Then a number of things happened to change that, not the least of which was that she died. But aside from that even, I got married and became a mother myself. And a few years ago, despite my inclination to still do my winter migration to Little Rhody (now to Dad’s), Mark started lobbying for us to stay at our own house for Christmas.

Imagine!

“The girls should wake up in their own beds on Christmas morning,” he opined, ever the rational one. He also likely tossed in something about holiday travel being a hassle, expensive, and particularly taxing with young children and cross-country flights.

WHATever.

Sure, I saw his point. But what about me? What about me waking up in my own bed? What about Santa delivering presents to my house, not that place where we live in California?

And the thing is, Mark’s right. Well, I’m not actually sure I’m ready to embrace his stance entirely. Let me downgrade that to, “I can see his point.” It IS kinda expensive and it IS kinda a hassle to get there.

Sometimes I let him make the decisions, you know, to empower him. So for the past five years I’ve done some supremely selfless parenting and allowed my kids to be the kids—not me—at Christmastime. I must be up for some kind of mothering award.

A couple weeks ago Mark helped me with some blog stuff. He is both husband and IT consultant. (In this economy you’ve gotta be able to wear several hats.) If it’s not glaringly apparent, I’m embracing a fairly scaled-back user experience here. But I sometimes fall prey to blog peer pressure (self-imposed, mind you). I’m the world’s biggest luddite, but every now and again even I realize I should implement some sorta new feature to keep up with the other kids.

So Mark helped me add a Facebook “like” button to the bottom of each post. So now you can not only “like” motherload on the whole, you can “like” any individual posts that rock your world.

It’s a regular like fest.

Amazingly I have not obsessed over this. I have not checked every four minutes to see if I have more likes. (Good thing too, since they’re not exactly pouring in.) I will cop to having had a small obsession several years ago when we sent out an Evite for a party. I spent the better part of a day compulsively hitting “refresh” to see who’d RSVPed. It was not healthy.

Anyway, the new, more mature me will manage this “like” button much more rationally. (Though I’ll still be your best friend if you use it every once and a while. In fact, I double-dog dare you to do it right now.)

Speaking of Le Face Livre, in the new year I’m reversing an ill-formed personal policy that I’ve been foolishly adhering to. What is that you may ask? 2012 is the year that I will finally friend my mother-in-law.

Now I’m curious to hear how you all manage this yourselves. Initially my take on the parental-level Facebook friend was this: Who knows what they might see. Who knows what they might read. And moreover, who knows what I would have to edit, avoid, or otherwise regret.

But now, a few years in to seeing her friendly face crop up in my “People You May Know” list, I’m wondering what the hell I’d been thinking.

It’s not like I’m selling crack on Facebook. (I do that on my other website.) It’s not like I’m publishing skanky pictures of myself. It’s not like I’m really doing anything much other than making snarky comments on the often dizzying state of motherhood, a topic that, of all people, my mother-in-law is very much in touch with.

Keeping her at social-media arms length was apparently my way of maintaining a foothold in the world where I’m the kid and the grown-ups are the grown-ups. It may have taken me 44 years, but I’m finally willing to throw in the towel and admit that I’m an adult.

Of course, I have no intention of ever acting my age. And Facebook is the perfect outlet for my raging immaturity. The way I see it now, my mother-in-law and I can act immature there together.

Which is to say, when she was happy. When she was depressed. When she had a paper to write, or to celebrate having just handed one in. And when she didn’t know what else to listen to.

I loved her dearly. She was one of my closest friends. But God. Help. Me. It was A LOT of Joan Armatrading.

In fact, at one point the frat we lived next to was hazing their initiates. For a week they blasted some horrible 80s rap song—the same damn song—over and over and over again. And frankly hearing that was a cake walk compared to my own private musical hell. I could have gotten into that frat no problem-o considering what I’d endured for months. I mean, if I’d also had a penis, was willing to drink non-stop, chug gold fish, and sex up goats.

Though to be fair the them, the goat thing is just conjecture. For all I know they were having sex with cows. (It was, after all, rural Ohio.)

Anyway, one of the songs in my private musical hell went, “I’m lucky. I’m lucky. I’m lucky. I can walk under ladders.”

And right now? Well right now, decades later, I am SO down with that song. I am truly feelin’ lucky.

Because last week, while grabbing a random laptop bag that was wedged alongside my desk, I found a long-lost library book. It was Big Dog, Little Dog by Tolstoy. Or maybe it was P.D. Eastman. Anyway, one of them.

I’d already bought a replacement of the book for the library. But finding it was still a thrilling validation that I’m not the world’s worst housewife. That my house didn’t swallow that book up like a hairball, and refuse to cough it up. Plus the discovery eradicated that bad lost-something feeling that can lurk in one’s soul. That crappy feeling of irresponsibility that can only be removed by finding what it was you foolishly let slip away.

Of course, it being Monday and Oakland suffering from gargantuan budget cuts, the library was closed. So I was unable to swagger in waving the book around and bellowing, “Eureka!” Instead I stuck a neon yellow Post-It note on it. “Found this!” I proclaimed. “Already replaced it, but that’s okay.” I left off the “love, Kristen,” but I think it was implied.

Then I stuck the book in the drop box.

Heck, I already got you a new one, Library, but take this one TOO. I’m feelin’ that generous.

The thing is, I lost that book the same fall weekend in Seattle when I lost my diamond pendant necklace. The special one Mark gave me on our first wedding anniversary. And I don’t know about you, but my jewelry box isn’t exactly overflowing with diamond necklaces.

Anyway, finding the book made me tear through all the little zippered sections and pen nooks in the bag I found the book in, wildly hoping that my necklace would also magically appear. I thought I could, like, double down on my finding luck.

But no dice.

Mark was traveling for work, at the yearly CES geek-fest in Vegas. And on Wednesday night while he dined on steak, drank expensive wine, and spent a rollicking evening gambling, boozing, and maybe even chomping a cigar, I sat in our living room surrounded by four (count ‘em, FOUR) laundry baskets full of clean clothing. And I folded. And folded. And folded.

Because I know how to have a good time.

