What REALLY goes on behind the scenes of those cute holiday photo cards? Well let me tell ya...

It's time for another installment of Chicky Family Christmas Pictures!

*Thundering cheers*

*Smattering of polite applause?*

*Fine, one lady in the back who wandered in thinking this was a sewing circle and is too embarrassed to leave. Hey lady, there's coffee in the back. Help yourself.*

If you're new to this blog you should know I have a history with photo Christmas cards. I tend to set the bar a little too high for myself, not considering the two sentient beings who are the focus of each card. They have opinions too. And their opinions suck.

But photo cards must be done and they must be perfect! For they are the only proof my children occasionally smile and love each other! Black eyes and scrapes that I Photoshop out notwithstanding.

This year's Christmas card photo session was held over two days. The first, Caroline was having nothing to do with it and screamed the entire time. The second, Caroline was having nothing to do with it and screamed the entire time. The distinction, the first day Caroline was overtired and had a head cold. The second she was being Caroline. Big difference.

On the first day we tried to take pictures of them together:

I will not smile but I will insist on holding this 8 year old dog toy that has been sitting outside for the past year. Later I will lick it when I think you're not looking.

Grimacing is almost like smiling, right?

I believe this move is called the "Step Off, Beeyotch. I'm swinging here."

On day two is was very cold but we decided to push on anyway. You know where this is going right?

I... don't know what to say.

Except, thanks dog! The random tail in the picture gives it visual interest, dontcha think?

I could go on. Forever. But I won't because I'm tired of uploading pictures to gawd damn Blogger.

We tried to take individual pictures, too. We got dozens of pictures like this from Miss I LOVE the camera! Take more pictures of ME:


And we got hundreds of pictures like this of Miss I AM A FIRESTARTER AND ANYONE WHO ANGERS ME SHALL DIE:

Actually, that was a good one. The other ones would eat your computer from the inside.

But in the end, we got our shot and the cards were created and ordered. And there they sit, on my counter, until Santa sends me some of his elves to help address them. Should be any day now.

See? Perfect children being perfectly perfect. No one will ever know! Bwahahahaha! Except all of my friends who read this blog. Shit.

I may have included a little surprise on the back. I just couldn't resist this picture.

But honestly, who could?

We interupt this blog with a special "I Hate Mother's Day" announcement...

I still don't like Mother's Day very much.

However...

There are others who hate it with a white hot fiery passion for reasons only they can explain and those people deserve to be recognized.

*getting on my (wee, tiny) soapbox*

*really, it's more like a palette than a box*

*okay fine, it's a bath mat*

Last year I wrote this post about my feelings about this upcoming Sunday.

(If you haven't figured out what this Sunday is, that would be Mother's Day. Please catch up and don't forget to hold onto your travel buddy's hand. Wouldn't want you to get lost again. Poor dear.)

Since then, many, many people have Googled the words "I Hate Mother's Day" and have ended up here. To you random web searchers, may I offer you a hearty welcome and a scone? Because gurrl, we've all got some issues to work out, now don't we?

As I said last year, I am more than happy to open up this safe place as a virtual support group for fellow pseudo-holiday-for-those-of-the-maternal-persuasion haters. Please, if you're here because you found your fingers flying over your keyboard in a fit of rage, feel free to vent 'til your heart's content.

(Ooh, that rhymed. Sweet.)

You obviously need a space to express your feelings about your mom, your wife, your husband/boyfriend/baby daddy, or yourself and motherhood as a whole. I applaud you for having the guts to write it out, even if you did so anonymously. I hope it helped a little. Here, that scone wasn't very big. Have a cookie.

If, however, you feel more comfortable lurking in the shadows might I suggest you have a gander at some other, very passionate comments on that post and know you are not alone.

Or if you're one of those well-adjusted types - I hear rumors of that strange breed walking amongst us, those with not a hint of chip on their shoulder or darkness in their heart - maybe you could impart some wisdom upon those of us who would like a glimpse into the mind of someone who doesn't go through the day with a grudge, a whimper or a sigh.

