The taking of the holiday family portrait…every family has its own traditions.

Or methods.

I wasn’t going to send out Christmas cards this year. For some reason, it just wasn’t a priority of mine. Which is weird for me, because I’m all about the holiday season. I love to decorate. I love to listen to Christmas music. I love to have people over to entertain and I love going to gatherings of people I see only once a year (or less) anymore. And I also have a special place for all of the darling Christmas cards that are sent my way. It’s a prominent place, right in my entry hall, inviting all guests to thumb through them and comment on the creativity and charm of each one.

Therein lies the problem.

Somewhere, out there, other people flip through other people’s cards and give their opinions–and there are some strong ones–about outfits, locations and cuteness of the subjects portrayed on the cards. If those subjects might possibly include members of my clan, then it’s something I get stressed about, as foolish and needless as that may be.

There’s just such pressure out there, and it gets worse every year! Now, not only is it expected to get an adorable photo of well dressed children, there seems to be some sort of bonus level for upping the ante. People don’t just flip through other friends’ cards, they flip the cards overto see whether the card advertises an expensive local photographer or Walgreens.com (the latter of which I’m a huge fan, by the way).

Well, since I don’t have the money for a trendy photographer with a fast photo lens and since a flip through the photos on my hard drive proved I had less to work with there than money in the bank, I decided it just wasn’t worth the hassle this year. For some odd reason, however, Rob talked me into gathering the boys for an amateur (as in me, with my camera and a glass of wine) photo session in front of the Christmas tree. He promised to amuse and entertain the boys into hysterics, which would enable me to get a shot of all three of them smiling and looking in the same direction. Against my better judgement, I sent them to change into something that was relatively coordinated and that suggested Harvard Law School or Capitol Hill rather than the Pre-tween Boy Slacker Association they were currently sporting. After several minutes of whining (them) and coaxing (me), I finally had three scowling future leaders of America reporting for duty in front of our Christmas tree. I got my camera ready for action as  Rob began some kind of  Ancient Moron Ritual Dance in hopes that all three will burst out laughing. I stood as close to him as possible so it would look like the boys were smiling at the camera instead of laughing at their dad who was making a fool of himself inches away…

Attempt #1: Logan and Ryan are indeed laughing and looking right at the camera. Adam is crawling away like a piglet escaping the pen. Discard.

Attempt #2: Logan is smiling politely at the unseen image of his father banging his chest and making gorilla noises, Adam’s amazement at the ridiculousness factor of his father’s actions might be able to be passed off as childhood wonder of Christmas magic and Ryan is grinning from ear to ear–with his finger right up his nose. Discard.

Attempt #3: Ryan and Adam are both looking especially angelic…Ryan even kind of has his arm around Adam’s shoulder. Awwww. Except that Logan is scowling and has tears of frustration in his eyes because “this is taking too long and this shirt is choking me”. Discard.

Attempts 4-9: It’s really anyone’s guess what’s going on in these shots. They’re too blurred from everyone moving around, plus the fact that the camera lady (read: myself) has been gulping wine from her glass on the side table a little too much at a time and her hands (and nerves) are starting to get a bit shaky. If I were able to produce sound from these shots, one would hear an increasingly hoarse Rob growl like a lion, breathe like Darth Vader and even caw like a crow. All this in hopes that they’ll just smile. At the same time. While looking in the same general direction. And not move even one inch.

Attempt # 10: The only thing that seems to snap here is Rob, who loses his mind, curses, threatens, slams the wall and informs all of them that they’ll sleep in the garage if they don’t get their s–t together.

Which causes them to completely collapse with laughter.

And enables me to get the shot I’d been trying to get for the past hour.

 Happy Holidays from Hillary and Family!

Everything I know worth knowing, I learned either as a child or from a child.

Lessons in Life, Dreams: Don’t give up on your dreams. Set them aside and try again later. If you can’t skip a rock on a pond in the summer, try in the winter when the pond is frozen over.

Rocky has always been ‘out skipped’ by her siblings, but the other day we actually lost count of the number of times her rock skipped (bounced) on the icy pond. It had to have been some kind of record!

“Congratulations!”

“What a blessing!”

“It’s meant to be! God doesn’t give you more than you can handle!”

Yeesh.

It’s been almost 2 months since I found out about our impending Wee Thing and what a ride it’s been! I’d say that if we’re going by the stages of grief, I’ve been working my way through denial, anger and grief.  The question, “how’re you feeling?” elicits a perfect combined response in me of 1) “I feel like crap, how the hell do you THINK I feel?”, 2) “Please let’s just not talk about it and gee, look over there! Dust bunnies!”and finally 3) “Oh god, why did you have to bring it up? I need to go cry in a dark place now”.

