The Thumb of Christmas Present.

My husband is Clark Griswold. I’ve mentioned this a few times – in his house lighting projects, in his pining and chasing the perfect holiday moments, and definitely in his reaction when those holiday moments are ruined.

I have come to realize this, and so I prep him before Christmas morning.

“Honey, someone is probably going to whine. Brunch might get burned. A kid is going to fall down and hit their head and cry. Let’s agree to not react about it just because it’s Christmas and everything is supposed to be perfect. Let’s stay calm, let’s be ready for it, and let’s just let it go.”

But this year, it started too early for me to be prepared to prepare him.

At the end of November, we were setting out to see the Festival of Lights. There is nothing my husband appreciates more than a good Christmas lights show, and this was the first year of the first drive-through lights in Birmingham – an event indeed.

We all bundled up (for we heard there were fun activities afterward), and we began to head down the stairs to the car.

“Load up, kids! We’re on our way!”

As we descended the stairs to the garage, we all sang a rousing family chorus.

“Happy holidays!”

“Happy HOLidays!”

“Happy Holidays!”

“Happy HOLidays!”

“And the merry bells keep ringing, Happy Holidays….”

“TOOOOOOOOO YOUUUUUUU.”

The kids and I arrived to the garage first, and I began putting my camera and various accessories in the front seat. I half listened to the children as I worked.

”I wanna get in on your side, Ali!”

“No, go get in on your side!”

Slam

SCRRRRRREEEEEAAAAAM

It took me one second to realize what happened, and two seconds to open the car door in order to be able to REMOVE MY SON’S THUMB FROM IT.

Yes. It was his first finger slam, and it was actually lodged in the door.

In moments of panic, I somehow become completely calm. I picked him up and hugged him, going outside into the dark to allow his screams more air for reverberation.

I tried to calm the situation before Chris-Clark came down and realized that his Christmas Moment had been smashed in the car door, because then he’d need a Santa to kick across the lawn and we just didn’t have one available at that moment.

…but it didn’t take long.

So now I had Noah freaking out, Chris freaking out, Ali crying because she felt terrible (she is, after all, an eternally cautious child), and all I wanted to do was STOP ALL THE NOISE.

I walked Noah inside so I could sit down, which is when I realized it was worse than I thought: his entire thumbnail was filled with blood and seeping slowly outward.

(You’re welcome for not sharing a photo here.)

I sent Chris upstairs for paper towels and a band-aid, trying to get rid of him for a moment.

Which is when I heard a loud crash above my head.

Way too many minutes later, he came back down with a band-aid.

“There were no paper towels. Now I need to go back upstairs and clean up the garbage. And by the way, was that chocolate syrup in the trash can??”

“No. Really watery finger paints all mixed together. So you kicked over the trash can because there were no paper towels?”

“Well, of course!”

I tried to think of another errand to send him to afterward – Tylenol! We need Tylenol.

Finally, everyone was moderately calmed down, and we set off on our journey. But Noah’s screams of pain every two minutes mingling in with the Christmas music that I kept turning up louder and louder was later described by Chris as adding dog poo to brownies, so I guess the music might have not been the best idea.

We arrived at the light show and it was exactly the distraction that our family needed.

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Noah adored every minute of it and nearly forgot about his thumb, especially as the synchronized snowman frantically lit up to “Let it Go.”

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But it didn’t take him long to remember.

“It feels like something’s bonkin’ my fumb over and over.”

“That’s called throbbing.”

“Frobbing?? What’s THAT?”

“What your thumb’s doing.”

After the light show, we went to the kid area, where we were greeted by Olaf, Mickey, and many more characters.

To each one, Noah stuck his throbbing thumb in their face and said, “Ali smashed my fumb in the door. See?”

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(Don’t miss Chris/Clark behind the nose-picking kid. Obviously still attempting to recover his shorn Christmas Magic. I bet it really helped to occasionally get holiday boogers flicked in his face.)

Noah was far too grumpy to actually get his picture taken with these creatures, but he sure wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to let his injured hand photobomb his sister’s shining moment.