As for me, when I used the word "hate" I may have overstated my feelings. Mother's Day makes me sad and I hate to be sad, but I can't hate a day set aside to honor those women who nurture and love those in their care either through biology or other avenues. I can hate the hype but I don't hate the day. Besides, today is beautiful and it's hard to muster such strong feelings of loathing when the sun is shining and the air is warm.* And my husband sent me cupcakes. Diamonds may be a girl's best friend but cupcakes make me smile too. They don't make me sparkly but they make my stomach happy.

So please, go, vent, bitch, cry... Whatever you need to do. Or leave kind, reassuring words. It's all very cathartic, ain't it?



*If you're wondering where the glass-is-half-empty Tania is, come see me tomorrow when it's dark and stormy and I have a cupcake tummy ache. I don't think this life is beautiful crap is going to stick.

Some might call it luck, I call it threats of dismemberment.

Only seven more days until Christmas, and you know what that means...

Um, no. I mean, yes. But no, I'm talking about something else. Try again.

Well yeah, that too. But that's still not what I'm referring to. One more guess.

You've got a point. But no... Let me help you out. What's 4x6, comes in your mailbox and causes me great fits of angina every year?

Right! Holiday cards! You're so smart.

Every year I have a slight (read: HUGE. MASSIVE. EPIC.) hissy fit trying to get the perfect photo for our holiday cards. I don't know why, it's just what I do.

Except this year it was remarkably pain free. On a beautiful warm day in November, Mr. C and I dressed the girls up in matching clothes, brushed and washed them until they sparkled and then propped them up on a rock in our yard in the hope we would get one picture where they weren't pulling each others hair and no one was missing an eyeball. I positioned them, threatened them with bodily harm if they moved and then stood back, screaming "TAKE THE FREAKING PICTURE!!" at my husband while the kids planned their first trips to the therapist in their heads.

And wouldn't you know, the first picture we took was a keeper. Not just a keeper, but suitable for framing. It was the first damn picture we took! We were so ahead of the game, it was spooky.

I know. Where's the drama? Where's the goofy faces? Where's the screaming??

Well, there was screaming but that was coming from me. Come to find out, scaring your kids silly will result in a good holiday card picture.

*jots that down in my "Things to always remember" book*

So without further ado, I give you our family's 2009 Holiday Card.

The bottom is cut off because I wanted to gray out our names but my computer hates me and Photoshop especially hates me today so I just did a hack job on it and... Let's move on before I throw this piece of hardware against the wall.

I know, you're just as disappointed as I am. They actually look happy! They're smiling. No one is trying to kill the other. How am I supposed to be expected to work under these conditions??

It's bad enough that I've become one of those people who dress their kids up in matching outfits, but now I have a decent photo card. Next year I'm sticking them with pins.

I'm sorry Chicklets, if you want holiday drama with a side of conniption fits I suggest you go here first to read our history of the holiday photo session, then try this post, this one, finally ending with this one. I reread them because all of this happy happy made my left eye twitch.

God bless us, everyone. Now where's the nog?

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In other news, I'm writing with more regularity. But it's not here. It's there. I'd love to know how you feel about perpetrating the Santa lie myth with your kids because I'm having a little bit of a hard time with that one.

I hate Mother's Day and I don't think I'm the only one

I hate Mother's Day.

There, I said it. I hate this damn "holiday". I hate being reminded that my mom isn't around anymore. I hate every PR pitch about it that finds its way into my inbox (but I do take a perverse satisfaction out of deleting each and every one without even opening them. Take that, suckas.). I hate the media blitz surrounding this upcoming Sunday. I hate the television commercials with the happy smiling family and the "You rock, Mom!" recordable greeting cards. I hate going into a Hallmark store and being assaulted with colorful drawings of tulips and sappy sentimental reminders to "Remember Mom!!" with multiple exclamation points. I even hate the exclamation points because they're associated with the sentiment. And I generally like exclamation points. But this week I'd like to forget that bit of punctuation exists.

Yeah, that's hate for you.

I've sat down this week to try to write at least 10 different posts about Mother's Day and they all went straight into the trash after the first few painful lines. I've tried to write one post in particular, even working on four or five drafts of a story I feel needs to be written, only to put it aside to revisit at another, less brittle time. Mostly I've just skulked around the internet or avoided it, and other forms of communication, all together until I can act less like a person you'd like to jab with a pointy stick. That should happen sometime on Monday.... Maybe. I make no promises so have your pointy sticks ready just in case.

