Let Loose the Princess Fury

Thursday afternoon I got a babysitter for no reason other than the psychological thrill of three hours of Me Time. Sometimes looking forward to it or just knowing it’s approaching supplies more of a feel-good shock therapy jolt to my psyche than the actual kid-free time itself.  

So, mere minutes before the nanny arrived, I decided I’d set off for San Francisco for some thrift shopping. There’s something so stupid about paying $20 an hour to pick through two-dollar-ninety-nine-cent clothing alongside hipsters and the homeless that I just couldn’t resist.

Besides, Thrift Town is where I’m closest to God. Or rather, the place where in the acquisition of bargains I feel a rush that’s akin to religious fervor.  

My sisters call another Mission bastion, Community Thrift, “church.” I’ve never asked if it’s due to the reverence that they have for it, or that it’s a must on Sundays, when folks unload all their didn’t-sell yard sale items and the place brims with all manner of fresh crap. In the same way Kitchen Confidential taught us not to get fish on Tuesdays at restaurants, Ellen and Judy can direct you to the right crap store on the right day to give you the best shot of unearthing what it is you’re hankerin’ for.

It’s a gift, really.

At any rate, the religious metaphors also show you the effect that a childhood of being pulled by our ears to church every Sunday had on my sisters and I (i.e. we’re quick to reference but not participate in church activities). And it underscores the extent to which we Brunos exalt a good bargain.

So, childless and fancy-free I pushed open the doors to big grungy sweetly-stinky Thrift Town feeling the anticipatory titillation that comes with not knowing what dazzling finds await. And the first thing I see in the shelves of random crap along the entryway wall is a box covered over with Saran Wrap and housing–unused!–all the brightly colored plastic Snow White-branded crap a little girl could ever wish for (or break within moments of adoring ownership). It was $3.99.

Now I’m hardly a super crunchy Waldorf School Mama, but I have discouraged childhood TV-watchin’ nearly in its entirety. I despise kid crap that’s branded with licensed characters, prefer wooden toys to plastic, and have steered Kate clear of anything princess-related as if it were, uh, the Ebola Virus.

But I know not every mother is as fetishistic about avoiding these things as I am. And since my desire to home school the girls in order to maintain their commercial purity is as strong as my desire to pluck each of my not-exactly-lacking Italian-American leg hairs, I’m realistic about the fact that they’ll be exposed to it eventually.

To introduce it myself though just seems like a slippery slope. One viewing of SpongeBob SquarePants leads to excessive begging for crap at Target, and next thing you know she’s using intravenous drugs.

Maybe it was the feel-good high from my break from ass- and nose-wiping, or the alcohol hit I got off the breath of the bum next to me, but I picked up the thing and decided on the spot, what the heck. I’ll buy a little princess crap for Miss Kate.

The thing is, I’m a survivor of a sugar-free childhood. Well, nearly sugar free. There are naturally occurring sugars in fruit, right?

A bottle of soda rarely darkened our door, and sugary cereals were disparaged like the devil’s own drug. But, like me, my mother’s desire to shield me from the things she disliked only went so far. Which is to say, she let me out of the house. So, when visiting friends I perved out over the presence of forbidden foods.

Me: “You have Pop Tarts?! Aren’t you afraid your mother’ll see them in that cupboard?”

My friend: “What do you mean? My mom bought those for me.”

At which point my head exploded.

So, looking through the re-packaged plastic on this treasure trove of princess crap, I made my peace with the thought that maybe this petite offering might be enough to satisfy Kate’s burgeoning princess curiosity for now. Or at least safeguard her from short-circuiting (and ultimately stealing) the next faux-fur Cinderella dress-up cape she comes across at a friend’s house.

Plus, it’s kind of funny watching her teeter around the house on those oh-so-wholesome red plastic mini-heels.

And best of all, it was a great bargain.

Crashing and Burning Across the Finish Line

Saturday afternoon Mark made his long-awaited return from Vegas.

He entered the house to see the typically-banned-from-TV Kate lying languid on the couch, a Sesame Street-watching zombie, hear Paige wailing miserably from her crib, and find me splayed out in bed with a brain-crushing migraine.

Not exactly the Bree Van de Kamp meets Heidi Klum greeting I’d had in mind.

