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Christmas Eve coincides with Mr. Gadget’s eldest brother’s birthday. Typically, the Gadget side of the family convenes at Grandma Gadget’s home, and we indulge in much food and celebrate with birthday cake and presents for Uncle D. Uncle D is now 52, but is developmentally around 10. We try to make a big deal of his birthday so that he doesn’t feel as though his special day is bypassed and overshadowed by Christmas. He lives in care of his mother, and is generally a bit snarly in nature. He’s a big giant of a man. It can throw one off, to find oneself in a social situation with him without a prior explanation as to his condition. Once that is understood, all is well, and one can simply adjust one’s perceptions to accommodate the incongruent choices of words and actions.

This year I wanted to bring the birthday cake. I have a collection of Best Recipe books, which the engineer in me loves for the detailed descriptions of all the tests taken to reach the conclusion that these are, indeed, the best recipes. I’ve been looking forward to making the cover cake. It’s a beauty to behold. That is, when ATK bakes it and posts it on the cover of their best of the best for 2008 book. But when I make it. Well. Another story. I went to the trouble of purchasing cake flour, rather than all purpose. And that beautiful frosting? I followed the instructions to the letter. And it never peaked. I had to try again, and this time reached soft peak stage, but not firm peak. By this time, however, Mr. Gadget was tapping his watch telling me it’s time to GO, alright already, and besides, I was out of sugar anyway.

Harry did his part. Isn’t that the best part of helping in the kitchen? Getting to lick the whisk or spoon?

I thought sprinkles might forgive some of the shortcomings in the icing.

I will say, I think the way I wrapped the cake made up for all its other deficiencies.

It did taste good. The lemon custard filling was divine. The cake itself wasn’t as fluffy as I imagined it should be, though. I’ve made 79 cent box mix cakes that are much fluffier and taste better.

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Inspired by the holidays, I decided to start a new tradition. Christmas Eve cookies. An earlier attempt at making rolled and cut holiday cookies proved to be altogether disappointing. Not enough beautiful product to show after far too much effort. It’s come to light recently that I am just not much of a baker. Or else I am just plain lazy. Ahem. The original rolled and cut cookies got two thumbs up for taste from Mr. Gadget, so I thought that I would take the recipe, double it, make plain round cookies, and put the effort into the fun part — the icing. A single recipe is supposed to make three dozen cookies. I doubled the recipe and this is what I got.

Mind you, I did make several giant cookies so that I could personalize them for the family members.

Superman Harry was very excited to see his special surprise cookie.

I tried to put clouds and a butterfly on mine.

After returning home from Grandma Gadget’s, some of my side of the family arrived on Christmas Eve. I loved seeing little shoes so thoughtfully lined up next to each other near the door.

There was karaoke. Crooning and rocking out, both.

There was a magic show.

Complete with an amazing disappearing act.

We said the magic words. Abracadabra! Shazzam! And they magically reappeared!

There were smiles and moments of bliss (and mountains of presents).

There were moments of exhaustion. Is that not the cutest alligator you ever did see? I had a stuffed alligator when I was young, so when we saw this at IKEA, I couldn’t resist. Overindulgent mother. I know, I know. Overindulgent paparazzi mother. I know. I know.

Now he can learn the art of paparazzi too. Boys were happy with their toys.

Girls were happy with their high fashion ensembles.

I think this is the most ingenious toy ever. It’s a Thomas the Train Aquadoodle. It has a felt tip pen and roller that you fill with water. You write on the mat with the water pen. The train has a sensor and follows the tracks. The instructions say to keep the radius around 3 inches, but Harry likes Thomas to work for it, so he makes swirls and impossible junctions. Thomas gets a bit confused, but chugs merrily along the tracks. The tracks fade as the water dries, and you can do it all over again. FUN! Ingenious!

And as for me? I sent Mr. Gadget some email links to photos of trinkets I like, so he would know my style.

They are styled after David Yurman. Gorgeous. Unfortunately, I didn’t do the research and read the fine print, and it’s silver color, not sterling silver. I prefer white gold (such a primadonna), but sterling will do. Anything else though? Can’t quite handle it. So. I may not be able to wear them, due to skin sensitivities. He got them in pink and green. I love them! Should I tell him I can’t wear the earrings? I didn’t tell him that I wanted earrings, so he was trying to go above and beyond, bless his heart. Now that I discover they’re not sterling, I also realize they are overpriced! What to do.

