In the gritty hallways of Millington Elementary School, news started circulating when I was in second grade that Santa ISN'T REAL.

Snort, I thought.  That's not true.  No way.  Nope.  Dismiss.

By third grade, I realized that it *could be* true.  Shitty if true, but possible.  I chose to suspend my disbelief and pressed on with my bad self.

In fourth grade, I allowed myself to cross over to acknowledging, publicly, that Mom and Dad are Santa.  In truth, I had noticed years ago that Santa used the same wrapping paper as Mom, and that his gift tags were the same as hers...and that his handwriting was the same.  My burgeoningly analytical mind caught these inconsistencies and saved them for impeachment on cross-examination.

Memories like this make me think that I may have been destined for law school.

*     *      *     *     *

I have written multiple times about my smugness at not having an Elf on the Shelf.  It was a tiny little bit of holiday nonconformism that I really enjoyed.  I mean, we also don't drink eggnog, but that's because it's gross.  (Sorry, Lisa.)

Anyway, that smugness?  It's in the past.  

Here's how it happened:

Jack was getting ready for bed.  He is pretty meticulous with his bedtime routine.  It's probably a function of dragging out bedtime, but I still find it endearing.  It reminds me of my Grandfather Davies, padding around in his man pajamas, getting his carafe of ice water to put by his bedside before turning in for the night.  

Jack:     (almost whiney, but more wheedling)  Hey Mom.  Everyone in my class has an elf.

Me:      (taking a deep breath to start my schpiel about how that's cool, but it's not our tradition...)

Jack:     (guilty mumble) And they really like talking about what they do.  So...I made up an elf so I could talk about with them.

Me:      (Oh...he's not trying to swindle me into getting an elf.  He's confessing because he told a lie!  Oh damn, this is sweet.)  Oooooh, so, um, what did you name your elf?

Jack:    AAAJ.

Me:      (eyebrows raised, nodding slowly)  Oh!  Um, what does that stand for?

Jack:    Well, I wanted him to be really awesome, so I gave him three As.  But then, I figured if he's an elf, then he's joyful, so I added a J.  So, his name is AAAJ.

Me:      (melting)  Oh, buddy.

Jack:    What?  Is it that bad?

Me:      What??

Jack:     ...what I named him?

Me:      No.  It's wonderful.  So, what was AAAJ doing?

Jack:    Hugging my toothbrush.

Me:      ...

*     *     *     *     *

And so, just like that, AAAJ appeared, replete with a note explaining his tardiness.  

So, not only do you need to move the elf every night after your kids go to bed, but when they wake up and find the elf, they can't touch it.  Which is fine when you're almost 7, but is NOT FINE when you are Sawyer and don't give a rat's ass about grown ups and their arbitrary rules.  

So, I had to put AAAJ in places where Sawyer couldn't reach him.  This was inspired, if I say so myself.  

AAAJ and I started feeling more confident with each passing day.

And thirsty.  

*     *     *     *     *

I haven't forgotten to move AAAJ yet.  

My wrapping paper is different than Santa's.  So is the handwriting.

My smugness is gone, but my pride at sustaining the fleeting magic of Christmas through the eyes of my sweet Jack is very much intact.

Hope you acquiesce toward magic today.

Talk soon,

Heather

the one about pie. and wine.

Christmas is an Olympic event to me.

I train for it.  I plan for it.  I make multiple lists.  I mutter over cookbooks weeks in advance.  I dance in my car to Christmas music in November.  Early November.

I'm into it.

Normally, December 23rd (or Christmas Eve EVE, as I call it in my head), is Baking Day.  If I have the great (biannual) luck of being with my sister, Jenny, we listen to the Pogues and the Waitresses and bake cookies and spike our coffee with Kahlua.  

If not, I bake pies all day.  I usually end up with a 1:1 person to pie ratio.  Not because everyone eats a whole pie, but because I want to make several kinds of pie, and why make just one?  Everyone has to taste it, you know.  And of course, my family requires at least three pumpkin pies.  So. I make a lot of pies.

This year, Durel had a great (yet revolutionary) idea.  He suggested that we go to Fredericksburg with PapaDu, Uncle Dustin, Aunt Geri to breathe Hill Country air and drink wine.  (Frederickburg is a Texas German town a little more than an hour away.  It has cuteness and vineyards in abundance.)

