Actual Unretouched Photo

I am still printing out the last twenty Christmas letters.  I just can’t quite get it together and my newish printer is recalcitrant, and now, low on black ink.  You’d think it would be simple to print out 90 Christmas letters (with three full-color pictures), but the printer has balked from the start at printing more than three pages at a time.
In the meantime, I started painting my family room.  I had painted red stripes on one long wall six years ago when I was pregnant and I am so over the red stripes.  I painted my family room bright gold a few years back to match a bright gold couch (the theory being that if the quite ugly couch matched the walls, it would disappear).  It did work, the couch is long gone and the walls remain gold.  Soon, those walls will be a sedate shade of “Wheatfield.”

I bought a “PaintMate,” which is an ingenious syringe-type device.  You suck the paint into the handle and then the paint dispenses into the roller as you’re painting.  No paint trays, no fuss, no muss.  If only it were capable of taping the baseboards and edging along the ceiling.

I made the mistake of giving my 14-year old a digital camera and now it’s as if we are living with the paparazzi.  I may go stark raving mad and shave my head if the constant hounding does not stop and stop soon.

By the way, I am sick to death of hearing Britney Spears referred to as a “young mother.”  She is twenty-six years old!  Twenty-six, people!  Since when is twenty-six a “young mother”?   The media makes it sound like a  baby of twenty-six years old should be excused from being a good mother on the basis of her youth alone.  How utterly ridiculous.  When I was twenty-six, I . . . walked to school . . . uphill . . . both ways . . . ten miles . . . in the snow.

Well.  Anyway.  Twenty-six is not “young,” if you ask me, nor an excuse for irresponsibility.
Kids have arrived to play, making me think painting a second coat on my formerly striped wall now would be a mistake.  Nevertheless, I am going to start that project right now because the sooner I finish, the sooner I’ll be done.  And a little latex paint never hurt anyone.

First of all, does anyone know where the tape is? No? No one?

Oh, wait. I found it.

Kids!

The Christmas pageant was tonight. My 5-year old daughter endured a two-hour practice on Sunday afternoon. She dressed up as a sheep, crawled out by the shepherds, did great! This morning she informed me she did not want to be in the play. Then, while we sat in the pew, waiting for 7 p.m. to arrive, she told me she really wanted to be an angel. I reminded her that there were no more angel costumes and besides, it was too late to be in the play.

At 6:59 p.m., she said, “I really really want to be in the play. I changed my mind.” I told her it was too late and realized the glory of her current age. She did not throw a fit or cry or argue. Good thing, because if she had, I would have missed the amusement of the Christmas pageant.

First of all, the beautiful young couple with their gorgeous kids did the Advent reading and lighting of the final Advent candle. Only the young woman couldn’t get the lighter-thingy to light. I saw the youth pastor moving over to assist her . . .  and heard the unbelievably loud CLICK, CLICK, CLICK of the unresponsive lighter . . . and then, her husband finished reading, reached for the lighter-thingy and with one click, WHOOSH, there was the flame. (Hi, Jenn! Oh, that was funny!)

In no particular order, here are other things that made me laugh:

1) “Mary” chewing pink gum while sitting in the “stable” . . . and her mother hissing at her to stop chewing said gum. Two rows of us were in near hysterics. When “Mary” realized our mirth, she got that haughty teenage look of disdain.

2) One unruly black “cow” sucking his thumb.

3) My daughter brought a life-like doll with her . . . and the doll has fresh batteries. The doll was “asleep” . . . until a woman on the other side picked up the doll, waking the doll . . . just as the program started. The doll was cooing, moaning, giggling and the people in the row behind us were snickering . . . my daughter snatched the doll, trying to get it to sleep . . . and I finally, in somewhat of a panic, found the “off” button. But, oh, the hilarity.Perhaps all of this is more amusing when you are tired.

At any rate, Merry Christmas to you all. (Time to go arrange gifts under the tree!)

Run, don’t walk, to see “P.S. I Love You.”  It that movie doesn’t make you cry, I cannot help you.

My husband taunted me last night.  “What time are you leaving?” he asked.

I said, ” . . . ” and he interrupted before I could say it and said, “Ten?  You’ll never be out of here by ten.”

