Are you there readers? It's me, Holly....

Remember Me? The girl who used to crack you up with amazingly witty blog posts about life, photography, and red haired little girls? It's fuzzy, isn't it? Kind of like that feeling you have the morning after you've popped two Nyquil at midnight because you just.couldn't.sleep. Fuzzy, distorted, happy yet groggy. I know that feeling well. I was addicted to my beloved Nyquil for two years. But I will save my Nyquil addiction for another post (complete with my insider secrets to kicking the habit. You should wait, with anticipation, for that post).

Well, ladies, now that we've gotten reacquainted...let's review the last few weeks.

There was Christmas Eve. It was fabulous. We went to church (arriving late, of course...did you expect otherwise?...necessitating that we sit in folding chairs in the middle aisle of the santuary). We ate steamed shrimp and bruchetta and cheese fondue and strawberry birthday cake (with sprinkles, because not a day goes by in this household without sprinkles on something) to celebrate Jesus's birthday. We tracked Santa on Norad. We left reindeer food outside and set up a tea party inside (You did know that Santa loves a good tea party midway through his travels, didn't you?). We read "Twas the Night Before Christmas" for the last time of 2010. The girls were giddy and giggly and excited to get to bed before Santa crossed the Atlantic and landed directly on our rooftop. I'm telling you...it was a magical night.



Santa made it (as evidenced in the photo above), traveling down our new-to-us, faux fireplace mantle (purchased on Craigslist for a mere $50). The girls didn't even ask why there was no actual chimney down which Santa could travel. They just believed he would come out of that fireplace. I told you...magical.

And then, when I thought it couldn't get any better, Christmas Day arrived. I'm going to give you a little breather here, to soak it all in, while I write another post. Just sit and relax. And then check back soon. I promise not to take a four week break like I did last time.

Christmas: A Preview

The Big Guy arrived.
There were smiles and giggles and looks of awe.
There was one little girl who was sure she saw Rudolph's bright nose out her window.
There was happiness and joy and laughter and laziness.
There was ham and macaroni and cheese and blueberry pie.
There was a game of Mad Gab that made me laugh so hard I spewed soda out my nose.

It was a wonderful Christmas and I have a million photos to prove it. But you'll have to wait. For now...here's some of the highlights around the house, leading up to the big day.

I love to see the how the girls play with the nativity scene. This year, the wise men appeared to be "having words" (Can't you just hear them saying: "Dude, I thought you were bringing the gold. No man, I brought the Myrhh, didn't you bring the gold?"). Ha! And then there was the baby Jesus, who made a grand entrance on a camel (I laughed so hard when I saw it. Ellie was pretty proud of herself). We spent a lot of time this year talking about Jesus and the importance of Christmas. Despite the crazy nativity scene, I think the girls really got it, which made my heart happy!
We made Christmas crafts... And hung the cards...

And decked the halls...
And welcomed Mistletoe the Elf back to our home for a month.

I love the weeks leading up to Christmas. The decorating, the crafts, the cookies, the traditions, the church services, the lights, the songs, the books. I love it all and will miss it...until next year, when we get to do it all again!

The Countdown...

Twas the night before Christmas...

The reindeer food was sprinkled
The baby Jesus was serenaded
The video messages from Santa were watched
The cookies were baked
And the stockings were hung...


Just waiting for the Big Guy to arrive.
Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Rapid Response...

Ellie fell down the steps. I could tell by the cry that I had time to finish stuffing a sugar cookie in my mouth before I had to respond. Kate, however, was much more rapid in her response to the situation. She grabbed her doctor's kit, put on a bandage, and checked Ellie's blood pressure before I had a chance to grab a second cookie run around the corner and check on my wee small child. Kate determined that Ellie was very sick and might need to go to the hospital.


Ellie wasn't too happy with Kate's assessment. Poor thing. That's where I came in, and assured her that we didn't have to go to the hospital, at least not until we all had another cookie!