But in the glamorous, fast-paced, take-no-prisoners Domestic Engineer life I lead, reality often misaligns with expectations. 

When I was in high school my friend’s little sister was crazy fired-up to have been asked to prom by a guy she’d been moony over for months. As mature oh-so-over-it-all seniors, my friend and I marveled from the sidelines as her sister dragged her mom dress shopping to every mall in Rhode Island (which I think was a staggering three shopping centers at the time, maybe four). She obsessed over limo rental, where they’d eat, and whether she could trust her best friend and her boyfriend to be sufficiently un-dorky double dates.

When the big day arrived–much to our collective relief–she bathed herself silly for hours (ah, those bygone epic soaks with Cosmo and Glamour), then got her nails done and her hair up-doed. A couple hours before the event she decided to bleach her moustache, left the stuff on too long, and burned the shit out of her upper lip.

Which just goes to show it’s sometimes the home stretch that screws you. 

As for me on Saturday, I eventually managed to drag my sorry ass out of bed and wince into dim light without recoiling in agony. And a couple hours after that I even combed the sleep-induced rat’s nest snarl out of my hair. I’m not sure I ever got around to brushing my teeth, but the way things unfurled that day I think Mark planted our long-anticpated welcome home kiss atop my aching noggin anyway.

Thankfully by yesterday I was back in the pink. We romped with the girls at the beach in Alameda, drank beers at a kid-friendly burger joint for lunch, and rolled our eyes at each other over Kate’s intermittent three-year-old no-I-won’t-ever-put-that-jacket-on fits. I got to sleep in, had what I’d humbly report was a fabulous hair day, and managed to perform myriad other maternal and wifely, uh, ‘duties’ with a little that’s-what-I’m-talkin’-about spring in my step.

Mark’s back. I’m back. Yay.  

7 1/2 Hours Left

…until Mark gets home.

Not that I’m counting or anything.

Report from the Night Shift

Last night The McClusky Sisters besieged my sleep with a brutal one-two punch. With Mark gone to wait in endless taxi lines at CES in Vegas, I’m running solo on the ‘renting. And hanging on by a thread to tell the tale.

So, is it just me, or is waking from a deep sleep to find a small child silently standing inches from your face scary as shit? I mean, maybe I’ve watched The Shining a few too many times in college, but I can’t begin to fathom how parents of twins survive seeing two kids standing in a hallway in the middle of the night. Horrific on so many levels.

The suddenly-standing-right-there kid is one thing, but the plaintive cry of, “I don’t waaaaaaanna sleep!” called across the albeit small house–and a look at the digital clock revealing it’s 1:32AM–is quite another. Even if you know every other time you’ve heard this lament The Whiner has successfully been marched back to bed with some threat like, “It’s the middle of the night and yes, you WILL sleep!” hissed into her ear–even knowing that’s probably how it’ll go down, the vision of what your night could turn into if the little beastie did refuse to sleep is just unspeakably ugly.

Waking up this way is less than ideal, but half of what I’m all pissy about is that Kate’s sleep issues are something I realized–how to say this?–I blame totally on Mark. Since he still can’t lactate (damn it) the natural division of nighttime labor has been Mark serving as Kate’s night nurse and me tending to Paige’s milk-swillin’ needs. Mark’s just such a softie. He ambles out of bed and gently ushers Kate to her
room instead of blowing a whistle loudly in her face as I might do in
order to, you know, break the cycle.

With sleep being my Super Power (along with parallel parking), I’m usually able to snooze through most of Kate’s creepy suddenly-standing-there late-night visits to our room. And I drown out her vocal requests with the patented pillow-over-the-head approach.

So while Mark’s slumming in a luxury hotel, getting buttered up by every hi-tech trade show gadget pimp, and eating out at Bouchon, Craft, and the best Thai restaurant this side of Chiang Mai, I’m home wrangling with the wretched nighttime duet that he and Kate sometimes dance.

I mean, I don’t mean to sound bitter.