Oh yeah?  That sounded a lot like a dare to me and I am the girl who introduced myself to Jim Bakker (yes, that Jim Bakker) on a dare in 1985.  I was working on the grounds crew, saw Jim Bakker arrive at the Grand Hotel surrounded by his entourage and said to Kendra, my co-worker, “I should go introduce myself to Jim Bakker.”  She said, “I dare you.”

So, I dropped my rake and marched right over, stuck out my hand and said, “Hi, I’m Melodee.  I think you went to college with my uncle.”

So, Dear Husband, do not dare me or I will, indeed, leave the house by 10:00 a.m.!  In fact, I was nearly at the mall by 10:00 a.m.

And, not only that, but I found a parking spot one car away from Macy’s door.  I was out of there by 10:50 a.m., then stopped by Best Buy on my way to a movie.  (“Charlie Wilson’s War,” an entertaining flick, littered with the f-word and an opening scene replete with with nipples . . . why, oh why?)  After the movie, I drove back across town to Costco where I easily found a parking spot and bought four things:  a spiral ham, batteries, ketchup and mustard.  We consume ketchup almost as fast as we consume milk.

Then, to a department store.  I finished up my day at Barnes and Nobles, spending gift cards on myself.  Yes, myself!  I bought four books I’ve been wanting to read for a long time:

Eat, Pray, Love;

Mindless Eating;

Girl Meets God;

Three Weeks with My Brother.

Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask.  What book did you read in 2007 that you would recommend to other people?  My book recommendation for the year would probably be Peace Like a River or  The Sacred Journey by Frederick Buechner.

I also urge you to check out Librarything.com.  I use this free site to keep track of the books I’ve read.

Now, time to wrap the last few gifts.  Happy first day of winter!  And now, the days get longer . . . until we will wake up in shock that summer has arrived again.

My nose is cold all the time.  When I was fat, I looked forward to losing weight and cooling off.  If you haven’t been fat, you might not know this, but when I was fat, I was so hot all the time.  (And not hot in a good way.)

Sure enough, I lost 60 pounds and I’m freezing all the time.  And I’ve lost circulation in my face, apparently because my nose has turned into a little popsicle.

I have yet to write my World Famous Christmas Letter.  Oh, I know.  Christmas letters make some people cringe, but I write a little amusing one each year . . . I have done this for years and people tell me that they read my letter to their friends and OH THE PRESSURE.  What if I cannot write an amusing Christmas letter?  I need to carve out a little time to work on it.

HEY!  We have a new couch and chair.  I warned my children, “NO EATING ON THE COUCH!” and so far, they are all scared to death to even sit on it.  This is the first new couch we’ve had in . . . uh, 17 years.  The last couch I bought was white, which was a mistake, but I was not yet a mother and I had no idea that one day my toddler would barf Coke-flavored vomit all over it.

My daughter keeps bugging me to go to “the store where we bought those baby clothes” (I took her shopping for a baby shower gift) . . . she wants to buy a set of baby dolls she saw there.  She is relentless.  I doubt she will forget, even after Christmas.  Lucky for her, she has Christmas money coming (a money-filled card from a relative), so I will let her spend that on another dolly.  A girl can’t have too many dollies, you know.  At last count, she had eighteen.  (I know this because I attempted to quiet her begging by sending her upstairs to count how many dollies she already has.)

What else?

I don’t know.  I can’t think because my nose is too cold.

Are you finished Christmas shopping?  I am!  And not only that, but last weekend, I wrapped everything up.  I rock.  Even though I haven’t yet begun writing my World Famous Christmas Letter . . .

Does anyone else have trouble picking out a shampoo and conditioner? It used to be simple. You were either “Normal,” “Oily” or “Dry.” Now you have to have an advanced degree in cosmetology to decide which one you need. Too much silicone and dimethicone and you’ll end up a slick mess. Too little and you’re hair will cling to your shoulders as if you are electrically charged. I just want clean hair which has been conditioned so I can drag a comb through it without pulling any strands out. Is this too much to ask?

When I was a kid, we used Prell. The green gel came in a clear tube, like toothpaste, and we squeezed a little dab out and washed our hair until it squeaked. Which can’t be good, can it? Squeaky hair? Then, when I was a little older, my mom sprung for pink Avon leave-in conditioner and then I no longer had to grit my teeth to get the tangles out of my wavy locks.

