New Family Tradition Post-Script

A series of mediocre situation comedy-like coincidences left us with a fully defrosted Turkey over a week before Thanksgiving, which prompted us to cook it up last Saturday for an early Thanksgiving feast. Cooper strolled into the kitchen and saw the uncooked turkey in the roasting pan, turned to me and said "Dad, did you catch that turkey?" Thinking it would be harmless, and to amuse Deanna, I said yes. What I was not prepared for was the ensuing barrage of questions from both twins. In answer to their series of questions as to my detailed method of procuring a turkey in the wild, I went with the previously mentioned knife and net method. They studied the turkey carcass and concluded that a puncture in the skin near the breast must have been where I stabbed it. In answer to their questions about how I attracted a turkey, I said I had done a turkey call. When they wanted to hear it, the best I could come up with on the fly was a lame "Here turkey, turkey, turkey." In answer to their questions as to how I had come out of the forest unscathed by either black bears or wolverines, I made a serious face and told them I was just lucky to get in, get the turkey, and escape before harm could come to me. I even told them about how I had defeathered it by dunking it in boiling water -  God knows where I heard that one, but it came in handy.

Since then, of course, in predictable situation comedy-like fashion, my lies have built upon themselves to precarious levels. When we were going around the table saying what each person was thankful for, Cooper chimed in that he was grateful I had killed such a tasty turkey. This prompted a mini-chorus of "Yay Dad!" from the twins. The next day we were walking down a short trail in a forested area that, quite frankly, looked like somewhere a wild turkey might hang out. This prompted the whole family to break into cries of "Here turkey, turkey, turkey" and prompted Cooper to locate a sharp stick for me in the unlikely event that a turkey did actual wander up to us. With Thanksgiving now in the rear view mirror, I am optimistic that I can escape this predicament with a bit more aplomb than the hapless sit-com dads. At least until next fall rolls around and the twins recall my solemn promises that they can come with me on next year's turkey stabbing missions.

A New Family Tradition

Taking the "cut your own Christmas tree" and "pick your own pumpkin" ideas to their logical next level, Cooper suggested the other day that we go out and "kill our own turkey" for Thanksgiving. Not quite sure what to say, Deanna went with an easy out by pointing out to him that we have no gun. Unfazed, and apparently having already contemplated this possibility, Cooper earnestly responded that all we would need would be a net and a knife.

While I appreciate his old school, do-it-yourself Pilgrim attitude, I am not quite sure what he is picturing will happen once the family, armed with our largest kitchen knife and perhaps some of our impressive collection of plastic light sabers, manages to trap a wild turkey in a net somewhere in the woods. What I imagine, however, is each of us standing around in a circle, passing the knife on to the next person and saying "I'm not doing it, you do it" and the whole thing ending with us having a new pet named "Gobbly" living in the backyard. 

Boy of Summer

One of the joys of watching kids go from squalling, helpless little balls of need to occasionally squalling, sometimes helpless four-year olds is seeing them develop their own interests and passions. So it was this summer when baseball planted a seed in four-year old Cooper that grew and flourished to the point of insanity. Our story began with a couple swings of the wiffle ball bat in the Spring (ahh, nothing signals Spring like the crisp sound of plastic on plastic, at least for four-year old baseball fans), and continues unabated to today, as the World Series limps towards its end barely ahead of the first snowfall.

Owen was in his third year this year of playing first tee ball and now baseball in our local little league. The twins won't be five until next spring and were therefore still ineligible for tee ball this year. Anyway, Owen was on the local little league Twins this spring (an amusing coincidence to our own twins). As I occasionally began to work with Owen in the backyard, Cooper began to take some turns swinging as well. He was soon hitting my underhand pitching regularly, and by the end of summer he was practically taking my head off with line drives. He was out there playing constantly, and home plate was quickly worn down to a patch of dirt. Some days I would come home to find all twenty or so of our wiffle balls lying in the neighbors yard (despite our suburban location, our neighbors are not particularly welcoming types, and have a giant pet pig that is so large and in charge that the boys won't venture through their gate to collect balls when it is out in the yard).    