But maybe my lack of REM is actually mustering in me a wee bit of co-parenting empathy on this subject. In the past, when I’ve stretched, smiled and offered up a well-rested morning greeting to Mark, commenting on how Paigey “slept through, God bless her,” he’s often looked back at me through bloodshot eyes muttering slack-jawed that Kate “was up four–or mabye it was five–times.” It’s not that I don’t feel bad for the guy, but when he adds that from 1:30 to 3:00 he “couldn’t sleep at all,” he loses me.

As a professional sleeper I know there’s some good shut-eye to be gotten between those 30-second back-in-your-beddie-bye jaunts. It’s always baffled me that between these quick promenades Mark’s often in bed wired and wild-eyed.

But now, like some Scrooge who grew a heart overnight, I’ve come to understand Mark’s plight. The thing is, after the girl cons you into thinking she’s ready to doze off at the first tuck-in, you foolishly climb back into bed, and just when your body temp’s returned to duvet-level warmth and you’re drifting off into a dream about having had a really popular prom date, SHE’S BACK. This time wailing loudly near the baby’s bedroom door. “MAMA!!! I. Can’t. SLEEEEEEP!”

Suffice it to say, it’s jarring.

If it weren’t for fear that she’d disturb The One That Insists On Drinking Milk From Your Boobies If Awoken, you wouldn’t be springing out of bed in a flash to hush hush hush her and direct her back toward her room whispering a strained aren’t-your-blankets-so-cozy-honey pep talk in her ear.

If it’s not already clear, we’re quite religious about not solving this problem by inviting her into our Child-Free Zone, I mean bed.

So, more soporific promises from Kate and another walk back to my own bed, but this time I can’t help but be wary. Why get cozy when the other shoe could drop at any moment? She could be back again before I even have time to lament the oh-so-wretched hour. And when the rattle of the heater cranks up I find myself straining to listen, thinking I’m hearing her door crack open again. It’s like that one ring on the Motorola RAZR phone that always had you thinking it was ringing when it wasn’t. (Admit it. You always fell for that too.)

So, not one to be rooked into nodding off again, this time I’m on ambush alert. I’m almost wanting her to get up and just get it the hell over with. Will she do the spooky silent child by the bed move, or the bellow from down the hall? What’s it gonna be, Kate?! BRING IT ON, SISTER.

But eventually enough time passes, and I let go, roll over, and well, you can guess what happens when I just drift off. “MOMMY!!”

Digital clock now says 2:53AM.

To anyone who may have seen me carrying a child fireman-style over my shoulder while growling “No more getting up, and I MEAN IT!” threats under my breath, thanks a bunch for not calling Child Protective Services.

I think this process took place five times last night. Or maybe four. I lost count some time after losing my will to live.

And once Kate lost interest in seeing how far she could push me before I’d put her up for bid on eBay, her World Wrestling Federation partner, Paige, tagged in.      

It was like Paige was perched in the corner of the ring waiting for the bell to sound so she could pounce on my last 3 hours of sleep like a rabid monkey. (I know this is mixing a metaphor, but on such limited sleep this is the best I can muster, people.)

And what a show Miss Paige put on! The baby who generally gets up once at night–if that–squawked first at midnight, prior to Kate’s onsalught, then came at me with two additional awake-itudes spaced out for maximum snoozing interference at 4:00 and 5:30.

At 5:45 I crawled to bed. Cold. Tapped dry of milk. Frantic for sleep but gun-shy about giving into it. And desperately, miserably missing my partner in parenting, our family’s fearless father, my dear sweet Mark.

He who was alseep in some hotel bed. Likely a bit boozed up after some work party or dinner. Stretched out solo in a huge king bed, maybe with another one like it nearby just for throwing his books and clothes and cell phone on.

Hopefully getting a deep restful night’s sleep to fortify him for the family life awaiting his return. At which point I will never again doubt, question, or criticize any of his middle of the night sleep shenanigans, because I’ll be so damn happy happy happy to just have him back.   

Things that did not happen today

Today part-way through an article in Us Weekly about how celebrities lost their postpartum weight—or maybe it was the story about George Clooney and his ex-girlfriend having recently “kept in touch” via email—I set the magazine down in my lap and ran my mind though a voluntary exercise of abject terror.

I was at the chiropractor. Sitting on the table in a blue hospital gown and an absurd little triangular lead apron, a grossly inadequate-seeming shield for my baby-makin’ parts from the x-rays I’d just had taken. X-rays of my lower back and neck–standard stuff the new doc figured would confirm his garden variety “baby trauma, computer hunch, yadda yadda” diagnosis about my bag of bones.

