Cold Spaghetti

… from our house, to yours.

2 was more difficult than 1.  3 was more difficult than 2.  4 was difficult, but a lot like 3, so we got used to handling it.  5?  5 may be the worst yet.

Will was really really rough today.  REALLY ROUGH.

He called me a bad name and had some time to think in his room.  Paul explained that he needed to write an apology letter to me and Santa.  He stared one, cried tears of remorse, and turned into the perfect lovey guy… even going with Paul to The Bead Shop to make me a present with his jewelry buddy, Ms. Georgia.

Then something happened and all the magic was gone.  He was back in his room.

This time, he got right to work on his apologies.  He finished the first (above) and moved on to a second and then a third.  Maybe he needed the time to work through some stuff.

We were beginning to think that everything was going to be okay.

Then Paul discovered that some of his thank you landed on his bed.  We were dumbfounded.

When I asked Will why he wrote on the bed, huge alligator tears began to roll down his cheeks.  “I don’t know,” he said, and I knew he was telling the truth.  He had no idea why he did it, why the irrestible urge came over him, and what made him carry through with it.  Maybe it’s similar to why I cannot resist singing along to the song “Word Up” whenever I hear it, irregardless of the situation (but really, who can resist that?) and Paul’s inability to resist making terrible puns in the most serious of conversations (“what should our wedding song be?” “how about What’ll You Do for Money, Honey?”)  Some things just can’t be refused.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, be angry, or just give him a hug.  I sort of felt like doing all three.

So we settled for him eating dinner.  When he was done, he sassed Paul and we were back to square one.  Again.  Then, after bathtime and a good cry, he was back to being extra sweet.  He brought me his third and final apology letter and read it over with me.  He promised that he was going to work “on a good attitude.”

So he went to bed.  He fell asleep in a second, which makes me think he was tired and worry that maybe that his ear isn’t healing so well?

Kate, on the other hand, was perfectly adorable all day.  Running around the house calling out “Santa is coming!  Santa is coming!”  Then, at bed time, was so worked up that when we explained that she had to go to sleep or Santa couldn’t visit, she gave us her classic pout and declared that she “didn’t want Santa at my house.”  The ying and yang of parenting: one child must always be driving the parent crazy.

Still, Santa decided to show.  With some big surprises.  This year, Santa was more than just Mom, too, but we’ll talk about that after the big reveal in the morning…

Last night, at Celebration in the Oaks:

“Paul, did you see that woman?  She had a violin strapped to her back!”

“What do you expect?  We live in New Orleans.  You never know when you’ll have a random act of violins.”

It was in the mid 60s last night and very humid, chilly and a bit damp, but otherwise a perfect night for a walk in City Park.  I’m embarrassed to admit that this was our first ever visit to Celebration in the Oaks.

Paul was a good sport pushing the kids in the Beamer stroller, while I wandered around with my tripod.  Yup, bad-ass me, with my camera and tripod… with the camera set to a high ISO the whole damn time.  So much for bad-ass.

My old 10D rocks, but at 800 ISO, can get a little grainy.  Oh, well, at least I had the tripod.

There was a laser light show (a little lame, but the kids loved the Rudolph song), dancing lights through the landscaped botanical gardens, a lighted telling of A Cajun Twas the Night Before Christmas, live dancers and singers, hot chocolate and hot dogs, and kiddie rides all decked out for the holidays.

Our favorite area was the Train Garden.  Miniature homes and historic buildings of New Orleans, laid out among streetcar and train tracks.  WAY COOL.

Here’s the Vieux Carre, below:

Here’s the train, comin’ by…

Isn’t it cool?  It was WAY cooler in person, too.  Each building was fascinating in detail and expression and the accompanying literature was interesting and insightful.  Little tidbits of local history.

Kate and Paul check out one of the lighted toys.  I can neither confirm nor deny Kate’s attempt to ride the horse while my eye was lost behind the camera.  We went through Storyland… quickly… as things got busy fast.  We came in at opening, but made the mistake of not running a line straight to the train ride and carousel.  We’ll get those later?  Maybe next year?

It’s just not Christmas without this story:

Words, in case you want to follow along:

Cajun Night Before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas an’ all t’ru de house,
Dey don’t a ting pass Not even a mouse.
De chirren been nezzle good snug on de flo’,
An’ Mama pass de pepper t’ru de crack on de do’.

De Mama in de fireplace done roas’ up de ham,
Sit up de gumbo an’ make de bake yam.
Den out on de by-you dey got such a clatter,
Make soun’ like old Boudreau done fall off his ladder.

I run like a rabbit to got to de do’,
Trip over de dorg an’ fall on de flo’.
As I look out de do’in de light o’ de moon,
I t’ink, “Mahn, you crazy or got ol’ too soon.”

Cux dere on de by-you w’en I stretch ma’neck stiff,
Dere’s eight alligator a pullin’ de skiff.
An’ a little fat drover wit’ a long pole-ing stick,
I know r’at away got to be ole St.Nick.

