I’ve vowed to never ever again try to craft with you until you’re able to say “Mother, please pass me the paint brush for I wish to make you a fantabulous craft, please.” I’m not quite done with you yet, though. I’m determined to get it done right.

We’re going back to the paint your own ceramic place this weekend. We get half off if we paint in our PJs. I’m thinking I’ll wear my purple owl pajamas and you can wear your purple footed pajamas. I’m bringing my camera and we’re going to paint another hand turkey if it kills me. And we’re going to smile in the pictures and it’s going to be FUN, dangit!

Oh, and if that’s not enough, I’ve also arranged to have your footprint done in clay this Friday. The art teacher offered her services. How could I pass up an offer like that?

Stay tuned for the next chapter of “Call Your Mama Crazy”….

Love you little Sammie,

your mama

Cue the Screaming Flower Girl

Dearest Sammie Girl,

 

In the wake of last month’s flying mishap, one would think that your mama would have learned her lesson about trying (and failing) to be the perfect parent.

Unfortunately, dear daughter, I wasn’t done yet. Last February, over a Valentine’s Day dinner date with daddy and some other friends, I bragged about how cute you were (and still are!). A few moments later, your Auntie Tamara talked about planning her sister’s vow renewal ceremony for the fall. This led to a now-embarrassing conversation where I shamelessly offered to you up/begged for you to be the flower girl for the aforementioned ceremony.

 

Fast forward to eight months later, and it’s a few hours before the mountain wedding. The past several months had been spent hopelessly hoping that you would:

 

1. Be able to walk down the aisle.
2. Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer.
3. Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals.
4. Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits).
5. Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

 

Much like I should’ve known that things weren’t going in our favor when our first flight was cancelled on the now infamous Seattle trip, I should’ve stopped when we were ahead when your father woke up that morning feeling ill.

 

So much for hoping that he would be at one end of the aisle while I tried to cajole you into walking toward me (strategically placed in a pew by the end of the aisle)!

 

With the bad news fresh in the back of my mind, I tried to make the most of the situation by packing you into the car with a frozen bagel to nosh on while we drove an hour to Shaver Lake.

 

The original plan was to take all pictures before the ceremony so that the bridal party and guests could go straight from the church to the nearby community center for lunch. Yeah, that didn’t happen. We got a few pictures of you playing with the flower petals in the aisle while we waited for the guests to trickle in:

Let me let you in on a little secret Sammie, so you can prepare yourself now for your own big day: weddings NEVER go as planned. They never start on time, and something almost always goes wrong. In hindsight, it’s usually something insignificant that goes amiss—as it was in your case, with no basket of flower petals to be found.

 

And so, as it was with moments to go before the trip down the aisle, the plan had to be modified:

 

Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

 

I tried my best to keep you happy, but you were hungry. It was after 12, and we still had a wedding to get through along with a full on photo session afterward.

 

The plan had to be modified again.

  

Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

Apparently, grumpiness is contagious because your fits of screams spread to the ring bearer. Back to the drawing board we went.

 

Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

 

We were down to walking down the aisle and wearing the flower girl dress.

  

Quietly, I slipped out of the lobby to wait for you at the other end of the aisle while some of the wedding attendants made their march to the altar.

 

*Cue the epic screaming that probably shook the San Andreas Fault a little more than it should*

 

 Frantically, I raced back to the lobby to appease you and give up on the dream of being the mother of the cute little flower girl who walked down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals and wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (providing it fits) and SMILING.

 

Unfortunately, my timing was slightly off and I didn’t get there in time, so Auntie Tamara (the matron of honor) took things into her own hands and picked you up to carry you, screaming to the high heavens, down the aisle.

 

It may not have been my initial plan, but this is what actually happened:

 

You were carried Be able to walk down the aisle with the ring bearer holding a basket of flower petals robey and bright blue sippy cup wearing the dress I’d bought earlier in the summer (it fit) and SMILING and SCREAMING.

  

You see, in all of my plans, I had overlooked one important detail: you are 16 months old. Not even a year and a half. Most wedding experts advise against having flower girls and ring bearers who are under the age of six.

 

Oh, well, I tried. You kept quiet in my lap during the ceremony, except, of course, when you decided to get extra chatty during the prayer. Afterward, I tried to coerce you into exiting the church with the rest of the wedding party, but you were on to me. You refused.

