mowing the lawn

A couple of days I was mowing the lawn. It is tiring work -- we have a lot of lawn, and my husband really needs to sharpen the blade on our mower. The astounding number of dandelions we have manage to 'cultivate' on our property doesn't help, either.

I was in the zone, concentrating on finishing before my energy ran out.

--It occurred to me that living here has inured me to many things: uneven lawns, molehills and molepotholes, many random twigs and even branches that pop up. Some things I don't think I'll ever get used to: yesterday as my husband and I were outside just enjoying the sunshine a deer scared us nearly to death as it came crashing through the forest.

Something else that will take a long time to get used to is mowing over 4" long slugs. I am used to seeing the slimy creatures everywhere, but it's just uncomfy to run them over. It's always on accident, but it makes my heart squirm a little bit. --

Then my husband tapped me on the shoulder. He surprised me into releasing the mower, which was his intention. He had something in his hand, but as he reached toward me, whatever it was fell out of his hand. I thought maybe he had caught me a bug, which my younger son does for me all the time, but I admit I have never really liked the "bug catching" thing. Seeing the bugs without catching, yes. But captive bugs, no.

I wondered what had fallen. I bent down, and saw one of the cutest little things I had ever seen: a baby pacific tree frog. It was beautiful. It was copper on the back and dull, almost toady green on its sides, but brilliant in its iridescence. It would fit on the knuckle of my thumb -- my quilters' eye tells me he was between 1/2" and 3/4" long.  And I really wish I had had a camera so I could have taken a picture of it -- but I really enjoyed watching it. Its heart was racing, its breathing fast. Its toes were so tiny -- thinner than a sewing pin, and nearly translucent.

One of my favorite poems as a kid has a line:

the three-toed tree toad
sings his sweet ode
to the moon

I checked. It had three toes. I felt unreasonably gratified that this small, quick creature fit my mental image. I was so glad that I got to see this little three-toed tree toad. He wasn't singing his sweet ode to the moon, but my husband was singing a sweet ode to me. He knows I am curiouser and curiouser, and that I love living things and new experiences. He brought the little guy (he found him in the grass) to see me because he wants to share beautiful things with me. I felt like by bringing the tree toad to me, he was telling me so sweetly that he loved me, that he is interested in me, and that he, too, likes to feel the wonder of brand new things -- in this case, a tiny little beautiful tree frog.

I have included a picture of what the little guy will look like when he gets older. He is not so green now, and has more copper on his back that is brighter and more liquid looking -- not so many froggy bumps. Still super cute, though!

school bus

I was a chaperone on a field trip on May 26. It was draining, and showed me how little kids actually learn on field trips because they're so wrapped up in the "going" and the experience of /being/ in the place--in the novelty of being there, that they don't really pay attention to what they are doing or where they are.

The parents had to ride separately from the kids, and it happened that we arrived at the destination before the students. A few of the parents (including me) were crossing the street and we could hear the school bus from ACROSS the street. Later, one of the kids in my group said it was so loud her ears were still ringing. She was smiling; it seemed like she didn't mind too much. 


In honor of my school bus memories, here is a poem:

impossibly loud
squishy seats, sticky floors
fun memories made

cuddles

during cuddles:

me: what was your favorite part of the day?
LD: *points*
me: what?
LD: *rolls eyes* I'm pointing at her!!!
LD: Huge bear hug.
me: happy, happy, happiness inside

during cuddles:

me: i love you so much.
N3: I love you, too!
N3: We have the best ideas in this bed.
me: I know. We make a great team.
N3: Yes, we do! 
** a few minutes later **
me: It's time for me to go now.
N3: No!! I want you to stay and have a sleepover with me! 
N3: giant hug and squish


I made the boys rice bags so they can have something warm and cuddly to take to bed. I was careful to make them exactly the same size, and I let each boy pick his fabric. They were both so pleased! I had felt like I was slaving over them (even though they are very simple to make) because I was so exhausted. But I had made a promise that I would finish them by the end of the week (this was last week), and it was Saturday, so I was basically out of time. I pushed myself a bit, and was so glad when each of them stated more than once that they were so grateful for them and the bags were the "best gifts ever." One of those, "Yep, this is worth it" moments that are really tender mercies.

