My left thumb has been bothering me all morning. I kept wiggling it and rubbing it wondering all the while what on earth I could have done to have injured my thumb of all things.

And then it occured to me.

Playing G in a head to head round of golf requires a well developed swing – performed entirely with the left tumb on the XBox360 controller.

I wonder if Tiger’s thumb ever gives him such trouble.

…that I broke a spatula a couple weeks ago. And so he bought me a new one (and an extra!) for Christmas.

…that we broke our favorite wooden spoon making applesauce this year. And so he bought me a new one f(and an extra!) for Christmas.

…that you cannot lie to Mom. So he bought me a plaque for Christmas that says, “You can fool some of the people all of the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool Mom.”

…that I love York Peppermint Patties right from the freeer, so he wrapped some and led me to the freezer with a clue under the tree.

…that I don’t have salt and pepper shakers and that I might be embarrased if we ever had company over for dinner. So he bought me a set.

…that he accidentally broke my small Pyrex glass measuring cup (in our pre-microwave days) and so he bought me a new one.

…that I love Hershey’s with almonds, so he tucked one in my stocking.

…that our attempt to make homemade moose munch at Thanksgiving didn’t go so well, so he bought me some of that, too.

…that I love plants, so he conspired with Nana and bought me a beautiful Ivy topiary for Christmas.

…that I love the little things about Christmas, so he wrote funny things on the tags and made a game out of some gifts.

…that I have a sense of humor, so he sang the “cha-cha-cha” part with George when we sang Happy Birthday to Jesus. (Forgive me, Heavenly Father. First, a store-bought cake, and second the Scooby-Doo Birthday song…)

…that Thank-You notes are a big deal to me, so he wrote them during the ride to Ohio today without complaint.

…that this was an extra special Christmas for us, spent with my sister and her family here in Michigan, and hugged me several times and thanked me for such a great Christmas after the evening was over.

…that I would miss him terribly over the next two weeks while he spends time with his grandparents and his dad and so he jumped out of my car and threw his stuff into Nana’s and never even hugged me goodbye.

Well, I’ll forgive the last one. But I’ll hug him extra tight when he returns back home.

Thanks, LM for the best Christmas ever. You know me so well and shared such a special day with me. Enjoy your time with your dad and I’ll see you in two weeks!

In preparation for our Christmas celebration tomorrow night (LM is off to spend the holiday with his dad’s side of the family early Saturday morning) I headed to the kitchen to make cake. As part of our family holiday traditions, I bake an angel food birthday cake in honor of Christ’s birthday each year.

Only the cake pan is in a box in Julie’s barn.

When I call to tell her I’ll be climbing up in the barn tomorrow when I drop off the kids, I interrupt her pie-baking. We talk for a few minutes and I realize she’s making a lemon meringue pie from scratch (two of them, actually) to take to her outlaw’s for their Christmas celebration this weekend.

From scratch.

I told her that God gave Betty Crocker a gift. A talent to share with the world. And that I certainly thought that a pre-made or bakery-made or even a store-bought pie filling would be good enough for her outlaws. I mean, if a boxed cake mix is good enough for Jesus, isn’t it good enough for Bear’s family?

Just because he scores in the 99th percentile, just because he’s in the gifted pull-out program one day a week, just because he reads at a high school level in sixth grade, just because he uses words like “botany”, “trebuchet” and “je ne sais quo” in his conversations, just because he’s on a special science team preparing to compete with other science teams across the area, the state and possibly the nation, does NOT imply that he can actually spell “Science Olympiad”.

The folder on my desktop containing his research is labeled “Science oylimiad”.

I.kid.you.not.

And LM is giddy over the idea of dissolving packing peanuts.

All that money, down the drain.

Stacy, you had no idea what a hit your gift – er- the packing of your gift – would be, did you?

I’ve given it more thought than I’d like to admit. Over the past few days I’ve asked the opinion of no less than five other people about what to do. Even today, the day of decision I was still uncertain if I had done the right thing.

You see, it’s all about fantasy football.

My team did well this year. Not as confidently well as last year, but I made the playoffs and then the final four. But it was that last milestone that gave me pause. Last year I won the tourny to the great surprise of everyone including me. This year, my former company was kind enough to include me in the league, but I would imagine few expected similar success.

Making the final four was enough, to me, to say hey, I’m not half bad at this. Certainly there is a lot of luck in such things, but at least I demonstrated that what little skill I had, I put to good use on occasion (and made some remarkably dumb move, too). But I found myself cheering for former co-workers to go the distance and win the tourny this year instead of wishing I would win myself. I just didn’t think that would be much fun for everyone else. I don’t even work there for crying out loud.

