Christmas was fantastic this year. The children were excited Christmas morning to find that Santa had indeed looked over this past years mishaps and delivered on most of the things they asked for and hyper with expectation for the day ahead where more family would gather to shower them with love and even more gifts. The house smelling of great food, Christmas carols in the background…all of the things you would see in a Hallmark movies.

But there was the night before.

Oh sure, it seemed like a good enough idea to go to Christmas Eve mass with one of my best friends, Traci, her husband Michael, and their three sons. The oldest is 13 and now taller than me. I’ve known him since he was two and it’s a bit freaky to have to reach up to kiss his still chubby cheek. The middle, my Godson, is the lifelong BFF to Mr. C. Their youngest, Mr. D, is the same age as my Miss G and Traci and I have for the longest time joked about the day they go to prom together…and if we have our way, the day they get married. If there is still such a thing as arranged marriage, Traci and I are all for it because aside from the fact that our beautiful babies would…well, make beautiful babies, it would give us a chance to hang out forever and we are both in favor of that.

Look at how cute they were together last Christmas….

So like I said, we all headed out to church and it started out really well. It was a children’s mass and it was not quiet at all which I took as a sign of good fortune since my two cannot shut their mouths for five minutes to save their lives. We all took out seats and everyone was really well behaved. I was so proud.

That didn’t last long.

Now I should explain here that as far as Catholics go, I may not be the best ever. We don’t go to mass every week…or every month for that matter. I try, but the older they get the more life gets in the way. So it is safe to say that perhaps…PERHAPS…my children are not the best behaved in church.

We all sat down and Mr. C and my Godson immediately got into a rather lengthy discussion of the different type of evolved Pokemon and God knows what else and I had to remind them several times to keep their conversation down.

As usual, I should have been keeping an eye on Miss G because while I was busy with the boys, she was honing her talent as a pick up artist. At first it started with a simple love note to Mr. D passed to him by her Aunt Traci. Simple and sweet.

Mr. D took one look at it and handed it back at his Mom before it had a chance to give him cooties. My daughter is not one to take no for an answer so she took the note back, added a few lines and passed it back again.

Mr. D, convinced she had actually now infected him with nasty girl cooties, looked at it again and his eyes got super wide…and he threw it back to his Mom as his face turned beet red.

Now you would think this would put my Miss G off, but no. Girlfriend got into her wallet and dug out a five dollar bill, folded it up, and gave it to her Aunt Traci in an effort to buy Mr. D for cash money. Traci told her that was a lot of money and she really didn’t need to do that, you know because that would be human trafficking and all. Miss G was not going to be deterred though and said, “That’s okay Aunt Traci, I have lots of money!” Sure enough, she did. We looked in her purse and discovered she had emptied her entire life savings out of her piggy bank and brought it to church. Hey, a girl has to be prepared. Traci and I struggled to maintain ourselves and act like adults in church but the giggles got the best of us. Between Mr. D looking anywhere and everywhere to avoid contact with Miss G, and Miss G doing everything in her power to get his attention, and failing that, PURCHASE him, it was all too much.

You would think it would have ended there, but no. Halfway through mass, Miss G always realizes she is one of the only ones who won’t be receiving Communion because she isn’t old enough yet. This is the portion of the program where she starts talking about how HUNGRY she is…STARVING really, like we haven’t fed her in weeks. Constant angling to get me to agree to let her have that piece of bread the rest of the Catholic word calls a host. She is dying to know what it tastes like and it just infuriates her that I won’t let her.

So when she started that portion of the programming at Christmas mass, I spent some time talking to her about how special her First Communion would be and how in the meantime she could walk up to the priest like the rest of us, she just had to cross her hands over her chest to show she wasn’t receiving Communion but would like to receive a special Christmas blessing. Miss G agreed to that…better to meet in the middle than to get left out of all the fun, right?

Wrong.

So we got in line, Miss G, then Mr. C, then my Godson, then me. I was busy making sure the boys knew what they were doing and trying to keep them from talking and I took my eyes off Miss G for what I swear was no more than thirty seconds. When I looked up again, Miss G had made it past the priest and was looking back at me with a look somewhere between shock and victory. Then I saw it. She had conned the priest into giving her Communion, had the host in her hands and was scooting away with it as fast as she could.

I morphed into super slow motion, shoving the boys aside, hissing “NOOOOOOO MISSSSSS GEEEEEEEEEE…..!!!!!” while leaping over pews and praying church goers. Okay, I made that part about leaping over pews and people up but you get the general picture, right? I got the host out of her hand and then stood there as approximately 137 people stared at me with their mouths open. And no, I’m not exaggerating.

For those of you that aren’t Catholic, I know this sounds like it’s not that big of a deal. And in the grand scheme of things, it really isn’t. However, First Communion is supposed to happen in second grade and it’s cool for two very specific reasons if you are a girl. First there is the frilly, white dress and veil you get to wear. Secondly, you finally get to find out what the bread everyone else has been eating tastes like. (Guess what? It tastes like bread.) Those two things alone are the most you are going to get out of it because at seven, it’s really very difficult to absorb all the gory details about how the whole thing came about in the first place.

