Thursday, December 30, 2010

MommyLand Rewind: Boobs, Cows and Jam...Oh My

My kids think Santa is sort of a necessary evil when it comes to Christmas. Sort of like the roving maricachi band at a great Mexican restaurant. They'd prefer to just get the dinner, but if "Paloma Querida" is required to get to the sopapillas, so be it.

My daughter totally agrees with me about the felony breaking and entering thing. And openly advocates every year to just skip the cookies and milk. Her logic? It's not like he's hauling the gifts back up the chimney. And, he can get a snack next door.

Lefty thinks he's great from a distance, but ironically, doesn't like Big-Headed things (you know, like the Disney characters who wear the HUGE oversized masks? He's terrified of them. Far away? Fine. Close up? You must be out of your damn mind.) Santa Claus falls into this category. The best part is hearing him say, with complete sincerity and utter lack of self awareness, "Mom, it has a big head. It is not OK."

And the little one pretty much has no use for strangers. Particularly ones who fancy wearing red velvet jammies. Last year, we had Santa come to the house for a pre-Christmas visit, and he pointed to the door and said, "You go home. Wite now."

And I really don't need to go to the mall. Like, ever.

This year, however, we couldn't get there fast enough. I HAD to go before they changed their lists. Our rule has always been, Ask Santa for One he can remember. He's old, he doesn't write anything down, and, frankly, the only memorable kids are ones who are evil. Or pee in his lap.

My kids only agreed to go because I promised them Chick-fil-A. Suckers.

And now, I'm pretty sure Santa thinks my kids are off their collective rockers. It's one thing when they sit on his lap and ask for easily acquired, tangible, even realistic gifts. But this year, the highlights of our children's requests included:
  • Daughter: boobs (she's ten, she thinks it's time) McLovin took to calling her McGee. (I'm convinced the man wanders through life actively searching out ways to incorporate the movie "Anchorman" into daily life.)
  • Happy Camper (the littlest, age 3, so named by Lydia): A cow. A real cow.
  • Lefty: assortment of jams (topped the list after seeing a wooden box with a dozen mini jars of jam, at Cracker Barrel, when McLovin took him there to Christmas shop.)
[Editor's Note: You think I'm kidding about Cracker Barrel? Think again. The man loves everything about that place. It's horrifying. "Kate, where else in the world can you eat breakfast at any time of the day AND purchase a wide array of lovely gifts that will please every member of your family?" Ladies, that's a direct quote. I wrote it down. And photographed it. My answer: "You got me another stupid tree ornament didn't you?" Lefty is nodding his head so hard I think it's going to fall off. Congratulations, Cracker Barrel, you have a new generation of combo eater/shoppers. Super.]

Santa looked over at me, incredulous. I smiled. I might not have snagged the Minister, but my Idiot Club now has the most beloved Fat Man in America.

And, for the first time in a long time, McLovin and I got to zoom right past Toys R Us. Our friends were so jealous. We heard the wait to check out was like an hour long. [EC -It was those damn Zhu Zhu pets, now with extra arsenic and lead! - Lydia] McLovin was on the phone to his friend Hollywood (no, we don't call anyone by their given names) who was waiting in the interminably long line to get Legos or some other thing, and McLovin says, "yeah, we're on our way to get cows, jam and boobs."

Hollywood's response: "What kind of parents are you?"

Christmas morning, we were greeted by sounds of "Oh YES!" "! What happened?" and "Where's my cow?"

Happy Camper has spent the past four days at a friend's farm. Playing with cows. Real cows. That eat out of his hands. And lick him. In the face. He smells terrible, he's taken to peeing in a barn, and I've thrown away three pairs of shoes. And he is the Happiest Camper I've ever seen.

McGee is not happy with Santa. I tried to explain that until Santa retires and is replaced by Hugh Hefner, getting boobs for Christmas may not be an option. She has, however, been satisfied with the rainbow array of bras that have come her direction. And I've discovered that every Kleenex box in my house is empty. She's also enjoying the torture she can wreak on her dads simply by combining bras and Kleexes (or brothers' baseballs -- for that pumped-up Hollywood bimbo look) and parading around the house. McLovin and Season One are now plotting on how to protect their daughter from the updated versions of themselves.

Who says the holidays can't bring people together? They're trading gun cleaning tips, for once without the intention of using said skills on each other. Or me.

Which brings me to Lefty. Ahhh, Lefty. I should have known that big head was going to cause me some trouble when he asked for -- and got -- an assortment of jams. Two actually. They were on sale. And if there's anything McLovin can't resist more than shopping at Cracker Barrel, it's a sale at Cracker Barrel. I have 24 mini jars of kid crack.

Let's start with the fact that he has eaten nothing the past week without jam, jelly, preserves or marmalade on it. Up to and including fried eggs, a tuna fish sandwich, and last Saturday's lasagna with garlic bread. He's becoming a jellisseur, telling me which flavors best accent the foods in front of him. I beckoned them all for lunch yesterday -- grilled cheese with tomatoes and bacon -- and he looks at his sandwich and says, "Mom, I think I need the blackberry jam. But not the cold one, the warm one." Then raised his eyebrows up at me like he'd correctly answered the Daily Double on Jeopardy.

I tried it. By this point, I'm starting to think he's a genius. To the extent that, at dinner last night, I went to ask him which jam he'd recommend with the chicken. [EC -Wouldn't that make him a jammolier rather than a jelliseur? Just asking... - Lydia] He and Happy were in my shower, I assumed playing LightSaber.


Covered in jam.

Orange Marmalade. Both jars.

I just stood there. Mouth wide open, but no sound.  They were scrubbing each other's hair. With jam.  Lefty looked up at me and said "it's like your soap, mom" and hands me my shower gel, which reads, in part, "...cleanser with stimulating organic orange peel oil, calendula and marshmallow that effectively...leaves the skin feeling soft and fresh."

Then he asked me if I could bring them some marshmallows to go with their jam shower.  I knew I never should have taught him how to read.

Forty-five minutes later, they are clean. With actual soap. Which they protested until I told them they could lick the jam off. To which Happy said they were like cows. To which I had specify that it was acceptable to lick it off themselves, not each other. Didn't realize that was an option. Of course, in my house, baptism by spit is an option.

Dessert last night was marshmallows and jam. Strawberry. We're gonna need to go back to Cracker Barrel.  McLovin can use his Gift Certificate. He says it's the best gift he ever got.

As for me? Well, my bathroom has the lovely aroma of oranges, the children have now gone to bed (dreaming of jam, I assume) and I'm currently drinking a ginormous glass of wine courtesy of McLovin, snacking on eating pate, with apricot jam (who knew?) and being entertained by the antics of Nelson Rockefeller.

He's currently helping me dispose of the empty jelly containers. By swallowing them. One mini jar at a time.

He's awesome.

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. - 2009

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