Three...

My baby turned three at exactly 2:30 a.m. this morning. I can't believe it was three years ago that I first saw her sweet face, held her tiny hands, kissed her chunky cheeks. I loved her from the instant I saw her (before, actually) but I love her so much more today. Ellie is spunky, outgoing, fiesty, and a little wild. She's funny. She's silly. She can be a bully, but then she holds my hand so tight and she says, "I lub you, mama," and she melts my heart. Ellie is such a special girl. She's spontaneous, impulsive, fearless, active. Here's what I want to remember about Ellie today:

• She loves to wear "tap dance shoes" (black, patent leather shoes) with any outfit.
• She twirls her ponytails when she's tired. Sometimes, if she doesn't have a ponytail in her hair at bedtime, she asks me to put one in so she can twirl it.
• She loves yogurt, noodle soup, grilled cheese, and ice cream.
• She looks at me with her big blue eyes and says, "You're my best fwend, mama."
• She says "Finkles" instead of Sprinkles and "Farkles" instead of Sparkles.
• She says, so sincerely, "I sorry I pooped in my Dora underwears, mama. That's not good."
• She can hold her own with her big sister. She insists on her own way. She's physical. I fear that we may be visiting the principal's office frequently in the years to come.
• She is boycotting naps. She lays in bed and sings. When I get her up an hour later, she says, "I sweep good, mama."
• She sleeps with her stuffed green bunny every night. It was a Christmas present that Steve and I bought her when she was just a week old.
• She is a messy painter. She likes to mix all the paints together. There's such a huge difference between Ellie's chaotic paint area and Kate's neat, clean paint area.
• Ellie wants whatever Kate has. It doesn't matter what it is...she wants it and will just physically take it. She's strong. She's tough.
• She always tells the truth, no matter what the question: Did you poop in your pants? Did you hit Kate? Did you paint all over the table? Did you knock the lamp over? Did you jump off the couch and onto your sister? Her eyes get big and she says "um huh" while she nods her head.
• This week, at dinner, she said, "Don't talk with your mouth full, mama." Very funny.
• She drops to the ground and makes a snow angel the minute she's in the snow, no matter how much there is or what she's wearing.
• She loves to swing and says, "Push me super, super high."
• She loves to swim and would go every day if she could.

Mostly, what my sweet little girl wants most in the world is the one thing that I'm trying to prevent as long as possible. She wants to be a "Big Girl," and I just want her to stay my baby for a little while longer.

I love you, Ellie Belle, and I thank God every day for blessing me with you.

Are you THAT mom?

Can you believe how some moms just can't get it together? You know the type...they're the ones who arrive 25 minutes late to a 10:30 a.m. playdate. Seriously, it's 10:30 a.m. Who can't be ready by 10:30 a.m.? And then, to top it off, they show up wearing ripped blue jeans and a sweatshirt, their greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail. Of course, they always have an excuse. You won't believe the one I heard today. The mom said that her daughter climbed up on the kitchen island, opened a jar of red craft paint and decided to paint everything in sight, including her cute little Christmas outfit, just minutes before they were about to walk out the door. Really? Who leaves paint on the kitchen island? And then, after making a late entrance, the wild kids take over all the toys in the room and one of them even poops in her pants, right there in the middle of the playdate.

It drives me nuts...because I am THAT mom, greasy hair, ripped jeans and all (and yes, I did leave red paint on the kitchen island and she did paint everything in sight). I don't want to be that mom, of course. I want to get up at 6 a.m., shower, look gorgeous, throw on a stylish (size 4) outfit (which is clean and ironed and hanging nicely in my organized closet). I want to do two loads of laundry, vacuum the house, and have breakfast ready before my kids wake up. I want to get them dressed (in the clean and tidy outfits that I laid out for them the night before) and I want their outfits to stay clean and tidy throughout breakfast. I want to smell good for goodness sake. Is that too much to ask?

