Good Friday.

If I ever needed Good Friday, it was today. There was nothing particularly wrong with today - other than this lingering chest stuffiness (which is trying its hardest to turn into bronchitis), two kids beyond tired of winter, a pile of work that was not very motivating, a house that would probably cause the child protective service people to gasp in horror and a pending drive to Happy Valley. (It doesn't matter that I lived for 18 months in Happy Valley or that it technically has fewer inhabitants than The Frontier. It still has worse traffic, more construction, more sprawl and results in more under-my-breath grumblings in the car while Woodstock says, "What mama? I can't hear you."

Tonight, once it was quiet, the girls were asleep, the laundry and dish washer were started, I listened to a podcast I'd been wanting to hear while scrubbing pots and pans and sweeping. (Sometimes I'd like to tell people my third job is as an after-hours janitor).

It was on Good Friday and Easter and how the celebration has morphed over the years.

I stopped to think about Good Friday - the day when many Christians observe the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ. Yet, little is said about the single most significant event in human history - the time CHrist spent in the garden atoning for each of us - individually - the loneliness and sadness and hurt and pain and disappointment and grief and guilt and sorrow and sin. The event that came before Christ surrendered himself to be presented before Roman officials in a mock trial.

This has been one of those incredibly long weeks. Two sick kids, one sick mom a seemingly endless season of rain and cold and damp, a house that has self-reproducing piles and an imaginary cleaning fairy that listens about as well as a 3-year-old. One of those weeks when the silence is too quiet, the noises are too loud, the to do list is too long ... I caught myself thinking how the atonement takes care of times like this too. That Christ felt all of this - and more - as he submitted himself in prayer to his Father. That he knows what it feels like to be a parent who doesn't feel well and still must plow through without thought of sleep or noodle soup or respite in order to keep the world (and the children) functioning at a semi-appropriate level.

It's a simple little thing - this too shall pass - and yet ... I'm glad for the rmeembrance that my Savior knows ME and suffered for ME and submitted Himself to unspeakable horrors in order to make MY life a little easier.

Good Friday indeed.

In Gratitude

In 2005, as I waited in an airport two days before Christmas with thousands of other people, I pondered what it would feel like to not have to spend every major holiday stuck in an airport, a rental car, or a traffic jam somewhere on the Eastern seaboard.

I should have been more specific.

Holidays now don't mean airports, rental cars or I-95 traffic jams, but it seems we've traded those for long road trips, icy mountain passes and no sleep. We might be closer to relatives, but there is a whole lot of nothing - vast open wilderness - between us and them.

Last year, I issued a moratorium on road trips during the month of November. It worked so well, I did it again this year. This year, we decided to play grown-ups and host our own holiday - something we haven't done on any major scale since moving to the Frontier. It was all carefully planned ... and then, Mother Nature decided to make things interesting and brought in a winter storm that turned every road into a sheet of ice and, as a result, no Thanksgiving guests.

When I wished for no traveling during the holidays, I didn't really mean spending them alone. Again, I should have been more specific.

Stuck with a 15-pound turkey (courtesy of work - at least I didn't have to pay for it) and a fridge full of ingredients for a family-sized traditional dinner, I set out to craft side dish upon side dish for Himself, myself, and two little girls who chose today as a day to eat like birds. I will be eating reincarnations of Thanksgiving dinner for weeks - if I was really creative, and had room in my freezer, I could probably make it last until Christmas.

At some point in the morning, I realized I wasn't having any fun. Cooking a holiday dinner for 2.5 appetites isn't terribly exciting. I put the turkey in the oven, left roasting instructions for Himself (who ignored them, being a man), bundled up the girls and took them to the zoo.

It was my favorite part of the day, and it was then I realized: I am deeply grateful to not only have a child, but to have two of them. I watched as Woodstock, looking for all the world like a pink marshmallow with stick legs (thanks to a puffy coat and skinny leggings) pushed Pebbles (who looked like the kid on Christmas story - complete with arms out to her sides - bundled too much to put them at her sides - it was only 27 degrees after all) around the zoo in her stroller. No people + a cumbersome umbrella stroller over which one can barely see = very little risk of out-running Mom, and Woodstock relished her freedom. She chattered away at Pebbles - detailing every exhibit and opining about this or that. They giggled at the turkeys wandering around and Woodstock (ever one to make me want to be vegetarian for animal reasons and not just health reasons) asked if they were like the turkey roasting in the oven at home.

They giggled at a sleepy crocodile. They laughed at the echos in the giraffe enclosure - who knew that a big empty building full of nothing but giraffes and two little girls could provide such amazing acoustics? Pebbles squealed at the leopard and Woodstock excitedly told me that we were going to visit a rain forest (I will admit - the rain forest/reptile house was my favorite - as it is the warmest building at the zoo). I marveled at how - now that Woodstock is potty trained, Pebbles sleeps through the night and both feed themselves - my joy was doubled with two children without necessarily doubling the work.

Our noses red, our fingers frozen, we returned home to put the final touches on the meal and to give thanks. Woodstock gave thanks for animals and family and the funny looking food on her plate (when else do you serve soggy bread?). I gave thanks for a few hours that lifted my spirits and made me realize Thanksgiving can be a holiday even without a house stuffed full of people. Fresh air, sunshine (cold sunshine, but still - sunshine), good food, family and two beautiful little girls.

I'm thankful, once again, for the simple things. The ones that warm my heart the most.

Next year, the Thanksgiving travel moratorium may just have to be re-instated.

A Week of Thanksgiving, Part II

As a child, I didn't play with dolls. I did, however, have a beloved teddy bear, for whom my grandmother and mother made clothes.

As a teen, I didn't love babysitting. There was one family, however, for whom I actually enjoyed it. I watched their three children every week for a year.

As an adult, I determined that since I didn't really have an affinity for small children, I probably shouldn't have any of my own. Gratefully, however, my o adwn personal Jiminey Cricket told me otherwise.

I adore being a mom. Today I am grateful not just for my kids but for everything being a mother allows me to feel, to be, to say, to experience.

I love being a mom for the excuses it gives me to relive favorite parts of my childhood without having to explain why.

I love being a mom for the fact that my daughters think I am the greatest human being (next to their daddy) on the planet ... and don't care that the world thinks otherwise. Somehow it makes having a lumpy stomach, chronic dark circles under my eyes and a cheering section in the bathroom when I pee all worth it.

