Confessions – Page 19 – The UnderToad

Drugstore Scam

I like to take any chance I am afforded to I-told-you-so my Washington DC brother-in-law. First, the guy went to West Point and served two tours in Iraq flying helicopters in the Army. He taught himself French or Italian or Swahili during the first tour using Rosetta Stone and now he attends grad school at Georgetown for a higher degree in international spying, or something like that. More than once when talking to my sister on the phone her husband was in the background playing video games, which John translates as, “Either he’s okay with making really bad grades, or his classes just aren’t hard enough.” He catches grammatical and spelling mistakes in my blog with more frequency than my mother and husband combined, but usually has the decency not to tell me until after I have finally corrected them myself. He’s probably good at crossword puzzles. My family likes to joke that we can’t figure out how Laura managed to marry such a smart man and in the same breath we’re all thanking God she did.

My middle sister is one of the most positive and loving humans I have managed to keep close to me in life. My baby sister and I attribute Laura’s lack of cynicism to the same thing inside her responsible for her SAT scores and disinterest in reading. Bless her heart, she’s just not wired to over-think things, or fully think things, as the case may be. Meanwhile, her genius husband is doing enough over-thinking for the both of them. The guy is usually a second away from labeling something he does not recognize (or fully understand) as a scam.

I got an email from Claire the other day about some ‘House Party?’ I deleted it though. I think it was scam.

No Laura, we are not getting the car inspected. I know for a fact that my car is not emitting some poisonous toxin into the atmosphere. I don’t need some grease monkey down at the Jiffy Lube to use a diagnostic test to tell me that for fifteen bucks. It’s a state-mandated tax scam.

Premium gas…full service gas stations…tipping limo and taxi drivers…the mega-church offering plate? HUGE scam.

Instant rebate? Total scam. There’s nothing instant about it. You might get your money back, after you hand over your right testicle and the big toenail of your firstborn child.

After explaining to him that we used two of those generic home improvement gift cards with complete success and no trouble whatsoever at Home Depot the other day his only comment was, “Count yourself lucky!”

But my current example: drug store rewards.

*NOTE: I realize my family is more than annoyed by any conversation revolving around my coupon psychosis, so I am apologizing in advance but warning you that if you choose to read on, none of you are allowed to pick on me for this. This brother-in-law seriously believes that when an item is advertized as “free after money back” it is an advertizing trick to get you to buy something you do not need, just because it is free. And, when any increment of money is printed at the register after a purchase, this is only a ploy to get customers to come back in to the store and buy something they do not need, just to use the so-called free money. Don’t even get him started on what it means if you forget about the coupon on your receipt and let it expire, or, God forbid, throw the thing away and never use it.

To some degree, I can agree that this is likely the intention of the drug store. But may I submit that the system can be manipulated in favor of the customer, and such “rewards” can become exactly that.

I’m not going into detail on the hows here, but in light of the year ending, and all this free time on my hands, I’ve been doing my second favorite thing in the world: number crunching.

If I was forced to explain exactly how these totals were calculated, I’m afraid I’d be admitting to belonging to a level of freak-dom that even I am ashamed to own up to. But in the absence of (dare I say it?) a real job, I have devoted myself to analyzing our family budget and honestly evaluating if my efforts have been worth it this year.

They have.

Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I do not have hoarders shelves built into my garage for the storing of my extreme-couponing booty, and even when certain deals are too good to pass up, if the item is something that we absolutely could not or would not use, I don’t give in and purchase it just because it is a good deal. I have, however, almost completely given up on shopping at Walmart and Sam’s Club, and have made drug store shopping my job on the side.

This year alone I spent exactly $137.19 at drug stores for a little over $1,200 worth of products. This number does not reflect the retail value of the products, but the sale prices, and the difference is all accounted for in coupons, rebates, and register rewards.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not boasting of my money savings in the same vein that people boast of promotions at work. By that token I’d basically be announcing that I have a degree from Baylor University that I’m using to make about $10 an hour, which is paid out in ziplock baggies and toilet paper. And I’m not trying to convert anyone to my way of thinking or shopping. In fact, the opposite is true, because secretly I fear that if more people were doing this the drug stores would catch on and my days of free contact solution and money making Herpes vitamins would be over.

