What Is It About Blood, That You Can't Just Let It Go?

I think my earliest memory of him, I was probably around eight or so. I was spending time at his actual house, which was rare. Generally, we would have visits at my grandparents' house, with my grandparents filling in the gaps where conversation should go. He never was an every-other weekend kind of parent; but, of course, that could have been because he lived so far away.

On this occasion, he was working on some sort of deck, and I "helped." Mostly, I played with the pretend family of beavers that were living under the pile of wood. I don't remember doing any of the cutting, measuring, hammering... But maybe bitterness erased it all from my mind. I do remember trying to think of things to say to him; what could I do to make him like me?

We went to a Bluegrass Festival, and I was, understandably, bored out of my mind. I know he was just trying to think of things to do with me, but I really would have preferred putt-putt golf, which was a new thing then, or even just playing a game of go-fish. He didn't know me, though, or what I liked to do. I didn't know him either, and I remember trying very hard just to seem like a good kid.

And so it went, for many years, this strange, awkward "relationship," where we didn't know one another, but felt obligated to spend time together. I now wonder, if my grandmother hadn't been alive, would there be any memories at all? As I got older, there were a few good ones: riding shotgun in my grandparents' RV as he drove (lightning exploded a tree in front of us and I thought Grams would have a stroke, but we were cracking up about Hubba Bubba soda), making a puppet out of a crutch, him teaching me to drive a stick shift. Mostly, we were two strangers, going along, making the best of it, both clinging to the one thing that tied us together: our love for Grams.

When I was 17, he remarried, and that really did change things for us. Suddenly he could give me what my parents couldn't: siblings. So for several years, I tried to shove myself into their family, photo bombing their memories, driving to their home on vacations and in the summer.

One time, though, I admitted this to my step-sister. We were walking past a store, and I said, "That's what I dress like in real life." It was the funky, not-quite-goth, steel-toed shoes with a broomstick skirt look that I patterned after Molly Ringwald's Pretty In Pink character.

She looked at my jeans and sweatshirt. "Really?"

I only presented the faux me to them, too. The straight As (that part was true), never talk back, would never dream of sneaking out of the house girl. The "I'll do your laundry and sort your Tupperware cupboard and drive your cat to the vet" kid. It wasn't their fault, really. I had been doing it my whole life, why quit now? How to quit now?

So, as an adult, I just kept going. Followed the rules, tried to be a people pleaser, tried to make him like me. After Emma, it got harder, because I began to care more about how he treated HER than me. I didn't want her to feel like she had to be good to be loved; I didn't want her to feel like less of a grandchild. I really began to see the distance between us then, but what to do?

Eric always said, "You have a dad, a great dad, who loves you and loves the kids. Why can't you just let this go?" And I wondered, why couldn't I? If he called me, why didn't I just let the machine get it? Why did I make efforts that seemed ignored, if not thrwarted? Actions speak louder than words, and there were so many actions that would have added up, if I had been willing to look. But he was my only tie to my grandmother, and that was reason enough to try to make an effort.

Then she was gone. Suddenly, the tone of his voice changed, or maybe it was always that way and now my ears could hear it. New memories popped up, or maybe they'd always been there and now my mind could see them. Lies were told and words were twisted, but maybe that's how it had always been. I had to let it go, but maybe I always should have.

So, what do I tell Emma about her birth family? That their love or attention shouldn't matter; that we are her REAL family? How do I tell her let the "blood" go, when I couldn't for forty years? What is it about blood, that you just can't let it go?

It's Important to Keep the Chocolate Sauce on the Side

I do not want to be Sally Allbright. Remember Sally, from When Harry Met Sally? It took her forever to order a piece of pie, and if you didn't have the right kind of ice cream (on the side), she didn't even want the pie. Seriously, I don't want to turn into her. I don't want to say words like "on the side" and "special order." I don't want to hold up the rest of the line when I make an order at Wendy's. I don't want to go to a restaurant and ask to see the ingredients list of your refried beans. But, alas, here I go.