But instead, I slept in until I heard my kids yelling for me. Then I stumbled downstairs, wearing my PJ's, made breakfast, checked facebook, talked on the phone, stumbled back up the stairs, picked out some clothes for the kids, got them dressed and sent them back downstairs, searched the floor in my bedroom to find something that was semi-clean, threw my hair into a ponytail, started to put on deodorant when I heard a screaming child, ran down the stairs, found said child covered in red paint, changed paint-covered child, broke up a few fights about who got to wear which gloves and who got to go out the door first, loaded everyone into the car, ran back inside to get the diaper bag and two sippy cups, looked at the clock and realized that the playdate started 20 minutes ago and I wasn't even in the car yet, felt that sick feeling in my stomach- which got even worse when I realized that I never finished applying deodorant.

So...to all of you organized, gorgeous, good-smelling, completely together moms, please be kind to us smelly, greasy, excuse-filled moms. And next time, tell us that the playdate starts at least 30 minutes before it actually does.

The Outside...It Counts.

During my teenage years, when I was a sweet, kind young flower of a girl
a confused, insecure, and clueless young girl, my mother would tell me the same thing, over and over. "Pretty is as Pretty does, Holly." I remember one of the first times that phrase really hit home for me.

Picture this: A poodle-haired, slightly gawky seventh grade girl (with braces...let's not forget the braces) saw the names of three girls on the blackboard and her's was included. Said poodle-haired girl was nominated for Valentine's Dutchess. She went home that night and cried on her bed, because there was no way this braces-covered, gawky girl could become the Valentine's Dutchess. Mostly, she felt that these other girls were so much prettier than her and it was probably just a joke. And her mother said, "Holly, Pretty is as Pretty does. Do not ever forget that you can't really be pretty if you don't ACT pretty, because beauty comes from the inside, honey." I'm sure she also said, "Holly, you're cute, too (in a gawky, poodlish kind of way)." This cliche-filled, yet super intelligent mom was saying that poodle hair and braces be damned, because the inside was WAY more important than the outside. And you know what? She was right (but then mothers always are, aren't they?). That poodle-haired girl was crowned Valentine's Dutchess a few days later.

And for the remainder of my confident, outgoing, blessed existence (humor me, here), I trusted that the most important things are always on the inside (except for that lengthy period in college when I desperately wanted bigger boobs, because those frat boys seemed to have missed the memo about beauty coming from the inside. Ha!).
That is, until a few years ago, when I was decorating for Christmas.

My grandmother had passed away and I was given this package. When I was a little girl, I fell in love with one of my Grandma's Christmas decorations. It was a centerpiece with three angels on it. My Grandma said that the angels represented her three grandaughters (my cousins Kelly, Chris, and me). In 1978, when I was three-years-old, my Grandma wrote on the box:

"This belongs to Holly when I am no longer here."

"Witnessed by Chrisy"

I loved those angels (and still do), but for some reason, I love the box that holds the angels even more.

My Pappy wrote on the box: "To Ruthie, From Gene on our 40th wedding anniversary."

My Grandma wrote on the box: "Jan. 17 - big snow just hit us. Gene in with the flu."


I wrote on the box: "First used to decorate Holly's house in December 2002...a white Christmas."

"2009 - A white Christmas."

And you know what I realized? Sometimes the outside is more important than the inside...as long as the "outside" doesn't have a bad perm and braces!

Frost, Food, and the "F" Bomb...

We went camping.
There was frost on the ground.
I could see my breath.
I got stuck in a freezing cold shower - I heard the "F" bomb fly from my mouth.
The girls ate breakfast outside, while wearing winter coats and gloves.
I shivered as I sat by a campfire.

We slept in a borrowed camper, with the heat on full blast.
We ate peanut butter and banana mountain pies, chicken corn potpie, a potroast, pancakes, bacon, smores.
We drove around in a golf cart and acted like rednecks.
I watched two little girls have the time of their lives.