For some reason when I was putting stuff away I was overcome with the OCD urge to sort through my sock and underwear drawer. This is the sort of strange organizational compulsion that overtakes a gal like me at 9:30 at night when all the laundry is folded but you want more hot crazy domestic action. Oh yes, I was unhinged.

I happily re-united socks that had been living apart from each other just inches away—unworn for months! I wadded together a bolus of brown and black tights larger than a watermelon. I even decided to THROW AWAY some underwear that dated back to the first Bush administration. I mean, I was making all kinds of world-rocking changes and life-enriching decisions. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m even planning to wear a matching bra and underwear set some time soon.

I know… cuh-razy, right?

Anyway, as I dug down towards a strapless bra I may have bought for my prom dress, past some random business cards I stowed with my undies years back for safe-keeping, somewhere amidst all that and a weird Russian watch I have, I found my diamond necklace. Just sitting there. Looking so oddly there, that I couldn’t believe it was it.

It’s not like the sound track to this discovery—had this taken place in my movie memoir—would’ve been a sudden clap of of upbeat, celebratory music. Or even an angelic chorus mounting in pitch. Instead there was a weird kinda pins and needles sound in my brain. I’ve wanted to find this necklace for so long, but finally looking at it, I somehow couldn’t grasp what I saw. It’s like I was stuttering in my mind, “No. No. Naw…” until it finally clicked.”Wait. Really? Oh my God—YES!”

This is why my life story can’t be a documentary. It has to be acted out by someone else. I’m just so bad at acting out the most exciting parts. If you don’t believe me, ask Mark how dopey I was when he asked me to marry him.

Anyway, what was so funny about that damn Joan Armatrading CD Leah used to listen to was that I’d bemoan it constantly to her face, but eventually I kinda started getting into it. Not that I ever admitted that to her, mind you. It was like some kinda musical Stockholm Syndrome. I think I sometimes even maybe played the CD when she wasn’t around.

Eventually, after college I ended up buying myself a copy.

After finding that damn beloved necklace I never thought I’d see again I wanted to blast the song I’m Lucky louder than a frat house. That is, if I were willing to stop admiring it around my neck for long enough to dig up the CD.

P.S. Check out this incredible story my friend Lauren sent me about another great find.

I have no idea what brought this on. Every time I ask her about it I get a different answer. “Luke at school likes bees.” Or, “No reason.” Or, “Because bees go buzz.” Or, “Can I watch Sesame Street?”

When you want to get to the bottom of something with an almost-four-year-old, they’re often the worst ones to ask about it. Mark and I refer to this as the “bad witness” syndrome. What your preschooler reports ain’t always what happened.

But I know for sure that she has not been stung by a bee, negatively interacted with a bee, or read any scary books or seen videos about bees. I have not punished her by saying, “If you hit your sister again I will stick your hand in a bee hive.” I swear I haven’t. Even if I’ve maybe sometimes wanted to.

I have assured Paige that bees don’t come into the house. I’ve told her that if you don’t bother bees, they won’t bother you. I have remarked that in wintertime, bees aren’t even around because of the cold. (Though this is a bit of a hard sell with our NoCal winter this year. It’s been sunny and in the 60s for most of December and January.) I even said that if you DO get stung by a bee, it hurts for a little while, then goes away. No. Big. Thing.

But for a few weeks now she will wake up in the middle of the night and ask questions like, “Are there any bees in my room?”

Come morning she’ll drop her cereal bowl into the sink and troop off to her room to get dressed announcing, “I’m not wearing anything black today.” This because Kate’s preschool teacher told her FOUR YEARS AGO that the color black attracts bees. A fact that Kate has cleaved to, out of scientific interest more than fear. Therefore any time we come anywhere near a bee or perhaps the kind of flower a bee might like Kate does an inventory of all the clothing we’re wearing to ascertain whether any of us is in imminent danger.

It’s a shame too, since black looks so fab on Paige with her blond hair.

Last week I took Paigey to a pediatric allergist. She’s had some puffy-lip/barfy reactions to walnuts and I wanted to see if there was a legit issue at hand. The allergist was one of those super-goofy-friendly docs who works with kids and could probably make so much more money gruffly caring for adults, but is just too kindhearted and caring and gooberish. Thank God for folks like him, I guess.

Anyway, he was so desperately hell-bent on connecting with Paige I nearly had a diabetic seizure from his saccharine-sweet “Your lovey looks like a wonderful friend” and “Baba… what a nice name for a stuffed sheep” banter.

Paige was even a bit leery of the dude.

He went on to remark that if Paige was three she must be learning how to read, and started quizzing her on what letter makes the sound “rrrr” and, “What is the sound the letter ‘e’ makes?” Hell, I’m not even sure what sound the letter ‘e’ makes. Is it eeee or eh? Anyways, I don’t know what preschool HIS kids go to, but Paige comes home from school with paper plates that have colored cotton balls glued to them and with glitter ground into her scalp. And I don’t think it’s from rigorous academic sessions.

Anyway, Mr. Overly Nice Guy ended up balancing out Paige’s perception of him when he pricked up and down her back with tinctures of various allergens. It was not only pokey and painful, but many of the spots turned into itchy burning pits that she could neither reach nor scratch.

And worse than that the nurse wrote numbers on her back in red pen to indicate what each allergen was. On the car ride home between sobs she relayed to Mark on the phone, “They wrote numbers on my baaaaack!!! In PEN! I want to go home and take a baaaaath!!!”

Turns out she is allergic to walnuts, pecans, and hazelnuts. This prompted me to tell Goofy Allergist Doc, “I guess I’ve got to get her off that hazelnut coffee in the morning.”

To which he looked at my blankly and said, “Really? She drinks that?”

I assured him she does not drink hazelnut coffee (while sounding out the words in The Wall Street Journal). She’s more a double-espresso kinda gal.

When, oh when, will the rest of the world understand my sense of humor?

Anyway, now we’re one of those families who carry epi pens with them everywhere and have the preschool stock-piled with various meds. We have a kiddie rainbow-beaded Medic Alert bracelet on order. And I’m an even-more-avid food label reader. Were nuts processed in the same facility where this granola bar was manufactured? Was there “shared equipment?” Does this fruit chew possibly contain “trace elements” of nuts?