Mo’ fas’er an’ fas’er de’ gator dey came
He whistle an’ holler an’ call dem by name:
“Ha, Gaston! Ha, Tiboy! Ha, Pierre an’ Alcee’!
Gee, Ninette! Gee, Suzette! Celeste an’Renee’!

To de top o’ de porch to de top o’ de wall,
Make crawl, alligator, an’ be sho’ you don’ fall.”
Like Tante Flo’s cat t’ru de treetop he fly,
W’en de big ole houn’ dorg come a run hisse’s by.

Like dat up de porch dem ole ‘gator clim!
Wit’ de skiff full o’ toy an’ St. Nicklus behin’.
Den on top de porch roof it soun’ like de hail,
W’en all dem big gator, done sot down dey tail.

Den down de chimney I yell wit’ a bam,
An’ St.Nicklus fall an’ sit on de yam.
“Sacre!” he axclaim, “Ma pant got a hole
I done sot ma’se’f on dem red hot coal.”

He got on his foots an’ jump like de cat
Out to de flo’ where he lan’ wit’ a SPLAT!
He was dress in musk-rat from his head to his foot,
An’ his clothes is all dirty wit’ ashes an’ soot.

A sack full o’ playt’ing he t’row on his back,
He look like a burglar an’ dass fo’ a fack.
His eyes how dey shine his dimple, how merry!
Maybe he been drink de wine from de blackberry.

His cheek was like a rose his nose a cherry,
On secon’ t’ought maybe he lap up de sherry.
Wit’ snow-white chin whisker an’ quiverin’ belly,
He shook w’en he laugh like de stromberry jelly!

But a wink in his eye an’ a shook o’ his head,
Make my confi-dence dat I don’t got to be scared.
He don’ do no talkin’ gone strit to hi work,
Put a playt’ing in sock an’ den turn wit’ a jerk.

He put bot’ his han’ dere on top o’ his head,
Cas’ an eye on de chimney an’ den he done said:
“Wit’ all o’ dat fire an’ dem burnin’ hot flame,
Me I ain’ goin’ back by de way dat I came.”

So he run out de do’ an, he clim’ to de roof,
He ain’ no fool, him for to make one more goof.
He jump in his skiff an’ crack his big whip,
De’ gator move down, An don’ make one slip.

An’ I hear him shout loud as a splashin’ he go,
“Merry Christmas to all ’til I saw you some mo’!”

And just in case you need some more Cajun inspiration this holiday:

Happy Christmas Eve!

One of the reasons I have been distracted lately is because I’ve been temporarily stunned to silence by the deafening sound of thousands of foreheads smacking into hands in despair and disappointment.  I’m sure you understand.  You heard the news, right?

Of the 192 countries represented in the UN General Assembly, only 66 (like, a third !!) are willing to support the phrase, “All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights.” And the U.S.A., with our fingers wagging at other countries whom we feel are not supportive of human rights (whatever in the world we feel they may be?), is in that pathetic majority.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, YEAH.  I hear all the cover-your-ass arguments about federal government and state jurisdiction and blahblahblah.  But you know?  Here’s the thing.  When you take these ridiculous “moral” positions and apply them to policy, it codifies a social dynamic of good versus bad.  In the policy forum, you build systems of inequality.  And in the social forum?  REALLY bad things happen.  Those who are seen as morally deviant are persecuted, seen as disposable, and not afforded the basic human rights to life and dignity*.  By refusing to support a document that recognizes all of us, with all of our wonderful differences and similarities, simply as human beings — it makes it okay to marginalize, penalize, punish, and destroy each other.

It is one thing to have personal or religiously-based reasons to struggle with different sexual orientations.  That is personal situation.  It is another thing all together to not recognize all people, regardless of differences, as human beings.  That is the fuel to the fire of hate, leading directly to the support of acts of violence, bigotry, and xenophobia.  The bottom line is, not supporting this document goes completely against our moving towards a more humane and just world.  (And means that we, the ‘human right watchdog’ U.S., are Big. Fat. Hypocrites.)

But hey, my Grandma taught me to roll with the punches, befriend the enemy, and make change from the inside.  The U.S. has a moral objection to homosexuality for no other real reason than some folks here just don’t like it.  So, since we’re on board for marginalizing people as non-human due to our own personal morals, I’d like to add some things to our “those not human” list.  Here are a few that offend my own moral sensibilities:

— Men who urinate in public.  Definitely against my morals.  Also, a threat to public health.

— People who hawk up snot balls and hork them in public places.  (See above.)

— Creationists.  (I should note that I find stupidity and ignorance to be morally offensive.)

I mean, if people simply loving each other is reason for being sub-human, then surely those on the list above qualify for the same (non)distinction.

Come on, U.S.A.  Come on, people of the world!  Our first job needs to be to protect and promote human rights without exception.  Period.  What are we, if we can’t do something as simple and clear as that?

