The Holiday Letter That Wasn’t

I’ve been plagued by guilt the last few days for not getting around to doing an annual holiday photo of the kids.  You would think that I would just buck up and snap a few photos and get on with it already, rather than continue to torture myself by the fact that there will one day be a missing year in the holiday section of the scrapbooks that I still haven’t started.  But how am I supposed to convince everyone on our annual holiday photo mailing list that I have the two cutest kids in the world when they both are in need of haircuts, and currently look more Shaggy than Fred?  Yes, I could round them up and drag them into town for haircuts, but that would mess up my weekend plans to do nothing and never change out of my pajamas.

So that got me thinking that maybe instead of the photos I should try my hand at writing one of those infamous holiday letters where people go on and on about how their perfect family has perfect jobs and gets perfect grades while living in their perfect house on the perfect cul-de-sac, driving their perfect car and going on their perfect vacations.  Except that you all already know too much about us to believe for even one moment that we could be, well, perfect.  I mean, most of you have seen our car with the broken side view mirror that we’ve been driving as is for at least six months.  And if you’ve been waiting for an invitation to visit us, well, don’t hold your breath because our house is so perfectly messy that I wouldn’t be caught dead having company.

After mulling it over for a bit, I’ve decided to go with the letter, but to give it an honest rather than perfect slant.  And, I am going to do it in one take, so prepare yourself for lousy grammar, run on sentences up the wazzu (you all know how much I love to use those!), improper paragraphing, and so on.  As I said before, I have big plans for my weekend and can’t be bothered with rough drafts and edits.  So here goes….

*****

Dear Family, Friends, and Those Perusing the Internet Unfortunate Enough to Stumble Upon This,

I hope this note finds you happy and in good health!  Please forgive the tardiness of this holiday update.  Perhaps those of you still waiting for Hayden’s birth announcement will consider this timely in comparison.  By the way, Hayden will be four this spring, but more on him later.

Patrick and I will celebrate our seventh wedding anniversary this year.  That means that this is officially my longest marriage to date!  I am happy to report that for the most part, we still like each other.  Except for those days when we don’t.  I mean, how much can you blame me if I get a little short with him after walking in on him brushing his teeth at the same time he is standing using the toilet?  Surely a day that starts like that can only follow a swirling downward spiral.  Okay, that hasn’t really happened — yet — although I fully expect that it could.  But some days are just like that, and what can you do if you don’t want to start all over at square one with someone else?  Which I may have to do, if he reads this.

So quickly, let me add that he has worked tirelessly over the past few years to keep us afloat in this dire market.  Really, I admire his tenacity, his perseverance, and his ability to remain positive and optimistic, despite being married to me, the incessant worrier.  He is an amazing dad, a pretty cool guy, and I’d say overall, I’m pretty lucky to be married to him.  In all honesty, this time around I’m not the least bit worried about the seven year itch.

Addison is nearly six and a half.  Don’t bother doing the math.  It’s hard to believe that this tall, smart, handsome boy is the same child that once fit in the crook of my arm.  He loves rock climbing, soccer, and riding horses.  It’s too bad that I have such an aversion to after school activities so he rarely gets to do any of those things.  But he’s already gone eight hours a day, and I just haven’t been able to bring myself to sign him up for something else that will take up more of his time.  Don’t worry though, I’ll be sure to pack his summer full of activity.

He is doing well in school, both Spanish and English, and I marvel at the fact that my baby is actually reading.  It seems just yesterday that I was hooting and hollering with joy because he said ‘mama’ for the first time, and now here he is reading me my bedtime story.  His favorite parts of school are recess and riding the bus.

He has replaced me as his best friend with a little boy named Michael.  While the rejection stings, it is fun to see him developing relationships.  For the first five years of his life, all of his friends were girls, so finally having some friends who are as into dirt and bugs as he is seems pretty cool.  Although, just the other day he did spend the entire afternoon dressed as a fairy princess after having me put his hair up in pigtails.  And he wants to be a flight attendant when he grows up.  No, I don’t lie awake at night worrying that he won’t be able to marry the person he loves because he might be gay.  I know that he’s straight because he already told me who he is going to marry when he grows up, and it happens to be a she.  Yes, he wants to marry me.  Hallelujah!  I must be doing something right!  And I think it’s good that he has such a  well- rounded clothing style.

