Assembly Required

It felt like a Christmas tradition over the years. After the gifts were opened and the paper was cleared away, the boys were dying to crack open the boxes and start playing. The problem was, most everything they received had dozens of little parts to be assembled before they were able to use it. 

Perry's frustration level with this type of task made ME the default assembler each year. If anyone took a picture of me Christmas Day, it was sure to be a shot of me frowning in concentration and hunched over a multi-lingual instruction novel. I remember the sheets of stickers that had to be transferred before the plastic parts would start to resemble a superhero's headquarters. I can't say it was horribly difficult work, but having little boys hanging on me and whining for me to hurry up made it more challenging.

One year, the boys received an enormous Lego castle. I think I spent three whole days constructing that. Since we would be moving to a new house a few weeks later, I brilliantly schemed that if I hot glued the strategic parts as I built, the castle would be sturdy enough to withstand little boy play and it would prevent me from any reconstruction later. A few days after I completed the process, I think one of the boys' friends fell on this masterpiece while rough housing, reducing my hours of labor to a pile of glue-globbed rubble.

This year, I thought I had graduated from that season of life, with boys who are old enough to handle their own assembling. Yesterday, Sam received a Magnetix iCoaster, a marble-rollercoaster contraption that thrilled him...until he opened the box and took a glimpse at the directions. At first, I resisted his pleas for help, gently encouraging him to start by looking at the diagrams and see how the pieces are labeled. I tried my best to ignore the grumbles and moans that I knew were directed my way. The best way for him to learn is by doing, I chanted to myself. I tried to picture the satisfaction he'd have when it was completed.

I finally gave in to his pleas, and sat down to help him. After studying the diagrams, I understood his confusion. The directions looked more like mathematical equations than a guide to assemble a toy. Since I'm a visual learner, I focused on the illustrations, and we were finally able to construct a roller coaster that kind of resembled the one on the box. When we started to connect the electrical components, it became apparent that we were missing the 4 C batteries ...the one size I don't have anywhere in the house.

Sam and I decided to postpone "our" project or risk being late for Christmas dinner at Gram's. Today we will head to the store for batteries and pick up our mission where we left off.

It's Just a Cold

Things I hate about having a cold:

----------------------------------------------------

Not being able to pronounce words. "Fun" becomes "fud."

Feeling my pulse in my teeth.

Stopping to gasp for breath while chewing food.

Sneezing immediately after applying mascara. My eyes slam shut forcefully, imprinting a grotesque looking set of extra eyelashes on my cheek.

Trying to imagine what things taste like, besides phlegm.

Wandering around the school, baffled because my fuzzy brain can't recall where I set down my diet coke.

The unattractive red chapped ring around each nostril from blowing and wiping.

Feeling like I need to bleach my hands along with everything I touch.

Making disturbing whistling and crackling noises when I breathe.

Not having time to reach into my pocket and grab a wad of kleenex in time to catch the sudden stream of body fluid before it flows out of my nose.

A day too late, finding my diet coke exploded in the freezer of the teacher's lounge.

A Rachel Ray Wannabe

Last week I felt just like Rachel Ray. I wanted to show my students how a traditional Hanukkah food was made, so I brought the supplies and ingredients to make potato latkes. I've got a handy peninsula-like counter in my classroom that was the perfect place to set up my cooking "show". The kids were giddy with excitement as they crowded the "stage" and watched me grate the potato and heat the oil in the pan. This is how Rachel must feel, I thought to myself, except for the moments when I had to separate mischievous audience members and send them back to their seats. 

Yesterday, my cooking adventures continued when I decided to whip up a loaf of sun dried tomato bread in my bread machine. Early in the day, I premeasured my ingredients into tiny glass dishes. My heart sank when I realized that I was out of bread flour and my yeast was probably a year old. I  wondered What would Rachel do? (WWRD) and concluded that she probably would have one of her "people" dash to the store for fresh ingredients. Since was impatient and it was below zero outside, I proceeded. 

During the mixing cycle, I poked the dough and added a little water, curious about how dry the mixture looked. After the rising cycle, I prodded it some more because it still looked crumbly. When the baking cycle had completed, I dumped the loaf out of the pan and wondered if gourmet chefs on the food network would have a special name for this type of dense biscuit-like bread. My husband matter-of-factly suggested that we throw it out.  "No way," I answered. "It has two dollars worth of sun dried tomatoes in it. We're eating it."

 I don't know how a slice of bread can taste dry and gummy at the same time. Three bites into it and I chucked the loaf into the garbage. I'm sure Rachel would have agreed.

A Lesson on Hanukkah

Today I started a mini unit at school about December holidays around the world. Since the children are so excited about Christmas, it only makes sense to include the excitement of the season into something teachable. I decided to talk about Hanukkah the first day, since the class is a very homogeneous group without any religious diversity. The kids listened with interest to the book I read about the symbols and traditions of the holiday. They liked hearing about dreidels, menorahs, and latkes. One little girl wondered if a person could celebrate both Christmas and Hanukkah. I explained that it is done when some families choose to celebrate both holidays because of their parents' traditions.

A little later as the class completed their paper menorah craft, I overheard one girl fibbing with authority, " My dad and brother celebrate Christmas, but my mom and me celebrate Harmonica."

I just had to walk away to keep from laughing. Happy Harmonica, everyone.

Christmas Letters

'Tis the season, and that means it's time for me to get busy writing the Christmas letter. It's a letter that sort of reviews the year and gives an update on what is going on at our house. My parents always included a Christmas letter with the cards sent to out of town friends and family, so I guess I've always done it too. 

It seems everyone has an opinion about holiday letters. My dear husband is one of the people who happens to hate letters like this. He thinks including one with our card is simply unnecessary. Maybe at some point in his life he was subjected to one of those multi-page holiday letters that reads like a resume' and has the effect of a sleeping pill.

I happen to be one of those people who loves to receive letters along with holiday cards. It's great to catch up on the lives of cousins or former classmates that I rarely get to see. The biggest disappointment to me is opening an elegant foil edged card that has a sentimental verse printed on it, and nothing but a signature at the bottom. 

I realize that in an ideal world, one would get out a pen and hand-write an individualized letter to each person on their list. I will probably get around to that the year I start creating handmade paper from recycled dryer lint or sewing all my own clothes from repurposed Goodwill fabric.

Knowing how he feels, I write one anyway, but proceed cautiously, taking care to re-read and revise, removing any hint of a brag. I probably overcompensate actually. Over the years, I recorded the time he gave one of our sons a shoulder ride and ended up breaking a light fixture with our little one's head. Instead of creating an illusion about our perfect lives, I tell about the time the Christmas tree fell over or the time I took the kids' photo in front of the decorated tree, but failed to notice the small pile of cat poop under the tree which was in every shot.

A picture perfect family...we are not. And I'm pretty sure my letters reflect that. After all, what's Christmas without a little comic relief?