OK, you guys. Here goes: my 2008 Top Nine Miscellany (but don't expect it to be as comprehensive and hilarious as Dave Barry's 2008 wrap-up):
9. What I missed most: Season 7 of 24. Cancelled because of the writers' strike. Let's hope an extra year gave the writing team for 24 enough time to come up with a story arc that outperforms Season 6--or gave the producers enough time to hire writers with some new ideas that don't involve cougars. It shouldn't be hard, since season 6 completely jumped the shark.
8. Biggest "yay" moment: This one's easy. Election night 2008. I know that many Green Room readers were not infected with Obama fever, and that's OK. But seriously. Was that night not totally excellent? Even John McCain's thoughtful, touching concession speech, with its tone of reconciliation and honesty, added to the overall touchy-feely-ness of the evening.
[Too much champagne...must finish the list tomorrow...]
7. I only read about 18 books in 2008*, but several of them deserve to be mentioned here:
a) Empire Falls by Richard Russo, reviewed here.
b) Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise by Ruth Reichl--a book that will make you hungry and make you laugh.
c) Infidel by Aayan Hirsi Ali, reviewed here.
d) The Translator: A tribesman's memoir of Darfur by Daoud Hari. From my review on LibraryThing: "...[the events are] real, and frightening, and sad, and inspiring. And the author, Daoud Hari, writes with a sweet, matter-of-fact style, and never overplays his emotional hand, even when the subject matter is deeply, compellingly emotional."
(*You can check out the entire 2008 list on my LibraryThing catalog by searching for books with the 2008 tag.)
6. Best new recipe that I tried: BBQ pulled pork with apple chutney. Holy tangy tastebuds, Batman! This meal has earned a spot in the regular rotation at the Peevie domicile.
5. Top thing I learned about myself: I am consumed by guilt. "You can't say more than two or three sentences without dumping on yourself for something you did that you shouldn't have, or something you didn't do that you should have done," my therapist told me. I'm sure this will be a topic for a future blog post.
4. My best accomplishment of 2008: Hmmmm. Still thinking about this one. My accomplishments are mostly prosaic and quotidian, like getting the basement cleaned up or getting rid of a nasty carpenter ant infestation.
3. Funniest TV moment: Equal opportunity photo finish between two brilliant SNL moments--Tina Fey as Sarah Palin (all of the sketches) and Ben Affleck's hilarious over-the-top Keith Olbermann.
2. Most meaningful spiritual truth learned: I am the Avon Lady.
1. My favorite post of the year: Stinky and the Giant Poo. (Those with delicate sensibilities might want to avoid this one.)
What were your top moments in 2008? What books did you read? What was your "aha" moment?
Thanks for tuning in to the Green Room in 2008. Here's to a New Year of contentment, self-awareness, and lots of great television!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Monday, December 29, 2008
Extreme Makeover: Basement Edition
My basement looked like a second hand shop and a Toys R Us had not one love child, but septuplet love children, all of whom got a nasty stomach virus and threw up.
The floor was covered with old toys and an eclectic variety of shoe sizes and styles, many of them singletons. The couches sported armrests four shades darker than the cushions. Dirty socks stood up in the corners and crawled down into the crotch of the loveseat. Legos and plastic Polly Pocket accessories decorated every surface. Tangled cords from an assortment of electronic game systems snaked around the legs of hand-me-down office furniture.
People had been known to venture into the basement and disappear for three days. Some would manage to claw their way out of the clutter like jungle adventurers just barely escaping from a pit of quicksand.
It was really becoming a liability issue.
My friend Dr. Paradigm Shift, a therapist who frequently shifts my paradigms, is also a card-carrying Neatie. She has such high-level organizing and de-cluttering skills that she could turn a Bolivian rain-forest into a PGA golf course in two days flat.