A few years back, I had a friend from a big city visit us. We were making Mexican, and she opened my fridge and said, "Where's your cilantro?" I was confused. Why would a person keep a "spice" in the fridge? I opened our spice cupboard and said, "Yeah, I don't think we have any. Will parsley do?" I pulled out the little glass container of dried parsley.

I was met with an eye roll, and asked if we had fresh cilantro at our market. Now, I live in a town with two stop lights. And, let's be honest, the one is really just perfunctory. So, my response was, "You mean Ken's Village Market?" (picture a small town grocery store)

What then transpired was a trip to Ken's (no cilantro-shocker!) where my friend harassed no fewer than four Ken's employees while attempting to scrounge up fresh cilantro. She finished with the manager, and I knew I could never step back inside our local grocery store again. That, my friends, is a Sally Allbright.

But, me? No. I refuse. If I ask for no pickles and you give me extra, I'll just pick 'em off. Or maybe I'll even eat them. Who knows, maybe I'll like it. I don't want to be a pain. I don't want to Big City my waitstaff. Sally said, "I want it how I want it." Me? Not really that big of a deal. When it comes to the choice between be kind or be picky, I choose kind every time. Well, I used to.

Now, I am lactose and gluten intolerant. I can have cheddar cheese (Thank you, Lord!), and I can eat our local Dairy Mart junior avalanche if I take FIVE Lactaids (no, you cannot just take one and go on your merry way like those insipid commercials you see on television). But, for the most part, I am screwed. The gluten intolerance is quite bad and even the tiniest bit of wheat in something will send me into agony. Basically, I can have lettuce. If it's washed. With organic water from viriginal unicorn horns.

For example, I went to a reading conference in Lansing last week and just about starved to death. Breakfast: bagels and cream cheese. Lunch: Chicken with creamy sauce, bow tie pasta, and cookies. Oh, and some rice. I did have a lot of rice. Then, as I sat in the afternoon sessions and dealt with stomach pain, I thought, "Oh, I bet that was a rice 'mix' where gluten loves to hide." I finally dredged up the nerve (and hunger) to ask for a piece of chicken without the creamy sauce. The poor waitstaff looked perplexed and said, "Um, it all comes in a big tray. You want me to scrape the sauce off for ya?" I was so mortified. No, absolutely not. If the sauce could be scraped off to my gut's satisfaction, I could do that myself. What's horrible is that the waitress most likely thought I was too finicky to do so.

This morning, Eric and I dropped our kids off at day care (oh, summer day care, you are the love of my life!) and went to the coffee shop in Cheboygan that actually has soy milk or almond milk that you have can added to your drink. This place is Eric's "Cheers." When he walks in, the barista of the day says, "Hey, Eric! Usual?" It is something he loves about teaching in a small town. Today, I Sally Allbrighted all over it.

When we walked in, the barista did say, "Hi, Eric! Bow tie?" and he nodded. As she began his drink, she asked me what I wanted. I said, in as unfussy a voice as I could muster, that I wanted a mocha with almond milk. Not too bad so far. But, then, it happened. She asked me if I wanted 2% like Eric. And, I am sorry to say, I got a little freaky. In my defense, she was pregnant, and I know all about how pregnancy brain can turn you into a goldfish (Hi, have we met? Oh, three seconds ago? Right. Hi! Have we met?). Also, in my defense, 2% milk would reallllllly hurt me, and mocha with almond milk is one of my few joys in life. I began to watch her like a hawk, trying to look like I was scanning various items on the counter. I read the contents of the caramel sauce (a definite no-no for me), of vanilla flavoring (good news--I could have that!), of the bag of gluten free scone mix (gross-seriously-gross).

The poor nice lady disappeared into the cooler and came back out with a carton of Half and Half. I went into frenzy mode. Yes, 2% milk would make me ill, but Half and Half... I'm not sure I'd make it out alive. I nudged Eric, but he didn't get the gesture. My eyes never leaving the barista's hands, I half mumbled to him, "Uh, you're having 2%, right?"

"Yes," he snapped in a hushing tone, trying to quiet his near-tantrum toddler.

