Date Nights: I live for them.

Hooray for the return of Date Nights!  It only took a couple months to scout out a new sitter (and happy day, we hit the 16 year-old babysitting jackpot!  She is darling.  If only she'd consider adoption.)

Tonight's monumental, long awaited night with Mr. Forget-me-not included lofty plans to hike Diamond Head, which never formalized because we opted instead for dinner at a remote, but highly recommended, Ramen Shop.  Outside of Tokyo, Honolulu is the next best place on the planet to find amazing, authentic, Ramen.  Our hot, perfectly steaming bowl of noodle yumminess was followed by cold, delicious mochi ice-cream.  Oprah's endorsement of picture and O Magazine write-up showcased proudly upon a framed wall at (our new favorite), Bubbies Ice-cream Shop.  Apparently, Oprah pretty much put them in another league of famous.  As well they should be; I could have eaten 20 of those little numbers.  Delicious.

Always on the grow,

The Sweet Sound of Silence

I've never understood why children don't actually come with a volume control button.  Nine months of gestation and you'd think they'd come out with some functional perk, like volume knobs?  Belly buttons, what a waste.

For seven and a half years, I have wished for this.  And now, as if the Universe finally took pity upon my ears, I am enjoying sweet sounds of silence.  
Yesterday I took the kids to get established as new patients with a local Pediatrician.  Conveniently, two out of the three, were running fevers and coming down with something.  No ear infections or feared Swine Flu, just your everyday cold and flu virus.

Hibiscus had the worst of it, lethargic, high fevers, barking coughs, horrible sore throat...AND...as if a choir of angels just broke forth in song...A slight case of laryngitis!

"Do you think the doctor will be able to fix my voice?" she manged a well-rehearsed whispered before we walked back to the exam room.

I certainly hope not.  And restore your vocal ability to whine, scream, and cry?  Now why would our fine, new doctor want to do that to me?  At least not before teaching me how to bottle up this strain in secret viles to sell on the Black Market.  Do you know how much I could get out of desperate mothers alike for anything that caused temporary laryngitis!?  Big bucks, my sick, muted child, big bucks!

Short of this get rich quick scheme, I for one, will be forcing all three of my children to drink from one shared communal canteen.  Let's pass these germs around!  Drink up kiddies because a gift like this doesn't come around but every 7 years!  It would be such a shame if the other two screamers children didn't come down with it, too.
  
Always on the grow,

It wouldn't be Christmas without...

...the holiday traditions we love.

Okay, I.  The ones that I love.  My kids love them all, especially the ones that take way too much time to replicate year after stupid year.  Good little Santa's helper that I am, I keep up these holiday appearances and all the bright, cheery, sugar-coated smiles with jingly holiday delight.  The real truth is, once my kids learn the truth about that Old, Overly Indulgent, Fat Man in the Red Suit, I am throwing out all this Elf Nonsense like used-up, crumpled wrapping paper.

Alas, so as to not peg myself as another Christmas Scrooge, here is a short list of what makes this season magical for me.

5.  Mrs. Claus with the white feather boa.

When Mr. Forget-me-not and I were first married, I happened upon a little red velvet number with white feather boa trim and a risqué, patented leather skinny belt.  Every year, the "Mrs. Claus Outfit" magically finds it's way wrapped beneath the tree, in the same shoe box that began the tradition 12 years ago.  Funny thing to me is that every year, Mr. Forget-me-not can't remember what's in the box.  He'll shake it around, feel it's two ounces of feather boa weight and say, "What is this?"  Then he'll open it.  "Oh.  I see.  Thanks, Mrs. Claus."

Our girls think the outfit should be the next addition to their dress-up drawer, shoved in alongside princess skirts and tiaras.  Last year, Hibiscus even slung the red-velvet halter top over her head and danced Elvis the Pelvis moves around the Living Room.  I laughed hysterically.  Mr. Forget-me-not didn't think seeing his daughter dance around as a holiday hoochie was any laughing matter.  But even at the risk of our children growing up to think that Mrs. Claus is one serious tramp, tonight that old shoe box will get another wrapping.  On it's tag will be written: "To: Daddy, From: Mrs. Claus."  Gee, I wonder what's inside, Honey?   

4.   Carmel corn.

Grandpa's caramel corn, to be exact.  My father-in-law can throw it down on some amazing Christmas caramel corn.  This year, like many others, a box arrived with two bags, freshly popped.  Mr. Forget-me-not doesn't appreciate the self-control I have to exert, just to keep myself from eating it all before he gets home.  I'm an addict.  I love that caramel corn.  I need that caramel corn.  I want to eat myself into a sugar-saturated coma with that caramel corn. 

3.  Christmas Cards.

I love them, I hate them.  Receiving letters from old friends, seeing pictures of family, reading the tales of honor roll students and small potty training victories, it's one of the best parts about Christmas.