Anyway, as interest grew, I decided to brush everyone up on their baseball basics and dug up a game I had bought on vacation a couple of years ago where you simulate a baseball game by flipping over cards that say things like strike, ball, foul, single, stolen base, etc. Cooper was soon obsessed with both batting in the yard and, when inside, playing the card game, constantly badgering anyone within earshot to do either. An amusing offshoot of the card game is that because the boys learned baseball rules through the game, they tend to sound like the game cards when playing real baseball in the yard, making pronouncements like "Hit by Pitch, Take Your Base" or "Strike Three, Batter Out."

By July, Cooper had moved beyond playing. Although he can't really read, he quickly mastered being able to recognize the name of each major league team in print. Every morning from mid-summer on, he charged outside for the newspapers as soon as he woke up, flipped them open to the box scores, and pored over them, interrupting whatever else was going on to make exciting announcements like "Dad, the Marlins beat the Astros 4 to 3." This led us to develop a system of categorizing the margins of victory - any game where there was a margin of victory of six or more runs is a "cream" and any victory by ten or more is a "super cream". You can imagine the excitement when the Minnesota Twins beat the Kansas City Royals 19-1 on July 26. You have never seen a more impressed group of little boys - a "super, super cream!!!"  Also in common usage in our house is the term "versing," as developed by the twins. It is a variation on the term "versus," which, if it isn't actually a word already, really should be. An example of its use is: "Who are the Red Sox versing today?"

By August, he was also poring over the standings in the newspaper, marveling at six game winning streaks and studying how many games such and such team was behind some other team. By the end of the regular season, baseball fever in Cooper had reached its most ridiculous heights. When I arrived home one night after work, Suzy the Nanny was sitting on the couch reading to Cooper and Hayden, pretty much like every other night when I arrive home. This particular night, however, she was wading through a book Cooper had chosen to check out from the library; an exciting tome entitled: "How Baseball Managers Use Math." As Cooper sat in rapt attention (Hayden's attention level looked something well below rapt, and possibly even below bored, although he was being a good sport (pun intended!)), she read "ERA is the average number of runs a pitcher gives up in nine innings. ERA is a decimal number. To calculate ERA, take the number of earned runs given up by the pitcher. Multiply that number by 9. Then, divide that by the number of innings the pitcher pitched." Tough stuff for a 4 year old, yet Cooper kept her moving through the book each day. Some of the exciting chapter names included "The Manager and His Percentages," "Keeping a Close Eye on the Pitch Count" and "Decimals and Decision Making."

On the last Saturday of the regular season, I bought a pair of tickets to the long out-of-contention Cubs and whisked Cooper off to his very first big league game. First of all, when you are a twin, it is pretty cool to go anywhere with a parent by yourself, even to the bank or Home Depot. When I told him we were going, he got a huge smile and said "Just me???" Second of all, IT WAS A MAJOR LEAGUE GAME!!!! We had a fantastic time. We ate a bag of peanuts and tossed the shells under our seats ("These are tasty!" he told me repeatedly), as well as hot dogs, soda and french fries. Cooper bought his mitt and asked me repeatedly whether I was ready to catch a foul ball when one came our way, and then assured me each time that HE was ready. Despite 5 relatively close calls, no dice. A month later, he still likes to remind me of the final score of the game (Cubs 7, Cardinals 3!) and to recall other details.

It has been a blast seeing something take hold of my little guy and stir such passion. Truly one of my favorite parts of this past summer. I sincerely hope he enjoys 96 more years of baseball love and perhaps, someday, gets the joy of seeing the Cubs super-cream somebody in the World Series.

