Because it really is personal…

There now, it’s all better and we can breathe because for 362 more days we can think about other things.

I am one of these people who seem to refuse the concept of “growing up”. I lay awake almost the entire night before Christmas, even though I have convinced myself (almost) that it isn’t necessary. Then I spent the entirety of Christmas Day feeding myself all manner of junky foods and smoked almonds and crab dip. Calories go on vacation Christmas Day, doncha know.

At 2 am, laying there listening to the gentle snoring of the clean-concienced Sweet Daddio, I try to remember what the whole concept of Christmas is supposed to involve. That for me, a White Angle Saxon Protestant Born in the US of A, Christmas on December 25 is based on the appeasement of the heathens by early Christian missionaries to Europe. See, the heathens always had a big party on the Winter Solstice (Dec. 21-ish), and they were loathe to give up this event that made Winter bearable. So the Christian Missionaries said “Well whadya Know! Christ was born right about this time, and since nonya heathens can read the Bible and tell us we’re wrong, we’ll just take your pagan festivities and clean them up a bit and call it Christ’s Birthday!” Well, sounds good to me, wrapping up 2 parties into one- saves on crab dip expenditures and booze and all.

So there I was at 2 am Christmas morning, thinking about celebrating Jesus’s birthday and what it meant for God to come down to our level as a human bean, and how He didn’t actually have to do that, He could just wave his hand and make it all however He wanted to. But He knew that love forced was love pointless, so He let us be the ones to decide. Thus came Jesus, a humble man from very humble beginnings, who wanted nothing more than to show us the Way, the Truth, and the Life, but wanted us to come to Him on our terms, freely and by our own informed decision.

Then, I heard ominous rumblings from the downstairs, hissing noises as well, that sounded something like “SHHHH Mom said not to get her up before 5 am! SHHH” I mentally opined that I was dreaming, that my good and obedient boy-children were sleeping quietly in their beds whilst I was laying in mine thinking of religious philosophy.

More hissing and rumblings. I hear something that sounds like “I bet it’s 5 am somewhere..”

A dog barks.

Then…”WOOHOO! WOO! HOO! IT’S 5AM!WOO!”

The grandparents stagger bleary eyed, since they operate on Central Time and we live in Eastern. The mother sighs patiently, and brushes her teeth whilst listening to the boy-children run up and down the stairs in eager anticipation of they-know-not-what. Sweet Daddio, fresh eyed from a solid night’s sleep, takes command and puts one child to work distributing presents while the other children hop up and down and the other adults attempt to simultaneously assimilate coffee and gift boxes. Someone, somehow, has the presence of mind to put 2 loaves of cinnamon pecan bread in the oven.

Less than an hour later, the RipandShred bit is over. Remind me never to get that lovely shiny mylar wrapping paper. You can’t rip it, and if you are an overzealous wrapper like me, you tape the hell out of it and no one can get their packages opened quickly, resulting in much gnashing of teeth and rolling of eyeballs. Note to Self: Get paper paper.

So the rest of the day is spent in various ways, depending on the personality. Some of us eat. I have made sure that eats are a-plenty. There is crab dip, peach cheeseballs, assorted pickles and crudites, cream cheese and pepper jelly, multitudinous boxes of crackers and crunchies, a crock pot full of those silly little sausages and bbq-jelly sauce. There are juices, sodas, and an unlocked liquor cabinet. There are dog biscuits and ham and iced tea, coffee, and a big pitcher of this odd concoction no one seems to like but me (ginger ale, sparkling grape juice, cranberry juice). I think it’s quite refreshing but everyone else, culinary philistines they are, gave it the hairy eyeball and opted for Sprite.

So now it’s 2 days later. Most of the trash is picked up, one of the gift cards has been partially redeemed (Bath and Body Works….loaded up on Warm Vanilla Sugar now I smell just like a cookie mmmmmm)and the ham has been reduced to a small pile of slices and a sad looking bone. The boys have figured out the minutia of X-Box controls, and I have plowed through 3 of the discs of Little House On The Prairie Season 3. Sweet Daddio has returned to work.
Life will return to ‘normal’ on January 4. We have a Christmas Part the Second upcoming in a couple of days, when Sweet Daddio’s parents pay us a visit.