Doc Smiley told me that if the equipment in question is used to process almonds—no problem! Paige is not allergic to almonds. So he told me to just call the different companies to find those details out.

For real?

Me: “Hello, Nabisco? It’s Kristen. I’m wondering about the machines you got goin’ there. What nuts are we talking about?”

This does not seem like a call I’m likely to ever make. Not that I want to put Paigey in any jeopardy, God knows. But REALLY? Call the food manufacturer? I mean, who the frick do you ask to speak to? How many hours are you thrashing about in that corporate phone-tree quicksand before you eventually find an administrative assistant who is sitting in a cubical in St. Louis 2,000 miles from any actual food-makin’ “equipment” and really just wants to get you off the phone so she can get back on Facebook who gives you a vague, “Uh… I’m not sure” answer? Or worse, she lies just so she can return to her online solitaire game then update her status that the chicken salad she just ate for lunch was gross.

I’m supposed to trust her?

I think I’ll just be steering away from processed foods—as I try to do anyway.

And blessedly, Paige’s allergies are apparently mild. Not like some kids who see a picture of a peanut and break into hives. Benadryl will likely do the trick if Paige is ever exposed to something. The epi pens are for unusual, hopefully rare reactions. And, I think, just so I’m required to cram one more thing in my already unwieldy mom purse. I can’t get feelin’ all freed up now that I don’t have to carry diapers any more.

The allergist wants us to come back in a month just to check in. After this “lifestyle change” he said people often have many questions. Though I wonder how it is we’ve gone for nearly four years never knowing Paige had a tree nut allergy. (And is it just me, or are you also unclear about which nuts grow on trees? We didn’t have that unit in my science classes…) I mean, if we can just continue to do what we were doing up until now, seems like she should be okay.

Despite Paige’s tormented screams and wailing about her itchy-owie back, interspersed with rants about the numbers drawn on her—”Why numbers? WHY, Mama??”—I did manage to summon some rational thought to ask the doctor some questions, and one was about bee stings. In my mind bee stings and epi pens go hand in hand.

“Is she is more likely to be allergic to bees because she has a nut allergy?” I bellowed over the din.

And the answer it turned out is—no! There’s no relation to the nut and the bee thing.

Well, she may not have a physical allergy to bees, but she certainly seems to have a psychological one. I’ve just got to figure out what the antidote to it is. If any of you have successfully wrangled with similar sorts of preschoolers’ fears, I’m all ears.

I now also know to never write numbers on Paige’s back in red pen. And thankfully, that’s a lifestyle change I can easily accommodate.

I mean, I think it’s an indication that I’m officially old since I’m still not used to writing 2011 on my checks and it’s already (almost) a new year. There’s also the fact that I still write checks…

Even though I’ve shared in lurid detail most everything that’s happened to me this past year, I thought you might enjoy a sort of Cliff’s Notes version of my highs and lows. So pour yourself that last cup of egg nog from the carton that’s hidden behind the leftover turkey in the back of the fridge and curl up here for a while. Tomorrow you can start your new work-out routine and burn off all that fat.

Best New Friend: Hands down this award goes to my gay work-husband. Read all about our celibate, incompatible-sexual-orientations love affair here.

Best Blog Experience: Attending BlogHer ’11 in keepin-it-classy, San Diego (In the immortal words of anchorman Ron Burgandy, “San Diego… Drink it in. It always goes down smooth.”)

Fave New Blogger Friends: Katrina from Working Moms Break and Nancy from Midlife Mixtape (even though she’s funnier than me).

Most Embarrassing Incident: When I emailed the moms in Kate’s class about getting together for a drink and the email was mistakenly forwarded on to the school staff. For several days any time one of the mothers responded with something like, “Hell ya, I need a drink!” the email went to every teacher and administrator. As if that wasn’t awkward enough, when the moms booze-buzz finally died down, the dads started up. Kate’s classroom is now referred to by the school staff as “The Drunk Tank.” Nice.

Favorite Video: The old tablecloth trick.

Favorite TV-Show-on-DVD Addiction: The Good Wife (and not just because Will Gardner is the super-rich immoral rep-tie-wearin’ TV-character version of my noble, journalist husband).

Best Concert I Never Attended: In early December we had tickets to Morrissey. The show was cancelled when his drummer suffered some sort of eye injury. Frankly Mr. Shankly any drummer worthy of playing with Morrissey should really be able to hold his own playing with one eye. Am I right, or am I right?

Best Thing Kate Learned How to Do: Read. Like, really pick up a book and wander off and read on her own. So incredibly cool.

Best Thing Paige Learned How to Do: Use the potty.

Thing I Will Not Miss from 2011: Diapers.

Thing I Will Miss from 2011: Having a child young enough to be in diapers.

Best Thing Mark Learned How to Do: Bake bread and make uh-mazing cocktails, thanks to these two books: Tartine Bread and The Essential Cocktail: The Art of Mixing Perfect Drinks. (I just found this cool video from the god of bread-breaking. Turns out he’s cute too!)

Best Thing I Learned How to Do: Nothing. I’ve never been one to relax. It’s just seemed like something lacking excitement. But this year the girls and I did a lot of reading in bed—as in me reading to them. And I LOVED it. We whiled away gloomy gray days this way, never getting out of our PJs. Turns out doing nothing IS fun—and I’m good at it! I also learned how to build excellent fires in the fireplace (something I’d always let the men-folk do) and make a delish roast chicken.

Best Thing Kate Taught Me: Summer camp songs. I suffered an entitled deprived childhood and never went to summer camp. At age 44, I’m finally making up for it.

Best Money We Spent: On a frighteningly-effective sleep specialist for our three-year-old night owl, Paige. If you ever need a kidney, Meg, I’m here for you.

Best Hand-Me-Down: My friends’ ellipitcal machine which I inherited when they paradoxically moved into a larger house where they didn’t have room for it.

Best Additions to our Family: Karen the male Siamese fighting fish, dearly-departed Carlos the shit-eating sea snail, and our newest snail, Slimy.