I love being a mom for the excuses it gives me to learn or ponder about subjects in which I haven't been interested since childhood - what kind of bird makes a home in our backyard (a mocking bird), what kind of noises giraffes make (turns out they are mute - thanks to Erin for that!) or which monster on Sesame Street is my favorite (Grover).

I also love being a mom for how close it brings me to divinity. Some say that women are the scorned lot of Christianity in those religions that don't "allow" women to hold the highest levels of authority. I counter that my place as a co-creator and bearer of children is as close to divinity as a flawed human being can get. Through being a mother I've learned about unconditional love, about truly voluntarily bearing the pain and burdens of others, of wanting to be better than you already are, of true sacrifice - the kind that you take on without making big sighing noises and rolling your eyes.

Most of all, I love being a mom for the moments when Pebbles sighs and snuggles into me after her tummy is full or for the times when, like last night, Woodstock pipes up from the back seat and says, "I'm so happy mom!"

This week of Thanksgiving, I am grateful that I have the opportunity to be a mom, I realize it is truly a gift not to be taken for granted.

Have You Ever Wondered...?

Have you ever wondered what a giraffe says?

Yeah, me either.

However, Woodstock is going through a (very long) phase of wondering what EVERYTHING says. And, since she managed to get us to scramble and obtain a giraffe costume for her for Halloween (*story below), she is now insisting on knowing what a giraffe says.

And I'm totally stumped. Other than the sound of munching leaves, I'm not sure I've ever heard a giraffe make a noise. And I've seen a lot of giraffes.

Of course, she also insisted on wearing her giraffe ensemble to Miss Jan's this morning. After I dressed her, she was wandering around the house quacking. I said, "funny girl, giraffes don't quack." She stopped, looked at me and said, "Giraffes say?" (translation: "what do giraffes say?")

Um ... still no idea.

Silly mommy.

*How Woodstock came to be dressed as a giraffe instead of a lion:
We'd planned on Woodstock being a lion this Halloween. However, at some point she's developed rather strong opinions on things - one of which is apparently about suitable Halloween costumes. She INSISTED she was going to be a giraffe. For days, every time someone asked her she'd say "I be a giraffe." Every time we'd tell her, "How about a lion?" She'd reply, "No, I be a giraffe."

Oooookkkkaaaaay. Except I couldn't find a giraffe costume that didn't cost a small fortune that would fit her. And I'm far from being one of those moms who can just "whip something up."

The last straw came when she told the pediatrician, who asked what Woodstock was going to be for Halloween, "Not a yion (lion). I be a giraffe."

Fortunately, my mom happened to mention the above funny anecdotes about Woodstock to a friend. Her friend (bless her, bless her!) said, "I have a giraffe costume for a 2-year-old you can borrow!" Happy days. The package (mailed priority) arrived yesterday. Woodstock has only taken it off to sleep.

She does make an awfully cute giraffe.

One Hundred

Today, if he were alive, would be my grandfather's 100th birthday.

He was born at the tail-end of the lame-duck period of Teddy Roosevelt's presidency, a little more than a month before William H. Taft took the oath of office.

One hundred years ago, in 1909, the NAACP was founded. The first radio broadcast was transmitted via short-wave radio. The Navy opened its base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. The Manhattan bridge opened. Barry Goldwater, Benny Goodman, Jessica Tandy, Burl Ives, Errol Flynn were all born that year.

It seems a lifetime away - too far back to comprehend, and yet I am only two generations removed.

He dropped out of school in the eighth grade when his father died - to go to work and provide for his mother and his seven siblings. In 1923, it's just what you did when you were the eldest son.

As a young man, he was thinning sugar beets alongside a friend, when a bolt of lightning struck the ground between them. The bolt split and hit both of them. My grandfather lived. His friend did not.

He didn't marry until he was 42 years old and all of his siblings were grown, married and self-sufficient. My grandmother was 16 years his junior. His younger sister had a daughter marry the same year he did.

He loved people and animals - and made a living as a police officer, bus driver and farmer - generally working all three jobs simultaneously to provide for his wife and five children.

He made excellent candy and peanut brittle, never missed a deer hunt on horse and

As a kid I remember him in his big recliner, playing 'I've got your nose' and giggling at our horror-stricken faces. He was a big man - tall and larger than life - who delighted in children. I remember gleefully going to visit him on "the farm" - his big hands lifting me up to right Cheeto, the Shetland Pony. I remember him cutting the grass with a push mower, his penchant for growing huge vegetables and his love of rhubarb.

He was my mom's hero - they had a father-daughter bond unlike any I've ever seen before. She dreamed of growing up to become a policeman and owning horses. Instead, she became a librarian and married my father who really doesn't like horses.

He was gentle and kind and stubborn as a farm mule. My favorite memory of him was two months before he died - at my uncle's wedding reception. He cradled my day-old niece - one just come from heaven, one speedily headed that way. They sat, in perfect stillness, not needing words for their spirit to commune. Someone captured the moment on film, exactly the same way my heart did.

My last memory of him was a week or so before he died - he came down to attend my sister's baptism. He was a skeleton with skin, I hardly knew how to respond to this shrunken giant. On the way home, he developed a blood clot that put him immediately in the hospital - he lost his leg and never made it home.

He died on the day my dad planted three pine trees in our front yard - and every single time I go home, I look at those pine trees and think of him. Everyone else in my family thinks it's odd - to associate those pine trees with a man who never saw them - but I distinctly remember the day he died, and I distinctly remember dad outside planting those trees - grown tall and broad and thick now.

He died three months shy of his 83rd birthday. I was 13 years old - the oldest of the grandchildren - one of the only to remember him before he grew sick and frail. I remember my mom's devastation, my grandmother's steadfast refusal to ever again utter the words "joy" or "fun" after he passed. I penned a poem about his passing the night before the funeral - it was only then that I cried at his passing. He was the first direct relative I had lost to death. Grandpa died knowing only 8 of his 16 grandchildren.

It seems odd to me that my grandfather would be older than most of my friends' great-grandfathers. His grandparents crossed the plains as pioneers, a mere sixty years before he was born. His life seems so remote, so far away, so far removed from the modern, crazy world we live in today. He was an adult through the Great Depression, too old to serve in World War II, a senior citizen when my parents married.