What I am really REALLY wanting, is a Christmas sans visitors. It’s kind of selfish, I know. My mom told me Sunday how much she appreciated us having them over for the holiday. Christmas is a big deal to my mom. Not the presents and stuff, but the enforced familial good cheer. She didn’t have much of that growing up. Consequently I feel a certain obligation that sometimes I wish I didn’t have. I’d like for them to take a cruise Christmas. Or go somewhere exotic. So I can have a Christmas in my jammies with just the hubby and the kids and absolutely NO requirements or duties. Except crab dip, but that’s just because I want to,not because I have to.

Alrighty then! I’ve finally come up with a menu for Christmas Dinner. Christmas Eve dinner, actually I mean, who the hell wants to cook a big complicated meal on Christmas Day when your kids got you up at 3 am and by 3:30 are ready for breakfast? not this white girl.

Here’s how it works here. My father’s birthday is Christmas Eve, so I cook a big meal for him, something complicated and gourmet that he’d never in a million years get from anyone else. Having done that, I am relieved of the obligation to do it again anytime before January 6 (Sweet Daddio’s birthday). So sometime Christmas eve, whilst deep in the preparations of said meal, I throw together a pan of homemade sweet rolls and stick them in the fridge. Then, before opening presents, I throw them in the oven. By the time the last paper is shredded and the last screech of delight is screeched, the rolls are done and we can eat and have coffee like civilized persons. Later that morning- 9 or 10-ish, SD puts together a brunch of steak and eggs or hash and eggs or something heavy and cholesterol rich. We have that with mimosas, because a nice mimosa will calm the kiddies. Then we spend the rest of the day, and even into the following day, eating cheeseballs and spinach dip.

So, after much visiting to Epicurious, I have concocted a menu for me dad:

Grilled pork tenderloin with orange-chipotle sauce
Orange-jicama-avocado salad
roasted winter vegetables
creamed spinach (for to gross out the kids)
pecan pie

a bottle of Goats Do Roam rose’

NOw I have to go to the store, fight overweight women in stretch pants for the last box of frozen spinach, and wrestle a buggy with a gimpy wheel. SD will be with me, tho, and that makes up for all manner of emotional shortcomings. He can always be counted on for a carefully veiled editorial comment.

I am mulling over the captions. They’re all good!

After being GONE and Utterly Out Of Touch for 2-1/2 days, #1 appeared in his bed sometime before 6am this morning. We kind of decided if something bad happened to him, we’d hear from the police.

Ok Ok…When my kids were little, like 6 or 9 or some pre-pubescent age, I would never have imagined being able to let a kid run feral for nearly 3 days. I would have plotzed first. Now that I have a 17 year old, I have come to the conclusion that there isn’t a whole hell of alot I can do about it. I mean, we have his car keys, he has no income, so what can he do? Alot, it would seem. Enough to keep him busy for so long.

Would I like him to stay home once in a while, and be civil and participate in the general functioning of the family unit? Yes. Can I force him to? No.

The good news is, he’s up and in the shower at this hour of 5 pm. This means he’s functioning. Maybe he’ll eat supper with us?

It’s funny how perceptions change. As long as a person is living in the house, there is the expectation that he will participate in activities. Once he moves out, that expectation changes, to a hope that he will occasionally (once a week, or so) drop in for a meal. I think we are gradually inching toward that level of expectation.

I spent today doing my very favorite thing to do by myself: fiddling with photographs on my lovely lovely computer and its lovely lovely photo editing software. Gosh I love to play like that.

A chicken dish will be named after the contestant who comes up with the best caption for this photo.

#1, whilst wandering around the house and keeping half an eyeball on “What Not To Wear”, announced to the air in general, “Man, I Needa Haircut”. So, seizing the moment since it only happens once in every 2 or 3 years, I snatched up the phone and called Sherry at “Shears to You” and begged an audience.