Sure it's a hassle to finish the mass mailing (a task that I myself begrudgingly dread, especially this year).  But the smiling faces that arrive in my mailbox are sufficient motivation to finish my own darn cards.  They are in the mail, people.  Soon, I swear.  Because, after all, chore that it is, Christmas wouldn't be the same without the happy arrival of holiday hello's.

2.  Books.  Brace yourself.  This tradition fringes upon obsessive. 

Grandpa G. comes through as consistently as Jolly Old St. Nick himself.  Year after year, the very best books in our small, but ever growing, family library have come as gifts from Grandpa G.  They are a treasure to me.  When I read them (or reread them) I am reminded of my friend, Van. 

But the Christmas book tradition doesn't end there.  Mr. Forget-me-not tells me that there will come a time in our children's lives when receiving a Children's picture book, every Christmas, will be seriously, seriously, uncool.  Sure, at 15, they might not appreciate a hardbound copy of Goodnight Moon.  But someday, maybe when they have children of their own, and I am then able to give them a sizable collection of the stories they grew up with, they will appreciate it.  Darn it, THEY WILL APPRECIATE IT!

And so, every Christmas, long before I think up the best gift from Santa (this year: a doll house for the girls, a used, but-new-to-us, red tricycle for Wooly), I have already excitedly and prematurely bought, wrapped, and swooned over a children's picture book for each of our kids.  It's crazy, I know.   

I try to select a book that is significant to their year.  If not, I pick one we've borrowed from the library and read a million times.  This year, the kids are getting books with a Hawaiian theme.

I scored big and found a book with Hibiscuses real first name in the title.  It's a story about a darling Hawaiian surfer girl.  Columbine is getting the book, "Gecko and Mosquito,"a cute story about the pesky insects and lizards that make our Hawaiian experience complete.  Wooly's book deviates from the Hawaiian theme, but only because it was so perfectly suited for him.  "I Aint Gonna Paint No More," a story about a little boy who can't resist the urge to color every crack a different shade of happy.  The words are sung to the tune, "It Ain't Gonna Rain No More, No More."  The illustrations make me laugh out loud.

Last but not least, because this book tradition runs deep, we create our own literature advent calendar.  Every year, the day after Christmas, the kids help me gather all the crumpled scraps and leftover rolls of wrapping paper.  We gather and wrap our collection of Children's holiday stories: The Polar Express, The Night Before Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, The Legend of the Candy Cane, and others.

Next year, when the delightful and dreaded time arrives to unpack the holiday decorations, these wrapped books are taken out of storage and stacked under the tree.  Every night the kids take turns choosing a book to unwrap for a bedtime story.  This tradition alone makes the holiday season worthwhile.  Aside from the cream-cheese frosted sugar cookies and the little Mrs. Claus number, I love it the most.

1. Olive Wood Nativity

I had the opportunity to travel to Israel during the course of my undergraduate studies.  The experiences in the Holy Land shaped my testimony of the divinity and reality of Jesus Christ.  No, traveling to the actual birthplace of Jesus Christ, was not necessary to gain this assurance about His role as the Savior of the World.  But traveling there did allow special experiences to shape and change my heart forever.

Like a good tourist, I schlepped a suitcase full of souvenirs back with me.  Some of these items have since been lost or broken.  But there are a few chosen mementos that amazingly enough, have held up against the countless times they've been shoved into a box for any number of our moves.  They continue to serve as reminders of my travels to this amazing place.  My favorite: the grand daddy of all souvenirs, a large olive wood nativity.  A few years ago, as a Christmas gift, my parents returned the nativity scene that I originally gave to them.

I love that nativity!  Best of all, the sturdy wood makes it virtually childproof.  A good thing too, because there are many mornings I awake to find the scene strangely rearranged.  Mary will be standing out in the field, fraternizing with the shepherds.  The three wise men might be laying down on the job, taking a nap next to the cattle.  On an especially creative morning, sweet Baby Jesus was riding a sheep.  Hey, it's possible?  It's not like he had a Wii back then. 

My children, in small ways this Christmas season, are learning that the holiday is not just about the Jolly Fat Man and the sugar-coated threats made to ensure their obedience during the month of December.  Naughty or nice, Santa always finds his way to our house.  But what matters more to me, is that the Spirit of the Christ-child, who's birth we celebrate on Christmas Day, also finds His way into our hearts and home.  

Because it wouldn't be Christmas indeed, without Him.

Mele Kalikimaka Everyone and...
Always on the grow,

What a Guy!

After church today, Mr. Forget-me-not suggested that we take a trip to the beach.  I reminded him that the missionaries were coming to dinner.  Explaining that this meant he could take the kids to the beach while I stayed home to figure out something to cook.

"Or better yet," I suggested in return, "why don't I take the kids the beach and you stay here to make dinner."  My tone, I'll admit, was somewhat challenging.  Sort of the, let's-see-if-you-could-manage-that, Mr. Partypants.  I probably even had a smirky tone when I said it.

