Awkward Mom vs. Christmas prep

Surprising no one, Thanksgiving took Awkward Mom out within the first moments of Thanksgiving Day. They all walked into Awkward Grandma's kitchen to be presented with a vat of Clam Dip and Awkward Mom was down for the count. The descent into decadence just went from there and she has only just emerged to realize that the rest of the world has been preparing for Christmas while she was floating in dreams of deeply oniony, slightly salty, creamy heaven. (Readers, it is that good, no joke.) Hence, she is late to the Christmas prep party. This also surprises no one.

I love Christmas. Like LOVE Christmas. Like sleeping in, on warm sheets just out of the dryer, while someone takes my kids out for the whole day, while I read trashy novels and eat chocolates love. It is a serious love affair, Readers. But until the day after Thanksgiving, I have no time for Christmas. And I never crack, I am strength itself. I don't even see the twinkle lights and stockings piled next to the Halloween candy. I breeze by the Christmas carols on the radio. The children plead for Snowman window clings and candy canes, but I am immovable. The Peanuts trilogy is limited to the Great Pumpkin and the Thanksgiving special; I act like that third DVD doesn't even exist. I am deaf to my children talking about Santa because I am stalwart in my appreciation of fall right through Thanksgiving. Basically, I treat Christmas like he is nerdy-not-quite-nerdy-just-about-to-bloom-into-full-on-college-hipster-cool and I am some impossibly beautiful ice queen from an 80s movie. Christmas-John-Cusack stares at me with all the naked adoration of being in love at 18 and I breezily laugh and hand him a pen. Don't you fret, Readers; we make up in time for the plane to take off.

Funny thing happened this year, though. While I was busy fully enjoying Thanksgiving with clam dip, my father's library, and an illegal trip to Best Buy, Christmas had a party and didn't invite me. It is like Christmas-John-Cusack got tired of waiting for me to come around and he moved on, with the rest of the school! That is what I get for playing hard to get, I suppose, but I feel totally left out. I feel like I missed an amazing party that everyone is talking about, and there is no way to catch up. No way to go back in time and sneak a listen at the Christmas station last Wednesday. Maybe get rid of those molding Jack-O-Lanterns or take down the cornucopia window-clings before we left for the Awkward Grandparents'. At least bring the Christmas decorations up from the basement, showing pure intention to Christmas-John-Cusack; let him know that my heart is softening, convince him not to give up on me yet.

I guess everyone needed Christmas pretty bad this year because they managed to stuff several Christmases in while I was driving back from Illinois. Not only are my mother's gifts for the Supers already in my basement. Not only has the radio been playing carols since Halloween. Not only did I pass about 1865 fully decorated houses on the way. Not only was everyone else invited to Christmas-John-Cusack's (totally decorated) house for a party this weekend. No. I also came home to find out that the Awesomes already have their tree up, we are invited to a holiday party at Marvelous Preschooler's house (they want me to bring the Jello again...yikes), and Perfect Neighbor has not 1, not 2, but 3 blow-ups Santas on his (completely leaf-free) lawn. One is riding a train. Are you telling me that people actually do things other than eat clam dip and lose at Scrabble on Thanksgiving weekend? Even the weird people 3 doors down who never mow their grass or bring their garbage can back from the curb have a wreath.

I don't even have a tree. Or a wreath. Or candy canes. Or any idea what we are doing for Christmas cards. Or cute light-up antlers to torment Super Baby with. Or a Nativity set that isn't broken and missing a wise man. Or a gift list. Or the slightest idea what anyone wants. Or cross-stitched- stockings that are finished (a craft-project that seemed like a great idea in July). Or holiday sweaters. Or egg nog. Or cookies. Wait, strike that. I was send home with cookies. I have cookies. That is the sum total of my Christmas preparedness at this moment in time. Some of my mother's cookies that are rapidly disappearing as I type this.

