Move over, Herdmans...

I used to love it when my teachers would read The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.

Obviously, whoever wrote that book knew what was in store for me and is, right now at this very moment, having a good chuckle at my expense.

Last night was the Christmas play at church.

For months, we've been practicing. I've taken Ethan to every single practice, except maybe one. We've listened to the sound track and sang Christmas songs on the way to and from school every single day. We've practiced his line -- his one, single line -- every single day.

I'm thinking.. Mommy-of-the-Year.

Oh, and Ethan is going to be discovered and rocket to superstardom as a child actor, only without all of the post-childhood issues.

Mmmmm.... k. Maybe not.

Let me tell you how all of this played out.

First, there was the practice Saturday. My mom took Ethan because I have come down with an undiagnosed stomach illness that puts Montezuma's Revenge to shame.... and I didn't even get to go to Mexico.

Of course, that may be not be a bad thing. Come to think of it, I've never had good experiences in Mexico.

Back to the story at hand.

So, she took Ethan to practice and said that he was wonderful.

Of course he was. He is, after all, the apple of my eye. But, there was the slight problem with last Wednesday night's practice when he wasn't so wonderful, Laney was yakking (reflux, not sick), and we (Ethan, me, and the wooden spoon) had to take a moment to reflect on what was and was not appropriate for church behavior -- in the middle of rehearsal.

After Saturday's practice, which I didn't attend, I was thinking all is cured.

Good thing, since I could barely drag myself from my death bed.

Sunday night rolls around, and we finally head off to church. Nothing is simple in our house, however, so we never just "head off to church."

We had to locate, wrap, and load up 574 presents for various and sorted friends, teachers, etc. because the church Christmas tree exchange is after the program... as if the stress of the program isn't enough to turn all moms into sinners...

With the exchange comes an opportunity to eat... which my mom, graciously, took care of for me by making extra food, but I volunteered to bring drinks...which Keith forgot to unload once we actually made it to church. As I type, they are rolling around on the floor of the MV.

Presents -- check.
Drinks -- check.
Kids -- check.
Ethan's costume -- one Eskimo parka and boots -- check.
Laney's bag -- check.
Bottle for screaming meanie.... Umm....

I knew I'd forget something -- but she wasn't even poorly behaved in light of her brother's show of hiney.

Fastforward to actually being in the van.

K: "Ethan's asleep."
Me: "Good."
Translation -- I am going to vomit any moment, and I need all the peace I can get.

Ever heard of the calm before the storm?
Whoever coined this phrase knew my son would, one day, be in existance.

We get to church and begin the unloading. I start to unbuckle Ethan's belt, and all hell breaks loose.

He begins to wail.

For no apparent reason.

He continues to wail... through the 30 minutes of waiting before the show, through the processional, and into the beginning of the play.

Now, I tried to calm him down. I tried to comfort him. I tried the stern voice. I threatened him. I did everything I could think of... to no avail. I left him squalling and snorting with Lindsey, bless her, his "guardian" in the processional.

I thought if I left him, he might just straighten up on his own.

No such luck.

As soon as they opened the door, you could hear this awful, pitiful howl.

It was my son.

In his furry parka and big booty-kickin' boots, he stomped around the church, wailing at the top of his lungs.

People took pictures. People snickered. People murmured about how cute he was.

Cute, my big toe.

He looked like an Eskimo because his eyes were all squinty from crying so much, and there was snot running down his face.

Holy cow.

When his wailing turned to high-pitched bleats, I calmly left my seat (and my hungry daughter) and went down to the front.

Parade of 1. I always love those moments.

I sat down on the floor with the directors, who were probably wishing I'd just snatch him up and run...

And he calmed down.

Well, he at least stopped bleating.

After a few more minutes, he stopped wailing... and then crying all together.

Hallelujah!

Now, he stared at me the entire time, and for the next 15 minutes, he didn't sing a word, but at least he wasn't bringing down the wall of Jericho with his wails.