 

More dramatic moments followed a little later on when I tried to get you to back into the church to take pictures with bridal party. You decided that goldfish weren’t cutting it anymore and you wanted a full-fledged meal. You informed me of this by opening your mouth and letting out the biggest wails I’d ever heard out of your little body. 

 

Putting you on my hip, I took you across the parking lot to the second story community center (I’m giving you the details now, dear Sammie, so that if I should ever need a hip replacement surgery, you’ll know why and feel sorry for me and treat me like a queen). I quickly stripped you down (I got ONE part of the plan right in the dress so I wasn’t about to risk ruining that, too), set up your portable high chair and made my way to the kitchen to beg the catering staff for food to make your stomach happy.

 

Making off with two rolls, I handed both of them to you. Satisfied with my offerings, you thanked me by quieting down long enough to eat both rolls.

 

Determined to be the perfect mother of the flower girl (when will I ever learn???), I unstrapped you from the high chair, put your dress back on, and hoisted you on my hip to go downstairs and across the street for the photo session. After all, isn’t that what being a flower girl is about? Looking good in pictures?

 

The picture I had dreamed about looked something like this:

 

You, standing with the rest of the wedding party, smiling from ear to ear.

 

Simple, right? Not anything unreasonable?

 

Um, yeah, that would be a negatory. No such luck. Attempts to get you in the pictures were unsuccessful, if not laughable. Anytime I plunked you down for a picture, you responded by walking away, distracted by anything and everything around you.

 

As it were, it was looking like this would be the picture we would get:

 

You, standing with the rest of the wedding party, smiling from ear to ear. (as in, no pictures at all).

 

A light bulb went on when I noticed that your favorite thing to look at were the flowers in the church’s garden. We sent off Auntie Tamara’s husband Jeff to get one of the roses used in the bouquets in the hopes that we could use flowers to lure you into the pictures.

 

The rose brought you a little closer to our goal, but by the time the photographer started clicking away, you had already moved on to the next thing: walking/stumbling around the grass while I nervously chased you around hoping against hope that you wouldn’t fall and ruin your flower girl dress with the grass stains that you were sure to get if you fell down on the dewy patch of lawn.

 

The picture we ended up with was something like this:

 

Oh, well. You may not have been ‘technically’ standing by the bride and groom, but you were at least in the same picture frame and were giving the illusion of smiling.

 

The two of us spent the next hour and a half at the reception, and methinks you liked that part of the wedding the best. You had plastic wine glasses in each of your hands and were quite content to wander about the room, making friends wherever you went.

 

 

 

Two boys took a particular liking to you.

 

 

 

You, my darling, returned their affection for the most part, smiling and giggling whenever they came around.

 

 

 

Then you poked this poor fellow in the eye after this picture was taken.

 

 

 

If that’s how you ward off aggressive suitors, I’m sure as heck not going to stop you. In fact, I just may teach that to you as the proper response for all forms of physical affection.

 

Our much-rehearsed conversation fifteen years down the road might go something like this:

 

Mama: What do you do when your date tries to hold your hand?

 

You: Poke him in the eye!

 

Mama: What do you do when he tries to give you a good night kiss?

 

You: Poke him in the eye!

 

Mama: What do you do when he goes for a hug instead?

 

You: Poke him in the eye!

 

Yeah, I could get used to the the poke-him-in-the-eye-approach.

  

Loving you tons, my cute little flower girl,

 

your mama

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Perfect Trip. Pshaw. Yeah, Right.

Dearest Sammie Girl,

I really should rename this blog to “Misadventures in Parenting” or something like that. I’m realizing more and more that it’s next to impossible to be THE perfect parent. Don’t get me wrong—I try to be the world’s bestest mom EVER, but try as I might, I never quite get there. If I’ve learned anything in these past sixteen months, it’s that “parenthood” and “perfection” should never be used in the same sentence.

Case in point: our recent trip to Seattle. I had pre-planned, planned, and planned again for the series of two hour flights so that our journey would go seamlessly. I put out a call to Facebook mothers out there, asking for advice on traveling with a toddler in tow. I packed and repacked the backpacks we’d carry with just the right amount of snacks, robeys and toys to keep you busy. I obsessively emailed another traveling friend, asking for tips so that I could…wait for it…be the PERFECT TRAVELING MOTHER with the PERFECT(ly quiet) TODDLER.