"It's, um, the Half and..."

"Oh, I put 2% in his," the barista said, and I''m pretty sure she turned to spit into mine. I wouldn't blame her.

I just nodded, but I never stopped watching, praying that Half and Half never once even got within a drip distance of my cup.

As we left, my sweet Norm Peters and his picky wife (no wonder we never actually saw her in an episode), I knew I'd never be able to go back. Probably Eric can't go back. I've ruined his coffee oasis. I offered to go back in and apologize but, really, that would just make it worse. "You see, I'm lactose intolerant, and.." the words have become so overused, so trite, it just further pushes you into an "on the side" person. But, you know, sometimes it really is important to have the sauce on the side.

They Were Mine

I've always known them--Philip and Patrick and Kristi. And that was how they cemented into my mind--Philip and Patrick and Kristi--like they were one entity. And to me, I suppose they were one, these three children that had been made to move on, move away from us, and grow up someplace else.

But, I've always known them. There were photos of them in my baby albums. One of Patrick and me lying on our bellies, looking into each other's eyes, both sucking our thumbs. One of Philip leaning against Mom's shoulder as she held me and looked awkwardly into the camera. The four of us, just hanging around, being a family.

There was always the one photo, an 8X10 of Philip and Patrick and Kristi, which stayed in a "gold" frame in the extra blue bedroom of our house before Mom remarried. I would sneak into the room, close the door silently behind me, find the frame, and stare into their shining eyes. Now where are you? I would ask. Do you know that Mom still misses you, still tells me about you?

Philip wondered if they would have to move away once the new baby (me) came. I'll never get over that. I didn't want him to leave; I would have given anything for them to stay.

Patrick asked if he could drink milk from Mommy, when he turned back into a baby. He wasn't wild about sharing his blanket with me.

Kristi liked to hold me and rock me. I was like her baby doll.

Sometimes I would play outside by myself, in the chain-linked safety of our backyard, and in my mind we'd all play together. Kristi and I would hide from the boys. We'd play soccer, Philip joining my team because Patrick and Kristi were like the twins. They always wanted to be together. At least, in my dream family world they did. We'd climb the magnolia tree in the backyard and carve our initials into its bark. Well, Philip would carve mine. But I never knew, Philip Raymond, Patrick Ryan, Mary Kristine... what were their last names now?

For a while I had bunk beds, and that really lent itself well to pretending that my older sister was there. We'd whisper to each other and hope Mom wouldn't hear. We were supposed to be sleeping; but sisters shared secrets, sisters had a lot to talk about.

I've always known them. I've always missed them. Mom never had any more kids, and I never got to grow up with the siblings I'd been given. I had to imagine them, wonder about them, pray for them. Having a sibling was what I grew up wanting more than anything. Mom's many miscarriages made the desire become more of an obsession, until I got old enough that siblings were no longer what I craved, but a baby of my own.

I've always known them. In my memories, there is a picture. Their faces are looking at me, and I am in a stroller. The yellow canopy is above my head, and they have bent in to smile and sing to me. Sun flickers back forth between their bobbing heads and through their wispy hair. They love me. I am smiling and trying to grab at them. We're happy. I'm sure it's some fantasy memory I've created. Who has memories from infancy? But I've always held it fast, convinced myself that yes, I do have a piece of them which I could carry with me these forty years. It did happen. We were a family. They were mine. I've always known them.

Mommy, I Wuv You

"But, Mommy, I wannna be your baby 'gan. I wan' be in yo' belly." These words from my youngest as she winds her spindly arm around my leg, squeezing tight, shoving her head against my back. She says the words, but I am the one who remembers.

I am the two-year-old, or maybe three, and I love my mommy. I wound my arm around her leg, I shoved my head into her hip, I tried to crawl back into her womb. I know you all loved your mothers, but I really, really loved my mommy. She was my whole world.