Sometimes, though… My Mr. Gadget? He delivers. This is the Rolls Royce of microwave ovens. I absolutely LOVE it. Being married to an appliance man has its benefits, for sure.

Christmas is a fabulous time full of love, food, family, and fun. I love having so many children and family members around. (And hats off to all mothers of more than one. Good LORD, how do you manage?) But when they all leave and we’re back to our quiet little threesome, I must say it’s a welcome and blissful feeling.

Was it Seals and Crofts who said that?

Three years ago, around this time of year, my child swirled and rolled in my enormous belly. I would sit in my chair and watch the undulations, marveling at the wonder of it all.

I’ve been remembering, and missing, those fleeting moments from the fullest bloom of pregnancy, when I could feel my child moving inside me. It was a glorious experience, for which I am ever grateful. I try to hold on to the memories of those feelings, and to relive for a moment those experiences, but they are fading. I would so much like to have another chance. A healthy and stress-free pregnancy, and to savor each and every moment. But I know that if I were to pass that way again, I would still worry. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. But I like to think that I will savor each and every moment inasmuch as possible. I’m not giving up, just yet, but I have to accept that I may never pass that way again.

It’s nothing short of remarkable, what can happen in three years. Who knew that the child within me would grow to nearly ten and a half pounds before his arrival in this world? And in less than three years, grow into forty seven pounds of boisterous little boyhood.

He looks so grown up. It’s hard to believe that he came from me. I love how he’s grown, that he’s learned so much, that he has so much to say, and such imagination. Tonight he was telling me, “I’m wukking,” “at da offiss, on the pooter,” “because I have a badge.” (Some mornings he pleads with me to take him to my office instead of daycare, and I tell him that he can’t come to my office because he doesn’t have a badge.)

I’m looking forward to introducing him to the magic of Christmas. He loves the lights. And of course he loves buttons. His special job is to turn the Christmas tree lights on when we get home, and off before we go to bed.

This journey called motherhood is the joy of my life.  As I knew it would be.  I am so blessed.

There are ups and downs, pros and cons, and hazards to being sick.

Last Friday, Harry had a sorrowful cough. The little guy’s eyes would fill with tears when one forced its way from his little lungs. It breaks a mother’s heart. On the up side, I called in sick so that I could care for him. I had a full day with absolutely no thoughts spent on the work that butters my bread. Instead, I got to be a stay-at-home-mom. (My dream job.) And that was divine.

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He was still sick come Monday. I worked from home, and he slept most of the day.

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Tuesday I reveled and marveled that I made it through the past three weeks of family sniffles with nary a nose wipe. Then I ate my words, or thoughts, rather, came home early, curled up on the sofa, and napped. And then I watched Oprah. Where I learned that tomorrow’s episode is My Favorite Things.

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Wednesday I called in sick, dragged my child to daycare, dragged myself back home and slept most of the day. Of course I watched Oprah. I could very easily become one of the masses of addicts, tuning in every day to listen to the heart warming or wrenching topic du jour. But the favorite things episode is fun. It’s like everyone in the audience wins the lottery, as they are bestowed with every whizzbang thing she unveils. It must feel so good to give so much stuff to so many people, to literally shock them with the outpouring of gifts.

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Back to work Thursday and Friday. Too many deadlines to allow myself any further time off.

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CPAP with a cold BLOWS. I know, I know. It’s an excruciating pun. Or is that not a pun? Too stuffed up to care. I had to switch to the full face mask, because I haven’t been able to breathe through my left nostril for the last three days. Two hours into it and my mouth is a wasteland from all that forced air. And my ears itch. All my megadosing of vitamin C is for naught, it appears. I put peroxide in my ears to try and kill anything that’s trying to colonize.