—

* There is a good chance that something in one of those links came from Gentilly Girl, who is constantly linking to thoughtful and insightful articles on the topics above.

Try a taste here.

With special thanks to Jenny, who has made Paul’s internet experience so, so more delightful.

Dear Santa,

When you visit us this year, could you bring something to help me gain the patience I need to deal with my kids non-stop for the next two weeks?  I admit I’ve made some dumb moves (agreeing to teach last minute, for one) that have me thinking about all the other things I’m suppose to be doing… which means that I’m frustrated and not focused on being a Mom right now.  With Paul still working his 18 jobs around the clock and the house in complete chaos, I’m just not in a good place, you know?   Could you bring something to chill that out a little bit?

Oh, and I’m totally cool with pharmaceuticals, if that’s the way you want to go.

Just looking for that Christmas high,

me

—

This post is a Monday Mission. This week’s Mission is to write a post in the style of a letter to Santa.

“Will, what do you think about us spending a few months this summer in a country where everyone speaks French?”

“I think that would be GREAT!”

“Yeah?”

“YEAH… we could go to MEXICO.”

Our beloved monster cat, Scout, is missing.

We think he went out the backdoor while Paul was working in the backyard yesterday afternoon.  Unless the weather isn’t agreeable, Paul always works with the backdoor open.  Scout tends to hang around the door, but has never ventured like this before.  It’s not his style (he’s a bit of a ‘fraidy cat).  There have been dozens of times since last night where either Paul or I thought it strange that Scout wasn’t under foot — but neither of us compared notes and put it all together that he was missing until this morning.  It’s strange, but not uncommon, that he isn’t sleeping with us at night (maybe he’s with Will?)  It’s strange, but not uncommon, that he isn’t begging for food at the crack of dawn (maybe he’s asleep under the Christmas tree?)  But when Paul sat in his chair this morning with the kids and Scout didn’t show up to lay on his lap, we realized something was very very wrong.

He has never been outside for any extended time.  After several days of temperatures in reaching 80 degrees, last night turned cold and rainy.

We are completely distraught.  We’ve canvased the neighborhood a dozen times.  We’ve flyered houses and cars.  We’ve crawled under houses.  We’ve called and whistled.  We’ve got food outside.

The kids don’t really understand what is wrong, just that Scout isn’t here (“hey, Mommy, I miss Scout!”), and the fact that they can simply play is both a testament to their innocence and the most annoying thing in the world.  I’m trying to keep myself in check and not direct my worry and frustration into anger at the kids.  Don’t they realize that Mommy and Daddy’s hearts are breaking??

Please help us wish our first baby back home.

————-

UPDATE: 1:52pm.  Paul found him!  On his fourth trip under our neighbor’s house, crawling through fiberglass insulation and petrified cat poop, Paul discovered a small tunnel/path leading to the attached shed on the back of her house… the shed where the water heater is located.  Scout was there, freaked out, and ran away from Paul.  Interestingly, when Paul first looked under her house, he swore he saw something dart around and kept coming back to that area to look.  Apparently, fourth time is the charm.  Paul emerged much dirtier than the cat, who was instantly placed in the tub and washed liberally with Will’s shampoo (much to Will’s delight).

We are making him tags and getting a collar right away.  One that he can’t pry off.  The little shit.

“Mommy, can you get me something to read while I sit on the toilet?”

“You need something to read?”

“Yes.”

“Like, a magazine?”

“No.  A book.  Can you get the one in your bedroom that is about ducks?”

—

Before you go to snap judgments…

That Little Man, the one who wants to read about ducks while sitting on the throne, has silently endured an ear infection so bad that the pressure burst through the membrane of his ear drum and started leaking fluid out of his ear.  I noticed the dried fluid when we came home from his Christmas party Friday morning and within 30 seconds, had the doctor’s office on the phone.  Any thoughts on how painful it must be to have your ear filled with pussy fluid* with pressure so strong that it breaks through an organ?  (Okay, so probably that membrane isn’t an organ.  But wow, shouldn’t this at least be memorable in the short-term?  Cause an ‘ouch,’ maybe?)  I found photographic evidence of it from earlier that morning, from photos I took during the holiday party:

So, just to be clear: men who like to read about ducks on the can are tough.  T-O-U-G-H.

Oh, did I mention?  He wore a red flashing Rudolph nose from the party all afternoon, including through the entire trip to the doctor’s office — thoroughly mortifying the two teenage boys that he sat beside in the waiting room — and delighting everyone that saw him.  You know, while his little 5-year old head was leaking pussy fluid*.

That’s my guy.  Keepin’ it real.

(Last photo by Paul, who took the photo.  Photo by Paul showing Will wearing the stocking on his head, taken by Paul, who took the photo.  Just in case: that last photo?  Paul took it.  Thanks, Paul!)

* Meagan kindly noted my use of the phrase “pussy fluid” (not once, but TWICE) in this post and though it would totally be the right thing to, um, watch my phrase-ology, I just can’t bring myself to change it.  I just can’t stop laughing at myself.