"The Elfin Wars" OR "Once More Into the Breach"

I read this article in The Huffington Post, and it really got my knickers in a knot.  The key quote: "If you feel like a bad mother for not buying into the Elf on the Shelf, that's on you." Well. Can I just say that I feel like a bad mother multiple, multiple times in any given day, but never once has it had to do with an Elf -- shelved or free-range.

Here is the comment I left at the end of the article:

"The problem with "that's on you" is that YOUR kids are coming to school telling all the other kids that they got tickets to "The Nutcracker" from their elf. YOU are hosting parties for your elf, and staying up all night getting your elf up to cute capers and shenanigans, and nodding knowingly and disdainfully to other Elf-Lovers at the class Christmas party when a frazzled fellow mom expresses her angst about how much she still has to do before the grandparents arrive, and how the dog chewed the family elf, and how she wishes she could just once get her shit together. Most anti-elf mommies are not actually Grinchy about Christmas -- or even about the Elf. We do object to the Elf on the Shelf as a competitive sport. 

If you want to tear apart your house in the middle of the night every single night in the lead up to Christmas, that's on you. If you want to wrap a gift for every child in your house to be delivered every single day between Thanksgiving and Christmas, that's on you. But when you post it on Pinterest, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, the Huffington Post, you are dumping it on me. When your kids make other kids cry because their families got "lame" elves, that's dumping it on them -- and by extension on me.  

By all means -- let's all parent our own kids. And let's support each other in our frailties, insecurities, and mistakes. But mommies competing with each other in the Elfin Wars (like the Hunger Games but with more powdered sugar) is one more reason why I will continue to speak up. 

[Interestingly the whole notion of Advent as a time of spiritual preparation for the birth of Jesus never seems to come up when mommies are flinging Elf anger back and forth at each other this time of year.]"

Harrumph, is what I really meant to say.  But the good news is that according to the article's title, I am [finally] a "cool mom." So that's something.

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Advent book!

An Amish Christmas is a great book that introduces the Amish customs of the Christmas season. Even without Santa or twinkling lights on the Christmas tree, these children see the wonder of Christmas -- and have lots of wintery Christmas fun, too!

Rock the Baby

OK, so I went to Nordstrom today, and on my way to the escalator I walked past this contraption, which completely mesmerized me.  It's a baby rocking machine, and it comes with a speed control and an MP3 connection, so the mommy can play soothing music or white noise or French lessons.  The Nordstrom folks had a white noise recording playing; you can hear it above the jibber-jabber of passers-by if you turn up the volume on the short little video.

My first thought as I gazed at this very pricy baby accessory was: I have lived too long, if I live in a world in which we cannot rock our own babies any more.  But then I thought, now wait.  I used an un-motorized "bouncy seat" with each of my three urchins when they were younger; does that make me a bad mommy, or a good mommy -- or a bad mommy who at least had a chance to rinse a dish or two before she picked up the kid again -- so maybe I was a bad mommy with clean dishes?

This baby rocking machine had me re-thinking all of my life choices.

So then I got to thinking some more. This contraption is kind of like when I put the inconsolable infant sunny girl, strapped into her carseat, on top of the [empty] laundry dryer and turned it on.  The dryer hummed and vibrated, and the sunny girl was temporarily soothed, and I lay down on the cement in front of the dryer, in case the baby sunny girl vibrated off of it.  I figured she would fall on me, which would make me a great mommy -- or at least a martyr, which is the same thing.

It's also kind of like when the infant tall boy would not shut up could not be soothed, so I loaded him and me into my little two-seater Honda CR-X (God, I loved that car), and off we went into the night.  I drove completely around the I-495 beltway that circles Washington, D.C.  That's sixty-four miles. Y'all, I did that more than once, and at the time it felt like a great solution: the tall boy slept in his carseat, I listened to a combination of oldies and talk radio, and no babies were thrown out of any windows.  A win for everyone.