Crappiest Loss: The diamond necklace Mark gave me on our first anniversary. It went to Seattle with us and somehow never came back. I hope it’s set up a good life for itself up there, and that the rain doesn’t get to it. Maybe it’s playing in a band? Working at a coffee shop? Tossing fish at Pike Place Market? (Saint Anthony: It ain’t too late to return it to me.)

Worst Health Horror: My friend Lily getting cancer.

Best Parties I Attended: An ice cream social to celebrate the end of Lily’s chemo treatments, and an exceptionally fun and fruitful clothing swap.

Best Party I Threw: Mark’s surprise 40th birthday in Chicago. Thank you thank you to his wonderful college friends for being folks I’d want to be stuck on a desert island with. And that’s not only because two of them brew beer for a living.

Most-Often Repeated Sentence: “Mark just turned 40. Isn’t that so cute?”

Funniest Thing Said to Me: When I was wearing a long brown skirt, the work-husband said, “Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman called. She wants her skirt back.” Then I laughed my latte out my nose.

Best Dinner Out: At Next in Chicago the day before Mark’s 40th. The theme was childhood, which was fitting. One of the courses came to us in 80′s-era lunchboxes, complete with hand-written notes from our parents. A witty, fun, and delish dinner.

Best Lunch Out: The next day at Kuma’s Corner, despite how tragically un-tattooed and square I seemed there. Amazing scene, beer, burgers.

Best Party Mark and I Threw: Our Fourth Annual Kid-Free Holiday Party. Something about it this year was extremely excellent, likely the perfect blend of awesome friends and deeply toxic bourbon punch.

Worst Geographical Re-Appointment: Our beloved gaybors moving out of the house next door. Thankfully, they’re just a half-mile away, and they still pop by to deliver fresh-baked treats.

Best Geographical Re-Appointment: My frienda Brenda from college moving to California. She’s now just an hour’s drive away, and when we get together we’re magically 19 again. (Though my hang-overs remind me we aren’t.)

Another Person I’m So Happy Moved Here: My friend Mike’s not-so-much-a-kid kid brother. It brings Mike and his mother around much more often, giving me more opportunities to pretend I’m part of their most-excellent family.

Most Frustrating Unsolved Mystery: My series of weird symptoms (numbness, joint pain, sarcasm) that cropped up this summer, which doctor’s have still not been able to diagnose.

Best Nature Encounter: Seeing two immense bald eagles on a dock near our friends’ house on Bainbridge Island.

Worst Nature Encounter: Mistakenly sticking my hand in a puddle of bald eagle poo. Or as I like to call it, “endangered feces.”

Best Clothing Purchase: My silver leather biker jacket I got from a vintage shop in Sacramento. I couldn’t decide whether it was ridiculous or the most bad-ass article of clothing I’d ever own. I got a thumbs up from my frienda Brenda, then three older well-dressed women who walked into the store essentially said they’d beat me up in the parking lot if I didn’t buy it. Thanks, ladies, for looking out for my fabulouslessness.

Saddest Hair Moment: Paige’s second-ever haircut which lopped off her baby curls.

Happiest Hair Moment: Connecting with my new hair diva, Jarrod, as a result of my former stylist selfishly moving to LA. I ADORE Jarrod. But beyond that, he’s given me an excellent hair year.

Best Freelance Gig: Working at Mamapedia, happily immersed in all things blog and mama-like.

Best Dumb-Ass Move: Taking out the side of my car in a parking garage.

Best Family Member I’ve Come to Know (and Love): Mark’s half-sis Ashley who moved to San Francisco. She’s a joy, and not just because she babysits.

Best Regularly-Scheduled Social Event: Does it mean I’m officially a middle-aged woman that I LOVE and look forward to my book group as much as I do?

Best Kids’ Books I Read: The Fairy Realm books (not to be confused with the atrocious and seemingly endless Rainbow Magic series) by Emily Rodda. Finally fairy-themed stories that are legit kid lit. The girls and I also loved Loveykins and Dahlia (which unfortunately appears to be out of print).

Longest—but Most Worthwhile—Book I Read: Anna Karenina. This is especially thrilling since I’m not always so good at finishing things. Check that off my bucket list! And I finished it yesterday, just in time for a fresh book in the new year.

Best New Tradition: Interviewing the girls on their birthdays.

Best Blog Post I Read (along with the rest of the universe): The Bloggess‘s metal chicken post.

Best motherload Blog Post: Hmmm. Not sure. I kinda liked the one about Karen the fish, and a lot of folks told me they liked Travel Don’ts. My gay husband was obsessed with my Principal Kate post.

Which brings me to…
Worst Travel Experience: My flight back from New York with the girls this summer. It’s a wonder I’ve left the house since.

And…
Best Thing We Won: The raffle at the school auction which resulted in our kindergartener Kate being principal of her school for the day. (She was brilliant and clearly has a future in school administration. Or the presidency.)

Best Brush with Celebrity: Having Alyssa Milano follow me on Twitter. But it’s really on accounta the fact that she and Mark are Twitter geek buds. (Yes, I too was surprised that she is a geek.)

Worst Week of Parenting: When Mark was in Australia for work and Kate refused to change her underwear. Oh how I wish I was kidding about that.

Best Volunteer Work I Expected to Hate: Raising money for Kate’s school.

Most Interesting Dinner Companions: My sister Judy’s Egyptian student friends. Oh, and Mark’s new uber rich genius friend is also pretty fascinating, if you like hearing personal anecdotes about everyone from Stephen Hawking to Jane Fonda.

Best TV Extravaganza: The royal wedding, and the royal spread set out by my angophilic friend, Sacha. Special thanks to Beatrice for wearing that absurd hat.

Catch ya in the rear view, 2011. Onward and upward in 2012, a year that appeals to me in its even-number-ness, but moreover for its fresh, shiny newness.

And big love to my dazzling husband and not-always-exhausting daughters for making even the most mundane days adventures.

P.S. I forgot to say how proud I am of my sister for losing over 60 pounds this year! (I guess this means you want those jeans back.)

P.P.S. I just walked through my house before some guests arrive and decided on my New Year’s resolution: That my children learn how to flush the toilet in 2012.

