Merry Christmas! (2009 edition)

It's my very favorite time of the year, Christmas! And I feel really fortunate to have spent another one with the people I love most -- my family.

Christmas began with the traditional Christmas Eve mass. We dressed up really nice, and then straggled until we were too late to get seats inside the church. Instead, much to my Mother's dismay, we piled into the overflow building and celebrated Christmas mass in the bingo hall (I was sorely tempted to yell "O 15!" when I dropped my money in the collection basket.)

The family.

Me and my parents.

Mark behaved really well at church, which is a semi-miracle since we don't regularly attend services (much to my chagrin, he said, "What's 'mass'?" when Kelley asked if we were attending midnight mass. And last year, he kept pointing at the Virgin Mary stature and asking loudly, "Who's she?").

After church, we drove home with a car full of caroling kids, and sat down to a lovely dinner my mom prepared. The kids could barely sit still -- they wiggled and squirmed the entire time, quickly gulping down their food so they could open a present.

Nathalie pointed out this present for me, and gasped when I said, "Who's getting a bowl?"

"How do you know what it is?" she asked.

"Look at it!" I answered. "It's not a violin!"

She made me promise to act surprised when I opened it. As soon as I promised, my dad walked in the room and said, "Oh look, a bowl!" My sister-in-law Mary, who'd wrapped it, was mortified. My dad suggested she use gift bags next year.

Hmmm, wonder what THAT is??

Finally, the kids plated some cookies and milk for Santa, then ran off to bed. The countdown for Santa began, and they almost couldn't take it. I could hear them giggle excitedly in their rooms.

I tried convincing the kids that Santa doesn't come until 7:45 a.m., so they'd better steer clear of the living room until 8. They did not listen to me, and came tiptoeing into the family room just after 7.

Gabi, Grant and Mark's eyes were big as saucers, and they told me Santa left Mark a note in his stocking. Mark told me what it said, and their eyes grew even bigger.

The note.

"Well, Mark's had a tough year," I said. "I've been warning him to behave for the past month!"

The kids held their breath and watched Mark unwrap the gift. They gasped audibly when they saw the contents -- two lumps of coal!

"I made Santa's naughty list," Mark whispered.

Hey, Santa tried to warn you, Mr. Sassypants!

The nieces and nephews couldn't wait to share the news. When the neighbor kids came over, Gabi immediately blurted out, "Mark got coal!"

Leilani stopped in her tracks, then said, "Let me see." She told us her cousin's friend had once gotten coal, then reminded us she'd been very good this year.

But Mark wasn't all bad. He got some of his favorite things for Christmas, like this bottle of mayonnaise from Gabi (he loves mayonnaise).

He also got a new robe.



And in the theme of keeping warm, I got my parents matching presents -- Snuggie blankets! My brother Scott said they weren't allowed to wear them outside of the house. I'm pretty sure my mom loved hers, because she told me, "Don't worry, I'll get even!" (That's a term of endearment, right?)

See, Snuggies keep your hands free to wave!

Or to hold hands with your beloved spouse.

Even Chuck the dog got a present -- a new stuffed squirrel to chase and attack. He was thrilled.

Get 'em, Chuck!

The afternoon was spent with our family friends, the Roppe's. It was fun to catch up with them.

My mom was still working on the big family feast. I helped by peeling the potatoes, but when Scott walked by he shouted, "Mom, Heather's cooking! Make her stop!" Nathalie repeated him, telling the kids, "Aunt Heather's cooking!" I could hear Gabi yell, "Eeeewwww!" all the way from the living room. So much for the loving, supportive, nurturing family!

After dinner, we had one more set of guests, the Fera-Schanes family. I love when they come over, because you know you're gonna spend the night laughing. And laugh we did! Seth and I almost lost it when my nephew Johnny convinced his dad to give him a snack. Johnny opened the pantry and pulled out a bag of mini-marshmallows. Brad said, "No, Johnny," but the bag was upside down, and marshmallows fell everywhere. Without hesitation, Johnny dropped to the ground and stuffed marshmallows into his mouth with both hands. I grabbed him, and he tried to protest, but his little cheeks were too stuffed for any sound to come out. Boy, was he mad at me for foiling his plan!

All in all, we had a wonderful day. It was everything Christmas should be -- family, friends, kids ripping open presents, and then playing all day with their new toys. It was good food and loud laughter. It was home.

And it was great.

Christmas carols

It's almost Christmas, and Mark is in the holiday spirit. He's been sporting an increasing filthy Santa hat and singing Christmas carols non-stop for the past week.

Some of the songs bring me back to my own youth. Most notably is "Jingle Bells," which I remember belting out loudly and proudly just like my son -- "Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg..." Definitely not the version they play on the radio, but it's quite popular with the under-10 set. And what I love is how happily they sing it, as though they were the first generation ever to do so (again, just like we did!).

But Mark is not limited solely to timeless classics. He's also written some holiday ditties of his own. On the drive to San Diego, he serenaded me over and over again with a tune he wrote just for me.

He sang, "We wish you a beery Christmas, we wish you a beery Christmas, we wish you a beery Christmas, and a happy New Beer."

I just smiled and applauded. I was impressed with his rhyming skills and ability to hold a tune. I was equally impressed by his unrelenting enthusiasm, as he sang it over and over and over again.

And by the time I got to my parents', I had a curious craving for a beer.

Is this that "new math"?

Last night in the car, Mark and I were discussing college. He wanted to know how often the college calls your parents when you misbehave or skip class. Then he asked me how much college costs, and I answered, "A lot."

"How much?" he asked again.

"How much do you think is a lot of money?" I asked back.

Mark shrugged. "I dunno. Like, $1200?"

"That is a lot," I agreed. "But college is even more than that, depending on where you go. UCLA is $27,000 a year, if you live in the dorms."

Mark whistled from the back seat. "That IS a lot!"

I nodded. "And that's for a state school," I told him. "If you go to a private school, it can cost up to $50,000 a year."