In the centennial year of his birth, were he alive, my grandfather would welcome great-grandchildren #3 and #4. His home and farm have been long sold - after the passing of my grandmother more than six years ago. His possessions have all been divided among children and grandchildren. His siblings have all passed. What remains of his generation, his life, are memories and photographs - fleeting glimpses of the hard-working, gentle man who answered to the name Ed.

Happy 100th Birthday, Grandpa. We still miss you.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot

It is inevitable that a moment, a day, a month, a year, will end. And, if it is remarkable enough, it is inevitable that someone will comment on it. For posterity, for analysis, for re-hashing the gruesome details for all the rubber neckers.

I listened to a lot of "best of" and "most important" lists today. It naturally put me in the frame of mine thinking about my own past year. Newsmakers indicated that everything indicates that 2008 is ending worse than it began. I thought about my year some more. It didn't take very many brain cells, or a news analyst, to conclude that, personally, 2008 only got progressively better during the latter half. We're definitely ending the year on a high(er) note around this household.

Then I realized, as I sat down to reflect on each month of 2008, I don't remember much of anything about the first half of the year. It is mostly marked by interactions with significant people in my life. At that point, I realized, 2008 was the year of People. People who surrounded me (and us), bouyed me up, made me better. People who laughed, cried and shared.

As I am set to ring in 2009, there are no regrets regarding 2008. I am simply happy it is over and that a new year is beginning. I am praying for less drama, more peace and the ability to savor every single moment with Himself and Woodstock.

2009 will be about simplicity and progress. And next year, I won't have to wonder what happened to the first six months of the year, buried beneath a thick blanket of mental fog.

The Greatest Among Us

Last night, Woodstock had her theatrical debut ... as a sheep in my mom's family's annual Christmas celebration. She obligingly said "baa baa" when asked what sound a sheep made, shortly after the angel (standing on the coffee table) proclaimed the birth of Jesus to the shepherds (several, dressed in cast off bathrobes), at which point she lost interest in the whole production and spent the remainder of the production happily "chatting" on a cousin's cellphone while obsessing over a book of Christmas carols.

There were 16 kids - ranging in age from 15 months (Woodstock) to 19 years, although the 19-year-old declined to participate in the pilgrimage across the living room - from the front door (representing the Far East) to the mantel (representing the stable). It was a happy cacophany of holiday-related sounds, caloric monstrosities (my pasta salad would make a weak heart give up) and chaotic children, happily amped up on adrenaline, sugar and anticipation over the next snowfall. In Woodstock's case, she was amped up over the juice she normally doesn't get and the fact that she was surrounded by kids - instantly transporting her to her very happy place.

In the midst of all of this craziness, however, came a quiet, special moment that brought the prick of tears to the corners of my eyes. I was snapping pictures right and left, trying to capture kids who didn't sit still in costumes either too large or too small for their frames, when out of the corner of my lense I spotted Mary (a cousin of a cousin - about 9 or 10), sitting next to Woodstock, baby "Jesus" cradled between them.

"Mary" gently laid the doll in Woodstock's lap, leaning over to shelter the renegade sheep and the baby from the chaoas that swirled around them. Woodstock's eyes lit up. "Baby!" she exclaimed, scooping up the doll and smothering it with love. Then Mary gently scooped up baby Jesus, scooted over to my 2-year-old cousin and repeated the same thing. Over and over, Mary went to each of the smaller children, bringing the baby Jesus to them to hold and to love. She spoke not a word. Each time, she silently shared her "son" with each child, letting them shower the doll with love.

In that moment, I thought about how Christ comes in mysterious ways to touch people's lives - stopping to rest in the hearts of those who will allow Him entrance. He shuts out the chaos from around us, He whispers to our souls, lights the eyes of those who revere Him. He doesn't forget those that are easily overlooked or forgotten among the chaotic holiday revelry, instead, showering those who seek Him with love and comfort and peace.

Last night, He touched us all through the innocence of a little girl, clad as Mary, sharing her child, the Son of God, with the smallest among us. Their eyes lit up as they cradled the baby Jesus and enveloped Him in love - their pure innocence shining out from bright eyes. In that moment, it wasn't a doll - it was a symbol of reverence and little ones, like the shepherds and wisemen of old, paid homage with an awe reserved only for children.

Mery Christmas, to all, I thought. And to all, the remembrance of how the greatest among us sometimes barely reach our knees.

Key Lime Sugar Cookies

This recipe was published inThe Washington Post in December 2005 - the year I made HUNDREDS of cookies for my 14 colleagues. Boxes of homemade, custom-wrapped cookies - from angel prints to butterscotch bars to pecan bites - the cookies of childhood Christmases. This recipe caught my eye, and I made it as the "new" addition. I've made it every Christmas since. It's worth the little extra work, trust me.

These tart, crisp cookies are great topped with lime-colored decorating sugar and can be dressed up with optional icing.


Makes 50 to 60 cookies

Ingredients:
For the cookies
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon corn oil or other flavorless vegetable oil
1 tablespoon regular lime zest or Key lime , plus 1 teaspoon finely grated
6 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 3/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch salt
2/3 cup sugar
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, slightly softened and cut into chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract or 1 teaspoon lime flavoring oil, such as Boyajian
1 tablespoon water
3 tablespoons lime-color decorating (crystal) sugar
For the icing

1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
2 1/2 to 3 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 to 2 drop yellow food coloring (optional)
1 to 2 drop green food coloring (optional)
Directions:

For the cookies: In a small bowl, combine the oil and lime zest. Let stand, covered, for at least 30 minutes and up to several hours.

Meanwhile, in a small nonreactive saucepan over medium heat, heat the lime juice until reduced to 2 1/2 tablespoons. Let cool to room temperature.

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Set aside.

Using a stand mixer on medium speed, beat together the oil-lime zest mixture and the sugar until well blended. Add the butter, beating until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in the reduced lime juice, the vanilla extract and the lemon extract or lime flavoring oil until well blended and smooth. Reduce speed to low and gradually beat or stir in the flour mixture to form a smooth dough. If the dough seems soft, let stand for 5 minutes to firm up slightly. If it seems dry, stir in up to 1 tablespoon water.