I love my boys. I love being a mom. It's the most difficult and most rewarding endeavor I have ever undertaken. Wish me luck!

gone fishin'

I went fishing for the second time in my life on Saturday. The first time, I was sixteen, and went with my good friend and her dad as part of the most activity-packed vacation I have ever been on. It was a lovely experience, and I'm glad they went to so much trouble to help me have a good time.

As an aside, I always wanted my grandpa to take me fishing when I was younger. I used to beg him, but for some reason, he never took me. Maybe it's because I talked to him so much that he thought I might disturb the fish...or him. Once I told my aunt about it and she said she thought maybe one of her girls ruined it because once they went fishing and then as soon as they got to the middle of the lake, my cousin decided she had to go to the bathroom, and so they had to go back in, and so maybe Grandpa never wanted to take anyone who couldn't pee over the side of the boat. I will never know, and it is just as well. Suffice it to say, I was quite excited to go fishing again!

Here is a picture of the pond where I went fishing. I know it looks like just a half-circle of water, but there is more water behind the little center island. Apparently there is a beaver slightly upstream that is having a field day, and so the fish are very hungry, and there are lots of them.

We went out in a little six or eight foot pontoon boat. (Yes. Fishing in a boat.) N3 caught a fish, and he and my husband came cruising into port and dashed up the yard, fish held in hand, to show me and LD. It was a tiny trout, about 8" long and 1" in diameter. We oohed and aahed and decided that we wanted to go fishing, too. So the poor fish had to wait while we pulled on our shoes, and then we trundled back to the boat and let the fishy go. (He had quite a bad shock, but ended up being well enough to swim away after a few seconds.) It was LD's turn to go fishing next. My HH hooked the worm, and on the first cast, my young sir had a fish in the boat! It was quite exciting. There was a lot of yelling and even some splashing. I wish I had a picture to show the happy look on his face. Later, he reported it was his favorite part of the (very full) day.

Then it was my turn. We ran out of worms, so I wasn't even going to get a turn, but when you get creative, sometimes opportunities knock. In this case, our opportunity was a baby slug (2") that had unwisely decided to get in the boat with us.  It met its demise as it became fish bait. (I had no idea if it would work at all. If I were a fish, I would TOTALLY rather eat a worm than a slug. Just in case you were wondering.) It turns out that if the fish are hungry enough, slugs DO work. HH cast for me, and I had the biggest fish of them all on the hook, and then in the boat, in just a couple of minutes! First cast! The fish was about a foot long and probably was 2" around. Basically, just big enough to actually keep (if I wanted to). HH said that his favorite part of the day was seeing the look on my face as the fish splashed into the boat (very splashily -- I need to work on my final reel technique, I suppose), and then again when I held him in the water and he very quickly (and with much more vigor than I anticipated) swam away. I was a little surprised, and my face showed it. I like to fully enjoy things, and try to look for fun in small experiences, and this definitely fit the bill. We all had such a good time in the boat (until it started raining, and we all got wet bums and had to come in because we weren't prepared for rain).

Looking forward to using the "gone fishin'" sign a few more times this summer!

give a little bit

I've been sick the last while. Basically, it seems like we got home from the honeymoon and I've not been quite myself since. It's a little frustrating, but it has given my husband the chance to showcase his "taking care of me" abilities -- and he has shone brighter than any star that he is great at it.

He has had a few things, too -- he hurt his foot, and also one of the kids accidentally bonked him pretty good. But instead of complaining about it a lot, like I would (and like I do, when bad things happen - :/ ) he just gives a little bit more. He pushes himself to take care of me and do things for our family...and by doing so, I want to push myself harder to be kind, to look for opportunities, to be more aware of the needs of the kids and of his needs, and to even be more aware of my own needs and how I can meet them more efficiently so I can give just a little bit back.

Supertramp had it right:

There's so much that we need to share
Send a smile and show you care

Give a little bit
Give a little bit of your love to me
I'll give a little bit of my life for you
Now's the time that we need to share
So find yourself [we're on our way back home.]

Sometimes sharing lets us find ourselves - the small nuggets of clarity or flashes of insight that we wouldn't get if we weren't thinking about meeting someone else's needs. Sometimes, a smile can go a long way to helping yourself, or the people around you, feel better. With a new marriage, new house, new working situation, and new responsibilities (including parenting two children), it's hard to feel like there is even just one more little bit at all left to give. But in giving all the rest, you get so many smiles and hugs and cuddles and love and finding yourself.