Remember your first blow-dryer? My dad brought one home . . . it looked use, which is odd. I think he might have been using it in his work with electronic equipment. (He had a “shop” in the garage, full to the ceiling with ham radio equipment.) I was in elementary school. Until that point, we washed our hair on Saturday nights (so we’d be ready for church) and that was pretty much it.

I sound like I am approximately 100 years old.

On Saturday nights, my mother would roll my hair on pink foam rollers. When I got older, I did the rolling myself . . . with disasterous results the time I used different types of rollers on each side of my head. I was rather unbalanced that Sunday morning.

Sleeping on rollers hurts. I can’t believe that I ever suffered that sort of pain in the interest of looking cute. (“Cute” being open to interpretation, of course.)

My daughter has naturally curly hair, little ringlets . . . which, if messed with, turn into a frizzy halo of hair. She likes to smooth her hair down, which makes her look a lot like an old woman who hasn’t been to the beauty shop for awhile. I predict she will hate her curly hair, even though I find it delightful.

Of course, I hate my curly hair and long for straight, thick hair, because we all want what we don’t have.

Which brings me back to hair products. What I want are hair products clearly labeled: “This is for naturally curly hair which is still thick even though the front area is thinning,” and “This will stop your hair from frizzing but not turn it into a greasy mess.” Or even “Normal,” “Dry,” or “Oily.”

I read a lovely little book this week, a memoir of a father’s first year of fatherhood by Elisha Cooper called Crawling. (You can click over to see his website.)

This book reminded me of Bob Greene’s Good Morning, Merry Sunshine (published in 1985) and Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions (published in 1993). (The three books together would be a terrific gift for expecting parents, come to think of it.)

When Cooper’s first daughter was born in 2002, he kept notes in a journal. He transformed these notes into the essays found in this book. He describes the feelings a new father experiences and the experiences a new father feels his way through. As a big fan of northern California, I appreciated his descriptions of the Berkeley neighborhood–and the light in that part of the world. And, our daughters are about the same age. (I figured that out because he mentioned seeing Sarah Jessica Parker in New York City carrying her son in a Bjorn . . . and SJP’s son is my daughter’s age.)

Anyway, LOVED the book. My only quibble is his occasional use of rather strong language, which I imagine is to demonstrate just how hip, happening and cool he is (it’s such a trend to use the f-word when so many other words will do). And we all remember how I feel about that, right? I might hesitate to recommend this book to a young father-to-be in my church, for instance, even though it’s a delightful account of a father’s first year of fatherhood. (Why, why, why must the f-word be everywhere?!)

Aside from that pettiness, I really loved this book. (Oh, and the fact that Elisha Cooper himself enclosed a little handwritten note in the book was a nice touch, too. I hope he and his little family live happily ever after.) Excellent book, I recommend it, and I loved the little sketches at the beginning of each chapter. Do check out his website here.

Sentences which may have been uttered in my house yesterday:

“I will make you care!”

“Fine! No electronics! No t.v.! No video games! No computer! Is that what you’d like?”

“Yes, you’re lucky that you’re nothing like Daddy or me.”

“DO YOUR WORK!”

“Stop arguing with me! Don’t say anything!”

“Your job is school! (I don’t get paid.) You get room and board! We let you live here, we feed you, we buy you stuff!”

“I AM NOT GOING TO ARGUE WITH A FOURTEEN YEAR OLD!”

“I think the boys need to go to Christian high school next year.”

Today is much better, thanks for asking. But my voice is a little hoarse.

Taking care of babies is so much easier than taking care of teenagers. As a new parent, I had so much angst, so much fretfulness, so much worry . . . and really, I should have saved all that emotion for now when I am living with twin 14-year olds. Babies are a breeze. Teenagers, not so much.
Would anyone ever become a parent if they had to start with a greasy-haired kid who finds it outrageous that his parent might criticize his work-ethic?

I’m just saying.

The other thing about teenagers is that they are beginning the process of separating and stretching out to become an individuals. And inevitably, as they grow, they move away–imperceptibly at first and then in giant leaps and bounds until you gaze across an impassable gulf at this child who used to snuggled into your elbow while you read a story to him.

Parenthood is about breaking apart my heart and rearranging it again in a new, surprising way. That, and about cleaning up messes you never knew another human being could make without a trace of guilt. (And then, they act surprised when I demand that they STOP PEEING ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR!)

Here’s a giveaway at a brand new website called The Cradle.  Enter and maybe you’ll win.  How fun would that be?