He also took his coat off, making the program less one Eskimo, but I didn't care. (Well, not really, at least until I realized the shirt he had on underneath -- plain white long sleeve t -- had orange stains on the front... my worst nightmare... not only is my kid acting like a donkey, but he looks like his mom just sent him on to the Christmas play after a hard day at the bar...)

I'm thinking we're making progress. By the time it was his turn to say his line, he was almost dang near chipper.

Almost.

Emma, cute little cherub and cousin of Ethan who was making Ethan look like an ogre because of her angelic behavior, tried to give him his star to hang on tree.

It was his job... along with saying, "It's a star! We always have a star on top of our tree."

He did neither.

What he did do was bring his arms up around his head so he couldn't see anyone and grunt. Loudly. He refused to take the star. He refused to say his line. He refused to do anything except grunt... which made Emma giggle.

Which made the audience roar.

Which made me wish that a large black hole would open up and swallow me whole.

Once order had been restored, he was fine.

Of course, there were only two songs left...

But he sang those two songs with gusto and energy, as if he'd been doing this the entire night.

Afterwards, he high-fived people like he'd just given the performance of the year and was just waiting for his Oscar nomination.

You've got to be kidding me.

The Herdmans ain't got nothing on us....

I need more than 12 days of Christmas...

I cannot get my head out of my armpit.

It seems that when I accomplish one amazing feat, I realize there are 20 more immediate needs on the list.

Take, for example, my Christmas cards.

For the first time in the history of my marriage, we stayed home for Thanksgiving. Of course, that works out, now that we're back in town and close to one of our families. In the past, we've spent every holiday trekking to either A-Town or Baton Rouge.

We love our families, but I hate to travel long distances by car. I bore easily, making life less than fun for the rest of the passengers.... like K.

Ethan could care less. Give him a movie, and he's good to go. Sleep, watch a movie, sleep, eat a couple of snacks, sleep, watch a movie... much like his dad on any given day. :) (Just kiddin', honey...)

I need to be entertained... and this doesn't mean reading the road signs aloud... which is another family story to be shared at a later date when I'm sure unnamed family members don't read this blog. :)

Anyway, I decided that we -- meaning K and myself -- would play the question game. Apparently, according to him, it was fun... for the first 274 questions. After that (at which point I was still going strong), the game began to become tiresome for him.

Whatever.

About an hour outside of Baton Rouge, he called for a new game. The Quiet Game. Boo.

I fell asleep.

Since then, we've not played the question game. When I get restless, I drive and listen to music. K. and Ethan sleep. I hate it.

Anyway, back to the cards.

So, we stay home this Thanksgiving, but I should have known it couldn't be that easy. No, it couldn't just be stay home, go eat Thanksgiving.

K. was born on Nov. 23. This year, Nov. 23 fell on Thanksgiving.

Side note to family traditions -- In my family, the wife or mother or daughter is responsible for making family dinner for birthday celebrations.

Guess when we decided to make K's birthday celebration.

That's right -- Thanksgiving.

I did not decide this. My mom did.

"I hate not to celebrate his birthday on his actual birthday."

We never have my birthday dinner on my birthday.

Thanks, Mom, for signing me up for Thanksgiving dinner.

My mom and grandmother did help out, bless 'em. My mom made yummy sweet potatoes and green beans. Grandma made mac and cheese. I think my mom felt bad, and my grandmother, apparently, wanted to make sure something was fit to eat. Seems my family still sees me as 4 years old since I'm the youngest grandchild.... which means they think I'm pretty much an inept adult. I can't cook or clean. I'm just supposed to be cute and funny. Oh, and I could stand to lose a few pounds.

Ask any of my grandparents. :)

Every time I plan a family party or make something or have people over, they seem to be amazed that I can, indeed, cook and do grown-up things. It's not just, "This lasagna is really good!" It's pure amazement... as in, "Amy! I cannot believe you made this! Are you sure you didn't buy it somewhere?!"