Giving is great. I'm going to go give my husband a hug. 

flowers and boys

So, before I write this post, I have some pertinent information: as of April, I have two sons. Technically, they are my "stepsons," but I don't like the distinction - I think it's lame and potentially very hurtful, particularly in the situation I am in. I am their parent, so I call them my sons, and leave out the "step."

The older one is responsive, such a good dancer, a great hugger, loves to make people laugh, and loves quality time. He is laid back (in many ways), very emotional, and does not like a surfeit of corny jokes (particularly about corn) . He can be very in tune with the emotions of other people, and worries a lot about hurting their feelings. He is very sensitive and loving -- he has what my mom would call a "tender heart."

The younger one jumps on people in excitement, is nearly professional "meow"-er, and loves to hug and be hugged. He is very direct and is, in some ways, like his brother in that he is more emotionally intelligent than many adults I know -- but how they act on their intelligence is completely different.

They are both so affectionate -- I love getting hugs from each of them. Nighttime snuggles are also really hard to beat. We have such a good time, Dad always has to come and separate us. (Oops.)

______________________________
 
Every day this week, my younger son has picked a yellow flower for me. When it is time to get the mail, he hops out of the car (even if it's not his turn to get it) and bends down and picks a flower for me. He likes to put it in my hair, behind my ear. I wear them there until they fall out or until his dad gently disentangles the wilted (often mutilated) petals from my tresses. My son never tires of it. He told me he would pick me a flower every day until there were no more flowers. He also picks flowers for me when we go to the park -- white flowers that look like mini-daisies are his favorite. (Mine, too.) Yellow is his favorite color.

I like yellow a lot better than I used to. His sunny face and the love in his eyes do a lot for me on days when I'm having a hard time. Sometimes his grumpy face can do a lot for me (the other way), too, but overall, we are really enjoying each other.

It has occurred to me that, because of what I know of him and his dad, flowers are really not just for girls. Flowers are also for boys. And they should get flowers sometimes, too -- and not just to give them to girls later!

My older son has such a way of smiling -- when he is happy, he can light up an entire room. His hugs are so sweet and loving, and I love watching him play outside. He almost always has a stick in his hand and is thrusting and parrying with some unseen foe (or perhaps it is a friend). He has a great way of defusing intense situations, and deflecting attention away from negative things.

I love my boys. I love the flowers in my hair. I love the hugs.

moving day + marriage

Another moving day has come and gone.

As always, I have been blessed with help from unexpected sources, and was able to get everything done by the walk-through time. This move, in some ways, was both the most and least stressful move I have ever made.



It's been the most stressful because I simply had more stuff to move this time than I ever had: last time I had a moving day, I didn't have a 300 lb couch or a kitchenfull of dishes. Also, I took no time off (except moving day) in order to get it done.

I started packing almost a month ago. Carload by carload, my stuff began to disappear, until last Friday, a very sunny day, a friend, my fiance, and my future father-in-law came to help me move. We loaded. Then, some stayed to help me clean. I had felt like I was "doing it alone" for a long time, and had felt worn down. Exhausted. My nerves were frayed, and I was wondering how in the world I was going to do this. It seemed that the box agony would never end.

But it did end. And it ended well, too! I am relieved.

Right before the end, on Thursday night, two girls who had met me one time before came and helped me for an hour and a half. My HT, who I have grown to greatly appreciate and admire as the best of friends, came and helped me not only move dirt, but also took apart my keyboard for me and helped me figure out how to take apart my couch for removal the next day.

And my lovely fiance came and helped. He lifted boxes and a bed and cleaned and put up with my moving-day jitters. He told me "we've got this" --and made it be so. He hugged me when I got discouraged and encouraged me to take little breaks. He offered me water at random intervals because he's thoughtful and knows I get dehydrated easily and can get caught up in things and forget to take care of myself.

He tells me he is here to take care of me. Then he does things to back it up. And that, dear readers, is why I am moving. There are things I will miss about my neighborhood and my apartment (my $20 utility bill, and the grocery store across the street, and the water three blocks away). But when I consider that I am gaining two boys and a man who love me dearly, that seems like small potatoes. Small potatoes with eyes in them that nobody would want to eat anyway.

On moving day, my fiance showed me something that his younger son wrote on his homework. The assignment was to fix the sentence, which read something like, "my parents got Married on june 19, 1990." He fixed the sentence -- not exactly as instructed, because our L does not like to do things that way, but it was correct nevertheless -- because above, he inserted a caret, to make the sentence read, "My parents are [getting married] on Earth Day."