It might be easier to list what I do have. I have 18 leaf and 3 cornucopia window-clings. I have 2 molding pumpkins. I have a "thankful tree" that Super Preschooler made at school that I think his teacher made for him because he is apparently thankful for brothers and sisters, Jesus, and school. (Now, if the tree said he was thankful for angry birds, twinkle lights, and Skittles, I would be more apt to count it as his work.) I have a "nature wreath" that Super Preschooler also made at school that the cats got a hold of and is thus missing most of its nature; it is trying to maintain its dignity with 2 pines needles and half a leaf. I have 2 half-burnt apple-cinnamon smelling candles. I have a yard littered with leaves and twigs. I have a Super Baby who is loudly protesting her nap. I have 7 original Transformers that Awkward Dad would not leave his mother's house without; therefore, I now have 1980s (probably asbestos-laden) dust wafting through my living room. I have a Super Preschooler that has eaten nothing today but 3 donut holes and some chocolate milk. I have a Super Toddler whose nose hasn't stopped running since last Tuesday. I have 8 loads of laundry to do. I have Bing Crosby crooning Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and though Bing is quite able to create Christmas out of nothing, just one Christmasy thing going on is pretty sad, especially given how much I really do love Christmas.

Therefore, I am gearing up to haul my boombox over my head and let Johnny Mathis' Winter Wonderland convince Christmas-John-Cusack that I am serious. I may be late, but I am here and I am ready to give in to the magic that is Christmas. Consider this my romantic-comedy, running-through-the-airport, if-it-wasn't-a-movie-it-would-be-really-creepy, outrageous gesture of love. I am standing in front of the entire internet, Christmas, and I am telling you that I am in love with you. Mistletoe or not, I am planting a big wet kiss on you. Thanksgiving who? I am totally yours.

Mostly because my mother makes clam dip for Christmas as well.

Why was their Thanksgiving trip to Best Buy illegal? Oh, well, the mini-van has 7 seats, and Uncle Awkward makes 8. He may have ridden some of the way in the trunk. And by some of the way, I mean the entire hour long trip to Rockford. And the entire hour long trip back. But that is all I am saying until I am clear on what the statute of limitations are on driving infractions. The silver lining to all this is that the Awkward Grandparents now have a new computer, a fast internet connection, and are probably reading this right now. Hey there, Awkward Grandma; tell Dad I say hi! I know that Awkward Grandpa is totally refusing to leave his library for a flashing screen full of Awkward Mom's bloated phrasing.

Mom's just lazy; I've been Christmas-ready since last year. Bring it on Christmas 2012.

Awkward Mom vs. Thanksgiving

If I were a betting narrator, I would toss it all in and put up the farm for a Round 1 KO going to Thanksgiving. Awkward Mom has a bad history with holidays in the first place, then add that Thanksgiving is pretty much a villain trifecta bathed in kryptonite. I don't see her going up against food, family, and the festive fall favorably, do you?

We are heading to the Ancestral Awkward Abode to eat enormous amounts of food, watch the children get impossibly dirty (like summer-camp-level), and play board games with the Awkward Grandparents, who are super brains the likes of Professor X and MODOK. I'll let you guess who is which, but if you tell them that I compared them to a bald thought-peeking mutant and an evil floating head, I will deny it. You see, they won't see it; they don't have the Internet. And yes, they call it the Internet like they are time travelers who just beamed in from the Civil War. They sometimes have a dial-up connection that functions and they did buy a computer that some 13-year-old built in his basement around 1985, that occasionally works, but mostly, they are totally off-line. I think my father's contention is that when you have enough books to rival the Library of Congress, you don't need to mess with a little electric box that mostly contains porn, videos of cats, and this. (Number 2 looks like something Super P. wrote in school yesterday.)  I suppose Awkward Grandpa has a point, so we are going off-line for the duration of our battle with Thanksgiving, which kinda bites as I am sure I could have streamed it and made some money. The Trivial Pursuit rumble alone is going to be a blood-bath.

Enjoy your feasts, Readers; we are thankful for all of you! Remember, keep it awkward enough to be interesting and civil enough to still get together in 34 days for Christmas!

34 days......you're joking. Wait, you can't really be serious.

Happy Travels!