An Apology

Yesterday's post leaned heavily on BlogSpot's new strikethrough feature for any amusement value. After the CloudEight switchboards were flooded with calls, I realized that the strikethrough of various words may not have shown up when email subscribers to CloudEight were reading the post on a PDA, phone or some other means other than a standard computer, leaving readers unamused and befuddled by the apparently nonsensical language. We here at CloudEight regret the confusion and/or non-amusement caused to our loyal readers and will subsequently rely sparingly on the strikethrough feature. Complimentary CloudEight logo mugs are being mailed to the first 100 people who complained. By the way, the exhausted switchboard operators, bitter about the verbal abuse they took all day, busted into the CloudEight wine cellar and drank the $90 wine. They are a passive-aggressive bunch. Cheers! 

The Extra-Fine Wine Mystery

Not that we are exactly hurting for things to do to keep us busy, but Deanna recently googled the various wines in our wine rack, as there were several bottles we knew nothing about - having been brought by one guest or another these past months. We were shocked to discover that one of the bottles retails for $90!!! Hot damn! For those of you who may not have had the pleasure of unscrewing uncorking a bottle with us, a $90 wine is much, much fancier than the usual swill vintages we quaff guzzle chug sip here on CloudEight. So, to whichever of our foolishly exceedingly generous, wealthy and very sophisticated friends (and I of course realize that doesn't really narrow it down at all; wink, wink!) bestowed this gift on us, many thanks - and if you identify yourself we will gladly have you back over to drink it with us (especially if you bring another bottle or two!). Be warned though, persons who falsely claim to have been the donors will be punished severely.

Cute Things Four Year Olds Say, Part 1

Cute things the twins said tonight:

1.     Hayden, showing me three quarters: "It's not change Dad, it's currency. You can buy things with it."

2.     Me, to Cooper during the Bears/Packers game: "Gavin's Dad is at the game. He's a Packer's fan."

Cooper: "Why does he like the Packers?"

Me: "Because he is from Wisconsin"

Cooper: "But we like the Bears, right Dad, because we're from America."

Me: "You're right, Cooper."

Summer Wrap-up

There is no surer sign that Fall has arrived than the first Bears victory (insert your very clever and funny joke about Fall starting some years in November HERE). Thanks to keen coaching, raw desire, and the kindness of the officiating crew in enforning their nonsensical NFL rules, Fall has officially arrived on Cloud Eight.

How was summer on Cloud Eight, you ask? Well ... wet. From our rainy garage sale in June to fun with serious basement flooding and its aftermath much of the rest of the summer, water was the word. The wet was not all bad however - from the pool and the great swimming strides made by all three boys, to sprinklers, water balloons, spray-grounds and beaches, there was plenty of wet fun to go around as well. 

 Post-Flood Garbage Day - Bleh!

Here are some additional pictures, both water-themed and not, of what has been up here these past unblogged months (and yes, most were taken different days, despite Cooper's propensity to wear the same shirt every single day!):

                                                                                                                                                 

Next Year's Christmas Card??

Beach in Door County

Owen and Cousin Emma - Lake Michigan

More Lake Michigan

Cooper - All-American

                                                                       

Fountains at Cantigny

Door County Fish Boil

Hayden

Flooding can be fun if you are 4 years old - otherwise, it sucks!



Me and Sunny D.



Millenium Park

Kids and Cousins on WWI Tank at Cantigny

Family in Door County

                                      

 