Normally, I would wish more for my child to excel in school. But on this day, for this assignment, it meant more to me than any silly A+ that he would write that on his paper. It made me cry. I will cherish it and remember during the hard times how much he loves me and how happy I was in that moment.

So, take that, moving stress! And take that, school system! Our family is becoming official!

easter firsts

This Easter, I was a bunny, a cow, an old woman, a nostalgia food maker, an adventurer, a player of games, and a mom.

I made Easter baskets for my boys -- all of them, and pretended I was the Easter bunny.

I plotted with my stepson and we snuck into my soon-to-be-husband's room and woke him up by making very realistic cow noises at him.

I found my first white hair. It's kind of a relief that I'm not going to be grey. It was long and beautiful, but it made me kind of wistful and almost sad.

I made my family Jello, like my mom used to. The kids hated it. They also hate PB&J sandwiches. They adore calamari. They never cease to amaze me with what they will and won't eat.

I went on an adventure. I had a nine-year-old knight with a machete hack a path through the thorns in the woods for me. There were fallen logs and tiny bogs lots of mud. He did a very good job of picking a path. He was definitely empowered by being in charge and got great enjoyment of slashing. He has a box full of swords. It's clear that all that air practice has transferred into useful skills.

We played a game. I came in dead last. In a way, it was kind of nice.

And I realized that moms are really, really important.

I am grateful for my family -- for the family I was born into, for the friends who are now like family, for the family of friends who feel like family, too, and for the family I will marry into. We have our problems, and there are some days where I feel sad that we are not as close as I would like to be. But we also have love - lots of it! And goodwill, and hope. I am hoping that in my 31st year I can become closer to each member of my family -- both those of blood and "by love," as my younger stepson would say.

night changes

Something special happened to me about a week ago:

It started with a grumpy, stressed, slightly-put-out face on a Monday.

I was tired and out of sorts. My person had asked me to come up to hang out with him and his sister. A special treat for her, he said. She really wanted to see me, he said.

I did not want to go. I wanted to see his sister, and him, of course, but I did not want to expend the effort to make it happen. But because he asked so sweetly, and because I love him, I went, even though I knew I would probably regret it later, as I had a big test for work I needed to study for, and the trip up there was eating into my precious study time -- the test was in three days.

I left work late, due to circumstances beyond my control. Then, traffic was terrible, of course. 

Upon my arrival, the house was in disarray. There were children running about and nerf wars happening and pizza left semi-unattended in the oven, but no sign of my man.

Grumpy cat-face came out. I was peeved: after taking the effort to drive in traffic almost fifty miles, he was not to be found in the house. Neither was his sister. Annoyed, I took over the pizza watch from the oldest nephew, who was doing homework, and stewed inwardly. "You could be studying for the test. Go out and get your study materials." I boiled a little. "Why are you even here? Why is he NOT here? He doesn't even have the decency to be here!" (I must have been really hungry about this point.)

And then he came home and said his sister had been called away to help a friend set up an event. I was practically eye-rolling at this point. Then, a few slices of soggy pizza later, he says that he wants to go check out what his sister has been working on. Suspicious. But I get in the car, even though it's almost bedtime for the kids and I am bemoaning the fact that I even came up at all, feeling it hadn't been worth the trip. 

We parked and I saw only one car: his sister's.  This was my first clue. Then he got a backpack out of the car. A second clue. Then we walked for forever with no sign of anyone. A third clue. The last clue I needed was when we got to a muddy patch and he said, "This is the only place where it's muddy." I thought, "Hmm, he has been across this path, and recently, too. I bet he doesn't realize he just gave himself away."

The stars were so bright.  We could see Orion hanging low.

Then I saw some lights flickering through the trees. He had set up a mini wonderland...candles in large mason jars and twinkle lights on ivy-covered trees, along with music piped through a portable speaker. I was walking along, trying not to expect anything, and honestly a little unsure how I felt, as just that morning I had been conflicted and although I knew I wanted to be with him, I was waiting for a final, settled feeling that to say 'yes' was the only course -- and that feeling had not yet come.

We continued to walk along and then he tugged my hand. I was freaking out inside, looking everywhere and nowhere at the same time, especially not at him -- and then as I turned he got down on one knee and murmured lovely things and asked if I would be his forever love, his wife, his always companion, as he slipped a ring on my finger.