Without any hesitation or sarcasm, he said, "Okay, sure, I'll do it."  No jokes.  No comparison.  Just a genuine willingness to help.

It's easy to love a man with a willing heart!  Granted, had I taken him up on his generous offer, we would have had gourmet dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  He might have thought to throw out a few carrot sticks to balance out the meal, but I wouldn't bet on it.  Plus, he probably couldn't tell you which kid likes it with peanut butter (Hibiscus), which one prefers plain butter and jelly (Columbine), or which one makes my life easier because they are willing to eat the crust (Wooly boy, I love you).  But that's what I'm here for.  I remember all of these important details because, after all, love is in the details.  For Mr. Forget-me-not, love is making me happy.  I am his detail.  And I am very, very lucky.

Oh--and if you are curious, my house is eerily quiet right now.  The crazy crew opted for a park trip instead of a beach trip.  I stayed behind to make dinner. But, only because I wasn't in the mood for PB&J.  Maybe next time, Mr. Forget-me-not.

Always on the grow,

Humbled

Lately I have felt the stinging pain of my maternal inadequacies.   Every mother experiences self-doubt and self-loathing to some degree or another.  The job inherantly comes with a healthy, or unhealthy as the case may be, dose of guilt.  It's in the fine print of our job description; look closely, you'll find it. 

All mothers wonder if we're screwing up our children.  With my history, I don't question whether or not I'm screwing them up, but rather, just how much.  And that's spoken by a good mom.  No, a great mom.  Because I am.  Great.  Most days.

Then there are moments lately, like today, when exhaustion runs high and patience runs low.  When I snap, scream, or otherwise scare my children into compliance.  Intimidation or looming threats are such terrible manipulators, and this week, I'm ashamed to say, I've used both.  I see it in their eyes, like a scared deer in the headlights, after I've lost my cool.  In that moment, a piece of my heart breaks for my children.  And for myself.

Who knows what pushed me over the edge today?  Something set off the Crazy Mama Button and kicked me into freak-out mode.  Obviously, it was something small and insignificant, if it can't recall it now.  Unfortunately, the lecture that followed, sharp and aggresive, was one I'll remember for awhile.  Far too long, really, because it would be in my best interest not to beat myself up over it.  But I'm sure I will.  Because, like I said, we mothers are a guilty lot. 

It went something along the lines of, "look at how much I've done for you today and without a single thanks."  Real parental of me, right?  Because we all know that a 7 year-old and 4 year-old are soo capable of expressing eloquent appreciation for the thankless job of Motherhood.  In my crazed moment, I resorted to some canned lecture on gratitude.  My girls stood frozen in compliant fear, too scared to even hear the volume coming out of my mouth.  My parents would be so proud. 

The real problem wasn't my children's lack of obedience (a common theme of my recent spout-off's) or their lack of appreciation (today's theme).  The real fact of the matter is that I didn't respect my limits.  We all have them.  Here's mine:  By the end of the day, if I haven't allowed time to regroup my kids, my brain, my house, I will fall apart.  The End.

Such was the case today: I had done too much, accomodated too many friends, too many functions, too many messes all over the floor, too many neighbor kids over to play.  And then, in my weakest moment, I took my frustration out on my kids--barking orders, demanding quick compliance when they too were exhausted, hungry and grouchy from an overscheduled day.

Yet, their response was nothing like the projected mirror I had offered to them.  Rather than scream back or look at me with a stern face, their eyes softened.  After snapping them to attention, the girls came to me, timid and probably a little scared of what I'd do if they didn't come.  Lovingly, they wrapped their arms around my neck and hugged me.  Hibiscus held on the longest, determined to show me that she really did appreciate the fun I'd created and allowed for her today.  Determined to hold on for as long as it would take to rescue me from my damning impatience, we sat there for a few minutes together.  She with arms squeezed tightly around my neck, I with arms wrapped tightly around her little waist. 

Thanks to my sweet daughters, and an extra long hug from Hibiscus, I felt forgiven for being less than my best to them.  I am humbled by the undeserved, loving response from my children.  It is their lives, their love, that inspires me to be better, to try harder, and to forgive myself and move on when I am less than I hope to be.

I tucked my children into bed tonight and gave them an extra kiss on their sleepy foreheads.  I am humbled to share my life with these little people.  They fill my heart with joy and my life with such rich meaning.  I love them.  I love them today because they graciously ignore my shortcomings and love me no matter what.

Tomorrow is a new day. 

Always on the grow,

"I know what we can get Mommy for Christmas!"

Mr. Forget-me-not awoke early with Columbine this morning.  Apparently they enjoyed cereal together while the rest of us caught a few more winks.  I owe you one, Daddy. 

Over breakfast, Columbine, came up with her best Christmas gift idea yet! 