I told him that was a great idea.

My brain was freaking out about OHMAGERD THE PIEZZZZZZZZZZZ.  But I told that inner voice to shut up.  And off we went.

I'm also not good at admitting I'm wrong.  But you can guess where this is going.

Durel was right.  It was a perfect (balmy) day and an amazing way to spend it.

Exploring.

I love these people.  So much.

Getting artsy.

My beautiful sister in law.

Moving.

Maxing and relaxing.

Guess what?  I still made pie.  

Hope your Christmas involved the magic of new ideas.

Talk soon,

Heather

the bearded man cometh

We are getting our holiday on over here.  

I would like to say that I'm more prepared this year than I normally am.  I would like to say I can make a perfect cheese souffle.  I would like to say I've run a marathon.  I would like to say a lot of things.

None of these things are true.

But.  But!  Here's what I can say:  I am not stressed out about it.  This is a new and different take on "Heather Less Than Two Weeks Before Christmas."  I can also say that I  learned to make totally bad ass Pad Thai recently.  I can also say that my (brave and supportive) friend Elizabeth has agreed to run a half marathon with me this spring.  

These things are true, and they're lovely.

Jack needed to make a banner for school, depicting our family's holiday traditions.  He promptly demanded to pose for pictures with the dogs.  (And his Santa hat.)

He looks 12 here and it's freaking me out.

As far as I could tell, his sense of our traditions involves: Christmas pajamas, Christmas tree decorating, Advent calendar doing, and dog loving.  

These things are true, and they're lovely.

Hope you're doing your best Bedford Falls, too.

Talk soon,

Heather

the lyrics we remember

Jack has inherited my deeply rooted love of Christmas.

Yes, I know that all almost six year olds freaking love Christmas.  It's a temporal wonderland of cookies, special pajamas, staying up late, and Buddy the Elf -- all of which culminates in a visit from Santa and PRESENTS, GLORIOUS PRESENTS!

I get it.

But...I also love Christmas with my whole preppy, sappy, traditional heart.  I know the words to the "real" Christmas carols (Good King Wenceslas, natch).  There is magic in Christmas.  This, I know.

Apparently, Jack knows it, too.  He told me that the purpose of the (magnificent) Christmas tree skirt lovingly embroidered by Aunt Kiki was to "protect the floor from the magic in the presents."  

I'm not sure what would happen if magic hit my floor, but if it's reminiscent of Saturday Night Fever, thank goodness for the tree skirt.

These deep thoughts came out the other night when we put up the tree.

Of course, to balance out what I believe to be Jack's old soul, he also burst out with this other timeless carol:

Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg
The BatMobile lost its wheel and the Joker did ballet, HEY!

Thank goodness he's keeping it real.

Hope you remember the best lyrics this season.

Talk soon,

Heather

christmas in these parts

We had a wonderful Christmas.  And we hope you did, too.

Here are a few highlights.

Jack announced that Santa would eat the gingerbread house.
This saved me from making cookies.
How considerate of them both.

He IS a native Texan, after all.

The painfully cute Christmas program at school.
I've blocked out some of J's classmates faces because I don't know their parents, privacy, etc.
Note Jack's red nose, which is required for the "Reindeer Pokey."

We have movement, people.
We're pretty psyched about it, as you can see.

Jack wore these pajamas for a week.
Sawyer spit up on them and never wore them again.
My fantasies of having twin holiday elves were dashed.

2014 was a good year.  Sawyer joined our family and there are no words to express our joy.  However, 2014 was also challenging.   I bid it adieu without much sadness.

Hope you enjoy a fresh start; I sure do.

Talk soon,

Heather

chippy the christmas elf

Well, I did it.  It's the last day of 2014, and we STILL don't have an Elf on the Shelf.  

Jack requested one this year.  He was pretty cute about it (as he is), but I stayed strong.

Jack:  "Mom.  We need an elf on the shelf, to watch us!"

Me:    "No, we don't.  Santa is watching.  We're covered."

Jack:   "But, Mom!  I've already named him!  His name is Chippy!"

I'm sorry for you, Chippy.  I hope you find a nice home somewhere.  I hope you entertain other kids with G-rated holiday antics involving candy canes and powdered sugar and whatever else you get into.  