Divide the dough in half. Roll out each portion between sheets of parchment paper or wax paper to a scant 1/4-inch thickness. Occasionally check the underside of the dough and smooth out any wrinkles. Stack the rolled portions (paper still attached) on a baking sheet. Refrigerate for about 30 minutes or freeze for about 15 minutes, or until cold.

Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease several baking sheets or coat lightly with nonstick spray oil.

Working with one portion of dough at a time and keeping the rest refrigerated, gently peel off the top sheet of paper, then pat loosely back into place so it will be easy to remove later. Invert the dough and peel off the second sheet. Using a 2 1/4-inch-round cutter, cut out the cookies, then cut each round in half with a sharp knife. If at any point the dough softens too much to handle easily, transfer the paper and cookies to a baking sheet and refrigerate or freeze until firm. Using a spatula, transfer the cookies to the baking sheets, spacing them about 1 inch apart. Re-roll any dough scraps and continue cutting out the cookies until all the dough is used. Generously sprinkle the cookie tops with the decorating sugar.

Bake one sheet at a time for 7 to 11 minutes, or until the cookies just begin to brown at the edges. If necessary, reverse the sheet from front to back halfway through baking to ensure even browning. Using a wide spatula, immediately transfer the cookies to a wire rack. Let cool completely. Top with icing, if desired.

For the icing (optional): In a small bowl, stir together the confectioners' sugar and 2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice until smooth. Add the yellow and green food coloring, if desired. If necessary, add more sugar or juice to yield a piping consistency (stiff enough to hold its shape but soft enough to pipe through a fine tip). Place the icing in a paper decorating cone or pastry bag fitted with a fine writing tip. Space the cookies slightly apart on a rack set over parchment paper or wax paper. To suggest lime slices, pipe a thin line around the perimeter of each cookie, then add "segments" by piping a dot in the center and 7 thin spokes radiating out from the dot to the perimeter. Let stand until the icing sets, at least 30 minutes.

Store cookies in airtight containers at room temperature for up to 2 weeks. May be frozen for up to 2 months.


Recipe Source:
Adapted from "The All-American Dessert Book," by Nancy Baggett (Houghton Mifflin, 2005).

A Novel Disaster

I was accosted in Costco on Friday by a husband-and-wife author team who were there promoting and signing their new book.

I doubt there is anyone on the planet who enjoys reading more than I do. I doubt there is anyone that gets as much pleasure out of buying a new book, during the too-often-times when heading to my local bookstore is cheaper than paying my library fines.

However, I don't like being pressured into buying anything. In fact, many times I don't take the samples because I don't want to feel obligated to purchase the item which I just sampled. Especially when I'm on a tight timetable and on a strict list (on which I MUST operate in Costco, for fear of going bankrupt). Except I was supposed to be meeting Himself in the book section at Costco and he was late. I didn't dare wander off, so I was virtually held hostage by a set of over-eager authors wielding Sharpies at a card table. And, well, it's fun to meet the authors of books - it gives you a little insight to what might be going on between the covers of the books they wrote.

They gave me the run-down about the book. They read me the reviews (odd, yes? If I'm buying a book, I can probably actually read the reviews myself) and talked about how it was their first work of fiction.

I gave in. The book was $9. The cover looked like something my mom might be interested in. I had it autographed for her and continued to sit in the book section, burying my nose in a coffee table book about something so benign I don't remember the subject matter.

Because I can't pass up the opportunity to read a new book, even if it is supposed to be a gift for my mother, I began reading it that night before bed.

It was TERRIBLE. Awful. Worse than anything I've read in a long, long time (possibly ever). Bad enough I'm not sure I can in good conscience give it to my mother. (Not to mention, the subject matter, a fictional story on dealing with in-law relationships, is not exactly something my mom is probably interested in - given that her in-laws are dead).

I'm not sure what to do. I can't re-sell it or donate it. I had it autographed for crying out loud. I can't keep it. It isn't autographed to me. Do I give it to my mother anyway and admit that I read it, it's terrible and I'm sorry for letting someone push me into making a purchasing decision that affected her? Even if it was only $9?

Is it bad to throw away a brand-new, perfectly good (as in "good shape" not as in "good good") book?

Yes, it really is bad enough that I am considering something that is tantamount to a cardinal sin in my home - throwing a brand-new something away.

At the moment, I've done nothing. The book is still residing on my night stand. The guilt is killing me.

A Tale of Two Christmases

Two years ago, I was buried in gourmet gift baskets from clients, vendors and the like. We gorged ourselves on Mrs. Fields cookies, smoked salmon, artisan cheeses, pate, crackers, Godiva chocolates and the 50 other lesser items sent in the name of corporate holiday popularity contests.

We celebrated the holiday by cramming hundreds of employees - and their spouses or dates that you met once a year - into an anonymous hotel ballroom with anonymous hotel food, wilting under heat lamps well into the night. The significant others were bored by the end of the first drink. The departments stuck together - trading work stories and past holiday stories (remember the one when...?) and trying to feel festive.

My department got half our annual bonus at Christmastime - calculated based on a portion of our salary. Expected, as long as the company did well and I did my job. It was a nice chunk of money during the holidays. Two years ago, Himself and I used a portion of it to buy Christmas for each other for the first married Christmas we'd spent together sans family. Both of us went a little overboard - hard not to, when the festivities included just the two of us.

Fast forward two years.
This year, we're dining on snippets of goodies employees are making for their neighbors or friends - rather like the taste test panel major food manufacturers use (minus the scientific background). A small, but steady, stream of festive goodies - just enough to satisfy, but hardly enough to qualify for gluttony.

Last night, The Office took everyone (and their spouses) - a total of 8 people - to one of the nicest restaurants downtown for our Christmas celebration. We dined on lovely food, prepared fresh and served in a private room. Himself was the only spouse no one else had met - as The Office frequently has events or opportunities for our small "work family" to gather together. Talk was not of work, but of sports (particularly the upcoming Sugar Bowl), politics, business, economics and topics in which everyone could participate.

We left the dinner, each of us with a slim, beautifully wrapped package. Never one for patience, I opened mine as I waited for the left-turn arrow to get on the interstate. I pulled out a gift card. I opened the envelope in which it was enclosed and gasped.

