Recently in The Holidays Category

The most socially acceptable medium for showing off one's kids seems to be the holiday photo card. I mean, it beats the expense, travel, trauma--and let's face it, limited exposure--of the child pageant circuit.

My sister Judy always calls in any feedback she's gotten about our cards, which is nice. She covers off on some of the "what cute kids!" compliments that I might otherwise miss out on.

Judy's best friend Lindelle, who lives on the East Coast, apparently called her last year at 5AM California time squealing about Kate's posed-by-the-fir-tree innocent beauty. (Despite the two plus decades Judy's been out here Lindelle has not yet caught on to--or simply decided to ignore--the time difference.) Good Auntie that Judy is, she was willing to take the call despite the early hour, in order to thoroughly process and discuss all elements of the card. (And that's just one reason why they're from-womb-to-tomb friends.) 

Judy called in her report about this year's card a couple weeks ago. Blah blah blah Kate is pretty. And apparently word on the street is that Paigey's a ringer for our mom. When I shared this with Mark, he claimed he'd been hearing that Paige is a wee version of him.

In either case, both these comments set off my internal awww meter.

But then with further reflection--and a dash of neuroses--it got me wondering. If Paige looks like my mother and Mark, then Mark looks like my mother, right? So does that mean that in some short-circuited Electra-like Complex I married my, uh, mother? And then, did my mother and I give birth to a female baby who looks like my shoulda-been husband?

It's all just too frightening and confusing.

Maybe next year we'll just send out cards with pictures of Santa. 

A few weeks ago while getting a mani/pedi I picked up some should've-been-too-ashamed-to-read-it-in-public mag. You know, something that makes Us read like The New Yorker. And nearly instantly all of my being was sucked into a story about how Mariah Carey--a celebrity I've utterly NO interest in (or so I thought)--spends Christmas.
  
Since I know you too are now desperate to hear just how Mariah rocks around her Christmas tree, I'll share some highlights.

The girl says she's all about traditions. Every year when her jet lands in Aspen, she insists her waiting limo has Christmas tunes cranked, and she pops some bubbly for the ride to her home, which Martha-like elves have already decorated. Then off to the slopes? No, no! Too chilly there! Instead she spends at least one day lolling about trying on clothes--figuring out just what she'll sport on Santa's big day. (Though I think even Kate could tell her it'll be some variant of her Spandexy micro-mini 'n stilettos uniform.) She packs the house with all manner of joyous relatives and friends, and her shopping is both excessive and last-minute, leaving her up nearly all night Xmas Eve wrapping the pressies old school, yo. Unfortunately her personal hand-wrapping results in her sleeping through most of Christmas Day, which she admits is hard on the children. Despite her pleas otherwise, her posse waits for her to wake up to open presents. ("Okay kids! It's 4PM and Auntie Mariah got out of bed. Now you can open your stockings!")

There was more, but really. It was all I could do to not to lean over, spread my knees, and barf into the warm water basin my feet were soaking in.

I mean come on, people. Who doesn't give their limo driver Christmas off?

Despite me not getting my diva on with quite the same excessitude as Mariah, Christmas Chez McClusky this year was indeed quite splendid.

It being a time of wonder and such, here are a few of my own holiday discoveries. (Best for me to jot down some reflections before a Woman's Day writer tracks me down for a big story next year.)

It's amazing the impact one mention of Jesus from the old neighbor lady can have on a 3-year-old from a non-religious family (i.e. us). "Is Baby Gee-ziz sleeping in that little box, Mama? Is there birthday cake for Baby Gee-ziz? Does Baby Gee-ziz have a lamby?" For the love of God, Kate!

Odds are we're the only family with a chicken mask as an angel on top of our tree. Which may be a good thing.

Even after 9 years my husband can write something in a card that makes me cry. (Happy tears, that is.) What's staggering is he pulled this off twice this Christmas.

Paige sat by the tree on Christmas morning laughing and clapping her hands like a little tin toy monkey. It's incredible that I've managed to resist devouring her.