While I spent this week sighing and sulking I got to thinking - I can't be alone in my hatred for Mother's Day, can I? There must be others out there who feel the same. I cannot believe I'm the only one because, dude, that would be bad.

So I decided to start an online I Hate Mother's Day support group. Mostly to make myself feel better but also, because I love you. Yes you, over there throwing darts at that FTD florist mailer.

How about it? If you hate Mother's Day for ANY REASON let me know in the comments. And please leave your reason for hating it. Maybe your husband buys crap gifts, or no gifts at all, for you and you're pretty close to shoving him in front of a bus. Maybe your wife makes a ridiculously big deal about being honored and you'd like to shove her in front of a bus. Maybe your mother is a shrew and it kills you to suck it up and play nice for one day out of the year and you'd like to.... You know. Bus. Shove. Splat.

(All metaphorically speaking, of course. We at Chicky Chicky Baby do not endorse the shoving of loved ones in front of buses. Sub-compacts, maybe. But not buses.)

Whatever the reason, leave it here and I'll keep an ongoing link list of those (or do it anonymously, this is a safe place) who dare to say:

"I hate Mother's Day and I'm not going to take it anymore!!"

Hey there, I just used exclamation points. I must be feeling better already.

(Even if you slightly dislike Mother's Day, you can share that too. Misery meet company, company meet misery. Aw look at that, they're hitting it off already.)

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Wow, who knew so many of you hated Mother's Day?

Hello to all of you who Googled "I Hate Mother's Day" and found yourself here. You're in good company so even if you don't feel like leaving a comment (and I know you're there, I can see you. Hi! *waving*), pull up a seat and grab a cup of joe (It's dark, strong and slightly bitter - just like I like my men) because there are a LOT of us.

As promised, these are the people (so far, it's not too late to join the party) who had no problem declaring their hatred for Mother's Day, not including the bunches of commenters who decided to be anonymous (Hey, they have their reasons. I don't judge.):

Misconceptions about Conception
The New Girl
Jodifur
The Redneck Mommy
Flutter
My Bliss
Outdoor Dogs
Amber
Foop

And these are the ones who are just kind of "Eh, whatever. Sometimes it sucks, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I have trouble deciding what I want for lunch":

Red Headed Wonder
Southern Domestic Goddess
All Things BD
A Moment Captured
KittenPie
Write From Karen
Barking Mad
Spinning Yellow
BOSSY

I think the fish may be on to something

If you've been blogging for any length of time and are experiencing a bit of writer's fatigue, I highly recommend taking an unscheduled vacation from your blog. Sure, it may have lasted longer than I had told myself it would, like, oh, a week longer, but it was fantastic. Even slightly restful.

I'd be lying if I said that it was just blog burnout, however. The ice storm sorta screwed me up. Then there was Christmas and all that entailed (please don't get me started, let's just hold hands and praise Jesus that the holidays are over). And during the month of December C.C., in all her squishable glory, thought that fucking with my mind would be the perfect gift for the mom who has everything so she sprouted two teeth and chewed the pink right off my nipples. And she sits unassisted. And she pulls herself up into a standing position. Then, the coup de grace - two days before Christmas she decided that rolling under couches was just not extreme enough so she learned how to crawl. Then she learned to crawl fast. I think my head just exploded. Sorry about the mess.

Also, we're fish-sitting. You know what a pain in the ass fish can be. Demanding food, drinking all the booze, swimming in their own waste.

That's not water he's swimming in. That's gin. He already ate the olive.

Oh, and Chicky turned into Satan. That's been fun.

But let's not look back with resentment and disgust through the bottom of an empty wine glass. It's almost a new year! Let's look back on the happy times, such as they were, with this really contrived "2008 in Review" post.

Oh yes, let's.

- We kicked off 2008 looking for a new house. We even put a down payment on a piece of land and then promptly decided that new construction sucks donkey balls. We finally settled on one. Now we just need to work on our timing.