Also, there are all sorts of rules about what to do with the host should it end up somewhere it wasn’t originally intended and I flashed back to Catholic school where the nuns used to scare the holy hell out of us on that very topic. I remembered that you are supposed to return the host to the priest, tell him where you found it, etc but not wanting to a.) cause further commotion or b.) roll over on my own daughter, I did what seemed like the most logical thing and stuck it in my mouth, grabbed Miss G and ran like hell leaving Mr. C and my Godson behind with their mouths hanging open.

This was the straw that broke the camels back in terms of any of us trying to behave the rest of Mass and we spent the remaining 20 minutes or so in fits of laughter.

So there you have it, a Christmas tale of how one adorable little girl became a con artist and took her first stab at human trafficking. Come back next time and we can talk about her elaborate Ponzi scheme to garner the most bottle cap necklaces in all of first grade.

Yeah, I don’t think they can explain either. But I’m betting Santa will overlook all of this years mishaps just because they are so cute…what do you think?

Merry Christmas everyone….see you after the big day!

It’s that magical time of year. The kids are out of school, work is winding down and everyone is on their best behavior for the final few days before Christmas lest Santa find out someone has been naughty. We did a lot together this weekend, had friends over, finished shopping and did a lot of rapping, yo. Wait…no. I meant wrapping. Anyway.

One thing that is a sure fire hit with kids everywhere is making crafts. We found some old stuff from a Christmas party a long time ago and Miss G decided she wanted to make home-made gifts for everyone this year. She hid herself away with a bag full of letters and decorations and Elmer’s glue. She worked diligently and quietly making gifts for her brother, her Dad and me. She was so excited she couldn’t wait to give mine to me. She ran out of the room and came back with this:

She was so proud of herself it almost made me cry. This is the kind of stuff I’ll hang on to forever. But wait! She loves me so much she made two.

Not to be outdone by her potty mouthed brother, Miss G proudly presented me with this:

Aww..thanks honey, but that last part may have been uncalled for.

Mr. C turned ten this week…TEN!!! How is that even possible? The Man and I were talking about his birthdays over the years and one in particular stuck out….his second…also known as the year he proved to us he could cuss like a sailor.

At the tender age of two, Mr. C had such an amazing vocabulary. He could tell us all sorts of stories, vivid descriptions of everything. But he was also a walking tape recorder at that point and we did not know it.

Every Christmas, The Man’s Mom and Step Dad come to visit us. This also coincides with Mr. C’s birthday and that of the MIL. It’s hectic and sometimes it gets a little crazy but we have a good time and celebrate their birthdays and Christmas all in one. In years going forward, the visit has become busier and crazier due to the addition of my adorable niece, nephew, and spouses as our family continues to grow. This year however, it was just The Man, Me and Mr. C spending time with Grandma and Grandpa in our home. It was lovely…very quiet and we were all enjoying ourselves and loved watching my adorable toddler rip through presents and bask in the spotlight, realizing for the first time all this fuss was about him.

So you can imagine my horror when my little angel opened up his mouth and proved that he had the biggest potty mouth in town.

The morning after Mr. C’s second birthday it was quiet enough that I could hear everything in the house. Mr. C and his Grandpa were playing with a toy from the loot he had received in another room. I’m not sure what the toy was but Mr. C was trying to figure it out, very focused and Grandpa watched silently as he concentrated. Apparently, my son could not get whatever toy it was to work and suddenly the blissful silence of the house was shattered when very loudly, Mr. C. proclaimed, “Grandpa, this goddamn toy doesn’t work..”

Five second pause.

Silence…except for the sound of my jaw hitting the floor.

Grandpa: “What did you say son?”
Mr. C: (assuming he has not spoken clearly or loudly enough) “I SAID….GRANDPA, THIS GODDAMN TOY DOESN’T WORK!!!”

OH.
MY.
GOD.

I tried to scurry under the sink to hide at this point but was not quick enough for Grandpa who came directly into the kitchen and asked if I had heard what my precious baby had just said. My eyes darted from side to side. What on earth could I say to justify this?? But then in came to me in a flash of brilliance. Goddamn is so not one of my words, it belongs exclusively to The Man. So I did what any loving wife would do, and threw him directly under the bus because he wasn’t there to defend himself. I also added that had he dropped an eff bomb, it would totally belong to me as that is my curse word of choice. And of course, I would NEVER say a word like that around my baby.

See how I did that, shifting the blame? It was awesome. It was not my fault, The Man was the bad influence and I was pretty pleased with my position of innocence.

It worked out really well for me until a year later. We had just moved into our new house and we had a dog that loved to bolt as fast as she could out the front door at every opportunity. I hated the dog but chased her down every single time anyway. Grandma and Grandpa were in town for a visit and somehow the door was left open just enough for the dog to shoot out of it and across the street. As I ran out the door, I could faintly hear Mr. C commenting on the situation.

