not that you asked...

This is whiny. But truthful.

What you never prepare yourself for is that Christmas might not live up to all of your fuzzy-edged, softly lit, beaming-smile expectations.

Don't get me wrong: I know how lucky we are. We are surrounded by family and friends; my husband is not only employed but gainfully and successfully employed; we are healthy; we can afford to spoil our children with lovely things. I am so grateful for that, and I hope that my gratitude is so evident that you find this paragraph completely unnecessary.

And I tried, I tried so very very hard, to focus on those things that matter thousands of times more than anything you need AA batteries for, but after a month of talking about Christmas and building up the idea of Christmas and preparing for Christmas, I let it beat me. And so, when my husband asked my three-year-old to hug his mama and tell her thank you for the gifts, for working so hard to make Christmas special, and he refused and threw a tantrum and then told me he only liked his presents a little bit... well. Although my head knew that he was just being three and my head knew that he was coming down with another cold and didn't feel good and my head knew that he hadn't slept well and needed some breakfast and was a little overwhelmed by all the STUFF and the break from routine, my heart didn't exactly get the message and I think if you'd been on the moon you could have heard it break from there.

I cried for a long time about that. I was so disappointed and so let down and so BUMMED OUT by the whole thing. And I knew I probably should never have gotten my hopes up in the first place, but the power of commercialized Christmas is so overwhelming, isn't it? We're bombarded by movies with heartfelt endings, by advertisements featuring well-dressed families enjoying dinner together and children shouting with glee over their gifts. I just expected that our Christmas would be magical and wonderful, and then when it wasn't – when it ended up feeling like it was just another whiny, crappy day only with presents to unwrap, PRESENTS NO ONE WOULD SAY THANK YOU FOR – I let it get me down. That was my fault, and I feel silly about it now, but back in the moment, I felt so helpless and sad.

I feel like someone should have told me not to get my hopes up; that if my children managed to attend the Christmas Eve candlelight service without catching on fire, that I should consider our holiday a success. Instead I was disappointed that I was handing out snacks and changing a poopy diaper when what I wanted to do was join the congregation in singing carols and celebrating the birth of Jesus with my whole, undivided attention. And I know I can do that at any time, in the quietness of my own home or while I'm driving my car or cooking dinner, but oh, the feeling of being gathered together with hundreds of other people who are joyful alongside you for all the same reasons? (This is where you're supposed to reach through your computer screen and slap me and say IDIOT, do your kids stay quiet in a pediatrician's waiting room? Then what made you think they'd tolerate - much less ENJOY - an hour-long church service, even if it DID involve fire?) I know. I KNOW. But I struggled a little bit with the whole "Christmas revolving solely around the kids" thing because Christmas is not just about kids and the stuff we give them. Christmas is supposed to be special for me, too, but I found it really difficult to find the balance between KIDSKIDSKIDS PRESENTSPRESENTSPRESENTS and finding the time and energy to celebrate in a grown-up, less-gift-centric way with kids around. I don't even know if that makes sense. Does that make sense?

So anyway, yes, I had a nice Christmas in the big picture kind of way. I am blessed, beyond belief, to have what I have. Would I have liked a Christmas morning where the kids were happy and excited and willing to HUG THEIR MOTHER? Yes, that would have been nice, too. Can I go back and re-do it though? No, I cannot. And as the days pass, I find that I'm more irritated at myself for getting so emotional about it. So I'm putting it behind me (which, ironically, is also exactly where I put all those cookies) and moving on and looking forward to 2010. And perhaps one more post for 2009, maybe one with, oh, I don't know, A HAPPY TOPIC.

I am, however, pleased to report that the kazoo that I tucked into Lucy's stocking was not immediately regretted. 

Year One: The Outtakes

Moments old*
 

One month
 

Two months
 

Three months
 

Four months
 

Five months
 

Six months
 

Seven months
 

Eight months
 

Nine months

Ten months 

Eleven months
 

One year old

*also known as The Most Heinous Postpartum Photo Ever Taken Of Anyone On The Face Of The Earth EVER. But it's Christmas, so have a hearty laugh slash gasp of horror on me.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl

Moments old (birth story here.) 
One month
 
Two months
 
Three months
 
Four months
 
Five months
 
Six months
 
Seven months
 
Eight months
 
Nine months
 
Ten months
 
Eleven months
 
One year old
 
We love you, Bird.
Love,
Mama, Dada and Asher 

Family lore

As we were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, my dad announced that he had a story he wanted to tell. I don't remember exactly what he said, something along the lines of AND IT COULD CHANGE LIFE AS WE KNOW IT, but he said it in a way that was much less dramatic and also right after he said it he started eating, so I was pretty sure it wasn't going to be the eight million dollars I was thinking would be nice for someone to leave us.

SPOILER ALERT: Yeah. There's no money.

According to the story my dad was recently told, his grandfather (my great-grandfather) had been run out of the state of Virginia “at the end of a shotgun” after getting a girl pregnant and not marrying her. The irony of the story is that my great-grandfather himself had grown up without a father, after his biological dad had done the same thing to his mother – gotten her all good and knocked up and then run off. (Are you following this?) So it turns out that my great-grandfather had not taken his father's last name when he was growing up; he'd taken his MOTHER'S name instead. Which goes against All Basic Rules of Lineage, right? Especially in the early 1900s, when there was no such thing as Keeping Your Own Name or Hyphenating When You Feel Like It or any of that Modern Identity stuff. Back then, everyone took their father's names, right? Carrying on the family name with pride and all that jazz. I mean, granted, he had every right to take his mother's name, what with the completely absent father and everything, but that means that the WRONG LAST NAME has been handed down for the last few generations.