Editor's Note:  I specify "G-rated" antics not because I have a devious mind (at least, not in this context), but because I can't not think of the Inappropriate Elf contest held by Baby Rabies in years past, which is full of gems such as:

(Image credit)
Because if I can't do this, I'm not doing it at all.

As luck would have it, Jack has decided that the Christmas pajamas I got him (Sawyer has a matching set, natch) are his "elf suit."

And so I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if I have a real life elf, why do I need a fake one named Chippy?

My elf is much cooler, anyway.

Elf Jack accompanied Uncle James and Durel to Central Market for some holiday fixings.
En route, they enjoyed a leisurely holiday lunch at Red's Porch.
These pjs are street style.

Elf Jack listened to some block rockin' beats on Eli's iPad.
These pjs mix.

Elf Jack posed on his new skateboard from Santa,
right next to Durel's new skateboard from Santa.
These pjs don't bail.

Elf Jack likes taun tauns, Green Lantern Legos, and skateboards.
These pjs are ALL BOY.

Hope your street style dazzles someone today.

Talk soon.  Like next year.  

Heather

let them eat (vegan) cake

I never met my mom's father, but tales of his coolness persist.  

His name was Henry.  (Sawyer's name was almost Henry.)  He was a left-handed pitcher in minor league baseball in the 1920's.  (I'm left handed.  I can't throw for shit, though.)  He hurt his elbow and never made the majors, so worked as a contractor building roads, bridges, and the like in Chicago.  In the 1920's and 1930's.  He was a Mason. (He was not a gangster, but HEY Chicago in the 1920's!)

Henry's birthday was on Christmas Eve.  His infinite coolness aside, he always sort of got the shaft for his birthday.  Less presents, and/or birthday presents thoughtfully wrapped in Christmas paper and given to him with his (indistinguishable) Christmas presents, also thoughtfully wrapped in Christmas paper.  You get the idea.

For years, Mom would make a birthday cake at Christmas.  In addition to the legions of cookies, truffles, candies, and the like that my father's customers would send to him, we would also tuck into a birthday cake in honor of Grandpa Henry.  In later years, Mom stopped doing it.  Logical considerations took over, I suppose.

I decided to revive the tradition this year, in large part because I didn't have time to make cookies because I was lawdogging my face off for the entire month of December.  I also recently discovered Capital City Bakery, a local Austin bakery that makes THE MOST AMAZING THINGS, which happen to be vegan.  

Truth be told, I ordered Durel's birthday cake from them in October because I was dairy-free at the time (courtesy of Sawyer) and wanted to have some damn cake.  The cake was so good that I've been looking for an excuse since then to order another one.

Anyway, as I sat at my own breakfast bar to indulge in my Christmas cake, Sawyer decided to join me.  In the spirit of the holidays and all that is dairy free, I decided to let him.

Whatchoo looking at, punk?  This is MY CAKE. 

Good stuff, indeed.

Hope your Christmas was filled with tasty treats and things that were joyfully messy.

Talk soon,
Heather

BatChristmas, 2013

I hope you had a fantastic holiday.

We did.  In no particular order, I will remember this Christmas as the one with a lot of homemade candy, turkey, and Batman.

(Note:  I hadn't actually made fudge before.  I made it on Christmas Eve. I didn't broadcast that it was my first attempt in life at making fudge.  I attempted to vibe out an air of expertise on the matter, actually.  And it must have worked because apparently, it was quite good.  Because, compliments aside, it was eaten.)

(Note:  I am a stalwart defender of the baked turkey.  Aside from the obvious issue that fried turkey gives me flashbacks to my Torts exam in law school, which are certain to last forever in something which may or may not resemble emotional distress, I just don't see the point in the extra calories.  But you couldn't have told me that as we gobbled (intended) the fried turkey as soon as it came out of the fryer.  A point which Durel hastened to make.  I think I actually growled at him.)

As for the Batman stuff, well...

This photo has, starting at the top and going clockwise:  insane Christmas morning hair, Superman Underoos, the BatBoat, Ironman sneakers, and the Gotham City prison.  This is serious, people.

This one has, clockwise from the top:  the BatBoat, Gotham City prison, (partially obscured) BatCave, and in the center, the BatStare.