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What does one do at 2 a.m. while trying to relieve a parched mouth, itching ears, and stuffed nose, one might ask? Well. First, yank off the offending mask (but don’t hurl it across the room for fear of disturbing the sleeping family). Next, stumble to the bathroom in an oxygen and sleep deprived stupor. Rustle through the cupboards looking for the waterpik thingy with the nasal irrigation tip. Rustle through more cupboards looking for the home-made saline solution. Mix up a batch and irrigate the sinuses in the hopes that air might actually be able to pass through that left nostril when all is said and done. Stumble downstairs, consider rustling through more cupboards in search of brandy or whiskey to enhance the medicinal effects of the tea I so desperately desire, but decide to settle for plain jasmine. In the interest of time. Liberally apply Vicks VapoRub to the nose, throat, and chest. Apply peroxide to one ear canal. Delete spam email with head tilted. Apply peroxide to the other ear canal. Discover a $20 off coupon from REI among the spam. Spend $102 on REI.com in order to use the coupon. Drain the ears. Drink the tea. Catch up on blogs.

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If I could have just slept through the night, I’d be $89.15 richer (post-coupon and tax). But now I will soon have a new pair of shoes, a headlamp, and a flashlight. My favorite red shoes have worn out in the sole, much to my dismay. And my replacement shoes are ultra comfortable, but alas, they squeak. Which drives me nuts. So a new pair of shoes is reasonable.

And the headlamp? Although I doubt I will be doing much night-time hiking, it looks like it will do nicely for reading in bed.

And the flashlight. Is a lizard. How cute is that. As though my child needs more stuff. Note to self. STOP buying things for the boy.

But I had to exceed $100 to meet the coupon requirements. And tomorrow? We shop for a kitchen sink.

I pray. Why? Because the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much. And I believe that.

I think about beliefs and why we believe the things that we believe. People kill and maim and fight wars over differences in beliefs. If I could project myself out into the heavens and look down on the earth, so as to get the big picture perspective, what would I see’ Would it make any sense’ I would ask myself, “Why'”

There is faith, there is tradition, and there is loyalty. I see fierce loyalties to things like sports teams, towns, schools, countries, religions. There is intellectual loyalty and emotional loyalty. I can understand intellectual loyalty, because it has a basis of reason. I am somewhat baffled by emotional loyalty. Why does it matter if Team A beat Team B’ Did they play well’ Did they play their best’ Do I have to side with Team A because they’re based in my home town’ What if I think Team B is the better team’ Will I be ostracized for favoring Team B’ Why does it matter if I’m a Star Bellied Sneech or a North-going Zax’ Loyalty is a very strange thing indeed.

There are those who are loyal based on tradition. Something is taught and passed on, and perhaps not ever questioned or understood, but held fast to all the same. This also baffles me. To me, loyalty is something that must be earned. Questioning is therefore essential.

There is patriotism. Now that makes almost no sense to me. Who can control where they are born? I’m GRATEFUL to have been born into a (relatively) free country. And I love the land of my youth. Because it’s the land of my youth. But I’m not patriotic in the sense that I think my country is better than any other country. What would give me that right? But to delve further into these questions would mean that I’d have to delve into politics and other things of which I am painfully and shockingly ignorant. And that wearies me. So I will let it rest that I am thankful to live the life that I’m living, where I happen to be.

There is a book movement sweeping the country, fueled in part by Oprah, I suspect. Eat, Pray, Love. I haven’t read the book, but for some reason, Mr. Gadget put Oprah on the other day, and that was the topic du jour. He then left the room. It was very strange on his part, and I sat scratching my head in bewilderment over his behavior, while listening to the women and their stories. I have seen the book in passing, and thought that it sounded interesting. Anything that starts with ‘Eat’ and ends with ‘Love’ must have some sort of goodness to it. One thing that struck a nice chord with me was the suggestion to write down the happiest moment of every day in a gratitude journal, and to ask yourself what you really, really, really want. (It’s an earnest way to probe.) I was going to start blogging my happiest moments each day, but am a bit wary, due to that nanomobololrorljrmormeoeremrmmooo hullaballoo. I know that these things can become tedious if one makes a commitment. (I’m not so good at commitments, I acknowledge, because I knew better than to sign up for nanonaonemoemrn and I’m just about ready to quit seeing my chiroquacker, which is mostly due to him wanting me to “commit to my health.” And while we’re on the topic of commitment phobia and true confessions, let me just say that I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of Good LORD, what am I getting myself into and WHAT AM I DOING???? and no I DON’T! I know not what when I uttered those two words, “I do.”) All that aside, I bought the book, and plan to read it. Perhaps over Christmas break. Either way, I’m making a deliberate effort to think of the happiest moment of my day each night, just before I fall asleep. It’s good to end the day on a high note.