Some well-deserved rest



Summer Dinner Treat - Tacos de Muerte

The other night saw us, after a swirl of hectic events on a Wednesday evening, finally sitting down to dinner at 9 p.m. The late hour made it seem like we were living in Spain or something, except that instead of being European, we were simply crabby American parents and hungry, over-tired kids. Dinner was simple, hard-shelled beef tacos with fixings; no sides. After assembling my first taco, I spooned a bit of Paul Newman’s salsa onto it and took a bite. Almost immediately, I was pounding the table with a mouth on fire. Four heads turned quizzically towards me: “what the heck has gotten into Dad??” Through the tears in my eyes, I gasped out “This has got some kick.” I checked the label of the salsa – which claimed it was “medium.” Tired wife gently mocked me for overreacting as she finished assembling tacos for the kids. Everyone turned their attention to their own plates and commenced eating – no salsa. Thirty seconds later, chaos reigned. Hayden sat in his seat, unable to do anything other than repeatedly yell that his lips were burning. Cooper, reduced to inconsolable tears, wandered the dining room holding his tongue in his hand, unable to stop either the crying or the tongue-holding long enough to drink some soothing water or milk. Deanna and I were doing our best to lessen the wildfires burning in our own mouths while simultaneously trying to figure out what was going on and to get the kids to drink something. While I tended to the wounded, Deanna returned from the kitchen with the culprit. She had dumped what she thought was a can full of crushed tomatoes into the meat during cooking. It was actually a can of tomatoes that was spiked with jalapenos and habaneros and, frankly, tasted more like a can of jalapenos and habaneros spiked with a bit of tomato. You would think that the picture of a couple of tomatoes resting in a nest of hot peppers on the can, along with the helpful and prominently placed bilingual warnings on the front of the can that said “hot” and “picante” would have been a clue. But like I said, it was late and we were all tired. Once order was restored and I knew what I was dealing with, I actually enjoyed the challenge of powering through the meal, only occasionally being reduced to pounding the table or interrupted by Cooper’s gentle sobs. But those initial minutes when nobody knew why the hell our food was setting fire to our mouths certainly made it one of our more memorable meals.

That Twin Thing

Time rolls on here on CloudEight; I blink and it has suddenly been almost two months since I posted. If I had to pick a headline among recent events here, it would be that the twins turned four last week!

As is all too common these days, they woke up bickering on their birthday. In fact, as a special birthday treat for us, they set a new record by bickering even before they were awake. Hayden had one of his recurring dreams where he is not getting his fair share and started yelling in his sleep "Cooper, give back my cereal!" Cooper woke up and starting mumbling "I didn't take your cereal" which only caused asleep/half-asleep Hayden to start yelling more. Oy.

They have been waiting to turn four for months, and Cooper in particular seemed to sense that being four would result in dramatic changes. He asked us repeatedly on his birthday whether he looked taller. He seemed mildly surprised that his pants still fit and reassured Deanna that she did not have to buy him new gym shoes as the old ones continued to appear to be able to contain his four-year-old feet.

While in many ways it has been awfully nice to have three-year olds, there are certain things I will not miss:

It would be nice if they were tall enough to stop hitting their heads on doorknobs. Hayden in particular, seems almost like he has a magnetic plate in his head that draws him to every doorknob he passes. Or he will need a metal plate soon enough if he doesn't stop whacking his melon this year.

It would also be nice if they were tall enough that they were not resting either their penises or balls on the rims of every public toilet and urinal they use. Nothing causes me to lose my appetite faster than watching Cooper shake the last drop of urine off his penis after peeing by whacking it repeatedly against the pee-stained rim of a fast-food restaurant urinal.

I will not miss the most commonly heard phrase in our house being "Can you wipe my butt?" This phrase has already mostly gone by the wayside, but was seriously heard more than any other this past year. It goes without saying that I will not miss the actual wiping of their butts either, except for maybe their excited inquiries as to how many wipes it was taking to actually clean them up each time. I guess it could be said that all the wiping helped them learn to count.

Things I will miss very much:

Naps!!!

Mispronunciations and odd phrasing. They still call going to sleep at night a "dark-out nap." The are crazy about all things Star Wars and like to fight each other with light "savers." At night, we either read from the Harry Potter books (Owen's preference) or from what the twins endearingly refer to as "storybooks with pictures."

Picking them up. I have enjoyed carrying the guys more as requests have become less frequent over time. Nothing like having a little guy snuggled against your shoulder.

That semi-fresh toddler smell. Not as good smelling as babies, but certainly better smelling than a boy.

While they are very different people, and more their own individuals every day, they remain extraordinarily close in that twin way. Cooper was giving Hayden a hard time about a young female acquaintance of theirs the other day, teasing him "You are going to marry her, you loooovvvvvve her." Hayden's reassuring reply: "I love you more Cooper." Ah, twins.