Last night as I was putting cream on Hayden (he still has that horribly dry, itchy skin that is only mildly better in the winter), I suddenly realized how huge his feet have become.  After briefly wondering if perhaps I have been daily shoving shoes onto his feet that are several sizes too small, I began to reflect on how much he has grown in the past year.

Almost all of that delicious baby is gone, but in his place is a delightfully destructive little boy.  He has an incredible knack for flooding, breaking, and misplacing just about anything in his path.  He loves chocolate chip cookies and popsicles, his big brother and his stuffed monkey, legos and anything with wheels.  He has a surprising tendency to be shy, except around family.  We can’t get him to be quiet no matter how hard we try.  I’m proud to say he has great manners, and usually will help clean up the multitudes of messes he makes with only moderate pleading on my part.  He also enjoys coloring, and he has some mad dancing skills.  I am telling you, that kid can groove!

Let’s see…  Oh, he also potty trained himself last year!  He must have gotten tired of waiting on us to do it, so one day he just up and went, and that was that.  Sweet!  He has been in a Spanish Immersion pre-school since this past August, and has learned to say ‘Adios’.  He now knows that he is three and finally holds up three fingers rather than two when telling you so, and he knows that his name starts with an ‘H’.  We have high hopes for him.

I have enjoyed being back in the friendly skies over the past year.  Unbelievably, it has been 15 years since I began my career as a flight attendant.  Patrick and I have been to Hawaii together a couple of times, and we took the boys to Disneyland, and also took a long weekend trip to San Francisco, all compliments of my flight benefits.

I love having Addison and Hayden tag along on my trips because they act like I’m a rock star, or at the very least, the president.  They lean over into the aisle, point toward me, and announce to everyone in shouting distance that I am their mom.  Their grins stretch from ear to ear and they radiate pride.  I hate to burst their bubble by pointing out that I’m just slinging sodas.  I guess I’ll soak it up while I can.  I suppose, at the rate they are growing, it will be just a few more minutes until they are slouching down in their seats humiliated because the roles have reversed and I am the one announcing to everyone in shouting distance that those are my boys.

I am thrilled to share with you that I seem to have finally conquered the mountainous piles of laundry that have plagued me for years.  You can actually see the laundry room floor more often than not.  Unfortunately, my culinary skills still don’t expand much past the microwave.  Out of necessity, Patrick has become quite a skilled housekeeper.  Between the two of us, we are usually able to keep the house a step or two above disastrous, but we have two little tornadoes constantly working against us.  We both long for the day that we may actually be able to have someone else come clean our house on a daily, or better yet, hourly basis.  To that end, I’ve been entering the HGTV Dream Home sweepstakes every day, in hopes that we will win, turn around and sell the house, and then hire a live in chef, maid, and personal trainer.  Hey, you can’t win if you don’t enter!  And a girl can dream.

On that note, I wish you the happiest of days and many blessings in the year ahead!

xoxo Elizabeth

But Betty Never Laughs

A real woman always keeps her house clean and organized, the laundry basket is always empty. She’s always well dressed, hair done. She never swears and behaves gracefully in all situations and under all circumstances. She has more than enough patience to take care of her family, always has a smile on her lips, and a kind word for everyone.  I am beginning to suspect that I may be a man.

This is a post that I imagine has been doing the Facebook rounds for quite some time now.  And as usual, I am behind the times, as I hadn’t seen it before today.  I laughed quietly to myself at the irony as I read it through, and then out loud when I reached the last sentence.  If this is the sort of iconic fifties era woman I should aspire to be, I don’t have a chance.  Not even in hell.

I would rather smother my boys in kisses, or relish their gleeful laughter as they roll down a grass-covered hill, or listen to their enthusiastic whoops of joy as they stomp in a mud puddle, than to worry about what our roughhousing is doing to my hair, or the stains on their clothes, or the dirt they will inevitably track through the house.