I set us up for the PERFECT trip…and failed. Miserably. But not on purpose.

I should’ve known something was wrong when we checked in at the ticket counter and found out that our first flight (to San Francisco) was delayed indefinitely. Fortunately, I knew the ticket agent and she was able to get us on another flight that left right around the same time. Who knew being in high school color guard would pay off?

At this point, we had about 90 minutes to kill, so your Nonni and I visited in the visiting area of the airport while you kept yourself content performing your new trick: pushing your stroller and bumping into things.



We took a picture while we waited. This, after all, was an important milestone in your life—your first airplane ride!


Little did we know… (insert somber, dramatic music here)

Eventually, we said goodbye to Nonni and made our way through the security agents. I’d worried about this part. Shuffling all of our bags, shoes, and cumbersome stroller along with a newly toddling baby made me sweat each time I thought about it. Fortunately, that part went seamlessly.

And that was the only thing in our journey, dear Sammie, that went just as it should.

Shudder. Cue more dramatic music.

Once we were past security, I bought you milk (so I could give you something to drink so I could be the PERFECT TRAVELING MOTHER with the PERFECT(ly quiet) TODDLER (or PTMWTPQT for short) and keep her child content while her ears were popping. You started to throw a temper tantrum, but nothing a PTMWTPQT couldn’t handle. I distracted you with a new toy and made our way to the gates.

I noticed a plane was at our gate, but no one was boarding so I parked us by the windows as I waited for them to announce our flight number. The #*&#*$ intercom went on every ten minutes, welcoming us to Fresno, and eventually I got so annoyed with it I tuned it out. If this trip were a Greek tragedy, that decision would prove to be my fatal flaw.

You were rather content, playing once again with your stroller and flirting with anyone who dared to look at you. After twenty or so minutes of waiting, I saw the plane (the one I thought we were supposed to take) taxi down the runway.

“Huh,” I reasoned, “they must need to take it to another gate to repair it.”

Another twenty minutes went by, and no replacement plane came in. Uh oh.

I flopped our things onto the stroller and steered it with one hand while holding you (by this point kicking and screaming) in the crook of my arm with the other. PTMWTPQT, by this point, was starting to go out the window.

I told our predicament to the ticketing agent (not the color guard one), and she rolled her eyes at us as you kicked the screaming up a notch.

“Yeah, I paged you three times over fifteen minutes. The plane left without you.”

So my deafness caused us to miss our first flight. PTMWTPQT had officially left the building. In her place was SDCMWRTCAAM (Short Deaf Crazy Mom Who's Ready to Cry and Abort Mission).

After some cajoling, I managed to get another flight—the one that we initially were supposed to be on. Boarding was in two hours.

So, I did what any rational mother would do. I packed you up and schlepped you off to the only restaurant in the airport (note to Fresno: if you want to pride yourself in having an ‘International’ airport, you may want to at least have more than one option for travelers who want to eat something beyond bar food!). We sat and ate our food in misery.



Ok, I was somewhat miserable, and you were totally stoked with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I'd had the forsight to pack (ok, so maybe PTMWTPQT hadn't completely left the building). Pickles were a particular delight.



After our meal, I went to the convenience kiosk in the airport and consoled myself by buying copious amounts of chocolate. As I was paying for the goods, I heard a boarding call for us. I threw the money at the cashier and ran as fast as my short stumpy legs could carry us to the boarding gate. We lost your robey along the way, but I didn’t have time to go back and get it. I was NOT going to miss the replacement flight!

I arrived at the ticket counter, red faced and ridiculously out of breath. The ticket agent rolled her eyes once more.

“We didn’t page you,” she said with what I was sure was a smirk. “We’ll let you know when your flight’s boarding. You have another hour.”

I sunk away to the opposite end of the waiting area, making do with the time by changing your diaper on the floor (in my quest for flight tips from Facebook moms, I was reminded that the airport bathrooms are next to impossible to change a baby’s diaper in on account of their closet-like size). Perhaps PTMWTPQT could make a complete comeback?

No such luck. While pestering the ticket agent once again, I learned that our flight was delayed ANOTHER two hours. And it was possible that it may or may not be departing at that time.