It was at morning drop-off. I’d hustled Kate into her classroom on time. Phew! I was dashing down the school’s front steps, dragging Paige by the hand with the frazzled determination of a working mom with one more kid to ditch before fighting commuter traffic into the city. And I saw a mom I kinda know standing there. She was waiting to lead a tour.

“How’re you surviving the holidays?” I called over my shoulder. This, I later realized, is my go-to seasonal greeting to other mothers.

“Eh,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ll be happy when it’s over. This isn’t my favorite time of year.”

It was not one of those eye-rolling oh-life-is-hectic-but-I’m-getting-it-all-done kinda responses. The reaction I realized I’d come to expect. My off-the-cuff question was the kind of quick check-in mamas often do at the holidays, back to school time, birthdays—when we’re feeling particularly taxed. These passing exchanges are sympathetic nods to each other. Our way of saying, I hear your life is crazy now, hang in there sister.

But this woman was clearly not referring to having too much shopping to do. She wasn’t feeling harried about having to juggle cookie-baking parties or get everyone packed for a ski trip. She wasn’t begrudging the maternal mayhem that’s often the necessary underpinning of busy, fun family times.

I’m not sure what makes her want the holidays to just be over—and that morning on the school steps wasn’t the time to find out. But several times since our brief exchange I’ve thought about her.

In fact, the next day we went to the San Francisco Ballet’s Nutcracker. It’s become a tradition between my sister, my niece, Kate, and me. And this year for the first time Paigey was old enough to come too.

Getting there was painful. Kate argued about wearing a dress. She refused to wear tights. She sat on the floor of her room crying, wailing, and miserable. I finally consented to letting her wear yellow and gray striped socks—the only ones she deemed comfortable. (Not a great look with a red dress and black flats.) We scrambled into the car late and tear-strewn, with me threatening to not take Kate in future years if she couldn’t get dressed. I’m guessing this isn’t the best way to manage a child with sensory issues around clothing.

But our fashion meltdown wore off somewhere between Oakland and San Francisco. The local all-Christmas radio station plus the pretzel snacks I’d grabbed took hold. And as we walked up the grand steps of the SF Ballet, fake snow flurries pumping out over the sidewalk, I got a deep hit of just how lucky we were to be there. That we live in this amazing cosmopolitan place. That we can afford this beautiful magical experience each year. That we are happy, healthy, and together, and spiffed up in our best winter coats—even if Kate’s socks were all wrong.

The thought of the mother at Kate’s school zipped through my head, and I took a big breath and exhaled before walking in. We are here, I thought, and this is so amazing. It was like the Ghost of Christmas Present came and tapped me on the shoulder. “Be here now,” she said. “Hug your daughters. Drink it in. Not everyone gets to do this.”

Message received.

A few nights later my sister had a Christmas party. Her huge Victorian was packed with adults, kids, food, dogs, a roaring fire in the fireplace. At one point Mark gave Paige a bite of the cookie he was eating. One of those Magic Cookie Bars with the graham cracker base, a mid-layer of chocolate, and walnuts on top. They scream of the the Bruno house circa 1979. And I love that my sister still makes them.

Within minutes Paige was in a crying fit. She was thrashing on the couch, yelling that her tongue felt funny and that she wanted water. I somehow attributed her behavior to the late hour and the crowd. But then I realized it was the nuts. Weeks earlier she’d had an encounter with walnut oil and her lip swelled up. D’oh!

Before swallowing the full dose of Benadryl, she barfed everywhere. And I had a full dose of maternal guilt for having ignored the earlier warning sign.

Poor lamb. I’d call her doctor first thing in the morning to schedule allergy testing.

In the meantime I took note of my visit from the Ghost of Christmas Puke. Seems impossible to get through the holidays without him stopping by.

On Wednesday we went to my friend Lily’s house to make gingerbread houses. It was super fun and the holiday huts turned out swell. I even managed to not micro-manage the girls’ design choices! And the kids didn’t slip into diabetes-induced comas from all the candy they horked down while decorating (eat one, stick one to the house, eat two…). We took this as a small victory.

But the biggest victory no one even talked about was that Lily just had her last radiation treatment. After a brutal year of surgery, chemo, radiation, and endless doctor visits, she is DONE. Officially out of the woods. Yee-ha!

I’d sent her flowers with a note that said, “Thank freaking God that’s over.” It was one of those embarassing-to-recite-to-the-florist messages, but one that needed sayin’.

As I watched Lily help her kids shellack their house’s roof with frosting—rocking her fabulous wig with the style and beauty only she could—I noticed The Ghost of Christmas Past stroll behind her, then slip out the door, taking Lily’s crappy year with him. I’ve never been happier to see someone go.

Let’s keep that cancer stuff in the past, shall we? On to a happy and healthy new year.

In fact, we’ve had our own health scare around here. A close family member went through a series of tests that all seemed to be pointing in a very bad direction. But suddenly, the last most rottenly invasive—but decisive—test came back negative. Clean. Nada, zip, zilch.

Perhaps you heard me letting out an all-body phew when I got that call?

Can I say THAT really knocks things into perspective? Your shopping may not be done, and the star on your tree might be missing, but someone called and said “the test came back negative.”

That’s all the gifts I need, thanks. The garland on my mantle may be a bit bedraggled, but the things that matter in life are a-okay.

And really, my garland is actually quite perfect.

But thank you, thank you, Ghost of Christmas Yet to Be, for that mega-dose of things-could-be-worse. But they are thrillingly, blessedly, not. In fact, they are most excellent, with clear sailing ahead.

Knock wood.

It’s nearly dinnertime on Christmas day. After an abundant morning of gift-opening, we headed out with the girls and Mark’s parents for a hike in the Redwood forest. And my geek-chef husband is about to remove our free-range, organic, fancy-pants turkey breast from the immersion circulator. (Ah yes, just like mom used to make.)

I am not someone who’ll be happy when the holidays are over. For that I am eternally grateful.

Throughout these past couple weeks I’ve been sending out little wishes to that mama I talked to on the steps of Kate’s school. Here’s to hoping she enjoyed the holidays more than she thought she would this year.

Merry Christmas, y’all.

To which I answered, “We don’t actually celebrate Hanukkah. Whoever might have given you that idea?”