At some point in the middle of whatever article it was, I suddenly realized just how long I’d been sitting there reading that crappy magazine. Long enough to envision a scenario whereby the doctors were all in the other room, leaning with concern into the light box of my x-rays and discussing just how they’d break the news to me about the wretched thing they saw–long enough to make that terrible image suddenly seem as though it was without a doubt what had to be happening and why I was waiting so damn long.

And here I’d been. Haplessly reading a magazine. Ignorant and blissful. Expecting that after scanning the pictures showing celebrities doing things ‘just like us’ (putting money in the parking meter!) the doctor would come back, inform me the x-rays were just fine, tell me to get dressed, direct me to another room for a heat pack and a few righteous neck crunches, then send me on my way home to collect Mark and the girls for a rainy-day visit to the wildlife sanctuary.

But really what would-could-might be about to go down would make these few page-flipping minutes seem like the happiest carefree bored would-that-I-could-go-back-there time ever. What if the doctors came in, stern and serious? And after our talk I had to dig out my cell phone, call Mark, tell him he needed to come meet me there, or maybe even at the hospital? What if something suddenly on this otherwise nondescript day sent me into a mother-love panic about my fragile and about-to-crumble mortality jeopardizing my happy-go-lucky magazine-reading life and my heretofore inadequately appreciated days and months and years with my beloved husband and those blessed beautiful girls?

It could happen.

But in some deep deep place I think I somehow knew that this whole mental spiral was only meant to act itself out in my mind. Based in part on the odds. But also because if I thought it might really be happening I don’t think I could even bear to conjure it up. To take it all the way though to the sickening horrible thought that I can barely force myself to return to now—my sweet small children, motherless.

Who knows what triggered this sudden ardent need for a heroin-heavy dose of life perspective. Maybe, God willing, the doctor’d come back in, all in a flurry with some double-booked back-up of neck-wringing to wrangle with, and like some hairdresser who’s gotten behind on one appointment that’ll screw her for the whole day, apologize as he hastily loaded a heating pad on my back to move me through the rotation and out the door—one more down.

And thankfully, blessedly, thank you thank you thank you Mr. Universe, Sir, some version of that did happen.

But still in my relief the thought lingered that maybe one room over there was another woman who wasn’t so lucky. And if not in this doctor’s office surely somewhere nearby someone was getting crappy news. Someone’s plans to go home and heat up leftover chicken soup for lunch were about to be shot to shit.

I had a professor in London my junior year of college. A rapid-fire-talking layered-clothing-wearing kindly woman whose voice was as high-pitched as it was shrill. Truth be told I don’t even remember what genre of lit she taught, though it seems like it should be 19th Century.

Anyway, one day I went to her office for our tutorial—the one-on-one sessions that comprised the Brit’s collegiate learning structure. (“Here’s the syllabus. Read the books. Meet with me every other week–maybe over a pint–to chat. And turn in five papers by the end of the term.”) So I walk into her office. She’s all in a tizzy–much more so than her usual state. Wisps of gray hair flying out of her bun and glasses low on her nose. Standing up behind her desk slapping together teetering piles of books and papers and folders and a tea cup or two while clucking to herself, “Oh, Margorie. Come on now! Come on.”

Then, having done nothing to acknowledge my presence at her door, she lets out a sudden shriek, “Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes!” And clutching a little ratty brown leather billfold to her chest and exhaling deeply closes her eyes for a moment then flaps them open wide cackling, “Kristen! Dear! I am so very happy to have you be the first person to know that my wallet is now found! Hiding right here in plain view! And you know really, it’s such a thrill. Sometimes,” she said leaning closer to me, and I can still picture her grinning giddily on the verge of this, “when you think something is lost—you’ve utterly and uncompromisingly convinced yourself of it, and then—behold!—why it’s suddenly right there! Right back there for you! Do you know how sometimes it’s really such a wonderful delight to have it back that it sort of makes having lost in the first place actually quite worthwhile?”

Yes, Margorie. Yes, I do.

Too late to be cool? I think not.