New friends who feel like old friends are a gift indeed. We spent a warm wine-drenched Christmas Eve with dear friends who we didn't even know last year.

You know your the-economy-sucks plans to hold back on shopping failed when you find yourself imploring your child to stop playing with her new toys so she can unwrap her scads of remaining pressies.

Sometimes the cheap-o stocking stuffers--like the clear rubber ball filled with water and sparkly green glitter--are the super-fun sleeper gifts that even the adults can't help but obsess over.

Thanks to a Christmas-gift book, we've all fallen in love with a duck named Lemon, who we're now corresponding with via email. Go figure.

I helped Paige tear the paper off a gift from Mark's sis and her family. A hardcover book entitled Until Proven Innocent: Political Correctness and the Shameful Injustices of the Duke Lacrosse Rape Case. Now, I hold out every hope that Miss Paigey will be an early and avid reader, but the subject matter of this particular volume seemed a bit, well, off for the wee gal. (She's much more a tennis person than lacrosse if you ask me.) Anyway, turns out Amazon screwed up, leaving us to imagine a 65-year-old attorney opening a Fisher-Price plush bowling set and wondering what the fuck his brother had been thinking.

My husband can cook circles around your husband. Proven once again by the amazing pork roast he prepared sous-vide. 

Hands down the best bad Christmas song is Dominick the Donkey. Thanks to the streaming holiday music channel, Mark, Kate, and I are all possessed by the verses, "Hey! Chingedy ching. (hee-haw, hee-haw) It's Dominick the donkey! Chingedy ching. (hee-haw, hee-haw) The Italian Christmas donkey!" Sheesh.

Our friend Dave carried Kate on his shoulders for much of our yearly Christmas hike--running in circles, bumping her up and down, and causing her to screech with non-stop glee despite the whipping winds and Arctic-to-us cold. You can't help but love your own children, but watching your friends treat them with silly gregarious happy love is a deeply good tonic indeed.

And with no relation to the holiday whatsoever, yesterday I managed to solve the damned Changing Table Problem, whereby once you lay Paige down she grabs the stack of clean diapers and starts winging them across the room like a Frisbee-throwing machine (or the paperboy in that old video game you maybe used to play). Yesterday, in what turned out to be a "the obvious answer ain't always the most evident" situation, I simply moved the wipes to where the diapers were and the dipes out of reach where the wipes used to be. (Duh!) I'm not sure what's more troubling: that it took weeks of Mark and I running interceptions on flying diapers before I cracked this case, or the fact that this New Changing Table World Order will improve the quality of my life to a staggering extent. (Just more clues that it might be time to go back to work.)
 
Mariah be damned. Our homey Oakland Christmas was divine and I wouldn't change a thing about it. My only regret being that now that it's over I won't be able to leverage good "Santa's watchin'" behavior out of Kate any more. At least not for another 10 months or so.

It's so funny how some parts of the country find other parts of the country totally random. I mean, everyone in California who's asked me what we've done for Thanksgiving--who I've told we went to Kentucky--has found that so utterly bizarre.

I've gotten everything from, "Kentucky, eh?" to "Who or what is in Kentucky?" to the more blatant, "Why the hell where you there?"

The thing is, to people living in Kentucky, it's not random at all. And when you're there, surrounded by verdancy and horse farms and nearly pickled in good bourbon, it seems like the only place on earth. Plus all the women do that great thing where they lambaste someone for gaining weight or being married to a loser or wearing the wrong lipstick color, then tack on a "bless her heart" to the end of their insult. It's like this instant karmic re-do that takes away the meanness of whatever catty comment you hissed behind someone's back.

It's brilliant really.

So here it's over a week past Thanksgiving and finally I've scrounged together a few minutes to reflect on all that this hand-tracing turkey-drawing stay-at-home mother is thankful for.

