If I wanted to be fit as much as he wanted that sucker…
I’d be a regular Jillian Michaels.
If Only
February 10, 2011 by · 2 Comments
My Little Pretties
February 8, 2011 by · 2 Comments
On Saturday we spent the day in the city. It seemed we had run out of nearly everything in our house, and I was feeling a little Mother Hubbardish. I had been looking forward to our trip to the city for days. I wasn’t excited about spending the amount of money I knew we were going to have to spend, but I was looking forward to GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE. The kids and I have a bad case of cabin fever.
Yesterday it got so bad that I had to clear out completely. I packed up the kids, drove twenty four miles to the nearest Wal-Mart, breathed a sigh of relief, and then spent money, got after the kids for fighting, and came home completely exhausted. Yes, it would have been better to have stayed at home. My hindsight vision is so clear it’s maddening.
Our day in the city started off wonderfully. My husband and children went with me into the newly remodeled Joanne’s Fabrics where I nearly fainted with enthusiasm. I wasn’t able to browse like I would have liked to, but I found what I needed and we went to check out. (I picked up a book titled Apron-ology in the magazine section, fawned over it and then replaced it. My husband picked it back up and bought it for me. It has been my constant companion ever since.) The computers at the registers weren’t functioning quite right, so the line was long. People were impatient. Quilters and crocheters alike were beginning to voice their annoyance. My children were busy rummaging through the displays at the check-out line.
Wooden birdhouses?
Candy?
Books?
Their joy was complete. My husband and I looked lovingly at each other. Our eyes locked and spoke (though we never spoke out loud) saying, ‘What little DARLINGS!’
We scooped them up and read books to them. A woman a few feet in front of us who spoke as business-like as she dressed said, “Your children and beautiful, and they are very well-behaved.”
We thanked her and our eyes locked again. What little DARLINGS!
As we walked out of Joanne’s and into Bookman’s, my husband confessed that when the woman had complimented our children’s behavior, his chest had puffed out about three feet. I wrapped one arm around him, told him he was a good dad, and then basked in the wonderfullnes of the day I had been looking forward to for so long.
After Bookman’s, we went to Sam’s Club. We had to spend SO much money on food. We went beyond the budget, which we both knew we would but there was no getting around it this time. The kids had spent the entire shopping trip annoyed with the fact that the other breathed, touched things, and generally existed. My husband and I walked out of the bulk shopping warehouse with absolutely no bounce in our step, which is ironic given that our pockets were lightyears lighter. We unloaded the car, buckled the kids in, climbed into our seats and locked eyes. They were both worn and wary.
“The little stinkers,” I said audibly. My husband shook his head, and off we went to our last shopping destination.
Super Wal-Mart. I had to finish our shopping list.
At this point, my once-bouncy hair was limp and frazzled. My make-up had fallen. My posture was laughable. With both kids in tow, my husband and I ventured into the store.
The kids were still at each other’s throats. They kicked, they touched, they fought, they fought over the food I put into the cart. They fought over their coats. They fought over EVER-EE-THING. I tried to get through the store as quickly and efficiently as my energy would allow. I didn’t realize that my son had gotten ahold of the Mac n’Cheese. And can I just say? We just FED them. We took them out for “chicken dip its” which, as we all know, is chicken strips.
I took it away from him and tried to keep it away from him, but his sister got it and tried EATING the dry macaroni that was escaping.
In frustration, I tried to increase my speed and efficiency. But by the time I’d made it to the cold cereal, my son had taken my glass bottle of red wine vinegar and dropped it over the side of the cart. It broke on the hard floor and the distinct odor of vinegar wafted through the store. I sent my husband for help and with marked embarrassment, I explained to a lady sporting a mop what had happened. She cheerfully sent me on my way, and I apologized my brains out, even after Mop Lady was out of ear shot.
Once at check out, the cashier gasped when she picked up the Macaroni and Cheese box.
“Do we have RODENTS?” She asked, horrified.
“You don’t,” I said, warily pointing to my son, “But I do.”
I have two, in fact. Two “well behaved” little rodents. One of which came home, grabbed his Iron Man fleece blanket and blue pillow, and mad a bed on my piano bench.
We all slept REALLY hard that night.