On my way home, I couldn't stop comparing the two Christmases. One was at tail end of several years of lavish spending, corporate growth and a season of "keeping up with the Jonses." One came at the beginning of what appears to be one of the worst economic seasons in decades - a time of cutting back, appreciating what one has and daily bouts of bad news. Yet, last night - this whole season - has been far more enjoyable. Everything tastes better, feels better, seems more peaceful. Appreciation over expectation.

Two years ago, the bonus check I received was just that - a bonus. Yet, it was one I expected, planned for, mentally spent before it was even in my hand. It was a solid 4-figure check. Last night's gift card was nowhere near 4 figures. In fact, it was less than 10% of my bonus check 2 years ago. Yet it was staggering in its sum - because it was a gift. Unexpected. Certainly generous and deeply appreciated.

This year, corporate carousing and novel-length gift lists may be a thing of the past (if only temporarily), and I can't help but think it's a good thing. How much better it feels to savor life one unexpected bit at a time. How much sweeter the smaller amount when it is given with appreciation rather than expectation.

Sometimes, reminders come in the strangest ways.

I Have a Choice

I choose to live in The Frontier.

I choose this holiday season to exchange true sentiments versus more commercialized "stuff" - to spend this season of global economic hardship preparing my family rather than pandering to my whimsies and wants.

I choose to be picky about what I feed Woodstock.

I choose how many times a week I wash my hair.

I choose to eat (relatively) healthy, to extend my life.

I choose to worship each Sunday - and I choose the church in which to do that.

I choose to walk to the store if I need just one thing and it's daylight.

I choose to what I'm going to read.

I choose the kind of breakfast I want.

I choose when to visit my family.

I choose what to make for dinner each night.

I choose to go without a coat, except on the coldest of days.

I choose to dress Woodstock in new clothes, hand-me-downs and thrift store bargains with the same degree of glee.

I choose to do laundry only once a week.

I choose to sleep in once in awhile.

I choose hundreds, thousands of things every day.

And because I HAVE A CHOICE in how I live my life, I really do live a life of luxury.

Happy Thanksgiving. May 2008 cause each of us to pause and reflect on how much we DO have.

Happy Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown

Five years ago, I cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner, by myself, for the very first time.

It was utter nonsense. The kitchen in the poorly named Malibu Palms Complex* had enough counter space for a small dish drainer and a dorm-sized microwave (no dishwasher, which meant the dish drainer was a necessity). It had a 3/4-sized oven with one rack, which meant only one pot, pan, or cookie sheet could fit in it at once. The refrigerator door only opened 3/4 of the way, as it hit the stove and could go no further. There was garage shelving in the kitchen, to make up for the lack of cabinet/counter space.

It meant baking the pies, one at a time, the night before, then getting up at 5 a.m. to put the turkey in and start the rolls, which would go in when the turkey came out. It meant that rolling pie dough out on the dining room table, cooking the stuffing in a crock pot on the floor (no counter space, and there was a bird in the oven) and eliminating any offers of help because with pies and rolls on the table, the in-progress or finished sides on one of the shelves of the industrial shelving unit, the cutting board on top of the microwave - where the potatoes, sweet potatoes and fruits and veggies were chopped, the bird in the oven, four pots on the stove, and the stuffing on the floor, there was no room for another human being - helpful or otherwise.

Ironically, it was also the year I decided to make homemade cranberry sauce. As if homemade stuffing, rolls and pies weren't already enough to earn me the title role of Queen of Holiday Insanity.

The five of us (Himself, myself, two stray Navy friends of Himself's and a random girl on holiday from Dover AFB) sat down to eat dinner at the 4-person dining room table in the middle of the living room, because the kitchen (the table's normal place of occupancy) was too small to actually USE the table for anything but a one-person countertop. This meant displacing the pies, rolls, etc. and putting them on top of the stove. Serving dinner was like going to a progressive dinner - each item was dished up from some random location - right down to the stuffing still being on the floor.

Dinner took 15 hours to prepare and 15 minutes to eat. The clean up (due to lack of space, lack of ability to open the fridge all the way, lack of a dishwasher and lack of space enough to cajole anyone else into helping) took another 4 hours. I went to bed exhausted, only to have to rise the next morning and head to work.

I vowed, "Never Again!"

Except, well, I did it again. Twice more. And I liked it. The kitchen in NoVa was larger, much nicer, had tons of counter and cabinet space, opened to the living room (all the better to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade), and I gave up on homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce and having guests. (As it turns out, Himself hates stuffing, Grover only eats the boxed kind and Jane doesn't like onions - why kill myself for something only I liked?).

Two years ago we went to the World's Smallest Townhouse for Thanksgiving - I only had to bring the pies (Pumpkin Mousse and Coconut Cream). Last year, we had The Great Pie Gathering at my Uncle's, and I only had to bring the pies (Key Lime, Coconut Cream) and homemade macaroni and cheese.

As it turns out, Great Malibu Palms Holiday Insanity of 2003 aside, I prefer staying home for Thanksgiving. However, it appears to be the eighth deadly sin to stay home for a holiday now that we're within hundreds of miles (versus thousands of miles) from family. Which means we will be trekking to the Great Frozen North on Thursday with pies (Pumpkin, Key Lime and Coconut Cream - see a pattern?), all of Woodstock's baby gear, festive attitudes and enough clothing for a 2-3 day stay.

Next year, we're having a roast chicken (Himself actually doesn't like turkey), roast sweet potatoes and pies (we don't need anything but the basic favorites), watching the parade, sleeping in, watching football, playing board games and eating leftovers for four days - the only leftovers I truly like. Not necessarily in that order.

God bless the pilgrims for enduring the North Atlantic seas in the fall, learning to harvest a crop and inspiring a president to make their celebratory meal a national holiday more than two centuries later.



*1. Palm trees aren't indigenous to Virginia's tidewater region - or to Virginia at all, as a matter of fact. 2. It was as close to a ghetto complex as you could get without actually living IN the ghetto, right down to having to call the cops on the neighbors. 3. Malibu is in California, not in Virginia.

A Solemn Obligation

"They fought together as brothers-in-arms. They died together and now they sleep side by side. To them we have a solemn obligation." -Admiral Chester Nimitz

It is perfectly silent right now.

I am working form home. Woodstock is fast asleep. There is no traffic on the road in front of the house (sound proof, our windows are not). The wind isn't blowing. It's not raining. The sun is out. My living room carpet is cleaner than it was this morning (carpet spot cleaning - one of those joys you never realized adults got to experience over and over and over). The house is bright and full of sun.

