Holiday Hiatus
A month. Seriously, a month has gone by without me writing anything, and I feel horribly guilty. I really do, see, I was raised in an Irish Catholic family. The guilt I feel over my mother raising an eyebrow is almost crippling. It drives me to drink (that's more the Irish part than the Catholic, I suppose), which is tragic because I'm also very Cherokee. You thought the Irish were piss poor drinkers? Combine that with my native heritage, it's no good at all.
But I can explain in one word. Holidays. You all know exactly what I'm talking about. There is no rest for the weary on any given day of the year, and yet for some reason when the holidays come we take it upon ourselves to cram a bajillion festivities in that we haven't the time, money, or really desire to do because it's what is expected. But not this family. Not this year. Right before Thanksgiving the cop and I agreed not to accept any extra invitations this year. Sure, there were some things we would be obligated to do. My family party. Our combined work party. But nothing extra, due to the horror of the cop seeing me crawl out of bed at the crack of dawn on Christmas mornings past, eye makeup spread out in raccoon fashion, hair like Medusa herself, from a month without real rest and the previous evening spent with him, the love of my life, constructing toys that had directions apparently unavailable in English on toy sets that contained no less than eight billion pieces, six billion of which were stickers that had to be affixed with precision that did not allow me to indulge in any kind of refreshments that would make the situation tolerable. You see, the cop is a Christmas junkie. He is that wonderful parent that believes that Santa would only leave the biggest and best, most elaborate toys, and they would be fully constructed and ready for little ones to enjoy when they pitter patter downstairs to the glory of Christmas morning, tree loaded with presents, stockings brimming, and parents standing by glowing faintly like the saints they are in matching monogrammed robes and slippers, arms around each other's waists.
Poor man.
And so this year, in an effort to get us closer to that Christmas card family, we agreed to minimize activities. Sleep deprivation and exposure to crowds make me crazy (like literally, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest crazy). This seemed like a perfect plan. And in truth it has been amazing. We have had days to take naps, watched Christmas movies, and enjoy each other's company. Don't be fooled, though. Those very few things we would be obligated to do multiplied rapidly, and we now approach the final stretch without a single present wrapped. But I would be remiss if I didn't sit down and update you all briefly on one of the events we did attend, as earlier promised.
The Polar Express.
Every year the train museum in Old Sacramento decorates a train for Christmas and does Polar Express trips. I'm pretty sure the money they make on the venture supports them the entire year, because the museum is never that crowded and yet to get tickets for the Polar Express you have to be online when they go on sale, finger poised over the purchase button, because they sell out in a day. Which is exactly what I forced the cop to do when they went on sale October 1. The man did well, and got us four tickets which I gleefully informed the children about almost immediately. This is a parenting novice mistake. Cannot believe I did it, in truth. Never tell small children about something exciting until minutes before it happens to spare yourself the "how much longer?" ad nauseum until the event actually occurs, which in our case was two long months. Needless to say, two months later, my wild boys were so keyed up they looked like baby tweakers after scoring, minus the sores and missing teeth.
You have to be there an hour early. No sweat, but for the whole having to stand and wait for an hour. We did all the activites set out to entertain the children in about seven minutes, leaving the remaining time to be filled with trips to the bathroom and apologizing frantically to other soon to be passengers as my hopped up hooligans ran into them repeatedly in their excitement. The cop and I eventually resorted to holding them, at which point Gabe succumbed to the overstimulation and broke down weeping while wailing the old "how much longer?" entreaty.
Finally, finally, we boarded. The train looked amazing. The staff were amazing. And the wild boys settled in by windows to enjoy the one hour ride. Once the train started (at what felt like a whopping two miles an hour) the narration of the book began and waiters came and distributed hot chocolate and cookies. Amazing and festive. While I busily snapped photos on my camera and phone Gabriel finally settled in, stopped the residual sobbing, and in his relaxation dropped the full cup of cocoa at and on our feet.
Of course.
And who knew that in Old Sacramento there would be any hills? But there was at least the one that we started going up when the cocoa spilled, thus ensuring it would start sneaking down the aisle toward the next event, the tap dancers. Yup. Spilled cocoa, on a hill, plus tap dancers? Obviously something my kid would do. And so I frantically crawled around trying to dry things just enough to avoid any bleeding head wounds on the oblivious dancers in front of a car full of anxious children. Crisis narrowly averted.