So I started to think maybe I should tank on purpose. But there are male egos to be dealt with a tanking on purpose wouldn’t go over well, I suspect. So I decided to leave my team alone and just hope that either in this semi-final round or in the finals next week I might be outplayed and I wouldn’t win it all, leaving someone still in the office, still around to enjoy the glory to win.

And it would seem as though Mother Nature stepped in and honored my request. The New England blow-out of the Jets would have solidified my spot in the final game. But today, with inclement weather, the Pats ran the ball leaving Brady without a single touchdown and a fraction of his usual passing yards. Moss was left with a less than stellar day. And while some of my other players stepped up to the plate and made some big yards and a couple touchdowns, it won’t come close to being the points I will need to win.

And so I am relieved.

And no male egos are injured. And everyone back at the office should be happy that the final game will be between two of their own.

And while I expect I might play next year, I won’t play again in this league as I think it’s time to move on. Thanks, guys, for inviting me to play and for all the fun of becoming a completely obsessed football fan. And to PC – I wish you all the best in the finals!!

She’s me when I was eleven. She loves horses and cats and all stray animals. She’s a second mother to George and any child put in her charge. She loves homework and helping her teacher. She sings with the radio and talks to her friends on the phone for hours. Deep down inside somewhere my sister and I must be somewhat alike for her to have produced a child so remarkably like me.

In early December, Bird celebrated her eleventh birthday. It was at her birthday party at a local indoor pool that I realized our first major difference – she is completely uninhibited. Standing in the locker room completely naked, she’s talking with her friends, telling me about something that happened at school and was in no rush whatsoever to actually get her suit on. I was ready to crawl into a bathroom stall out of embarrassment for her, but she wasn’t phased at all.

Queen of the High Dive

Her birthday party was so much fun. It was still fun and not yet embarrassing to have her dad and her uncle cannonballing off the diving boards to see who could make the bigger splash. Everyone had fun, friends, cousins, the young ones and even the boys all had fun

“Is it time for cake yet?”

Littlest Cousins

George the Sea Dragon

LM Ready to Swim

We enjoyed a Hannah Montana birthday cake and Bird opened more Littlest Pet gifts than I knew existed. George kept us entertained with his antics as well and LM endured sitting in the close proximity with several fifth grade girls without complaint.

Bird admires the purple fuzzy scarf we gave her
(along with an American Girl doll skirt and a new wallet for all her birthday cash!)

Earlier this week I had the honor and the privilege of attending LM’s band concert. It was the first concert since our relocation and since his promotion as a sixth grader into the seventh and eighth grade concert band. LM has been practicing hard this year and is currently fourth chair amongst eight trumpets.

The one girl, on the end of the choir was clearly not enrolled in the optional class to enhance her singing ability. She couldn’t clap on rhythym, she barely sang and while the smaller ensembles stepped forward to sing, she would trounce down the risers in her very-loud clunky heels and peer over in the direction of the quartet and then scurry back up in a loud clunk-clunk-clunky manner and whisper to her peers some scandalous information about the performers.

(Do take notice that in this picture, the girl on the end is in a white hoodie with her black evening gown and heels. DURING the performance she and the other hoodie-adorned girl SWITCHED sweatshirts.)

The director had made the point to tell us that the choir members themselves had chosen the songs to be performed and they included such juvenile favorites as Rudolph, Jingle Bell Rock and the like. There were no harmony parts. There was no complicated or unique renditions of the tunes. Played to track music piped in, the entire ensemble – mainly seventh and eighth graders sang as if they were at a slumber party. They behaved as if that is where they were, too, and the director was the “mom” who wanted to be chummy with all the girls.

At this point I’ll admit, I was near tears. I mean, I’m not some cultural snob but I do expect a certain level of decorum at such an event. How could I have enrolled my son in a school that didn’t even teach etiquette and respect? How could I expect him to learn the valuable things in life if he’s spending his days with students and teachers that have standards this low? The parents I was surrounded by were no better; one choir dad had spent the time walking in front of the front row stopping to take pictures as if he was the only one present. The cheering was more like football game shouting than a musical performance.

I panicked. I thought about making him move schools at the end of the year. I’d enroll him in my sister’s district or somewhere out of the city. I would find a way to pay for the college education we would have received nearly free. I’ve had my concerns as we’ve transitioned to a much more urban school environment about what all LM is learning – outside of the classroom – and now I felt as if I were witnessing it all first hand. I would find a way – I just couldn’t let this be his education.