And, there is a flag in my front yard.

Seven years ago yesterday, I stood on Pier 5 at the Norfolk Naval Base with Grover, then only 5, and waited. "God Bless the U.S.A." and "I'm Already There" - two anthems that had defined the deployment of the USS Enterprise, blared over the loudspeakers. Thousands of people huddled together in the unusually cold November air as the breeze blew off the Chesapeake Bay, up the mouth of the James River and across the pier. We barely noticed.

We put our hands up to shade our eyes from the early morning sun - searching to watch the Enterprise make its first debut on the horizon. We first caught sight of the Navy's largest, and fastest, carrier - returning from a scheduled deployment that had ended in unscheduled combat following the terror of 9/11 - a little after 7 a.m. It would take nearly four hours to reach the pier - it's rails manned by sailors dressed in their dress blues.

I cannot begin to describe the adrenaline, the tears, the joy, the pride, the anticipation that filled that pier that day. I absolutely will never be able to put into words the chills that ran down my spine and the tears that coursed down my face as the first sailors set foot on Pier 5. Following ship tradition, they were the "new daddies" - those whose wives had born children while they were out to sea. Gathered in a tent, the sailors met their newborn children for the very first time.

It was a day that I will remember forever. Next to Woodstock's birth, it was one of the most amazing days of my life - not everyone gets to stand on a pier and welcome a shipful of sailors home from combat.

Nearly three years later, my parents and sister stood in the quiet stillness of the California desert. They held signs, wore matching t-shirts and cheered as a bus rumbled down a long dusty road. My brother, a combat Marine veteran, was returning home from Iraq. He had witnessed all the horrors of war and was changed, physically and mentally and spirtually. Relief flooded the family members meeting their Marines in the lonely midnight desert. With that relief came a long moment of silence - a pause to remember the arms that would go empty that night for those Marines who gave the ultimate sacrifice. Twice my parents stood in the California desert to welcome my brother home. Twice he left to battle in the desert - the cradle of civilization - to answer his country's call. Twice he risked everything, beat the odds, returned to fill the arms of those left behind.

Two different experiences. Two different homecomings. Dozens of friends. Hundreds of acquaintances. A nearly four-year sojourn in a beachside community of military bases, squadrons, fleets, companies - family.

A day that means much to me as family, friends and dear strangers are honored for their service, sacrifice and devotion.

Happy Veteran's Day.

Giving Thanks

The first semester I spent at a new college was tough. It was a new town, I was a senior. I knew no one. I had just left two of my best adult experiences behind and felt lost.

One of the bright spots was my religion class - taught by a professor I had had at my original university. A man whom I deeply respected and remains to this day one of the most phenomenal professors I had.

Toward the beginning of the class, we studied a passage of scripture about gratitude. Dr. Whitmore encouraged us to keep "gratitude journals" through the semester - where every day we would write down three things for which we were grateful. There were no rules about how simple or complex they could be. Just that there HAD to be three and there could be no "even thoughs" or "buts" attached. They had to be genuine.

I took the challenge with resolution. Looking bad, I realize just how lost and misfit I felt. There are some days where my gratitude list was a challenge and merely stated, "I am thankful for the sun outside." It actually helped, because it forced positive thinking - and, on the worst days, forced me to look for things about which I was thankful so I could have an honest list.

November always makes me think "Thanksgiving," which makes me think of food and being grateful (not necessarily in that order). I got up this morning and started thinking about the little things that I would list in my gratitude journal today, if I had one.

1. It was above freezing this morning and it is "partly sunny." If the word "sunny" appears in a forecast AT ALL between November and April in The Frontier, I greet it with glee.

2. Woodstock. I could write a book. I'll refrain. Even on the worst days there are 14 different things I could list about Woodstock that would make me smile.

3. I am employed. Not only that, but because I worked very hard during the beginning of my career I am in a position where I have a job that is largely self-managed, one that allows me to work from home as often as necessary, is flexible and pays well.

4. I don't live in an apartment and I don't own a house. For some inexplicable reason, both of those make me deliriously happy. Not that I never want to own a house - quite the contrary - but right now, it's one less thing to worry about.

5. I am putting Dave Ramsey's plan in action. We have more savings, less debt and more spending money - which seems like it should be an oxymoron, but it isn't. Next year we will have a lot less debt and that will be even better. There is a plan. In the nation's worst economy in 50+ years, I actually feel peace.

6. I made a real-life friend who went through the same darkness I did last witner - in nearly the same way. Her baby is three months older and she is a stay-at-home-mom, but our stories are eerily similar. For the first time, I've been able to actually talk, out loud, about the whole thing from a big picture standpoint and not feel like I'm some hideously disfigured creature inside.

I haven't done much about a Gratitude Journal since that semester in college, but this month, I wonder if it is a tool that will help me focus on the immediate, here-and-now blessings that grace everyday life.

This Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for second chances, for little girls and for new beginnings. And, for (hopefully) good food.

Happy Birthday Dear Sister

Today is my favorite (and only) sister's 25th birthday.

She is the queen of organization, maternal genes and home decor. She can go from absolute girly princess with closets of fabulous clothes, perfectly coiffed hair and just the right accessories to rough-and-tumble "hangin' out with the guys" in no time at all.

She bakes. She decorates. She is the most fantastic packer on the planet (she can get an amazing amount of items in a very small amount of space - and proved to be a huge asset during all the times I have moved out of, or back to, my parents' house). She can organize anything, and probably should own stock in Rubbermaid. She loves clothes and always looks perfect. She also loves four-wheeling, hunting, camping, hiking, rappelling, canyoneering and snowboarding as much as she loves jewelry and buying frilly outfits for her little girl.

She ended up with the most fantastic nurturing genes - first exercising them at a very young age on our youngest brother (barely a year younger) - who grew up not knowing how to function without her in his life. She was always "the mom" when we played house - even though I was half a decade older. She is creative, funny and can sleep in longer than anyone else I know.

She is fiercely competitive and enormously talented. As a kid, she once quipped "I'd like to play a game I don't always win." She has a sweet tooth and an apparently super metabolism to go with it. She was my coloring-in-bed-on-Saturday-mornings partner for years and even though she only had 24 hours free, she flew to Virginia to be with me on one of the most important days of my life.