I burst out crying. I was completely overwhelmed. I couldn't even say anything. I couldn't even breathe. Then I tugged him off the ground, thinking of his knees, buying me time so I could gather myself before I whispered "Yes! You silly man, yes!" And then of course I apologized for calling him a silly man, which made him laugh. Then we danced to the music and then I realized his poor sister was probably hiding in the bushes somewhere, waiting for the all-clear signal, and then I yelled for her to come out, which was good, because her phone had died. We gathered a lot of the things up, including a dozen roses which were lovely and I hadn't even noticed before. Then I looked at the ring.

Sometimes, one night can change everything. I knew he was going to ask me to marry him, but I didn't know when, and the talking about it and the saying yes are two very different things, let me tell you!! Not in a bad way, but it just surprised me.

Look at the look on his face! Aww. It melts me every time.

Also, a cheesy MV for your delectation and delight.

dragons

You know, I used to think dragons were cool.

Giant lazy lizards that were rich, feisty, fiery, and pretty much impossible to kill. Very few weaknesses, except perhaps one loose scale somewhere and a ridiculous fondness for treasure.

The ones that can talk are even better. Dragons that can change forms back and forth between human and dragon are less cool.

Slumberous eyes, rumbly gravelly voices, gleaming claws and teeth, breath that could shrivel even the most stout of hearts with its fetid potency. [How do dragons kiss, one wonders? Perhaps that's a reason there seem to be so few dragons.]

I even got a dragon for Christmas, I thought they were so cool. Mine is wooden, so he's still all right...but all other dragons, forget it.

Why the change of heart, you ask?

It started with a germ. A germ that my immune system could not suppress before it spread. It lodged in my throat and nose. I don't know what was going on -- swelling, perhaps, from the rapid regeneration of sickly cells? In any case, it felt like my nose and throat were on fire. FIRE!

As my discomfort level rose, so did the frequency of my thoughts about dragons.

I came to the conclusion that being a dragon would be no good:
*  you're a dragon, therefore living a solitary life, probably in a cave, or an abandoned mine, with no company except gold and errant knights, princesses, or trolls...and then you would probably eat the company, which is BAD FORM, so then you'd go back to being lonely. Not fun.
*  your throat is always on fire. Always. Not just when you have a cold. My throat being on fire for even 24 hours for the second time in two months was enough to make me wish I never became a dragon, even in a dream.
*  when you're a sick dragon, you have to drink lots of tea. So your sense of smell and touch and taste is all off, so the likelihood you will burn your tongue on said tea goes up about 1,052%. Then you're even more like a dragon. An irritated dragon with a burnt tongue. [How do dragons not burn their tongues when they belch forth their fiery flames, I wonder? These are the important questions that inquisitive minds demand be answered.]

I mean, really. How do dragons, who are cold-blooded (one supposes), muster the incredible amount of energy it would take to produce a flame? And do they have to keep swallowing flint and tinder in order to allow the strike necessary for the flame to come out? Or is it more like a flamethrowing trick and they just have a little nozzle that looks like an errant whisker at the corner of their mouths?

That would make more sense, and would also make most of this blog post irrelevant.  I sense a science fair project coming on!!

mismatching pjs

It's no secret: I adore comfy clothes. My wardrobe scores greater than 90% on the Supreme Comfort test. (That probably means I can cull at least 10% of my clothes. But I'll write a blog post instead of going on a cleaning rampage just now.)

My adoration of comfortable things has been with me since before I can remember. I spend as much time as possible in the comfiest of comfies: pajamas.

The first pajamas I remember wearing was actually a nightie. It was She-Ra, Princess of Power emblazoned on the front that caught my attention. I had no idea who She-Ra was, but she looked pretty cool, with clouds and lightning bolts and all that.

Perhaps there was a zip-up before then, but it's fuzzy enough that I don't count it.

After that, there was a white nightie with pastel ribbons in a sort of loose plaid pattern. It was so soft. I shared a room with J&V at the time. I remember once I scared J so bad: I  stood, stock-still, a few feet from her bed and just looked at her. I must have been staring pretty intently, because she woke up and nearly screamed because of the apparition-like vision before here: all white, close, in the dark, silent.

Then I discovered that nighties bunch at the waist, and that's just really lame. Goodbye, nighties. Hello, real PJs.