A couple days ago my new chiropractor informed me I have a mild scoliosis of the spine. Something, he said, that likely developed when I was 13 or 14.

And here I’ve been all this time with a crooked back and totally unaware of it. Which is distressing.

I mean, I can’t even fathom the cool factor this information could have granted me had I know it in my teendom. My ability to dramatically align any teen-caliber life shortcomings with Judy Blume’s  Deenie character might have been utterly transformative.

Sure, at this point I won’t be required to wear a back brace for four years like Deenie had to. Nor will my aspirations to become a model be dashed by the diagnosis. My goals during my Deenie-reading era were more about getting attention from cute Junior Instructors at my rundown town yacht club and less about walking runways in Milan anyway.

Regardless, it still feels like not knowing this then represents some kind of missed opportunity. And the second I realize how I can capitalize on it, I’m riding my bike straight over to Amelia’s house where–if I screw up enough courage, that is–I’ll call Phil Kinder, or maybe one of the other JIs, and make sure they’re the first to know. 

No Place Like Cards for the Holidays

The most socially acceptable medium for showing off one’s kids seems to be the holiday photo card. I mean, it beats the expense, travel, trauma–and let’s face it, limited exposure–of the child pageant circuit.

My sister Judy always calls in any feedback she’s gotten about our cards, which is nice. She covers off on some of the “what cute kids!” compliments that I might otherwise miss out on.

Judy’s best friend Lindelle, who lives on the East Coast, apparently called her last year at 5AM California time squealing about Kate’s posed-by-the-fir-tree innocent beauty. (Despite the two plus decades Judy’s been out here Lindelle has not yet caught on to–or simply decided to ignore–the time difference.) Good Auntie that Judy is, she was willing to take the call despite the early hour, in order to thoroughly process and discuss all elements of the card. (And that’s just one reason why they’re from-womb-to-tomb friends.) 

Judy called in her report about this year’s card a couple weeks ago. Blah blah blah Kate is pretty. And apparently word on the street is that Paigey’s a ringer for our mom. When I shared this with Mark, he claimed he’d been hearing that Paige is a wee version of him.

In either case, both these comments set off my internal awww meter.

But then with further reflection–and a dash of neuroses–it got me wondering. If Paige looks like my mother and Mark, then Mark looks like my mother, right? So does that mean that in some short-circuited Electra-like Complex I married my, uh, mother? And then, did my mother and I give birth to a female baby who looks like my shoulda-been husband?

It’s all just too frightening and confusing.

Maybe next year we’ll just send out cards with pictures of Santa. 

Mama’s Little Girl

My mother used to make up crap constantly. I mean, it was all in the service of urging one of her four daughters to do something, and as the mother of one child who’s turned the unbearable age of three, I can feel her pain. At one point the poor woman had a newborn, an 11-month old, and a 22-month-old. (Then ten years later I happily hit the scene. Surprise!)

Anyway, knowing what I know now, whatever the woman went through to get through the day is totally fine by me.

Her specialty was outlining elaborate reasons why things should be done. Often she’d add some statistics to back-up her argument. And I’m not talking about the classics like “you have to wait at least an hour to swim after eating.” She’d bust out much more detailed data. And although she’s not around to ask the origins of her plentiful stats, I have every reason to believe that based on how convenient they were to her–and the fact that with re-use the numbers sometimes changed–I’d wager she made them up on the spot.

“95% of household accidents happen from untied shoes!” she’d bellow after me as I ran through the house.

Throughout the winter months I’d hear some variant of:
“If you don’t wear a hat you lose 85% of your body heat through your head.”

And of course there was:
“70% of kids who sit that close to the TV develop vision problems, you know.”

Her: “Do you know how many kids who ride their bikes without helmets get into accidents and turn into vegetables?
Me: “Uh… sixty-five percent?”

Who knows. Maybe in Reader’s Digest or whatever women’s magazines she was reading at the time they had entire sections devoted to citing maternally-weildible stats like these. Perhaps she really did have primary sources for it all.

She also had an arsenal of other warnings. They were statistic-free but still rife with veiled health threats: “Drinking coffee will stunt your growth” was one of her evergreens, though I don’t remember ever wanting so much as a taste of her coffee when she was having a cup. Maybe the sum-total of her maternal sleep deprivation by the time I was born led her to preemptively fend people away from her coffee. And again, who could blame her?