Once or twice my bare feet may have stuck to the terracotta tile of our kitchen floor, and I’ve just sighed, shrugged my shoulders, and moved on.  My laundry basket can’t even be seen for the clean laundry overflowing, cascading, and piling around it.  I can’t ever seem to get it put away faster than it comes out of the dryer.  If it’s raining (which it usually is), and there’s no place we need to be, and nothing we need to do, I’ll joyfully declare a pajama day for all.  More than likely my hair is a mess.  I’ve been known to lose my patience and mumble a curse word or two under my breath.  Okay, maybe three or four, and it’s likely I wasn’t smiling kindly at the time, either.  So maybe I’m not a real woman.  Or maybe I am.

Let’s just say Don Draper wouldn’t consider me marriage material, and leave it at that.

Honey, The Car Seems to be Missing.

I reached for my robe as I threw my legs over the side of the bed.  It was early, Addison was still sleeping soundly, and I silently cursed Patrick for the noise he was making in our foyer.  As I tied the sash around my waist, I heard him open and close the front door for the umpteenth time, and then pace around the entry way.  His steps would grow quiet as he walked through the house, and then loud again as he returned to the front door.  When I reached him, he was standing at the threshold, the door wide open, cold air rushing into the house.

“What on earth are you doing?” I cried, pulling my robe tighter against the cold.  He stood facing our driveway, hands on his hips.  “I’m looking for the car,” he muttered, a look of befuddlement clouding his face.  Now standing beside him, I warily eyed the empty driveway.  “Uh, did you look in the garage?” I questioned with a certain degree of exasperation lacing my tone.  “I’m going to go look at the bottom of the hill.  Maybe you should call the sheriff,” he replied.

Whoa.  Wait.  What?

Turning away from the door, things slowly began to fall into place for me.  I walked toward the garage, held my breath, and swung the door open.  Empty.

When Patrick returned to the house, on foot, about 10 minutes later, we were able to piece together what may have happened.  Around two o’clock that morning, I awoke to a sound of peeling tires.  I didn’t pay much attention, as we have several teenage neighbors up at the top of our hill.  In my foggy, sleep deprived, new mommy mind, it didn’t warrant me getting out of a warm bed and sacrificing even one second of sleep, when the baby could wake at any moment, insistent on being fed and rocked and cooed to and snuggled and kissed before finally drifting off again to sleep.  Apparently, the sound of squeeling tires didn’t come from the top of the hill, but from our very own driveway instead.

After a thorough search of the house didn’t turn up the keys, we settled on the fact that more than likely, as was his so incredibly annoying habit, Patrick had left the keys in the ignition.  I suppose in his somewhat limited defense, I should point out that many of the neighbors in our small, rural neighborhood routinely left their front doors unlocked and garages wide open, whether home or not.  Many left their keys tucked in the sun visor for easy access.  We live a ways out in the country, and it had always been a peaceful, idyllic, safe and carefree setting.  I don’t think the thought of grand theft auto ever crossed any of our minds.

After placing a call to the Sheriff’s office, it dawned on me that we had been paying through the roof every month to continue our ‘free’ On-Star membership.  Bingo!  One call to them and Voila!  They would tell us exactly where our Escalade was at that very moment!  Watch out, thief!  Your joy ride is about to turn south!  But just one problem — all of our info was in the glove box.   You know, the glove box in the car?

But never-mind that, because we also had been paying through the roof every month for our satellite internet service.  A quick on-line search later, and we were dialing the number that would bring our car home.  Except that the friendly On-Star representative said our vehicle couldn’t be located.  Come again?  But I just saw a commercial, the one that shows this very same scenario, and you call the police with the address of the hideout, and the girl gets her car back, and everything turns out dandy.  What do you mean you can’t locate vehicles if they are in rural areas, or parked inside a building.  As in a garage?  Oh good grief!

Hours later, we received a phone call from the sheriff’s office that our car had been found.  In the next county.  Over the side of a cliff.  In a ravine.  Totaled.  Did we want to retrieve any of the contents?  Well sure!  How about the culprits fingerprints? Let’s retrieve those!   Oh, you don’t do that?  That’s just on TV, too?  So I suppose looking for DNA is out of the question?

Yikes! Now The Oil Guy Saw Me Naked!