"OH MY GOD!" he shouted in disbelief.

"Yup," I answered. "A year! If you go for four years, how much would that cost you?"

"Over a million dollars!" he answered immediately.

I glanced at him in the rear view mirror. "Try again," I told him. "Break it down to smaller numbers. What's 4 times 50?"

"Um, 20," he said.

"No, it's not," I said. "Add another zero."

"Oh," he said. "200."

"And now add the three zeroes for the thousands," I prodded. "How much does that add up to?"

"Oh my GOD!" he cried again. "That's like $400,000!"

I almost stopped the car at that point. "No, it's not," I insisted. "It's $200,000!"

I heard a "Hmph," then he said, "Really?"

"Yes!" I said indignantly. "You need to study harder for your math test on Friday!"

"No, I don't," he shot back. "That test is all about fractions, not multiplication."

I just sighed, and drove home. I guess the good news is that based on this conversation, Mark probably won't major in math in college. Which means there's still a chance I'll be able to help him with his college homework when the time comes.

But the bad news is, also based on this conversation, he probably won't get any academic scholarships, either. So I'd better start socking away even more money for his college fund -- because apparently, I'm gonna need somewhere between 400,000 and 1 million dollars.

MC Marky Mark

I am really lucky to have the same close friends I had in college. However, I'm learning this has both pros and cons.

The cons include them knowing where all the bodies are hidden, so to speak. They knew me during my formative collegiate years, when I experimented (unsuccessfully) with things like fashion, and they now revel in sharing those stories with my son. Who can't get enough of them, of course.

Mark's current favorite story involves an unfortunate clothing choice my friends have dubbed the "MC Hammer pants." They were part of a set, really, a pink sweatshirt with matching sweatpants. The sweatshirt was emblazoned with a large Italian flag, while the pants sported the word "Firenza" spelled out vertically down one pant leg. Oh, and the pants also had a little extra flair -- they were jodhpurs, which meant they flared out theatrically on top (hence the MC Hammer reference). They were my favorite pair of pants, and I wore them more often than I should have. (Even once was too often!)

(It should be noted for the record that my cousin Kathleen had a similarly stunning sweat-pantsuit. Hers just didn't have the jodhpur feature mine did.)

I laugh along with my friends when they tell the story about my MC Hammer pants, because really, what the hell was I thinking??

Like I said, Mark has fully embraced this story. And he has learned how to work my iPod. So he couldn't wait to play a little song for me this weekend.

"Hey Mom, I've got a surprise for you!" he shouted from the dining room. He was grinning like a fool when I entered the room, and quickly hit play on the iPod.

"U Can't Touch This" filled the room, and I watched as my son slid, danced and shimmied across the floor in what he assumed was Hammer's signature side-dance move. I could barely contain myself, laughing uncontrollably.

"Hey Mom, you wanna get your pink pants?" he taunted. He grabbed his knees and moved his hands back and forth across in some crazy dance move.

And so now I have my very own theme song. I swear, Mark played that damn song every time I entered the dining room this weekend. I always wanted a signature song, but I envisioned something more regal (a la "Hail to the Chief").

Instead, I'm saddled with a 20-year-old bad rap song. And the memory of pink jodhpur sweatpants to go with it...

Oh Tannenbaum

It was with surprise and a bit of concern that I finally realized Christmas is upon us. I'd like to say that the tree and lights are up, the cards mailed and the house filled with holiday cheer.

In rea lity, I have a messy house, two unpacked suitcases full of dirty clothes from our last two weekends out of town, and the best intentions to remedy all of the above in the next week.

I may not get to putting the Christmas lights up on the house; it's rainy and cold out there. But I drew the line at not having a Christmas tree; what kind of Mom would I be if I skipped that?

And so we trudged into last night with smiles and rain on our faces. My friend Edra was kind enough to accompany us, as she has an S U V big enough to hold a freshly-cut tree. Because we'll only be home another week, I explained that we were getting a small tree -- I didn't want to deal with all the hauling, setting up and cleaning up after for an 8-foot-tree.

Mark announced he wanted a Charlie Brown tree. I could tell by the way he said it he didn't know what that meant. His explanation confirmed my suspicions.

"It's a little tree," he said.

"A little tree that's lopsided with no needles on it," I corrected him. "It's a ski nny, sad little tree."

He frowned and immediately recanted. "I don't want a needle-less tree," he said.

Mark bounded into the stalls full of trees laying on their sides. After climbing to the back of the bunch, he reached down to grab one at the bottom wedged under all the other trees. After much grunting and struggling, he pulled it out and yelled, "I want this one!"

I simply reached down and pulled up the tree closest to me. "I like this one," I said.

Edra followed my lead as Mark set about unwrapping the string around his tree. She picked up a tree and fluffed out the needles. "This one's cute, too," she said. We held up the three contenders, and let Mark choose. He then told me to grab the trunk. As I bent to do exactly that, he walked away with the tree, leaving me bent over and empty-handed. He glanced over his shoulder and laughed at me.

Back home, I lit a fire, turned on some Christmas carols, and filled a glass with wine from Napa. The rain outside was dancing on the roof. I dug out the lights, ornaments, and tree holder. I propped them up on a table to make the tree taller. The cats raced to the tree and claimed their new favorite spot




Mark loved our little tree. As soon as it was up, my spiritually-confused son clapped his hands and happily started singing, "Tonight is the night we light the menorah!" (Kelley's influence reaches far beyond the state line...) Which I was about to deem not-quite-appropriate until I realized it was, indeed, the first night of Hanukkah.

Mark ransacked the box of ornaments, choosing all his favorites. There were some pre-Mark ornaments ("Sloppy Joe's Bar, Mom? Really? A Christmas ornament from a BAR?") and some post-Mark ones that I love (a hand-colored bear with the following inscription on the back: "7 age, 2007, to Mom from Mark Dinsdale.")