"Daddy!  I know what we can get Mommy for Christmas!"

"What's that, Columbine?"

"We can clean the play room!  Because Mommy is always cleaning the play room and she would really like that."

"That sounds really nice, Columbine."  (Thanks for encouraging the idea, Dear.)

"Besides," she continued, "look at the play room, it's not even that dirty."

And there is altruism at it's finest!

What Columbine doesn't know is that the reason the playroom is clean in the morning is because I've tackled the disaster the night before.  Cleaning is easier that way.  It takes half the time, without a trail of little people behind me creating another blissful disaster.  Even so, Columbine's thoughtfulness wasn't lost in the humor of her moment. 

I love that little girl, it's true.  I love her today because she knows one sure way to her mother's heart: Clean up your own mess!  Ahh...sweet music to my tired, chore enforcing heart. 
 

Always on the grow,

Surfing Jesus

Today we drove downtown for a children's theater performance.  It was at some fancy shmancy catholic private school downtown.  Apparently, the Honolulu Opera Group got together with a local children's theater organization.  They performed an operatic version of "The Little Drummer Boy."  My kids sat mezmerized.  Wooly even cooperated nicely.  We only had to resort to 5 gummy bears to keep him in my lap.  Nothing like sugar coated enticement to encourage compliance. 

We had some time before the performance to walk through the cathedral.  I wanted to show my kids the beautiful stained glass inside.  Those Catholics, they can really throw down some cool stained glass.  Mormon chapels are so, well, boring.  Wherever you go it's the same building, same pew, same hymnal, same stray Cheerios scattered under foot.  But Catholics?  We're talking gaudy originality at it's finest.   

Boy oh boy am I glad we took a stroll through this cathedral!  What did we find? 

The Big Kahuna himself, red robed, in all his halo glory, riding a wave--on a surfboard!  No joke.  Honest to goodness, right under the arched entry, there was a stained glass with a surfing Jesus.  Long board, not short, with the surf spraying back his long locks.   

Thrilled by my discovery, I called Mr. Forget-me-not.  Funny sure, but he thought it was mostly sacreligous.  What??  This is the funniest thing I've ever seen!  So funny, that I'm determined to find a way to go back into the cathedral with a camera.  Is that allowed?  Taking pictures of the Surfing Jesus?

I.  Will.  Find.  A.  Way.  And when I do, my blog will see the love. 

Surfs up, Dude.

Always on the grow,

I love you because...

I said our family prayer last night before bedtime.  After a chorus of tired amens, Hibiscus said something sweet.

"I love you, Mommy, because you played kickball with us."

Simple, I know, but it reminded me of something really important.

Yesterday was an action packed day.  We visited the Botanical Gardens in the morning because there was a special presentation on bamboo.  The kids (read: girls) made a bamboo bookmark and panda bear bamboo stick puppet.  Wooly was less than interested in the bamboo craft time, turning his mangled bamboo puppet into a sword.  If he wasn't stabbing something with the stick, then he was sprinting away from me into the jungle.

It's no wonder that I was broken into this parenting gig with two girls before the little man-child rocked our girly craft loving world.  Come on now, how many times can you slosh through mud after a two-year old lunatic before hoping that he's carried off by a swarm of mosquitoes?  

Our adventures didn't end there.  The day also included a brief torture session at the local Health Center.  Only the girls had to get shots.  But from the synchronized screaming, you would have thought the nurse poked all three of them.  It was horrible.  And it deserved shaved ice.

On our drive to the shave ice place, I got pulled over by a traffic cop.  He clocked me going 62 in a 35 mph zone.  After a pathetic explanation of shots, adrenaline pumping tail wind, and screaming kids who were promised shave ice for their bravery, he let me off with a warning.  Okay, so that's not the whole story.  Getting out of a speeding ticket also came as a little fringe benefit of my husband's employment, but that's a story for another post.

I only write all of yesterday's adventures to prove my point.  At the end of our action packed day, Hibiscus didn't tell me that she loved me because I'd taken her all over our island for field trips extraordinare.  Nor did she express love because of the daily ways that I think she is shown love.  What meant the most to her was that I played kickball.  In the front yard.  For a whopping 15 minutes.  Now that's real love. Truth be told, when I went outside to kick the ball around with the kids, I was really just trying to avoid doing the dishes.  Yet, at the end of the day, the 15 minutes we spent kicking a ball around in the front yard was the moment she felt the most loved. 

It's obvious really, but sometimes I need my kids to spell it out for me.  Children equate love with play.  Sure they appreciate that I fold their laundry, make them dinner, clean the bathrooms, and the list could go on and on.  But what really means the most to them is playtime.  Every day.  Just play.  


Next time I hustle through my day, pick up, putting away, scrubbing this, folding that, I want to remember the way Hibiscus looked at me when she said, "I love you, Mommy, because you played with me."

