Let down

The boy ordered a sonic screwdriver with his Christmas money. For three days, he wagged his wrists in excitement and stalked the postal carrier. Today, he skidded in out of the downpour, clutching a box to his chest. Since he had ordered it with his grandmother, her name was on the label, and I suggested he wait until she came home to open it, just in case. He worked on his homework, feet drumming and eyes drawn to the little amazon package. My mother came roaring up through the rain on the motorcycle with a garbage bag tied around her with yellow danger tape. As she unwrapped herself, Gavin bobbed eagerly on the chair - "It came! It came! Can I mess with it for a bit and then finish my homework? Pleeeeease?" She took the box and said, "Well, let's see." He hovered, vibrating with excitement, as she ripped the tape off, threw the box open, and revealed... a package of  ladies' underwear. "Sure, you can mess with those all you want!" I said generously. 

"MY SONIC SCREWDRIVER IS GRANNY PANTIES."

Well, neither can open a wood door. Close enough.

doldrums

My aunt came to visit yesterday. While the boys ran around the back yard trying to break their new Christmas toys, she bounced the baby on her knee and said, "My co-worker is looking for childcare for his baby, is that something you'd be interested in?" 

No. When I went to Burns Night last year, enormously pregnant, Father Ruby surveyed my belly and said, generously, "Well, motherhood is a calling. You're following your calling in life, and doing God's work." And I almost punched him in his adorable tiny Irish face. Motherhood is wonderful. Drinking margaritas and falling asleep next to a lake under a good book is also wonderful, and nobody ever offers that up as my calling. Because you can't subsist on these things. 

No. I need adult human interaction - old ladies in book clubs, slavering homeless people, irritable co-workers. I need books and tea breaks and a pile of work to go through while listening to music. I need a fucking PAYCHECK, which is mine miney mine, to spend on bills and travel and fancy yarn without asking permission. 

No. If I'm going to trade in my degrees for unskilled labor, I'm going to go with something more interesting than wiping butts and being screamed at by other people's preshus snoflakes. Like digging graves. Or wrangling chickens at the feed store. Or bounty hunting.

"No," I said, and managed not to yell it.

the annual questions

1. What did you do in 2013 that you’d never done before? I had a daughter, and ate a lobster hot dog.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year? The theme was "lighten up", and that seemed to go well. I lost 30lbs, and only sent one snarky email - which was undermined by autocorrect changing "more" to "meow" without my noticing. This year, the theme is, "I am supportive of your endeavor!" Because I have found myself saying this a lot lately, and it usually ends in something interesting - homebrew competitions, dodgy car transactions, pie, crafting with underwear. When you've lost all control over your life, be a sidekick.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? ME. Some internet friends, too, but nobody knows if they are really real. Except them and their babies, probably.

4. Did anyone close to you die? No. Every year, nobody dies, and I feel grateful and somehow smug, then I fill with dread because it means we're in for a lot of it when it does start to happen. Even so, I think the family is very smart to save them up instead of spreading them out.

5. What places did you visit? Bellows Air Force Base - but just the beachy part with bbq grills. Also Maui, to meet the bio-Texans.

6. What would you like to have in 2014 that you lacked in 2013? My career.

7. What dates from 2013 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? Giving birth is hard to forget. And my actual father was in attendance, and saw me do terrible things - but he works with old people and sees that kind of thing all the time, usually with much less adorable endings.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? I published another book. And kept the kids alive. And didn't send any sentimental emails. 

9. What was your biggest failure? Asking for help. In that I didn't, and I should have, because I was desolate and alone a lot.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? My right wrist won't support weight, and I haven't gotten around to finding out why for, oh, three months now. Probably vestiges of postpartum hand numbness/shoulder locking/knee failure. And my heart has been doing that mis-beating thing a bit more.

11. What was the best thing you bought?  Jeans that fit.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration? Gavin's, for arriving at the year of voracious independent reading. He spent long days in bed with Harry Potter (leave it), curled up with his cat, and casting spells at his brother. And Leif learned to read in, like, 3 days. They are fantastic.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? Mine. 

14. Where did most of your money go? Into another employee's bank account, because I'm not getting any.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? The new baby. Even that was more of an intense love, not really excitement. I don't know if I still feel that kind of thing anymore.

16. What song will always remind you of 2010? That damn fox song. And this one:



17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Happier 
b) thinner or fatter? Much thinner.
c) richer or poorer? Neither.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of? Sleeping. Jogging. Wearing socks.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?  Having that recurring dream about gathering cats and losing everything I own. Burying birds.

20. How did you spend Christmas last year? Pregnant and full of egg nog. People talk shit about egg nog, but anyone with a desperate body knows what it's about.

21. Did you fall in love in 2013? Oh, yes. 

No, I didn't fall in love with a man. Grow up, quiz.

