Tiny Christmas

She learned that at daycare.

I love my family and friends, really I do, and it's no secret how much I treasure the big Cleaver Christmas. But as travel heavy a year it was at work, I could think of nothing more desirable than to give the suitcases a rest and let it be the three of us for the first time.

Five reasons our solo Christmas was perfect.

1. Ham from Bacynsky's. Brett said it's the best he ever had. The loaf of white bread for left-over sandwiches was sadly depleted last night.

2. Monkey Bread*. Sweet, hot, gooey, and definitely a new Christmas morning tradition.

3. D's Christmas tutu outfit, 2010 edition. It's getting a little sparse, but you can't help feeling festive with a girl in a tutu. If I could pull it off, I'd go there.

4. A two-year-old and piles of wrapping paper**. Christmas with a two-year-old in general. (More pictures here.)

5. Getting snowed in by a blizzard. Watching snow pile is the ultimate happiness.

*Thank you to my sister's mother-in-law Lynn for the recipe, below. No thank you for the calories.

**A combination of my granola and procrastinating nature resulted in a dearth of wrapping paper in the house, leaving us with the New York Post from the building recycling. Newspaper seemed charming, until I realized how much effort it took to avoid central placement of sex scandals, gun issues, and ads for manboob reduction complete with before/after photos. However, I did allow the manboobs onto one of D's gifts to commemorate this summer when she learned the word boobies and loudly, proudly pointed them out on a shirtless man playing tennis outside. When she walked past him the 2nd time, he had covered up to be spared her excitement.

Monkey Bread (As this recipe will feed an army, I divided it by four. But here's the whole thing.)

4 cans of biscuits

1 cup packed brown sugar

1.5 sticks of butter

1/2 cup white sugar

2 tablespoons cinnamon

1/2 cup walnuts or pecans

1/2 cup raisins

Cut the biscuits into quarters. Put the white sugar and cinnamon in a plastic bag. Four at a time, toss the quarters in the bag to coat. Arrange them a layer at a time in a pan (use a bundt if you're doing the full amount) with the nuts and raisins in between. You can do this part night before.

Melt brown sugar and butter over medium heat and boil for a minute. Pour it over the biscuits. Bake 30-40 minutes at 350 degrees.

If you're feeling like a bad girl, whip up some cream cheese icing to spread on top when it's done. I did. It's worth it.

Backpack, backpack

For Christmas, we decided to buy D a backpack. She's been sporting one of ours in the house, looking like a turtle, knocking over cups and chairs in the process. But she does it (with map and all) to be her beloved Dora. So it's time for her own. Besides, she needs to vacate my valuable purse space and start toting her own crap.

I had my eye on this one for months. I mean, how cute is that. The feminine yet not Barbie color combination, the round scalloped eyes that are kind of cross-eyed, the leaf zipper pull!. A-DOR-A-BLE. I want to be 3 years old so I can have it.

Her buzzkiller daddy insisted we give her a choice between this and squeaky little Miss Vamanos. No way! She'd pick one I hate for sure. I'm paying; it's my gift and my decision. Besides, this would be my last chance to impart my own taste before she insists every item be emblazoned with glittery magical princesses that leave you wondering if there are colors besides pink and purple.

I put the owl in my shopping cart.

I found this video she recorded of herself on the flip, documenting her Dora PJs.

I showed her pictures of the beloved blue owl and Dora options.

She bounced on Dora despite my opposing sales tactics.

I removed the owl from the shopping cart.

I put the owl back in the shopping cart.

And then we bought this one off eBay from some lady who probably now has the owl instead. Yeesh.

I fell in like a bad souffle, although mainly as a bunny hugging environmentalist, justifying it's better to buy one heinous backpack now than one perfect plus the inevitable heinous later. It's what she wants. But I can't stand it.

Anyway this isn't really about a backpack. It's about my control issues and the admission that I need to settle down. Yes, children are individuals with their own tastes and should be nurtured and encouraged to make their own decisions, blah blah blah parents of the year. But what to do when those decisions are bubble-gum pink and lime green with sparkles. What if someone thinks that is my taste when I'm seen with her? (Ridiculous and shallow fear, but at least I'm honest.)

I'm getting over it and saving it for the bigger battles to be won over whale tails and tattoos.

And I plan to bribe her with this little backpack. So here, I still win.