She and I smiled down at Paige, who practically started whistling and kicking the dirt to look all innocent.

My friend Shira just wrote a sweet, funny blog post for my day job about growing up Jewish in a Christmas-hyped world. My daughter will likely blog some day about her unfulfilled childhood longings for latkes and dreidel play, and how she’d tear through her stocking on Christmas mornings hoping to find chocolate gelt.

And really, as a wanna-be Jew myself, I totally appreciate where Paige is coming from. In fact, this week I nearly ran away with a Klezmer band.

Sure, lots of people have chosen to follow The Dead, or become rock groupies. And really, who hasn’t read—and loved—Pamela Des Barre’s classic I’m With the Band?

But me? I want to throw caution to the wind and go on the road with a band that plays traditional Hebrew music dating back to Biblical times. Now THAT is hot, people. That’s how I’m plotting my rebellion.

And sure, it helps that one of my most beloved friends is the front man for them. They’re exuberant, joyful, funny, quirky—and alternately pretty deep and sorrowful. But before I start to sound like a music reviewer (and fail miserably at it), I’ll just say that the music they make draws you in, makes you clap, chuckle, stomp your feet, and belt out verses like “Oy yoy yoy yoy yoy!” And somehow, without even knowing what 90% of the words mean, you feel totally connected and a part of it.

Trust me, it’s good stuff.

I saw the band play Thursday night in Berkeley and was so fired up I decided to take Kate to their Saturday night gig. Which was an hour and a half away. And started at her bedtime.

But if as a parent you have ever had a moment of feeling like what you are doing is so exactly the thing you should be doing with your child, even though in all practical ways it seems totally wrong, well Saturday night was just that for me.

Kate spent the day yammering on to her dolls (and anyone else who’d listen) about “going to my first concert.” When we arrived, she marveled at the modest, rural community center, “I think this place is a mile long!” She played foos-ball with the drummer backstage. And when she saw Lorin walk up to the mic and start singing, I thought she’d levitate off her seat with bliss.

Even when I poured her exhausted, rumpled body into the car for the long, late-night drive home, part of me thought, “Let’s just drive on to L.A.! Let’s tap into more of that amazing, addictive energy! Let’s start writing set lists and chanting at encores for Mermaid’s Avenue.”

Oh, I wanted to oy yoy yoy all the way down to Disney Hall. But instead I drove home, tucked Kate into bed, and satisfied myself by watching them play tonight on the Conan show. My special band on TV for the whole world to see.

Here it is, less than a week away from Christmas and Mark and I have still not figured out what to buy poor Paigey. So Mark, in all his brilliant practicality, asked her yesterday what she wanted. And without batting an eyelash she made her pronouncement: “I want a menorah.”

Well then, of course. So as soon as I hit ‘Post’ here I’ll be going onto Amazon to find one. (Is that even where one buys a menorah? I’m such a hopeless goy.)

Yes, I think Paige has made her point loud and clear. The next time I pack up Kate and hit the road to follow a Klezmer band, I’ve got to make room for one more groupie.

But instead, she was from hell.

She squirmed. She whined. She sat up straight (at my repeated urgent requests), then slid down the padded booth under the table and onto the floor. And she didn’t take a single bite of her food.

If my mood at the time were to be reflected in some physical manifestation it would have been an immense dark mushroom cloud of anger bursting forth through the top of my head. Or perhaps a giant volcano erupting and spewing hot lava, sending innocent onlookers running.

Yeah, I wasn’t so pleased.

And the fact that we were sitting next to a cute couple who were attempting to conduct an adult conversation only underscored Paige’s wretched behavior. Our table-neighbor and her husband were discussing how to manage his aging mother, while Paige lay prone across the booth extending her arms overhead and kicking her legs. The guy would be mentioning something about their holiday shopping list and Paige would bellow at me, “I don’t WANT black beans!”

If before walking into the restaurant those two were planning to have kids, I’m guessing they’ve since had a change of heart.

At one point, in an effort to distract Paige from wreaking further havoc, I asked her if she knew how Santa managed things up at the North Pole. It seems absurdly old school—keeping paper lists instead of, say, a database—but my concerns about his outdated work infrastructure aside, I explained it all to Paige.

Me: “So Santa keeps two lists, you know. One is of all the nice children, and one is of all the naughty ones. Which list do you think you are on?”

Paige: “NAUGHTY!”

Me: [aghast] “Well you know, Paige, the children on Santa’s Naughty List don’t get any toys.”

Paige: “Yes they DO! Santa gives naughty kids LOTS of toys!”

Me: [weakly smiling at the couple near us] “Um. I think it’s time for us to head home…”

I love this time of year. During the holidays my life credo of “you get out of something what you put into it” goes into full play. So I work hard to bake perfect cookies, I slave over decorating our wreaths and trees just so, and I even take care with how I wrap presents, tying pretty bows on each one. Alas, the behavior of my children is far more difficult to quality-control.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: All that stuff isn’t what Christmas is really all about. What a neurotic, control-freak perfectionist. But that’s not totally true. Or at least I don’t want you to judge me, or think that about me. What I’m saying is, I’d like to control what you think about me too.

And to hear Paige—who I really don’t think people would ever describe as bratty (even when I wasn’t controlling what they say)—but to hear her boastfully claim a spot on The Naughty List, then smugly assert she’d still get toys-a-plenty from Santa? Whoa, that really chapped my lips. Or put a bur in my saddle shoes. Or whatever that expression is.

Did the thought cross through my mind that I would not give her. One. Single. Present? Just to prove her wrong? Oh yes, you bet your little lump of coal it did.

But lucky for her, I’m not that heartless.

Last week I bought some discounted vouchers to get two personalized letters from Santa that’ll be sent to the children on official North-Pole-lookin’ stationery. Although it seems a smidge consumerish to spend money on faux Santa correspondence—instead of just writing something myself and sticking it in the mail to our address—I knew the girls would be thrilled by it.

In this special limited-time window where the girls still “believe” why not have some fun with it? Use every opportunity to max out the magic?