You would think I would have learned my lesson the day Hayden threw the front door open for the UPS guy to find me sprawled, literally, butt naked on the tile floor in front of him (oh, you didn’t read that post?! Click HERE).  Or maybe when the landscapers all stood outside my window gawking while I dressed (oh, I haven’t shared that one with you yet?  Just wait!).  But no.  Not me.  I am the sort of person who has to make the same mistake and suffer the same humiliation at least a dozen or more times before it occurs to me that maybe I should do things differently.  Like put some blinds on the windows.  Or take the clean laundry out of the mountainous piles in the laundry room and put it in the relative privacy of my closet so I needn’t run past the front door in my birthday suit every time I dress.  You would think.

Now similar to the UPS guy, the guy who delivers our heating oil doesn’t follow a very predictable schedule.  One month he’ll show up as the kids and I are sitting down to lunch, the next we’ll be his last stop of the day.  The trouble  is, I never know exactly when he will show up, and it does actually matter, but not for the reasons you may think.  It’s not that I am trying to coordinate trips to the grocery store or pick ups and drop offs for afternoon kindergarten.  It’s not that I’m going to run to the post office or trying to plan play dates.  Nope.  None of that.

It’s all about showering.  I’ve had a few close calls, a time or two that I’ve had to hit the shower floor and fast because someone has come into the yard while I am in the shower.  But this particular day, I even set the alarm so I would be up and showered long before anyone could show up at our house for deliveries.  Yep, rise and shine at just about the crack of dawn for me.  This time I wasn’t taking any chances!  You see, our master shower has full windows that look out over our side yard and the creek and the woods beyond.  It’s quite lovely and picturesque, and a wonderfully peaceful and scenic atmosphere for bathing.  Except, of course, when a rugged albeit friendly stranger happens to be walking past the windows looking intently at the side of the house for the access door to the oil tanks, which are, of course, located right below the shower windows.

And that, my friends, is exactly who I saw as I opened my eyes after rinsing the suds from my hair and face, elbows at right angles in the air, fully facing the windows.  An astonished red-faced man in work clothes, hauling a giant hose, and looking as though he wished the earth would swallow him whole.  For a moment, as time stood still, we both stood frozen in place as our minds tried desperately to tell our bodies what to do.  And then we both dashed into action, he racing around the corner of the house and I dropping to the floor.  I stayed pressed against the tile until the water ran cold, and I knew I could stall no longer.  I crawled from the shower and tugged my towel from the rack.  Pulling my robe closed, I headed toward the front door, checkbook in hand and pretended that nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened as I swung open the door and greeted the still red-faced and now stammering man.

You would think I would have put blinds up that very day.  You would think.

My Irrational Fears are Now Life for So Many

I arrived in Kailua/Kona the afternoon after the tsunami did.  Thank God for that.  I should have been on Mauai the night it hit, but another flight attendant asked if I would trade trips with her.  Since her trip was shorter than my own I jumped at the chance to spend more time at home with my boys.  She ended up spending the night with dozens of other evacuated hotel guests crammed into a school bus in a parking lot while the tsunami sirens wailed menacingly throughout the night.  I can only imagine she was kicking herself all night long for the trade.

But what she doesn’t know is that she probably saved me from a full blown panic attack.  Those of you who know me well know that when my oldest son was born I developed a few irrational fears.  One was a fear of flying, or more accurately, of crashing.  Go figure, considering my choice of career.  Another was of being swallowed up by a tsunami.  Actually, it was more specific than that.  It was that I would be trying to outrun a tsunami while carrying my baby.  And then when my second son was born, it was the terror of not being able to run with both a toddler and a baby in my arms, and having one or both of them swept away from me.  Or maybe having to choose between the two of them.  You moms must know what I mean.

In any case, I took six years off from flying, and we very, very rarely went to the beach.  Countless times Patrick would suggest the quick 90 minute road trip to picturesque Cannon Beach, and I would immediately shoot the idea down.  Why play Russian Roulette?  Better to be safe than sorry.  Let’s just turn the sprinklers on and let the kids run through them.  Worst thing I could picture in that scenario was a bee sting, which I felt I could handle.