The moral to the story: next time we need to go to Sam’s Club, WE ARE GETTING A SITTER FOR THE DAY.
In the Case of Mom v. Trent
February 3, 2011 by · 2 Comments
First of all, he flatly refused to obey.
All I asked of him was to find and put his boots on. He refused, and he gave me attitude.
“NO!” He cried, stomping his socked foot.
I told him behavior like that was unacceptable, and then I warned him that if he persisted he would be spanked. I asked him one more time to find and put his boots on.
“NO!” He cried, shaking his head and stomping his socked foot. I made my way toward him, firmly let him know that his behavior wasn’t going to be tolerated, and then I spanked his bottom.
He burst into tears. His bottom lip began resembling a diving board. He fled from my presence into his bedroom where I heard him wailing and bawling.
“Once you get your boots on, we’ll go to great-grandmas,” I called after him. It was Sunday evening, and we always visit Grandma on Sunday evenings -just like everyone in our family does who lives in town.
Minutes later, he emerged from his room. His eyes were red from crying, but his boots were on. I praised him for his obedience, gave him a hug, and off we went.
Family members were gathered throughout grandma’s house. Trenton went to any ear who would listen…
and TATTLED on me.
“I got… trouble,” he’d say.
“Mama… MAD,” he’d say. Then -now this is crucial -he’d drop his shoulder, lift one hand up to his head to support it, cast his eyes down, and sadly complete his story.
“Mama… spank.”
The tale never varied. He took it to anyone who would listen. Woe to him.
Last night, he acted up again. This time, it was to his Daddy. His Daddy acted just like his Mommy, and after Trent gave Daddy attitude, Daddy spanked him -just as he had warned him he would.
When he was done, I pointed at my husband.
“Now you’re in trouble. Now he’ll tattle on YOU,” I said.
“Trent, did you get in trouble?” I asked, prompting him.
“Yeah,” he said, sadly, “Daddy spank.” But his voice didn’t change. His hand didn’t go up. He didn’t look down…
“Trent,” my husband said, “Did mom get mad?”
IMMEDIATELY, his hand went up, his eyes went down, his shoulders dropped…
“Yes,” he said, “Mommy spank… Mama’s mad…” And so his tale began all over again.
I’m in the dog house. Come on over -he’ll tell you ALL about it. I just wanted you to hear my side first.
Son Rise
January 27, 2011 by · 1 Comment
He’s getting older.
Why is it that as young mothers, we feel like time is FLYING by but we also feel that it isn’t moving at all? And not only “not moving” but actually standing STONE STILL? I’m talking about those days when they won’t nap, when they scream all through the shopping aisles/church/street, when they argue with you… you get the point. Days like that, I wonder if the day is ever going to end. I wonder how my pillow is. I look up in the sky and hope the sun is setting, which it never is. A watched pot never boils, mama says.
Then I blink and my son has gone from nursing to speaking in full sentences. So what the heck? I feel this overwhelming urge to treasure every minute, and YET I find every time I wrap my arms around him and go in for kiss, he inevitably screams in my ear! Treasures aren’t supposed to do that!
But what can you do? Kiss them anyway, says I. Kiss them anyway.
Today as I was raking up leaves (interjection: how about this warmish weather?! I literally begged the kids to play outside with me and I just soaked in the fresh air while a raked for an hour), Trenton ran over to me and asked for a hug. Then he asked for a kiss. Then he looked into my eyes and said, “Happy Birthday, Mom.”
Uh, thanks?
“Happy Birthday, Trent,” I said.
“Banks!” He said, running away. Neither one of us will celebrate a birthday until fall, but it was still nice to hear it. Never hesitate to tell someone you love happy birthday. You never know when it will be too late.
Saturday night, I was craving enchiladas. I felt bad asking my husband if we could go out. The fridge was full of food -I was just too lazy to cook it. He agreed to take us all out if I could get the Christmas tree back in the box. He had undecorated it and pulled it apart while I was on a youth trip, and it was just sitting out by the box with all of it’s branches sticking out in every direction. I set to work, and I defeated that tree.
I won.