Translation: "You're still supposed to be running around in diapers, picking your nose."

Never mind that the goatee-d man on the couch is my husband and two of the growing brood of kids are mine.

Oh -- and I have to brag on the turkies. My brother and uncle fried turkies, and they were delicious. (The turkies, not my uncle and brother. ) That was a huge relief. I was already alarmed about the fixin's -- If I'd had a Griswald family Christmas turkey experience, I'd have had to relocate to Siberia.

I made dressing, gravy, mashed potatoes, caramel pecan pie, and pumpkin pie from scratch. We bought rolls and cranberry sauce and birthday cake.

Why did we have more desserts than real food? Ask K. It was his birthday, and by Bob, I made what he wanted.

Anyway, by the time I got all of this together (amidst comments like, "Show everybody how grown up you are. Be there on time."), I was ready for the whole dang thing to be over.

How d'ya like that holiday spirit?

So, Thanksgiving went by, and I started on the next holiday -- Christmas. First real order of business: Christmas cards.

Goals for Weekend after Thanksgiving:
1- Make Thanksgiving dinner for family.
2- Get up at ridiculous hour to get gifts for kids that they don't need while saving lots of money
3-Take pictures for Christmas cards
4-Get Christmas tree and decorate.

If you haven't gathered it from the aforementioned family commentary, I'm always late.

It doesn't bother me, but many other people seem to be quite disturbed by it.

The first year we were married, we sent out New Year's cards... because I didn't quite get around to Christmas cards.

I've done better since, but it's always a struggle. Most people get our Christmas cards on Christmas Eve.... not for sentimental reasons, but because I'm always dumping them in the mail last minute.

This year, my inner mom took charge.

Maybe it's the mini-van.

I set up a photo shoot with my pal Shawn for the Friday after Thanksgiving. Her pictures came out great. Mine... not so much.

Laney screamed; Ethan didn't want to have his picture taken.

I panicked.

What am I going to do? My Christmas cards won't be out by December 1! Wait... they're never out that early. Who cares?

I'd hate to for my family to keel over in shock.

Quick summary of events to follow:

-Finally got the pictures taken. K., rather unwillingly, helped me corral the kids, and we got a really cute shot before Laney decided to eat the beads that may or may not be coated in lead paint.
-Had film developed, uploaded pix to computer, and created fabulous-o Christmas cards.
-Christmas cards show up in record time. (Thank you, Snapfish...)
-Address cards while cooking dinner while wearing my Supermom cape...
-Can't find time to get to the danged post office to buy Christmas stamps.
-Christmas card sending-out delayed by week while I try four times (unsuccessfully) to make it to the post office before it closes.

If any of you readers work for the post office, please tell them I need them to extend their freakin' hours.

Anyway, hallelujah -- the cards have been mailed, and I'm off to tackle the next task...

Decorating my Christmas tree (which has been up for two weeks) before it turns brown and dies...

I'm rollin'....

But not in a 5.0.

Apparently, I'm not as cool as Vanilla Ice.

Isn't that a sad thought...

No, these days, I roll in a mini-van.

Few things stir my emotions like my attachments to my cars. I loved my first car -- a black Mustang. I was IN LOVE with my second car -- a shiny new red Mustang -- college graduation gift from the parents. I still get butterflies when I think back to the smell of that new car -- my first brand new automobile -- and the feel of the leather wheel, the clutch beneath my foot, and the smooth transition as I shifted gears.

I love a good five-speed.

My third car, after a crazy redneck in a massive 1980 truck made from freakin' hand-forged steel crushed my beautiful red Mustang like that ladybug Ethan smushed on the bathroom window sill, was a Camry.

I hated that car... but it got me where I needed to go. After K. and I had Ethan, we decided it was time to get me a new car. We went out looking for a SUV... and K., knowing my heart as well as myself, had already been out a-lookin.