Phenomenal Dad vs. Merry Poopins

Readers; a guest post by Phenomenal Dad and guess what? It is phenomenal! Who knew, eh?

 

 

Ok, It is a bit long...Brevity, not really my strongest suit unless it is academic writing. Enjoy!

Awkward Mom may have her doubts, but I am confident in her. I am especially confident in her gardening skills. She has planted the seeds of guest bloggership and they are their way to becoming a full on garden of guests. That seed brings me here for this post. As I am dad to Phenomenal Baby, I guess that makes us the Phenomenal Family. A little background as this is my first post. For the past two years I have been a man of many hats; stay at home dad, doctoral student, part time faculty, and hero for hire. Having just recently defended my dissertation and taken on a FT temporary job.. things are certainly interesting around our house. My wife works FT and co-manages the Phenomenal Herd along with a bazillion other side projects.

 

In general I pride myself on being a pretty prepared dad. Phenom mom ( did anyone else read that and instantly hear do do do dodo menomenon in their head?) and I make an excellent team and balance each other out well. We of course have our moments, days, weeks etc. but overall we have a knack for falling into our child checklist as we head out the door. Like any team, we do have our specialty areas though. Early prep, budget and planning, are all typically Phenomenal Mom. I tend to do the on the fly, crisis intervention, improvisation stuff. This bit of info is particularly relevant for my post today as Phenomenal Mom is in Ireland with her Mother for the next 8 days (3 days have already passed).

 

Now with the planner in the house gone some things are just more…interesting. Phenomenal Mom left me an envelope of pre written checks for childcare and such and reminders to get me through (did I mention she does our budgeting and finances…yeah some days I wonder what I do too). This is awesome, but it still left me with Candy and Poo which is what I am focusing on today.

Ok, so this morning the big bet was, “Will I make it to church without Phenomenal Mom there to ride herd?” The answer as it turns out, is yes. We even got there before mass started! I am not exactly sure when a Phenomenal Baby becomes a Phenomenal Toddler, but if walking and getting into everything in creation, and climbing the walls, literally, are signs of toddlerhood, she is in the early stages. So anyway I had my coffee we all had breakfast, and Church went well. Phenomenal Boy drew on the backs of the offering envelope as usual. After Church I took Phenomenal Boy and Phenomenal Baby Toddler to the park where they romped and explored without incident for a little over an hour. They day started so well…until the nap. While Phenomenal Baby Toddler was napping Phenomenal Boy asked if he could have a piece of Halloween Candy. I gave him one piece. That is all he gets in a given day as too much sugar turns Phenomenal Boy into Dear Lord Stop Me From Swatting Your Arrogant Cranky Behind Boy. Though he knows the answer, Phenomenal Boy has the mistaken belief that I will cave to further candy requests if Phenomenal Baby is keeping me occupied. So for the rest of the evening after Phenomenal Baby woke up from her nap, every time Phenomenal Baby got a little fussy Phenomenal Boy asked for candy, ice cream or some random sweet we do not have. He then proceeded to pull out his candy bucket and “just look at it” while I was fixing dinner. “Get away Phenomenal Baby it’s mine!!” comes growling from the other room. I poke my head into the living room from the kitchen to see Phenomenal Baby with a fist full of Phenomenal Boy’s candy and a unopened airhead sticking out of her mouth as Phenomenal Boy pulls at the candy. Phenomenal Boy sounds very Hulk like as he yell. “My Candy! Not For YOU!” Now Phenomenal Hulkling …er..Boy is normally a very articulate 1^stgrader. This confirms that a) maybe he needs real food in his body b) maybe he snuck some candy and c) he is fed up with kid sister. As I pry candy away from Phenomenal Baby, mini Hulk goes all Bruce banner and says “now can I have a piece of candy?” I lose it a little. “Really?!? This is when you feel it is appropriate to ask for candy yet again?!?!? Every time you say the word candy or ask for any food or drink that is not what I am making for dinner I will throw away a piece of candy.” Dead silence. Miraculously we all set together for dinner.