What did I win? Enchiladas. We called up my folks -my sister was in town -and we made a family ordeal of it. Restaurants in these parts are all very charmingly Southwest. In the gift shop of this restaurant, there is a wooden Indian Chief. He’s a good 3 1/2″ tall, at least, and the feathers in his headdress aren’t feathers at all. They’re suckers made to look like feather. You can pluck them out. My kids have been enamored with those suckers since they first saw them. I’ve always told them they can’t have one on account of the fact that I just bought them a lunch they didn’t eat, but Saturday night was different.
The fact that they didn’t eat remained, but the fact that GRANDPA was with us was something mighty different. Needless to say, each child plucked their own feather and went home with it. My husband opened Lacy’s up effortlessly and handed it to her. Trent handed his to Dad.
“Ope’ it, pees!” he cried. My husband tried and tried, but he couldn’t get the wrapping off.
“Sorry, son,” he said, handing it back, “I can’t open it, you’re just going to have to throw it away.” To our surprise, he didn’t argue.
“Okay,” he said, taking it back, hanging his head and walking toward the trash. A few steps into his walk, he turned back and looked at his dad, “Are ‘oo kidding me?” He asked, honestly wanting to know.
We wanted to answer, but we were laughing so hard we couldn’t. You can imagine his relief. The sucker stayed.
He took a late, late nap on Monday. He woke up grouchy and clingy. He didn’t want anything, and he let me know it. He only wanted to be a grouch. Lacy had been watching “A Christmas Story” -a movie both of the kids have seen over and over, especially in the last three months. I tried to get him interested in the movie, but he wasn’t having it.
As The Old Man started opening his wooden box, marked “FRAGILE,” I started poking my son.
“What is he doing?” I asked, my enthusiasm exaggerated, “He’s opening that! Look at that! He’s doing it! He’s opening it! What’s inside? What’s inside?!”
My son wasn’t having it. He looked at me and very factually said, “A shoe.”
Well, you can’t argue his point. Nevermind the sensual leg or the whole “lamp” idea. That there’s a SHOE.
Mothering, mothering. Mothering boys.
My life is so full. Of what? We’ll talk about it later.
Resties
January 20, 2011 by · Leave a Comment
The kids and I are pathetic.
My fever went down yesterday, so LIKE A DANG FOOL I got up and slowly cleaned. I thought the whole “slowly” thing justified it.
“I am taking it easy,” I told myself, “By doing it slowly.” And then I thought how nice it would be for my husband -who has been running himself ragged trying to take care of us and work -to come home to some corn chowder, one of his favorite dishes.
I even took plenty of time to lie down between picking-up jobs and dish washings.
Right before the chowder finished cooking, my fever returned and I had to run to the bathroom for the first of what turned out to be three terrible bloody noses. Okay, did I phrase that right? It makes it sound like I have three noses.
Anyway, last night turned out to be really bad. The poor kids’ bodies have HAD it, and though mine has too, I hate that I can’t get up and get back to life as I know it. But I know if I don’t take it easy today, I’ll have another night like last night and I really think I’d rather slit my wrists and do a handstand in saltwater at this point.
BUT during the times that I actually did rest yesterday, I was able to snap a few pictures that I wanted to share. The first is of my legs. Have I ever told you how much I hate them? Well, I USED to. They were the bane of my existence. They were awkward and long, and I was just sure that my life would never achieve it’s true measure of happiness until someone came along with a miracle medical procedure that would shave off a good 5 inches from both sides.
I blamed them for my utter lack of grace.
I blamed my utter lack of grace for my lack of popularity.
I blamed my lack of popularity on my acne.
I blamed my acne for never having any boys interested in me.
So really, my legs were at the root of all these rather radical evils. Somewhere between living with a roommate with long legs like mine and being six years into marriage, I quit worrying about my legs.
I stopped hating them.
Remarkably, I made more friends, experienced significantly less acne problems, developed a serious relationship with a seriously hot boy (I thought he was a man until I looked at those pictures we developed a couple weeks ago. Shoot, he was just a kid!), and became magnificently graceful!
Okay, that last one was a lie wishful thinking.
Yesterday as my son slept on the floor next to the couch, I had to snap a picture. This angle isn’t the best to see it, but my son is SO tiny! He has the littlest bones and the tiniest frame. The best part about his body is his big rolly-polly head. I love to watch him walk around. I’ve got my very own LIVE little bobble-head.
