It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year....

In my mind I am skipping through the house, blissfully singing, "It's the most wonderful time of the year! It's the hap-happiest season of all!" (I actually do this twice a year, because...to me...the first day of school, when I send the Bug and the Pea packin' is truly THE most wonderful time of the year...But I digress...)
Last night we put up the Christmas tree. Well, the trees. I know what you're thinking..."I bet she puts up theme trees! Perhaps one with a UK theme, and one with ornaments all red & gold, and one with..." (Thank you for thinking I have the decorative prowess to accomplish such a feat, unfortunately, far from it...)
The Bug and the Pea each have a tiny 12" tree they decorate with tiny ornaments and place in their rooms. And of course we have our family Christmas tree.
We have a process, nothing that would ever be described as "military precision," yet it works for us. The husband hauls the ginormous cardboard box of branches down from the attic. He looks a bit Frankenstein-ish...holding the box against him, wrapping his arms around it, completely blinded as the box is bigger than he is, taking awkward steps forward. I shoo the kids out of his way to avoid certain death should the box crash and crush a child or two. Once the box is close to where the tree will be built, the husband collapses onto a kitchen chair.
The Bug and the Pea know the drill: organize the branches by length. They pull the artificial branches from the box and make piles all around the den. They examine the diagram instructions, and get to work. The Bug places the branches on the metallic tree "trunk" and the Pea "fluffs." The two finish the bottom few rows of branches andd then scramble to find stools. Standing on the stools they complete a few more rows. I help finish the top while they race to find the lights.
The husband plugs in each light strand and the Bug unrolls said strands across the kitchen floor. For a moment, our home looks like an airport runway, streaks of tiny lights line the lower level. The Pea is ready to light the tree! She picks up each strand and the husband circles the tree from the bottom to the top and back down again. The Bug and I smile, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!
My most favorite part is the ornaments. Each ornament has a story. The glittery plastic ballet dancer from my babysitter when I was six. The teal felt star I made in Sunday School when I was in kindergarten. The Santa Claus ornament I bought with my allowance from the Santa Shop in elementary school. The plastic skis from my first (and not coincidentally...last) youth group ski trip. Ornaments from the year I graduated high school, college, first apartment, first house...first child. Ornaments celebrating the birth of the Bug, the birth of the Pea...ornaments we've begun to collect based on THEIR first experiences. My most favorite are the homemade ornaments. Dough shaped into gingerbread boys, feathers on paper doves, pipecleaner wreaths.
Strands of pearls are draped across the tree (primarily the lower portion, where the kids can reach...) The bottom branches are laden with the kids' favorites. The very top with our crystal and glass ornaments. To an innocent onlooker, the tree was thrown together in haste. With no attention to symmetry, balance, color coordination or theme. But to me, it's Christmas. A celebration of memories, tangible reminders of what I have become, of who I am, of who I've helped create, stories told with popsicle sticks and clothespins, yarn and felt, cottonballs and ribbon, fingerprints and fingerpaint...

Tiny Heart Whose Blood Will Save Us...

Each Christmas I give my parents a photographic journal. A “Year In The Life of The Mikovch Family,” so to speak. Technology makes it a breeze to download hundreds of snapshots. With the click of a button, those snapshots are published within a bound book. A few days ago, Andrew was looking through 2009’s photographic journal. As I was searching for wrapping paper, I heard…” Wow, I had forgotten that…” “THAT was this year?” “Hey, remember when…”
This was a fairly uneventful year for us, as far as years go. No births or deaths in the immediate family, no traumatic events, no huge crisis situations. And yet, hundreds of experiences, dozens of “firsts.” First horseback ride, first pair of pierced earrings, first day of third grade…and the list goes on and on. As the year draws to a close, I often find myself feeling empty. Drained from giving my all, day after day. Even at the end of a “normal” year, I’m worn out. I look to scripture for perspective. The story of a child, sent to give us hope. Hope and joy and an abundant life, here on earth and beyond.
Can you imagine a photographic journal of a year in the life of Jesus? Can you imagine Mary’s journal entries…The Angels Who Sang of Your Birth…The Night We Fled At Midnight To Escape Death. The more I think about what Mary, Joseph and Jesus must have endured, I can hardly bear it. And yet, they constantly gave glory to God. Regardless of the situation, regardless of the time of year, or whether they felt drained or empty.
During the holiday season, when I begin to feel overwhelmed, I often sing the words of my most favorite…albeit nontraditional…Christmas song: Welcome To Our World, by Chris Rice.