 

After dinner, Phenomenal Boy’s blood sugar is back to normal and he is chill playing legos. It all looks good until the poosplosion. Phenomenal Boy and I notice a stink and both look at Phenomenal Baby, who is standing there grunting…yup. Then she grins and walks a few steps before letting one rip and saying “uh Oh”. I grab the stink bomb that is my daughter and change her, The minute I open the diaper her hands go for the butt and she rolls. I stop the one hand and hold her on the changing table but the other hand grabs a fist full and she plants her heel in the diaper and shoves. I employ some tai jitsu and lock her in place while I use wipes to clean her off. I then strip off the now poo covered clothes and declare it bath time. I put naked Phenomenal Baby on the floor of her room (which is across from the bathroom). Phenomenal Baby does a cute little naked dance the way naked babies always do and runs to the boom box and points. I push play and she begins naked baby dancing to Mary Poppins while I quickly whisk away poo clothes and changing pad cover to be rinsed and scrubbed in the sink. I return 10 seconds later to Phenomenal Baby, in downward dog position watching herself pee on the floor. I pick her up and place her in the bath. Phenomenal Boy walks in laughs, looks at me and says “Hey dad can I ….watch a little Einstein?” I do not know if he intended to ask about the show or if my face reveled a message of “say candy and die!!” Phenomenal Boy got ready for bed without incident or hassle and Phenomenal Baby was bathed and snuggled into her sleeper (though it was the one with more snaps than a beatnik coffee house, because I am behind in the long war with my nemesis Laundry, but that is another post) and I decided that this was perfect to Share with Awkward Mom. So what is the point in this…Into all life there is balance and perfectly bland will never be as well remembered as perfectly chaotic or awkward. It is the goofy and strange that truly guides us and often defines the tales we tell and the memories we hold most dear. I will not soon forget my naked baby dancing to Mary Poppins, or maybe in this case Merry Poopins.

 

Poo, naked dancing, and enough comic references to fill numerous candy buckets. Thank you, Phenomenal Dad; we all loved it. Of course, you have ruined Mary Poppins for all time, but it was totally worth it. Hopefully, this is only the first of many guest posts from Phenomenal Dad! And don't worry that you aren't into the whole brevity thing; he is one of Awkward Mom's biggest foes, so no worries there. Our readers aren't super for nothing!

Guest Post: Manga Mom!

Manga Mom comes through, yet again. Bet she wishes she had chosen a less lazy ally....

Believe it or don't, my life is often painfully awkward. I'm the
mom at the park with no tissues when my four year old comes running for
one. So, in lieu of other options, I shamefacedly encourage him to wipe
his nose on the sleeve of his coat. Yup. I'm planting bad habits early.
Other moms are giving me horrified looks. I can't help feeling they're
well deserved.

I'm also the mom at the park with no water bottle for my son after
they've turned the water fountains off for the season. This is especially
awkward when he's sweating from biking enthusiastically around the
two-mile path. (I'm sweaty, too, at that point, which isn't helping. After
all, I wasn't biking. I was jogging to keep up with him. What? My bike
doesn't fit in my car.) More often than not, this precipitates a hasty
exit in the car. I have water at home, after all!

But my biggest nemesis right now is my son's penchant for dramatic
exits. When I walk in to pick him up from preschool, he screams and kicks
up a tremendous fuss. Why? Because I've broken his routine. He is very
attached to his routine. Normally I drive up and he's assisted to the car
by his teacher, but sometimes I'm early and don't want to sit idling for
ten minutes. Call me crazy. *sigh* On Friday when I picked him up, he
actually threw himself on the floor and screamed at the teacher begging
her to help him. All in front of twenty three other impressionable
children who must be convinced by now that I'm Baba Yaga. I tried being
patient. I tried asking him to take a deep breath. I tried explaining
calmly that it was time to go home. But his antics just got more
exaggerated with each attempt to soothe him. Eventually, I was forced to
literally carry him out, cuddled to my chest, thinking dark thoughts and
wondering if I could make myself invisible if I tried hard enough.

