Salvation Amy

IIn Court today for a hearing, and the opposing counsel asks the client - "Did X ever tell you….."

And so I go, "Objection" and the Judge looks at me like I’ve got my head up my ass.  And I totally wimp out and go "That’s, um, hearsay, isn’t it?"

Everything I know about evidence I learned watching Law and Order.

The older I get, the less magic Christmas has, and I miss it a lot.  I learned the truth about Santa from a mean older cousin at six, and when I went to my Mom, sure that my Mom would back up the truth that I knew, she shared a different truth with me.  I was crushed.

My mom was a great Santa, though, and every Christmas morning, for a little while, coming out of bed and seeing the stockings, I would still believe.

I still feel that way.  For a while, I could believe through the kids, although now that Charlie’s 10, it was seeming like that was a done deal.  But the other night, I had a little miracle.

Scott called my nephew, Verbal, who is two, and did a little ho ho ho.  I could hear Verbal on the other side of the phone, thousands of miles away, alternately shrieking with excitement and sitting in stunned silence.

I had told Scott to avoid asking him what he wanted, because the last thing any mom wants in the days before Christmas is for her kid to tell Santa some outrageous thing that he wants for Christmas that she can’t possibly provide. (More on this later)*  But before Scott had a chance not to ask Verbal was rattling on about pirates and Peter Pan.  Scott reminded him to leave out cookies and he got uncharacteristically quiet.  Scott reminded him to leave out carrots for the reindeer and he shouted "I will feed them myself!"  (As an aside, this serves his mother, Miz Scarlett absolutely right for keeping me up til dawn in anticipation on Christmas eve when she was a preschooler and I was a teenager.  I giggle with glee).

Anyway, Scott finished his conversation, and later, in the weird tradition of our neighborhood, the volunteer fire department came by about a half hour later with Santa on the back of the truck (!) and little boys handing out candy canes in its wake.  I went out with Charlie to watch and wave (all older kids being entirely too cool for this ritual, but, you know, wanting us to bring them candy canes).  As we stood outside on this clear, cold night, sirens blaring, my son turned to me and said:

"Well, you know that’s not the real Santa."

And thus began my Christmas miracle.

"How can you tell?" I asked.

"Because," he said, "No human can see the real Santa."

So I kept these things, and pondered them in my heart, much as mothers have been doing since biblical times.

Later I called Verbal’s Dad, Mr. Wonderful, and asked him if he’d try a little experiment, and return Scott’s favor by calling Charlie.

So he did.  Charlie was way too school about the whole thing, going, yeah, yeah, yeah, oooookay.  Mr. Wonderful didn’t think he’d bought it, but I told him that he totally had.

Which was confirmed by Caroline when she came home from babysitting and asked who’d called him. 

"How did you know about that?"

"He called me where I was babysitting to tell me."

So for Christmas, I got to find out that my 10 year old is still a believer, and the whole thing comes back to life for me in an instant.

* The post script to all this, and the reason that Santa should never ever ask a kid what he wants right before Christmas.

Afterward, when Charlie was recapping the call for me, I asked if he’d told Santa what he wanted.

"No."

"Well, what would you have told him?"

"mmm.  Particle accelerator."

I’ve been all atwitter with excitement, given the recent plan to upgrade from dial up to super duper lightning speed dsl.

HAH!  FUCK YOU, VERIZON.  There’s some sort of bug afoot, because the new broadband?  Is slower than the old dial up.  Which. Was. Slow. To. Begin. With.

grrrrr

With Mags

Her: "I don’t want to go to the party on Saturday with Mr. Right Now’s friends.  They don’t like me. Waaaaah."

Me: "Now why don’t you think they like you?  You told me they like you."

"No I didn’t."

"Yes you did.  You said that when they met you they told MRN not to screw it up."

"That was at the beginning.  Now they’re indifferent."

"Oh… Hey, you know, where are you in your cycle?  No reason."

"Mid cycle.  No reason."

"Okay.  Do you really think they hate you?"

"I didn’t say hate.  I just don’t feel welcomed."

