House Baking

Sometimes, I catch my brain before it engages my mouth and says something I know I am going to be paying for in droves.  Other times, I don't.  This was one of them.

 

 

Now, that is one pretty stellar gingerbread house, if I do say so myself.  It was even edible.  But, I really, really didn't intend to make it.

 

See, I was innocently putting away dishes from the weekend Christmas lunch we held for Mike's side of the family and it seemed to me that this was a good opportunity to rearrange some of the serving platters and plates that weren't going back into storage as easily as they were previously stored.

 

That led me to rearrange some baking goodies, pans, molds, decorating tips, etc., which caused me to  rediscover that, sometime in the 1990s, I bought this little gingerbread mold at a Pampered Chef party.  A mold I completely forgot I bought.  A mold I had never used.  A mold that, for all I knew, was now a collector's piece.

 

I took one look at it and exclaimed, aloud, "I should make one of these some time." 

 

If Mike had been within earshot, there would have been silence (because he didn't hear me) or "Make what?" (because he was partially listening to me) or "Sounds good" (because he wanted it to seem like he was listening, even though he really wasn't).  But, I was within a few feet of the Babe at the time, and he thought making a gingerbread house was exactly what a snowy, after-gifts-are-opened-and-I'm-bored, lazy Christmas afternoon needed.  

 

I often go kicking and screaming into projects that start as a few misspoken words voiced in front of an enthusiastic, pre-pubescent, short-attentioned person.  These adventures always seem to start as "ours" and end as "mine" and about 2/3 of the way through I'm cursing up a blue streak that I just couldn't remember silence is golden.  So, generally, after speaking too quickly I come up with so many excuses reasons why my prematurely spoken idea was stupid beyond belief that the entire project ends up not just being something we shelve for later but that we'll never, ever, again speak of in this lifetime because it might scar Momma to even think on it for one more second.

 

Yes, I have the capacity to kill fun ideas with great skill and cunning, in a few short sentences.  It is a gift.  Please don't be jealous.

 

For some reason, call it the Christmas Spirit, I decided a gingerbread house baked and built and decorated in 2012 was exactly what we needed.

 

We baked.  And cooled.  And made the wrong kind of frosting.  And discovered gingerbread houses can be held together with four strategically-placed toothpicks (which we also discovered should be removed before eating).  And we decorated with old Halloween candy mixed with leftovers from holiday parties and one new bag of day-after Christmas M&Ms.  And decided that decorating one side of the house for a picture was better than decorating all the sides, which wouldn't even show, thank you very much.

 

And, less than 24 hours later after making the piece-de-resistance, the boys demolished the whole thing into a pile of molasses, candy, and butter cream frosting rubble and began nibbling on it in earnest.

I think I decided this is a post-Christmas tradition we may have to carry forward to next year.  Even though I did most of the work, I actually found it quite relaxing and fun.  And, look at that proud smile on the Babe's face!  Could you resist him asking you to make a gingerbread house?  I think not.

But, hear me loud and clear on this:  I am NOT going to announce this as an annual tradition just yet.  We'll see what happens next year and maybe even the year after that before I pronounce that I will go to this much trouble for a cute picture and a sugar-high again.

 

So, for now, happy post-Christmas tradition-making baking!  And, remember:  sometimes silence ISN'T better than words, especially if your fat mouth ends up making your kid's holiday brighter.

Christmas 2012

Christmas 2012 will go down in the history books for two very important reasons:
1.  It was the year Santa was "outed"
2.  It was the first year I can remember, in my 25 years in Dallas, that we had snow in Dallas on Christmas Day

Somewhere last night, long about 10:30pm, when I was starting to wilt and little eyes hadn't completely shut for the evening, I unpacked a large box containing one of the "big" Santa gifts.  I deposited that box amongst several others, at the foot of our bed, figuring I would break them down for the recycle bin in the morning.

What I didn't factor into the equation is that the boys would be woken by an after midnight thunderstorm and toss and turn until they popped out of bed at 3:40a.m.;  they proceeded to wake me and Mike up and, for some stupid reason, we decided it was the better part of valor to actually acquiese.  A return to bed about 25 minutes later meant about four more hours sleep and a completely blurry morning, including amnesia about the box.

