the true meaning of christmas, ya'll

Lucas (6) receives a $100 cheque from his Godfather for Christmas and shows it off to his sister Sofia (8).

Lucas:  (waves the cheque)I got a 100 dollars!  I got a 100 dollars! I got a 100 dollars!

Sofia:  (looks up from her book) Ahh Lucas, for your information, Christmas is about the love of your family and the love you share.  It's about being together during this season. Not the money you get from people.

Me:     (rolls eyes)

Lucas:  (looks at me and mouths..) What a loser!


She did not get that from me.  His reaction, however, is a totally different story.

Death by Gingerbread House

Today I decide to be the quintessential patient, crafty and involved apron-clad mother.  The kids and I are doing crafts on this beautiful snowy Sunday afternoon. 

A tv commercial for a cleaning product depicts a woman whose grungy children and wet dog running amuck all over her immaculate white carpet, covering it in slimy black grime and mud. The commotion startles her, but instead of going ballistic, she sighs, shakes her head and smiles.

It’s a load of crap, if you ask me. Unless they're selling LSD-laced anti-depressants, it's a big fat lie.  Think about it.  Who smiles at a sight like that? Stoned mothers, most likely.   

But today, I embrace it. I choose to be THAT mother. Not stoned, but I embrace a messy kitchen, that will be filled with happiness and joy.

Girl, 8 and Boy, 6 want to build a ginger bread house. I take pleasure in saying NO to them most of the time, but I am the fun mommy this afternoon, so ginger bread house it is.  They are ecstatic.  They are filled with excitement and happily discuss their plans for this edible house. 

Ahh.. the Ginger bread house: a wholesome fun activity for the whole family! This allows them to develop their creativity and encourage them to work together on a project.  Art, education and entertainment, all for a low price of $9.99! Everyone wins.

I get my camera ready.  I give myself a pat on the back and feel proud for creating this sweet memory for my children. Photos will be taken and shared with family members and close friends.  Even better, I decide I will capture a beautiful moment between the 2 kids and make that our Christmas card cover this year. Perfect.

I bring out the ginger bread house kit.  An argument ensues about who gets the coveted role of opening the box. I give them my ‘look’.  Warning #1 is declared.  I open the box.

Type A personality Girl neatly lays all the ingredients on the kitchen counter. Devil-may-care Boy picks up a bag of candy from the neat pile, feasts on it.  Fight no. 2.  I threaten to confiscate the entire kit if any argument strikes again. 

They start building.  The icing fails to completely glue the four panels of the house, and as soon as the roofs are placed, the whole structure collapses.  Girl gets frustrated. She tries again, this time crying for help.  I put more icing, and instruct her to wait a few minutes for it to dry.  She follows my instructions.  She pipes a beautiful pattern of icing on the roof, squeezing more than she should have.  The weight causes the house to flop again.  She gets on the ground in a dramatic fashion claiming she has caused the destruction of this edifice. 

The Boy, with mouth full of sugar balls, mimics and mocks her and this triggers an all out war.  One is high on emotions, the other jumping up and down, high on sugar. Candies and plastic knives are thrown in defiance. 

Boy drops 2 bags of colored icing on the floor.  He gets off the kitchen stool and accidentally steps on both bags squirting red and green icing all over.  He walks on the goo, slips and lands on the Girl who is still in the middle of her emotional outburst on the floor. They scream at each other, both turn to me and simultaneously argue their case, expecting that I reprimand whoever started this whole debacle. 

I blankly stare at them in surrender. 

The phone rings.  It’s my friend Abigail who is now a welcome distraction to the ongoing chaos.  I tell her to not mind the noise, as it is the sound of my reality that I want to block for a few minutes.  Abigail, who is not a stranger to crazy fighting children, offers an unsolicited advice: 

“You know, what you should do, get them to make a gingerbread house.”

blog shmlog

For a long time I've wanted to write a special journal, a 'book' on my everyday musings, predicaments, thoughts, written in letter-form for my daughter Sofia.  She is my firstborn, the female love of my life, the one who will bring forth all my unrealized dreams. Okay, so I have my issues. Bite me.

I've planned to start this book way before she was born.  I had this grand plan of writing down every detail about my pregnancy, her childhood, our family and friends and what was happening in the world as we lived our lives.  This book will provide her with a clear picture of her personal history and (more importantly) mine, not just as a mother but as an actual human being, flaws and all. (yes, i said it, flaws.)

I had pictured it in my head...me on my death bed, Sofia beside me looking radiant despite her overwhelming grief over my imminent passing.  I hand her a thick worn book. This is for you, my love.  (of course there's more of them in some storage unit..obviously not one book alone can cover what i had written since she was a wee one. but i do not need to discuss logistics, do i??) 

She gives me this you-are-the-best-mother-in-the-world look, she then tells me she loves me more than I can imagine, I close my eyes, follow the bright light, and yadda yadda yadda.  

Of course I'm assumming I go straight to heaven with all my crushes since high school.

Because of who I am, Sofia turned 8 this year and I have not produced a single letter.  Not one.  Hey, life happened.  But I swear I will. I think I will...yes, yes I will.

But just in case I don't get around to doing that marvelous 'letters to sofia' project, I can simply whisper 'extra rice, please?' on my deathbed.

Hopefully she won't literally bring me a cup of hot Asian rice, and will instead figure out how to get to this blog.