As much as I appreciate all the attempts to put a bright spin on this unexpected baby, I’m just not there yet. Reality? Ok, yeah, I’ve come to accept that much. Christmas miracle, child of destiny gifted to me from on high? Ummm… no. I don’t go in for “meant to be”. Free will and chance rule the world, bad AND good things happen to bad AND good people and it’s got nothing to do with some massive puppeteer.  Stuff just happens. The trick is how you handle it.

 I’m working on that bit. 

However, as the worst nausea seems to be letting up, with it goes some of my bitterest feelings and fears. Three kids will definitely be a challenge, but you know what? I think I’ll do ok. I can learn to maneuver a minivan (probably). The grocery store will be a trick, but I’ll figure it out. (On a side note, one of my favorite things I’ve heard is how easy it will be with the baby because Anna’s starting kindergarten in the fall and will practically not exist. She’s going to school part of the day, my friends, not getting her own apartment. I will still have three children.) The hardest part to come to terms with is what this does to my life, long term. MY life, not the family, not my husband, not even my kids, just ME.

Everything’s on hold again, everything’s set back. That famed Next Phase of motherhood where independence and personal goals would become more attainable… that’s all going to have to wait. Starting over again is a real blow. The spectre of a relapse of PPD in subsequent pregnancies is a documented reality.  We are trying not to focus on it too much while at the same time making sure to take necessary steps to be prepared, but it still kind of sucks to have it be an issue again at all. I like my psychiatrist and all, but I was happy with seeing him once or twice a year as opposed to the every 4-6 weeks he’s recommended starting in my third trimester.

But I’m not so angry anymore (except when I have to get up and put on the super-stretchy pants).  Maybe I’ve moved on to acceptance? It is exciting to think about a baby. The girls are thrilled and that is contagious. While Christmas shopping I wandered through the baby clothes section at Target and felt giddy at the tiny cuteness of it all. At night I fall asleep with my hands resting on the growing curve of my belly. It’s getting easier to see what I’m gaining instead of just what I’m losing. I’m really looking forward to that moment when I can feel that baby move, as if to say, ”hello, we’re gonna be just fine. See? KICK!”.

Until then, I think I’ve got bargaining to work through. However, if this case it’s working in my favor… “OK, well, if I really am going to do this thing, then it’s ok for me to eat this huge bowl of french fries, right? If I have to wear stretchy pants, anyway, I mean…”

Maybe that’s the real Christmas miracle here– finding out that it isn’t all quite so desperate as it seemed.

Today is the first day of my Christmas vacation…and am I sitting back with my feet up and a novel, next to a crackling fire?  Of course not!  I’m doing 18 loads of laundry and packing umpteen suitcases for our trip to Paris.  This is the first I’ll be able to see my boy since he was abruptly taken from me by those evil college people.  Since I haven’t had the privilege of being able to feed, console, do laundry for, or do anything for since he left me bereft and sobbing into my wine, I’m looking forward to spoiling him.  I made a grocery run and have almost two suitcases filled with non-perishable items and things for his apartment (he has 1 steak knife and 1 spatula, that’s it).  During our video conferences I’ve witnessed his attempts at cooking and, well, he needs some help.  I had to chuckle as I packed thinking I’m just a grocery-deliverer and not a family poised to celebrate the holidays in France! 

Needless to say I’m worried about everything: the apartment not working out, the weather being horrible, the girls not eating anything, getting lost, spending too much (a given), being stopped in customs and strip-searched because I’m smuggling copious amounts of tuna and mayo out of the country. 

However, I also feel like a kid the night before Christmas, skipping around the house like an idiot (only the dogs can see me), whistling Christmas tunes and looking so forward to hugging my oldest child.

Happy Holidays!

Dear Santa,

Listen up Mister, I’ve been a mother for 25 years and I am putting my foot down once and for all.  I am tired of YOU getting ALL the credit for MY hard work!

You don’t spend the entire year making toys in your toy shop for good boys and girls, Mattel and Hasbro do, and then I have to hazard the crazed hoards of other parents in search of the perfect toy for Little Jimmy and Little Suzy, I fore go meals of substance and settle for bologne sandwiches in the months leading up to Christmas so I can afford these toys which YOU DO NOT provide for free.  I stay up until 3am Christmas morning wrapping said toys and fall into bed only to be awaken a short hour later by my excited children exclaiming ‘Santa was here, Santa was here!’

Never again!  This year all of the tags on the brightly and meticulously wrapped presents will bear my name.  Mom.  There will be nothing under the tree suggesting that you had any part in the gift giving.  Your days of glory are over Bucko, so put this in your pipe and smoke it!

Sincerely, Mom~

ps: Merry Christmas!