He steered me to a dealership where they had a huge variety of SUVs... and mentioned a trade-in they had on the lot. He knew it wasn't what we were looking for, but he also knew I'd love it.

And, I did. Not quite two years old. Fire-engine red. Saab 9-3 Turbo. FIVE SPEED. I was sold.

K. was not. Well, at least, not initially.... until I threw a five-alarm temper tantrum right there in the middle of the lot.

Not one of my most proud...or attractive... or mature moments, but I wanted that car.

And I got it. :)

I felt about my Saab the same way I felt about my red Mustang. I loved to drive it. I loved to look at it. I loved to turn the radio up and roll the windows down and cruise down the highway. Just the sight of that beautiful piece of machinery thrilled my soul. I volunteered to drive every where; I made up excuses to go places -- anything to get behind the wheel.

Now, if you've ever been in a smaller medium sized- sedan -- think Camry or Accord, you know there isn't a ton of room.

Especially when you're eight months pregnant... or have two carseats to put in the back. Once I hit about nine months, I started driving Keith's truck. I just couldn't get in and out (or get Ethan in and out) of my car without a struggle. I didn't mind driving his big-A truck, but I teared up every time I walked past my sweet little Saab in the garage.

I knew my time had come.

Shortly after Laney was born, my cousin Paige came to visit... in her new van.

Oh, woe is me.

Paige is one of the most stylish people I've known growing up. She went to the cool high school in town, wore the cool clothes, was in the cool sorority in college... and now she's driving a mini-van.

I stared at her van, mouth open, and she must've read my mind.

"I LOVE it!" she said. "I thought I was too cute to drive a mini-van, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."

I just about cried.

Is this what the world had come to?!?!

I held on as long as I could, but finally, when Laney was about a month old, I knew I was going to have to give up fight and trade my Hot Mom car for something more... sensible.

What comes to mind when you think "sensible"?

I think of my grandmother's "sensible" SAS shoes in lovely colors like "fawn"... of mom hair (the short, permed bouffant that requires little more than wash and go)... of mix-and-match knit separates from Hamerick's.

I'm not a "sensible" kind of gal.

Now, let me interject a little information here. K. was working out of town, so I'm hanging out with my newborn, my three year old, and a fun new c-section scar... and I need to figure something out about a car.

Being the empowered, liberated woman that I am, I decided that I was going to take this big ol' bull by the horns... so I called my dad.

We talked about the situation for quite a while, and he threw out the same comment that he has for years -- "You need to get a mini-van."

I threw out the same comments in return that I always do: "Toad, I will never drive a mini-van. I'll walk with the kids strapped to my back before I drive a mini-van."

He laughed his evil little Toad laugh, and said, "We'll see."

Being a good Toad, he embarked with me on a mission to find a new car for the fam. We hopped from dealership to dealership, test drove SUV after SUV.

I researched and researched. Miles per gallon, interior room, exterior size, accessory packages...

Almost immediately, I realized a mid-size SUV wasn't big enough -- not enough cargo room with the third row up, bench seats instead of captain's chairs -- for what I wanted/needed with two kids and our "stuff." I moved on to large SUVs, only to realize I'd be paying more in gas and insurance than I was total on the two cars we had at the time.

Boo for spending my pitiful educator's paycheck on gas and insurance for one big-A car!

My dad, knowing I'd rather buy shoes than gas, knew where this was heading: the mini-van section of the car lot.

Head hung, heart heavy, I picked out a van that seemed least offensive. The salesman dug up the key and presented it to me solemnly. I opened the van, got in, and surprisingly, didn't turn to stone.

Fastforward a few days. I (very proudly, I might add) haggled an excellent deal on a brand spankin' new MV. My dad and Keith were both amazed, as I had dealers calling left and right trying to beat each other's deals and earn our business. I unloaded my wittle wed car, and drove off into the night with my dad smirking by my side.

I hate it when he smirks when he's right.

I've had the MV (my SUV-sounding name for my Hot Mom Odyssey) for about four months, and Paige, girl, you were right! I LOVE it!