This dedicated warrior against the Evil Powers of Clutter selflessly volunteered to sacrifice an entire free day to attack the federal disaster zone known as my basement and turn it into a functional, habitable zone of leisure. When we walked downstairs, I could feel the basement laughing at me.
"Bwah-hah-hah," it was saying. "You will NEVER NEVER overcome my Powers of Messifying! I am the EMPEROR of CHAOS and DISARRAY!"
"Dr. Shift," I said. "Look at it. We're never going to get this done. Let's just go out for breakfast instead."
"It's not that bad," Dr. PS said seriously. "We can probably get this done before lunch." I just looked at her, because I had never known her to be so out of touch with reality. She's a therapist, for crying out loud.
"Dr. PS," I said gently, "I don't think you're really looking at it. There are about 12,000 different toys, games, puzzles and articles of clothing covering every available surface. You can't tell, but there's a ping-pong table over here"--I pointed to a four-foot high rectangle covered with cartons, board game boxes filled with everything but board game pieces, dress-up clothes and loose crayons and markers. "You're sweet and generous to want to help, but we're doomed! Let's just go shopping," I said.
"No, no, no," she insisted. "This isn't bad at all. Come on. Let's get the bins and get started." She grabbed a snow shovel and commenced filling a 60-gallon tub with Imaginext pirates. Meanwhile, I walked the perimeter, picking up one roller blade or elbow pad at a time and depositing it into the designated roller-blade-and-accessories-container. Dr. Shift and I had different styles of attacking the Wilderness of Massive Craploads of Crap. Apparently.
And then, before my very eyes, a miracle began to happen. Surfaces started to appear. Cleared spaces began materialize. It was like the basement was having an asthma attack, and then it sucked in on its inhaler, and started being able to breathe freely again.
In just under two hours, Dr. Paradigm Shift delivered an Extreme Makeover: Basement Edition. The ping-pong table appeared as the piles diminished; we folded it up and pushed it against the wall. The berber showed its woolly pile; the love seats invited us to enjoy their awning-striped comfort--free of puzzle-piece-pokeage and electronic-game-cord-trippage.
The toys and games were binned and shelved. The empty Sprite cans found the trash, while assorted crusty silverware and a two full loads of whites and lights were relocated to await their natural fate.
We had filled several bags with broken toys and junk, which we carried out to the garbage, and we had packed a dozen more boxes and bags with gently used toys and clothes. Dr. Shift went the extra mile for me, helping me pile everything into the minivan and drive it to the Salvation Army drop-off trailer.
Now, one month later, my extremely made-over basement remains cleared and habitable, a recreation mecca. It's a miracle on Moody Street.
Thanks, Dr. Shift. You are not only a shifter of paradigms, but you are a bringer of serenity through neatness.
This dedicated warrior against the Evil Powers of Clutter selflessly volunteered to sacrifice an entire free day to attack the federal disaster zone known as my basement and turn it into a functional, habitable zone of leisure. When we walked downstairs, I could feel the basement laughing at me.
"Bwah-hah-hah," it was saying. "You will NEVER NEVER overcome my Powers of Messifying! I am the EMPEROR of CHAOS and DISARRAY!"
"Dr. Shift," I said. "Look at it. We're never going to get this done. Let's just go out for breakfast instead."
"It's not that bad," Dr. PS said seriously. "We can probably get this done before lunch." I just looked at her, because I had never known her to be so out of touch with reality. She's a therapist, for crying out loud.
"Dr. PS," I said gently, "I don't think you're really looking at it. There are about 12,000 different toys, games, puzzles and articles of clothing covering every available surface. You can't tell, but there's a ping-pong table over here"--I pointed to a four-foot high rectangle covered with cartons, board game boxes filled with everything but board game pieces, dress-up clothes and loose crayons and markers. "You're sweet and generous to want to help, but we're doomed! Let's just go shopping," I said.