As I sat and watching him sleep, I looked over his thin little body and I couldn’t help but think of “My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding” when Toula’s aunt pinched someone’s (can’t remember whose) collar bone and says, “I could snap you like a chicken!”
I love my little guy. I love that he is sleeping less (though he is sleeping now) and I love that he woke up throwing punches about thirty minutes ago. Must’ve been SOME dream.
While he took the nap you see in the picture above, Lacy crawled on my lap. I let her, and we watched a movie together. Soon enough I looked down and noticed something.
My legs.
Guess what? I LOVE them! I LOVE my legs. I love my long, covered-in-black-hair-but-glaringly-white-underneath LEGS! They’re still long. They’re still awkward. But guess what else they are?
Best dang recliner on the block, by jingo!
They aren’t sexy, but they’re able.
Hm.
That sentence might just be the theme for my entire body. I’ll have a shirt made, shall I? Have those words emblazoned across the chest?
The last picture I have to share with you is revealing. I’m not talking about my chest anymore, so don’t get any ideas.
I’m talking about my housekeeping.
Keep in mind, I’ve been playing nurse since Jan.1, breaking only to be sick myself.
Yes, my tree is still up. I haven’t had a second to take it down, and that’s the gospel truth. But look past that, if you can, to see my daughter with my lap apron tied across her chest. She’s washing the windows with a baby wipe.
They’re so “clean” now!
Doesn’t that picture make you happy?
Well, SOMEONE has got to pick up the slack since mom’s literally fallen down on the job -might as well be Lace.
Plagued and Blessed but Not Blessed by Plague
January 12, 2011 by · Leave a Comment
A few weeks ago, I dropped Lacy off at preschool and remarked to my aunt (who was teaching) that my son had croup.
“We haven’t been sick for a long time,” I knocked on wood, “So I guess it’s our turn.”
I had no idea the ill forces of germs swirling around me heard what I said.
“You turn? Your turn?” They buzzed around me, clinging to my jeans and hovering over my lips.
The croup came and went. Then it was the colds. Then it was pink eye. Before Lacy’s was gone, Trent had it. Before Trent’s was gone, Lacy started coughing.
She’s still coughing.
His eye is still showing signs of The Pink Death.
And last night, in the middle of our mad dash to the city to spontaneously catch a late-night showing of “Tangled,” my dear boy started heating up. Smack dab in the middle of the action that literally had his sister on the EDGE of her seat, he clawed his way to my chest and fell fast asleep.
Last night, he refused his bed and asked in a very worn, small voice for “Mama…” That voice, it turns out, has the ability to melt me completely and quickly.
Yes, son I’ll hold you.
Yes, son I’ll give you $20.
Yes, son here’s the keys to the car.
Yes, son you can live with me forever.
We had a blast at the movies. We haven’t set foot outside in days, and it was great to really escape for just a few hours. The fortunate thing about having my husband as my husband is that he loves his family sososo much. Like… he does whatever he can to take care of us but still insists on spending tons of time with us. How he manages it is beyond me.
We took a mad dash to the city on Saturday to take care of our BIG shopping trip. I hired out one of my piano students to watch the kids from 10 am to 6 pm. We shopped bulk. We shopped Wal-Mart. We shopped Target. We shopped Claire’s (on account of the birthday girl). Our pocketbook did not escape unscathed. So when my husband balanced his checkbook to see how much dough was left over to see IF we could make it to the movies… he drew a dire conclusion: nope. No movie for the birthday girl.
There’s a local theater, and we thought we’d just take her there. I looked them up online for movie times and prices, and they weren’t open yesterday. I texted the news to my husband who instantly texted back that WE WOULD FIND A WAY. I found a missing check for $30. He counted the change in his change jar. We all rejoiced and made the trek to the late night showing on what little we had.
(dad bought the kids little kiddie snack combos with his quarters. What a man.)
And you know what? It was 233449% WORTH IT. It makes facing yet another day of sickness and cancelling practically everything I’m supposed to attend to doable.
Family has a way of doing that to you.
And by “that” I mean sharing sickness.
By “that” I mean making you laugh so hard you cough your lungs into your throat.
By “that” I mean bolstering your spirits when you haven’t had a hint of sunlight in weeks and are starting to show signs of Cullen.