I’m simply saying, drug store rewards are not a scam. A diagnosable addiction, for drug-free non-smokers like me, but not a scam.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

Memories

I have no scientific evidence to back this up but I’m guessing that the majority of a person’s early childhood memories are actually based off of pictures they’ve seen, rather than actual memories. Because of such pictures, I assume I had a pretty happy childhood. No body ever takes pictures of mom flipping out, bagging up all the toys in the basement, and hauling them to the curb.

This is why my own children will also look back on their childhood and assume it was both normal, and happy.

Me to twenty-five-year-old Eliott:
“This was pretty much a typical day around the house when you and your sister were little”:

cookies4 — Yes, those are leftover Halloween chocolates.

cookies2 — I love that she can do sprinkles without supervision now.

cookies3 — Meanwhile, Carter was working REEEAAAAL hard.

Confessions

A Couple of Tips. Free Ones.

Something I’ve tried to make a habit of doing: journaling.
Somthing I’ve tried to make a habit of not doing: re-reading old journals.

But every once in a while, I get curious. Last night, in a moment of resting-my-back induced boredom, I picked up the little red book from my first year of classroom teaching. I had forgotten that in an effort to be a role model in my classroom, I had a habit of joining my students in journaling many days of the week. Naturally, this particular little red book is chalk full of ~~complaints~~ self reflection about teaching.

Something else I had forgotten: in one of my evaluations that year, my principal told me to “be more open-minded in the classroom,” and to take my job “a little less seriously.”

That’s funny to me.

Now.

I’m not sure this was entirely good advice for a classroom teacher in a public high school but it is great advice for parenting pre-schoolers. I can’t even count the number of conversations I’ve had or overheard from guilt ridden mothers who constantly feel like they simply aren’t doing enough. Comparative parenting would tell any woman with a four-year-old or below that if she’s not on the floor with her kids or doing craft projects at least three days a week, somehow she’s probably not taking her job seriously enough.

It’s a good thing I don’t parent by comparison.

Cute jeans and lower back pain are not conducive to floor time for Mommy. Sorry girls. You’ll have to join me at the kitchen sink, on a chair, if you really want to spend the majority of the day in my immediate proximity.

But speaking of comparative parenting, in light of holiday spending, I’m dishing out exactly two free tips that have made my mothering life both cheaper and and better, and I discovered both this year. (Moms, feel free to comparative parent standing next to me. It will only make you feel better about yourself as a mother and a human.) For any mother who has worried that she could be doing more or working harder, I say this: why, when you really don’t need to?

Ice packs. Forget about parenting for just a minute. I knew back when I was a mere babysitter that when a kid gets hurt, a band-aid stops the crying. And I’m not using a metaphor here. I’m talking literal band-aids. Both of my children went on a streak of self-mutilation just after I purchased two boxes of Disney princess band-aids, and then fought over who would get Cinderella. When I refused to dole them out in the absence of actual blood, my own mother looked at me one day and said something along the lines of, “Oh just let them have a band-aid. You know, it’s a pretty cheap little way to get them to stop crying.” Despite my obvious problem with that parental concept alone, the kicker for me here was not the spoiled-brat cry-baby factor I would inevitably be enabling. It really was the price of the band-aids. But even I have my limits on just how often I can say with a straight face, “Stop crying! You are fine!” to my two year old who is obviously hurt, just not bleeding. So it turns out, ice packs work much like the band-aid in the emotional department, and they are reusable. Hah. Take that, unconditional love.
Paint with Water. I can’t claim that I came up with this one on my own. Aside from the fact that I remember these things from my childhood, it was the mother of four boys (two of them twins) under the age of seven who reminded me of their existence. *Sidenote: she’s another great one to stand next to for those competitively patient mothers who need to feel better about a moment of weakness in the car this morning. Subsequently, this is also why she and I are friends.* It turns out, paint with water can still be found at the dollar store. Not only are they cheap, but they are virtually mess-free, and as long as I put Eliott and Carter in their art aprons first, they believe they are being permitted to actually paint at the kitchen table. Truly, the creators of this activity were genius on so many levels.