"No, no, no," she insisted. "This isn't bad at all. Come on. Let's get the bins and get started." She grabbed a snow shovel and commenced filling a 60-gallon tub with Imaginext pirates. Meanwhile, I walked the perimeter, picking up one roller blade or elbow pad at a time and depositing it into the designated roller-blade-and-accessories-container. Dr. Shift and I had different styles of attacking the Wilderness of Massive Craploads of Crap. Apparently.
And then, before my very eyes, a miracle began to happen. Surfaces started to appear. Cleared spaces began materialize. It was like the basement was having an asthma attack, and then it sucked in on its inhaler, and started being able to breathe freely again.
In just under two hours, Dr. Paradigm Shift delivered an Extreme Makeover: Basement Edition. The ping-pong table appeared as the piles diminished; we folded it up and pushed it against the wall. The berber showed its woolly pile; the love seats invited us to enjoy their awning-striped comfort--free of puzzle-piece-pokeage and electronic-game-cord-trippage.
The toys and games were binned and shelved. The empty Sprite cans found the trash, while assorted crusty silverware and a two full loads of whites and lights were relocated to await their natural fate.
We had filled several bags with broken toys and junk, which we carried out to the garbage, and we had packed a dozen more boxes and bags with gently used toys and clothes. Dr. Shift went the extra mile for me, helping me pile everything into the minivan and drive it to the Salvation Army drop-off trailer.
Now, one month later, my extremely made-over basement remains cleared and habitable, a recreation mecca. It's a miracle on Moody Street.
Thanks, Dr. Shift. You are not only a shifter of paradigms, but you are a bringer of serenity through neatness.
99 Random Things
I hope to come up with something profound for my End of the Year post (I know my Green Room readers have high expectations), but for the moment I'm just going to borrow this list of 99 things from Elbee at Sew Little Time. Play along: bold what you've done in your comment, or on your blog (but don't forget to link back to The Green Room so I can check out your list!).
1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii and danced on a lava cliff with the roar of the Pacific below.
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity (what is more than you can afford?)
7. Been to Disneyland/Disneyworld
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis - I remember doing this as a child, but today I'd be too scared to try it. Those suckers look menacing.
10. Sang a solo as a child in the church choir
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child - not officially, but sometimes there are so many extra kids in my house for so long, that I might as well make it official.
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked
23. Taken a sick day when you weren't ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors--England, but not Holland or Germany
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant -It was McDonald's and it was a homeless guy outside, same as Elbee
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance with the siren wailing, no less, when M. Peevie was threatening to be born 15 weeks early.
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies--but I'm going to help M. Peevie starting next week! Leave a comment and let me know what kind and how many you want!
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason from the awesome and sweet Mr. Peevie
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi concentration camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book - this is on my to-do list
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had my picture in the newspaper - here's the proof
85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on New Year's Eve
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury - an experience that I totally loved.
91. Met someone famous - Oprah, Robert Ludlum, John R. W. Stott
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
Play along!
1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii and danced on a lava cliff with the roar of the Pacific below.
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity (what is more than you can afford?)
7. Been to Disneyland/Disneyworld
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis - I remember doing this as a child, but today I'd be too scared to try it. Those suckers look menacing.
10. Sang a solo as a child in the church choir
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child - not officially, but sometimes there are so many extra kids in my house for so long, that I might as well make it official.
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked
23. Taken a sick day when you weren't ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors--England, but not Holland or Germany
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant -It was McDonald's and it was a homeless guy outside, same as Elbee
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance with the siren wailing, no less, when M. Peevie was threatening to be born 15 weeks early.
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies--but I'm going to help M. Peevie starting next week! Leave a comment and let me know what kind and how many you want!
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason from the awesome and sweet Mr. Peevie
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi concentration camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book - this is on my to-do list
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had my picture in the newspaper - here's the proof
85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on New Year's Eve
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury - an experience that I totally loved.
91. Met someone famous - Oprah, Robert Ludlum, John R. W. Stott
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
Play along!
