Leanna Kay

As many of you know, I blog frequently about my dad. Mostly because he has a sense of humor and can take it, but mainly because he’s old and usually forgets to be mad at me after an hour or so. Besides, he’s easily distracted, generally by boobs that haven’t yet sagged. What can I say? He’s a man and they never change. So I just divert his attention with other internet sites that seem more interesting than mine.

Give me a moment here.

Hey, Dad. Look over here. I found some neat websites featuring young Double D women seeking men who know how to fry turkeys. Check it out at http://christiananswers.net/ Have fun.

Okay, now it’s safe. As many of you know, for Thanksgiving Dad fried us some turkey jerky. That wasn’t his original intent, but it’s what we ended up with after he fried the thing for about an hour too long. So imagine my trepidation when he said he was frying turkey again for Christmas Eve dinner.

I stuffed a jar of peanut butter into my jacket pocket just in case. Oh, me of little faith. The turkey was excellent. Not in small part due to the toys Dad has now purchased, all in the pursuit of perfect poultry. The biggest item was a remote thermometer he can use to watch the turkey temperature from his easy chair.

Between the extra gadgets, the oil and the cost of the turkey, this bird was more expensive pound per pound than lobster. But the difference is that Dad can’t cook seafood from his easy chair.

Yet.

Drew - “Does Santa make all the gifts?”

Chris - “Yeah. Him and all those elves at the North Pole.”

Drew - “Then why does this one say ‘made in China?’”

I’d blame it on the eggnog, but I don’t drink. I’d blame it on the Elmers, but I don’t sniff glue. I’d blame it on Jack Daniels, but … well you already know.

I guess I just have to blame it on sheer stupidity.

Bob and I bought the kids the noisiest toys in the history of the world. Drew got a guitar. Lauren got a karaoke machine. And Chris got…..I can’t even believe I’m admitting this because it just shows how stupid I am…. Chris got DRUMS! This is the child who has been naturally loud since the moment he came screaming from the womb. Giving him drums is like giving a crying baby a microphone and an amplifier. Nothing good can come from this.

So now we have a band. A band filled with musicians who believe that good music is measured by decibels rather than harmony. Chris beats the drums to the sound of Little Drummer Boy. Drew chimes in just a bit louder with Frosty the Snowman. And Lauren cranks up her singing machine and belts out the lyrics to Blessed be The Name. (She only has Christian rock karaoke music because I have a real problem with my kindergartner singing the four letter words found in many of the other song choices available for this machine. But that’s for another blog…)

The noise is overwhelming. It’s enough to make a woman pick up a bad habit. No where did I put that bottle of Elmers?

Well the presents are all unwrapped and we’ve finally got the toys out of the boxes. The toy removal took three hours longer than the unwrapping all thanks to those #!@@#%% twist ties they use to secure the toys into the boxes. Bob and I had to remove at least 357 twist ties to free these toys for the kids.

357?! I’m exaggerating you say? I wish.

There is no reasonable explanation for tying these toys in the boxes with all those twist ties. One or two would be enough to keep them stable for shipping. And the same amount would work to keep people from stealing them. But 357? The only possible explanation is the mafia.

Here’s my theory. The mafia owns the twist tie making companies. The toy manufacturers are required, no doubt through nefarious means, to use as many ties as they can or risk dire consequences. YOU WILL USE 53 TWIST TIES OR DOLLY LOSES AN ARM.

It’s the only logical explanation.

Hope you had a Merry Christmas! I’m too tired to write more, but stop in tomorrow and you can read about how I’m a big fat idiot…..

I asked my kids what they were looking forward to most about Christmas. Of course I knew about the presents. And I expected to hear about our elaborate cookie making or visiting Santa. But the consensus was that they couldn’t wait for our annual hot chocolate ride.

Don’t get all warm and fuzzy just yet. The hot chocolate ride came about as Mom’s alternative to beating them. When they were little, Bob worked nights and missed the fussy time after supper and bath before I could legitimately put them in bed. (Is four o’clock too early?)

One night after bath, they were fighting so much I felt mere moments away from being one of those ‘bad’ parents in the child abuse prevention ads. So to keep my hands busy, I made hot chocolate and poured it in sipper cups and then I carried the pajama clad kids to the van whereupon I locked them in the garage while I watched Christmas shows.