For all those who couldn't imagine what we'd ever be doing in Kentucky for the holidays, the answer is attending the legendary Miller Family Thanksgiving (patent pending). Us and some 24 other attendees. This year it was hosted by Mark's wonderful Aunt Terry, who we just love silly.

Early on in Mark and my relationship--back when my desire to stave of my pattern of serial monogamy made Mark fearful of using the term 'relationship' with me--we made an unspoken but gravely respected pact about holidays. July 4th was mine, and we spent it in Bristol. Thanksgiving was his, and we spent it with whomever from his mom's family was hosting.

No exceptions. No substitutions.

Luckily, both events have never failed to offer exceptional family time and entertainment value, along with an excessive dose of food and alcohol. We both look forward to these holidays immensely even though lugging two children to them these days threatens to test our loyalty. (The fact is, kids or not, we'd walk across hot coals to get to there, though it'd be Mark who'd be humping all our luggage across his back and I'd just be pushing the girls along in the stroller.)

And after one week in Kentucky--yes, you crazy Californians we even spent a whole week there!--I'm not annoyed, bitter or resentful of the thing it is that Mark takes me to. In fact, I enjoyed myself thoroughly, thank you. And feel blessed to be part of such an amazing family as the Miller clan. (And please don't take my use of the word 'clan' in the wrong way, people. Sure we were in the South, but these folks all voted for Obama, okay?)

So where was I? Oh, the Millers. Yes, even if they do like to look at a lot of pictures of themselves, then take pictures of themselves looking at pictures and play slideshows of those pictures ("Here we were yesterday after dinner, looking at the photo albums...")--even with that, this is a rare breed of family who truly enjoys being together. And who makes a mean corn pudding.  

When in Lexington we stayed with Mark's childhood friend Ewa (pronounced EV-ah) who is a brilliant doctor, wonderful mother, and a sheer delight--all this and she shares my Polish heritage, so what's not to love?

Ewa and her also-a-doc husband recently completed construction on and moved into a lovely megalithic horse country mansion. We were thrilled not only to be able to see it, but to have our two daughters help them break it in.

Driving there late on the night we arrived was honestly a bit freaky to me. I mean, this is COUNTRY people. No street lights. Long silent horse pastures surrounded by those white wooden fences. Not a homeless man rattling past with a shopping cart for miles and miles--counties even. I mean, this was decidedly NOT Oakland.

But once I shook off my freak-out I settled in nicely to the regal splendor of pitch dark silent nighttimes in the manor. Ultimately the effect was as calming to my hyper persona as 75 deep-breathing and om heavy yoga classes. Though maybe it was all the bourbon that helped me sleep so well.

Despite all the house in the house we were in, we weren't the only guests, so Mark and I and the girls were piled into one room together. Something I was a tinge fearful of in terms of our collective ability to get shut-eye, but which worked out swimmingly.

And one night, when we'd gotten back from Aunt Terry's late, we settled both the girls down and Mark crawled into bed. I was taking my time brushing my teeth and such, even flipping through a Sports Illustrated of Mark's, hoping to find some celebrity trash--enjoying a rare moment of aloneness. Finally ready to get in bed myself, I turned out the bathroom light and cracked the door into the bedroom to tiptoe in.

As I crawled into bed and snugged in, from the deep country silence I could hear the measured beats of Mark and Kate and Paige's slow sleep breathing. It made me so happy--so supremely blessed and thankful for my wonderful little family--that I could have almost cried.

Here we were, surrounded by a mega mansion, but happily camped out together in one room. I thought of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, of how that poor family lived together in a wee cramped house--even all sleeping in the same bed. If we weren't blessed with all that we have, and we just had each other and one room to sleep in, with this family of mine I'd be content. More than anything in the world, I am thankful thankful thankful for this sweet wonderful little family.

And now here we are a week later, with holiday madness well established and my ability to get back to that happy sleepy place often compromised. In fact, right now I hear Mark wrangling on the phone with a customer service rep about a tie and cummerbund that was supposed to arrive today. Although I know he's in a fury over it, how silly lucky we are to have such problems.  