Was it worth it? Absolutely.







Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. M for the use of the camper (and for setting it up and for letting us use your new, silky pink sheets, and for not worrying about how much damage two little girls *could* have done to the place)! We truly appreciate it!

Basketweaving 101...

Do you know that joke about athletes who attend college and major in basketweaving? You know...because there is no way on God's Green earth that some of them could actually pass a real college class? Apparantly, a basketweaving class is an easy A, even for the dumb jocks (no offense to all those super athletes out there). But here's the thing. I wasn't really a dumb jock. I was a super hot cheerleader (okay, I'm exagerating, but it makes my middle-aged, 35-year-old self feel better to remember things that way). Truth be told, I had poufy, hard as a rock hair-sprayed poodle hair and I may have been a little bit on the nerdy side. Nerdy, as in good grades, advanced classes, teacher's pet kind of nerdy. But here's the kicker...I could NEVER have passed a basketweaving class. Really. I can't weave. It's the simple things that escape me. Ask my college roommates. They were education majors and had this great idea that we should weave baskets for Christmas presents one year. It was easy, economical, and cute. Except...the nerdy (and formerly hot cheerleader) chick could. not. weave.

So that's why I was very surprised (and impressed) when my friend Sheila showed up this week, sewing machine in hand. She was on a mission to teach me to sew. Me. The nerdy girl who can't weave. The good news is that Sheila majored in Special Education. She's used to us "slower" types. Ha! Gotta love that girl. And you know what? While my hot cheerleader self may be long gone, my domestic skills are improving with age. Who knew? Maybe by the time I turn 50, I'll sign up for a basketweaving class and show those athletes a thing or two.






Thanks, Sheila. You're a brave sole and I love you for it!

35

Today, I turned 35. How can it be that I am halfway to 70 already? It seems like I was just:

* turning 13 and sneaking out the basement door around midnight with a group of giggling girls at my slumber party

* turning 16 and wondering why that black corvett wasn't in the driveway (ha...I was seriously delusional back then, but there was this fabulous, repossessed black corvett that sat at the bank near my house. I passed it every day until the week before my birthday, when it was gone. I was SURE that my parents had bought it for me. Did I mention that I was delusional?)

*turning 17 and going to my first "late" movie (I grew up in a small town...I was a little sheltered)

*turning 23 and dreaming about engagement rings and weddings and a future with Steve

*turning 29 and starting my first IVF cycle.

*turning 32 and knowing that we would become a family of four in just a few weeks.

It's crazy how quickly the years go, but what a blessing it is to share my life with such wonderful people. Tonight, I got phone calls from my friends who sang (poorly, I might add) on the answering machine, and messages from many, many friends on facebook. I woke up to cards and flowers and donuts, from Steve and the girls. I got to hang out in my PJs until 2 p.m., make crafts with the girls, eat cake for lunch, and take a short nap. I went to dinner with my family, laughed as I wore a foam, 10-gallon hat, and returned home to eat more cake.

In 35 years, I have learned to treasure simple things:
friends who remember you and sing (no matter how bad they sound...and let me tell you, they sound bad); glazed donuts; a husband who calls three times during the day, to make sure I'm having a wonderful birthday; a little girl who really wanted to take me to the "bouncy place" for my birthday because (in her words) I love it soooo much; eating the cherry off my ice cream sundae, because it's my birthday and I don't have to share it with anyone; imperfect flowers arranged just for me by my husband; knowing that I still have two more birthday parties in the coming days to celebrate my official entrance into "mid life" (and friends and family who are sure to tease me endlessly about it).

Mostly, I treasure the feeling of being loved. There are many, many things that I have yet to do or accomplish or become. But there's time, right? For now, I feel happy (and fat from the donuts and cake and ice cream). Mostly, I feel loved.