We finished pretty quickly because our tree was so small. I loved it, though -- all our ornaments are from cities we've visited, so each one triggers a little trip down vacation memory lane. It was fun because I relived half the vacations with Edra ("Look, Edra, Pinocchio from Italy!") and half with Mark ("Look Mark, Disney World!"). We did have one small tragedy, when one of my favorite ornaments fell off the tree and immediately shattered into a million tiny pieces.

"Dollywood just took a dive!" I cried. I swept up the pieces and mourned; who knows when I'll ever get back to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee? (Honestly, I never thought I'd go there in the first place.)




At the end of the night, our tree looked lovely. I added decorative snowmen and Santas all over the house, and suddenly, Christmas had arrived. The messy piles of mail and luggage had been replaced by the holiday spirit.

Or rather, holiday spirits, as Mark admired the tree, and hummed Hanukkah songs.

Donald Trump's got competition

Feeding Mark is an endless task; I spend half my days shopping for snacks to keep that child satiated. Everyone says growing boys are always hungry, and if that's the case, Mark is well on his way to becoming a 9-foot-tall man.

I sent him off to school yesterday with two packs of string cheese and instructions to take them to the nurse's office before school (she has a refrigerator in there). He was thrilled to have 24 cheese sticks all to himself.

"How many do you eat at recess?" I asked, curious.

"I eat three," he answered, then added, "And I take a fourth one out to recess for this other kid."

My heart swelled with maternal pride. Four years of relentless chiding to share were finally coming to fruition! I was so proud of my thoughtful little boy.

"Because then I get money!" Mark said.

...and my heart deflated.

"You what?" I asked.

"I get money," he explained. "I sell the extra cheese stick to this kid in my class."

I managed not to ask how much he ripped that kid off for, and instead phrased it in a more delicate manner. "How much does he pay you?" I asked, expecting to hear a price somewhere near a quarter.

"A dollar!" Mark told me gleefully. He rubbed his hands together and cackled--yes, cackled!--at the thought of his impending wealth.

I just sighed. Some days I don't know whether to be proud of his entrepreneurial spirit or worried about his penchant for scamming his fellow stu dents.

Something to wine about

The only thing I like more than holidays are birthdays. Especially milestone birthdays, which usually mean a trip out of town.

This weekend it was my friend Edra's turn to celebrate a certain birthday. That's right, she turned...umm...29 again! And we celebrated by traveling to Napa in her honor.

We had such a blast. Our early morning flight consisted of six lovely ladies and one sleepy little boy. After arriving in Oakland, we crammed into a mini-van and headed for the famed Napa Valley, where we eventually met up with my parents, who dubbed themselves the granny nan ny and the manny nan ny. (Seriously, have I mentioned how excellent my parents are? They drove to Napa to watch my son while I went wine tasting!)

After lunch at a local grill, we got into the grape. We entered the Goosecross tasting room next door, where a super helpful woman poured us some fantastic wine. The girls cozied up to the bar, Mark cozied up to a checker board set, and I happily moved between the two. I wasn't planning to buy any wine, since we'd have to check whatever we bought onto the plane, but one of the girls smartly realized that my perhaps my parents could drive it home with them. We all loved that idea (which my mom also suggested as soon as she saw us), and promptly embarked on a wine shopping spree.

After our first tasting, we could hear Napa calling, and we certainly answered. Vic and Edra had arranged for a wine tour at the Frog's Leap winery, which was 30 minutes away. We stopped by the hotel to pick up my mom, confirmed the directions with the winery, and promptly got lost. Did I mention there were now seven women and a no-longer-sleepy boy in the van? Well, all of them yelled different directions at poor Edra, who was driving. Somehow, instead of hitting the main highway 29, we ended up in the backcountry of Napa. It was a high and curvy road, and the van swooped and turned, hugging each and every curve. The scenery was most beautiful, with luscious fall colors and lots of green trees all around.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the only green around. Our van was filled with a now-quiet crowd of passengers prone to carsickness. Those roads weren't doing us any favors.

We finally came across civilization in the form of a gas station and three people who claimed they were locals. Locals who seemed painfully unaware of any wineries nearby. One man told Edra to follow the road and make only left turns, and she'd hit the 29 in 9 miles. My heart soared a bit (9 miles wasn't far) then sank a bit when he revised his estimation. "Well, maybe 12 miles," he said.

"That's okay," Vic said, "We've been lost a long time."

The lone woman in the group answered not-so-helpfully, "Well, you'll be lost a while longer."

The trip was beautiful though, as we drove alongside Lake Hennesey and an occasional house. Mark marvelled at the moss growing in the trees, and asked me why it grew there. "I guess it likes the trees," I answered and he nodded thoughtfully.

"Moss's gotta grow somewhere," he noted.

Eventually, after more turns and much laughter, we found the Frog's Leap winery. It was worth the wait! The late afternoon sun was lighting up the vineyard in bright reds, yellows and dark oranges. "What am I gonna do here?" Mark inquired, but within moments, he found a friendly house cat, and was happy. By the time they placed us at a nearby table to sample the wines, the cat had crawled onto Mark's lap and they were both content.

After one more brief stop, we returned to the hotel to dress for dinner. Then we drove up to St. Helena, about 35 minutes away, for Edra's birthday dinner.

We ate at a restaurant called Market, which was FAB. It was warm, cozy and filled with attentive waiters. They had all sorts of haute cuisine, but also some of the most wonderful comfort food I've tasted -- a homemade mac n' cheese to die for, champagne-battered fish n' chips, and spicy chicken empanadas. And for dessert -- oh my! My mom and I split the s'mores plate, which came with homemade graham crackers, chocolate sauce, Rice Krispies treats, and our own little personal burner to roast the marshmallows. The menu claimed the dessert was for two, but I kid you not, there were at least a dozen marshmallows on the plate, plus all the Rice Krispie treats. Everyone passed their desserts around for sampling.

Slowly, the restaurant emptied out around us, until Mark observed we were the last people left. The table was full of half-eaten desserts and laughter, so we packed up and gave the wait staff a break.