Confessions

People I Want to Kick in the Head

This week, I read this:

[Over-Achieving-Elf-on-Shelf-Mommies]

After reading several of her beginning blog entries, I realized I don’t have as much in common with this woman as I first suspected I would. But I was initially drawn to her by our mutual manifestation of annoyance and stress into visions of short violent outbursts which would undoubtedly be delivered perfectly and would achieve results in one swift blow. She imagines a punch to the throat. I imagine a kick to the head. Either way, the sentiment is the same, which means that our superiority complexes are only outmatched by our acute senses of self-control. Perhaps in real life, I wouldn’t like her. But I suspect that we would at least get along.

So in the spirit of all things American, I’m stealing her idea and calling it my inspiration for today’s post, and if it turns into a recurring theme, I’m giving her the original credit for coming up with the prompt.

People who walk in my blind-spot. It would be far too easy to complain about bad drivers as I’m sure we can all agree that people who do not signal are just as idiotic as those driving down the highway with their blinker on for miles. But today I’m not talking about driving etiquette, I’m talking about walking etiquette. I can’t say that I go to the mall terribly often, but it never fails that when I am there, someone ends up walking exactly one foot to my left or right and slightly behind me. It’s like they are close enough to make me paranoid that I’m in the way, but just slow enough that they never pass me. I find myself afraid to slow down for fear they’ll run into me, but instead speeding up to evade them. Inevitably, they match their pace with mine, step for step. Part of me is wondering if they are trying to nonchalantly get close enough to smell my perfume, but maybe they are truly unaware of their awkward proximity. It’s weird. And annoying. And it happens way more often than I’d like to admit. And it is even worse in the grocery store when the person doing it is pushing a cart and is apparently carrying a carbon copy of my grocery list.
The checkout boys at Lowe’s Foods on Lewisville-Clemmons Road. And speaking of grocery stores, I have a little shout out for the high school boys who work at Lowe’s Foods. First, trust me, your buddy at register five also does not know the PLU for organic mixed greens. They are $5.99 a pound. Just punch it in or call someone. Also, when you reload my groceries back into my cart (which my child is subsequently still strapped to), it is normal to push the cart behind yourself, to the end of the register, so I can take it with me, rather than making me come all the way around to get it back out. Despite how cute high school girls may find you, or how cute you find yourselves, I am neither impressed nor charmed when you refer to me (or the high school girl on the phone, price checking for you) as “sweetheart,” or use your eyes to declare how hot you think you are. I’ll take the chubby red-heads at Harris Teeter any day over you morons.
The Authors of THIS BOOK, (and every other worthless children’s book, for that matter), as there are, undoubtedly, hundreds of thousands too many in circulation. It is hard to find decent children’s books on the shelves at the library, will you people stop clogging things further with crap like this? I mean, it is bad enough that your story relies so heavily on rhythm and rhyme that the story line itself is inane. What I want to know is how did you and your editors fail to realize half of it is written in present tense and half is written in past tense (sometimes both tenses within one sentence)? The fact that you’ve managed to publish an entire series of these things is truly mind boggling. I think lines like this speak for themselves but in case they don’t, note the made up words and random use of capitalization mid-sentence, juxtaposed with such pop-cultural vernacular as ‘Game On.”
Game on! It’s a reindeer flying through the sky
Practicing for Christmas so Hippiti-High
I read this book exactly one time before telling Eliott that even her semi-literate-four-year-old-self could write a better book than this piece of garbage.

Confessions

Dear Santa

Snippets from a series of recent Paulus family emails concerning Christmas gifting…

So, to be clear, now that everyone in my family is married and at least one of us has children, we made a command decision to stop with the personalized gift giving to each member of the family and now we do the big-Catholic-family who-has-who-this-year thing. In short, we go down the line and only have one family to worry about each Christmas. Brilliant. And unlike some families, who do a similar name-drawing style of gift giving, my family is not all about who can find the funniest/worst/most humiliating/crappy present giving. In fact, because of Jeff’s helicopter pilot salary, my sisters and I are usually in competition for coming up with useful but creative gifts that can compete on Jeff’s level, but don’t break our bank accounts. (Secretly, we’re all just waiting for every 3rd year when Jeff has our name again.)

In order to expedite the process and minimize hassle and ultimate disappointment, a series of emails circulates the weeks before Christmas with vague attempts at gift-giving ideas. Here is a quick peak into my current Christmas wish-list.