We made it to the North Pole, where children could watch Santa and his elves out the windows as they loaded the sleigh. A train full of children pressed their noses eagerly against windows and yelled happily. Which is good, because it drowned out Gavin the skeptic. Gavin who looked out the windows on the right and saw a homeless encampment by the Sacramento River in the sunshine, looked out the window on the left and saw snow and Santa, and exclaimed "that's not real snow...." wait for it, folks, because the wheels in his mind were spinning and if that wasn't real snow..."Mom, THAT'S NOT THE REAL SANTA!!!!"
Holy crap. Thank God nobody was listening to him. We were busy being snubbed for the cocoa debacle. I managed to shush him just in time for Santa to board the train to hand out our gifts, the sleigh bells. Gavin, all big and bad when separated from the big man by a locomotive, became submissive and gladly accepted both the present and the possibility he was in fact looking at the man himself and thus in danger of talking himself out of Christmas presents. We all accepted our gifts, and the train motored much more quickly back to the station (I wonder why, with hundreds of sleigh bells ringing). And did I mention my bell? The broken one? That's right, mine didn't ring. Which the cop assured me was a sign due to my failure to embrace his vision of Christmas. And I glared.
As we disembarked we were informed we could get pictures of the kids with Santa across the street. For sale, for a nominal fee. This being the first year Gavin hasn't been terrified of Santa (believe me, I have plenty of pictures of him screaming in terror, weeping and reaching out for me behind the camera, like the true abusive parent I am) I decided we would do it, we would get the first smiling Gavin and Santa photo ever. We beat the line and my kids did exactly what they needed to, they sat with Santa individually and together and smiled like angels. And while I waited for the picture the cop took them outside to run around and play like the little sweethearts they are. But do you think you could buy three photos? Oh no, no, they only sell photos in packages. Could be worse, right? So I asked about a package with the three photos I want. Um, no, that would be three packages you silly woman. And at that price you would be best suited just buying the thumb drive with all of those magnificent photos. Then you'll own the copyright too! Only $40, you know.
What?
Which is how I decided that this year's Christmas card would be a picture of my kids on Santa's lap. Yeah, I bought it. I even spared the employees the full brunt of my rage over their capitalistic bastardization of what should have been a wonderful moment in a glorious season. And I took that copyright that I now owned and turned it into a card that EVERYONE would see this holiday season. Take that, photo mongers!
We loaded the exhausted children into the truck after enjoying the lights of Old Sacramento and headed home. And several hours later when we actually made it home (because life with the cop is never dull) we all crawled in to bed and rested up for the next day, which was another Christmas party.
Which is pretty much how we've spent the past month. So again, loyal readers, apologies. And now I'm off to wrap presents. Until next time.
But I can explain in one word. Holidays. You all know exactly what I'm talking about. There is no rest for the weary on any given day of the year, and yet for some reason when the holidays come we take it upon ourselves to cram a bajillion festivities in that we haven't the time, money, or really desire to do because it's what is expected. But not this family. Not this year. Right before Thanksgiving the cop and I agreed not to accept any extra invitations this year. Sure, there were some things we would be obligated to do. My family party. Our combined work party. But nothing extra, due to the horror of the cop seeing me crawl out of bed at the crack of dawn on Christmas mornings past, eye makeup spread out in raccoon fashion, hair like Medusa herself, from a month without real rest and the previous evening spent with him, the love of my life, constructing toys that had directions apparently unavailable in English on toy sets that contained no less than eight billion pieces, six billion of which were stickers that had to be affixed with precision that did not allow me to indulge in any kind of refreshments that would make the situation tolerable. You see, the cop is a Christmas junkie. He is that wonderful parent that believes that Santa would only leave the biggest and best, most elaborate toys, and they would be fully constructed and ready for little ones to enjoy when they pitter patter downstairs to the glory of Christmas morning, tree loaded with presents, stockings brimming, and parents standing by glowing faintly like the saints they are in matching monogrammed robes and slippers, arms around each other's waists.
Poor man.
And so this year, in an effort to get us closer to that Christmas card family, we agreed to minimize activities. Sleep deprivation and exposure to crowds make me crazy (like literally, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest crazy). This seemed like a perfect plan. And in truth it has been amazing. We have had days to take naps, watched Christmas movies, and enjoy each other's company. Don't be fooled, though. Those very few things we would be obligated to do multiplied rapidly, and we now approach the final stretch without a single present wrapped. But I would be remiss if I didn't sit down and update you all briefly on one of the events we did attend, as earlier promised.
The Polar Express.