Tears are falling, hearts are breaking
How we need to hear from God
You've been promised, we've been waiting
Welcome Holy Child
Hope that you don't mind our manger
How I wish we would have known
But long-awaited Holy Stranger
Make Yourself at home
Please make Yourself at home
Bring Your peace into our violence
Bid our hungry souls be filled
Word now breaking Heaven's silence
Welcome to our world
Fragile finger sent to heal us
Tender brow prepared for thorn
Tiny heart whose blood will save us
Unto us is born
So wrap our injured flesh around You
Breathe our air and walk our sod
Rob our sin and make us holy
Perfect Son of God
Welcome to our world.

The song gives me such perspective. Perspective about our Savior, given to everyone. God’s child, all wrapped up in a baby blanket on Christmas morning. Glory be to God…

Film Projectors and Family Fireplaces...

For the past few weeks, I've been teaching a group of second graders about Caldecott Medal winners. For those of you out of the loop on Children's Lit, a Caldecott Medal is awarded to books with amazing illustrations. One of my favorite books ever is Robert McCloskey's Make Way For Ducklings. (I think we must have held the record for checking out that book from the Eline Branch of the Louisville Library! Mom read it to me and my brother so often...)
Yesterday, I found an old VHS video in the school library, a documentary on Robert McCloskey. Originally on film, it had obviously been rerecorded on video. The screen still showed the black spotted interference I remember when I used to watch reel to reel films at school in second grade. I had to smile as what was once on film, was being projected onto an Active Board (an interactive chalk board many schools are fortunate to have.)
The kids found it amusing, if not foreign. One scene showed Robert's family, sitting around a fireplace, playing musical instruments after dinner, before bedtime on the farm. In a world of computer video games and television, my second graders were confused. I asked if they ever played music after dinner with their family. They thought I was telling a joke, and laughed.
After school, we invited some neighbors over to play. I lit the fireplace to warm up the house. The Bug and The Pea settled down with their friends. I headed to my bedroom to change in to comfy clothes. When I emerged, I saw a group of girls lying on their tummies in a circle. Playing "Old Maid" with ginormous playing cards. Giggling up a storm, cozy by the fire. No television, no computers, no hand-held video games. Laughter and the crackling of flames.
I headed to the kitchen to slice up some apples and grab a bowl of caramel for dipping. When I returned the giggling girls had grabbed an assortment of musical instruments. And when I say assortment...I'm talking plastic recorder from a grandmother's basement, empty Pringles can for a drum, cardboard eukelele with rubber band strings from VBS, and our out of tune piano. The Pea was holding our hymnal and the kids were making a joyful noise unto the Lord.
Just doesn't get better than that...

Sunday Afternoon At The Castle...

So I'm upstairs, folding the first of many loads of laundry, and I hear a rumbling in what I guess to be our kitchen. Thump...thump...thump...slide...against the hardwood floor.
"UN-GAH!" The Pea shrieks.
"UN-GAH!" The Bug shrieks back.
Thump, thump, thump, slide....against the hardwood floor.
I continue putting the kids' clothes on hangers, assuming (hoping) that all is well downstairs. Normally, I would take a peek, but my list of "things to do" is a million miles long just to get back to what I would consider 'ground zero' to start the week.
(On a side note....I am mentally thinking evil thoughts about my friends who have posted on Facebook that their homes are spotless AND already decorated for Christmas!! Seriously?! Quit raising the bar for those of us who are still grazing on Halloween candy. Those of us who can trace our names in the dust build-up on our furniture. Not me, of course. I've just heard of such folks....)
Anyhoo....a few "UN-GAHS" later, I investigate the situation. The Bug and The Pea are dressed to the hilt. Gray plastic hats, plastic shields and inflatable swords (which, incidentally was the greatest Happy Meal treat EVER when POTC came out in theaters...).
The two are pretending to be knights, deep in battle. They are sliding across the floor and twisting and turning with miraculous-knight-like precision. It suddenly occurs to me that UNGAH means "On Guard!" and I chuckle.
At this point the Queen made an executive decision and banished her knights to the outside for a little leaf raking duty. After all, you can't beat a 70 degree day in November!
Just another Sunday afternoon at the castle...

The Radio Flyer Pirate Ship...