FROM: Claire
Subject: RE: General Christmas Gift Ideas

John and I have talked about it a bunch, but can’t think of anything we just desperately want or need right now. Please do not get us a TV or DVD player. Remember when Laura promised us her 28″ not flat screen TV but still newer (and bigger) than our previous two free TVs? She got John quite hyped up to finally be able to see the screen from the kitchen and read subtitles, at all. When said huge TV turned out to have only a 20″ screen (it’s okay Laura, I don’t know how to measure TVs either, seriously, but I think it works on the diagonal) John took us on a family trip to Sam’s Club and bought his own birthday/Christmas present. Since that day, both Mom and Dad and John’s parents have offered us a new TV for Christmas.

I get it. They want to visit. But when they come, they want to be able to actually see their favorite TV shows without glasses. Until recently, John and I had always considered a TV a bit of a luxury, one which did not trump health insurance, for example. But alas. In the wake of new technology, it turns out affording a new TV was much less of a burden than originally expected. As it is, for now, we only need one TV. Which we have. So no TV this year.

Would it be weird to ask for a month of health insurance?

FROM: Claire (to Erica)
SUBJECT: RE: I have an idea of what I’m going to get you but is there anything you are absolutely dying for?

I don’t freaking know.

I think I need back surgery. I’m mildly freaking out right now.

Back to Christmas. Generally, I’ll just trust you. But here are some ideas:

We sort of wanted one of those small firepit thingy’s that go in the back yard and I kept waiting for them to go on sale but alas, never hit a price I wanted. So there’s that.

We need a minivan.

If we get a minivan, we might want some of those little DVD players to go inside it for long trips with our children who are television addicted in the back.

I’ve been wanting to make compost and thought that one of those compost tumblers might be cool. Have no idea where I’d put it. But if I had one, I’d figure it out.

Note: we do not need a snowblower. But John would love a leaf blower. But if that was our family gift I’d write a nasty blog post about you and tell John to go blow himself. Heh. Heh.

I’m still not sold on the Nook or Ereader, so don’t go there this year. Plus, I can’t find electronic books at used book stores.

Does that help at all?

I assume you are doing a Wait family gift, but if the mood strikes to get my kids something (this is not a hint, I swear, only if you want to) there are a few standby’s that you might run into: anything princess for either of them. Really. But especially Eliott. Santa outfits in size 2T or 5. Always classic. Christmas PJ’s in 2T and 5. I’m already on the hunt for these though. They’ve been a bit of a tradition here, and what can I say, I’m sort of sold on them and their one-night-a-year glory. Unlike every other holiday, I actually think Christmas PJ’s are cute.

Saturday morning cartoons have also embedded in my children an uncontrollable desire for Stompeez.

Oh. Here’s something. We have exactly one (1) steak knife, and we use it every night. It’s always fun to share, but you know, a little awkward when we entertain, which is why I always serve enchilladas or chili when we have people over.

To be honest, this year I’ve been so excited about my own personal Christmas shopping (which is practically done, by the way, thanks to Black Friday, and Craigslist last summer for the girls) that it has been really easy not to think about anything I really want or need. After waking up yesterday with a lower back pain that made movement almost impossible, I’m actually just really hoping for healing, a cure without surgery, or some really big clients in Wait Law’s immediate future. That, or Extreme Makeover Home Edition to come outfit my house in all new ergonomic furniture, taller counters, and a year’s subscription to a floatarium.

And finally, there’s this:

FROM: Mom and Dad
SUBJECT: RE: Stompeez

there is a FREE duffle bag (only pay additional S&H), but there is no way to opt out of free bag

S&H is $28.00 + $7.00 internet fee PER PAIR

“Because of high demand, no guarantee for Christmas.”

That’s what you get when you let your kids watch Saturday morning cartoons. Not-so-subliminal messages of desire for $50 air-filled-unicorn slippers.

Confessions

Leftovers…soup!

When I left the house this morning at 9:02 it was probably sixty degrees outside. I didn’t even send Eliott to school with a coat. It is now 3:00 and forty-four degrees, according to The Weather Channel on my phone. I might not have noticed the drastic drop in temperature except that my heater just kicked on for the second time today, which always alarms me the first few days of winter every year.