For some reason, it bothered my mom when I didn't wear matching PJs. Really bad. She'd mention it on an ongoing basis. My perverse small self did not like being told that I did not match. I knew I did not match. I did not care. I did not want to care. I wanted to have complete self-expression when it came to whether my to-bed clothes were conventional. I'm sure I felt stilted and that it was a release to be able to defy social expectations in this small way. But no. She just /had/ to insist that I matched, even when unconscious.

So I purposely wore mismatching clothes to aggravate her. Yes, it's petty. But then it became a habit. The idea of matching PJs just seems...odd. Somehow, every once in awhile, it still gives me a small sense of comfort to purposely reach for the most ridiculous "outfit" ever.

Guess when I started with She-Ra, I was unconsciously starting down a path of PJ subconscious power. (Ha. I'm funny.)

Wonder if Mom would start me with She-Ra all over again if she had known.

Cloudy

Cloudy, my thoughts are grey and white and cloudy
they seem to wander all around, you'll see

and distractions, they're all around
in a plethora abound
and my mem'ry's like a child's...
I abandoned concentration; is "fuzzy" valid style?

Cloudy, my thoughts are scattered and they're cloudy
They have no borders, no boundaries

They echo and they swell
From groceries to "what's that smell?"

like chasing rabbits down a well

it seems like all the jokes are new and sassy fits the bill

Hey sunshine, I haven't seen you in a long time
Why don't you show your face and bend my mind?

All questions now I find

I just leave them all behind

And let myself unwind
They don't know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I

Cloudy, cloudy
Cloudy, cloudy
Cloudy, cloudy

___________

This is a partial parody. I used some of their lyrics. They're just too good.

 

Ninety-nine percent of the people who read this blog know that recently I sustained a "mild" concussion. Ha. It doesn't feel mild. 

 

I already was convinced that, due to other things in my life, that "Cloudy" is really the perfect, absolute perfect, song to describe my life (with the exception of the first verse). 

 

This parody isn't my finest work, but I felt that I had to try, since it just seemed so fitting that with all the concentration problems I have had, this song keeps popping into my mind. 

 

 

party people in the house

Recently, I held a small soiree of sorts at my humble abode. An assortment of people came. I was so excited for it...ridiculously excited. It felt like Christmas morning and I was nervous over whether people would enjoy themselves.

First, no party happens because of just one person. Unless it's a one-person dance party, but even then, usually it involves music made by other people. So a true one-person party is rare, but should be cherished.

I had so much help with this party. I got a mild concussion earlier in the week and I was limited on driving. A friend of mine volunteered to pick some Christmas crackers for me (which were the highlight of the party), and I was so grateful. Another friend brought some folding chairs, as I did not have enough seating for my guests on my own. Yet another friend brought cream cheese and crackers to munch on. Another came to help me make hot cocoa mix, decorate, and brought Clementine oranges. Someone brought candy canes, which I hung up for more decorations. Lastly, a friend brought milk, eggnog, a record player, and good vintage Christmas vinyl.

We made food. We ate food. A children's book was read aloud. Christmas crackers were popped and jokes were read aloud. Music was listened to. Hot chocolate, eggnog, and all other comestibles were consumed. Then someone got out the guitar and started playing Christmas songs. Many others still in attendance sang. Then someone else took the guitar and the singing still went on. Then silly pictures were taken. Then I had a Grinch moment. Then we adopted the rules of "Yes or No" from A Christmas Carol and we played a round. Then the stragglers who were left went to a very late lunch, as nearly everyone was sugar-bombed. And then we said goodbye. I found out later someone in the party got a parking ticket, which made me sad.

Apparently I win the prize for "Best Non-Standard Christmas Party of 2015" -- so far. Several people told me they enjoyed themselves, and many people really liked the Christmas crackers and the sing-along. I guess having a party in the morning and then just doing what I like to do is enough to carry the day for that competition. Several of my friends were very excited, and I'm really glad that everyone seemed to have such a good time.

I felt like Ramona.."I'm going to have a par-tee! Here comes my par-tee!" Could hardly sleep a wink before the party for wondering if I would get everything done and there were a few last-minute cancellations, etc., that made things a little tricksy. But I so enjoyed myself, even if the first half hour or so was very stressful. I couldn't have done it without my MJ -- she took over the cocoa and getting the cinny stax out of the oven at the end.

There were pictures taken with crowns on, as well as with fake Rudolph nose, which really was supposed to be a magic trick. It was a good time.