- There were some good parts to my recent pregnancy. Then the ninth month came along. I still can't find where my husband hid the knives.

- The pregnancy hormones didn't just me homicidal, they also made me reflective and a little weepy. But I had some really good reasons. Some really, really good reasons.

- You helped name my baby. That was pretty cool.

- Finally, C.C. made her grand entrance and all was right with the world.

- Okay, not really.

- Wow, it got bad there for awhile. Really bad.

- 2008 was the year some bitch well-intentioned lady made me consider Botox. I still hate her.

- This was the year I opened up about my secret blogging to my friends. I'm still trying to decide if I'm comfortable with that decision.

- My dog got sick. That was scary, 'cause I loves my dog.

- Speaking of dogs, I got all Alpha Bitchy and self righteous on your ass about those of the canine persuasion. For good reason, of course.

- Chicky turned three. She learned to love the Ramones. She barely escaped death at the hands of her mother. Seriously. Barely. But then we have a tender moment and it's as if the clock has been reset. She should consider herself lucky.

- But most importantly, nobody died.

So there you have it - 2008, Chicky style. I'm hoping 2009 brings me my mind back (More on that tomorrow. Or maybe the next day because of the whole lost mind thing.) but I'm really hoping you and yours have a healthy and happy New Year.

Now go drink some champagne or something. I need to wrestle mine away from the damn fish.

Read this before getting that Christmas puppy.

What could be more quintessentially Christmas-y than giving little Billy and Sally an adorable fluffy puppy on Christmas morning? It's a Hallmark moment waiting to happen. The excitement on their little faces when you hand over a box (with holes punched into it, of course, because no holes would really result in a gift that kept on giving... In therapy bills.) and out pops the sweetest little puppy face and two Frito-scented puppy paws that rest on the edge of the box. The image is almost Rockwellian, to the point where the cuteness quotient kicks your gag reflex into overtime.

The children, now so overjoyed with the Best. Christmas. Present. EVER throw themselves into your arms, declaring you the best parent a kid could ever have and then immediately set about procuring water, kibble and special treats for the puppy. They banter good naturedly about what to name their new friend. They spend hours rolling a ball through the house for the pup to retrieve (because he is a natural retriever, isn't he? Even if he's an 8 week old Yorkie who is smaller than your average tennis ball.), and take turns stroking his soft fur until all three of them, Billy, Sally, and little Elmo (Hey, don't look at me. You let the kids name him.), fall fast asleep in front of the Christmas tree.

It's such a special image. It's enough to make you throw up in your mouth a little, isn't it?

Now let me tell you what will probably happen if you buy your kids a puppy for Christmas.

First, no reputable and ethical breeder in their right mind would sell you a Christmas puppy. Ditto for reputable and ethical shelters. As a friend who used to work in an animal shelter told me when we were discussing animals as presents, the shelter she worked for had this rule:

"No black cats adopted near halloween, no puppies near Christmas, no rabbits near Easter".

The people who breed and/or care for dogs know what a bad idea puppies as presents are, so where would you get a dog that close to a holiday? A pet store. And where do pet stores get their animals? Puppy mills. So not only would you be supporting these establishments and their inhumane ways, but that pup you brought home probably has Kennel Cough or some intestinal parasite. So that box you put little Rover into before giving him to your kids? You might want to check it before taking the puppy out because he probably left you a gift in there. A nice, runny, smelly one. Hope you get some cash for Christmas because you'll need it for the veteranarian bills.

But let's keep the fairy tale alive, shall we? Let's say the puppy is the picture of health. Were you planning on staying home for Christmas or were you planning on running off to Grandma's house? I hope you're staying home because something tells me Granny is going to be none too happy to have a pup peeing on her berber carpets or chewing on her credenza. Oh, you think you're going to leave little Louie the Lab in a crate all day? Sorry, puppies need to be put on a strict eating/drinking/potty break schedule and should not spend any more than four hours in a crate at a time. And for a puppy so young, four hours is really pushing it. Try every two hours. And something tells me Grandma doesn't live next door. I'm sure you'd much rather be enjoying the Christmas festivities from inside a warm house versus outside in the cold looking through the windows while you beg the puppy to hurry up and poop already.