Our Thanksgiving trip to Michigan was like our first teaser of cold weather this year and even then, for Michigan, in November, it was pretty nice. The girls rebounded from a week of constant play time (complete with paint and play-doh, Mommy’s two least favorite pre-school “toys”), a house full of friends and kitties to play with, and the best dress up clothes ever (according to Eliott) and we’re getting back into our three week normalcy routine before school lets out again for Christmas.

Have I ever mentioned how much I love my normalcy routine?

I was upstairs, sort of half dozing off into my afternoon nap tradition when I realized we have nothing to eat for dinner. It’s Tuesday. I know for a fact that there is positively nothing good on sale at any grocery store right now. Of course, taking a nap without having a plan for dinner is exactly as productive as trying to get some writing done when Carter is home on Tuesday mornings. I simply can’t do it. My first thought was spaghetti, my go-to we-have-nothing-to-eat food. But the only spaghetti sauce I have in the pantry right now is Ragu, which needs to go to the Food Bank, because everyone here hates it. (I just love those blind-taste-test commercials which prove everyone chooses Prego over Ragu–surprise! I think the sole of my shoe has more flavor than Ragu. And it probably wouldn’t give my 2 year old diarrhea.)

So I went downstairs and opened my fridge to see what I could throw into a crock pot and call soup.

I have:

exactly half of a leftover rotisserie chicken
onions, carrots, garlic, and about a quarter of a green pepper
some previously fresh, now frozen, sage and oregano
Lipton onion soup mix and chicken bouillon cubes
a can of garbanzo beans
a can of diced tomatoes

I mean come on. It worked for the soldiers in Stone Soup. Now I can go to the gym at 4:00 and know that dinner will be ready when I come home. Will probably run by the day old bread rack and grab something that can be toasted with a little mozzarella cheese on top. I’ll check in later and let you know how it turned out.

Confessions

Something in the Air?

Is it a peak allergy season in North Carolina right now? I ask because I honestly don’t know. Two nights ago, while sitting at the bar of 6th and Vine splitting date night between my husband and my girlfriend Molly, I started to feel a tickle in my throat.

As I outlined in my last post, I don’t knock on wood for good health, and I’m telling you right now, pregnancy cured a disease in me. No. I’m totally serious. From the time I was very young (it started in Mississippi, which was second and third grades) I have suffered from what I would consider severe asthma, and not the kind doctor’s call “sports induced.” In Mississippi, I was allergic to everything, and could count on getting sick for at least two full weeks of every year, once in the Fall and once in the Spring. In fact, I spent my second grade Spring Break, the entire week, in the ICU, hooked up to IV’s and breathing machines. I remember very little of it, outside of my dad sneaking in popcorn and Pepsi for the night shift, and watching Johnny Carson with me on a television that resembled a green microwave with a screen that was slightly bigger than an iPhone.

When we moved to Washington State, my parents starting taking me to an actual allergist, where I began a long relationship with allergy shots. I have to admit, getting tested for allergy shots was actually one of my favorite parts of childhood. Twice they did it on my back, and it was a little like a Chinese torture/pleasure experience. Twice they did it on my arms, and again, the needle pricks relaxed me into a state of malaise, which was immediately interrupted by instantaneous itching, and the fight not to scratch. Sadistic? A little.

In high school, I missed our Fall retreat every year because I was sick. My senior year, I prepared in advance, got on a steroid the week before and even brought my breathing machine (also about the size of a small microwave) with me. My dad now admits to driving 120 miles an hour in my mother’s Volvo to pick me up in the middle of the night and take me to the emergency room. He didn’t get pulled over, but he was pretty sure he could have convinced any cop of the emergency and talked himself out of the ticket. (My attorney husband is rolling his eyes right now.)

I have been on four different oral medications throughout my life, and whenever I so much as had a sniffle or a scratch in my throat, my parents rushed me to the Minute Clinic to get antibiotics and a steroid. In college, I bought Z-Packs on the black market, in order to be ready for the inevitable final’s week sickness. I have always relied on a rescue inhaler, which is probably why, for most of my life, I was a weak athlete and hated running, even though my body would have suggested otherwise.

And people wonder why I never had a boyfriend.

Asthma is a wimpy kid disease, and not the kind you want to admit you suffer from.