Sunday brought with it sun and the promise of a beautiful day. I handed over Mark, his meter and his Gameboy to my parents, and we girls loaded into a swanky shuttle bus for our wine-tasting adventure.

Breakfast by the fire

The bus had two couples already onboard, and we picked up another two along the way. Usually, the tours start out with everyone politely quiet and shy, and end with everyone a little loopy and best friends. This tour was the exception; we immediately connected with our fellow passengers, and the bus was loud and raucous before we'd even touched a single drop.

We started at the Peju winery, with its gorgeous vineyard and equally lovely gardens.

I realized I love Napa not just because of the wines, but because of the wineries themselves. The estates are beautiful; wonderfully kept houses and buildings invoking the Italian countryside. As an added bonus, we got to experience something we don't get much of down South: autumn! The fall colors were vibrant and bold, and I wandered off most of time to capture them with my camera.

The Peju vineyard

Here are a few shots of the trip as it (d)evolved:

Beginning of the trip photo op at Peju with Kevin, our guide extraordinaire

End of the day photo. We looked a little more...lively.

Our new friend Frank, who finally agreed to wear Edra's tiara at the end of the day

We decided to end our jaunt with a trip to the hotel bar. I warned everyone to keep it down, as my parents' room was nearby. I knew if my mom or Mark heard us, they'd be there lickety-split. (I also knew the warning applied to me more than anyone else, since I have the well-deserved reputation of being the loudest in the group.)

However, we didn't even make it into the hotel unnoticed! Perhaps it was our loud singing or boisterous mood, but as we climbed off the bus, we spied a woman peeking suspiciously through the curtain of a nearby room.

"Dang it!" I cried. "There's my mom! She already saw us!" And so she joined us for a drink at the bar. :-)

Our wonderful tourguide, Kevin, managed to get us something that had eluded us the night before: reservations to Michael Chiarello's newer restaurant, Bottega. He made a call and got us dinner reservations at 8.

We decided dinner was too fancy for Mark and my dad, so we ordered them room service and left them watching the History Channel. Mark was not happy to be left behind -- he hates missing out on any party.

Bottega was wonderful. We started with appetizers. I had a warm mozzarella burrata, which I'd never heard of before. It was a plate of warm butternut squash and mushrooms topped with fresh buffalo mozzarella cheese and tiny beads of balsamic vinegar. It was fabulous! Then I moved onto a creamy risotto, and split dessert with Vic. We shared a chocolate cake covered with bananas and served with a chocolate-peanut butter bar. "Itsa like an Italian chunky monkey," was how our waiter described it.

Monday morning brought with it storms and the possibility of my parents being snowed in for the second weekend in a row. But they drove off optimistically, heading toward Harris Ranch.

We returned to St. Helena for a little bit of shopping. We found some divine little shops: an olive oil store, and a chocolatier filled with the sweetest little chocolates. They were amazing!

Hand-made chocolates shaped like champagne corks!

We also found a warm bakery featuring rustic breads and a giant gingerbread house that Mark kept staring at and licking his lips.

Hungry little Mark

I bought some yummy-looking English muffins and passed the bag around for everyone to smell. Next thing I know, our whole group was in line and had bought out the rest of them. We left as one happy group.

Now that's some good-lookin' bread

There was just enough time for a quick lunch at the Bouchon Bakery. We bought some fancy panini sandwiches and ate them in the garden, surrounded by little blackbirds waiting for us to drop something.

As we loaded back into the mini-van for one final time, I thought we'd exhausted ourselves laughing, but Vic set us all off again as she busted out her famous Ethel Merman impersonation. While the rest of us cried with laughter. Mark just shook his head and rolled his eyes at his crazy mom and her silly friends. I'm sure he'll have some good stories of road trips with his crazy aunties when he grows up.

It was such a great weekend. I'm certainly thankful for such wonderful friends to celebrate and laugh with, and for such great parents who joined in all the fun.

Things to be thankful for

I love every holiday, but one of my faves is Thanksgiving. I love the smell of good food cooking, a warm fire crackling, the comfort of my family together, the sounds of us all laughing wildly, and the clomping/screaming/joyful noises of the kids running through the house en masse. No matter the craziness outside, for a few days at least, everything is right in the world.

This year we traipsed up the mountain to celebrate in Big Bear. My brother Scott and his wife Mary have a cabin up there, and we filled it to the rafters. Scott, Mary and their kids were already there when we arrived, as were my parents and Mary's mom, Fran. My other brother Smed, his wife Brandy and little Johnny arrived later in the afternoon.

It was gorgeous outside--hot and sunny. The kids immediately took to the street on their scooters. I don't think I saw them the rest of that first day.

We spent Thanksgiving Day cooking, gorging on appetizers, and herding the kids outdoors. After spending most of the day inside, my mom and I decided we needed to get out a bit. We packed up Nathalie and almost-three-year-old Johnny and drove to the lake for a walk. The sun was shining, but the semi-frozen lake reminded us the nights were still chilly. The ice provided endless amusement, as Nathalie tossed rocks onto it, creating air bubbles.

Johnny loved throwing rocks into the lake. He could scarcely believe we let him; he's usually reprimanded for throwing things. He was not as happy about the 15 ducks that flocked toward us, thinking our rocks were a free meal coming their way. They continually squawked and rushed at him, which slowed down the rock tossing and aggravated him.

"Stupid dammit ducks!" he cried angrily (and appropriately) at them. I turned to my Mom to see if she'd heard what I heard. "No bad words, Johnny," she called out, confirming that she had. I could barely control myself. If that had been Mark, he'd have been in big trouble, but for some reason, when other people's little kid's cuss, I find it beyond amusing. (Johnny's phrase became the phrase of the weekend--in fact, I've found it appropriately describes just about anything bugging me!)

The ducks didn't bother me much, but three vocal, aggresive Canada geese certainly did. One of them, as tall as Johnny, climbed out of the water and waddled toward us, honking angrily. I grabbed Johnny, told Nathalie to run, and backed outta there as fast as I could. We retreated to the boardwalk, where my mom watched the same goose approach another family who really was feeding the ducks (with food, not rocks). She saw the goose snap at a woman, biting her on the hand.