In other words, we're not who we thought we were. Or... well, something like that. I'm obviously not an expert. In fact, the truth is, I really had no idea what my dad was getting at after he told that story. This is the same reason I don't like listening to jokes, because I'm too worried that I'm not going to get the punch line at the end and I'm going to have to fake laugh and I have a really obvious fake laugh, and then I have to pretend that I get it until I can get home and ask Dave to explain it.

This time, though, I wasn't the only one staring blankly at him when he finished talking. Please explain to me how this could CHANGE LIFE AS WE KNOW IT?

“That means,” my dad helpfully continued, “that our last name shouldn't be Palmer after all.”

Here's where the blank looks changed to buggy eyes.

“Our last name,” he continued, “should be...”

“PLEASE DON'T SAY CASSEE, PLEASE DON'T SAY CASSEE,” my husband interjected.

“Our last name should be... THRASH,” my father announced.

OMG, people. Thrash! My maiden name should be Thrash. It's like, the coolest last name ever invented in the history of the whole wide world, right? I'm not sure that if I'd been named Emily Thrash, that I could have given that one up when I got married. I would have hyphenated AT THE LEAST. I might have even suggested that Dave take MY last name (I ask you, who messes with someone named Dave THRASH?), but unless Dave's brothers get on the ball and get themselves some offspring, Dave would have been the last procreating Cassee on his side of the family; the last one able to carry on the family name. So I doubt he would have been game. Not that it matters anyway, as my maiden name won't change, no matter how much I picture the Safeway checkout boy saying, “Do you need anyone to help you to your car, Mrs. Thrash?” Wait, no, the Safeway guy would never ask someone with the last name Thrash if they need help. Someone with the last name Thrash clearly DOES NOT need any help; someone with the last name Thrash is a certified bad-ass.

So short of a surprise eight million dollar inheritance, this was the next best thing to discuss while gathered around the Thanksgiving table, right? Totally juicy gossip about long-dead people who messed up the family tree.

Oh, wait. Except for the part where my brother and sister-in-law announced they were expecting in July. (I bet they wish they'd gone first with that one.) (No, seriously, I'm totally excited to be an aunt again.) (And I totally think Thrash would be an awesome name for a boy or a girl.)

I'm guessing my dad will LOVE this story

At first I thought the low point of my day was going to be the hour of screaming and the general helpless feeling known as watching your 11-month-old try and try and try – in SEVERAL DIFFERENT POSITIONS – to crank out a stodgy turd. Oh, it was awful, the way she clung helplessly to the edge of the couch, knees bent, tears rolling down her cheeks, and worse was how, after I put her in a warm bath, she crouched down on all fours and assumed a stance reserved solely for women delivering FULL-TERM BABIES and cried pitifully some more, and eventually I just couldn't take it any longer; couldn't take the tears and the moaning and the obvious discomfort and so, yeah. The low point wasn't the crying.

No, the low point involved (and I do apologize if you're eating dinner or have delicate sensibilities or are currently childless and ever entertained the thought that you might want to have a child at some point) my finger. I don't think I need to say any more, do I? Except to tell you that an unfortunate side effect of being your child's very hands-on Poop Advocate is that no matter how many times you wash those hands afterwards, you're never REALLY SURE you've got the all-clear to go forward with dinner prep. I mean, measuring out minced garlic and grating carrots and my hands were just WHERE, NOW?

I've said this before: Prior to having kids, I don't think I could have ever imagined the kinds of things parenthood would require of me, emotionally AND physically. But maybe even crazier than that, I never would have believed that I wouldn't hesitate – not even for a MOMENT - to do them. Today, for example, I was a crazy, non-hesitating human enema.

Let us all collectively shudder.

Poor Lucy. But after five minutes of snuffling onto my shoulder, she was fine, and back to toddling around the house gnawing on her burp cloth (a million handmade loveys and she adopts a raggedy burp cloth) and tearing apart the bookshelf and rolling around on the dog's bed. And I bleached the entire bathroom and washed my hands a thousand times and performed the exhaustive nightly ritual of trying to find one solitary thing in the entire house that she will eat more than two bites of before turning up her nose and slapping it away. Tonight's attempt included: peas, pears (both pureed and... well, non-pureed), apples, applesauce, yogurt, clementines, chicken nuggets, and graham crackers. (GRAHAM CRACKERS. WHO IS THIS CHILD.) But that's a post for another day, a day when I've gotten more than four hours of sleep the night before, and can put together a coherent thought or two instead of just leaving you with this:

OMG DO I LOVE MY FLIP CAMERA.

Also, my dad told the MOST INTERESTING STORY at the Thanksgiving dinner table and I am going to tell you it as soon as I get some sleep and wipe my memory clean of what happened today. Not my hands, though, MY HANDS ARE ALREADY CLEAN. (And so is my bathtub.)

Your tax dollars at work

I was going to write a post tonight but then I got all excited about Elizabeth's gift guide over at Style Lush, to the point where I was INVENTING people I needed to buy gifts for. And then I got all excited about writing my OWN Style Lush post, so I did that, and now it's 10:28 and it's not that I don't have the energy or lack of content to write a post, it's more that Hoarders is on and I need all that energy to clap my hand over my mouth every thirty seconds and say things like YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. (Which I just said approximately six seconds ago when they unearthed a DEAD CAT FROM SOMEONE'S LIVING ROOM.)

So here. Have a video. Of my daughter holding an enormous hissing cockroach at the Smithsonian. Unfortunately we did not capture the special moment that occurred a few minutes before this one, when she grabbed a big green caterpillar and got it halfway to her mouth before someone whose job it is to manhandle enormous bugs wrenched it free of her grasp.

(OMG, in the span of time it took me to type that last paragraph, they have now found an additional dead cat. TWO DEAD CATS IN HER LIVING ROOM. Two!)

Right. The video. I know. Sorry. Here.