My parents divorced when I was an infant, and it was just the two of us for those first few years. Mom went to graduate school, got a master's degree in counseling, and started work, all while repairing a broken heart--missing her married life, the foster children she lost, the white picket fence she thought she had been building. But I knew none of this. I knew that Mommy wore pretties (blush and lipstick), and I wanted them, too. I knew Mommy cooked with recipe cards, and I tried to cook with them, too. I knew Mommy read the newspaper, so I spread it out and "read" the pages. I knew that the skin between Mommy's neck and shoulder was the best place to rub your face. I knew that Mommy's hand fit perfectly around mine. I knew that Mommy was the best, the very best person, the very best thing in the whole wide world. And she was all mine.

When I was about 3 or 4, Mom taught Sunday School to preschoolers at our church. I remember trying to sit on BOTH sides of her, because no one should be sitting next to MY mommy! Poor Mom would try to work on the lesson (probably about loving one another!), and pull me off of her.

I loved the smell of her make-up. Long after her kiss, I could still smell the make-up, surrounding me like a Mommy-cloud, holding me together. As an adult, I found out it was Covergirl (makes sense; it was pretty inexpensive), and just opening the cap would take me back to my mom giving me a kiss good-bye at day care. I'd watch out the window, seeing her car pull away, and feel the pull in my stomach. Bye, Mommy... bye... bye. Even though I loved day care, and then school, I always just wanted one more minute with my mom.

My mom would read me stories, not just one or two, but really as many as I would be willing to sit for. She'd read and I snuggle into her skin, feel her breath coming in and out, try to climb inside her, as Becca does to me. I can still hear her voice in my head, when I read "Goodnight Moon," or Richard Scarry's "Cars and Trucks and Things That Move." She would sing me songs and rock me, "Here's a Wee Baby," or some strange song that I never really did figure out all the words to, "Don't you ask me to come over to your house today..." My mom's singing could be like Valium for me, long after I was too old to be rocked and sung to. I'd get upset--that kind of crazy, flinging, screaming, blind with fury, the world whirring past you out of control--and she'd stroke my hair, sing me a song, and pull me out of the tornado.

As a teenager, I once had a dream that my mother was murdered. My dad and I were, of course, devastated. But, when I awoke, I still couldn't shake it. I couldn't imagine a world without my mother. Sure, I sassed her and rolled my eyes at her and argued with every single word she said. But my mother was still my whole world. I still loved her with every ounce of my being. I still wished that she could pick me up and I could snuggle my face into the crook of her neck. I still wanted to wrap my arm around her leg and push my head into her hip. When my teenage world went crazy, I still wished she would sing her songs and stroke my hair. If my mother weren't in the world, who would love me like she did? Who would fill that space in my heart? Every once in a while, when I'm worried about my mother, that dream will hit me like a speeding semi, and I'll feel it: What would I do without Mommy?

Now, I am the mommy. My husband has taken the role of the person who loves me the most. Mom and I have a wonderful relationship, but it has changed its course to more of a a friendship than the one-sided "I take all" we had as I was growing up. I still know that I can count on her to love me, no matter what. I can call her to talk me off the edge when I feel like jumping instead. I hope that now, she knows she can count on me for the same. That love has transformed into the best kind of friendship. Still, now, always, I cannot imagine my life without my mother.

Now, my children are the ones who need the comforting. I rock them, I sing to them, I stroke their hair when they are upset. But, as I do, I still feel her here--my mommy--showing me how to love.

Elf 101: Sometimes, You Need a Little Help

So, it's Day One of the elves. Ben is, of course, beside himself with excitement, checking on Mikey all day. When he awakens at 1:15am (yes, you read that right), he's laughing, pointing, jumping up and down. Finally, FINALLY, the day he's been waiting for. Keep in mind--we have been crossing off days on the calendar for this. It is big time stuff. Somehow, we get him to go back to bed (Eric and I hadn't even been to bed yet; that's a cleaning story for another time), and we smile, "Awww, he still loves the elves..."