The mommy gig is a tough one; you all know this.  And any help an infant's mom can get as she juggles her baby, her toddler(s), her groceries, her hormones, her laundry,  her intertwined love and angst, and her latte is help she should welcome.  Once, when I was trying very hard to pay for groceries and the newborn girl in charge had had it (she has been in charge since Day One -- believe it), a lovely woman said to me -- as I struggled to gently bouncy-bounce my screaming, hungry infant and find my checkbook and appear as if I was fine with the milk leaking from both of my breasts -- "I don't want to offend you, but would it help if I held your baby?" People, I could have kissed her.  Maybe I did; that whole post-natal era is a bit of a blur.

So my conclusion? Rock your babies the best way you can.  You are a great mom. You were a great mom.  You will be a great mom.  Being a mamma -- especially a new mamma -- is hard as shit. We deserve all the help we can get.  And in the middle of that "what am I doing?" moment, don't let anyone (including a snobby Nordstrom shopper) make you feel bad.

We're not rocket scientists. We're better -- we make rocket scientists.

Elf on the Shelf: the horror continues

So here we go again with that freaking elf on the shelf.

People, I just don't know if I want to live in a world where all the mommies are required to creep around their own homes night after night, in the middle of the holy-hell-I-am-so-tired, making big-assed messes to fool the urchins into thinking that elves have gotten up to festive and naughty capers while the family sleeps. And then, of course, the mommies get to clean up the messes while the urchins frolic adorably and drink hot chocolate (made by the mommies, or made by the daddies so the mommies get to clean up that mess, too).

But apparently for some mommies, even this marathon of torture isn't enough work.  Now, it seems, it will not do merely to pull the bedraggled elf out of the storage room (if you can find him, because all the Christmas crap was hurriedly stuffed into the laundry room by mistake right before Grandma and the fabulous neighbors arrived for Easter dinner . . . oh.  Is that just me?).

This party idea comes from a perky, perky blog called

Giggles Galore

.  I'm not even kidding.

Now, I gather one must host a party to welcome the elf.

A party.  Do you believe that shit?

The blogger at

Swish Designs

does this kind of thing professionally, so I was ready to cut her a break -- until I read that the elf on her shelf arrives at the "Welcome, Elf!" celebration with gifts for the children of the home. GIFTS!

People, I weep. I mean really, I weep at the prospect of hosting a party for a doll.  This just can't be right, can it?  My fellow mommies must have been hypnotized into a frosting-covered, jingle-bells-ringing, tinsel-throwing trance.  I blame that stupid "Christmas Shoes" song.

Sisters!  I call upon you!  Rise up!  Rise up against the tyranny of the elf on the shelf!  You have nothing to lose but your red and green construction paper chains!

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Today's Advent book is

The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree

, by Gloria Houston.  It is 1918, and Ruthie's father has not yet returned from the War.  So Ruthie and her mother work together to harvest and transport the town's Christmas tree -- their family's responsibility for many years.  Through Ruthie's eyes, we see how heroic and hard-working her mother is, and we learn about the values of the Appalachian community that is their home.

Cranky . . . .

Image via Cranky Birds -- a fabulous blog!

 Here is a sampling of comments that I have actually made -- in writing -- in the past few days . . .

1.  Across a spreadsheet that our Girl Scout Council requires of the over-worked cookie mommy volunteers:

This is s stupid form -- and is a duplication of effort. Troops have already provided this information through eBudde; why does this council require this ridiculously awkward form in addition?  This is why volunteers flee as fast as they can from working with Girl Scouts.  You do it to yourselves!

I thought this tirade was a better idea than asking someone to help me learn how to fill out an Excel spreadsheet.

2.  On the feedback page of yet another purveyor of beautiful clothing that my two teenaged girl urchins yearn for:

Dear Free People -- I would be more inclined to purchase your lovely dresses for my lovely daughters if these dresses actually covered their asses.  Regards -- Liz

I have sent this note a few times, to various merchants.  By the way, props to ModCloth, who brought back the "Longer Lengths" section of their online catalog (I must not be the only person who complained).  But Free People -- what the heck?  The name they gave the dress pictured above is "Lolita Syndrome."  I'm not even kidding.