But then one day I woke up to discover that most of these fears had somehow either dissipated over time, or had just suddenly vanished.  So I recently started back to flying, which I am able to do without giving too much thought to crashing.  I just smother the boys in hugs and kisses before I leave and tell them about a million times that I love them, and I’m so proud of them, and that I am always with them and loving them, even when they can’t see me, and that they are the nicest, smartest, most beautiful and perfect people I have ever known, and on and on until Hayden stops listening and wanders off to find his toys and Addison gets that exasperated look on his face and tells me enough already, we know, we know.

Being back at work pretty much goes hand in hand with going back to the beach, as so many of the places that we fly now are coastal.  So it was a good thing my fear of tsunamis seemed to have diminished.  With the exception of good old Fairbanks, everywhere that I have had a layover has been very near, if not completely, ocean front.

Our van driver took us through Kona, and we were able to see first hand the chaos that a mere foot of water could cause.  Furniture had been pushed through the windows of buildings and out onto the street.  Sidewalks and roads were torn up as though a hundred jackhammers had simultaneously pounded the pavement.  Trees were uprooted.  Debris was in the most unlikely of places.  But it was all so little compared to the devastation that must be Japan.  I cannot even begin to imagine …..

So tomorrow and the next day I will be on Maui.  And now I feel a fear developing in the pit of my stomach, and making its way to the back of my throat.  This time it’s of exploding nuclear plants and the resulting radiation making its way from Japan to the islands.  Irrational, I know, but also a horrible reality for so many as I write this.  I’m keeping quiet about that, though.  Addison already has developed a fascination/fear with the earthquake in Japan and the resulting ‘salami’.

I Tried So Hard to Love You, But This Time it’s Really, Really Over.

Our relationship started out so steamy — all hearts aflutter and short of breath.  So hot and sweaty, with racing pulse and and soaring hopes.  In the beginning, I fully believed we would be together forever, that our relationship would only grow stronger with time.  And yet, anyone who knows me could see the writing on the wall.  Long before I ever did, anyway.

As time went on, that all-consuming excitement that comes with new relationships began to ebb.  Slowly, the allure, the anticipation of time spent together, the angst felt when apart, all began to fade.  Soon, nagging, nit-picking, and ultimate resentment all found their way into my heart.  Things were not all peachy keen, and I found myself looking for excuses to stay away.

Eventually, my guilt would get the better of me, and I would vow to do better, to re-commit.  And I would.  For a day, maybe two.  But my heart was never in it.  My head tried to reason, but even the best laid plans and the most convincing of arguments for staying together seemed no match for my indifference.  Many of you know the ongoing struggle I’ve had.  You’ve witnessed the roller coaster of emotions, and listened to me as I tried to talk myself into loving this relationship again.  But when it all comes down to it, should love really be so much work?

The other day, I found my mind wandering to dreams of other relationships.  I was imagining long walks along the lake, or even the river.  I saw me stopping to smell the roses, and feeling that electrifying high of something new.  And then, when I went so far as to consider joining a gym, I knew it was finally over, once and for all.

Today, as I watched my husband struggle to load the recumbent bike into the bed of a pick-up truck, I knew for sure I had made the right decision.  And it was reassuring to know that he also felt it to be best.  Saying goodbye to something so stationary and stagnant was the right thing to do.  He joined me on the porch, took my hand, and together, we watched that bike head off down the drive, and fade slowly from sight.  And I felt lighter than I have in a long, long time.  Except, of course, for that heavy wad of cash weighting my pocket.

So long, love!

I Can Pretty Much Guarantee that Puddle You’re Standing in isn’t Water

I hate public restrooms.  Hate them.  I avoid them as much as possible.

Want to know what I hate even more than public restrooms?  Airplane Lavs.  Yep.  Hate them.  Would rather end up with a kidney infection than use one of those.  They are disgusting.  Period.  I mean, puh-lease, just take a moment to think about it.

A teeny tiny closet zooming 40,000 feet above ground, bouncing around in turbulence, used by hundreds of other people between paltry at best cleanings, the place people go to ‘clean up’ after vomiting, to poop, to pee, change dirty diapers, join the mile high club (Just shoot me now.  Somebody, anybody…. Please?  Please shoot me?  Pretty please?), floss their teeth, clip their toenails, trim their nose hair, you name it.  What’s not to hate?