5:00am. Listen, we're on vacation here, dude. Plus, your dad and I decided to clean out 35 years worth of hoarding last night. "Mom, why aren't the girls up? We should get the girls. They want to see the elves, too." I magically convince him that waking Sleeping Beauty 1 and 2 would NOT be a good idea and that maybe he should just crawl into our bed for a bit. Thankfully, it's still dark out, so he does go back to sleep for a little while, but not much.

Enter Thanksgiving dinner into the picture, and I realize why. Dinner Rolls. Plain old dinner rolls. You've had them every year at Thanksgiving, right? Everybody does. Yeah, everybody except little boys who have two personalities: one-a sweet, excitable kid on an all natural diet (Dr. Jekyl); two-an evil, vulgar maniac who has inadvertently eaten an artificial additive (Mr. Hyde). We had been sharing a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' home, the kids excited and playing with everything in my parents' house, the Lions actually winning the ball game, my mom's turkey and stuffing a moist delight. Before we ate, I even joked to my parents' priest (a calm, quiet 65-year-old woman who never had children), "Yup, this is my son on an all natural diet," because his normal voice is still quite loud (just not evil or vulgar). As we ate, Ben asked for another roll and--because it was Thanksgiving and we never have rolls because I am now gluten intolerant and he loves rolls and never gets them--we said sure. Picture that giant red X that comes up on "Family Feud" when somebody gives a dumb answer (but the family still tells them "Good answer, good answer!).

Before we left, the squabbling had begun, Ben was stealing books from Becca and giving Emma's name several syllables. In the car, he screamed when Emma looked at him, and said he was going to pee on his elf. Dinner rolls. Damn.

So, today. Well, yesterday, now. He has some fights with Emma, a massive temper tantrum in his room (wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, not grilled cheese), throws some toys, tells me "You are a very, very, very, very, VERY mean mom," and gives me a jab when I squirt him with water from the sink (because he wouldn't wait for me to stop scrubbing dishes to open the box of Annie's Organic Cheddar Bunnies-kind of ironic when you think about it). Anyway, not his best day. Not his worst, but definitely not his best.

Enter 3:00am. Our elf hunt begins. As we enter the kitchen hand-in-hand (Dr. Jekyl is back), he mentions, "I might be stuck," remembering his transgressions of the day. We turn on the light and he stops in his tracks. "Yup," he says, bottom lip quivering, "I'm stuck." He literally lies himself face first down on the kitchen floor and sobs. Great, heaving, a-loved-one-has-just-died sobs. I try to pick him up and console him, but he says, "No, Mom, we've got to go find the other elves," a brave solider in the line of battle. We hunt the living room, the bathroom, his room. He stops every so often, cries a little, wipes his tears (and blows his nose, since I have also shared this lovely cold with him), and keeps hunting. We find Bernard and The-Elf-Yet-to-Be-Named (Becca's) cuddled together in the laundry room on the shelf with the cookie jars, tucked in between Batman ("Because you're a friend, and you like Batman, and, as of today you're off the team.") and Mickey Mouse. Again, my sweet baby hits the floor.

This time, he lets me pick him up, pour him into my arms, and rock him. We fit together like puzzle pieces, and I am reminded of the time he spent in my womb, crammed into any empty spaces he could find, as our blood flowed in unison. We rock and rock, I wipe the tears from his face, and I repeat over and over, "What are you thinking, Bubba? Hhmmm? Can you tell Mom what you're thinking about?" He really can't. There aren't words.

After a while, he goes solemnly into the kitchen, turns the light back on, and faces his elf. "Mikey," he says, his voice breaking with emotion, "I'm just so sorry. So very, very sorry." He wipes his face with his sleeve, and starts to trek back to bed. "Hey, Mom," he stops, "remember how last night he flipped over [when we couldn't get him to go back to bed Eric flipped the elf over to make him look tired] and then when we got up he had flipped back up? Maybe if I'm good now--really, really good--he'll be able to move a little. Like, fly to over there. You think so, Mom?"

I "#!$?ing" know so! "Maybe, Buddy. I know Mikey knows you're really sorry, and that today's going to be a great day."