And I mentioned the vet bills if you get a puppy from a pet store but I didn't mention the other vet bills you'll be paying for when Willie the Weimeraner swallows his fourth gift bow complete with six feet of ribbon. That'll be fun to extract. You weren't planning on the kids going to college anyway.

Puppies are cute, puppies are fun, but puppies can also be gigantic pains in the ass when all they want to do is jump on Great Aunt Edna and gnaw on every ankle that walks by. As another blogger said to me, "Christmas puppies are like spur of the moment Vegas weddings. Seems like a great idea at the time, but works out for very few." When the kids realize just how much work is involved in raising this dog they'll be whining about how they also begged you for a Wii but didn't find one of those under the tree. The blush will be off the rose by lunchtime. I hope you like dogs, because that dog is your responsibility. Don't come to me when your kids refuse to take the dog out for a walk. They're kids, you're the adult. You're in charge, they're not. Puppies need training, feeding, watering, grooming and exercise. Daily. You can't expect a seven year old to be responsible enough to care for a dog when the last five goldfish and two hamsters were sent to live on a farm. And is that a puddle of urine over there? Merry Christmas!

Getting a dog is a serious decision that everyone in the family should have a say in. Careful research should be done to find just the right breed or rescue dog to fit your family. Take your time, talk it over and when you do find your forever pet it will be that much more enjoyable. Believe me when I say that your Christmas will be just as special if you give your kids Guitar Hero. And you won't have to worry about a puppy swallowing the new earrings you got from Santa.

The third annual "I can't believe we don't pay someone else to do this" holiday card extravaganza

It's Holiday card time here at Chicky Chicky Baby.

(Heavy emphasis on "Holiday" because I don't want my Jewish friends throwing their latkes at me. Unless my mouth is open. I loves me some latkes.)

That means the photo session from hell. Hurrah!

This year there was the extra added joy of trying to wrangle a constantly rolling baby and positioning her close enough to her sister to get them both in the picture but not so close so that one of them suffocated the other. And by that last bit, I meant keeping Chicky from physicall abusing C.C. We weren't 100% succesful but, hey! Everyone is still alive! It's a freaking Christmas miracle! God bless us everyone.



If you don't know the history of our holiday card tradition you can go here, here and here. The short story is, I'm cheap. Also, I hate having some mall photographer who is making 10 bucks an hour wave a feather duster at my kid's face while making noises similar to those of a choking cat all in the name of getting my child to smile at the camera. I can do that for free.

Besides, the pictures my husband and I take are way better.

I had envisioned taking a family portrait outside the new house but that didn't happen. It was cold and when it's cold my nose gets all red and by God if my nose is all red in a picture it had better be because I have some gin in me. So we decided to throw a white sheet down on the ground, lay the girls on it and have Mr. C take the pictures while I acted like a doofus behind him.

It seemed good in theory.

Chicky was so into it this year. Can't you tell? Or maybe it was the mickey I slipped her ten minutes before we started.

Here, Chicky impersonates that Christmas favorite - Big Mouth Billy Bass, singing "If I Pretend To Like My Sister Will You Buy Me a Pony?"

"Haaaaaah-lleh-luuuu-jaaaaah!"


Chicky: "If they think I'm asleep, maybe they'll just go away and take their camera with them."
C.C.: "What is that crazy broad doing back there? Dude, wake up. Our mom's finally lost it."

However, my husband, my wonderful, precious, darling husband whom I love more than all others except for our wonderful, precious, darling offspring is a total stressbag when it comes to taking his kids' picture. Or anything that involves both his kids, now that I think about it. About five minutes into our photo session he was stammering and sweating and frankly some words were starting to come out of his mouth that even I was impressed with, so to save some money on future therapy bills I took over. Thirty seconds later I had this year's card.


It's just this side of cheesy to me - I mean, we're in danger of putting Olan Mills out of business - but it's done.

Hallelujah and pass the gin.

My faith in humanity has been restored. No, really.

This year I really wanted an Advent calendar so Chicky and I could count down the days to Christmas together. And so the two of us would have an excuse to get a piece of chocolate every day for 25 days all in the name of the holidays.