SDCMWRTCAAM couldn’t take it anymore, and just as I had my hand on my phone to call home and forget this attempt of air travel ever happened, a silver lining appeared: The deaf mom-traveling-with-baby-that-hasn’t-napped-card worked. We would be able to get on the next plane leaving the airport.

It was going to LA.

We were going to Seattle.

If you're geography impaired, Los Angeles is about 200 miles south of Fresno. We were going to Seattle—very much in the OPPOSITE direction of LA.

I didn’t care. We were on a plane!

Taking a baby on a plane (however cute she and her accompanying bows may be), I learned, was much like traveling with a highly contagious disease. People look disgusted, avert their eyes, and flee. This worked to our advantage because the gentlemen with whom we were supposed to share a row took one look at me (still red faced and probably not looking that great) and sought refuge in an empty seat to the rear of the plane.

For the next hour, you were happy to sit in your own seat, reading to yourself and signing “milk” to me whenever you felt the need to quench your thirst.



I had hoped you would fall asleep, but no such luck. Well, kind of. You fell asleep as the plane’s wheels were hitting the tarmac of the LAX airport.



We deplaned, and walked for what seemed like miles to our gate. I really shouldn’t have been surprised at what was waiting for us: yet another delayed flight to Seattle. For an hour. Honestly, I gave up photojournaling our trip at this point because, really, who wants to look at pictures of a frazzled mama and her overtired toddler? Ok, probably most people want to see that (call it schadenfreude), but vanity really won out. Knowing I'd be writing about it at some point, I didn't want anyone to see me at my worst.

With that grim news, we trekked back through the airport and bought pizza. Because that’s what the PTMWTPQT does, right? Stuffs her kid full of food so they don’t raise cain in public?

I wasn’t risking missing another flight—however late it may be—so we ran back to the gate and waited. And waited. Two hours later (yep—the flight got delayed ANOTHER hour), we were on the plane. As I sat down and carefully put you in my lap (while the plague theory was still very much in effect, there were no extra seats for the hapless fellow next to us to escape to). It was then, that I realized another fatal error that a PTMWTPQT would never make: in my anxiousness to make sure we were on the plane when it boarded, I had forgotten to change your diaper. Doing the math in my head, I figured that you hadn’t had a fresh diaper since I changed you at the FAT (Yes, the Fresno airport is called the FAT. It’s rather unfortunate and I rip off the flight tags as soon as I can get my luggage from baggage claim). Nevertheless, over six hours had elapsed since you’d been changed.

And, judging by the wetness now seeping on to my jeans, it was about six hours too long.

Yet another point for the PTMWTPQT!

Fortunately, and not to get too graphic here, what was happening in your diaper wasn’t the, um, brown kind.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing I could do about the dirty diaper situation because we were at the point of no return: wedged into that seat tighter than a (insert random appropriate lexicon metaphor here) and I wasn’t about to put away your DVD player, food, drinks, robey and everything else to do the walk of shame down to the plane’s bathroom to change you. I would have to live with the pee stained jeans for the next two and a half hours. I’ll be the PTMWTPQT doesn’t have to deal with that quandary, but that shipped sailed (or flew) a LONG time ago.

While the plane took flight, I whipped out my ipod and set it so that it played Sesame Street (In my planning to be PTMWTPQT, that was one good thing I did—I had more than one source of electronic entertainment available). You didn’t care that there was no sound—you were just happy that your buddy Elmo was along for the ride.

Bummer that the ipod’s battery died 30 minutes later. Apparently the video option drains the battery quicker. Of course, the PTMWTPQT already knows that. I, unfortunately, do now.

With that, you started into the “Sammie” cry that only you can do. Hey, I can’t say that I blamed you too much. It was well after midnight, we’d been traveling for ten hours, you had no idea where you were, you had no nap that day (score one for dad on that one!) Elmo died, and the mean passenger across from the aisle kept on shooting you nasty looks whenever you accidentally dropped your sippy cup.

The Sammies only lasted for about a minute, long enough for me to get the DVD player up and running with the Carebear movie that my friend had thoughtfully given us for our special trip. This, along with copious amounts of food, kept you moderately satisfied for another hour or so.

Then, in a fit of frustration, you tossed your robey. Onto the lap of the sleeping guy sitting next to us.

I stared at the robey, and back at you, and back at the robey. It was inches away, but it may as well have been ten miles away. I mean, it was on the GUY’S LAP, for heaven’s sake. I just don’t go around touching the laps of strangers. Your Nonni and Poppa didn’t raise me that way.