This one features Tow Mater pajamas (soon to become hopelessly uncool, I suspect), and the BatBook (which I will soon have memorized).

And, to round it out, we have the BatSmile and the BatJammies.

Also, despite the fact that Jack has never seen the Adam West Batman show, he's learned that the right thing to say when you race around your grandparents' house with the BatBoat is:  "Nananananananana nananananananana BATMAN!"

Because, how can you not?

Hope your new shoes make you feel like a superhero today.

Talk soon,
Heather

life lessons from the grinch

We DVR'ed The Grinch from TV when it was on a few weeks ago.  It was kind of an afterthought, as I rushed to hit the button, thinking, "Ooh, this could be a DVD that I don't have to buy."  If Jack likes it, that is.

(Side note:  Meet the Parents was on right before the Grinch started.  So, at the beginning of the recording, we have ten seconds of Ben Stiller doing his kung fu moves into the hidden camera -- remember that bit?  I maintain that it's some of Ben Stiller's finest work, because in every other thing he does, he's visibly trying too hard.  It makes him seem constipated in some fundamental way.  But, I digress.)

Anyway, Jack not only likes the Grinch.

Jack LOVES HIM SOME GRINCH.

In an effort to make sure Jack understood the meaning of the Grinch, Durel and I asked Jack what he thought it was about.

Jack:     I don't know.

Me, hopeful still:     Jack, what is the meaning of Christmas?

Jack:     PRESENTS!!

Me:      What the Grinch means is that Christmas isn't about presents.  It means that Christmas is in our hearts.

Jack:     [silence]

Me:     Jack, where is Christmas?

Jack, obligingly:    In our hearts.

I mean, I'll take it.  Right?  Also, I learned that the Grinch has taught us other things.  Last night, I made barbecue chicken for dinner.  (Crock pot.  Delicious, if I say so myself.)  I cut some up and gave it to Jack, who promptly scrunched up his nose.

Jack:     I don't like that.

Me:       It's barbecue chicken!  Try it.

Jack:     No.

Me:       It's roast beast, Jack.

Jack:     ROAST BEAST!  [begins gobbling]

So, there you have it.

1.  Roast beast is delicious.

2.  Christmas is in our hearts.

Hope your day involves unexpected kung fu AND roast beast.

Talk soon,
Heather

ain't nobody got time for that

There is no Elf on the Shelf at our house.  

(Editor's Note:  Elf on the Shelf = recent cultural phenomenon where you take a toy elf, give it a nickname, and move it into different places in your home every morning to make your children believe that it's watching them and reporting back to Santa on whether they are naughty or nice.)

You (the family) give your elf a fun name, like Candy Cane, or Rudolph, or Bing Crosby, and then you (the parent) move them around each night.  You (the parent) are supposed to be creative.

I love my family.  I love Christmas.  Beyond words.

But, you know what?  I am not doing this.  I will forget.  I will not be creative.  Is it really necessary?  Is that elf a little creepy?  Do we need it?  

Instead, I snagged a picture of myself with Santa at Christmas Affair.  It's on my phone.  I showed it to Jack and told him that Santa and I are buddies, and that I could call him at any moment if Jack was being naughty.

I mean, I think that's pretty creative, and it doesn't involve me smearing Nutella on a doll's face when I'd really rather be sleeping.

Also, when you're 5 months pregnant, you try to streamline things, and you tend to be a little more blunt than usual.  So, there's also that.

Hope you find a way to keep it real today.

Talk soon,
Heather

the one where Jack and Santa are totally up to something

Last year, Jack wanted nothing to do with Santa.

This year, he definitely got the memo that Santa is a good person to have in your corner.

Not only did I not have to sit in the chair for the photo, but apparently Jack and Santa became fast friends.

See?

They sat down for a meeting of the minds and seemed surprised that there was a pesky paparazzi there snapping away.  Hey man, we're trying to talk here.

Now, let's get down to business...  This is trouble.  Clearly.

Safety meeting successfully held, they politely posed for the paps, looking angelic.

But we know better.

After this, Jack gave Santa a hug and they "ho ho ho'ed" at each other.

Hope your day is delightfully conspiratorial.

Talk soon,
Heather

the tradition continues...