Even later in her life when she was so sick that her body could barely process food, she’d insist we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home from chemotherapy. Something I argued fruitlessly with her about until, requesting the doctor back me up one day, he pulled me outside the exam room to gingerly advise me that if coffee was something she enjoyed “at this point in her life” I should just let her have it.

Hello gut-wrenching reality check.

But anyway, where the hell was I? Mom. Coffee. And most importantly stunted growth–believe it or not, that being the little nugget that I was making my way toward. (Still happy you’ve come along for the ride?)

The thing is with Paige–the gal I’ve been trying to get to through all this Mom memory blather–is that she’s so utterly delightful, delicious and unbearably baby-like still. It devastates me to think of her growing up. Truly! If only I thought the coffee could stunt her growth, I’d give it a shot. (Then I’d just need to figure out how to administer it, since at the ripe age of 11 months beverage-wise the gal’s still exclusively about the boob.)

When Kate was a baby I did one of the smartest things a new mother could do. I got a sitter to come over one day a week–the neighbor’s part-time nanny who wanted extra hours. She watched Kate on Friday nights too so Mark and I could go on dates, ultimately talking about how much we adored (and missed) Kate.

I’ve said it before and no truer words have I spoken: Better to pay for babysitting now than marriage counseling later. (Copyright, 2005-2008 McClusky)

Aaaanyway, it was that nanny, Blanca, who dealt me my first eye-opener about Kate’s growth. I was looking through some larger-sized baby clothes and commenting on how darling they’d be once Kate fit into them. And in her sweetest, non-confrontational, most respectful way, Blanca looked me straight in the eye and said, “Uh, Kristen? She’ll fit into those now!”

And sure, it turned out that maybe I was infantilizing ole’ Kater Tot a wee bit. I realized that maybe we were shimmying her into the 3 to 6 month clothing when really, heck, those 9-month duds weren’t exactly big on her. (Or maybe even fit.) It was just…she was my baaaby! If she was fitting into these bigger clothes it meant–absurd as it is to consider when it’s a matter of months–she was growing up.

This brought into perspective the crying jag a friend told me about years earlier when her husband assembled their first-born’s crib. The baby wasn’t even three-months-old, and was just making the move out of the bassinet. As her husband toiled over the assembly directions, Lisa threw herself on their bed for a dramatic “she’s growing up sooo fast” bawling sesh.

Today I think this is not crazy-lady behavior at all.

Well, whatever psychological force was holding me back from Kate’s move away from babydom seems to only be amplified with Paigey Wig. With Kate, I think it was that she was my first. But with Paige, she’s my last! And such a dumpling, that one! A living doll, I tell you!

Isn’t it okay for me to still dress her in snap-crotch onesies when she’s in high school? And really, what 8-year-old needs treads on their shoes when a soft hand-knitted booty is so much comfier? And say what you will about the independence kids get from walking about on their own. Isn’t there something to be said for the cozy warmth and security that a sling could provide a preteen during those often awkward and trying pubescent years?

Of course, taking the worst possible opportunity to do it, when she’s pushing herself backwards around her room (her brand of crawling) and sobbing dramatically because she needs a nap, I decided to go through Paige’s drawers today and purloin all the obviously outgrown clothes.

Alas, there’s no future sib to get another round of wear out of the burgundy Catamini romper, or the brilliant NASA shirt our friend Kenneth gave Paige. Gone for good is the peach cashmere cable knit cardigan that made both Kate and Paige’s cheeks look flushed and utterly edible. And even the threadbare but darling Carter’s standbys–the now-pilly footy PJs with the lamb and giraffe appliques. I’d think twice about putting them in a thrift store pile based on their condition alone, but can’t bear to rid myself of the outfits my sweet girls wore curled up like angels asleep in their cribs. (Sleep has so many rich positive memories for mothers.)

For weeks–maybe months–now, Mark has emerged from dressing Paige remarking that he’d had to “wedge a leg” of hers into a certain pair of pants or had to “stuff her into” her pink hooded coat. (His none-too-subtle cues to me to get the girl some new clothes.) And half-heartedly I’d mumble something to appease him for the moment.