Friday, December 26, 2008
Tiara of Awesomeness
I've been hanging out with the G.E.M.s (Great Edison Moms of kids in C. Peevie's class) since C. Peevie started kindergarten more than eight years ago. We came together with one thing in common: we all had a bright child in a small gifted public school.
Other than that, we were diverse in terms of our race, ethnicity, religion, income, education, zip code, marital status, age, number of kids, and occupation. We are black, white, Chinese, Mexican, Puerto Rican, Filipino, Christian, Jewish, non-religious, married, divorced, single, high-school-educated, college-educated, north-siders, south-siders, Sox fans, Cubs fans, 30-something, 40-something, 50-something, vegetarians, omnivores, teachers, writers, entrepreneurs, office workers, computer geeks, stay-at-home moms, nurses, and HR professionals with one kid, two kids, three kids, and more kids.
One mom, Professor Dred, was telling another how she got to know the group of moms over the years. "It took about three years before they realized that I'm just like them," said her insecure black self.
"No, Professor Dred," my know-it-all white self objected, "No way. I think you were always just another mom of an Edison kid to the rest of us."
"Oh, OK," she said, "Then maybe it took me three years to believe that you realized that I'm just like you." She went on to tell anecdotes about other Edison moms taking her daughter into their homes for an impromptu overnight stay because of inclement weather or personal circumstances; and I remembered that when I met her for the first time, she offered me a set of early readers for C. Peevie that her off-the-charts-smart daughter was long-since finished with.
We all love to laugh--oh, and we're all smart and good-looking, too. And some of us are crazy. One year K-Squared snagged a bunch of hot pink polyester bowling shirts at a flea market and brought them to our gathering. But how to decide who got one? The only fair way, we decided, was to have a Hot Pink Mama Contest. The only way to earn a shirt was to make whoopie in a Chicago Park District park. Not in the field house. Not in a car in the parking lot. In the park.
A shocking number of G.E.M.s have hot pink bowling shirts hanging in their closets. I am not at liberty to name names, because what happens in G.E.M.ville stays in G.E.M.ville.
We celebrate with an annual white elephant gift exchange: popular items this year included the Blagojevich affidavit (all 78 pages, which was handed around the room so that everyone could read her favorite quotes out loud), an out-dated-but-still-classic-looking desk globe, and a granite-weight crucifix candle the color of a toilet bowl stain.
No one tried to steal the crucifix candle--my own contribution to the gathering. I guess nobody in that group loves The Lord very much. Then again, perhaps they love him too much to love a really, really ugly wax representation of him.
One of our G.E.M.s, Madame Butterfly, brought a set of authentic lacquered Chinese chopsticks with a matching case, which all of us coveted. "Madame B.," I told her in a loud Archie Bunker voice, "You are apparently unclear on the concept of the American white elephant tradition. You are supposed to bring something lame from your house that you won't ever use--not a family heirloom!"
"Next time," Madame B. told me, "I'll bring a pair of used takeout chopsticks and a handful of dented beer caps." Now she's got it.
I am grateful for these G.E.M.s, grateful to be surrounded by women who bring hilarity, sensitivity, compassion, intelligence, kindness, and helpfulness into my life. Each one is a rare gem, and together, they are a tiara of pure awesomeness.
Other than that, we were diverse in terms of our race, ethnicity, religion, income, education, zip code, marital status, age, number of kids, and occupation. We are black, white, Chinese, Mexican, Puerto Rican, Filipino, Christian, Jewish, non-religious, married, divorced, single, high-school-educated, college-educated, north-siders, south-siders, Sox fans, Cubs fans, 30-something, 40-something, 50-something, vegetarians, omnivores, teachers, writers, entrepreneurs, office workers, computer geeks, stay-at-home moms, nurses, and HR professionals with one kid, two kids, three kids, and more kids.