"Yea." He stands and nods, staring at his elf, a footie-pajamaed Rodin's The Thinker, pondering how to make this right. "I'm sorry, Mikey," he whispers again, and retraces his steps toward his bedroom.

As I tuck him in, heartbroken, I think about all the stupid mistakes I make in the day, and I'm on anti-depressants. I say snotty remarks that come off way more mean that I intended. I bark at the kids, push the dog out of the way with my foot. I envy other people their seemingly perfect lives and ignore the little hiccups in life that come their way. I spray my son a squirt with the dish sprayer instead of taking the box of crackers and putting them back in the cupboard. Nobody's perfect, even on a great day. I want to be the tough mom, the one who makes him stick out this lesson, but I can't help but think as I tuck his Spiderman sheets around him that, maybe, he's gotten what he should've out of this, and somehow, I want to make it better.

As miracles would happen, he had fallen asleep on the couch last night, and we hadn't given him a sippy cup of water to put in his bed. "Mom, can you get me a water?" I consider it a sign from the angels.

I saunter into the kitchen, make a big play of noisily getting the cup, the lid, the water--and I move that damn elf over to the other shelf in the kitchen. Then, I run into Ben's room.

"Ben-Ben, Ben-Ben, you're not going to believe this!"

"What?" he is upright in bed, straight as a rocketship, ready to blast off. "Is it my elf?"

I grab him and we run together into the kitchen. He turns on the light and--SHAZAM!--he sees the empty shelf. "Ahh!" he screams (somehow no one else is awakened) and he turns. It is just as he thought, Mikey has moved--just a little, just across to the other shelf--but he has moved all the same. "Oh, Mikey! Thank you!" he says, and moves toward his elf. "I love you, so so so so much, Mikey." He turns and the light behind his eyes is blinding.

As I tuck him in for the second time, he is beaming, wiggling, gleeful and hopeful and full of the knowledge that he really can do the right thing. We talk about how everybody makes mistakes, and that sometimes you just have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and try again. Maybe it's lost on him, maybe he gets it. Maybe some people will think I cheated him out of an important lesson. But, as I kiss his cheeks, I know that I will sleep well, having taught my son the TRUE meaning of Christmas: God's unconditional love.

"Mom, did my elf move?"

When my husband was growing up, his parents bought two little toy elves, and used them to con their children into behaving through the holidays. Apparently, they should have patented the idea, as "Elf on the Shelf" has now taken off like wildfire. When our oldest daughter was young, we bought her a little elf--to whom she gave the name "Bernard" like the head elf off of the movie "The Santa Clause"--and we would move him about the house each night if she was good, keep him in his place if she made bad choices. We'd catch her staring at him for long amounts of time, hoping to catch a blink or a slight shift of an arm, but she never touched him. Em knew that, if he got touched, Bernard would lose his magic and have to go back to the North Pole.

My niece, eternally the bold one, touched her elf (poked is actually a better word, I believe), which sent not only her elf but those of her brother and sister off to Santa's workshop. I think the other two stopped talking to her for a while--not that Gracie cared--and eventually they were all given a second chance.

Emma once asked, after having a lengthy conversation at school with a child who did NOT have an elf, why we were so lucky. "Grandpa used to do Santa's taxes," Eric told her, and that satisfied any curiosity she may have had about whether this elf stuff was real or not. She would still stare for long periods of time, and sometimes I would even catch her whispering to Bernard, perhaps trying to justify any deeds for the day. Yes, Emma deeply believed in her elf, and in the magic of Christmas. I thought I had really seen what it looked like to fall in love with Christmas hook-line-and-sinker when I watched Em with that elf. Until Ben had his fourth Christmas.

When Ben was a toddler, then two and three years old, he didn't really get the elf thing. Not that it was his fault; he didn't really get the whole "walking on two legs" thing then, either. But his fourth year, shortly before he turned four, Ben's world exploded. The morning after Thanksgiving, Emma got him up and pointed out the elves (one each for her, him, and Becca). The previous year, Ben had been into "Toy Story," and had named his elf Woody. Upon seeing the elf this fourth year, he immediately decided that Woody would like to be called Mikey, after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (because what cowboy doesn't have a Ninja Turtle hiding deep inside him somewhere?). Ben watched Mikey all day, waiting for him to move. He brought him toys to see, told him stories, sang him little songs. He didn't want Mikey being bored, sitting there in the same spot all day.