"Stupid dammit goose!" I whispered to my mom, who giggled.

We returned to the house to find my brothers had finished their turkey cook-off. Smed fried his and Scott smoked his--both tasted amazing. The table was loaded with wonderful food, but the family protested when Mary set down a steaming dish of yams.

"They need more marshmallows!" said my father, he of the notorious sweet-tooth.

"I mixed them in the yams this year," Mary explained. And with that, they promptly disappeared. I think Nathalie, Mark and my dad had three heaping servings each. I've never seen a vegetable eaten so fast by my family before!



By Friday, we were good and relaxed. We'd spent three days eating, watching movies and just relaxing. Smed and Brandy decided to go home; Johnny wasn't sleeping well, and when Johnny doesn't sleep, nobody sleeps.

My mom kept worrying about snow. Scott and I dismissed her concerns, mostly because it was sunny and warm outside (and because we didn't have a TV). We didn't know she'd been watching the weather reports on the news, which were predicting a 30% chance of snow on Saturday, the day we all planned to leave.

"It'll just be a light dusting," Scott said. Boy, did those words come back to bite him!

When my parents arrived at the cabin Saturday morning, they were freaked out. Though they'd only driven a couple miles, it was through powdery snow and zero visibility.

It was very obvious we weren't going home that day. No matter to me; the only plans we had were to pick mistletoe with the Cub Scouts at a nearby camp. I knew the Scouts were leaving soon, so I called to warn them of the snow and improbability of reaching the camp. They decided to soldier on, but as our street was covered in fresh powder and nary a snow plow in sight, I told them we wouldn't make it.

In case you're wondering what four inches of fresh snow looks like, here ya go:





Except for my worried mom, we were all giddy and smiling as the thick snow fell. Though the house now had 10 occupants and no departure time in the near future, we didn't mind. It was kind of fun to be snowed in.

The kids couldn't wait to get into the snow. They suited up, grabbed some sleds, and ran into the street. Unfortunately, the new snow was powdery and four inches deep, and instead of skidding off, they merely sunk down into it.

"Go, sled!" Gabi yelled at her useless ride. She yelled at it again, then finally climbed out of the hole she was sitting in and ran off.

Gabi, Nat and Grant had their fill pretty quickly, and retreated back to the warm house. Mark, however, couldn't get enough of it. He'd been outside for a long time, and I started to worry a bit. I searched the yard, where I found him hunched down on all fours, face planted squarely in the snow.

"I'm eating the snow!" he said happily. An icy white beard covered his face, but couldn't hide his smile.

We hoped to clear out by Sunday, but the news greeting us that morning was grim. Another four inches of snow had fallen, and the first four had iced over during the night. ("Stupid dammit snow!" I told my mom.)

We listened intently to the radio, and heard that chains (which none of us had) were now required to get down the mountain. The news only got worse as the day went on; a car crash had closed off the front way down, and the back way was now crowded. The usually one-hour trip was now taking 4-5 hours, and was slippery with ice. We'd be staying another night.

I helped Scott plow the driveway for the second time in as many days. It was harder going this time, as the surface had frozen over. Where we'd shovelled snow the day before, we were now shoveling snow and ice and trying not to fall. I even cleared off the entire front deck, bulldozing the snow onto the ground below.

"Don't worry about that stuff," Scott told me. "It'll all melt off anyway."

But I just shrugged. "Not like there's anything else to do," I told him. I'd finished reading five magazines and most of my book. After sitting around the house for four days, it felt good to be something active. And then I realized, Oh my god, I'm so bored, I'm actually shovelling snow! It killed a good hour, though.

As dinner time neared, there was a collective groan at the mere thought of one more meal of leftovers. Mary called the local pizza joint, and was thrilled to hear they were delivering. All I have to say is thank God for small mercies and snow tires!

Monday morning arrived, and with it, a sense of urgency. It was fun being snowed in a day or two, but we were getting cabin fever. The kids were thrilled to miss school, but the adults were getting a little gritchy. I busied myself by taking photos of the ever-growing icicles that grew jaggedly along the roof line. They were so cool!

Finally, around 11 a.m., we got some good news. The roads were open, and chains were no longer required. Still seemed a little hard to believe, as the street out front was still covered in snow. But the temperature slowly passed 35, then 45 degrees, and the ice turned to slush.

We packed up the cars, and headed out. After a quick lunch, our caravan headed down the mountain. When we finally hit sea level, we were amazed to see sunny skies and 70 degree weather. It was like travelling to a distant land in another season.

So our Thanksgiving holiday turned out to be a little longer and a little colder than we initially expected. We got a few added days at the cabin, but we were warm and dry, and had plenty of food stocked up. We had a lot to be thankful for, and though my mom swears she is done with mountains and snow forever, it was a really great holiday.

It's all a matter of perspective

Sometimes I get frustrated when Mark can't follow simple instructions. I'll ask him to feed the cats, and he'll respond with a funny story that happened at school. I'll repeat my request, and he'll ask me how great white sharks thrust their jaws out of their mouths to bite their prey. I'll ask a third time, and he'll respond with some snarky comment, then, "Geez, I'm doing it! Why do you always get so mad?"

But now I've realized exactly why he can't follow my instructions. It's not that we don't see eye-to-eye, it's that we're looking in completely opposite directions.

We went to an Anaheim Ducks hockey game last night. I was excited because I'd never been to a pro hockey game before; I'd only been to semi-pro games for the Long Beach Ice Dogs, and I only attended on $2 beer nights. (Hey, after two or three beers, I become a rabid fan of any sport!)

Mark was excited because he got to stay up late on a school night. He didn't really care where we were going.

We found our seats, and I pointed out the Ducks, in black, and Tampa Bay, in white. I reminded him we were rooting for the black team.

Within minutes, the players were violently slamming each other into the glass walls.