Last year at our friends’ house on Christmas Eve they had a website up showing a Doppler-like video tracking Santa’s progress across the globe. Kate asked me about that the other day. Since we’re hosting the friends at our house this year, she was sad thinking we wouldn’t be able to see it.

So cute! This innocence doesn’t extend to the teen years, I hear.

Anyway, I went to this Santa Letter website to see what all I’d actually bought. Turns out it’s a package that includes a personalized letter from Santa (with North Pole envelope), a personalized wish list, and a personalized NICE LIST CERTIFICATE.

This, as you might imagine, GALLS me. After her maddening take on this whole subject she’s now going to get some fancy, frame-worthy certification of her very special place on Santa’s Nice List?

Here I was trying to keep the magic alive. But once this document arrives in the mail I’m afraid it’s going to become crystal clear to Paige that this whole Santa thing is just a big fat hoax.

Yesterday as I grabbed Paige’s jacket at her preschool, I saw a row of poems the teachers had affixed above each child’s coat hook. And as I read Paige’s—my heart ablaze with pride and love—I had a maternal aha moment. A thought that rarely crosses my mind: I don’t have to do it all myself. Or more precisely, why do it all myself when I can enlist my child to do it for me?

I really think that child labor is under-utilized. It’s free! It’s there for the taking! And they don’t understand a thing about labor laws or minmum wage.

So then, to make up for my recent inability to cram blogging into my crazy-hectic days, I’ve enlisted the writerly stylings of my darling three year old, Paige. (She’s actually guest-blogged for me before.) Paige turns four next month, so I guess she’s really my three and eleven-twelfths year old. Whatever the case, at least I’m still not measuring her age in months. Am I the only one who hates hearing that someone’s child is 37 months old?

Whatever the case, you’re about to learn that Paige feels much older than her years anyway.

Here’s her above-her-coat-hook poem:

I am a flower.
I wonder if I can be a ballerina when I grow up.
I hear a snake hissing.
I see a baby tiger.
I want a treat from my Halloween candy.
I pretend I’m a baby tiger.
I feel like I’m a teenager.
I dream I’m purple.
I try to get my sister what she wants to do.
I am thankful for my big sister.
I am loving my big sister.
I am Paige.

If I get my act together in time for Christmas, I want to make a “sister” photo book for the girls with pictures of the two of them together. This poem screams out for inclusion in that book, don’t you think? Especially the part where submissive Little Sis Paigey tries “to get” her Big Sis “what she wants to do.”

I hope some day they’ll laugh about that, and not be processing it in a psychiatrist’s office.

Before heading out to a celebratory dinner (where Mark would drink expensive wine and I’d sip water), he gave me a present. We were in what would be the baby’s room, sitting on the floor. And Mark handed me a little turquoise box from a brilliantly-branded jewelry store. I think you know the place.

Inside it was a beautiful necklace—a platinum chain and a diamond solitaire pendant. I absolutely LOVED it.

Mark put it on me, and we sat there on the floor for a while, looking at the new crib and rocking chair and the pile of laundered, twice-rinsed baby clothes, marveling over how much our lives had changed in one year’s time.

Then Mark had to stand up and grab both my hands in order to pry me up off the floor.

Ah, good times.

A few weeks ago we went to Seattle. We had an amazing weekend with wonderful friends. We ate at great restaurants, got a private tour of Chihuly‘s studio, went for walks on the beach, and even saw two bald eagles up close and personal.

But somehow in the course of all that fun I lost my diamond necklace. And I’m just sick about it.

The thing is, I was insanely organized that weekend. Like even more so than usual. Our hosts don’t have children, so I tried my utmost to keep the sprawl of our stuff controlled. I folded clothes and placed them neatly back in our luggage. I paired shoes closely together and set them at the edge of our beds. I gathered wayward toothbrushes, detangling spray, and princess panties that had been flung around the bathroom and tucked everything away in its place.

So I’m not sure how that necklace got away.

Damn my recent growth spurt around accessorizing. A couple years ago I wouldn’t even HAVE another necklace to change into. But recently I’ve made an effort to mix things up a bit. I’ve bought some bold, statement-ish jewelry hoping to up my maternal style quotient.

All I know is that beloved diamond necklace went to Seattle and never came back.

This is the WORST feeling. That pit-in-your-stomach, beating yourself up, woulda coulda shoulda feeling.

The thing is I also know what it’s like to feel this way then to suddenly find the lost item and to snap out of it. To feel awash with sudden relief and renewed love for that once-lost thing. I keep hoping I’m at the brink of finding the necklace on the bottom of my toiletry kit (even though I’ve emptied it out and shook it upside down eight times now).

But as the weeks march on and it doesn’t turn up, I’m losing hope.

All this would be bad enough on its own, but a couple weeks before Seattle I pulled another regret-laden move. It was a rainy, stormy, low-visibility morning. I was driving to work in a crazy slew of traffic. My 20-minute drive took nearly an hour.

I finally arrived at the parking garage in downtown San Fran. Hurray! I made it in one piece.

But when I pulled into the garage and took a sharp right to get into the row of to-be-parked cars I heard a loud scraping sound. No, it was more like a crunching. I looked up to see that I’d hit the edge of the doorway—a wall covered with a black rubber bumper and bright yellow reflective tape.

I’m such an optimist that I hopped out of the car, hopeful that—despite the horrific crunch of metal—the damage wasn’t too bad. [Let me throw my head back here for some hearty rueful laughter.]  Yeah, well, no luck there. I pretty much took out the front passenger-side door AND the rear passenger-side door. Oh, and I scraped up the edge of the bumper too, just for good measure.

I’m not sure why I’m in this self-destructive mode. Maybe my moons are in retrograde? Or my insurance company is controlling my actions like a marionette? Maybe—despite my age, my marital and maternal status, and my professional standing—I’m still that irresponsible, reckless teen who crashed her car into a snow bank, lost her mother’s pearls, and had her Kelly green rugby shirt stolen because she didn’t lock her locker.

I don’t feel like that girl any more, but try as I will, maybe I just can’t shake her.

