Christmas Dinner

I was looking forward to Christmas. Don't get me wrong. I love watching the kids open their presents. I love getting together with the whole clan Christmas Eve. I love the traditional candlelit Jerusalem dinner we have in a tent the night before Christmas Eve. We eat chunks of cheese, fish, fruit and flat bread with our hands. The candlelight flickers as my husband tells the Christmas story from the perspective of a shepherd. These are all great things, but what I was REALLY looking forward to was Christmas dinner. More specifically, MY CHRISTMAS DINNER. I'd been planning it for weeks. I LOVE to cook ginormous meals for company. I don't just LOVE it, I Lu-huh-huh-huh-ve it. It makes my pulse race. I dream about it, and this dinner was the stuff of dreams indeed.

First, I brined my turkey. Never heard of doing that? I hadn't either until just before Thanksgiving on Pioneer Woman. She started it. For Thanksgiving, I bought some brine, and begged my mom to try it, and it was divine. This time, I made my own brine. As the turkey was baking, scents of apples, oranges and cloves wafted through the house. It completely changed the texture of the meat. Tender, juicy are some of the words that come to mind.
I made Pioneer Woman's dressing too. It's a mixture of cornbread and French bread. Yes, I made cornbread to make the dressing, weird, huh? The cool thing was, that I was able to use my fresh parsley, sage, rosemary, and well, bottled thyme. I don't grow thyme yet. But I felt waaayyy domestic, just snipping it and bringing it inside.
I also made rolls, green bean casserole, tossed salad, jello salad (except I forgot to tell the Muslims it had gelatin in it, which has pork, so they can't eat it. Big oops! I bet there were a few extras prayers said that night) My husband made the mashed potatoes, I made the gravy, and then to the desserts! I made pies, lots of them. I made pecan, pumpkin, and a cool new apple caramel one from, once again, Pioneer Woman. I also made two blueberry cobblers, her recipe too. I let my aunt bring only the few things I could bear not to make myself.
A few months ago, my parents broke the news that they would not be in town for Christmas. I'm happy to share them with my sis, so I had to go on the hunt for other victims. My Aunt and Uncle next door were perfect. They have tons of company in town! In all, we had 1 grandma, 1 neighbor, 7 natives to the house, 1 Saudi, 1 Egyptian, 1Chinese, 1 Kazakh, 1 Azerbaijani, 1 Thai, and 3 cousins and my aunt and uncle. We had Egyptian music blaring, little guys dancing, and people stuffing their faces."I'll just help myself to a little of this, no one's looking." When it was over, and we were stuffed to capacity, about half the food was still there.
That gave me some serious satisfaction. I had so much fun trying new recipes, and hosting so many people. When it was done, I skipped out the door for a movie with my other sis and cousins. I came back, and the dishes were done. These were some pretty serious dishes. Can it get any better than that? I think not.
I loved it. Can you tell?

I get a little over enthusiastic.

Someone grab the camera.

Quick!

Christmas pics

Christmas morning, before the kids got to come in......

The stockings were stuffed to overflowing.

Holy Mountain of Presents, Batman!

Thank You, Rashed!

Lovin' on Daddy

What's in the box? 50 pounds of LEGOS!

Push your finger in here, it makes a noise.

This boy's got a blade.

Chocolate Grin

An afternoon of bliss...

Some Thoughts on Christianity

I've had some thoughts brewing around in my heart that I want to share. I was blog hopping the other night, and came on a blog where some gals were discussing the religion we share. I was blown away by their anger. Talks that had inspired and challenged me, left them crying and swearing. I kept reading and reading, baffled at first, but then I began to understand. Behind the anger, was incredible hurt. These women were so injured, because they felt like they didn't fit into the 'mold' that was expected of them. I thought a lot about this 'perfect woman' mold, she even has a name. We know how many children she's supposed to have, all the things she's good at, and all the complicated details she's supposed to juggle.
I've thought a lot about Jesus Christ, and what he taught. He compared us to all the many parts of the body, each different, but essential. It's absurd to think that the being who created the almost infinite variety of flowers, and made us each so different, would expect us all to cram into the same mold. He doesn't. His church doesn't. We do that to each other. We come up with that all on our own.
I've asked myself: how do I feel when someone from church makes a decision I feel is wrong? How do I feel when I see someone with a talent I don't have? What do I think of someone that has way more money than I do, or way less? I'm ashamed to admit, that I withheld friendship from an amazing person for several years because she was so pretty, I felt plain next to her. Christian? I don't think so.
I was in the grocery store yesterday, and it was packed. One poor woman in a scooter was blocked, and was agitated enough to swear at the people in her way. I was filled with unholy glee because she goes to my church. I mentioned this to the woman wedged in the aisle beside me who replied "I guess that's why we have church, isn't it?" Ouch.
I've thought about how really and terrifyingly fragile we are. We're all brothers and sisters, and there's quite a bit of sibling rivalry. We desperately want to know that we're good enough, that we're loved. It's a sad reality of human nature that we can perceive someone else's weakness as somehow increasing our chances. The other side of the coin, is to assume that everyone else is enough; that we're the only one lacking. We can think that other people's strengths somehow negate ours. We assume that we're the only ones who depend on a friendly smile, a compliment on our haircut, or a squeeze on the arm as we pass in the hall.
I tell myself, that I shouldn't need other people's approval to know that I'm okay. I should just care how God sees me, and how does he see us?
We're his babies. We're as cute to him as our babies are to us, except he doesn't have to wipe our bums. We're still just babies. We make mistakes, just like our little ones do. It's cute when my baby tries a new word and doesn't get it right; when he comes running to me, arms outstretched, and biffs it at my feet. Our Father has compassion for us, and we're endlessly precious and cute to him. I'm convinced of that. And we're also- right now- in all our warty imperfection, ENOUGH.
This Christmas season, I'm going to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ by doing my best to become more like him. I'm going to try to remember each day that I'm precious, and you're precious; that there's room enough in heaven for all of us. Instead of seeking other's approval, I'm going to give it. Instead of seeking out the gals who are like me, I'm going to look for who needs a friend, or a smile. I'm going to remember that all those people who've had a harder life than me, that may not look like they have it all together, they're enough too. I'm going to spend more time loving others, instead of working so hard to dot every i and cross every t. That's real Christianity.

My Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory

It's Saturday night, and I'm relaxing on the couch. I've been cooking all day, so my feet are propped up and I'm reading the paper. Suddenly, my littlest guy runs up to me, eyes alight with glee. "I got chock-it, Mommy! Chock-it poo poos!" I take a moment to digest what he just said. This boy is a woman when it comes to chocolate. He has a deep and abiding love for the stuff.

But, chocolate poo poos? I try to imagine what situation would cause him to equate what usually stays unseen in his diaper, to his great culinary passion. "Where?" I ask hesitantly. There are some questions one would just rather not know the answer to. "Come on, I show you!" he pulls at my hand, practically dragging me down the hall to his room. Sure enough, smeared all over the floor is the "chock-it". Apparently he'd been playing when he was hit with a bout of what my mom calls 'The Trots' and my dad calls 'Rocky Mountain Quick Step'. This was more than any diaper could hold. I hadn't noticed before, but it was all down his legs. I get him swabbed up while my #3 boy enthusiastically cleans up the floor. The littlest guy was just as pleased as he could be. "I TOLD you Mommy, I got Chock-it!"

My Man Has a Plan

In the days following my emotional tsunami of a breakdown, my husband and I brainstormed for solutions. We figured that the boys needed to take more responsibility to get their stuff done. That would avoid the whole "Mom's going crazy, everyone hide in the closet" scenario that seemed to be happening during homework/instrument practice/chore/ dinner-making /get-the-house-ready-Dad-will-be-here-any-minute time. A lightbulb went on for my husband. At work, he is responsible for quantifying and evaluating almost every conceivable aspect of sales and customer service. He uses boards like this one, except he has four of them. He modified that program for one that would fit us.

Now introducing........... (drumroll) The Accountability Board!

Every evening before dinner, we gather around the board, and have 'accountability time'. The boys report their performance for the day. Green boxes mean they got the job done, red means they blew a chance for wealth beyond their wildest dreams. See, Daddy's generous. Way more generous than Mom. He's turned this program into a pretty good money-making scheme for those lucky boys.
The premise is this: you get a perfect score on one aspect of your responsibilities, and you get paid pretty well for it. You get paid for each category, so if you miss up to two squares in a week on any particular item, you still got some money. If you blow off any one category, it starts to cost you. If you get a perfect score on all five items, you get the brass ring: lots of cashola. We aren't counting on everyone striking it rich every payday, but come on, they have to earn their mission money somehow. This has singlehandedly solved my nagging problem. But, since they have other responsibilities, they aren't doing household chores anymore. Bum jugger for me on that one.
I've decided to ease up on my cleaning frenzy. You see before you my daily chores for my 'day off' in the week. The 'deep cleaning' day had about two more feet worth of chores. I've decided not to freak out if I don't get everything done. The world won't end if I skip spot-washing the couch for a week.
I also took some good advice, and did what before would have been unthinkable: I bought paper plates, and served food on them. And then I threw away the evidence. Several evenings a week, my husband won't be home for dinner, so he'll never see my shame. And I won't wake up to a messy kitchen because I was too spent to do the dishes, and my kids did a lousy job because they knew I was too tired to go and check on them.I also get to sneak out of the house twice a week to go take fitness classes while this sweet man gets the kids ready for school by himself. I come home when they're out the door, so we get time to talk, read the comics and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Here is a certain 6 year old, having a blast with leftover striping material when Daddy was making the board.
Some good things have come of this change. The boys get some good time with their Daddy in the morning; my bum is getting totally cute from all the exercise I'm getting. I've been spending much more time playing with my guys instead of avoiding them. I took them swimming last night, took dinner from the oven, slopped it onto (gulp) paper plates, then shuttled them off to bed. "Why do we have to go to bed at 7:30?" they asked, their pathetic eyes imploring me. "You know how you guys always want to sleep in? Well, this is sleeping in, only on the other side of the night!" The little ones agreed, looking a little confused, but the big boys just rolled their eyes and sauntered off to bed. They would just read as long as they felt like it.
So, my friends, this chicky-babe might just make it through this after all.