"Oooooh!" I grimaced after one slam. "That's gotta hurt!"

"What does?" Mark asked.

"That guy just slammed the other guy into the wall," I said. He shrugged; he hadn't seen it.

Two minutes later, Tampa Bay tripped a Duck, and the perpetrator skated off to the penalty box.

"Serves him right!" I told Mark. "He blatantly tripped that guy!"

"What guy?" Mark asked, in a refrain that would come to haunt me as the night grew on.

The next offense was something called "high sticking" which I took to mean as raising the stick too close to someone else's head in a threatening manner.

I shook my head, as Mark professed to missing that incident as well.

"Are you even watching the game?" I asked him. "See that big oval of ice in the middle there? With all the hockey players skating around? Are you watching that?"

He shrugged and asked if there were any peanuts left.

Maybe he just wasn't into hockey. He counted the number of referees on ice, and was telling me how many when a fight broke out.

"There are three--" he started but I interrupted him by yelling, "Ouch!"

"Ouch?"

"Yes, ouch! That Duck just punched the other guy in the head!" I shouted. I pointed out where before Mark even asked the question.

"Oh!" Mark answered. I thought he'd say something like, "That's gotta hurt!" but instead, he corrected himself by saying, "I mean FOUR. There are four referees on the ice!"

"Did you even see the guys fighting?" I asked, and Mark nodded. I'm not so sure he did, though.

He did wake up at the end of the quarter ("Period," I corrected. "There are three periods." "Whatever," he replied.) That's when the Zambonis came out, and when a human hamster ball contest took place on ice.

"Look at 'em go!" he yelled. "They keep falling!"

Mark also loved the giant inflatable sheep and the yellow submarine that floated around the arena. But he immediately lost interest again as soon as the second period began.

He sighed loudly, and I glanced at him. He sat up immediately and feigned interest -- he could sense his bedtime depended on it.

"Ummm, what do they call the guys in the goals?" he asked.

I don't know much about hockey, but I knew this one. "You mean the goalies?"

He nodded. "So, they have to stop the ball?"

"The puck," I answered. "The flat, round thing is called a puck, not a ball."

"Whatever," he said dismissively. "I'm just gonna call it a ball. They hit the ball--"

I stopped him. "Wait, when you play baseball, do you say, 'I hit the football outta the park'?"

"No," he laughed. "That's dumb!"

"And you wouldn't say, 'The quarterback just threw the baseball to the wide receiver.' So it's not whatever."

"Fine, the puck," he conceded. "Does the puck..." He trailed off, his original question forgotten.

The second period ended around 8:30, and I thought about staying until the last one. But Mr. Fidgety beside me had downed his bottle of Gatorade and desperately needed to use the facilities. I figured now was as good a time as any to leave on a high note.

And I realized why Mark never follows my directions, even when they are as clear as a giant ice rink with every seat in the house pointed at it.

He's too busy worrying about things like peanuts, inflatables, and...whatever.

Yeah, that's about right...

Last week, I was on call for jury duty. Most people dread this civic obligation, and give any excuse possible to avoid it. Not me -- I was kind of hoping to be called in.

But now I know what that feeling of dread is like. I've been feeling it since last Friday, when I was summoned to court of another kind -- the parent-teacher conference at Mark's school. Dun dun DUN!!!!

I arrived nervous, with Mark in tow. His behavior has been a bit... sub-par... lately. My mom suggested I bring him along to show him the teacher and I are on the same page. It turned out to be an excellent idea.

I seriously felt like I was in court, with a surly defendant who'd rather be outside playing kickball. The judge asked for opening statements, and I pleaded my case earnestly.

I conceded that my client, while perhaps not the best behaved, certainly possesses a thirst for knowledge, an obsession for reading, and a sweetness of spirit. I then admitted that the judge was not likely to see any of these traits during classroom hours, but rest assured, they are there.

I also noted somewhat apologetically that I'd received the behavior charts for my client over the past few weeks, and these, too, were being addressed. My client, I assured him, is currently under probation for said charts, and will not be released early for good behavior until...well, until there actually is some good behavior!

The judge smiled and began the hearing. I listened intently as the evidence was presented: here, in math, Mark was excelling; here, in grammar and spelling, he had room for improvement. I began to feel hopeful for my client, until the judge submitted the scientific evidence. It was grim, and I could hear my client audibly gulp, and shift nervously in his seat. I was caught unaware; there had been no indication of this in any of the court documents. Turns out the problem was not a plethora of scientific evidence, but rather the lack of evidence.

"Most students do pretty well in science, as long as they read over the handouts I give them," the judge told me.

I glared at my client and asked where his science handouts were.

"In the recycling bin," he answered, refusing to look at me or the judge.

"Your honor, I will make a better effort to review all the documents sent home with my client," I announced. My client then requested a brief recess, which the judge and I immediately refused.

The next part of the hearing focused on some other missing documents; namely, the instructions for a report due in the coming months. I looked questioningly at my client and asked where that paper was.

My client immediately sat up straight, and began patting down his shirt pockets, and then his pants pockets, searching for it. He reached for his backpack and dug through it and the folder it contained quite extensively. But he came up empty-handed, probably because the missing documents had been passed out days ago and were surely sitting in a landfill somewhere next to the science papers.

Eventually, the hearing dwindled down to the last few minutes. The judge accused my client of being unorganized and of inciting the other inmates at inopportune times (i.e., computer lab or music class). My client plead guilty as charged, but begged for mercy from the court. After promising to keep my client under a watchful eye, the judge smiled, and released us with a friendly handshake.

My client knew enough not to argue his case any further. He listened patiently as I admonished him, and agreed to the court-ordered plan of action. Upon walking in the front door, he jumped right to his homework.

"You are on probation until further notice," I announced, and he nodded his head sadly.

I'm hoping the next hearing goes a little better...

Is it stealing if it never leaves the premises?

When I picked Mark up yesterday, he was clutching a dark blue jacket that wasn't his. I knew because a) I didn't buy it, and b) it was about three sizes too small.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked, and he answered, "I found it on the playground."