Oh--and thanks again, Mr. Forget-me-not, for getting me out of a speeding ticket.  I keep forgetting.  We live on an island.  What's the hurry?

Always on the grow,

Because I like to torture my family...

Yesterday was the annual forced family photo op.  With Christmas just around the corner, we couldn't pass up the opportunity to rub our friends faces in the sand.  It's not every December that you can boast living in 80 degree weather.  

Mr. I-Hate-Taking-Christmas-Card-Pictures was simply thrilled to discover that I'd included his wardrobe in my photo scheming ways.  The girls were fine with their matching dresses, but hated the headbands.  Too bad, wear them, darn it.  Now smile.

Yeah, it was pleasant.  How hard is it for everyone to smile in unison for one lousy picture?.  Harder than you think, trust me.  I had to pull out the big guns, offering candy canes for the kid with the cutest smile.  Worked like a charm, for all our children over the age of 2. 

Don't you just love Wooly's lightening rod cowlick?  How festive of his hair to point to the North Pole.  Now if only someone could please just make him smile?   I don't see why he's not a vision of excitement?  He loves the beach.  He loves his shark shirt that he's wearing for the picture. 

But I think we got a few decent picture.  Meaning, our kids got their fair share of candy canes.  And, thanks to that, our friends will now get one canned beach shot.  Because isn't that what Christmas pictures are all about?  Check your mailboxes, it's going to make you green with holiday envy.  

Ho! Ho! Ho!  We have no snow.  Now doesn't that have a jolly good sound to it? 

Always on the grow, 

About a Boy and His Hat

For the two-and-a-half short years of Wooly's life, I've had the darnedest time coaxing him into wearing a hat.  As soon as I sneak it upon his head, he'll rip it off and throw it to the floor.  He can't just take the hat off and hand it to me with a polite no-thank-you.  He's a boy.  And so, he'll make his point forcefully known by slamming it to the ground.

Even so, we've continued to dance our little Tarantella for the last few paranoid weeks in paradise.  The tropical sun could fry my white boy up in five minutes flat!  Thankfully, unlike his handsome, yet shiny headed father, Wooly still has a hair on the top of his head that provides some protection from the intense tropical rays.  But as his sun-paranoid mother, a little rug of blond hair is not enough. He needs to wear a hat, darn it!  And as Captain of the Sunblock Team, it is my duty to enforce hat wearing, torture him with sunblock application and pretty much make the kid scream every time I pull out a new preventative sunburn trick from my wide brimmed sun-hat.  It's my job, Son.  You're welcome.    

Simply said:  Enforcing hat wearing is a chore we both disdain.  But, hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen, because yesterday was a breakthrough in our continual hat battle.

It's not about making him wear a hat.  It's about finding the hat that he likes to wear!  Duh.

Yesterday the kids took a walk down the street.  We have a neighbor with an orange (actually I think it's some heavenly hybrid of tangerine/orange) tree.  The juice from those babies is like nectar from the gods.  Generously, our neighbor gave us the go-ahead to pick them anytime.

While walking down the street for an orange hunt, Wooly insisted upon pulling, not riding, in the wagon.  It's the big boy thing to do, which seems to be the daily objective in his life lately.  He tossed his hat into the wagon, about the same time that, Colmbine, climbed in to be pulled.  She spied Wooly's hat and innocently put it on her own head.

Holy tantrum, Batman.  Wooly would have nothing to do with it!  He dropped the wagon handle and shrieked over to Columbine, ready to throw some serious hat-smacking fury down.  Nobody, and I mean, nobody wears his hat.  He yanked it away, secured it firmly to his own noodle, and marched back to the wagon handle to resume his big-boy pulling.

What is it about a little boy in a baseball hat that makes a Mama's heart go gah-gah?  I love that little boy, it's true.  And I am delighted that the hat deserving of this long-awaited hat wearing desire is none other than...a true blue, BYU cap that I bought last summer with the hope, the prayer, that someday he'd repent of his non-hat-wearing ways.

Rise and shout, people, because Wooly is out--wearing his BYU ball cap!  I think I'm in love.

Final score in the Battle of the Hat: 1-Mom, 0-Wooly.  I won.  Ha!

Always on the grow,

Just so we're all clear on this point.

Last week, Mr. Forget-me-not buckled under the pressure and finally acquiesced to my insistence that we buy a fake tree.  I'll admit, it does feel sacrilegious being from the beautiful Northwest.  We Oregonians, we know trees.   And while we had the privilege of living in that tree hugging state, I didn't push my agenda for a fake Christmas tree.  What's the point when we could chop down a real beauty for under 20 bucks?  Because I'm all for the smell of pine in my living room and will dutifully sweep fallen needles on the floor (with only a few complaints) if the "real" tree experience doesn't cost me more than $20 smackers.  Frugality and practicality, they are the perfect combination.   