Festival of Lights

We loaded back in the car and Noah casually stated,

“Ali, you don’t like me anymore cause look.”, then stuck his thumb in her face.

A few minutes later, “Why did you slam my fumb in the door, Ali?”

For nearly four years old, he’s acing a College-Level Advanced Guilt Trip Exam.

 

Several weeks later, the thumbnail has let go, although Noah has yet to do so himself.

He still shows his now naked thumb to everyone he meets, explaining, “Ali slammed my fumb in the car door.”

And, he often adds a fashion statement – or perhaps a layer of protection – for the rest of his digits.

Gloves

And Chris? Chris is manically finding other holiday activities for us to do, trying desperately to wash the memories of Christmas Ground Zero from his mind.

And every time we head down to get in the car, he reminds us all.

“Don’t slam anyone in the door!”

How to Properly Dress Your Children for the Holidays.

It was a bit of a last minute decision. Chris came home from work and was like, “Hey! Let’s go to the mall tonight and soak up some Christmas atmosphere. And see Santa if the line isn’t too long!”

So I did what any sane mother would do.

I hurriedly redressed my children, changing them out of their mismatched, stained, and non-Christmas colored clothing and put them in shades of Christmas.

Because that’s what you do when you go see Santa.

Right?

I never go all crazy and dress them in matching Christmas pajamas or a custom-smocked dress and john-john or anything. I just do my best to find the cleanest Christmas colored item of clothing they have. I don’t try to compete with all the other moms (that clearly plan the outfits six months in advance and have their visiting Santa clothes commissioned by a garment artist) – I just try to blend into the crowd, something I feel like we’ve achieved the last two years.

Santa Pictures Year to Year

But.

As we were walking out the door, Ali realized she had a hole in her pants, so she stuck on some pink-and-purple leggings that decisively didn’t match her dress.

And then.

As we got closer even to the door, Noah decided that he needed to accessorize, and added his sheep ears from his Christmas play the night before.

Oh but wait.

Then Ali needed a corresponding headpiece and grabbed her Princess Unikitty hat to complete her outfit.

Finally, everyone was satisfied with their looks and we departed for the mall – the “Little Mall”, as my kids call it – the boutique one strategically placed in and around the most wealthy zip codes in the state. Only because we knew the lines would be more manageable.

The line was short, but the children in it were perfectly outfitted in lace and smock and ruffles and feathers and coordinating tights, looking ready to model for an article in the Southern Belle Magazine Christmas Edition called How to Properly Dress Your Children for the Holidays.

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Except for my children, who felt that my only wish,

that they “blend in”,

was really quite out of the question.

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Yes – even Noah’s shoes were on the wrong feet.

That look on Santa’s face was not posed – I think, perhaps, that they were the most interesting creatures that he had seen all day.

They walked up and he couldn’t contain his emotions.

“What is that on your head??”

“He’s got sheep ears.”

“Oh. Well what about your head?! Are you a Unicorn?”

“No. I’m a UniKITTY.”

“Of course.”

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Meanwhile, the Veruca Salts that had gone before us that were now walking away with their parents were craning their necks to see these two oddities who had obviously been allowed to dress themselves.

Their parents tugged them onward, whispering hushed “don’t look at thats as they walked.

My kids, despite their appearances, were not unprepared for the night’s events. They had lists ready to test Santa’s ability to decrypt seven-year-old handwriting and descriptions of toys that only a parent could understand. Noah sat, ready to judge harshly any Santa that couldn’t perform.

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Noah forgot his list, making the conversation even more fun.

“And what do you want, Sheep Ears?”

“I want a cranky!”

“You want a car key?”

“No!! A cranky!”

“You want…candy?”

“NO! I WANT A CRANKY!!”

“Okay then. I will get you that.”

I didn’t feel it necessary to take a moment and explain to him that a Cranky refers to anything with a crane or boom or lift because of Cranky the Crane in Thomas the Train.

He’s Santa. He can figure it out.

As they were finishing up their overviews with Santa, the photographer snapped one more picture.

I think she felt the need to fully capture the Cousin Eddie-esque presentation of my children. It was like it was her own personal game or something. And I certainly couldn’t blame her.