Every year, I take Jack to Breakfast with Santa at the Christmas Affair, hosted by the Junior League of Austin.

Despite the fact that I can't comprehend that Thanksgiving is next week, the Christmas Affair is upon us and our special Mommy and Jack day is this week.

I told him where we are going, in part because I wanted to encourage good behavior and in part because last year, he got skeeved out and didn't want to sit on Santa's lap.  I thought some solid preparation would prevent this year's picture from being a do-over of last year's masterpiece.

Jack and Santa, 2012

OK, I lied.  I don't think we went in 2011.  But I think that the 2010 picture probably  makes up for it:

Jack and Santa, 2010

Anyway, Jack told me that he's going to give Santa a hug and ask him for a horse.  Which would be progress, given the past years of awed stares and abject terror.

So, you know.  We'll see how it goes, on several levels.

Oh, and for the record, I am a member of the Junior League of Austin.  I'm proud to be part of this group of talented, dynamic women who work incredibly hard to do amazing things for the community.  The least of which is creating the magic of Christmas, oh, annually, and raising millions of dollars to give back to Austin.  

Hope you dream big and speak up today.

Talk soon,

Heather

Santa is scary

I am scared of lots of things.  Snakes.  Rodents.  Horror movies.  Death metal bands.

I realize that I'm a chicken.

I am not scared of Santa.  But I do have the requisite "terrified of Santa" picture in the family photo archives. I am not organized enough to have it scanned to include, but stay tuned.  I'll dig it up before the new year.  It's a gem.

The other day, Jack was scared of Santa.  He thought this crazy deal that I had dragged him to was less than awesome.  We waited in line.  Why was Momma making him wait in line?

To sit on the lap of a stranger?  Oh, hell no.  Commence whining, screaming, wailing, and clinging to the Momma like we were super glued together.  Sigh.  

Because I am in charge of what I post here, I only post good pictures.  Not works of art, but I keep it flattering.  It's editorial privilege or common sense or something.

But in the name of honesty, I will share with you a picture that is less than good.  Honestly, this is the best we came up with.

Several disclaimers:

-- I did NOT want to be in this picture.

-- Jack would not let go of me.

-- We had waited over an hour in line.  (Don't ask.)

-- I had become irrationally committed to getting a PICTURE WITH SANTA, DAMMIT.

-- Therefore, I was forced to be in the picture.

Okay, enough already.  Here.

Wishing you a mediocre/scary/less than enthusiastic Christmas?  There were so many caption options that I just left it open.

Here's hoping your day has a fair amount of enthusiasm.

Talk soon,
Heather

early Christmas, part three

Three is my max for multiple-part posts, in case you were wondering.  

(I mean, how many posts can she squeeze out of one weekend?)

The answer is a super lot, but I limit myself to three.  Promise.

So, my father in law is an excellent cook.  (Durel the Elder.  That sounds so Lord of the Rings, doesn't it?  In real life, we call him PapaDu.)  For Christmas this year, PapaDu made Gruyere popovers.  Behold.

I took a picture through the glass of the oven door, my love of bread and cheese is so deep.  They were awesome.

PapaDu also let Jack help him open presents.  Jack wore the requisite bow on his head, originated by my family. (The Irish Clan Davies, of the wine drinking, potato eating, and bow wearing.)

Also, Jack made it clear that he would like to be a pirate when he grows up.  Or now.  Whichever.

I hope your chosen career path also involves a boat and snazzy head wear.

Talk soon,
Heather

early Christmas, part two

I was bragging recently that I grew up in a place with four distinct seasons.

In Texas, you see, that's at least noteworthy, if not something to brag about.

Last weekend, during our early Christmas, our little family took a walk.  It was awesome.  It was warm.

From time to time, I miss things.  Like, oh, wearing wool sweaters.  The smell in the air that happens right before it snows.  Cashmere scarves.  Making snow angels.  (And/or watching the fog roll in over the Golden Gate Bridge.  Because if you're watching fog in San Francisco, there are no snow angels.  It's all a series of trade-offs.)

But then, it's almost Christmas and I'm wearing flip flops.  And Jack is finding rock treasures on our walk and having so much fun.

And then I don't mind at all.  Trade off, shmade off.

Hope you don't mind stuff today.

Talk soon,
Heather