Yesterday I noticed that Charlie Brown’s Christmas Special was going to be on TV, as classic as American Christmas comes (Europe has Handel’s Messiah, and we have cartoon characters reading the Bible).  My brother and I watched this show as kids, along with the slew of claymation/cartoon/oddly filmed seasonal classics.

But then I saw the time:  8pm.

I know, I know:  not all that late.  But see, by 6pm, my goal for the day is to get to 8.  Because at 8, the children are contained in their room (in theory).  Eight o’clock, glorious eight o’clock, when I can have a non-interrupted conversation with my husband, or when I don’t have to have a conversation at all, because no one’s constantly asking me for screen time or a snack or why does Dad drive so much (which I asked him why he thought he did.  Answer: “Because he has to!”  Oh, yeah, that’s it).

So, how to get my children to have some of the normal American Christmas experience?  (which I don’t know if they really should, but enh).  Hulu to the rescue!

Funny thing, though:  they’ve shortened the show.  The not-even-a-half-hour-show has been cut down to 21 minutes.  Leaving in all the instances of saying “stupid” (a word we try not to use so much in the home).  With about 21 minutes of online commercials.  Really?  Really?!!

So then I suggested watching Rudolf.  Dude, that sucker is 54 minutes!  Give them some JJ-made chocolate covered sprinkled pretzels and string cheese, brush teeth, and throw them into their rooms!  Of course, as they were playing football in a box of a sleeping space an hour after we put them “into bed”, I commented, ‘Oh, did I forget to mention that they both took a nap today?’

Oops.

Daily Drivel, Entertaining Evidence, Holiday Hoopla | No Comments »

Today I turned on the holiday music.  Normally we have 30+ seasonally appropriate cds in rotation in our stereo, but the full Holidaying of the Abode has not commenced (i.e. I’m still trying to untangle some gingerbread people garland from the one box I cracked open, and dang it if I’m opening another without having closure!).  So I turned on the two stations that play Christmas Music Til Your Ears Bleed Candy Cane Stripped Blood.

And the boys would have none of it.  Elmo and the Orchestra was the request, followed by some generic kids cd with The Wheels on the Bus, because Abe *loves* the wheels and sings it constantly, but only the last words, so it sounds as follows:

Rou

Rou

Rou

Rou

Taugh

Beep

Beep

Beep

Beep

Taugh

UpDow

UpDow

UpDow

UpDow

Taugh

You get the picture.

One of my goals as a parent is to impart the love, the excitement, the utter absolute need to listen to one holiday album each year, to feel incomplete without the melodic, culturally-relevant, lyrically-genius, melodically-classical symphonic masterpiece of:

Bing Crosby’s “Merry Christmas”

NOT “White Christmas”, mind you:  that pales in comparison to the compilation of songs carefully crafted and chosen for this album.

I love the movie “White Christmas”:  the dancing, the singing, the fake snow.  NOT the modern art piece:  thooey.  But the dresses:  oh, the dresses.  And the happy world where people come to salute their former general who’s down and out in a ski resort without snow:  now THAT’s the holiday spirit. 

Actually, I find it a most excellent means of wrapping gifts:  makes those corners and that tape awful snappy.

Holiday Hoopla, Uncategorized | 1 Comment »

I’ve never been a fan of eggnog:  the thick coating that covers the entirety of the mouth and throat reminds me of a better-tasting antacid.  But so many of my favorite people adore the stuff, so when it went on sale at the store, I had to buy it.

Trying to get JJ to drink some was an effort in trying to get JJ to do *anything* new.

Place new item in front of JJ.

Count the seconds until JJ freaks out.

Tell JJ what it is.

Count the seconds until “But I don’t like …!!!” is exclaimed.

Counter with “You can’t say that:  you haven’t tried it.”

Followed by “But I don’t want to try it!”

Offered with “You should try it; you may like it.”

Nixed with “No, I won’t!”

Lured with “Ooooh, you don’t know what you’re missing!”

Obvious ploy seen through “Yes, I do.”

Give steps towards compromise, “Here, just try a sip.  I’ll dip my finger in it, and you can lick it off.”

While his arms flail, his eyes dart back and forth, and you get the sense that he’s looking for the tranquilizer gun like the scared cornered wild animal that he’s become.

After having the finger shoved in his mouth because it’s dripping on the floor, he falls over, exhausted from the ordeal.

[All while Abe has finished his cup and is laying on the floor with the cup over his mouth, tongue extended, trying to lick out as much as he can.]

And then the magical words:  “You know what this is like?  It’s like the milk with vanilla syrup that you get at Chapters.  You like that, don’t you?”

Fifteen minutes later, and we have an empty cup.

Ten days later, and at every meal, “May I drink eggnog?”

To which he hears, “Nope:  you’ve had enough.”

We’re the worst kind of pushers EVER.

But, if you have eggnog and don’t have small people following you around begging for more “MIK!  MIK!  MIK!” (as some toddlers are found to do), it can be used in:

• waffles
• french toast
• cookies
• muffins

Makes the house smell something wonderful!

Foodie Facts, Holiday Hoopla | 2 Comments »

It’s hard to be obsessive-compulsive and a perfectionist, especially during the holiday season.  In some ways it’d be easier to be a bear and hibernate rather than see all the possibilities of being in the celebratory season and not know which thing to do, which songs to sing, which traditions to pull off, which decorations to use, which foods to make, which clothes to wear, which tv specials to watch, which way to make everything so wonderful and magical and beautiful while feeling so not that way inside.

I know I don’t have to do that:  it’s self-made pressure.  And after reading this post, I’m following suit:  “I’m not getting organized for Christmas this year.  I think I’m just going to show up for it.”  Actually, realistically, I’ll take steps towards this, because being an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist means that I would throw out all the decorations, eliminate all holiday festivities, and lay like a sloth on the couch being thoroughly uncelebratory until the New Year; and somehow I think the kids already have enough fodder in their few years to support a future psychiatrist for quite a while.

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