"Well, you just need to go, look fabulously elegant, and bring an embarassingly expensive hostess gift, so they will have to feel shame at not liking you."

"I don’t think I am in a place to pull off fabulously elegant."

"Okay, well, then, look schleppy and bring an embarassingly expensive hostess gift."

"What if I look schleppy and bring a fruitcake."

"No, that will only work if you bring one of those Martha Stewarty ones that you should have started soaking fruit for in August."

"Mmmm.  I’m thinking of one of those icky grocery store ones."

"Then they will hate you.  Why do you think they hate you again?"

"I didn’t say hate."

"Okay, why don’t you feel welcome?"

"They leave me out of conversations.  I try to say stuff and they ignore me."

"Well, then, if they’re really that rude, the only real solution is to dress grossly inappropriately, and spend the evening talking loudly about your hospitalizations for depression and your experience with electro-convulsive therapy."

"I knew I called you for a reason.  Click."

"Click."

Her cleaned up version of the conversation can be found here.

Kid suspended from school in Kansas for speaking Spanish in the hallway.  No, really.  Know what he said?  "No problema."  Guess he was wrong about that. 

If only we could become more provincial somehow. Sheesh.

This joint resolution of the Idaho State Legislature is enough to make me want to move to Idaho(!)  I love politicians with a sense of humor.

Sometime back in August, I said to Scott, "Hey, Scott.  I’m going to repaint the dining room this weekend."  "It will take longer than a weekend."  "No it won’t.  Let’s go to the paint store."

About a week later I said, "Hey Scott, I think we should refinish the floor."  "The floor doesn’t need refinishing, Amy."  "Yeah, really, it does.  See how sad it looks, with the new paint showing it up?"  "You have no idea how long that will take."  "What, a couple of days, at the most.  Why don’t you just see about evening it out with your brand new Random Orbit Sander!"  "Well, yes, my new tool.  I could do that…"

"Hey, Amy?"  "Yeah?"  "This floor isn’t smooth enough to sand.  We’re going to have to refinish it…"  "Oh, well, okay.  If you insist."

And a couple of weeks after that… "Hey, Scott, I have an idea about the dining room…" "What’s that, Amy?"  "I’d kind of like to look for a new china cabinet…" "Amy, We HAVE a china cabinet."  "Yeah, yeah, but I’m not sure that it goes with the paint, and it’s falling apart, and it’s an old hand-me-down from your ex-brother-in-law, and do you really want to go to the trouble of refinishing a piece of furniture that I don’t really like that much?"  "Sigh."  "I don’t want to just buy something to buy something, I just want to look."  "Well, it can’t hurt to look"

So we looked for a week or two, as the painting and stripping stretched from days to weeks to months, but didn’t find anything that we liked enough to plunk down cold hard cash for.

Until one day, driving down the road, I spotted a guy, just selling stuff in a parking lot.

"Hey Scott, that guy has a china cabinet."  "WE have a china cabinet."  "Yeah, but I’m driving.  Let’s just look."

And we look.  And the guy will not sell the china cabinet unless he can sell the matching corner cabinet and buffet.  And I really like the china cabinet, but doubt that we have room for the other two pieces.  "How much?" I ask.  "Make an offer" the guy says.  "Okay, thirty bucks."  "Oh, no.  I couldn’t let them go for less than $100"  "Okay, a hundred bucks."  "No, I’ll sell you the whole set for $150"  (Scottie, now) "How bout 125?"  So I take Scott aside and say it’s okay, I’m really looking for a china cabinet, and he shouldn’t feel pressured into this stuf, and he says, "NO, No, I really like it…"

So, now we’re refinishing the new furniture, and, for good measure, the dining room table and chairs because the color is too icky to go with the floor or the new furniture.

And that is the story of how one weekend in August lasted three months.  Everything was finally ready a few days before Thanksgiving, and if you ever get the chance to refinish dining room chairs, say you have to wash your hair.  The chairs took about a THOUSAND HOURS EACH.

But, for your viewing pleasure, here is before….

And here is some after…

This weekend, I believe I will paint the boy’s room.