22. What was your favorite TV program? I caved and watched Breaking Bad. Fine, I get it now.

23. What did you do for your birthday in 2013? Bbq and Hunger Games at the mall. I was the victor.

24. What was the best book you read? Spent most of the year reading the Game of Thrones series. Enjoyed it, even though George R. R. Martin doesn't know how vaginas and albinos work.

25. What did you want and get? A daughter. A visit from my father. Pants with buttons instead of elastic. Sock yarn. I tried not to want much, after the healthy baby, for fear of being smited.

26. What did you want and not get? Showers. The better question is, what did you NOT want and get? A murdered bird, a large dentist bill, and lots of vomit/poo on my person.

27. What was your favorite film of this year? Frozen? Oh, dear.

28. Did you make some new friends this year? Nope. Made notable acquaintances, at least.

29. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? I'm going with "fist fight" again. They know who they are. 

30. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2013? "My mom's old pants". Postpartum fashion is not so great.

31. What kept you sane? Routine and reading. It didn't work all the time. 

32. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? I didn't feel fancy at all. Am a withered husk. I did like Jamie and Brienne, though.

33. What political issue stirred you the most? Sexism. Particularly in the baby clothes aisles and toy sections. There isn't anything wrong with pink, but everything wrong with having no other goddamn choices.  

34. Who did you miss? Oh, the very same. Just as much. 

35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2013. Don't go out of your way to be fair to particular people, just try not to be unfair as they make themselves involved.

Fra kakaka ka-kow

The fox song has been on infinite repeat since June, because my kids have to beat a thing into the ground before they are done with it. They bend over their homework with studious murmurings punctuated with CHACHACHOW. Our evening walks bring us under the moon with howls of AWOOOO-OOOH. It has the boys in its thrall, and us by extension. I am both repelled and excited by all the fox merchandise flooding the stores, just as I roll my eyes and then secretly try on all the mustache gimickry that is still going through its cultural death throes.

So when designing an ornament, I didn't have to think very hard to know where it was going.

This is the sort of thing that makes a person glad that Costco stocks gallons of eggnog and rum.

Christmas 2013

(As documented by doggedly poking my phone while putting the baby down for a nap.)

There is a score of crashes and breaking glass down in the kitchen, measured by the metronomic clacking of a kendama ball. A yelp, a smash, and now there are cries that the tree has fallen over. This is the sound of post-Christmas present implementation. An oven vent being installed, awkward-limbed children destroying the living room. I think I will just lay here a bit longer.

_ _ _

I missed Christmas morning. The baby pawed sleepily at me to nurse while the boys scrambled down the stairs at 5:30am, and by the time I gathered her up and crept downstairs the stockings were disgorged. Gavin had left a note for Santa requesting "magic sprinkled on everyone", so the boys looked as if they had been punched twice in the face with red glitter. Mike had glittery hand prints wiped on his pajama pants.

After coffee was secured, the usual frenzy of ripping began. 

The toy of the year is the kendama, which is just a fancy ball and cup. There has been a youthful backlash against electronic toys in these parts, and all the cool kids are playing with retro toys that do not use batteries and which can also be used as weapons if no adults are looking. The richer bullies can even buy cherry wood kendamas, if they've split their pine ones on the heads of second-graders.

There was loot. 

Among the toys, ornaments, oven vents, and books, there was a perfect small jar of honey from my aunt's own beehives in British Columbia. The idea of wearing a giant bee suit and commanding an army of bees makes my mother's run-away-and-buy-a-farm-in-Washington plan a bit more tempting.

Zenny was very bad at unwrapping, but very enthusiastic about the goods. Also about the Hershey kisses, which are just the right size to lodge in her esophagus. (As are the almonds. And gelt. And a lot of the bows. It's been an exciting time for me.)

My mother gave me AMAZING 5-piece 6-inch carbon-fiber double-pointed size-0 sock needles with dual-function yarn-knitting and hand-impaling action! (The steel knitting needles I had asked for.) This was the best picture Leif could take of me with the magic needles:

There were TINY WEINERS.

The boys were silent for 6 solid hours, assembling mini Minecraft worlds out of a billion squares of plastic. 

And MEAT PIE. 

There is an entire lamb roast and half a cow in there. With gravy, and carrots, and neeps. My crust would have been nicer, but the rolling pin I bought my mother to replace the one with the broken handle was smashed and broken in exactly the same way. The gift of a complicated Amazon merchandise return. 

The bottle of Braddah Kimo's Undrinkable Poison Rum we have used to set fire to our plum puddings for 10 years still had an inch of combustible liquid in it. Braddah Kimo's is an amazing accelerant and tastes very good once most of it is burned off, and is potentially a great murder weapon, if used as a hostess gift at a party you don't want to be at.

At nightfall we drank cherry wine, watched the Hogfather until the kids dropped off to sleep on our laps, and put them to bed by hedgehog light.

Twilight haaaaands.

Discovery of the year: Big Island Candies Mika passion fruit melty things. These have ousted Shmidt truffles as the sin of choice.

It was a good year.

The eve

The tree is reaching critical mass. It is time.

Merry Christmas, out there.