Most of all, she loves helping people. She knew she wanted to be a nurse practically from birth, and nothing stood in her way. She has the most amazing spirit of charity I've ever known and would do anything to help anyone.

At the age of 3 she made my bed every day for 6 months because I told her it was "the right thing to do." She would have made it every day for the rest of forever had I not forced the issue when she was sick and Mom found out about it. I'm not sure my bed has been made regularly since.

She married eight months after I did and gave birth to her little girl four months prior to Woodstock's arrival. I have called her for countless advice and reassurance. She has cried with me, laughed with me, tolerated my not-as-organized self and loved me more than I deserved sometimes.

When I grow up, I want to be just like my "little" sister.

Happy 25th Birthday to the best sister I could ever ask for.

Happy 1st Birthday Woodstock

To my precocious, independent, sweet baby girl ... I am more in love with more you than the moment you were first placed in my arms.

I love that after I sang 'Happy Birthday' to you this morning, you have gone around the living room saying "happy, happy, happy" off anad on all day.

I love that you can entertain yourself for minutes on end while watching the birds out the window - yelling and pointing and bouncing up and down the whole time.

I love that you love to sit and look at books - that you jabbers whole unintelligible conversations to her stuffed monkey and that when you're done hanging out in her crib you will often cry "all done!"

I love that the world is all right in your eyes if we come armed with "milk" (the sign we use for her bottle), her binkie or a hug.

I love that you call ducks "quack quacks" and love to hang out outside.

I love that you get so excited to see Daddy when he comes home for work or me when I come to get you from Miss Jan's.

I love that your excitement is contagious, your smile infectious and your personality delightful.

Happy 1st Birthday Woodstock!

The Birthday Duo

When I found out I was pregnant with Woodstock, due in early September, there are two things I requested of the universe:

1. She be born in late August, so as to dispense with all the school deadline nonsense (in case we're still living in a state with a Sept. 1 deadline by the time Woodstock is old enough to go to school). As a kid who missed the deadline by 9 days, then ended up forgoing the 3rd grade to rectify the issue, I'm especially sensitive to it.

2. If she was born in September that she be born on a day other than my birthday. I had always felt bad for my grandmother who shares a birthday with my aunt. "How sad, I thought. She had to spend her birthday in a hospital giving birth." What I didn't realize is that giving birth was the cool part - it was the eating hospital food for one's birthday that was really crummy.

As it turns out, she was born in September. On Sunday, September 9, to be precise. Which also happens to be MY birthday.

Other than the fact that last year's birthday present (Woodstock) cost me several thousand dollars and a whole host of medical paperwork nightmares, I shrugged off the combined birthdays. It was, after all, kind of cool to see the State Vital Records guy put on his glasses, scrunch his eyes and say, "is this a typo or was she really born on your birthday?" It was also rather humorous when the pediatric urgent care nurse queried as to whether Woodstock was really nearly 30 - and if so why she was being seen at a pediatric clinic (the result of a bad habit of writing my birthday year instead of hers).

But this morning, I remembered why I didn't want to share a birthday, when Himself asked if I could find a baby sitter for Tuesday night so we could celebrate my birthday.

I started to nod my head. Then I said, "No. I can't. It's Woodstock's birthday too." Yes, she's only a year. Yes, she is not going to remember it. Yes, her "party" was last weekend. But I might as well start making accommodations now.

I'm already going to be on her hit list when she's 13 because we share a birthday, a middle name and nearly identical year-old baby photos (this according to my mother. I haven't seen said photos in so long I can't corroborate this). I don't need to give her any other fodder for what is certainly going to be angst-ridden, teenage rant against the parentals at some point in the next 12 years. *sniff* *poutylowerlip* "You don't love me. You left me with a sitter on my first birthday ever."

There is going to be enough to put me in the teenage "you don't love me" category, I'd rather not add to it quite yet.

Starting next year (I wasn't smart enough to think of it this year), I'm not working on OUR birthday. We'll spend the day together doing something fun. And while I'm not ready to concede spending my birthday at Chuck-E-Cheese (she is, after all, Himself's child too), I really don't mind the idea of celebrating my birthday twice -with Woodstock on OUR birthday with friends/family and with Himself on another day.

After all, Woodstock is the one birthday present that will never get returned, go out of style, get stored in the garage, gather dust or end up in some long-forgotten corner of my memory.

Not a bad birthday present.

The Misfits

(Those of you dying to see Baby Girl, click here for a post which required I use pictures to be able to adequately explain my venture into mobile baby territory).

I met Jane when I was a senior in college. She, a year older (and, she would add "wiser," to which I will concede in areas of somehow knowing the title and author of ever book she's ever read, where to find all of the Sonics on I-95 and how to keep Boris, her now-deceased ancient heap o' metal running for years beyond his prime), was a freshman.

I was a PR major - a transfer from another college with a bad case of senioritis, fresh off my year of "living large" in the DC area and not quite willing to settle down in Happy Valley. She was a twentysomething Freshman with several years of business experience under her belt.

We both lived with relatives in The Tree Streets, a few blocks apart. We met at church, seemingly the only two people who weren't raised in Happy Valley nor were living at home. We were, for lack of better terminology, The Misfits.

We went to the 50-cent movies on Tuesday nights and watched every ridiculous teen movie made that year (It was the year that inspired the parody Not Another Teen Movie). We found every semi-decent restaurant in Happy Valley (which, at the time, was a list that had fewer options than fingers to count them on). When she moved into the Cat Lady's basement, I mourned the fate of having one's house smell like feline urine. When she went to visit her family in California, she introduced me to Trader Joe's - and all its goodness - chocolate cookies, tortellini and a sparkling fruit beverage I haven't had in nearly a decade. I dragged her home one weekend to experience the true Great Outdoors in the southern part of the state.

I graduated and fled East. She, needing a major that didn't involve calculus, chose mine. We compared notes. She came to visit my beach-side home (Beach-side as in "apartment near the beach" not "home ON the beach") and was the recipient of my infamous "DC in less than 24 hours" tour, including a wild drive-by of the White House.

Several years later, she called "Know of a place to live? I'm moving to DC." I called Himself who said, "We have a second master suite we can't afford." And we became roommates in an odd set of circumstances.