CloudEight Comedy Club

Deanna bravely takes the stage at CloudEight Comedy Club and finds it as punishing as I do:

"Deanna: Two monkeys named Pete and Repeat are sitting in a tree. Pete falls out. Who's left?
Cooper: There's one left.
Hayden: Yeah, one.
Deanna: No, Pete and Repeat are monkeys sitting in a tree. Pete falls out....
Owen: No, they are in a boat. Pete falls into the water.
Deanna: What would monkeys be doing in a boat? They are in a tree.
Hayden: One guy falls into the water. Splash.
Cooper: One guy falls out of the tree and hurts himself on the ground?
Owen: Mom, they don't even know what repeat means anyway."

Undaunted, she tries again later, but finds literalism a tough hurdle:

"Deanna: Knock, knock.
Owen: Who's there?
Deanna: Turnip.
Owen: Turnip who?
Deanna: Turnip the TV.
Owen: But the TV isn't even on."

Owen isn't the only literalist in the house. One day, Cooper and I are examining a map of Africa:

"Cooper: Dad, what country is that?
RedPlanet: That's Madagascar.
Cooper: Is that where gas cars come from?"

The Cocoon Begins to Fray

When we first moved into our neighborhood four years ago, Owen was a bit past three years old. Our block at the time was chock full of little boys, including another Owen the same age as ours. Our neighbors were for the most part welcoming sorts and I remember that as the weather warmed, we were invited to an outdoor shindig where we first got to know the families on the block. Owen gamely joined in with the crowd of boys his age and older, his first social foray into our new neighborhood, and one of his first in general outside what until then had been a fairly insular circle of relatives and close friends and his mates from daycare - a protected and idyllic little world. When we were leaving the neighborhood party, one of the older boys shouted "Goodbye Owen." He was talking to the Owen who had always lived on the block but our little guy, thinking he was talking to him and that he had made a new friend, stopped, turned around, walked up to him, and gave him a big goodbye hug. Owen couldn't see but the kid's facial expression was essentially "what the *$&% is this new kid doing." That moment is seared in my memory because I remember thinking how little and innocent and good Owen was and how much I hoped that the kid he was hugging wouldn't say out loud what his facial expression was saying. He didn't, but I knew it wouldn't be long before the world started seeping through the protective emotional cocoon that we are able to construct for our toddlers.

Tonight, as we were all reading books and Deanna was quizzing Owen about his day, he suddenly let forth with weeks of drama between himself and his close friends, as he and another boy jockeyed for the position of "best friend" of a third boy. Owen, usually so quietly popular, happy, and confident, was suddenly wracked with anguish and the sudden feeling that the boy he naively and happily thought was going to be his best friend for life was being stolen from him. His wails of sadness and loss as he told of minor cruelties were truly heartbreaking - a sudden and painful reminder to us as parents that the world is at its core a rough place, and that no matter how much we want to protect our little guys from the crueler lessons of life, life is going to be teaching those lessons whether we want it to or not. The emotional ride-along we are in for as parents is, I suddenly realize, going to be almost as painful as when we went through it all ourselves growing up. Part of life, I know, but couldn't someone of told me about this tough part of the job when we applied?

No Monkeys In Heaven!

The other day found me washing dishes and singing "Monkey Gone to Heaven" by the Pixies. As someone borrowed my CD copy of the Pixies "Dolittle" 15 years ago and never returned it (I'm talking to you Denmarsh!), my singing pretty much consisted of repeating the part of the chorus that goes "This monkeys gone to Heaven" over and over since I can't presently remember any of the other lyrics. Deanna, six years younger than I and thus sometimes alarmingly naive about the treasure trove of music that was the 1980s, first indicated that she had never heard the song. Then, taking my repeated lyric at its literal best, she declared out of the blue "There are no monkeys in heaven."