One mom, Professor Dred, was telling another how she got to know the group of moms over the years. "It took about three years before they realized that I'm just like them," said her insecure black self.
"No, Professor Dred," my know-it-all white self objected, "No way. I think you were always just another mom of an Edison kid to the rest of us."
"Oh, OK," she said, "Then maybe it took me three years to believe that you realized that I'm just like you." She went on to tell anecdotes about other Edison moms taking her daughter into their homes for an impromptu overnight stay because of inclement weather or personal circumstances; and I remembered that when I met her for the first time, she offered me a set of early readers for C. Peevie that her off-the-charts-smart daughter was long-since finished with.
We all love to laugh--oh, and we're all smart and good-looking, too. And some of us are crazy. One year K-Squared snagged a bunch of hot pink polyester bowling shirts at a flea market and brought them to our gathering. But how to decide who got one? The only fair way, we decided, was to have a Hot Pink Mama Contest. The only way to earn a shirt was to make whoopie in a Chicago Park District park. Not in the field house. Not in a car in the parking lot. In the park.
A shocking number of G.E.M.s have hot pink bowling shirts hanging in their closets. I am not at liberty to name names, because what happens in G.E.M.ville stays in G.E.M.ville.
We celebrate with an annual white elephant gift exchange: popular items this year included the Blagojevich affidavit (all 78 pages, which was handed around the room so that everyone could read her favorite quotes out loud), an out-dated-but-still-classic-looking desk globe, and a granite-weight crucifix candle the color of a toilet bowl stain.
No one tried to steal the crucifix candle--my own contribution to the gathering. I guess nobody in that group loves The Lord very much. Then again, perhaps they love him too much to love a really, really ugly wax representation of him.
One of our G.E.M.s, Madame Butterfly, brought a set of authentic lacquered Chinese chopsticks with a matching case, which all of us coveted. "Madame B.," I told her in a loud Archie Bunker voice, "You are apparently unclear on the concept of the American white elephant tradition. You are supposed to bring something lame from your house that you won't ever use--not a family heirloom!"
"Next time," Madame B. told me, "I'll bring a pair of used takeout chopsticks and a handful of dented beer caps." Now she's got it.
I am grateful for these G.E.M.s, grateful to be surrounded by women who bring hilarity, sensitivity, compassion, intelligence, kindness, and helpfulness into my life. Each one is a rare gem, and together, they are a tiara of pure awesomeness.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
The Jolly Cherub
SANTA SPOILER!
My kids really, really want to believe in Santa.
Remember back in the spring, when M. Peevie confronted me about the whole Santa myth? She wanted it straight up, and I gave it to her. She was disappointed, but she dealt with it.
Recently her second-grade teacher asked me if she still believed in Santa. "I think so," I said. "She asked me straight up in April if Mr. Peevie and I pretended to be Santa, and I told her the truth." She asked me to ask her not to talk about it in front of the other kids, since many of them still pinned their Christmas hopes on the jolly cherub.
As it turns out, Mrs. MiPi needn't have worried. Apparently children have a belief mechanism that is able to withstand a full frontal rational assault; and in fact, their belief can be restored once lost, with sufficient peer pressure.
One day A. Peevie and M. Peevie were talking about Santa, and MP (age eight) had told AP (age 11) that she did not believe in Santa. "Why would M. Peevie say that, Mommy?" A. Peevie said with wonder and not a little derision in his voice. "Why would she say that Santa's not real?"
"I don't know, A.," I said. "Maybe that's what she believes."
"Do you believe in Santa?" he asked me. Here we go, I thought.
"What do you think, A?" I evaded. "Do you believe?"
"Yes, I do," he said emphatically. "I DO believe!" End of discussion. Unlike M. Peevie eight months earlier, A. Peevie chose not to notice that I did not answer his question directly.
And M. Peevie changed her mind: "I believe, too!" she said earnestly.