I searched online for the perfect Advent calendar; a calendar I would want to keep for awhile and something the kids would be excited about taking out year after year. And I searched. And searched. Some of the ones I found were really... Jesus-y. They looked like my Catholic upbringing had thrown up all over them. You could practically see the guilt. Seriously. They stressed me out.

Others were too childish. I know the calendar is supposed to be for the kids but it has to live in my house, so Disney Advent Calendars were not even considered. That goes double for anything with a princess on it. I don't know about you, but a Princess Advent calendar just doesn't scream Christmas to me. It screams "You're the mother to two girls! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!", but it doesn't scream Christmas.

So I did what most people do these days when faced with a challenge - I bitched about it on Twitter.

The response I got was overwhelming. Within minutes I had all sorts of suggestions from the people who live in my computer. I love Twitter. Twitter completes me. So do the people who live in my computer. And the voices in my head. They're pretty cool too.

Then a certain lovely lady suggested I make one. Um, make? I'm sorry, that does not compute. Like with my hands? And glue? Did she not see what happens when I attempt to get crafty? I couldn't craft my way out of a paper bag with a hot glue gun and pinking shears with Martha Stewart personally giving me directions.

So she offered to make one for me. It just came today:


Pretty sure I Squee'd when I opened it. And I don't Squee. Unless I'm drinking, but since it arrived this morning I was still relatively sober when I opened it.

I gave her dog training advice, she gave me a handmade advent calendar. I think I got the better end of the deal.

Thanks, PGoodness! You've convinced me that not all people suck. Most do, but not all and certainly not you.

(And Happy Birthday, girlfriend. You don't look a day over 25.)

Gobble Gobble

I'm thankful for first hand-print-turkey pictures.



(And, dude, she totally can write her own name. It looks a little funny but that's definitely her name. My baby, she is obviously brilliant.)

(And and, I about wet myself with glee when I saw this picture in her mailbox at preschool. Next up, macaroni picture frames!)

(And and and, those lines coming out of the turkey's butt? Chicky informed me that those are the turkey's tail and not the turkey trots.)

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. And to my Canadian and European friends, Happy Thursday.

Chef Boy-ar-You-Cute

The French Chef. All she needed was an empty wine bottle. Bon App*hic*etit.

And her sister, the Great Cheeky Pumpkin.

I'm proud of Chicky. She decided way back in August what she wanted to be this Halloween.

"Mommy, I want to be a *mumble mumble*-ooker.

"A what?"

"A *mumble*-ooker.

"A hooker??"

"No, a COOKER."

"Oh, a cooker. You mean, a chef."

"Yeah, a chef. Like the ones we see on the television. The ones who cook the food."

"Okay, you can be a chef this year." Whew, dodged a bullet there.

"What's a hooker?"

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There's still a little bit of time to enter Parent Bloggers Network's and Blurb.com's Blog Blast. Check out PBN's blog for more details.

Santa Claus and other lies we tell our kids

(No, no baby yet. I'm about to start doing jumping jacks to get this baby moving. And if one more person says to me "Oh, no baby yet, huh? What are you waiting for?" I'm going to bump them with my incredibly firm belly. Until then, I need something to take my mind off of my discomfort and pain so I'll write about other stuff. I do this for you, to save you from having to read my bitching. You can thank me later.)

There are plenty of things I have no problem telling Chicky.

Eat your vegetables. Brush your teeth. Don't hit the cat. I'll always love you. Things like that.

But there are other, more abstract concepts that I have an amazingly hard time talking with my child about.

Your grammy, my mom, is in heaven. Your grandma and grandpa go to church on Sundays to pray to God. God? He's up in heaven too. Uh, yeah. That's what we're supposed to believe, I guess.

Religion, in general, is difficult for a woman like myself who made a conscious break from it years ago to talk about with an impressionable three year old. But I believe that children need something to believe in, whether it be religion or fairy tales. Or religion based on fairy tales.

Immaculate conception? Really?