3.  This is actually a groveling email I sent after I was -- let's just say a little testy with the nice pharmacist at CVS:

Dear Kathy -- I wanted to apologize again for losing my temper this morning while trying to find out where the hell my mother-in-law's chemotherapy prescription was.  I also deeply appreciate your help in getting the cost of the drug reduced from $8,100 for a 30 day supply to only $1,200 -- even after I implied that you didn't care whether my mother-in-law lived or died.  I know you do care whether my mother-in-law lives or dies.  I was overwrought.  Regards -- Liz

4.  Here's my text to my beloved tall boy, when he asked whether I could come fetch him from his college campus in the city for the long Easter weekend or he should wait outside in the rain for the commuter bus that might or might not show up and sit with a bunch of people who might or might not have the flu, and get home well after dinner time after walking that last six blocks in the aforementioned rain:

Bus.

The tall boy is my hero -- and so are you.

OK, so I am sorry to report to you that my tall boy is back in the hospital.  You may remember that he had some pretty significant and scary (not to mention painful) surgery last month.  The universal thinking six weeks ago was that a procedure called a pleurodesis would save the world, cure cancer, re-kill Osama Bin Ladin, ensure that pandas live forever, and send our tall boy out into the world with permanently fixed lungs.

Well.

As it turns out, his continuing pulmonary woes are -- well, they are continuing.

The ways that this sucks are multiple and varied, and I could go on for days about how crappy this is, but frankly, I'm too tired.  But the sunny girl told me that I could blog the lazy way, and show you some screen captures of the texts that I have sent to various people as we have sat with our boy, while he hears super-smart, super-confident, super-experienced cardio-thoracic surgeons and pulmonologists and interventional radiologists (which I didn't even know was a thing, but it is) -- plus Uncle Doctor (who is an OB-GYN) -- say, "damned if we can figure this out."  Tragically, I'm not even paraphrasing.

Then the sunny girl talked me through the whole "screen capture" thing, which I didn't even know was a thing, but it is.  So any successful screen captures are thanks to her.

So -- here's what happened this time:

So -- that's pretty much where we are right now.  The tall boy is in the hospital, tethered to a chest tube and a pleural pump, with no end in sight.  He could be -- justifiably -- so depressed and cranky and mean.  But he is my hero because he has repeatedly said, "It is pointless to get pissy about things I cannot control."  We should all be wearing this on a t-shirt.

SHE (who is turning out to be the world's greatest girlfriend) has been his only bright spot in a really very discouraging turn of events.

Well, HER and his grandpa -- who brought him a fabulous Italian sub and ate lunch with him while talking about the Redskins game and Eisenhower.  Oh -- and his cousin, who is studying to be a nurse and was really nice about not asking to see his chest tube up close and personal, and who brought him a balloon that is basically a dead fish (which cracked him up).  And Lisa and her husband, who have visited every single day.  And Grandma Carol and Aunt Heidi, who brought him a watercolor set (people -- this tall boy is BORED).  And his professors at Catholic University, who, to a person, have been so supportive and gracious and have made sure he concentrates on getting better instead of on papers due and classes missed.  And all the people (Coleen, Sheri, Judy, Susan, Kathy, David, Lissa, Andrew, Carolyn, Mary) who have joshed and joked and jollied with him on Facebook and via text, as he faces a frustrating and frightening turn of events.  Plus the prayer warriors:  Annalisa and Jim, James and Betty, Carol Jean and Jim, Steven and Terry, Holly, Bonnie, Cristie, Bob and Elaine, Katey, Jane, Randy, Meghan, Lourdes, Mark, Lissa, Scott, Rafe, Alan, Jana, Saskia, Wendy, Matt, Rosemary, Joe.  And my dear, dear blog friends around the world: Polly, Heather, Maureen, Diane, Rena, Holly, and others I don't even know about.

He is a lucky, lucky tall boy.

We love you all very much.