“That fucking dog, Grandpa. That fucking dog…”

Awesome. Just effing awesome.

PS: I know I’ve been absent on a lot of your blogs this week as well as my own. Did you know Christmas is one week away? Yeah, I just figured that out a couple of days ago and have not mailed one card or purchased a single gift. The next week will be spent furiously elfing my way to the big day. I’ll post and swing by when I can….just wanted you to know I’m not rude, just the most disorganized person you may ever meet!

Welcome to another edition of The Shoebox Chronicles!

A while back Kat over at 3 Bedroom Bungalow suggested that I talk about a favorite pair of shoes. One would think I could have come up with that on my own given that I am The Stiletto Mom and all but no, never occurred to me. This is why I love you all so much…you don’t really seem to mind that I have no idea what I’m doing most days. Then Dorsey over at Searching For My Inner Skinny, as usual, had to take it one step further and asked me to not only describe a favorite pair of shoes….but tell her about a pair that gave me a shoe-gasm.

It’s embarassing to admit but I have to be honest and tell you that I have never actually had a shoe-gasm. Even though I am an admitted shoe whore, it’s just never happened for me. I am an open minded person, I’ve experimented with several different shoes, some of them designer even. I think it’s just that I never met the right pair.

Until this weekend. Oh yes friends, it happened. And it? Was freaking FABULOUS.

It all started when I walked into Neiman’s. I had my loot from the big bet burning a hole in my pocket. I made my way to the shoe department with great anticipation. What would they feel like on my feet? Would they be firm and confident? Or gentle and inviting? Would they caress the arches of my feet in a way they’ve never been caressed before? Eyes darting back and forth, my heart racing with the thought of what they would look like, I surveyed the room for the pair of Christian Louboutins that would be my perfect match. And then I saw them.

Hello Lovah…

I’ll admit I was a little shaky as I handed them to the salesperson….I blushed as he smiled at my expression. He gently took the shoe from my hand and guided me to a plush chair in which to sit. My mind began to race….excitement at what was about to happen to my feet, shame at the wretched excess of what I was considering doing. What would my other shoes think? They are pretty, they’ve been good shoes…how could I turn my back on them like this? They’ve been loyal to me, heels never breaking, always perfectly matching my outfit…comfortable even. As shame began to flood my emotions, I considered leaving. Something about this all just felt so wrong, so….dirty.

And then my salesman came back with the shoes. He knelt down in front of me, glancing up as he lifted the lid off the box. He smiled slightly as he slowly pulled the red tissue paper back exposing the shoes. He was good….soooo good….he was definitely a man who knew what he was doing. With the slightest flick of his wrist, he quickly pulled the shoe from the box and looked at me knowingly. “Give me your foot….let’s see how this feels…” he said.

Slowly he slid the shoe on to my ever so slightly shaking foot.

Oh….oh….oooohhhhhhh………

I could feel the heat coming from the shoe, the tingle, starting at the arch of my foot and beginning to spread slowly up my leg……and then it happened.

YES! YES!!!! YESSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!

Sort of like this:

After a few disapproving looks from the Dallas Society types, I stood up on my shaky legs, thanked the nice salesman for being so gentle and knowing with a novice like me and quietly paid him before he had a chance to call security.

Feeling like a born again woman, I confidently took the shoes, tucked them into the trunk of my car and headed home. I’ve heard shoes like to just doze off after giving a good shoe-gasm so I thought the darkness of the trunk would be the perfect place for them to relax after bringing my feet such joy and the knowledge of what a true, loving shoe-gasm could feel like.

We got home, I lovingly lifted them from the trunk, brought them in and gently unwrapped them. And then we had a make-out session.

Now I know a few of you guys, and by guys, I mean Man Bloggers, are just not going to get all the hype here. It’s not just that these are the most comfortable shoes known to man (well woman actually)….they are literally sex on heels. The way they make my calves pop when I wear them, the fact that they are black and will go with EVERYTHING…all that pales in comparison to the red sole of the shoe that screams, “Look at me! Look at meeeee!!!!” as I prance out of a room. It is nothing more than pure, unadulterated conceit in the form of a simple black shoe. In short, they are right up my alley.

Huge shout out to Mama Dawg from Two Dogs running whose relentless reading of Us and People paid off Thursday as she was the first one to guess my little word scramble. Sure, people call those magazines rags full of useless information. I call them my bible because having all that celebrity knowledge is what allowed me to win this little bet in the first place. Oh, and Cameron? I’m still not going to tell you what the bet was. Mama Dawg….you are my kind of gal!!!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go take a shower.

This hot mess edition of The Shoebox Chronicles brought to you by my favorite new Brit, Kat at 3 Bedroom Bungalow and the ever snarky Dorsey at Searching For My Inner Skinny. Gals, I love you both…thanks for the great idea!