When I got pregnant with Eliott, everything changed. I had to go off Allegra-D, because it is on the “we don’t know if this messes with a fetus so avoid using it” list. But aside from my weekly and progressive allergy to– said fetus, I was otherwise in the best health of my life. I mean, yes, I lost 7lbs in the first trimester due to all-day morning sickness that had me constantly feeling like the room was spinning. Yes, I was mildly addicted to Tums Smoothies from month four until delievery. And yes, I did break out in all-over hives for the last six weeks of pregnancy, causing 3 a.m. scalding hot baths in oatmeal or Aveeno, just so I could go back to bed. (They call it PUPS?) But I never had to use my inhaler.

And I haven’t really ever had to use it since.

And I no longer take allergy meds. At all.

And I ran my 2nd marathon when Eliott was 8 months old.

So, today, I awoke with gunk in the back of my throat and that foggy headache that is clearly not just a caffeine withdrawal. And I’m wondering, is it allergy season in North Carolina? We’re flying to Michigan in two days to stay on John’s farm. I have an inclination to bring along my breathing machine (which is now roughly the size of my iPhone), but I’m not even sure if I have any medication to put in it.

Confessions

Google Karma

Call it kismet, call it karma, call it the balance of the universe or simply the truth of Galations 6:7, but I have always believed that things happen for a reason. I don’t knock on wood nor do I avoid out loud gratitude for streaks of good luck, good health, or good fortune for fear of jinxing anything. Though I do suffer from bouts of anxiety and worry, this irrational and hormone-induced stress is most often aimed at my immediate circumstances and rarely does it cloud over my rosy outlook on the big picture and my own sparkling future.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not walking around in the naive belief that good things happen to me because I’m a good person. (God knows, kindness and unconditional love for strangers–especially those who immediately strike me as of the ignorant variety–doesn’t come easily for me.) But it isn’t like I bow my head at night muttering, “Thanks Lord, you know I deserved that today. As long as you keep it up, I’ll keep it up.”

I do, however, like to think that a lifetime of returning stray carts in parking lots is one reason why all the cashiers at Harris Teeter treat me so well right now. I like to believe that my luck with prime parking spots on rainy days with my children comes from a time in my life when I chose to park far away for no reason. And financially speaking, when I consider that John and I are miraculously avoiding serious debt and managing, against many economic odds, to raise our family, grow a new business, and allow me to stay home with my children, I give credit to the fact that both of our grandfathers and fathers were God-fearing and honest businessmen.

So in the last three weeks or so, John has picked up a couple of new clients who found him on the Internet and chose him based purely on his Google reviews. I have to admit, as a consumer, I very often rely on the Google review to be the first and most convenient place for a product or service opinion, however, as opinionated (and succinct, and tactful, and gifted with words) as I am, I’ve never actually written a Google review.

Until now.

Today, I began in investment in Google karma.

After a productive, but not particularly restful weekend, and the prospect of a busy and stress-filled week ahead, here’s a quick plug of wife/mother/consumer -support, sent out to the Internet cosmos in the hopes of a fruitful return. God speed.

Confessions

How to Survive Christmas with Children

Yesterday, out of nowhere, John asked me, “Would you have married me if I was like, really into video games?” Understanding the degree to which really implied, I thought about it for a solid five seconds. “No. I’m not sure I would have been attracted enough to even date you.”

This answer, though true, surprised me a little, considering I do know several people (adults, mostly men) who are as John put it, like, really into video games, and the truth is, I don’t dislike these people. In fact, there was a time in my life when the group of boys I was not dating were these people. I personally went through a stint in high school where I was somewhat addicted to Sim City and WarCraft (courtesy of my brother) and an even more brief period of dorm-life in college where I played The Sims. But really into video games? Uh. No.

So the other night I was hanging out with some of my non-reading and not-from-church book-club mom friends when the conversation came around to Christmas. One woman in the room has several children of various ages. I came in second with my two children, oldest four. Others are about to experience their first Christmas with a toddler. Naturally, they wanted to know, how long do I have before my child turns into a Santa-worshiping, material-driven millennial who believes that he is the reason for the season, and no one else? And, is there any way to prevent this from happening?

To these two questions I answer: “Not long,” and “No.”

In this situation, rather than over-thinking and worrying, I find myself defaulting to the reality of my childhood and the fact that my own parents never attempted to pro-actively prepare us for Christmas nor detract us from hoarding the JCPenny catalog and dreaming about everything we thought we deserved on Christmas morning (and again two days later, if you were my sister Erica). Yet, as far as I can tell, we all pretty much turned out okay.