Together we've explored shared passions for road trips, free tickets to anything that might be remotely labeled "cultured", used book sales, the McLean Community Flea Market, Bilbo Baggins, breakfast at Eastern Market, Sonic Strawberry Limeades, Restaurant Week, Law & Order anything, Project Runway, and finding obscure things to do in DC - like the White House garden tour.

Jane learned that Himself and I would work for food - and we greedily ate up her offers to pay us in Chipotle, Bilbo Baggins and Thai takeout to clean her bathroom, detail her car, help her replace Boris (aforementioned heap o' metal) and more. She and Himself delighted in teasing me about things about which I had no idea (usually involving things I really did not end up wanting to know. She endeared herself to Son for life - aiding and abetting his love for all things McDonalds.

I left her double-stuffed Chocolate oreos alone (except while pregnant) and she remained apathetic about my shrimp obsession, leaving more of our individual loves for both of us.

She loves the One True Grocery at least as much as I do, and frequently now rubs it in that she lives very near it, while I live thousands of miles away.

We talked business strategy and swapped managerial horror stories (we shared not only the same degree from the same university, but a shared dabbling in real estate at one point) and collectively drove Himself up the wall. In turn, Himself loved Jane for mellowing me out, satisfying my need to feel cultured (Himself would rather stick needles in his eyes than attend a symphony) and for keeping me from whining about not having any friends (which I now do with alarming regularity).

Jane makes excellent stuffed tomatoes and salsa bread and can cook a full turkey in no time at all. She can recite (nearly from memory) anything written in The Washington Post on any given day and can navigate Georgetown with her eyes shut. "Mileage" has no meaning to her, happily driving Boris' replacement on a whim to visit Mickey Mouse, the Statue of Liberty (twice), Savannah's lush gardens and historical sites, the beaches of North Carolina and dozens of other places up and down the Eastern seaboard. If you had gas money, Jane had transportation.

Even through all of our adventures - we remained The Misfits. Passionately opinionated, ridiculously perfectionist in all things business - we were short and tall, single and married, broke and more broke, the nearly youngest of 9 and the oldest of 4, a night owl and a morning person, a devoted fan of sci-fi and a fan of biographies/nonfiction narratives. One of those friends who hold at least a few embarrassing stories as aces up her sleeve.

Today, Jane is officially OLD.

Happy Birthday! I miss you.

Happy Belated Anniversary Himself

Himself and I went out last night to celebrate our anniversary (which wasn't yesterday, but our sitter will watch Baby Girl on Thursday nights for free, so all "date" type activities occur then). As I sat grazing on sushi, I reflected on the past five years - Himself and I both remarked that it seemed weird that we were "old married people" now.

The past five years have been filled with a roller coaster of complete insanity. Since marrying, we've lived at four different addresses in three cities in two different states. Himself has graduated from school twice, we've had a total of nine different jobs between us and we've been through an alarming number of major life changes - including the birth of Baby Girl.

Himself and I manage to accumulate a lot of odd looks from friends, relatives and acquaintances who ponder out loud on on earth it works for us. We're both stubborn, fiercely independent, hate to be told what to do and passionate. In a lot of ways, we are complete opposites. In other ways, we are exactly alike.

Himself is my very best friend. He is my biggest champion. He is generous (almost to a fault - let's not discuss how he funded my over-the-top Christmas gift of a set of Calphalon pans and accessories) and a quiet champion of anything I set my mind to. He has never batted an eye when I've come up with crazy schemes - even one that cost us several thousand dollars and started us on a financial nightmare. He supports my road trip habit and doesn't try to cage my restless spirit. He offered to leave the entire move to The Frontier up to me to decide, knowing my aversion to moving back. He's my greatest sounding board for my career - always interested in whatever project, goal or career move I'm working on at the moment.

He loves me for who I am - he doesn't care that I hang out at home in flannel pants and a sweatshirt. It doesn't bother him that housekeeping is not a talent I possess. He loves that I don't mind going outside and getting dirty - but that I also have an obsession with high-heels (which has not been fed lately, due to the difficulty of getting Baby Girl interested in a shoe-buying trip). He encourages me to learn and achieve new things, but respects my individuality and independence. He is never critical of the person I am - together we rattle along as a couple of people who love being individuals as much as we love being together as a couple.

In our relationship, he doesn't mind that I have no concept of gender roles, except when it comes to taking out the trash. He loves to celebrate the smallest things and has the wonderful (though detrimental to my morning routine) habit of waking up just before the alarm to cuddle.

He has taught me to be a better cook, inspired me to be a better mother and soothes my ruffled feathers more times than not.

Together, we have adventured to new cities, new places, new careers, new roles.

While I hope the next five years isn't as dramatic, I celebrate the insanity that has come with spending my life, and sharing our daughter, with my best friend.

I love Himself.

Insanity Defined

* 8 days
* 33 hours in a car
* 1 3.5-month-old baby
* 4 snowstorms
* 4 major mountain passes
* 5 interstates, 3 US highways, 1 two-lane roads
* 2 Adults: 1 duffel bag, 1 overnight bag, 1 "entertainment" bag (books, laptop, etc)
* 1 Child: 1 suitcase, 1 overstuffed diaper bag, 1 package diapers, 1 pumping bag (with cooler, pump, bottles), 1 stroller, 1 pack-n-play, 1 carseat with base
* 8 Christmas presents
* 1 mother, 1 step-father, 1 biological father, 1 step-mother, 2 sisters, 2 brothers-in-law, 3 under-three nephews
* 4 states, 2 different destinations
* 2,000 miles (approximately)
* 1 house with no central heat
* 7 visits to Wal-Mart
* 1 movie theater visit
* 4 visits to the local Mexican restaurant
* 1 visit to Cracker Barrel
* 5 hours in Cabela's
* 1 prime rib Christmas dinner preparation, 3 other dinner preparations, 5 breakfast preparations
* $125 in groceries
* 10 packages of peanut butter or cheese crackers consumed
* 1 coconut cream pie preparation
* 1 batch of sadly awful orange rolls
* 4 assorted dogs, 1 cat, 1 baby with allergies
* 5 tanks of gas
* 2 novels and 1 WWII coffee table book read
* 1 misadventure involving a new television set, a 200-mile drive and an itty-bitty back seat
* 3 tired, cranky, ready to get back to real life people
* 100 photos

Visiting the in-laws in Washington state for Christmas: Priceless