A Dr. Mario Epiphany

Have you ever been watching an action movie, and you see the hero at a full sprint? He's just booking toward his objective. He's almost there- you see him in slow motion, you hear his breathing. When all of a sudden, from out of nowhere the villain grabs his ankle and trips him. He doesn't just stumble. He goes flying; head over heels, gun sailing, limbs flailing, until he finally skids to a stop flat on his face. That's me.
I've been booking along, making tons of progress in my life. I've been reading my scriptures, going to the temple, exercising regularly, keeping my house clean. I've been in serious danger of someone casting me in bronze and sticking me in an effectiveness museum. Then my husband's work schedule changed. I've been in a slow-motion wipeout ever since.
I won't divulge the details of the change, because some of you would just smirk and say to yourself "I totally handle more than that every day of my life!" It's enough to say that it's changed me from someone calmly contemplating the ocean, to a poor wretch struggling in a rip tide barely keeping their lips above the waves. The problem is, I should 'totally be able to handle it'. It's really not that bad. Tons more people really do deal with worse. That's what's making it so hard.
It'll be early evening, and my kids are all swarming me like killer bees. They all need something, and I'm desperate to get away. I don't have anything to give. I'll lock myself in my room and kneel and pray. "Send help now, now would be good!" I'll feel some peace, enough to refrain from violence or tears in front of the kids for the night, but I'll wake up with my shoulders in knots.
It's so ironic that some sort of answer would come through a twenty-year-old video game.
As most of you know, I have an on-going evening affair with Dr. Mario. We meet on my treadmill after the kids are in bed. A few nights ago, I was busting along at my usual pace. In the game, I'm up to level 15 out of 20 and on medium speed instead of slow. I'm losing. Over and over again. I don't give up though, I just keep trying. When I start to get frustrated, a little voice in my head says, "why don't you slow down? I do the unthinkable, and slow the treadmill down. I'm at a comfortable walking pace now, and what do you know? I start to win again. A little voice in my head says again, "why don't you slow down?" and I understand. My life's a lot harder now. That's not going to change. This isn't a temporary glitch; it's not going away. I need to slow down, and find a new pace. I need to not expect so much of myself. I need to show a little mercy to this poor gal who's trying so hard.

Heavenly Holiday Activities

Have you ever carefully planned and anticipated a family activity? You picture the laughs, the smiles, the glow of family togetherness....
See, I'm not a crafty mom. The very idea of sitting down to do a project with my kids raises my blood pressure, and I start to feel like a caged animal. This Christmas, I vowed to give my children more Christmas cheer than they've had in their whole lives. This was going to be the year when we bake cookies, sing carols, do (gulp) crafts, and generally make merry every day. I ripped off my sister's idea and made a paper chain and wrote a festive activity for each day. We've been working our way through holiday movies, candy-glass ornaments, gingerbread men, and finally last night, gingerbread houses.
I've bought every candy imaginable, even waffle cones for towers. I've really looked forward to this, but yesterday something happened that I couldn't have predicted: school was canceled. I had already exhausted my supply of patience by the time we began our grand project.
I was already tense when we sat down to start. The boys were so excited, they were literally bouncing on the benches. I remembered something I'd forgotten in the kitchen and turned to get up when...WHAM! I was blinded by pain. There was a huge blow to my nose, accompanied by a sound like a beetle getting stepped on. My little 6 year old had chosen that exact moment to loose himself from the bands of earth and rocket to the stars.
I'm not happy, clutching my face, sure that the blood will soon be flowing through my fingers. I let out a wail "WHY can't you guys just sit down like normal HUMANS!" At this point, the wretched child dashes from the table, runs to his room and slams the door. I'm not far behind him, flinging myself on my own bed. I chance a look at my face, and sure enough, there isn't even a mark. Maybe a slight swelling. I'm bitterly disappointed that I'm going through so much pain, and I have nothing to show for it. Alas, life's not fair. I'm feeling guilty, because it was an accident, and I should have kept my mouth shut, or at least kept my mouth nice. I hear the little disgraced one return to the table, so I join them too. We salvage the night, and manage to end up with some pretty impressive creations.


See, not even a mark. Just the red spot from where my stitch was a few weeks ago.

His ended up looking less like a house, and more like a trailer park after a tornado.

This is all that was left of the our oldest's creation. He's not much into architecture.

A sultan's palace, perhaps?

Here's the little bruiser. I'm not bitter, though.

And finally, the over-achiever of the family. And thankfully, the one with the coolest head.