The other night at dinner Paige asked me to tell her a story about when I was “a little girl.” I find these requests both sweet and annoying. The egomaniac in me loves the invitation to hold court on my favorite topic: myself. But the tired old mom in me just wants to clear the dishes off the table and start running the bath water. Haggard Mom thinks summoning up some story to tell takes more energy than she has.

But egomania won out.

Me: “Okay, so when I was a little girl my mother used to save all the old stale cereal and crackers and bread that we didn’t eat. She’d put it in the trunk of her car. And whenever she drove past the golf course or the pond on Poppasquash Road she’d pull over and feed the old crackers and stuff to the ducks.”

Kate: [wild-eyed] “You’re not supposed to do that!”

Me: “What?”

Kate: “Feed bread to ducks! We just learned this on our field trip. If ducks eat bread they get this disease where their wings get stuck like this [holds her arms straight out behind her]. Then they can’t fly!”

For some reason in my wrung out, end of the day, slaphappy mode, I found this utterly hilarious. And I started to laugh.

Kate: “No, Mom, it’s true! Their wings get like this [holds her arms out stiffly again]. It’s NOT FUNNY.”

And really, it’s not funny. But something about my daughter’s sweet earnestness, and something about how all those years my mother was trying to do something good but was essentially crippling the object of her affection—gave me a taste of how powerless we can be as we make our ways through the world. Try as we may to do the right thing, sometimes the universe conspires against us.

And like all people with militant beliefs, I work hard to instill them in my children. Call me old school, uptight, or etiquette-bound, but I want writing thank you notes to become second nature to my kids.

As it turns out, I have no need to worry. At least with my oldest child, Kate, who is a great maker of cards. A tremendous and relentless maker of cards. It’s somehow just in her genes, I guess. And I know that my mother—an ardent disciple of Emily Post—would approve.

Not all Kate’s cards are thank yous. No, she whips up cards for birthdays, sick friends, Valentine’s Day, the death of a pet. When she learned that Paige’s teacher broke his foot last year, she immediately dashed off a card. She made another to bid adieu to our dear gaybors the night before they moved. (Just a few blocks away, but we’re all still sick about it.)

The heart-shaped card she enclosed when we mailed Halloween candy to the troops said, “Dear soldiers, thak you for protecting the U.S.A. Soldiers rok! p.s. My name is Kate.”

(P.P. S. I told her how to spell ‘soldiers.’)

Kate made a card to welcome her pet fish, Karen. It’s hanging by the fishbowl in a spot, I assume, where Karen can easily read it. It says, “Dear Karen I hop you like your noo hom! Your onr Kate.”

The “your onr” line still slays Mark.

I admit, Kate’s thank you note routine has been a bit trying at times. Now that she can write—albeit with her school-condoned “creative spelling”—she’s not just doodling on the sea of notes that I churn out. She labors over each one. I’ll have a list of 20-plus gift-givers to get through and Kate will get hung up on one card for 15 minutes, cutting an elaborate snowflake decoration to enclose with it. I don’t want to stifle her creativity, but I do want to get the birthday thank yous out before we get snowed with the Christmas ones.

The contents of Kate’s notes range from the fascinating non sequitur variety—”Thanks for the book. I just had hot choklit!!”—to the brutally basic. To her great grandmother she recently wrote, “I put the muny in my banc akont.”

There are also the times when Kate’s spelling is inadvertently inappropriate. There was the series of cards that said, “Thak you for cuming to my party.”

Wince.

She wrote a thank you note to a neighbor who gave her magic markers. The pens, it turned out, were permanent ink. Mark and I discovered this after an art sesh left indelible marks on our dining room table.

The first draft of that note went something like, “Thank you for the magic markers. My mother took them away from me.”

I certainly want to encourage honesty, but I asked for a do-over on that one.

Today we were invited to an ice cream party. My friend Lily was celebrating the end of her chemotherapy (yay!), so she invited 60 friends, relatives, kids, and neighbors to her house for an old school ice cream social. It was the perfect fun lighthearted celebration to mark the end of a truly trying and terrible year.

Now, as you may know, I tend to be a rosy sunshiny, hide-the-bad-details-from-the-kids kinda mom. I’m the one who has assured a worried child there are no robbers in Oakland. I’ve gone so far as to brush off the notion that earthquakes could ever take place in the Bay Area. (“Here? Pishaw!”)

But when Lily got sick I didn’t sugarcoat it for my kids. They’d seen me sniffle and weep after bad-news phone calls, so they knew something was up. But that wasn’t why I was so unlike-me honest about it. The situation was so real and raw, I couldn’t fathom pretending it was something else. Something not so bad.

They knew Lily was sick. And I told them she had to take a kind of strong medicine that would make her hair fall out. And that the kind of sickness she had could be really scary and bad, which is why I cried about it sometimes—because I was scared. Because some people die from it.

So this morning as we got ready to go to the end-of-chemo ice cream party, Kate asked if she could make Lily a card. And I said, “Of course. She would love that.”

Then I got really curious to see what she would write. I half-expected the card to say, “Dear Lily, I’m happy you didn’t die.”

But my concerns were unfounded.

The card said:
“Dear Lily: I am igsided thet you dot hef to tace metsin eney mor!!!!!!!! love Kate!!!!”

Of course, I bawled when I saw it. I bawled about three different times before the party, and at least once more on the way home. I bawled because I think that in getting ready to celebrate this bad hard part being over, in giving into relief, I opened some door inside myself and big blasts of how scared I’ve been snuck out too.

I was totally projecting when I thought of what Kate’s card to Lily might say. The thing that I wanted to say if I weren’t an adult and didn’t know better that it was too bracingly honest: “Please please please kick this cancer in keister. I love you so much my dear, and I really don’t want you to die.”

Because the fact is, she’s not totally out of the woods. Today’s party was like a milestone pit stop. A celebration that the end of the woods are now at least in sight.

It was a glorious sunshiny day. There was a Mickey Mouse jumpy house in full swing in the back yard. We arrived early, but before we knew it their big home was buzzing with friends chatting and laughing, kids running past our legs holding cups of ice cream.

Amidst all those people and all their talking I’m nearly certain no one actually said aloud that they’re relieved that Lily is here and alive and nearly almost altogether well. We didn’t have to. Today what we had to do was eat ice cream.