Cheers

My dad liked to write the date and occasion on corks popped at special times. He'd have to be the one to write it, which would take him about five minutes as he carefully decided his font and letter placement and admired his work before proudly gifting it over. I just came across this one from our first Christmas in NY while rearranging my kitchen knickknacks.

Both our parents visited and the six of us crammed into our 400 square foot 5th floor walk-up for garishly decorated cookies and holiday beverages, including this bottle of champagne.

After five years of schlepping South for Christmas, we're again spending it in NYC. Things are much different now, but I still have my cork. Here's to a bowl of many more.

It's the thought that counts

Do you know what I LOVE? Giving presents. Inexpensive, thoughtful ones that don't create more junk in the universe. Stuff for people who don't really need anything. Ones that aren't buying for the sake of buying and maybe incorporate some light crafting. I'm pretty good at the gifting, if I do say so myself. I give awesome gifts when the occasion calls, and I give even more awesome gifts in my head (since forgetfulness and procrastination win out). It's one of my few top talents (although this is still just my opinion, and "what to do with the stupid crap Kajal gave me" could very well be a popular topic of conversation at my funeral).

I love gifting so much I have long wanted to write a book about it. Since that's quite a task and very impractical, I decided to write about it online instead and saved a blog url for it. And since that's also extra work, I decided to just write about it here. We'll see.

My fake book is called "It's the thought that counts." It has me on the cover jumping out of a gift box :-). One day I'll come up with a less predictable title. What about "Gift ideas for cheapos who still want to appear thoughtful"?

I hope you like my ideas. I know I do.

Bah...

I sure do like all these Christmas cards on our wall. You people have some cute babies, but I have no idea what you look like anymore. If it's anything like me, you have some more gray, including the ones that shoot out like mattress springs and make you two inches taller, and you're wondering if you should get some Clearasil if they even still sell that. However, I do have a good haircut and lovely new Nars blush that makes me look fresh.

We both have writers block, no printer ink (which he insists on replacing online instead of instore), and no sense of the fact it's December 20th. Also Brett's way occupied with his dvr'd Bridalplasty. I voted to skip the card ritual, but he insists on tradition which will yield some sort of compromise that goes out on Valentine's Day, as in 2008.

The current state of pre-Christmas affairs:

No stockings.
No homemade tree skirt.
No CARD.
No child's picture with Santa. She'd probably give him the stink eye anyway.
No decent wrapping supplies.
No success with the potty (please, Santa?)
No real baking.
No snow. Where is it? Come on! Even the southerners can make snowballs.

Let me just own it. None of the above will happen. And that is fine.

The tree is so very pretty though.

My fraser fir

In my adult life, I've never had a Christmas tree over 2 feet tall (as long as you don't count the in-laws' Cleaver tree forest). Charlie Brown has left this town. After convincing Brett we truly do not have time to trek upstate to cut down our own (talking him down only means we'll have to do it next year and mark his entry into Clark Griswold-hood), we visited our nearest tree-man and sauntered home with a seven foot fragrant find, a special moment with snow flurries and all.

I love it. It doesn't have any ornaments yet, due to my haphazardly strung and mismatched lights Brett insists on redoing. Baby steps. My tree theme is yarn and sparkle, although neither are in place and barely purchased. Brett insists on popcorn stringing and tinsel. Baby steps.

This year, we're staying home for the holidays. Hence, the big tree. Exhale and smile. No trip South; no running around. The action's all here in the cozy apartment, likely incomplete with stockings and trim, but I don't care. I got a tree! Bring on the holidays!

(With no plan currently in place for gift buying and card writing, we'll see how long the enthusiasm lasts before turning into late nights of panic.)

School's for suckers.

D's 2nd school photo. You know the photographer took several. And this won the place of most presentable to the parents. Girl's got a mind of her own.

That's a lot of attidude for only 24 pounds. Her infant friends could take her down for sure.

I am dying to know what was swirling around in that tautly slicked down pigtail head of hers (the style donned by all, courtesy of the staff).

"This book is lame. And this background does not complement my complexion."

"My mom never remembers show-and-share day. I hate her."

"What is the square root of 1342?"

"Why would anyone in their right mind want to use a toilet when you can go anywhere/anytime in a diaper? These fools are crazy. I mean, I'm dropping a deuce right now and knocking out the school picture. A model for efficiency, I say. "