And then the band came on stage. The director stood at the podium and checked to make sure every instrument was tuned as well as the ensemble. When he raised his baton, instruments came up in unison. The music was beautiful and complicated and delightful from the first note to the last. My boy, my little trumpet boy was outstanding. They played Winter Wonderland, Over the Rainbow and a Christmas Suite that blended all the favorite carols into one ensemble piece. I took pictures and intended to video tape for LM’s dad but was so enraptured by the performance that it was over before I even hit the record button.

No more tears, I was smiling ear to ear. I was so proud. But not only of my son, of the director, for teaching these kids all the parts of being a performer, not just how to blow air through an instrument.

Afterwards, I hugged LM and asked if he would take me to where the band room was. I shook the directors hand (a man who calls me by name) and thanked him profusely, not only for the concert but for all his help with LM. He’s been so encouraging to LM this year and has really pushed him.

As we left the band room, two older boys shouted to LM, “Hey! Hey you! Is that a trumpet?” LM raised his case and shrugged, “yeah?”

The boy said, “Do you live in this area? Will you be attending this high school?” A question LM’s band director asks him almost daily. With two high schools in town, his band director has been pushing for LM to attend the one he used to direct at.

LM said he wasn’t sure where he’d be attending, his standard answer since we haven’t bought a house yet.

“Oh man, you have to come here! We heard you trumpets out there and you guys were awesome! We really need some good trumpet players here!”

I smiled and said quietly, “you’ll have to wait. LM here is only a sixth grader.” The boy looked astonished and then replied, “It’s worth the wait. Besides, I’ll still be a senior. Just remember, when you get to high school, you have to come here!”

As we finished the evening off with our traditional post-band-concert ice cream treat I smiled and thought to myself that maybe, just maybe this was exactly the education LM needed.

“Aunt Fred? What’s in the box?” asked George when we stopped at the post office today on our way home from school.

“A Christmas present for someone far away.”

“What is it?”

“It’s actually several things, George.”

“How many things?”

“I don’t know, maybe seven or eight. Just some little things I wanted to send to a friend.”

“Is it corn?”

“No, George, it’s not corn.”

“Is it a violin?”

“No, it’s not a violin.”

“Is it a bouncy ball?”

“No, it’s not a bouncy ball.”

We approached the counter and the postal clerk asked me if anything was fragile, liquid, perishable or hazardous. I said it was fragile and perishable.

“Aunt Fred? What does ‘perishable’ mean?”

“It means can it get rotten,” I replied, trying to explain the idea to a seven year old.

“EWWW!! You’re sending something rotten to your friend for Christmas?!”

“No, George. It’s not rotten now. It just could get rotten if it got lost in the mail.”

“What is it?”

“You remember in my hall closet all those jars you saw when you were over? A friend of mine wanted me to send a couple to her.”

“Aunt Fred!! You’re sending a friend 8 jars of rotten applesauce?!”

“No, George. It’s not rotten!”

“But it will be! EWWWWW!!!!”

There was no convincing him otherwise. Even the postal clerk had to stifle a laugh.

So, my dear friend who is receiving the specifically requested applesauce, I doubt there is anything about it that is worth a personal shipment (and don’t worry, I didn’t send 8 jars of sauce!), but I am ever so grateful for the occasion that provided me with such an incredibly precious moment with George.

These are the little moments I’ve been missing. But now, now I can treasure them. And oh, how I treasure these moments.

Yesterday LM called me on my way home from school. “A box came today, Mom. I don’t know who it’s from or what it’s for.” He spelled the last name to me, never pausing long enough for me to say I know who it’s from. He read the city and state that it came from and started to tell me how big the box was and that it wasn’t heavy but wasn’t light either.

“LM.” I said, waiting for him to stop and take a breath.

“I know who the box is from.”

(While he had been rambling incessantly I had actually thought of shouting, “It’s a bomb, get out of the house!” as a joke until I thought better knowing he might actually believe me and while playing jokes on my kid is funny, scaring the crud out of them isn’t. Well, it isn’t most of the time. Well, it isn’t some of the time. Well…)

The box needent have contained a thing. It meant the world to me to just know that a friend, a very dear new friend thought of me and wanted to send me something. But inside were two packages, one for the boy and one that I know to be homemade although I don’t know what it is. Both went ceremoniously under my tree to await Christmas Day. There were two tins of cookies which were immediately opened and went ceremoniously down my throat (okay, I waited until after dinner and I didn’t eat all of them, but still, they were delish!) And there were cranberries. Which are meaningful in their own special way.

As I sit here tonight, I am delighted to have little bits and pieces of things (not literally pieces of things) to send back in the direction this box came, I am delighted more by this friendship than I have words for. Mig, you are my kindred spirit. You bring joy into my life every single day. I am so glad that distance and space aren’t challenges to this friendship and I thank God that he brought you into my life this year.

I wish all of you a sweet box full of friendship this holiday season.