Every year the train museum in Old Sacramento decorates a train for Christmas and does Polar Express trips. I'm pretty sure the money they make on the venture supports them the entire year, because the museum is never that crowded and yet to get tickets for the Polar Express you have to be online when they go on sale, finger poised over the purchase button, because they sell out in a day. Which is exactly what I forced the cop to do when they went on sale October 1. The man did well, and got us four tickets which I gleefully informed the children about almost immediately. This is a parenting novice mistake. Cannot believe I did it, in truth. Never tell small children about something exciting until minutes before it happens to spare yourself the "how much longer?" ad nauseum until the event actually occurs, which in our case was two long months. Needless to say, two months later, my wild boys were so keyed up they looked like baby tweakers after scoring, minus the sores and missing teeth.
You have to be there an hour early. No sweat, but for the whole having to stand and wait for an hour. We did all the activites set out to entertain the children in about seven minutes, leaving the remaining time to be filled with trips to the bathroom and apologizing frantically to other soon to be passengers as my hopped up hooligans ran into them repeatedly in their excitement. The cop and I eventually resorted to holding them, at which point Gabe succumbed to the overstimulation and broke down weeping while wailing the old "how much longer?" entreaty.
Finally, finally, we boarded. The train looked amazing. The staff were amazing. And the wild boys settled in by windows to enjoy the one hour ride. Once the train started (at what felt like a whopping two miles an hour) the narration of the book began and waiters came and distributed hot chocolate and cookies. Amazing and festive. While I busily snapped photos on my camera and phone Gabriel finally settled in, stopped the residual sobbing, and in his relaxation dropped the full cup of cocoa at and on our feet.
Of course.
And who knew that in Old Sacramento there would be any hills? But there was at least the one that we started going up when the cocoa spilled, thus ensuring it would start sneaking down the aisle toward the next event, the tap dancers. Yup. Spilled cocoa, on a hill, plus tap dancers? Obviously something my kid would do. And so I frantically crawled around trying to dry things just enough to avoid any bleeding head wounds on the oblivious dancers in front of a car full of anxious children. Crisis narrowly averted.
We made it to the North Pole, where children could watch Santa and his elves out the windows as they loaded the sleigh. A train full of children pressed their noses eagerly against windows and yelled happily. Which is good, because it drowned out Gavin the skeptic. Gavin who looked out the windows on the right and saw a homeless encampment by the Sacramento River in the sunshine, looked out the window on the left and saw snow and Santa, and exclaimed "that's not real snow...." wait for it, folks, because the wheels in his mind were spinning and if that wasn't real snow..."Mom, THAT'S NOT THE REAL SANTA!!!!"
Holy crap. Thank God nobody was listening to him. We were busy being snubbed for the cocoa debacle. I managed to shush him just in time for Santa to board the train to hand out our gifts, the sleigh bells. Gavin, all big and bad when separated from the big man by a locomotive, became submissive and gladly accepted both the present and the possibility he was in fact looking at the man himself and thus in danger of talking himself out of Christmas presents. We all accepted our gifts, and the train motored much more quickly back to the station (I wonder why, with hundreds of sleigh bells ringing). And did I mention my bell? The broken one? That's right, mine didn't ring. Which the cop assured me was a sign due to my failure to embrace his vision of Christmas. And I glared.
As we disembarked we were informed we could get pictures of the kids with Santa across the street. For sale, for a nominal fee. This being the first year Gavin hasn't been terrified of Santa (believe me, I have plenty of pictures of him screaming in terror, weeping and reaching out for me behind the camera, like the true abusive parent I am) I decided we would do it, we would get the first smiling Gavin and Santa photo ever. We beat the line and my kids did exactly what they needed to, they sat with Santa individually and together and smiled like angels. And while I waited for the picture the cop took them outside to run around and play like the little sweethearts they are. But do you think you could buy three photos? Oh no, no, they only sell photos in packages. Could be worse, right? So I asked about a package with the three photos I want. Um, no, that would be three packages you silly woman. And at that price you would be best suited just buying the thumb drive with all of those magnificent photos. Then you'll own the copyright too! Only $40, you know.
What?
Which is how I decided that this year's Christmas card would be a picture of my kids on Santa's lap. Yeah, I bought it. I even spared the employees the full brunt of my rage over their capitalistic bastardization of what should have been a wonderful moment in a glorious season. And I took that copyright that I now owned and turned it into a card that EVERYONE would see this holiday season. Take that, photo mongers!
We loaded the exhausted children into the truck after enjoying the lights of Old Sacramento and headed home. And several hours later when we actually made it home (because life with the cop is never dull) we all crawled in to bed and rested up for the next day, which was another Christmas party.
Which is pretty much how we've spent the past month. So again, loyal readers, apologies. And now I'm off to wrap presents. Until next time.
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