She pointed it out to me on the screen and said, “This is the one you need to keep to use as blackmail when she gets into high school.”

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If you can’t pick your nose with Santa, then really, who can you?

Don’t Text and Drive, But Feel Free to Garden.

My poor Flexi the Space Toaster is in the shop this week thanks to a busted water pump, which is entirely not at all cheap to fix.

While I wait for her luxury stay at the spa to pass, Chris got me a rental car.

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It’s a Ford C-Max, which I had never heard of. Supposedly, he reserved me a mid-sized SUV, which, according to the category, would be a Jeep Liberty or Ford Escape or a similar model. But the lines have become as blurred between “compact car” and “SUV” and maybe even “minivan” as they have between “country music” and “pop” and maybe even “rap.”

I mean seriously. When Nissan can come out with a convertible SUV, we can be well assured that we’ve crossed all lines of decency as a nation.

Murano

But anyway.

Back to my current SUV/car thingy, whatever it is. It is also a hybrid. And, being the first hybrid that I’ve ever driven, it has taken a bit of time to understand.

It’s like the hipster niece of Flexi. Greener, more high-tech, and completely perplexing as to how it operates.

Like, for instance, how to turn it on. No key – just a button, and the “engine” makes no noise when the car is cranked. I’m pretty sure I turned it on and off 58 times on my first attempt at driving.

And then. The entire dashboard is OBSESSED with fuel efficiency. It posters mpg information all over the car like a tween girl’s bedroom is covered with One Direction posters. Charts and graphs and diagrams are spouting out all over the place – it’s as if they’re trying to reach every personality type with their most fitting delivery of the same information.

For the accounting nerd who loves a bar graph and a report card, simply look to the left of the speedometer. It will even coach you if you feel your scores are too low to live with.

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For the classically tuned person who wants a car dashboard to look like a car dashboard, you can gauge your mpg with this handy mpgometer. Or whatever you want to call it.

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For the techy person who prefers to understand exactly how it’s working, there’s the in-dash screen that breaks it down.

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(Which, by the way, made me fully appreciate how complex this car is. The engine is constantly shutting on and off, and the battery charges itself every time I hit the brakes. And I thought Flexi was high maintenance.)

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But then.

For those who need to feel truly challenged to be motivated to save the earth, there are….

The Efficiency Leaves.

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All of the diagrams and graphs and whateverometers spoke to me, but this one was unavoidable.

When I picked up the car from the rental company, it only had two frail-looking leaves. My dashboard was a sad, untended, neglected wasteland of a garden. It desperately pined for Mary, Dickon, and Colin to discover it and make it theirs.

And here I was, trying to just turn the thing on and make it drive, and then finding myself solely responsible for the future of an entire ecosystem of Efficiency Leaves! The pressure was daunting.

As I drove home, carefully attempting to not accelerate, I felt a chill of joy in my heart every time a new leaf bloomed, and nearly squealed in delight when a fresh branch would wind its tendrils across the dash. But then, when I had to go up a hill or some equally wretched circumstance, I mourned each leaf that blew away, leaving me feeling like a failure, or worse, a killer.

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The next day, I became even better at tending my garden. I got to the point where I could see a leaf begin to wiggle, nearly letting loose of its hold on my branch. I would quickly let off the gas and coast, sighing with relief when the leaf settled back into its rightful place.

It didn’t matter that I was going uphill with a line of traffic behind me.

It was my garden.

But eventually I found myself wondering. When, exactly, am I supposed to look at the road? My task of tending to my Efficiency Leaves was so consuming, so all-encompassing. I felt like I needed an assistant driver to let me know when I might be approaching a red light. Or another car, perhaps. But at least I had nearly eight years of child-forced distractions to help me prepare for my gardening destiny.

I. Was amazing.

…Until…hey – did you know that electric cars are really easy to accidentally leave on?

Because there’s no key to pull out of the ignition – it’s just that stupid button. And they make no noise.

So yeah. I…left the car running while I shopped for an hour and a half. It was tragic when I returned.

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I need Flexi back.

I can’t handle my car judging me almost as harshly as I judge myself.