Today may be one of the most delicious autumn days ever. Or maybe it just seems that way because my girls are playing peacefully outside. I'm sitting on the porch, the breeze ticking my toes as I write.
Perhaps "breeze" is the wrong word. It's quite a windy day - blustery, as Winnie The Pooh would say. The kids are a sight. Just home from their flag football game, they still don muddy jerseys. They're wearing hot pink helmets, purple roller skates, and grass stained denim shorts. The Pea has raided our car wash "rag bag." Both are in prime 'inventing-mode.'
They stand side by side, holding an old pillowcase in front of them. Each child grabs two corners, and the pillowcase becomes a sail. The wind blows. The pillowcase billows. The girls begin to roll down our driveway, powered by the rushing wind. Giggling, the two retreat to the garage. I hear chatter and know they are at work in their Imagination Laboratory. The Pea skates over, announcing the Pirate Ship is almost complete. (Pirate Ship?) The driveway becomes a stage of sorts as the girls expand upon their energy idea.
From the garage emerges the cutest red Radio Flyer wagon Pirate Ship I've ever seen. The Bug has constructed four long strings by knotting together "potholder bands." (You know that little loom where you weave multicolored fabric bands into a potholder?) One end of each string holds a pillowcase corner, the other end is tied to the tip of the black wagon handle.
Unfortunately, the wind isn't strong enough to roll the Bug and the Pea down the driveway with the current ship structure. Frowns all around. The Pea sits at the helm and the Bug, gripping the handle, roller skates in front. Giggles. Daddy arrives on the scene to inspect the christening of the ship. Both girls hop inside. More giggles. With Daddy pulling the Radio Flyer Pirate Ship, they sail into the great beyond...well, around our neighborhood, anyway.

Mud Pies and Sunday Shoes...

There's no telling what folks must think when the Bug and the Pea arrive for school, or church or tag along with me on errands. The kids tell me it's much too EMBARRASSING to have their MOM (gasp) pick out clothes for them. So I don't. They manage to piece together creative combinations of shirts or pants or skirts or dresses with socks or tights or (their favorite) bare feet squished into tennis shoes or patent leather shoes or snow boots.
With the exception of Picture Day, pretty much "anything goes." I try to lay out very basic rules for matching tops with bottoms. (Now sweetie, I think this hot pink skirt would go nicely with this flowery blouse. I'm not sure the fire engine red shirt matches as well....) I've tried to explain about "neutral colors," to no avail. ("Honey, black pants match everything. You don't have to pick out a black shirt and black jacket and black socks and black boots to go with them. Maybe add a little color..." I suggested. And then I promptly e-mailed The Pea's teacher that I realized she looked like a 4 foot tall Ninja and just to "run with it"....)
And we're not much on pristine clothing...even if it DID match. Clean, yes. Spotless, no. It really doesn't bother me when the kids explore paint or dirt. In fact, the messier the better, if you ask me. My theory is "the messier your clothes, the better your day". I mean, seriously, who has more fun? The kiddo who comes home in a pristine outfit, who sat on the sidelines watching the other kids play? Or the kid who digs her barefoot toes into the soil to poke out a hole to plant the sunflower seedling she grasps in her dirt-covered hands?
Yesterday, the Pea headed outside in her church shoes hollering, "If you hear the hose turned on, it's just me making mud pies!"
Ah, good times...

Dem Bones, Dem Bones...

At our church, the first Sunday of each month all children 6 years and older stay for the entire worship service. (The other Sundays of the month, the children stay half of adult worship, and then head to their own children's worship service...)
The Bug and the Pea bring paper and pencil to worship. They've watched me enough to know that when our pastor begins his message, it's serious Scripture-Findin'-Note-Takin' Time. They haven't quite perfected their own note-taking skills. At this point, they try in vain to transcribe each word our pastor utters. After the first few sentences, they are exhausted and switch to doodling. Which, honestly, is fine with me. Because I know they are absorbing the message, even if they don't realize it at the time.
This morning was no exception. In the spirit of All Saint's Day, the pastor was honoring those who have gone to heaven before us. He spoke of death, and the importance of speaking about death. The scripture reference was Lazarus rising from the dead. It's not a pretty verse. Lazarus's sisters warn Jesus not to enter the tomb, after all, the smell of the decomposing body is rancid. Jesus is outraged at death, he weeps. The sisters grieve, they're angry at Jesus' late arrival.
The Pea squirmed, pretended she was sleepy, and laid her head on my shoulder. Nevertheless, I knew she was taking in every word. Tonight, at tuck-in time, the questions poured forth.
"Mommy, what does it feel like to die?"
"Do you know anyone who has died?"
I answered to the best of my ability, which many times included, "Sweetie, I'm just not sure..."
"Why do they bury dead people?"
"Who decided to put bones underground?"
"Why would people want to turn into ashes?"
It was a bit of a ghoulish conversation. But after a week of preparing for Halloween, I'm sure ghosts and skeletons and graveyards were on her mind, anyway. I hope I appeared very "matter of fact," inviting further conversation on any topic - regardless of the nature.
I began to wonder how in the world my sweet child would drift off after such a deathly discussion. When all of a sudden she proclaimed, "You know Mommy, I have 6 boyfriends and I am going to marry..." and then fell asleep mid-sentence.
Certainly nothing I'm going to mention to the Husband...or he'll never get to sleep...