When I suggested we drop it off at the lost and found, he grimaced and said, "Darn!"

"Why do you want it?" I asked, a little puzzled. "It won't even fit you."

He explained that the after school counselors won't let kids play outside in the afternoon unless they have a jacket on.

"So I just pick up sweat shirts from the playground every day," he said.

I bit my tongue so I wouldn't laugh out loud. Then I asked if he'd considered any other solutions.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like bringing your own sweatshirt every day," I answered. "And not losing it!"

He just looked at me like I was completely crazy. Like I'd suggested the most outrageous thing I could possibly think of.

Which I guess I had, when you really think about it. I'd suggested responsibility, a concept about as realistic to Mark as three-headed aliens or talking cats. Interesting ideas both, but really, what purpose would they serve Mark in the real world here?

"Yeah, you're right," I admitted. "It's probably easier to just pick up the stray jackets on the playground."

I couldn't believe I actually offered that as a solution, but as Mark smiled and ran off, I realized sometimes ya just have to take what you can get!

It's all about the garnish

With much help from and gratitude to my village, I survived the weekend. I attended an awesome support group in San Diego for parents of kids with diabetes, and got to have lunch with my parents. All of this was possible because of the best cousin ever, Kathleen, who watched Mark all day.

Mark's done his part, too. He's worked really hard to improve his behavior this week, and very smartly attempted to suck up to me at every available opportunity.

He even went so far as to make me breakfast in bed yesterday. I could hear him banging around in the kitchen, and wondered what...um...delicious fare was coming my way.

First, came the coffee. It was in a ginormous cup, filled to the brim, splashing on to the floor as he eased down the hall to my bedroom (thank God for laminate floors!). Next, he returned with a tray onto which were placed these two small plates:




That's right, mine was peanut-butter toast and grapes, with rosemary sprigs shaped like an "H." That melted away what was left of my angry heart.

Mark created his own breakfast recipe as well: peanut-butter toast with macadamia nuts. He said it tasted okay, but not as good as he'd hoped.

"Rise and shine!" he called out, placing the tray on my bed. "I wanted to say 'Rise and shine, it's a beautiful day!' but somebody was too busy sleeping to enjoy it." He smirked at me, and I smiled back.

And so we enjoyed our breakfast in bed. Mine was a little extra crunchy, thanks to the new toaster we'd bought the night before.

"It burnt the first piece," Mark explained. "But it worked okay after that." A quick flip of my toast revealed I was the lucky recipient of the first piece. But I shrugged and ate it anyway.

Because really, the sun was shining, my breakfast was hand-delivered, and it was indeed a beautiful day outside. And really, what more could you ask for on a Sunday morning?

Is this the part where he tests my patience?

A few years ago, a co-worker greeted me and asked me how Mark was.

"He's lucky to be alive," I answered. "Just barely."

My co-worker, also a mom, nodded understandingly.

"You can't kill him," she answered, wisely. "It took you too long to get him."

I agreed she had a point. It had taken me two years to get him; no matter how sorely tempted I was, I couldn't strangle him after only a few months.

Well, now it's been almost four years. And if we're being honest here, I will admit it. Although I made things sound all sweet and rosy in a recent blog entry, really, I was just trying to convince myself a) that I love my kid and b) not to kill my kid.

I really do love my kid, but he came closer this week than he ever has to dying by the hand of his enraged mommy. Narrowly (very VERY narrowly), he escaped death.

He came out of the experience much humbler than he went into it, all full of teary "I love yous" and "I know you love me, too, even when you're really, really, REALLY mad." (That last part was debatable.)

We got through it all, and today, two days later, I am almost sane once again. But the worst part was that today was a school holiday.

That's right, as in a whole day off with the kid. To make matters worse, it was not a work holiday, so I had to work at home. I got to spend the whole day trapped at home with a kid I'm mad at.

Fun times, this being a parent. But today I made it work. Or rather, I made him work. He cleaned the kitchen, his room and the litter boxes; watered the plants, inside and out; put away laundry; and finished all other various tasks I assigned him. He also did some online research, on great white sharks and on high blood sugars and what happens if you don't control them. (The blood sugars, that is; I've yet to meet a person who could control a great white shark!)

But the point is, I survived. Thanks to my ever-present village (the one helping to raise my son), Mark is still alive. I wouldn't go so far as to say he's thriving, but sometimes life in itself is a major achievement.

Sigh...I will be back to funny Mark stories soon enough. If he lives...

Yes, that is illegal

Thursday night was Mark's Cub Scout meeting, which focused on the importance of being a good citizen. The boys learned all sorts of citizen-ly stuff, like the difference between rights and duties. ("Rights are something you get, and duties are...um, something you have to do," said one smart Cub Scout.)

Mark was more concerned with bending the brim of his hat up and bugging out his eyes. He stopped every time the den leader mentioned jury duty, and pointed at me because I'm on call to serve this week. Which was fine, until the den leader further elaborated, telling the boys that everyone is entitled to a fair trial by a jury of their peers.

"Yeah, Mom!" Mark sneered, and I shushed him immediately. Embarrassed, I whispered, "I've got jury duty next week," so the other parents would realize I was a potential juror, and not a criminal awaiting my fair trial.

The boys also learned that some rights, while protected, aren't always appropriate.

"Who can name a right?" the den leader asked, and the boys eagerly waved their hands.

He picked one boy, who immediately lowered his hand and said, "Um, I forgot."

So he picked another boy, who correctly identified the freedom of speech.

"What does that mean?" the den leader asked, and the boy answered, "It means you're allowed to say whatever you want."

"Right," answered the den leader. Then he frowned, and asked, "But can you always say whatever you want? Or are some things maybe...illegal to say?"

This made the boys scratch their heads. They couldn't think of anything you'd actually say that might warrant arrest.

Until one boy's hand shot up in the air.

"I know!" he called out. Then he dropped his voice, and quietly said, "The F word."