"What?!?!" I replied. Twelve years of marriage and I am blindsided by this assertion. This led immediately to a theological discussion of what exactly heaven is like, what form everything is in there, and who is eligible to enter. Deanna's vision - no physical form, just some spark of existence being promoted upon death to a nebulous free-floating state. Picture a bunch of Tinkerbell-like lights (souls) flitting around in what looks like outer space. She seemed a little vague about where the line would be drawn when pressed for details on what types of lifeforms are allowed but was clear that monkeys and trees were excluded (she later conceded on the monkeys but held firm on no trees). Worst of all, no one is actually doing anything. Just flits of light flitting. Souls floating in the ether. Boooooorrrring!

My vision is that Heaven looks a bit like Wii Sports Resort. A cool place where you can spend the afternoon bowling with Thomas Jefferson and John Lennon. I picture catching up with my friend Jeni from high school and getting to know my grandfathers whom I never had a chance to know on earth, perhaps over archery or some cocktails (but not both - experience has taught me that archery and cocktails are a poor combination). Is that Charles Lindbergh piloting the Piper Cub that gives scenic "Get to Know Heaven" tours; why yes it is!" Hey Vasco de Gama and Lewis and Clark, catch you guys later for some orienteering! How about some ziplining with Walter Payton and Teddy Roosevelt! I could go on but you get the picture. And in my Heaven, there is surely no shortage of trees or monkeys - in fact, my Heaven is lousy with them, AND they talk.

Deanna and I continued our debate upstairs, where we presented our conflicting views of Heaven to Owen, who not surprisingly found mine to be more appealing. About that time one of the twins wandered in with no clothes on. Deanna instructed him to get his pajamas on and, as an aside, noted that "God does not want to see your naked butt." Both twins then quite confidently asserted that God loved their butts as much as the rest of them, and to prove their point, joyously bent over to raise their naked butts heavenward. And somewhere far above, a foursome made up of God, a monkey, a Peruvian peasant, and Revolutionary War Hero Marquis de Lafayette looked down and chuckled appreciatively before turning their attention back to their golf game.

Putting the Fun Back in DiscrimFunation

The other day was opposite day at Owen's school, where kids wore their shirts backwards and such. We carried the theme over to home where we had breakfast for dinner, and now here to CloudEight, where I am doing the opposite of what I usually do by actually posting. Oh, and by not being funny.

This past week also saw some crazy Martin Luther King Day activities over at the grade school and, apparently, the pre-school. We were talking to Owen about MLK over breakfast at dinnertime, when the twins broke into the conversation. Cooper declared "Hey! We know that guy!" Hayden followed up by telling us "some bad people put a brick through his window." Props to the Catholic pre-school for trying to tackle a tough topic, I guess, as at least something seems to have stuck in their little three year old minds.

Meanwhile, over at First Grade, Owen, as part of the educational MLK celebration had filled in blanks in a worksheet intended to provide an opportunity to talk to our child about "values and dreams." It had a "Martin and Me" chart where it listed things like MLK's favorite games (baseball and Chinese Checkers, FYI) and Owen would then list his (soccer). In the "Dream for the Future" column, MLK had "fairness for all." Owen's dream for the future: "toys." I will give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that the "for all" after toys is implied.

The "First Grade News" Owen's teacher sends home each week also noted that the class had "participated in some fun activities to allow the children to see what discrimination feels like." Wow. I mean Wow. What to say. It almost sounds like it should be called discrimfunation. Anyway, Owen hasn't talked about it, so I assume it was fairly mild, like making one kid wear a Packers jersey.

And it is on to the next holiday, Valentine's day, where the kids can participate in some fun activities to see what having your heart broken feels like.