Though I can look back now and realize exactly how “rich” my parents were when I was a child, especially compared to my current financial situation, John would back me up when I say I was never spoiled. To the argument, “But you have a big house,” I responded, “We have a big family!” To, “You never wear hand-me-down clothes,” my answer was, “I have an older brother!” And to the unspoken arguments, I might have preemptively answered, “My mom drives a Caravan, my dad drives a Jeep, and I’ve never even been to Disney World.” But ultimately, these are not the reasons I didn’t consider myself rich. I knew we weren’t rich, for one reason, and one reason only:

We were the only people I knew who didn’t own a Nintendo.

Today, as I braved the holiday traffic on Hanes Mall Blvd., I made a command decision about this Christmas and the many that will follow. First, whether we can afford it or not, my children will not be given video games, ever, for any gift-giving occasion, from Mom and Dad. Furthermore, whatever is the electronic rage of the month, my children will be deprived of it. (Cell phones for 6th graders? Are you kidding me? Sorry, Eliott.) Finally, if any large electronic device is purchased, it will always come addressed to the FAMILY and not an individual. Basically, my children will never be allowed to believe anything expensive in the house is exclusively their own.

I realize the video game culture isn’t the sole driver behind our consumer minded Santa-worship in this country. But because it is the most prominent thing I can say my parents actively deprived us of, I’m going with it. We teach what we know. Perhaps taking children down to the mission on Christmas Eve and serving soup works for some families. Perhaps cleaning out toys once a year for less fortunate children (and really driving home the idea that we aren’t just “making room for new toys”) is what some parents find is the key to indoctrinating acts of selflessness into their offspring.

Me? I’m denying my children admittance into selfishness (and popularity, I’m sure) by making sure there is absolutely nothing at our house that might cause them to consider themselves better than others. In fact, I cannot wait until the day I get to say to my oldest, “Well, if everyone in your class has it, use theirs!”

While I like to think that going to church, praying before dinner as a family, and instilling my children with a sense of self that is a reflection of their Creator are all important things, I am convinced that they are not the things that made me the person I am today.

Nope. It was definitely the Nintendo we never owned.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

September October Blur

As September gave way to October, I found myself writing a check for preschool yesterday dated 11-1-11.

What?!

Where is the Fall going? (Actually, my mother is probably wondering the same thing, as I believe I’ve spoken to her on the phone a total of one hour plus six minutes since my sister’s wedding four weeks ago.) And the truth is, I have no idea, except to say that my 2011 Things To Do list is finally dwindling, and not a moment too soon, by my calculations.

Eliott’s and my teeth have been cleaned, professionally, I got a flu shot, found a potential future baby doctor, made and then rescheduled an appointment for this year, and continue to nurse two children through colds which seem to be lasting forever. I have shopped for, ordered, sent, and continue to seek perfect baby shower gifts for the endless number of close friends having babies in 2012. I have fought baby fever, lost, and priced maternity insurance for the upcoming year as well as the potential total cost for that plus pregnancy and delivery as a result. (I have discussed figures with my husband who assures me the only way we can have a baby in 2012 is if I get a job or win a minivan on The Price Is Right.)

I am caught up on the first two seasons of Dawson’s Creek and have come to the conclusion that my fashion choices in high school and the first couple years of college, though exactly as bad as I remember them, were actually completely appropriate and I dare suggest, hip. I have started reading three books, and have three angry Public Library emails in my inbox demanding the return of at least two of them. Also, I read an entire textbook on the Old Testament. Then I edited, updated, and otherwise creatively contributed to lesson plans for a new edition of the teacher’s manual…for teaching the entire Old Testament. A book I am far less familiar with than, say, To Kill a Mockingbird.

So forgive my absence from book club, my spotty attendance at Tuesday morning church social/study hour, my no’s to the last three pre-school birthday party invitations, and the fact that we have enough pork roast in the freezer to last us the next seventeen days, but we’re totally out of butter and eggs. I’m functioning on lists. But the checking-off of items is happening in no particular order.

To recap the past month, I offer a few pictures, taken in rare moments of mental clarity (or not) by my trusty iPhone. (And to think I ever debated the move to a smartphone. Hah.)