Well Miss Paige, today you’ve officially made the transition to 18-month-old clothing. (The fact that baby clothes are often sized older than the wee ones themselves is particularly cruel to me and my type.) May your plump little ham hock thighs never strain beneath the pressure of the 0 to 6 month pea green Zutano fleece pants again. And know that even if we don’t have the good fortune that you somehow acquire coffee, devise a way to consume it, and it actually results in retarding your growth–even if that never comes to pass, just know that you’ll still always be my little girl.    

“And a chick-eh-en in a pear tree…”

A few weeks ago while getting a mani/pedi I picked up some should’ve-been-too-ashamed-to-read-it-in-public mag. You know, something that makes Us read like The New Yorker. And nearly instantly all of my being was sucked into a story about how Mariah Carey–a celebrity I’ve utterly NO interest in (or so I thought)–spends Christmas.
  
Since I know you too are now desperate to hear just how Mariah rocks around her Christmas tree, I’ll share some highlights.

The girl says she’s all about traditions. Every year when her jet lands in Aspen, she insists her waiting limo has Christmas tunes cranked, and she pops some bubbly for the ride to her home, which Martha-like elves have already decorated. Then off to the slopes? No, no! Too chilly there! Instead she spends at least one day lolling about trying on clothes–figuring out just what she’ll sport on Santa’s big day. (Though I think even Kate could tell her it’ll be some variant of her Spandexy micro-mini ‘n stilettos uniform.) She packs the house with all manner of joyous relatives and friends, and her shopping is both excessive and last-minute, leaving her up nearly all night Xmas Eve wrapping the pressies old school, yo. Unfortunately her personal hand-wrapping results in her sleeping through most of Christmas Day, which she admits is hard on the children. Despite her pleas otherwise, her posse waits for her to wake up to open presents. (“Okay kids! It’s 4PM and Auntie Mariah got out of bed. Now you can open your stockings!”)

There was more, but really. It was all I could do to not to lean over, spread my knees, and barf into the warm water basin my feet were soaking in.

I mean come on, people. Who doesn’t give their limo driver Christmas off?

Despite me not getting my diva on with quite the same excessitude as Mariah, Christmas Chez McClusky this year was indeed quite splendid.

It being a time of wonder and such, here are a few of my own holiday discoveries. (Best for me to jot down some reflections before a Woman’s Day writer tracks me down for a big story next year.)

It’s amazing the impact one mention of Jesus from the old neighbor lady can have on a 3-year-old from a non-religious family (i.e. us). “Is Baby Gee-ziz sleeping in that little box, Mama? Is there birthday cake for Baby Gee-ziz? Does Baby Gee-ziz have a lamby?” For the love of God, Kate!

Odds are we’re the only family with a chicken mask as an angel on top of our tree. Which may be a good thing.

Even after 9 years my husband can write something in a card that makes me cry. (Happy tears, that is.) What’s staggering is he pulled this off twice this Christmas.

Paige sat by the tree on Christmas morning laughing and clapping her hands like a little tin toy monkey. It’s incredible that I’ve managed to resist devouring her.

New friends who feel like old friends are a gift indeed. We spent a warm wine-drenched Christmas Eve with dear friends who we didn’t even know last year.

You know your the-economy-sucks plans to hold back on shopping failed when you find yourself imploring your child to stop playing with her new toys so she can unwrap her scads of remaining pressies.

Sometimes the cheap-o stocking stuffers–like the clear rubber ball filled with water and sparkly green glitter–are the super-fun sleeper gifts that even the adults can’t help but obsess over.

Thanks to a Christmas-gift book, we’ve all fallen in love with a duck named Lemon, who we’re now corresponding with via email. Go figure.

I helped Paige tear the paper off a gift from Mark’s sis and her family. A hardcover book entitled Until Proven Innocent: Political Correctness and the Shameful Injustices of the Duke Lacrosse Rape Case. Now, I hold out every hope that Miss Paigey will be an early and avid reader, but the subject matter of this particular volume seemed a bit, well, off for the wee gal. (She’s much more a tennis person than lacrosse if you ask me.) Anyway, turns out Amazon screwed up, leaving us to imagine a 65-year-old attorney opening a Fisher-Price plush bowling set and wondering what the fuck his brother had been thinking.