Move to Hawaii and guess what?  They ship all the trees over from Oregon!  Sniffle, sniffle.  This is the first year that we can't chop down our own tree.  No, I'm not a slave to all things sentimental because as nice as it would be to smell a real tree this Christmas, I am not willing to fork over the green to get the real green.  Fake, baby, there's nothing wrong with fake.  "If you can touch it, then it's real," or at least that's what our old college friends said this past summer when we visited them in Utah.  Granted, he was referring to his wife's recent boob job when he made the whole 'if you can touch it, then they are real' comment.  But I think the same argument could be made for a fake tree, don't you?

I am proud to say that this Christmas we have a lovely fake tree in our living room because finally, my traditional tree loving husband saw the wisdom behind saving the dough by going artificial.  Highway robbery, I tell you.  Who do those Oregon tree farmers think they are, shipping trees over and then asking 10 times their cost?  Pullease.

The kids helped Mr. Forget-me-not set up the pre-lit beauty last Saturday morning.  I left them with the thrilling tree assembly task and went for a long run.  When I returned, there was a story to tell.

Apparently, the train table in the family room needed to be moved to allow room for the tree.  Mr. Forget-me-not suggested that the girls help him move it into one of their bedrooms. 

"I really think we should ask Mommy about this before we move anything.  Don't you think, Daddy?" Hibiscus expressed her concern.

"Yeah, Daddy, we should ask Mommy," Columbine's apprehension mirrored her big sisters.

I would have enjoyed listening to this dialog between my husband and our daughters.  According to the girls, Daddy insisted that I would be a-okay with the transfer of train table and Christmas tree.  "We're moving it, girls," he said with enough finality that they didn't question his tree assembling authority. 

Columbine understood the dynamic perfectly.  "That's right, Daddy.  Because you're the boss...when Mommy's not here."

Wow!  A four and a half year old with smarts like that!  She's a quick one, that girl.  I think Santa might bring her an extra present for her brilliant assessment.

Always on the grow,

Traditions

The Christmas season rolls around every year and I find myself both giddy and disgusted by the traditions I am forced to continue.  I'll post another day about the holiday traditions I adore, if only to prove that I'm not a total Scrouge when it comes to all things jolly.

Today, however, I only have time to write about the traditions I loathe.  Why?  Because I've spent this week writing my stupid Christmas letter.  I've had the same letter format for years, so you'd think it'd be easy enough to whip it out. 

He's makin' a list, checkin' it twice.  Gonna find out who's naughty and nice.  Yes indeedy, Santa Claus is coming to town and I for one, prefer honesty.  No sugar coated, my-kids-are-cuter-than-your-kids letters.  Boring.  Why not rely on a little public humiliation to modify your kid's naughty behavior?  Works like a charm at our house.  Why some Big Shot therapist hasn't written a book to endorse this parenting approach is a mystery to me.  

It's an added bonus that my traditional naughty and nice Christmas letter is a great way to air our dirty laundry.  Ahh--it just feels good to get it all out in the open.  My only real gripe is that writing Christmas letters is way too time consuming, especially this year. 

Sure, it's a big ego boost to have people say that my Christmas letter is the one they look forward to most.  (Are they just being nice?)  That's it's the funniest letter they get all season.  (Stop, already--it's too much preasure.)   That they look forward to it all year because they need a good laugh.  (Help!  I can't do funny on demand.)

What to do now because I'm up against a serious Christmas writer's block?  I have three equally naughty, equally adorable children for St. Nick's sake!  Our Christmas tell-all letter should come spilling off my fingers and onto the keyboard.  It's not like I can disappoint my loyal Christmas letter readership and just send a picture?  I'm tempted, I tell you, I really am tempted.  But no, I'm a slave for tradition.  Which is why blog posting must take a back seat to the creative juices needed to come up with another stinking naughty and nice letter.

Oh, and if you're curious as to the other Christmas traditions I loathe, let's add lights and decor to the list.  By the time you put the lights on the house, you have to take them right back down again.  And for what?  Just to have a big electric bill to pay.  It's almost as annoying as the holiday sneeze throughout my house.  Can't I just throw all the Christmas crap decorations away on December 26th?  I swear once the kids stop believing in Old Man Christmas, all this stuff will get dumped in the trash.

Enough already.  I've got to come up with naughty material for the letter.  Hark!  Is that the sound of children fighting?  Just when I thought I was short on material.  Go ahead, Wooly, bite your sisters arm one more time and that kind of naughty behavior is getting a write up. 

Oh--and if you are my friend and thus deserving of a letter, email me your address.  These babies are gonna be hot of the press and in the mail before the end of the week.

Traditions!  Bah-hum-bug!

Always on the grow,

What did you do this weekend?

Mr. Forget-me-not just went to bed, but not before telling me that I should do the same.  "Before you know it, it will be midnight."  Now I have something to prove.  Can I finish a blog post and still make it to bed at a decent hour?  On your mark.  Get set.  Go.