To my dying day, I will always wonder what the thought process is of someone who comes rushing to the back of the plane during boarding, desperate to know if there is still time to use the lav.  Because, you know, there wasn’t any time to use the bathroom inside the terminal, right next to the departure gate, while sitting in the boarding area for the previous 45 minutes.  Now come on, folks.  You’ve just been out in an airport terminal that has, in comparison, far more spacious and most likely cleaner by a longshot facilities.  Yet the first thing you do after finding your seat on the airplane is head toward the lav.  I mean, people are still boarding, for crying out loud!  You could still be out in the terminal — go use the toilet that hasn’t been bounced around at 300 mph!

But if nature is calling, and there is no possible way to get around that fact, by all means, use the lav.  Just please, please don’t go in there barefoot or in stocking feet.  I can pretty much guarantee that puddle you are standing in isn’t water!  And get your business done quickly — less time for all that nastiness to penetrate your clothing.  Oh, and wash up for heaven’s sake!  And be sure to shut and lock the door while you are in there.  Close the door on your way out, too.  Everyone in that vicinity will be eternally grateful for that.

So that’s my airplane rant of the day.  Yuck!

Oh. My. Stars.  Did he….?  No.  Please no.  Oh Lordy, he did!  He just so totally walked in there with his Kindle!

Not Gonna Happen. Not Yet, Anyway.

I’ve a lot of catching up to do.  Between losing a St. Bernard over the Thanksgiving holiday (I mean seriously, how does such a huge, slobbering bundle of untethered energy just vanish?!) and the Christmas tree that could have ended my marriage (a yearly tradition); taking to the skies again after 6 years of my feet being firmly planted on solid ground, as well as a wee hours of the morning robbery in a Sea-Tac sky bridge; and a little internet side business that has gone gangbusters (at least in comparison to my original expectations), I have a whole lot of ground to cover!

But I have a teeny tiny problem.  I don’t want to write.  Call it writer’s block, a slump, the blues, or just a generally bad attitude (read that one to the tune of Kenny Chesney, and how can you help but not get a little kick in your step?), but what it all boils down to is that I just don’t want to do it.  Just like my two year old always says when he doesn’t want to pick up his toys, “Nope.  Don’t want to!” could be my mantra as well.

So I am going to sit on this blog a little while longer, and keep feeling the guilt of my neglect, and cross my fingers, and hope like mad that the words will soon find their way back to me, and I will once again look forward to tapping a keyboard and sharing my stories.  And when that day comes, I promise to tell you all about the time that a passenger……

Bad Mommy!

So Halloween has come and gone, but the candy still lingers.  You would think that I could exercise at least a smidgen of self-control, but no such luck.  Read on….

7am this morning:

“Mommy, what are you eating?”
“Uh, nothing.” (As chocolate crumbs fall from my mouth)
“But Mommy, what’s in your mouth?”
“Toast, honey. Just toast.”
“But I don’t smell any toast. Why don’t I smell any toast if you are eating toast?  I smell candy. Mommy, are you eating candy? Did you not tell me the truf?”

Oh the SHAME!

Round One of Trick or Treating — Done!

We woke up yesterday morning to beautiful blue sky.  The leaves are finally starting to really turn here, and the sky made the most brilliant background for their crisp autumn colors.  The temperatures are still fairly mild, and a long sleeved shirt is all one needs to stay comfortable.  It was the perfect sort of day for trick or treating.  And trick or treat we did!

Our small downtown is just a few blocks long, but it’s quaint, and cute, and has that charming small town feel that always draws me in, and makes people feel neighborly.  It has great community involvement, and every season it is host to several celebrations, street fairs, and events.  Yesterday was the annual Halloween celebration called Boo Bash, to which thousands (really!) of costumed children and parents flock to the downtown core for some serious trick or treating.

Patrick and I took Hayden to pick up Addison from La Escuela, and then walk with several other school families down to the festivities.  Our boys were dressed as Cowboy Sheriffs, and had to have been a couple of the cutest kids in the west!  Once there, the crowds were jubilant and colorful, as kids hopped up on massive amounts of sugar went from storefront to storefront in search of more candy.  There was dancing to Michael Jackson’s Thriller in the middle of the street, and all sorts of other fun activities.

The air was thick with laughter, both young and old, and family fun was definitely the order of the day!

Now tell me, just how cute are these two?!