My husband can cook circles around your husband. Proven once again by the amazing pork roast he prepared sous-vide. 

Hands down the best bad Christmas song is Dominick the Donkey. Thanks to the streaming holiday music channel, Mark, Kate, and I are all possessed by the verses, “Hey! Chingedy ching. (hee-haw, hee-haw) It’s Dominick the donkey! Chingedy ching. (hee-haw, hee-haw) The Italian Christmas donkey!” Sheesh.

Our friend Dave carried Kate on his shoulders for much of our yearly Christmas hike–running in circles, bumping her up and down, and causing her to screech with non-stop glee despite the whipping winds and Arctic-to-us cold. You can’t help but love your own children, but watching your friends treat them with silly gregarious happy love is a deeply good tonic indeed.

And with no relation to the holiday whatsoever, yesterday I managed to solve the damned Changing Table Problem, whereby once you lay Paige down she grabs the stack of clean diapers and starts winging them across the room like a Frisbee-throwing machine (or the paperboy in that old video game you maybe used to play). Yesterday, in what turned out to be a “the obvious answer ain’t always the most evident” situation, I simply moved the wipes to where the diapers were and the dipes out of reach where the wipes used to be. (Duh!) I’m not sure what’s more troubling: that it took weeks of Mark and I running interceptions on flying diapers before I cracked this case, or the fact that this New Changing Table World Order will improve the quality of my life to a staggering extent. (Just more clues that it might be time to go back to work.)
 
Mariah be damned. Our homey Oakland Christmas was divine and I wouldn’t change a thing about it. My only regret being that now that it’s over I won’t be able to leverage good “Santa’s watchin’” behavior out of Kate any more. At least not for another 10 months or so.

Born in California

The other day I was outlining Kate’s upcoming social engagements. This is one of my duties in my dual roles as Social Secretary and Chauffeur.

Me: “And on Saturday we’re going to Maddy, Elliot, and Cameron’s house. Their grandma, who Daddy and I know, is going to be visiting from Minnesota.”

Kate: “Oh. What’s her name?”

Me: “Bev.”

Kate: “Bev?”

Me: “Yes. Bev is short for the name Beverly. But… [thinking Bev was far too familiar for Kate to use with our friend's 80-plus mother] you can call her Grandma Bev.”

Kate: [furrowing brow and pausing mid mini-carrot munch] “Noooooo. I can’t call her that, Mama.”

Me: [digging deep into my New England roots, and trying to pass this idea off brightly] “Well, you can call her Mrs. Webb then!”

Kate:[in hysterics laughing] “That is so funny, Mama!”

Me: What?

Kate: “Mrs!! [drawing the word out] Saying Mrs!”

She dissolved into a pile of giggles then wandered off to stack more blankets on her shhh!-they’re-sick-and-sleeping dolls. Leaving me sitting at the table realizing that in her three-and-a-half years of life, including having multiple teachers at school and introductions to scads of people and friends of all ages, she’s never once addressed anyone using the title Mr. or Mrs.

As for me, growing up I never addressed any adult in any other way. My parents’ friends were Mrs. Tabor, Mr. Anguilla, Mrs. Froncillo. And anyone’s parents I’d meet for the first time would without question be a Mr. or Mrs. Whoever. (With little to no risk of their last name being any different from my friend’s.)  

It wasn’t until my late twenties, after living in California for a few years, that my then-boyfriend Mike’s parents helped break me of this habit. (Ironically, they were from the East Coast themselves.) I kept slipping into my Mr. or Mrs. comfort zone with them, but they persevered at using kind forms of classical conditioning to urge me to call them Hope and Michael. (You know, I could go to the salt lick after saying Hope all by myself with no prompting.)

Eventually I came around–even old dogs can learn–which greased the skids for future encounters with first-name-basis grown-ups.

Or maybe along the way I just became an adult myself.

Be that as it may, I still have to wait for Mark’s wonderful grandparents to make eye contact with me before speaking them. Calling them John and Lois seems so, well, peer-like.

I guess you can take the girl out of Rhode Island, but you can’t take the Rhode Island out of the girl. And Kate seems to be proving to me it’s just the same for California.