I know it's late to the game to send my Thanksgiving reflections out to the universe. But I figure it's in line with the timing of all my other thank yous these days. Despite how it tarnishes the good etiquette my mother beat into--I mean, raised me with--an ungodly amount of time always seems to pass these before I get my thank you notes out the door.

I'd use my two small kids as an excuse, but I know that's really no reason for poor manners. Unfortunately I just haven't been able to make giving thanks my priority these days.

Bless my heart.

Last week Shelley was telling me about a woman who'd been inside her house for the first time. She was doing a carpool drop-off I think, or maybe she was a new friend. Anyway, this woman was admiring Shelley's grandma's china that's in a cabinet in their living room. And as she stepped away from the huge case of cherished breakables, she pointed out that Shell really should rein the cabinet into the wall, or one small quake could send it and all Grannie's priceless pink flowered table settings to garbage can heaven.

(This is a concern when you live in NoCal. You can't even hang pictures over your bed--or especially a baby crib--since one wee tremor could have them dive off the wall and turn sleeping Junior into Flat Stanley. Or worse yet, rain down glass shards over yourself or your offspring like New Year's Eve confetti on Times Square.)

So anyway, Shelley must have said something like, "Yeah you are totally right, but as the First Lady of a time-sucking winemaking business, with three kids, a big house to manage, and the onset of a new job twinkling in my eye, who's got the time?"

A few days later the woman called Shelley. "So I've got my drill charged up and I'm free next Tuesday, Wednesday or Friday afternoon. When can I come by and bolt that china cabinet to the wall?"

Now, just how much do you want this carpool woman to be your best friend? The offer of such a kind favor aside, I just love that she's got her own drill and she ain't shy about using it.

Fast forward to today. I'm leaving a little day spa where I've just lost 2 pounds in eyebrow hair and I'm wrangling to set up my stroller while holding Little Miss Earache in one arm. I happen to glance down the street and this ancient fragile looking woman is approaching, and she's managing to somehow drag behind her an oxygen tank that she's hooked up to. I didn't know whether to be sad for her weakened state, or happy that she's at least not letting it stop her from getting out in the world.

And as I look back at my stroller and revert my thoughts to sending a pox-curse on the village of the owners of MacLaren (why do those visors always eventually irreparably schlump?), Wee Decrepit Woman on Oxygen comes up to me and says, "What can I do for you, dear? Let me give you a hand." And even though at that point I'd finally gotten my sidewalk catastrophe act together, it was all I could do to not give her a teary-eyed osteoporotically-bone-crushing hug, then send her to my house to iron Mark's shirts.

Though I don't really know that that's what she had in mind.

Even with His Holiness Obama blessedly elected into office, here we all are at the intersection of Economic Infrastructure Meltdown and Holiday Shopping Stress. And despite how much I want a really fabulous pair of brown high-heeled boots (and black ones too) this Christmas, it seems that along with everyone else I've spoken to, this season of giving is going to be coming more from the heart than from Bloomingdale's. I think an act of kindness will be this year's jewel-toned cashmere scarf, and really it's a shame that it took Wall Street shitting the bed to wake us all up to the fact that that's how it really should be anyway.

So take out that Excel spreadsheet with all your gift-buying ideas on it (wait, not everyone keeps that in Excel?), and whether or not you have the cash to buy every last person matching his and hers hot air balloons, consider what you can do instead of get. Rake your sister's leaves, deliver a tray of gin and tonics to your neighbor right when they get home from work, or set aside some time to organize your cousin's linen closet. I assure you, they will delight in those gifts far more than the Hammacher Schlemmer heated gloves that they're just going to keep in in a box in their basement for four years until they give them away to Salvation Army.

And when I'm at your house next and seem to be spending an excessive amount of time in your bathroom, no need to slide the sports section (and some air freshener) under the door. I'm likely just scrubbing the grout around your bathtub with some bleach and a toothbrush.

Merry Christmas!