No, I can't.  That's why I'm not even going to try.  I'll let the pictures do the talking.  Forgive the lack of narrative, but I have an alarm set at a ridiculous hour in the morning.  This week's goal is to beat the kids to the morning punch.  Those little boogers get up way, way too early.  So, my new resolve this week is to get up before they do and carve out a little ME time.  I need exercise in a bad, bad way. 

Trust me, all this ambition looks great on paper.  But in actuality, it's going to kick my trash.  Mind over mattress, right? 

What am I doing yapping?  I up against the bedtime clock.  Pictures.  I just need to post the pictures.  Here we go.  Shots from our super fun weekend.

Christmas Party at Aunty Sandy and Uncle Mike's house; a candy cane theme. Our coordinated family costumes earned us the Most Creative Family Award.  That's what I'm talkin' about!  Mr. Forget-me-not's "Chick Magnet" shirt (with his name spelled out in candy canes) was almost as big of a hit as Wooly's shirt.  We taped his canes on the back so that he wouldn't rip them off.  Look closely.  The candy canes spell "JR."   That boy is learning from the Pro.  Look out ladies.

Our other noteworthy weekend adventure was the thrilling first snorkel experience for Hibiscus.  Thanks to Daddy's convincing confidence, she dove right in and loved it!  It was such a thrill for her to swim right up to such colorful fish.         

 Always on the grow,

The Thanksgiving Turkey That Keeps On Giving

Today is Trash Day.  Hallelujahs.  In the Spirit of Thanksgiving, honest to goodness, I've never felt more grateful.  Bless you, Honolulu Sanitation Department, for saving me from another week of embarrassment.

My post-Thanksgiving blog-post was a long one, here's the cliffnotes version.  After Thanksgiving dinner, Mr. Clueless threw the half eaten turkey into the family van.  Turkey guts and juices soaked into the floor mats.  The rest of the holiday weekend was then spent bowing over the carpet cleaner and praising the name of the Inventor of Febreeze.

Add insult to the injury to Mr. Forget-me-not's repentant turkey sloshing ways, Mrs. Clueless, (I know, I know, I should have known better) threw the turkey remains from our van straight into the trashcan.  Why?  Why?  Why didn't I wrap it in a trash bag first? 

The next day, there was a slight twinge to the fragrant tropical air that rolls gently through our Hawaiian Hale.  Hmm...must be a lingering stinch from the car?  Another day and I began sniffing around the garage, sure the sour smell was a wet load of laundry accidentally forgotten in the washing machine.  "What is that smell!?"  I asked the girls, certain that a combination of sniffers could help place the smell.  By the third day, make no mistake, anyone within 100 feet of our trashcan knew the EXACT origin of toxic fumes.  Seriously, neighbors out to walk the dog would pass by and then give our house a backwards glance.  Our sweet old granny neighbor lady, hobbled over to close the side door that faces our house.  Hibiscus begged not to sleep in her bedroom (the trashcan sit outside her window).  The stench was horrible, just horrible. 

In desperation I considered extracting the nastiness from the trashcan for an emergency mid-week dump run.  Had I found the painter's masks still buried in some box in the garage, I probably would have subjected myself to the fumes o'torture.  I've changed enough poopy diapers not to be scared off by a dead turkey in a trashcan.  Maybe?  It was Divine providence that I couldn't find those painter's masks.   

Mr. Forget-me-not offered a better solution when I called him at work with our turkey emergency, "Just pull the trashcan into the backyard.  Put it all the way against the field, under the mango tree."  Good idea!  At least that way when neighbors walk past, they won't know exactly who is to blame for the assault to their olfactory senses! 

And so, I hauled our turkey trashcan under the mango tree for the week, hiding it like evidence from a crime scene.  Believe me, after baking in tropical sun for the week, it smelled like something larger than a 10 pound turkey was buried under that mango tree.  Then the anxious countdown until Friday's trash day began! 

Which is why at 6:00am this morning, I have never been happier to be awakened by the blessed sounds of a Garbage Man driving down our street.  Thankful.  I am most thankful to finally say goodbye to Tom the Turkey.  See you next year, you dirty, rotten bird. 

Always on the grow,

When it's love...

...eat at Taco Bell.  Or something like that.

Last week, Wooly and I stole away together for a little drive down the road.  First off, I hate fast food.  I am a proud and self-proclaimed fast food snob.  The grease, the food, the smell, the whole idea of mass produced "fast" food disgusts me.  Honestly.  It's so un-American, I know, but it's true.   

But desperation, coupled with debilitating dinner making laziness, drove me to my knees.  Shameful as it is to admit, I found myself at Taco Hell Bell.  I stood sheepishly at the counter, whispering my order for 5 soft taco supremes, bean burritos and quesedillas for the kiddies.  What's a taco without the hot sauce, I don't know?  And so with my over priced beans on wheels order, I asked for the good stuff.  For me, not the Mister.  He prefers all food bland, sans the onions, sans the flavor.  That's why he loves me so.  I am the spice to his life.  You know you love it, Honey.   