By “that” I mean loving you enough to put two feet under you when you can’t put them there for yourself.
As we were getting ready to leave the theater, my daughter thanked me for “her movie” and then went on to say, “I will just keep my mom and dad and when we wake up in the morning time, we will come to flag and it will be my birthday and I will be FIVE!”
She has NO IDEA how true that is. It feels like she was born yesterday. Surely she’ll be at least FIVE tomorrow, if not 15.
Birthday Girl!
January 11, 2011 by · 3 Comments
I just logged onto my old blog -the private one. I was looking for pictures from my daughter’s past birthdays. I finally bagged the idea. I HAD to. I wasn’t finding any pictures because I was too busy laughing too hard. That blog was hilarious! What’s happened to my writing?
My husband and I have have been huddled next to the lap top for the past hour reading, reading, reading. And laughing, laughing, laughing. There was the one post I wrote about how I think about death and he thinks about phone upgrades -I longed to be normal like him. There was the one post where I tried to make birthday invites for my daughter and ended up losing my mind. I called my husband crying and he laughed at me. He told me it was no big deal that I invited everyone to have cake at Lacy’s Grandma and GRADPA’s house. That’s right. I forgot the “N” in gradpa. I cried. I literally cried. But that’s only because my daughter had knocked over a display of batteries, chewed up a box of crayons (which I then had to buy), opened a carton of yogurt, gotten snot on my scarf, dropped her bottle repeatedly in an effort to get yet more attention, and leaned up against the cart in order to SCREAM as loudly as she could.
Makes me want to cry all over again just reading about it.
I didn’t make invites this year. In fact, I didn’t even plan a party. She doesn’t care.
My external hard drive has come to the rescue of this post. I wanted to post 5 pictures -one for every birthday (including the original birth day). I’m doing this for my sake. I honestly don’t BELIEVE it’s been four years. I’m going to prove it to myself.
So that was yesterday, right? RIGHT?!
No. I know.
Because aside from being at her actual birth day, I threw her a party a year later.
She HATED that bow on her head. Seconds after I snapped that picture, she yanked it off her head and threw it down with all the vehemence a one yearling could muster. And I laughed. Any good mother would do likewise.
Her second birthday:
We gave her a small wooden rocking chair that he father promised to sand and stain… Ask him about that next time you see him, won’tcha?
We also gave her an art easel. DON’T ask me about that. Ever.
Third Birthday:
These pictures aren’t having a good effect on me. Can someone hand me a paper bag to breathe in?
Here she is first thing this morning. She’s wearing her birthday princess ribbon and sporting a headband/crown/veil/everything a princess could EVER ask for in headgear.
We just finished decorating her cake. You should see my kitchen. She asked for a square rainbow cake. I’ll make sure she gets it on Sunday when we gather the family together to have cake and eat it too. In the meantime, I thought she’d appreciate making her own cake. She (im)patiently sat on the counter and helped me mix everything up. Can I brag for a sentence?
My daughter is a queen egg-cracker.
No shells! No breaking-of-yolk!
Okay, that was three sentences but I couldn’t help it. My buttons are popping.
A rainbow and clouds -as IF you even needed to ask. Since I snapped that picture, she’s added grass. And her name. And an unfortunate little cake-snowman.
While she decorated, her brother grabbed some of my carrots and made something all his own. You think MY buttons were popping? You should have seen his!
“I MADE IT, MAMA!” He practically screamed at me, hopping up and down.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to log off. My house is strewn with carrots and I’ve got to scrounge around for some pride. I lost it all this morning when my four year old spanked me at Candyland. Thrice.
Midnight Brain
January 10, 2011 by · 1 Comment
My latest dreams.
I’m accustomed to having whacked-out dreams, but I’m starting to wonder at myself. My dreams have always been weird, yes. But the past few nights, they have been weirdly VIVID. I can FEEL them. When I wake up, I’m not here. I’m still in Dreamland, and it takes me a few awkward minutes to adjust.
For example, a few nights ago I lost a beauty pageant. I knew I was going to lose the minute I saw my competitors. They were all married to wealthy rock stars.
I mean, you JUST can’t win. I sat in my seat (which happened to be on the steps of a grassy outdoor Colosseum-ish courtyard) and devised a plan to win the next year’s competition.