I don’t know where I was going with this post. I started the draft eons ago. Maybe just to document that I am perplexed about life in general. Or not. I must have been inspired about something. But for now, I’m concentrating on each and every day’s happiest moments.

Today’s? Remembering a dream from last night, in which Mr. Gadget and I shared on of those I – love – you – through – every – fiber – of – your – being looks, and kissed a long and beautiful I – love – you – through – every – fiber – of – your – being kisses. Even if it never happens during consciousness, at least the angels have reminded me that there is love. I’ll treasure that moment, even if it was only a dream. (Oh yes, there is love, but the expression in real life… …is not so sweet as the perfection found in dreams…)

And the husband, reading only fragments over my shoulder, says, “Who is James Five Sixteen?  Your blogging pal buddy friend that you’re writing secret messages to?”

Yes Dear.  That’s it.

Making gingerbread houses is one of those childhood memories that Mr. Gadget wanted to share with our little gadget guy. It wasn’t such a big deal when I was growing up. I don’t think a gingerbread house could survive construction in the home and surroundings of my youth, what with nine of us storming the castle on a constant basis. I do remember wonderful smells and treats around Christmas time. I especially remember a decadent Christmas in which my mother made cookies AND peanut brittle, and set it OUT, in dishes. I think we could even HAVE some. It was a magical memory.

So. A gingerbread house. I bought a kit. The first and last. If ever we do this again, I’ll make my own icing and gingerbread, or just use graham crackers. At least then it would taste good. That commercially packaged stuff was just gross. Blech. Not that anybody really eats gingerbread houses. Do they? Everything will be long stale and hard by the time Christmas comes. I think the young gadget, oh wait, we now call him Harry*. I think Harry had a good time.

*Harry Osborn, Peter Parker’s best friend, and son of Mr. Osborn who became the Green Goblin.

He tells me, “I’m Harry. I’m not <real name>, Silly.” <pause> “Just kidding!” <pause> “No, I’m Harry. I yam Harry.” <giggles> <eyes twinkle>

I love this age. I’m excited about making Christmas magical for him.  Next year we’ll bake cookies and decorate them.  We will all enjoy that, and this time, they’ll taste good too.

I have had a huge collection of boxes that I’ve carted along with me, through the years. Every letter, ever card, every ticket stub, every theatre programme. I’ve been working my way through, and whittling my life down. My life in boxes. Pretty boxes.

It’s not that I love anyone any less, but I’ve decided to keep only those things that are most historically important to me. Because the boxes, they are a burden. A cluttered weight upon my soul. I’ve saved my journal writings and all the sappy poems that I’m embarrassed to have written. I didn’t save all the copies of letters I’d written to siblings. After (re)reading them, I (re)discovered, to my horror, that I am/was a bossy sister, meddling in their affairs and trying to tell them what to do. Well, I was earnest. I wanted the best for them. I didn’t want them dropping out of junior high school, in one case, or racking up debt without holding responsibly to a job, in another case. In my defense, I was trying to parent where parenting was lacking. I hope they forgive me. I meant well. To my (further) horror, I (re)discovered that I was a zealot for far too many years. My life as a zealot. Granted, those were the years in which I was most attuned to myself and least subject to depression and melancholy, riding the wave of self-conviction. How I wish I had found the happy medium in which I held fast to that level of self-esteem and assurance, while honoring the delicacy of the human spiritual walk. I hope the recipients of that young zeal forgive me. (And it’s not that any beliefs I hold have changed, but the level to which I share or discuss them has.)

And now, with my life reduced to the contents of these boxes, I aim to rediscover something of myself. What were my hopes and dreams in the innocence of my youth? Can I find my way back to the place called happy, if ever the place existed?