More Holiday Fun: Swedes, Cookies and Jesus' Birthday Party

More Holiday Traditions:

While I am largely an American mutt, I am 1/4 Swedish, so by default I have always regarded Sweden as providing my ancestral roots. We fortuitously had a store in my childhood hometown called the "Swedish Shop", which allowed me to indulge these cultural leanings by buying advent calendars and buttons that said clever things like "Swedish Power". At holiday gatherings of extended family as a kid, I recall being given glasses of "glug" - this was good. Less good were holiday "treats" like pickled herring and lutefisk (codfish cured in lye (no lie!)). Owen's first grade class had been studying Christmas traditions around the world in the weeks leading up to the holiday, so it was with interest that he and I recently reviewed the Swedish Chapter. We especially liked the idea of Santa Lucia day, where on December 13 the oldest girl in the family dresses in a white gown, makes sweetbread and coffee, puts a wreath with lit candles on her head and wakes everyone else up to eat the treats and drink the coffee. This sounded like a much better tradition than eating pickled herring, so we were keen on trying to incorporate it into our family. The plan falls apart, of course, at the bit about the oldest daughter doing all of this, as we inconveniently do not have an oldest daughter. Owen, somewhat unwisely suggested to Deanna that she do it. This suggestion was met with the kind of withering glare and sharp retort that might be expected from someone who spends more than enough time concocting treats for the rest of us without taking on the added risk of setting her head on fire. Oh, well.

Speaking of treats, while Deanna and I may be compatible in parenting styles and a million other ways, there could not be a starker contrast between us when it comes to cookie compatibility. She comes from people who like their cookies soft, gooey and full of meringues, gloppy fillings, etc. In other words, barely edible. My people like our cookies hard like a Scandinavian winter (see above for more about my rich Swedish heritage), made with butter and/or lard with a crust of hard frosting or a sprinkling of sugar. Real cookies, like spritz and thumbprints (world's best cookie!). This incompatibility rears its ugly head each holiday season, when Deanna effortlessly cranks out a zillion cookies, most of which I simply don't like. I was apparently a bit more vocal than usual about that this year, because Deanna was actually indulgent enough to make me a big batch of spritz dough. I then spent an hour wrestling with our cookie dough gun, loudly complaining that it was a piece of inferior equipment. As it turned out, I simply had no idea how to properly use the damn thing, since when Deanna finally became annoyed enough to come see what all the fuss was about, she proceeded to crank out several trays of beautiful cookies - the only ones that later turned out to be actually presentable to guests. Then, while checking on my actual baking of the cookies, Deanna discovered that I had placed an unbaked tray of cookies in the oven on top of an already baking tray of cookies. After we all had a good laugh at my expense, I inexplicably did the same thing again! It was then that we all decided we were best going back to our old system of Deanna making whatever she wants and me subsisting on tins of thumbprints slipped to me periodically during the holiday season by my mother.

As we were driving towards church on Christmas morning, I realized from various comments being made by the twins that since they knew we were going to church to celebrate Jesus' birthday, they believed Jesus would physically be there. Not just in spirit, mind you, but wearing a party hat and smiling as a bunch of Kings and sheppards, and us of course, sang happy birthday. Mary supervising a game of pin the tail on a real donkey - best party game ever! Plenty of loaves and fishes (hopefully not lutefisk!) to go around, no matter how many guests show up! I'm picturing Jesus excitedly opening our gift of Rock'em, Sock'em Robots - much cooler than the boring old myrrh. Anyway, assuming it would be in our best interests to dissuade them of this live Jesus notion on the way rather than in response to loud inquiries in church, we did our best to engage in a rushed bit of 3-year-old theology. Why we still celebrate the birth of someone who lived 2,000 years ago is not an easy concept for them to wrap their little 3-year old heads around, as suggested by Cooper's continuing litany of questions throughout the service and since. My favorite moment however, was when we were still in the car, and I had just finished explaining that Jesus was a baby 2000 years ago and that nobody can live for 2000 years. Owen, a big Harry Potter fan, then not-so-helpfully interjected from the backseat "Unless they have the Sorcerer's Stone." Oy.

I hear next year Mary and Joseph are having Jesus' party at the Roller Rink. Should be cool. Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season and Happy New Year!