I hustled #1 into the car before he had time to think twice about it, and took him to the little shop next to El Sombrero for The Mane event. I sat outside in the pleasant sunshine, stickering up a calendar with #4 whilst #1 met with Sherry for a whole-head makeover. Suddenly the door flies open and a grim looking Sherry comes out and says “all he’ll tell me is to make it shorter. Since I can’t possibly make it longer, I have to make it shorter and if I don’t get some guidance I’m just gonna shave it up one side and down the other and he won’t be allowed to complain because it really will be shorter just like he asked for.” Then she said “I showed him a book of mens styles and he just glazed over and mumbled.” So I took a look at the book and said “here, this one.”, a slightly shaggy longish but not too long cut. And he looks great, about 5 years older, a little polished, a little urban and sophisticated. You’da thought Ms. Sherry cut his hair with a cattle prod, with all the whining and mumbling that he perpetrated afterward.

Now if we can just get him a job.

Roast Beast for dinner, with a crust of horseradish, kosher salt, cracked pepper, and olive oil. Served with individual sized Yorkshire puddings and beef gravy. Also with steamed melange of cauliflower and carrots, sprinkled generously with fresh chopped parsley. All prepared by a well lubricated hausfrau and her tall cold glass of vodka and cranberry juice. Be it noted that the kitchen is smoking up as the roast is being roasted at a high 475 degree roasting point. Makes for a good juicy roast if not a smoky kitchen and whiny children.

Wrapping and buying and buying and more wrapping and figuring exactly which version of roast beef and horseradish to fix and do I want little individual yorkshire puds or just one great big one. Borden Eggnog or Southern Comfort? Bourbon or brandy? Classical music or swing? Red or green? Do I get the boy boots or a stereo? What’s the best way to wrap a stick of summer sausage if you don’t have a box and you don’t want to be obvious? Give cookies or a Christmas ornament? Ornaments don’t have calories but I always feel a little conspicuous giving one because they’re all “oh did you make that yourself? I can’t make things aren’t you clever!”

Maybe we’ll have a weinie roast for Christmas dinner. Or lowland boil. Something Untraditional. And eggnog’s eggnog, especially if you fill the glass halfway with bourbon first. Classical music is good for the long haul, tho swing has an appeal. “Baby It’s Cold Outside” is my new favorite. Red instead of green. Green becomes invisible but red (in the irritating vernacular of the California based interior design expert) POPS. It POPS off the tree or package, makes the boring brown cookies POP….POP POP POP. I wonder what the overused adverb for 2006 will be. I believe the boy will get boots.Roach Stompers, according to the classmates with boot envy. Less potential irritation with boots than with stereo. That kid, he is a Good Ol’ Boy in training. He’s too smart and sweet to be a redneck, and too good of a shot to be a city boy. Bless him. He’s spending this week with his grandparents. I think I might just wrap the summer sausage (gift from #4 to someone) like a huge piece of candy and hide them in the back of the heap. I am also thinking I’ll make Christmas ornaments for the neighbors. One of them is getting over quadruple bypass surgery and needs cookies like he needs another heart attack. The other is quite an accomplished cook and it would be like taking corn to Kansas.

This year has shown a deficit of Christmas Cheer. Depression has bloomed early, past history keeps it away until after the New Year festivities are cleaned up, but this year…I suppose it’s the whole “new town no friends or activities” situation. The other night I had a plain old meltdown, throwing things and bawling my eyeballs out. I got over it, made some apricot almond biscotti (burned on the bottom thanks to my vintage 1967 Tappan ovens)and mixed a shaker full of Cosmopolitans. I also wrapped some presents (always fun)and screamed at the kids a little.