That night, I was awakened by a little hand shaking my face. "Mom, did my elf move?" It was Ben. Now, my kids do not get up in the night. I mean, maybe they wake up in the night, but they are just plain not allowed to come in our room and mess with us. Momma likes her sleep. If Momma don't sleep, well, it's ugly. So, Ben may occasionally have a nightmare or a bathroom incident, but he is quickly scuttled back into his room. It's always an "emergency" if you come into our room. It is not, I repeat, NOT to pull me out of bed to go look for some stupid stuffed toy.

"What?" I replied, groggy, and certain that I had heard him incorrectly.

"C'mon, Mom, get up. Did my elf move? We gotta look." He was pulling on my arm now, and heading out the bedroom door. He is freakishly strong in the night when I am still half-asleep.

"Dude, we are not-- Benjamin, seriously. It's 2:36am, Buddy. We are not looking for that elf!"

But we did look. We looked in the kitchen, the laundry room, and the bathroom. The elves, per tradition, had started out in the kids' stockings, so we knew they had moved. The search was on. That first night, they were in the kids' bathroom, hanging upside down from the shower curtain.

"Mom," Ben was gasping with laughter, "look at Mikey! He's so funny!"

Yeah, so funny I want to punch him in the throat.

But, then I did look. I looked at my son, at the glow behind his eyes, at the way his cheeks filled up when he laughed, at the pure joy in him. It was the joy of Christmas. Sure, it was the joy of Christmas at 2:36am, but it was the joy of Christmas just the same.

When Ben and Becca were infants, one of my favorite times with them was nursing in the middle of the night. It was special when I fed Emma then, too, but I was a single mom so Emma and I were always alone, and it wasn't quite the same. When I was up with Ben and Becca, the whole rest of the house was asleep. It was like a secret club to which only we belonged. We would rock, watch bad TV, and I would tell them about what the world be like as they got bigger. It was nothing short of magical.

By waking me up and bringing me on his elf quest, Ben had brought that magic back to me. I so remember being a young child, wiggling under my covers, hoping that I at least looked asleep so that Santa wouldn't pass by our house. I remember hearing my Grandpa McCord playing a tape (of course, I didn't know it was a tape at the time), of the reindeers' hooves on the rooftop and the jingle of the bells on their harness and thinking, "We have GOT to get home!" I remember writing letters, making wishes, thanking Santa when I opened that special gift Christmas morning. I remember believing so hard, loving the magic, feeling "in love" with Christmas.

So, each night last year between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, I got up at whatever godforsaken hour Ben came in, and we would hunt down the elves. Occasionally, someone's elf hadn't moved, and we'd discuss what the person had done to cause that. He would always, always remind me, "Mom, you don't touch the elves. It makes them lose their magic." We would creep through the house, sometimes just using a flashlight, and hunt those little guys down. Every time we'd find them, we'd laugh. "Mikey's so silly, Mom," Ben would say every time, and my brain would record it to play back someday when he was 16, and too old for silliness.

Thanksgiving is this Thursday, and I've been waiting. We actually had to cross off days on the calendar for Ben and make a little box around "elf day," he's been anticipating it so eagerly. I don't know who's looking forward to it more, Ben or me. Will my little boy still be in love with the magic of Christmas? Will he still include me in his gleeful elf hunt? I'll have to wait until 2:36am Friday to see.

"Hey, Mrs. Hall, look!"

This past summer, to be totally honest with you, I did everything in my power to quit my day job. I just plain did not want to go back to work. It was a combination of things, not any one thing in particular; but I really, really, didn't want to do it.

First, I'd had a rough couple of years in the classroom. I mean like screamers, criers, throw-a-pencil-at-my-eye kind of kids. I'd get up every day and think, "Hey, maybe today I'll get in a wreck and not have to go to work for a few months." I tried every trick up my sleeve, but some years are just like that. Some combinations of kids are just, well, tiring. So, there was that.