This afternoon, A. Peevie asked me, "Mom, are you and Daddy getting C. Peevie a DS for Christmas? Because I want to get him a game for it." I told him we weren't, and then he asked, "Well, do you think Santa will bring him one?"
We let the kids open one present tonight. M. Peevie's present was the only one marked "From Santa"--and A. Peevie wondered out loud how it could already be here. Again with the dissimulation: "I don't know, A.P. What do you think?" He managed to satisfy himself again: "Well, maybe he dropped a couple of presents off earlier tonight, but he's coming back with the rest."
Later, we were lying across my bed, tracking Santa's progress on the NORAD* Santa Tracker. I had recently been wrapping presents, including the ones the kids had just opened. The gold foil wrapping paper roll was lying on the bed, and A. Peevie grabbed it triumphantly and waved it around.
"Look!" he said. "This is the same paper that M. Peevie's gift was wrapped in! You are totally busted!"
"Yes," I said. "And?"
"And that means you must be Santa!" He chuckled to himself, and repeated, "Busted! Busted!" while we watched Santa's progress on the satellite tracker.
"Not necessarily, A. Peevie," said Mr. Peevie craftily. "They make thousands of rolls of wrapping paper exactly like that!"
"But this one's here, in our house!" A.P. said. "I'll bet you wrapped that present yourself."
And yet, and yet: he still wanted to believe.
The NORAD team posts videos of Santa sightings on the tracking map; we clicked on Rio de Janeiro, Brazil:
"Mom, why does Santa need fighter jets to escort him to North America," A. Peevie asked sincerely. And as we watched more Santa sighting videos, the Santa close-ups were not particularly convincing: "Hey, that's not really Santa, is it?" he asked. A part of him still wanted to believe, but he was collecting a lot of conflicting information.
Does my bright, imaginative 11-year-old still believe in Santa? It appears that he's not quite ready to give it up--and that's just fine with me. This blog would be remiss if it did not cite the famous New York Sun editorial from 1897 entitled Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus:
___________________
*North American Aerospace Defense Command, the bi-national U.S./Canadian military organization responsible for the aerospace defense of North America. NORAD provides warning of impending missile and air attack, safeguards the air sovereignty of North America, and maintains airborne forces for defense against attack.
_________________________________
UPDATE, Dec. 27: Today A. Peevie reminded me of our conversation on Christmas Eve about the wrapping paper, and how he totally busted me. "What does that mean, A. Peevie?" I asked him. "What does that leave you thinking about Santa?"
"It means," he said slowly, "that I ALMOST gave up on him. But I didn't give up. I still believe."
My kids really, really want to believe in Santa.
Remember back in the spring, when M. Peevie confronted me about the whole Santa myth? She wanted it straight up, and I gave it to her. She was disappointed, but she dealt with it.
Recently her second-grade teacher asked me if she still believed in Santa. "I think so," I said. "She asked me straight up in April if Mr. Peevie and I pretended to be Santa, and I told her the truth." She asked me to ask her not to talk about it in front of the other kids, since many of them still pinned their Christmas hopes on the jolly cherub.
As it turns out, Mrs. MiPi needn't have worried. Apparently children have a belief mechanism that is able to withstand a full frontal rational assault; and in fact, their belief can be restored once lost, with sufficient peer pressure.
One day A. Peevie and M. Peevie were talking about Santa, and MP (age eight) had told AP (age 11) that she did not believe in Santa. "Why would M. Peevie say that, Mommy?" A. Peevie said with wonder and not a little derision in his voice. "Why would she say that Santa's not real?"
"I don't know, A.," I said. "Maybe that's what she believes."
"Do you believe in Santa?" he asked me. Here we go, I thought.
"What do you think, A?" I evaded. "Do you believe?"
"Yes, I do," he said emphatically. "I DO believe!" End of discussion. Unlike M. Peevie eight months earlier, A. Peevie chose not to notice that I did not answer his question directly.
