dirt don't hurt

"Me no wanna go sledding no more." But that's what to be expected when we push our 2 year old down a giant hill. Go ahead and pin the 'parent of the year' award right here on my snowcoat.

December is quickly coming to a close, which means mostly one thing: I have watched the same Christmas specials so many times that not only can I recite them, but act them out from start to finish. And yes, this includes my impression of the Grinch’s dog, Max, when he falls over with that giant antler on his head and the entire scene from The Christmas Story when the Bumpus’ hounds barge in and eat the turkey off the table. Normally we don’t watch so much television around our house, but it seems that during December the ratio of screen to mommy time is completely out of whack because mommy has been running frantically and has not sat down since Thanksgiving dinner. I do it because I love the end of December. Mostly that bit of time right after the holiday when the hoopla is over and I can finally breathe again. It all starts with Thanksgiving, when we gorge ourselves to the point where we think we don’t want to see another piece of turkey for an entire year. (And we usually don’t.)

In case someone missed last year's poem... ‘Twas the night before Christmas And all through the dwelling, My poor back was aching And my ankles were swelling. Motherly duties are Never quite done. At this time of year We provide all the fun. Who does all the shopping? Who does all the baking? Who wraps the presents And keeps kiddies from shaking? Who hangs the stockings? Who strings all the lights? Who fills Advent calendars For twenty-four nights? Who decks the halls? Who keeps the tree wet? Who helps make the presents that The grandparents get? In our home, it’s me. The mother, the wife, Who runs herself ragged With holiday strife. And yet for the sweating And weariness, I fear I do the same thing Again every year. What keeps me returning To this disorderly place? It’s not the gray hairs Nor wrinkles on face. It’s not the fruitcake Or a great love of shopping, No, instead it’s something Else that keeps me hopping. It’s that little feeling That glows and that gleams. It’s the reas

I’m trusting all of you to never, ever tell my parents, even though they could probably guess. I was a perpetual peeker when it came to Christmas presents. It wasn’t very hard in the little house I grew up in. Especially when they would say things like, “don’t go in dad’s workshop or in the blue bedroom.” The blue bedroom was the family catch-all. It contained everything from mom’s dusty sewing table, to the accordion I painfully tried to lift as a child (and have the neck brace to prove it), to dad’s giant salon-style hair dryer that sat near his stack of Popular Mechanics. In December, though, the blue bedroom was also home to the presents that would grace our tree come Christmas and was strictly off limits. But just like telling someone “not to think about an elephant” (you just did, didn’t you?) telling an inquisitive kid not to look at her presents and telling her exactly where they were, was practically a waste of breath. Of course I looked. Every year. And one year I reall

Among many other odd traditions that don’t make sense, I find myself scrambling to find a tiny and mostly fake sprig of mistletoe to hang every year. When I do finally hang it, I end up kissing my kids as they run around the house, back and forth underneath, all the live long day. It goes without saying, then, as curious minds tend to do, I have recently overloaded my brain with as much knowledge of mistletoe that I could find. And wow, who knew that such a small little plant that I have thumbtacked into my molding could hold such a myriad of stories… First of all, the name itself. According to a USGS web page, the name mistletoe (from mistletan) is derived from early Anglo-Saxon words of mistle, meaning “dung,” and tan, meaning “twig” because it was thought that bird droppings were the cause of the growth of this mysterious plant. So literally, well, you can figure that out for yourself. Scientifically the plant’s name is a little cleaner: Phoradendron, meaning “thief of the tree” in

Anyone who has visited the Starbuck's in Wooster knows that there is an entrance and an exit. The exit is conveniently close to the drive thru lane, but, we also all know that coming in through the exit makes you a big, fat, cheater. Especially when someone takes her time and drives all the way around. Especially when that someone is a girl who literally lives on coffee. (I used to be blond ...) :) Such was the case this evening, when driving around, the couple in the black little car tore in through the exit, nearly hit me, and continued to speed into the drive thru lane. Being a world traveler and knowing how much the horn is underused in these United States, I gave him a quick few honks to let him know that I was not happy. And I got nothing. Not a courtesy wave. Not a I'm-sorry-I'm-an-idiot/jerk wave. Not even a measly glance in the rear view mirror. So I did what any red-blooded girl who really needed a caffeine fix and had her children in the back seat would do--

Thankfully it was just our little family sharing these pristine birthday cakes, which really weren't all that pristine after all.

I’ve always been pretty happy being a female. Not only have I gotten to experience the wonderment that is childbirth and motherhood, but I also have the privilege to cry during greeting card commercials and at my children’s choir concerts. There is one thing that rolls around every year that reminds me that being a gal isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I may be able to wear cookie-scented lotion and own multitudes of shoes, but never, ever will I be able to be a member of AORBS. You know, the Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas. I didn’t know that this prestigious group existed until a recent news article caught my attention. The AORBS group was commenting that they should be right up in the front of the line with the given shortage of flu vaccines. Their argument was that part of their holiday cheer is being sneezed and coughed on by millions of children asking for shiny new bicycles and video games, while they themselves were just wishing to spend their Christmas surrounded by re

Flipping through the latest issue of Family Fun Magazine , I spotted a nifty little article teaching how to do rather clever Christmas decorations. And since we were last on the block to get ours up, I figured I needed to do something a little extra. A little special. A little morbid. And so, sans hubby's help, I concocted this: (A lousy photo, but you get the drift. Legs sticking out of the bushes, lights hanging down from the roof, a mysteriously placed ladder. HILARIOUS.) So very proud of my outdoor artwork, and running late to get the kids from school, I set our house alarm and ran out the door. But, whoopsie, I didn't shut the door all the way, which means as I was driving down the road and chatting with my friend on the phone, and while I was waiting for eons in the pick up line at school, the sirens at my house were blaring and the police men were on their way. My husband calls me and tells me to hurry home because the alarm had gone off and I needed to check things o

A brutally honest piece of my literature featured today at Moms Who Need Wine . Visit and learn all about the term "Coat Rack." You just might know one yourself.