Pshhhhhhhhhhh. Right.
Beauty pageant? Me? Beauty has never been my gift. I’ve made a habit out of paying other women who are good at the whole “beauty” thing to work their magic on me.
“Eyebrows… there should be two!”
Anyway, last night I dreamed of encouraging one of guys I graduated with to propose to the woman he loved. Not only propose, mind you, but to TAKE HER HOME to meet his family.
“That will win her over,” I said, “There’s no way she’ll refuse after meeting your mother.”
What the HECK kind of advice is that? And what woman wouldn’t go running? Besides, it isn’t the mother she would be marrying. In my dream, he agreed and went with it. I was 100% sure the plan would work and went home satisfied. Where was home? A mansion. Not a modern mansion… an old-fashioned, charming-by-day-but-creepy-by-night mansion. I climbed three flights of stairs to the nursery where my children were playing.
The nursery was rather small, considering the size of the house it was in, but it was really practical. There were cupboards galore and a counter that surrounded the entire room. The best part? The sink. There was also a microwave and a fridge. I tried giving my kids, who were running around my feet, snacks but all of the snacks were expired. EVEN the marshmallows. I gave up on the that and spent the rest of my dream trying to clean up.
Incidentally, I made no progress. It didn’t deter me, and I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned but every time I turned around there was another mess.
That dream was most vivid of all. And though I’ve been awake for two hours, I’m still trying to pry myself out of Dreamland. It’s not working out well today, see… because I woke up and continued what I had been doing in my dream. At present the children are running around my feet and I’m trying to clean up.
I’m making no progress.
All I’m missing is the mansion.
Babies, It’s Cold Outside
December 30, 2010 by · Leave a Comment
This morning, my daughter pounced on me in bed.
“It’s SNOWING!” she cried out, “Come see! Come see!” I hadn’t put my glasses on yet and was blind as a bat, but I could at least see sunlight streaming through my bedroom window. I seriously doubted that it was snowing, but I (eventually) got up anyway. My daughter was perched on her bed, holding her bedroom curtain open.
“SNOW MAMA!” She said. By this time, she had woken her little brother up and shared the glad tidings with him.
“..’NOW!” He echoed her. My daughter was beside herself, hopping and wiggling.
“I just needa get my shoes and pants and coat on to go outside!” She said.
“Yeah,” I said, “Go ahead and do that.” In the meantime, I wandered back into my bedroom to give my husband a good morning kissing and thank him for sharing his cold with me.
I hadn’t so much as kissed her father as she showed up in my bedroom.
One look at her and I couldn’t help but say “HONEY!” Instant fear was evident in her face. She thought that she was in trouble.
“Babe,” I called to my husband who had started to walk away, “Come see your daughter.” She prepped herself for a good talking to. I watched her shoulders fall and her gaze shift to the floor. He came around the corner and laughed.
Her shoulders perked back up.
Her eyes lit up as a grin spread across her face…
She was wearing the most ridiculously adorably outfit. Pink slipper boots with two poms poms attached to each, pink and white sweat pants, a brown shirt (inside out, of course), her red dress coat, and an old crochet hat I had made two years ago.
I was still in my PJs, I hadn’t expected her to get dressed so fast. She ran out of my bedroom and was outside before I could tell her to slow down. Her brother came in the room and asked me to zip up his coat. The minute I was through, he followed his sister outside. I hurried and changed to get outside with them as quickly as possible. Just as I swung open the front door to walk outside, my daughter was walking back inside.
“Come on,” she said to her brother, “Let’s go inside.”
“Wait, wait!” I was confused, “WHY do you want to go inside? You JUST got out here!”
“It’s TOO COLD, MAMA!” She said. I asked her to please take a few steps out onto the snow with her brother. Just long enough to…
Arizona kids don’t take to kindly to snow.
Hot cocoa, anyone?
The Polar Express
December 29, 2010 by · Leave a Comment
When my Dad had five of his six kids, he decided to take us on the Grand Canyon Railway. When my Dad had six of his six kids and two of them were married, he decided to take us on the Grand Canyon Railway.
When my Dad had six of his six kids and three of them were married and producing grandchildren, he decided to take us on the Grand Canyon Railway’s Polar Express.