I paused for a moment, not knowing quite what to do. The PTMWTPQT, I’ll bet, never has to make this decision. She probably travels with at least ten (probably keeping a spare in her bra or something) so that she’s never faced with this predicament.

Sensing my hesitation, you let out a loud wail. I didn’t have time to think any further, I went in like a ninja and quietly snatched the robey from the poor sleeping guy's crotch area. I don’t think he ever noticed, but if he did he was polite enough to pretend to sleep to save us both the embarrassment.

I’d like to say that from that point on it was a smooth flight, but it wasn’t. I mean, who are we kidding? It was two in the morning and the odds were stacked against us. The Carebears weren’t doing it for you anymore, so you threw a mini-fit, crying hysterically for two minutes. Mean guy from across the aisle (not the robey in lap guy) woke up and shot us dirty looks. I shot them back, and upped the ante by giving his girlfriend a look of “Really? This jerkface is the best you can come up with?”—at least, that’s what I was trying to convey without uttering a word— I can only hope my years of theatre experience paid off in that moment.

Finally, singing softly into your ear did the trick. Yes, I sang “Jesus Loves Me” while shooting back dirty looks at the people across the aisle. I will probably have to do an altar call next time we go to church to beg for His forgiveness.

Regardless of my shortcomings, you fell asleep for the next thirty minutes and the mean couple across the aisle got the hint and went back to their slumber. I was left with a random Carebear movie on the DVD player, but I wasn’t about to risk the crying baby episode again so I just helplessly watched the rest of it in relative peace.

Just as you were waking up, the plane landed outside the Seattle airport.

It had been raining.

I know this seems like a weird thing to say—that it had been RAINING in SEATTLE, but, it wasn’t the normal Seattle mist. It was pouring down buckets torrential downpour. Of course, this would be the one plane that doesn’t unload directly into the airport.

Nope. We got to go down the stairs and out onto Lake SEA (rather ironic, at this point, that Seattle’s airport code is SEA). The baggage guy shoved the stroller in my direction and I tried my best to open it up while keeping you balanced on my hip and keeping the backpacks from slipping off of my other shoulder.

I didn’t quite succeed. I only got it partly open. I’ll bet the PTMWTPQT has a stroller that opens up perfectly on the first try without effort. Me, I had one foot in a puddle and the other on a slippery plastic pedal while trying to keep you appeased at three in the morning in the cold dark night.

I gave up. I put you in a halfway open stroller so I could use both hands for leverage. You leaned out to look at me, and then, the piece de resistance: you landed, face first, in the biggest puddle in the tarmac.

As I held you, shivering and wet and screaming your head off, I looked up to the Heavens.

“Are you kidding me, God??”

Alas, God was not kidding. It wasn’t God’s doing. It was my doing. Me. The less than perfect traveling mother whose deafness misses the flight and whose forgetfulness doesn’t change the baby’s diaper and whose un-Christlikeness glares down fellow passengers while singing praise songs. This was the same mother who, in her hurry, puts the baby in the halfway closed stroller so she can get the heck away from the plane and the memories and on with the trip that was supposed to be FUN GOSHDANGIT!

With that, I stood you on the tarmac, opened up the stroller, took off your sopping wet shirt and put on your sweatshirt, strapped you in, and made my way to the airport. Of course, there were no elevators in sight, so I had to unbuckle you while two guardian angels/awesome passengers carried your stroller up the two flights of stairs.

I can only imagine what my dear friend EllenAnn thought when she saw us at baggage claim that night. Me, with my face flushed and eyes fighting back tears with a wet shirt, soggy shoes and diaper-stained jeans. Then there was you, soaked from head to toe (but still looking cute!) and bearing the scratches from the tumble on the tarmac.

Pshaw. I am soooo not a PTMWTPQT.

I’m a MWSTWFEALTTAI (Mother who survived the worst trip ever and lived to tell about it).

Tune in next time…when I dare to write about this past weekend, when I attempted to be a PMOTFG (Perfect Mother of a Flower Girl). Disclaimer: it went about as well as our journey to Seattle.

PS. All was not lost. We did have a good time in Seattle and our flight home was, in fact, perfect. Here’s the pictures to prove it:










Love,
your (since then recovered) mama