And M. Peevie changed her mind: "I believe, too!" she said earnestly.
This afternoon, A. Peevie asked me, "Mom, are you and Daddy getting C. Peevie a DS for Christmas? Because I want to get him a game for it." I told him we weren't, and then he asked, "Well, do you think Santa will bring him one?"
We let the kids open one present tonight. M. Peevie's present was the only one marked "From Santa"--and A. Peevie wondered out loud how it could already be here. Again with the dissimulation: "I don't know, A.P. What do you think?" He managed to satisfy himself again: "Well, maybe he dropped a couple of presents off earlier tonight, but he's coming back with the rest."
Later, we were lying across my bed, tracking Santa's progress on the NORAD* Santa Tracker. I had recently been wrapping presents, including the ones the kids had just opened. The gold foil wrapping paper roll was lying on the bed, and A. Peevie grabbed it triumphantly and waved it around.
"Look!" he said. "This is the same paper that M. Peevie's gift was wrapped in! You are totally busted!"
"Yes," I said. "And?"
"And that means you must be Santa!" He chuckled to himself, and repeated, "Busted! Busted!" while we watched Santa's progress on the satellite tracker.
"Not necessarily, A. Peevie," said Mr. Peevie craftily. "They make thousands of rolls of wrapping paper exactly like that!"
"But this one's here, in our house!" A.P. said. "I'll bet you wrapped that present yourself."
And yet, and yet: he still wanted to believe.
The NORAD team posts videos of Santa sightings on the tracking map; we clicked on Rio de Janeiro, Brazil:
"After heading south to the south Atlantic Ocean, Santa has entered South America and is delivering presents throughout Brazil, the continent's largest country. Santa is just about halfway through his journey, and NORAD is keeping its satellites fixed on Rudolph's bright red nose. NORAD fighters will be taking off soon to escort Santa as he nears North America. For NORAD tracks Santa, I'm Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Roberto Garza."
"Mom, why does Santa need fighter jets to escort him to North America," A. Peevie asked sincerely. And as we watched more Santa sighting videos, the Santa close-ups were not particularly convincing: "Hey, that's not really Santa, is it?" he asked. A part of him still wanted to believe, but he was collecting a lot of conflicting information.
Does my bright, imaginative 11-year-old still believe in Santa? It appears that he's not quite ready to give it up--and that's just fine with me. This blog would be remiss if it did not cite the famous New York Sun editorial from 1897 entitled Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus:
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.(Click the link to read the whole editorial, plus some interesting background.)
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*North American Aerospace Defense Command, the bi-national U.S./Canadian military organization responsible for the aerospace defense of North America. NORAD provides warning of impending missile and air attack, safeguards the air sovereignty of North America, and maintains airborne forces for defense against attack.
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UPDATE, Dec. 27: Today A. Peevie reminded me of our conversation on Christmas Eve about the wrapping paper, and how he totally busted me. "What does that mean, A. Peevie?" I asked him. "What does that leave you thinking about Santa?"
"It means," he said slowly, "that I ALMOST gave up on him. But I didn't give up. I still believe."
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Bonding Over Farts. Yes, Farts.
My mom will not appreciate this post because she thinks the word "fart" is vulgar. I, on the other hand, think the word is indispensable. Especially in this story.
This morning Mr. Peevie and I were lying in bed cozily, talking about bodily functions.
"What time did you wake up?" I asked.
"Five-twenty," said the unfortunate Mr. Peevie. "I got up to go fart and pee."
"You actually got out of bed in order to go somewhere else to fart?" I asked. I was impressed with his sense of duty and consideration. I really hit the jackpot, marrying this dude. Little did I know.
"Well, since I had to pee anyway, I waited to fart until I got to the bathroom," said Captain Consideration.
"Nice," I said. "Thanks. Although, did you know that you frequently fart in your sleep?"
"I do?" said Mr. Peevie. "No, I was not aware of that."