Children need something to hold on to in times of stress or turmoil. They need something to be happy about and to look forward to. That's childhood, for chrissake. So in the past year we've started using the concept of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I'm not sure if my husband has a position on this because we've never really discussed it, at least not without much eye rolling on his part, but I made a conscious effort to incorporate these made up characters into Chicky's vernacular. It's not like I bring it up all the time. You know, it wasn't some random Thursday in February when I said, Have I told you the story of the big rabbit who leaves chocolate eggs for us to find? I think I waited until two days before Easter this past year to even bring it up. I could almost see the wheels turning in Chicky's head. Especially since the only thing she's ever seen a rabbit leave is little pellets of poop. And I've made it perfectly clear those are NOT edible.

But in much the way I have difficulties discussing a higher power with Chicky I find myself tripping over the words "Easter Bunny" and choking on the stories of the fat man in red coming down the chimney to bring good little boys and girls presents. It feels like I'm lying - hell, I am lying, let's be honest - but I will continue to keep up the charade even if it doesn't come naturally to me because my children deserve the wonderment that accompanies these deceptions. And I need an excuse to lord power over my children with a simple threat of "Santa won't come if you don't clean up your toys".

The way I see it, my kids will have less than a decade in their lives to believe that benevolent bearded men bring gifts just for eating a few more peas from their plate. That's pretty cool. I wish someone could make me believe that there was a spa fairy or that, maybe, there was a giant fuzzy beast who magically left bottles of wine at my doorstep.

I say less than a decade because most kids don't really grasp the idea of Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy until they're over the age of three. After that there are few precious years before television or some bratty kid on the playground (or an older sister, maybe. Not that I'm pointing any fingers) teaches my kids their mother and father were responsible for taking baby teeth and leaving a buck under the pillow. And honestly when that happens, it was probably time anyway. At some point they need to know that life is kinda sucky and disappointment is something they need to learn to deal with.

Which leads me to the reason for this post. Finally.

Mr. C works with two people who have daughters who are well into puberty and, as far as their parents are concerned, the kids STILL BELIEVE IN SANTA. These people see no reason to start telling their eleven, twelve, fourteen year old kids (uh huh, fourteen years old) the truth about who was leaving presents under the tree. Call me cynical, but if you're old enough to have a menstrual cycle I think you're old enough to deal with this cold hard fact.

It makes me wonder who is worried about who would suffer more? Kids are resilient and they roll with changes, for the most part. But parents can live for the rest of their lives with the guilt of disappointing their kids just once. It makes me want to shake these people. Deal with it! I want to yell at them. It's just like ripping off a band-aid, we don't want to cause our kids pain but it needs to happen and sometimes the faster or sooner the better.

Is it just me? Is it my hang-ups stopping me from being happy for these kids who still get to live a bit of the fairy tale? Or is there a cut off point, an arbitrary age depending on the child, where they need to grow up a little? When do we as parents stop perpetrating the myth that magical beings exist and teach our kids that it's okay to start believing in what's real, even if what's real is kind of crummy sometimes?

And don't even get me started on the Holy Spirit. To me it's like ROUS's. I don't believe it exists.

Because on a day like today everything eventually ends up in the toilet

Dear Neighboring Town with the monster-sized potholes that nearly swallowed my husband's car whole -


You'll be paying for at least one new rim and one new tire. If not for the whole set of rims because, apparently, they don't make this style anymore. Just be happy you won't be paying for my therapy because I thought for sure the road had opened up and was about to swallow me and my daughter and bring us into the inner depths of hell.

Now, go fix your messed up roads before someone really gets hurt.

F*ck you very much,

The Chickys

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Today is St. Patrick's Day. I won't be drinking any green beer or eating any corned beef and cabbage because I'm pregnant. I can't drink and cabbage is not advisable at this point. Not if anyone wants to be in the same house with me anyway.

Massachusetts is one of the St. Paddy's Day capitals of the United States but I am of Scottish/English descent so it seems like a slap in my ancestors' faces to celebrate. Not being Irish I've never really celebrated this holiday but my husband is a quarter Irish so I guess I've had a bit of the Irish in me. Heh. Maybe I'll go crazy and wear green socks today. Or eat green jelly beans.

But I stop at the leprechauns. They freak me out.




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Chicky will be three years old in one month and she is not yet potty trained. She's close, so close, but she's not quite there yet.

Maybe I should send her to Potty School?