A preponderance of cat assholes

I just wanted to make chocolate mice. We did this every year back in Newfoundland; the little crispy peanut butter balls are part of my nostalgic landscape. As I was assembling ingredients and poking around the internet for recipes, one of my friends was trying to horrify someone by posting pictures of her cat's filthy ass on Facebook. Amidst the cries of, "NOOO, STOP, YOU ARE RUINING CHRISTMAS," other people started adding pictures of their cats' gross butt clumps. It escalated quickly. I rolled out the balls, made a mess with chocolate, and posted, "Look, I made cat assholes."

It was a very festive thread, really.

The kids came skidding out of nowhere. "What did you make??" I softened it to "Cat butts!" because I don't actually swear much in real life, but their eyes went bulgy-squinky and they backed away from the tray suspiciously. Now there are three containers of cat assholes in the fridge, and nobody will eat them.  

I have ruined a holiday tradition.

Well, I can't have any of that anyway. My knitting is white, and I am too lazy to get up and wash my fingers after every bite of chocolate.

Not eating a plate of cat assholes

Here is the recipe:

Chocolate mice (cat butts)

1/2 cup peanut butter
1/2 cup butter

1/2 cup powdered milk
1 1/2 -2 cups rice krispies
1 cup powdered sugar

about a cup of melted chocolate chips

Melt the butter and peanut butter together. Mix up all the dry ingredients. Dump the melty bits over the dry bits, stir until sticky, roll into balls. If it's not sticky enough, add more melted peanut butter/butter. Chill balls while melting the chocolate. Dip chilly balls into the chocolate. Put them on wax paper, pop them back into the fridge. Make your kids eat them. Don't get any on your knitting. 

11

The boy turned 11. It was a two-day melee of arcade games, hobbit-watching, and cake. I am so annoyed with Peter Jackson over that barrel scene. Too much time in the Prancing Pony, writers. Also, inventing a dwarf/elf romance in order to have a woman in the movie - it HAD to be romantic? She can't have just been a regular elf? Would they even have compatible pheromones? My fists keep flailing up and shaking. JACKSON. I am waiting for Studio Ghibli to re-do this all sensibly, without all the decapitation and assaults to barrel physics.

So yes, there was a birthday. We took him to a bar, because children are already good at being children; our job is to horrify them into becoming better adults than the ones at D&B.

Hose beast

The boys gave me a gift card on my birthday, and I'm turning it into kilt hose. 

John Anderson's kilt hose, in Cascade Heritage

I am knitting them on size 0 needles. If that sounds small to the non-knitter, be assured that it is. So small that my ham fingers bend them into little arches that threaten to snap with every stitch. I have petitioned Santa for carbon needles. Those will not snap - only impale you gruesomely when you flop onto the couch. Then you get amazing x-rays for the photo album. Win-win.

corpse turkey and wet bikers

I must say a thing about the Thanksgiving turkey, because it must never happen again.

We went to my aunt's, as I said, but my mother had a coupon for a free turkey, and decided we needed to roast our own back-up bird, because GRAVY. So we got a giant turkey, and it sat defrosting in the fridge, taking up all the space I would have liked to fill with pie. 

Now, the man works for the college, and the college decided that they were going to make kalua turkey for all the homeless people. This meant digging a big pit, setting it on fire, filling it with about a hundred turkeys, burying them, digging them up the next day, and then making homeless people eat them. Better than burying the homeless people. And we had the chance to add a body to the cairn! I am particularly fond of kalua pig (which is made the same way), and I was not particularly fond of spending all morning roasting a turkey when I could be drinking mimosas, so I decided we should chuck the bird into the pit with the homeless turkeys. My mother conceded by buying turkey gravy at Costco.

Except the turkey wasn't quite thawed, and the homeless turkeys went into the hole first, so what we got back on Thanksgiving morning was a half-raw turkey that smelled like it had been lit on fire. And I spent the rest of the morning roasting a turkey and not drinking mimosas anyway. Now we've been eating smoky turkey leftovers for half a week. I finally peeled the rest of the carcass apart last night for a soup, thinking about my days with the cadavers at the Tampa university morgue, which had a similar texture and aroma. My mother said, "Enjoy the soup, kids, because we won't be having kalua turkey again for a long time!" "Yes," I agreed, "Never, in fact."

And that is what I have to say about kalua turkey. 

So, on Sunday, the bikers suited up for the Toys for Tots run.

The moment they drove off, the skies opened up with roaring rain and crashing lightning, and they returned three hours later, drenched to the skin and shaking like whippets. Gavin's gloves had attempted to meld with his hands.

I was putting up the tree when they all started peeling off layers of leather and running for the shower. If they had been a pack of burly men, it would have been a holiday miracle. I really need to remember to be more specific.

So the tree is up. The chocolate liquors are open. The Lego advent calendar has three little figures assembled on it. The baby is crawling and standing up on furniture, readying herself for the run to the stockings in three weeks. The turkey is gone. It's a wonderful time of year.