And when The Babe returned to our room to watch the Disney Parade in bed with us, he eventually made his way to the edge of the mountain of boxes and observed that the scooter brother was riding around the house* was from a box that came from the pile.  That's when he declared "WHY IS THAT BOX IN YOUR ROOM IF SANTA BROUGHT IT?!"

My mindset has always been to keep my kids in la-la land regarding the truth behind Santa until I was good and ready for them to know the truth.  I've been known to answer questions about Santa with "What do you think?" and weigh the answer with a "HMMMM" and a "I understand that you will always receive gifts from Santa as long as you believe."  Generally, that has bought me little backtalk and even less resistance and a knowing smile, as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Since this was my last "unaware" child, and he had caught me red-handed, and I already managed to get eight pictures of him, ignorant, on Santa's lap, I asked him if he REALLY wanted to know.  He simply shook his head "yes".

So, I started with the real history of the real Saint Nick, explaining that there was a generous person, back in the day, who took pity on those less fortunate than him.  A man, I continued, who we should all try to imitate, whose memory and legacy is worth repeating.

I fast forwarded to the fact that reindeer really DO live at the North Pole and that, in 1822 when a little poem named "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" was penned, that reindeers and sleighs became magical.

And then I dropped the bomb, asking who HE thought Santa Claus was.  He pointed at me, smiling, and I shook my head in confirmation.  His eyes kind of lit up and he said "That's what I thought!", almost proud of the fact that he had connected the dots and figured out the mystery.

The next few minutes were kind of a blur because I realized that my days of hoofing it to NorthPark for the sole purpose of standing in a much-too-long-line for much-too-much-time in the late December crowds were probably over.  I fast forwarded to the next time I could reasonably expect to have a little body in the family who was excited for Santa to come and thought about how long it would be before I'd be a Grandmother.

And I told The Babe, through tear-filled eyes, that I still believe in Santa, because Santa is all about giving from the heart to people, especially people you love.  That, for me, there is no better feeling than the look on some one's face when I hit the mark and made their year complete with what I gave just to them.  That, to me, is the spirit of Santa.

And, like a gift from above, the snow arrived after that.  It reminded me that I might not have Santa in years to come, but there will always be the chance of the unexpected.  It served to move me on to the next thing and to realize that the wonder of Christmas will always be with us, Santa or no.

The real reason for celebrating Christmas lies behind all this.  Strip away all the extras and it is a simple manger and the biggest offering ever made to mankind.  Take away the magical poem and the historical meaning of St. Nick and the beautiful snow and it comes back to the Christ child, quite possibly the most unexpected gift of all. 

Later in the day, Babe returned to me and said "You know, Mom.  Santa will never die because Moms and Dads will always be around." True that fact buddy.  True that.  Even when they are at home in Heaven, they never truly leave us.

Thanks to God for orchestrating one of the best Christmas Days in recent memory.
 


*Yes, I'm that kind of Mother when the weather isn't pleasant and this is your 'big' gift.

Budding Artists

I am guilty of chucking art projects after staring at them for about 20 seconds.  Think Clark Griswold in the movie "Vacation" staring at the Grand Canyon.  Yup.  A couple of quick knee bends and I'm outta there.  I guess you could say I don't put forth much effort to encourage the inner Rembrandt in my boys.

It's not that I don't appreciate art.  It's just that there seems to be so.darn.much.of.it, especially in those early years.  So, the easiest thing for me has been to appreciate the work in the moment, encourage discussion (so I know what the heck I'm looking at), then set the piece lovingly to the side, where it will be forgotten in a couple of days and I can bury it at the bottom of the trash can where no one, especially the creative genius, will discover it.

Sure, call me a bad Mom, if you like.  But I bet I'm not the only one who a) does this or b) wishes she had thought of doing it or c) wishes she had the ovaries to do it.

So, imagine my complete delight in finding the website artkiveapp.com, a site designed to allow you to share artwork online, save it, and make memory books.

Literally, you snap a picture of the project, store it, then download the pictures, at your leisure, to create a book.  Easy peasy.  Add to that absolutely, positively, no guilt that you are getting rid of the original.  SWEET!  (Pretty soon you'll even be able to create mugs and other items featuring your budding artist's designs.)

If you are inclined, check them out.  Who knows?  Maybe even yours truly will become less of an art Scrooge as a result of this app.