Now, it's taken me this long to be able to get in and out of the van at school or at the store without turning crimson with embarrassment. I've even been "checked out" by the random guy with a mom fetish while stopped at the traffic light. I feel it's my mission to change the image of MVs everywhere!

I'm kidding.

I have been checked out, and I'm finally not quite as embarrassed to get out of the MV or to walk up to it. So far, I've transported massive amounts of volleyball equipment, barbecue and fixings for 100,20 poinsettias, and lots of shopping bags. I packed in four adults and five kids for trick-or-treating. My entire family -- mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law-to-be, husband, and two kids -- went shopping and out to eat.

As much as I loved my little red car, it never could've done all of this.

It's much faster than I thought it'd be, and the sunroof, according to my 13-year old cousin, makes it "cool."

Laney, of course, could care less what we drive as long as she can see her beloved big brother in the seat across the way.

K. loves all the gadgets; he calls it The Transformer. (Yeah, child of the 80s...) The first time he rode in it, he did comment, though, that he wasn't sure which was more embarrassing -- driving the mini-van or riding as a passenger while your wife drives the mini-van. Just remember that, Buddy, the next time you question how much I paid for a pair of shoes! If I'm driving the van, then I can buy whatever I want! A girl has to have some dignity...

Ethan, however, is by far the biggest fan. He loves this van like I loved that red Mustang years ago. In fact, he wanted to be The Van for Halloween.

That's right. Superman and his other action figures weren't good enough; he had to be the van. I finally persuaded him to be Diego, but it was a month-long struggle.

He still invites people to "come look at my van," like it's the coolest thing around. In fact, he used it as a pick up line for this little girl in Target not long ago. At some point, he'll realize that "Hey, wanna ride in my van?" isn't what girls want to hear, but this three-year old floozie was all for checking out his ride.

So, yeah -- I learned all kinds of life lessons, like "Never say never" also applies to mini-vans and "It's not what's on the outside that counts."

I do have to check myself sometimes -- nothing makes people laugh like hearing the strains of JT's "I'm Bringing Sexy Back" coming from the sensible MV cruising by -- but I'm really digging the van.

There.

I said it.

I love my van, and I don't care who knows it!

Take that, Vanilla Ice!

You may be rollin' in your 5.0 with the rag-top down so your hair can blow -- but you can't fit two kids with car seats, a stroller, groceries for the week, golf clubs, 15 poinsettias, your mom, and the rest of your Christmas shopping in that measly little 5.0!

Ha!

Ahhh... the holidays...

This is about par for the course when it comes to holidays at the Jennings' house. I plan meticulously and dream of perfect outings where the perfect family frolics in the perfect field... and I end up with a screaming meanie at the pumpkin patch.

I don't remember Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas being lumped so closely together as a kid, but I swear -- I barely get the jack-o-lantern off the porch before it's time to put the star on the tree.

I'm finding this more and more difficult with two kiddies. Everything takes twice as long, it seems, which is why, on Thursday night, members of my extended family found me decorating a mini-tree in the middle of the den (and in front of our glass foyer door) wearing a tshirt and underwear.

Not one of my finer moments.

But the Laney was in bed, K. was watching tv, Ethan was still eating dinner (as he'd been sitting at the table for an hour -- he was going to eat his supper, dadnabit!) and I had a moment of peace between baking cupcakes for the Christmas tree lighting at church and plotting the kids' wardrobes for the following day.

I'm sure they didn't plan to stumble upon the (very) scary sight of me camped out in a tshirt and undies, winter white (and relatively hairy) legs on display... and I'm pretty dang positive they won't show up at my house at night again. :)

Seriously, I didn't mind the visit -- I love my family and I was actually thrilled that they came by, as no one ever does because we live out of the way of everyone except our neighbors -- but it may have been more than they bargained for.

Come to think of it, my aunt did miss the Christmas tree lighting the following night because she was sick...