Christmas tree gone wrong

We have this tradition of going about 45 minutes north to the same Christmas tree farm each year and cutting down our tree. This year we had one tiny window available, which happened to be yesterday after school. (Due to basketball games, piano, student council, tennis, yearbook,, confirmation class, etc, we have very little free time as a family these days.) Pulled my kids out of school early (not knowing that Leah was in the middle of a math test), threw on boots, snow pants, scarves and hats; raced up to the farm, trying to beat the snow storm. We arrived about 3:45, knowing they close on Fridays at 5 p.m. We drove around, trying to find a good tree. And drove around, and walked around, until finally it was getting dark and we had to make a decision. The kids were complaining, it was cold, I was shoving hot chocolate at them and trying to take cute pictures while Mike sawed down the tree. Almost dark. Can’t get the enormous, heavy tree on top of our car. Called the tree farm phone # from my cell phone pleading for help. Only 2 guys working, and they couldn’t come help us. Flagged down the only other family crazy enough to be getting their tree in the middle of a Minnesota snow storm (but they were smarter and had a pick-up truck). Got the other dad to help haul the tree on top of the car. Gingerly drove to the exit. Ask the guy working there to save my marriage and help tie the tree to the top of the car safely. Snowing very hard now, and pitch dark, running very late for dinner with friends and also needed to get our oldest daughter to her friend’s house for cookie-baking party. Stressful. Storming. Cars off the road, sirens, ambulances, poor visibility. Kids tired, hungry, thirsty. Finally home. Today: put the tree up. It’s perfect. Big, fat, and beautiful. And as every year, we all agree that it was worth it, and I laugh to myself because every time I look at that tree I think of the funny ridiculous effort that went into getting it here.

Nyquil

You know it's a bad cold when you willingly resort to the awful NyQuil as medication. Most meds have a 1-or 2-teaspoon dosage, but Nyquil requires you to choke down 2 TABLEspoons. I was complaining about this to my mom when she reminded me that NyQuil also makes liquid tablets, so you really don't have to taste the nastiness at all. Thanks, mom! Off to the store...

Possessive families

I was just browsing through random blogs, and people really don't know when or how to use an apostrophe with a last name, do they? It isn't the Hanson's. It's the Hansons! Unless it's the Hanson's blog. Or the Hanson's Christmas card. But please don't sign your Christmas card "Love, the Hanson's." (Especially if your last name isn't Hanson.) An apostrophe "s" is possessive. There. I feel a little better now.

Naked Cowboy

I almost rear-ended someone today due to distracted driving. Nope, I wasn't texting or talking on the phone, nor was I frantically trying to dig a sippy cup out of a diaper bag and bend my arm into an unnatural backward position to hand it to a fussy toddler in the backseat. (OK, I am way past the toddler/sippy cup stage, but I do think that scenario is about as distracted as driving can get---much worse than talking on a cell phone.)
I was distracted because I had just heard on the radio that the Naked Cowboy is going to run for President. The radio talk show hosts discussing this story then suggested that the Naked Cowboy would be great on Dancing with the Stars. I think that's brilliant.
As you can see, I have met the Naked Cowboy, as has my horrified mother-in-law, who was quite a good sport about the whole jarring experience. And then today I heard this radio discussion, and it was just too much. My mind was swirling with memories of our New York City Naked Cowboy sighting; I was imagining him on Dancing with the Stars (what would he wear???); I was trying to figure out if he has a PR person who convinced him to run for office; I was so deep in thought about the Naked Cowboy that I barely, barely avoided a little car accident. I think I need to just focus on my driving, and the Naked Cowboy needs to focus on something other than a political career. Like dancing.

Bunny Love

*WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT!*
This morning, as I was scrambling around the house getting everyone ready for school, I glanced out the front window and saw our dog JoJo happily chewing on something. Normally I'd assume it was a stick or a leftover bone and keep going, but today I made the fatal error of going to the window for a closer look.

It was a bunny. With no head.

I had one of those car-crash moments where you want to look away but some evil force glues your eyes to the repulsive vision in front of you. Chewing, chewing. Joyful chewing. Not knowing what to do, I continued staring, frozen, as JoJo carefully laid the rest of the bunny down and then settled next to it's furry partial body, as though they were buddies hanging out together, enjoying the beautiful day. My kids came running. I felt nauseous.
As my older two ran out the door to catch the middle school bus, I warned them not to let JoJo lick them...in fact, not to touch her at all. Fifteen minutes later, Leah, my youngest, was waiting outside for me to walk her to her bus stop. She came running inside, telling me that JoJo had just thrown up a huge pile of yuck which included the bunny's head. She did NOT throw up the bunny's head, I chastized her. "YES SHE DID!! There's a bunny nose sticking up from the top of the pile!" I looked (why did I look?), and she was quite right.

This is not a job for me, I thought to myself.

Where is my husband when I need him? I then reiterated this story and these thoughts to another mom and a dad at the bus stop. The bus came, I kissed Leah goodbye and took my disgusting dog for a walk. Upon my return, I noticed a large plastic bag with the top tied tightly in a knot resting on the ground outside my garage. My heart skipped a beat. I looked to my yard and saw a nice, smooth, grassy expanse, gloriously free of fur, noses, and bunny torsos. Suddenly my day was looking up! No need to hide in the house avoiding any glances at the front yard. No need to confine my dog to the house. No need to worry what the neighbors might think! I immediately texted my neighbor Rhett with a vigorous thank you message. It may be the best good deed someone has ever done for me. Later, when my 8th grade daughter texted me to see what was for dinner, I texted back, "Rabbit stew." She wasn't amused.

It's 9:45 p.m, the house is mostly quiet--husband upstairs reading, kids asleep, dog outside...I have Whitestrips on my teeth and just applied Retin-A to my face. It smells weirdly delicious. I feel like a high-maintenance 40-something woman, but the Retin-A is all my dermatologist's doing, as a pre-emptive measure to hopefully stave off more basal cell skin cancers episodes. The Whitestrips: totally my doing. Spent the whole day--ok, a huge chunk of the weekend--going through each girl's closet--a hideous job but so rewarding in the end. We tried everything on, got rid of stuff, passed stuff down to the next sister, and once that closet was finished, moved on to the next. Now my dining room table is covered with clothes and surrounded by boxes because I'm having our first garage sale ever on Thursday. Having trouble parting with the Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys...might I want to keep those for when I have grandchildren? Will they be charmed by these old-fashioned toys? Or am I just a sentimental hoarder? Can I really sell Leah's Pottery Barn Kids white vanity and little white chair? Should I keep it for her to give her daughter some day? I was in our storage room tonight and saw the wooden high chair, the disassembled crib, the changing table, and even the crib bedding. The little red rocking chair, the wooden push toy that was Kellis's...I just can't get rid of that stuff. Maybe, though, I can get rid of the Tinker Toys. And the Legos. But I'm keeping the American Girl dolls! There's only so much of my daughters' childhoods that I can part with at any given time. Baby steps...