Also, I don't teach with Jill anymore. In fact, I don't even teach near Jill anymore. After 11 years of team teaching, 14 years of planning together, I don't have Jill to bounce all my ideas off of. And that has been so strange, so life altering, that I'm not even sure I could accurately describe what it's been like. And, since I kind of still teach the same thing, and she's moved to kindergarten, it's really felt a lot like we divorced-- and she left me. So, you know, there's that, too.

Then there's the fact that, in June, I went to this awesome writing retreat (props, Wade), and got some serious work done on my novel. The novel that has been in my head for six years, but only ebbs onto paper in tiny increments, and then is put down for months (or years) at a time. Working on the novel, reading other writers' writing, it really made me feel ready for the next chapter of my life. The one where I am a full time writer. Where I plan out what part of my day I'm going to write, where I travel and do book tours at little independent book sellers like Saturn in Gaylord, where I have time to research what I want to say and do. I even tried desperately to get editing jobs (because editing is such a part of me that I often want to stop and change stores' signs or mail back edited versions of letters businesses have sent us), and I couldn't get it off the ground. Apparently, you have to have editing experience in order to get hired (and get some experience). So, then, there was that.

Put it all together, and I was one reluctant puppy come August. In fact, I don't think I even went into my classroom until LATE August. Normally, the whole room would be set up, I'd have cute boards up and new nameplates and arranged it all... This year I was lucky it got done by the time their little toes stepped through the door. But, step through the door they did and so, I'm back being employed as a teacher.

Every morning, at what I like to refer to as "the crap of dawn" or "five-freakin'-thirty" Eric turns off the alarm, turns on the light, stands up, and says, "Come on. Get up," in this just-this-side-of-mean voice. I really hate him then. I stay firm in the covers, wish him leprosy or a severed limb or something, and eventually get out of bed. It's still dark, very dark, at five-freakin' thirty, for those of you who are still slumbering, blissfully unaware. As I pull on my stinky work-out clothes and trudge down the steps to ride the exercise bike, I think, "I hate my life. This sucks," and I am not a teacher. No, I am a lump who moves the pedals, stares straight ahead, waits for the timer to go off.

After a quick shower, I dress my own kids for day care, eat a granola bar, make my coffee, chase my teenager around the house, and get ready to start the day. Still, I am mindless, hollow, aching for the other life, the one where my fingers are flying across the keyboard and my every idea is a masterpiece. I think about clothes I would wear to book signings, ideas I have for new stories, witty comments I would make to publishers. Then Em and I pull into the parking lot, we face the school, and reality sets in. I am not a full time writer. I am not home for the day or flying off to New York (though that part's probably good because planes scare the shit out of me). I am teaching a room full of 6-year-olds, and I better get ready.

At 8:05, my world completely changes. They come in. "Mrs. Hall, look at my new shirt." "I made this for you!" "Mrs. Hall, did you know that sharks don't have any bones? They're all just carnage!" (You mean cartilage, sweetie.) Hug. Hug. Love note. Funny story. Hug.

Yeah, they actually pay me to do this. I get to spend my whole DAY with these people. Now, don't get me wrong, sometimes they can really get under my skin. But, man, they are the cutest. Show them a new song? They'll dance it. Drop a marker on the floor purposefully? They'll laugh like you're an A-list comedian. Teach them a new reading strategy? They'll mimic you until they've got it right. Say words like "close to the moment," "schema," and "number sentence"? They'll use those terms like pros.

See, the great thing about teaching is that you always get a do-over. Maybe you start off with a bad attitude, but you can try again. Every fall, a new batch comes in, even if you're looping, and you get to start fresh. So, these people will laugh at my bad jokes and try out my tricks like they're brand new ideas. Because, to them, it's all new. They are little sprouts of what they'll someday become, and I get a chance to be the sun and water in their lives for a little while. Honestly, it just doesn't get much better than that.