All the other boys gasped, then nodded. Surely, this was a serious crime.

The den leader, bless his heart, nodded too, and managed to keep a straight face. "Yes, that is very bad," he agreed. "It's not appropriate, but it's also not illegal."

The other boys raised their hands, and each took his turn at giving roughly the same answer. Apparently, for Cub Scouts it's illegal to say the F word, a cuss word, a bad word or even a naughty word.

The den leader eventually pointed out the correct answer -- that we aren't allowed to threaten the rights of other people, as in saying we're going to harm or kill them. This actually shocked the boys, who asked, "Why would you tell someone you're gonna kill them??"

We also learned other important civic information, such as the days you should fly your flag outside. I thought that might include the Fourth of July, Veteran's Day, and maybe President's day. Instead, I was shocked to learn that acceptable days also include Mother's and Father's Day. (Not sure how you commemorate those days if your parent is from another country.)

Even though he spent most of the lesson goofing around, Mark was listening when the den leader described watering your lawn. He explained that because of the drought, we can only water our lawns on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I don't know why that one struck a chord with Mark, but he chastised me profusely Sunday morning when I watered the back lawn.

"What day is this?" he asked me, accusingly.

"Hey, I only water the backyard once a week," I said. "If I don't do it now, I'll forget!"

He glared at me, until I explained that technically, I can do it any day, because I'm not using my other two allotted days. I'm actually saving the city water by only watering once a week. He didn't buy it, so I turned the sprinklers off.

And so we all came away from the lesson better citizens. I also came away agreeing with the boys on their points -- that bad words would be illegal (especially from the mouths of Cub Scouts) and that flags should be flown every day (just to make sure we didn't miss any important days).

I struggled a little with the watering one, but I'll survive. Because of course, if I forget, I'll still be protected by my right to a fair trial.

Let's just hope that jury of peers doesn't include any Cub Scouts.

Rough week...is it Friday yet???

I was pretty great with kids when I was just an aunt. I had unlimited patience, creativity and energy. I knew my nieces and nephews were the smartest, funniest kids around, and I spent as much time telling them that as I could.

Well, things are a little different when you become a parent. First off, turns out the job is full-time. You can't just leave when you're tired; "OK, kids, Mommy'll see you next week" doesn't really fly.

You realize that sleep is overrated (for you, not your kid) and your appreciation for the mundane expands in ways you never thought possible ("Yes! I've got 30 minutes of free time -- I can totally do laundry and empty the dishwasher!").

As a mom, you realize that even if your kid is smart and funny, he's also pretty demanding. For starters, he requires at least three meals a day, plus snacks, which is a huge deal if your previous cooking experience was defrosting frozen boxed dinners. And that was on the days you actually did cook -- more often than not, dinner consisted of happy hour appetizers or Taco Tuesday.

Pre-child, my life was full of social engagements and cultural events. It still is, though now those social engagements are solely my child's, not mine, and I am relegated to chauffeuring him back and forth. And cultural events are more along the lines of Sponge Bob than art exhibits or concerts.

There are plenty of upsides, though. For example, my multiplication and long division skills are improving, after lying dormant for a good 30 years. But sadly, my grammar skills are diminishing. Mark asked today for help distinguishing common, abstract and concrete nouns, and I looked at him blankly. I had no idea there were more than one type -- and I'm a professional writer!

But I don't mind all the work. I really love my kid, and though he sometimes drives me crazy, he also cracks me up. He's taught me a lot about life (savor it), about my capacity for love (limitless when it comes to him), and about patience (not quite as unlimited as my love).

And he's taught me to appreciate the simple, wonderful things about being a parent. That no matter how burnt out or fatigued I become, no matter how rough the day, there's always hope, there's always another chance tomorrow.

I may run out of patience and forget he's just a little kid who needs constant reminders to wear clean clothes and brush his teeth (with toothpaste). But when I do, he reminds me, in his own sweet way, that I have more patience (and love) than I think.

My friend Jill always says God makes 'em extra cute so you don't kill them. She's definitely right about that...

I'm going to bite your neck...when I wake up

Last Friday was the highlight of Mark's school year -- the Halloween carnival. He basically gets to run around the school yard freely, going on rides and buying junk food. There's nothing he loves more than that, except saving his own money by convincing his friends to spend theirs. (The question "How many carbs are there in a root beer float?" was quickly followed by, "Damian bought it for me!")

He also likes playing the games, especially the ones with food prizes. He succeeded again in winning a two-liter bottle of diet soda in the pumpkin walk, which thrilled him to no end.

When I arrived to pick him up, he collected all his winnings: the soda, a big bag of candy and toys, some purple Halloween socks the nurse gave him, and two pair of pink vampire teeth. Which he promptly popped into his mouth.

The teeth didn't bother me so much as the slurping noises that came at the end of every sentence he tried to say.

"Ishn't it coo I won anudder bodda a shoda?" he asked, slurping noisily.

"I have no idea what you just just said," I answered. I turned around in my seat to look at him holding up his bottle of Diet Dr Pepper. "How many pair of teeth do you have in there?"

"Chew," he answered, raising up two fingers as I stared at him blankly.

We were on our way to San Diego, and he talked excitedly (if incoherently) about the carnival. I couldn't understand him, so I just nodded and answered, "Um hum," "Really?" "Cool!" and "Wow" at each slurping interval.

By the time we hit San Juan Capistrano, he'd stopped talking. I tipped the rear view mirror down to see him in the backseat, and the sight made me smile. There was my scary little vampire, fast asleep, still wearing his pink fangs.

Traffic was completely stopped, so I aimed my camera phone at him and snapped a picture. I completely forgot one of the big vampire rules -- that their reflections don't show up in mirrors or on film. Here's what I got:



But I was pretty sure that despite the pink fangs, Mark isn't really a vampire. So I shot again, and succeeded:



I know I'm legally obligated to believe my son is the cutest kid around, but seriously...how much cuter does it get than a sleepy vampire in the back seat?