"Well, it's true," I said. "I'll be sitting there watching TV, and you'll be farting away in your sleep."
"Huh."
"Do I fart in my sleep?" I asked?
"No," said the man I love, "you have way better manners when you're asleep than when you're awake."
This morning Mr. Peevie and I were lying in bed cozily, talking about bodily functions.
"What time did you wake up?" I asked.
"Five-twenty," said the unfortunate Mr. Peevie. "I got up to go fart and pee."
"You actually got out of bed in order to go somewhere else to fart?" I asked. I was impressed with his sense of duty and consideration. I really hit the jackpot, marrying this dude. Little did I know.
"Well, since I had to pee anyway, I waited to fart until I got to the bathroom," said Captain Consideration.
"Nice," I said. "Thanks. Although, did you know that you frequently fart in your sleep?"
"I do?" said Mr. Peevie. "No, I was not aware of that."
"Well, it's true," I said. "I'll be sitting there watching TV, and you'll be farting away in your sleep."
"Huh."
"Do I fart in my sleep?" I asked?
"No," said the man I love, "you have way better manners when you're asleep than when you're awake."
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Apocalypse Hilarity
We were driving, driving, driving. The dentist. The coumadin clinic. The pharmacy. The store. The kids were chattering and bickering and singing. And then we had a story moment, one of those perfect moments of bonding and hilarity that will live on in our family lore, being told and re-told, and the punch line will be repeated ad nauseum--except we will never get sick of it.
A. Peevie was telling a story about his friend BiF. Apparently BiF has been doing some serious thinking about eschatology, because he confidently told his fifth-grade pals that they didn't need to worry about the depletion of the ozone layer and global warming.
"I don't think the ozone layer will break before the apocalypse," he said optimistically. That's good news, right? I think? Except for that whole apocalypse thing. But then I was thinking, what does this little boy really know about end of the world? And why does he know about it? So I asked.
"A. Peevie," I asked, "What do you think BiF means by 'apocalypse'? Does he even know what it means?"
There was a pause, while A. Peevie thought this over. He's never one to answer quickly, unless it's a question about Pokemon. And suddenly the answer came from a different source.
"It's the end of the world as we know it," M. Peevie started singing, "It is the end of the world as we know it!"
C. Peevie and I looked at each other and roared. Then we joined in, at the top of our lungs, "IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FINE!"
Where would my angelic eight-year-old learn this R.E.M. classic from the 80's? And where did she learn how to slip it so appropriately into a conversation about the apocalypse? One possible source is the movie Chicken Little (appropriately enough), which includes this song in its soundtrack.
But still: what perfect timing. The girl has a future in stand-up. Or something.
And now I can't get that song out of my head.
A. Peevie was telling a story about his friend BiF. Apparently BiF has been doing some serious thinking about eschatology, because he confidently told his fifth-grade pals that they didn't need to worry about the depletion of the ozone layer and global warming.
"I don't think the ozone layer will break before the apocalypse," he said optimistically. That's good news, right? I think? Except for that whole apocalypse thing. But then I was thinking, what does this little boy really know about end of the world? And why does he know about it? So I asked.
"A. Peevie," I asked, "What do you think BiF means by 'apocalypse'? Does he even know what it means?"
There was a pause, while A. Peevie thought this over. He's never one to answer quickly, unless it's a question about Pokemon. And suddenly the answer came from a different source.
"It's the end of the world as we know it," M. Peevie started singing, "It is the end of the world as we know it!"
C. Peevie and I looked at each other and roared. Then we joined in, at the top of our lungs, "IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FINE!"
Where would my angelic eight-year-old learn this R.E.M. classic from the 80's? And where did she learn how to slip it so appropriately into a conversation about the apocalypse? One possible source is the movie Chicken Little (appropriately enough), which includes this song in its soundtrack.
But still: what perfect timing. The girl has a future in stand-up. Or something.
And now I can't get that song out of my head.
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