So, yes, I picked up dinner at Taco Bell, returned home to a starving family, all who were equally as desperate for something, anything to eat.  Big waste of hard earned money, but hey, that's the beauty of fast food.  Not cheap, just easy.  Plus, as if I needed any added bonus, we got a laugh out of my hot sauce packet.

As luck would have it, my hot sauce packet had the funniest little snippet.  Who knew they wrote stuff on Taco Bell hot sauce packets?  I didn't, but only because, as I've already said, I refuse to eat fast food often enough to know.  Where they lack in food quality, I'm here to tell you that there are some real brains behind the Taco Bell hot sauce packets.  Marketing brainpower that probably keeps customers happy.  And we all know happy customers equal repeat costumers.  Which is probably why my fast-food snobbery has weakened since this hot sauce encounter.  Must I also admit to eating Taco Bell twice in the last week?  Gag.  There's something addictive in their nacho cheese sauce, I just know it. 

My hot sauce packet read, "will you marry me?"

Because nothing says forever like a Nacho Bell Grande.  I may not have the most romantic proposal story, but please, heaven help desperate brides everywhere if they'd have to admit to being proposed to at Taco Bell.  That's not even funny.  Well, it is actually, in an embarrassing sort of way.  So fellas, if you are reading this, first off--don't ever admit to reading mommy blogs--and second, do not propose to your girlfriend with a Taco Bell hot sauce packet.  Think outside the bun.  Seriously.

Always on the grow,

Missing da'cuzins

Hibiscus loves her knew role as a Hawaiian pen-pal to far away friends and family.  Usually, she prefers sending postcards to her Oregon cousins.  We all miss them.  Even Wooly asks on occasion, "Eye'n a go to da'cuzins hows?"  Wouldn't that be nice?  My kids would love the chance to have one more day to play at the cousins' house. Hibiscus would love to have one more night for a Beauty Parlor with sponge curlers before a sleep over.   

Tonight, Hibiscus got a phone call from one of her favorite cousins and it made her day!  Perhaps it was because she received the postcard she wrote last week?  I took a picture of it before she mailed it because I thought it was so adorable.

Isn't that so sweet?  "Guess what?  The flowers bloom in Winter!  It's cool."  I hope that they can come and "viset" too, Hibiscus. 

Always on the grow,

Santa and the Stork: Partners in Crime

Mr. Forget-me-not had to work late last night, leaving me to crack the bedtime whip alone.  Wrangling three children into a bed without the horsepower of a two-parent machine is an art form that brag, if I must, I have perfected.  Last night's solo-bedtime magic brought back a wave of memories from our recent yesterdays.   I can smile now at my sleepy time skills, whereas before, when Daddy was gone, there was nothing to smile about at bedtime.

But still, even with him here (most nights), I gots me some skills!  I can whip three kids into jammies, brush three gaping mouths (some more willing than others to be brushed), read stories til' they drop and all with a smile on my face!  Why?  Because alone as I may be tonight, there is happiness knowing that at least my Partner in Crime will come home eventually.  Usually long after the kids are asleep, but home eventually.

On nights without Daddy, we'll all squeeze into one bed for storytime. Colombine was half asleep as I brushed her teeth in bed.  She was  completely asleep by the time I read the first book.  Hibiscus waited through the toothbrushing rotations, nuzzled up to Wooly.

Wooly's resolve not to let his sister's baby him weakens at bedtime, when he'll happily accept their gushing affections.  He likes to believe that he's a big boy, but at bedtime, he'll let them treat him like our baby.  I've found that the best way to keep him from sneaking into my bed at night is to sandwich him between his two sisters; the place he perfers most to sleep.  Such was the case tonight for bedtime stories, three peas in a pod.  Colombine was already asleep, leaving Hibiscus to enjoy swooning over her cuddly baby brother. 

As I turned the corner to see the three of them snuggled up together, my heart melted with happiness.  I felt so grateful to see my children so content, so sleepy, so happy, wedged up against each other in bed. Hibiscus caught my eyes and calculated the odds that if she made her ultimate Christmas wish made known at this moment, it might, might, just come true. 

I squeezed into bed with my customary armful of bedtime stories, when Hibiscus looked up at me, while still spooning her cozy and content little brother.  In a voice as sweet as heaven's Children's Choir for Angels, she said, "If Santa could just bring me one more baby brother, I would be happy.  Happy.  Happy.   Happy." 

I smiled.  That's it, just a smile.  Amused with her request, I'm left to wonder if maybe it's time to break the news that Santa and the Stork do not collaborate on Christmas gifts.

Sorry, Hibiscus, you will not find another baby brother wrapped up under the tree on Christmas morning. 

Always on the grow,