My husband had to take a lat minute trip (seven hours round trip) for work, and we were afraid he’d miss the train. But he made it because he’s the CHAMP of all CHAMPS.
Outside the train depot they had horse-drawn buggies.
They were pulled by clysdales. The kids weren’t too impressed. After all, it wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before.
(Thanks to Grandpa for the ride and thanks to Steve for the picture.)
The old-fashioned train we rose on had seat that you could switch to face each other. I had a heck of time annoying my family to get two seats facing each other for our little family of four to sit in when what turned out happening was my children sat with us for all of two seconds before giving us faces like this:
And begging for Grandpa. 
Our family of four soon turned into a family of three.
And, shortly thereafter… two. My husband and I had two seats to ourselves
and my parents ended up with one seat for four.
As the train went to the North Pole, “chefs” came around and handed out cookies and hot cocoa “made by Mrs. Clause.” After we had eaten our cookie and finished off our cocoa, they played a reading of “The Polar Express” over the train intercom and the “Chefs” walked around showing us the illustrations in the book.
They had real chef clothes and everything.
Soon after the reading was over, we arrived at The North Pole. We didn’t get out, mind you. We were instructed to stay on the train and simply look out the window.
And what did we see?
Lights! Lights! Thousands of lights! And little workshops! And then…
SANTA!
I couldn’t get a picture because the flash would reflect off the train window. But he was there, and I surely believed he would be.
I must also mention to the non-believers that Santa was -in real fact -a real man standing out there in the cold. I think my husband should share the “champ” title with him.
Just as we passed the North Pole,the train stopped and started backing up. The kids were thrilled to be able to see Santa once again.
“Santa? Where are you?” My son asked. But as we passed back by, he was GONE. My son didn’t give up looking for him and only looked away from the window to give us this face:o
And ask, “Where’s Santa?”
After a few agonizing minutes, a “chef” got on the intercom and announced that Santa was on the train! The downside? We had to sing until he got there. The worst part? If you didn’t sing, they made you take the microphone and sing in front of everyone on Train Compartment “I”. The entire lot of us help up our little paper songbooks and dutifully sang (or lip synced) as the Song Nazi Chef made her rounds, pulling up obstinate train-riders who refused to sing and sending them to the front of the group.
I guess we finally sang loud enough because…
BECAUSE…
He CAME! Santa came onto the train! He stopped to visit with every single child and give them a very special gift.
“Don’t ever lose it,” he told them, “It’s very special.”
And here’s a picture thrown in for a good laugh…
After Santa left, the train soon came to a stop back at the depot. We all climbed off the train and grouped together in front of a painted sign. A kind passer-by offered to take our picture, and we let him. He did such a good job we nearly tracked him down to pay him.
There’s ALL of us (minus one angel grandchild, Laynee). And the best news of all is that that picture will become outdated as of Julyish 2011… my sister in law’s got a bun in the oven!
As we walked through the depot, perused the gift shop, and left without buying anything, my daughter absolutely BROKE DOWN in tears. When I asked her what was wrong, she let me know.
“I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE!” She said. I know you shouldn’t reward a child when they throw a fit. I know that giving them what they want when they bawl for it isn’t in good parenting practice.
BUT. THOSE. TEARS!!!!!!
They will be the undoing of my husband. They will be the undoing of me. Someday, I believe they will be the undoing of the entire world.
Minutes later, we were back in the gift shop. The boy bought a little toy train. The girls bought a bag of rocks. And we all drove home happy.
The only failure of the entire trip? The elf hat I made Dad. I added his brand to it in hopes he would keep it on. He tolerated my foolishness for one picture.
It was a hat made to custom fit a cowboy hat. Very legit. But he passed it on to my little brother Jim who became instantly attached. I strongly believe that my Dad actually really really REALLY wanted it bad, but he knew it would break my poor brother’s heart if he tried taking it away.
Yeah, that’s what happened.
Thank you for a GREAT experience, Dad!!!!!! We all loved it, and you are the best. We stopped on the way out to take a picture of the old train they have sitting by the station. When I looked at it, I remembered the first time we rode the Grand Canyon Railway as a family. We all posed in front of the old train for a picture. I wore floral tights. This is a bad picture, but it’s still worth posting on account of the memory it gave me.