#3 got some phenomenally bad news the last day of school: a friend of his was found dead that morning. Apparently she hung herself. He is taking it with surprising grace. Lord love him, he’s such a sensitive kind of kid. Gramps promised he’d keep #3 busy, and let him talk about his friend if he wanted to. I keep thinking about the child’s family. I can’t imagine the pain they’re going through. I don’t want to imagine it. I keep thinking how could anything be more awful. #3 said some kid at the school dragged out his Bible and was going on about how the kid had committed suicide and was condemned to hell for eternity because of it. #3 asked me how God could do that. I told him that no one knew what happened between his friend and God right at the end, so no one can say for sure where the child went, heaven or hell. God is a merciful, loving God who wants us all to be with Him and will do what He has to to allow everyone every opportunity to get there. The insensitivity of some people boggles the mind. No wonder Christians get a reputation for being harsh and rigid.

Tomorrow is the last day of school before Chris…uh…Holiday Break. Phooey on that. It’s Christmas. We have a Christmas Tree, not a Holiday Shrub. I bake Christmas cookies in the shapes of angels, snowflakes and balls. We sing Christmas carols, except for that Dean Martin one I so dearly love called “Baby It’s Cold Outside”. Now that is a classic song. He’s busy trying to convince a woman to stay, she’s busy giving him excuses why she can’t, all singing on top of each other. Great song.

#4 has Christmas Party Fun all day. He asked me to bake and decorate snowflake cookies so, being the sucker that I am for his blue eyes and innocence, I did. 25 snowflake cookies piped with pale blue royal icing and sprinkled with coarse sugar crystals for that extra sparkle. I am glad I only have to do that once a year. He was so sweet about it, tho. I had to.

#1 has a couple of his friends over, I’ve made chili for 50 today so that’s what they are getting. If I can get the ambition up then I might make corn cakes to go with. Or rice. Probably rice. It’s easier and cheaper and that’s important when there are 5 teenage boys to feed. One of them just wandered through and stuck his head in the chili pot and said “I like your food. you make good food.”

Ok. I am working really hard at acting normal and usual. It’s a strain but no one seems to notice the dark cloud over my head or the nasty little gremlins perching on my shoulder. As long as I can keep them inconspicuous everything will be just fine.

Weinerdog Bliss has been updated.
http://wienerdogbliss.blogspot.com/

Well, I guess it’s coming down to the wire now. Up until last night I have been able to push the whole situation to the back of my mind and pretend that I’ll deal with it Later.

I guess Later is here.

#1 informed my husband last night that he is definetly failing 2 classes and probably failing 2 more. We were also informed that his admittance into the Performance Learning Center is not a given. If he doesn’t get in, he’ll have 2 options: Drop out, or repeat 12th grade.

He is of the opinion that a high school diploma is overrated and he’ll get a good job because he is an accomplished bullshitter with a large vocabulary.

Because of his grades his car has been taken away from him until he can come up with the money to pay insurance. So he has to find a job. He has put in many aplications but is getting no takers. Gee, I wonder why.

I am alternating between disgust, anger, despair, and resignation.

Answer me this: How does a child with his abilities and inherent intelligence get himself into a position where he is going to be a high school drop out? He will be qualified to do nothing more than making tacos. He will not be eligible for management trainee jobs, or technical school, or the military.

The thing is, he will eventually learn. He always does. It’s just that, as a mother, I know that he has to take the hardest road possible, and will have to acknowledge his pride has shackled him. That will come very hard to him.

When your child is 7, or 10, the idea that he may not graduate because of his own behavior simply never crosses your mind. When his grades start to slip, you make excuses that he’s in middle school and will shape up when he gets to high school. When he makes a handprint reindeer for you in 1st grade, the image of him smoking cheap cigarettes, and throwing up from cheaper vodka doesn’t even cross your radar. When he makes you a beautiful picture at 12, who can imagine him screaming and cursing that he despises you and everything you are about?

Yet, through it all, you continue to love him, because you know what he is capable of. Or in spite of it. The hope that he, like the Prodigal Son, will come around sustains me. The Prodigal Son had to sink to the very depths of low- homeless and feeding pigs for his food- before he came home. I hope #1 doesn’t have to go that far, but I won’t be surprised if he does. It seems the be the only way he learns anything.

Oh well.