Just kidding!!!

I took the fussy kids on a drive around town to look at the Christmas lights. We sipped our hot chocolate and oohed and aahed over the pretty decorations. By the time we got home, it was legitimately time for bed and everyone was at peace once again.

Bob is no longer working nights.  And the kids are at an age where a time out carries some weight.  But we still do our hot chocolate rides.  Every year the kids ask for it even before the tree goes up. It’s become a tradition when all it was initially intended to do was keep me from being the star of the child abuser commercial.

I guess tradition is something that just happens while you’re going along living life like normal and trying not to beat your children.

Overheard while Lauren was pretending to camp with her babies.

“Snow White, are you hungry? Yes? Okay. Well we’re camping so I’ll have to burn you some food.”

I got this neat book for an early Christmas present. It’s called Live and Learn and Pass it on and basically it’s filled with quotes of what people aged 5-95 have learned about life.

For instance, a ten year old writes “I’ve learned that if either of your parents are angry, don’t - and I repeat DON’T - ask for money.

Or from a sixty-two year old - “I’ve learned that if you hang something in the closet for a while, it shrinks two sizes.”

True words of wisdom!

But I thought maybe we could add some of our own. So here it goes:

I’ve learned that Christmas cookies with icing disappear twice as fast as those without.

I’ve learned that even after a child develops a heightened sense of his own modesty, he will still go into detail in public about MOM’S big poop.

I’ve learned that if you send in too much money for a school lunch ticket, you will never see the change.

I’ve learned that hats disappear on buses.

I’ve learned that if a kid has an upset stomach, he will wait until you are in public to tell you. And you’ll only get a ten second warning before he starts vomiting.

I’ve learned that when the above happens, you’ll only have one baby wipe and it will be dried out because someone left the container open.

Anyone care to add more?

Stupid me waits until after the kids are home from school to wrap the teachers’ presents. Really stupid me, announces to the children what I’m about to do. My eager seven year old, tromps upstairs to ‘help’. Before I get up there, he has the present for Lauren’s kindergarten aide almost wrapped.

“Chris,” I say, “that’s baby shower paper.”

“I know.”

“But Mrs. A is eighty-five years old. She isn’t going to have a baby.”

“So?”

“So I don’t think she’ll see the humor.”

We switch the present into Christmas paper and wrap it with enough tape to patch up a hole in Hoover Dam.

Then comes time for the bow. Chris smashes it on top, but the thing won’t stick. So before I realize his intentions, he steps on it. Really hard.

The gift ‘was’ a box of chocolates. Do you think Mrs. A will find the humor is smashed chocolate creams?

The kids and I made Christmas cut out cookies yesterday. Our cookies are shaped like hands, bare feet, turkeys, hearts, shamrocks, and of course Rudolph. Only Rudolph’s head wouldn’t stay on so Chris kept fashioning different ones for the poor guy. The consensus was Rudolph looked more like a chicken than a reindeer.

If anyone wants to make their own chicken headed Rudolphs, I have the best cookie recipe from my mother in law. You melt one stick of butter, beat an egg into it and then stir in a cake mix. Refrigerate for a couple of hours while mentally preparing yourself for the onslaught of mini bakers who will turn your kitchen into a disaster zone. (A couple shots of hard liquor come in handy for this. Pour liquor into the cookie baker, not the cookie batter).

When batter is chilled and you are mentally prepared, have kids cut cookies out. Bake at 350 for about ten minutes or so. Then frost chicken headed Rudolph with pretty colors so he won’t be made fun of by the other mean spirited reindeer.

“MOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!”

Lauren screams this at me last night while I’m cooking supper. From the sounds of it, she was about to lose a limb so I left the garlic bread under the broiler and ran as fast as I could, prepared to whip off my shirt for a tourniquet if that’s what it took to save my baby.

She’s standing in the bathroom with her underwear and pants around her ankles. There are no severed limbs. There’s not even any blood. I’m looking at her wondering where I’m going to put that tourniquet.

“What do you need?” I ask her. (Am I only imagining it, or is that the smell of burning bread?)

“Does my hiney still have poop on it?” She bends over and thrusts her bare bottom up in the air so I can get a good view.

Yes, this is the truth of my life. I regularly get to inspect my children’s butts for poop WHILE COOKING DINNER!

Try to restrain your jealousy.