If there is a magical cure somewhere for this behavior, I would
dearly love to hear it. I think, perhaps, it's karma for something awful I
did in another life. Or a reflection of how stubborn his parents are.
Either way, it's definitely awkward.

Here's hoping everyone's Thanksgiving is low on stress and high on
joy. Despite the drama, I really am grateful for my son.

Manga Mom is not a tissue-hating sweaty Baba Yaga, we swear it. Although, her avoidance of water bottles does raise some interesting questions.....who else didn't like water, Readers? Any Oz fans out there? I tease, I tease, there is nothing wicked about Magna Mom. Thanks for the awesomely awkward, and just plain awesome, guest post, Double M!  And if you figure out that invisibility thing, please share!

Awkward Mom and Guest Posts

Basically, Awkward Mom is out of ideas, and she wants to steal yours.

Hey Readers, it's that time again! Time for me to bug you all about writing some guest posts about the awkward and the awesome in your lives. See these little dudes?

Double the awkward! Don't you love it?

Adorable baby on the left is Awkward Grandpa, adorable baby on the right is Great-Uncle Awkward. And those outfits, well, those are just awkward.

And I just know that you all have awkward tales to tell. I am sure you have awkward outfits to show as well, but if you wanna be shy about that, I will totally understand. You must have noticed a distinct lack of Awkward Mom pictures on this blog and I don't want to be a hypocrite. But awkward tales, now come on! I know that you all have those, and we have a strict alias policy here on Awkward Mom so feel free to hang all that awkward laundry out on the line. We don't judge.

We may laugh. We always sympathize. But we never judge.

Unless you are Perfect Mom. Then we totally judge.

Wouldn't Perfect Moms be preparing for Thanksgiving rather than wasting time reading this? Just saying.

Awkward Mom vs. First Birthdays

Ugh, more bad, weepy, sorta poetry, a la milestone-morose Awkward Mom, who is decidedly not the reincarnation of Emily Dickinson. Skip to the pictures at the bottom if you don't want to deal with the puerile prose.

Super Baby-

The noise is thunderous, definitely a Mach 3. And sure enough, I round the corner to see the three of you playing some complex game involving poofing dragons and undoing ancient spells. To be fair, I think it is only complex in Super Preschooler's mind; the rest of you appear to be doing figure 8s through the whole house, clad in an assortment of dress-up clothes that are hanging on to your whirling bodies with hope. You are keeping up with your brothers; face vacillating between exhilarating joy and annoyance, as your hair keeps falling in your face. You blow it out of your eyes with adorable concentration, but I think you are fighting a losing battle against gravity and the tiara that is slipping toward your eyebrows. Everything seems a little too big today; over-sized crown, shirts sleeves flopping over your hands, Madi Gras beads that start around your neck but keep getting stuck under your knees, pant legs dragging well past your shoes. Well, they would, but you appear to have lost your shoes. You are wearing, well, it might be better to say that a cape is wearing you. A cape that Super P. plopped on you that reminds me of this picture I once saw of Princess Diana's veil; yours doesn't make a straight line up St. Paul's Cathedral, but arches up and over the coffee table, next to some legos, and over a battlefield of fallen action figures. It is also covered in Cheerios and cat hair. You still look as resplendent as any princess.

I stop to watch you all play. The boys rumble by, "Hi Moms" shouted and forgotten. Since you are only a year (today), I guess I am not so old hat. As you round the corner from the kitchen and stop to pull yourself up on the door frame, you catch sight of me and stop as if frozen. Then, as powerful as any glacier, a slow smile blooms across your face and, holding out both dimpled baby hands and falling backwards in your eagerness for me, you shout "Mama!" Your eyes don't leave mine as I rush to you and pull you up; they are sparkling with sass and sincerity. I crouch next to you and you dive into my arms, nearly knocking me over in your rush to whisper little secrets into my neck. Secrets they will stay; your rapid babble is way over my head. You snuggle me quickly, and then you are gone again, crawling after your brothers at a speed that defies some scientific law, I am sure of it.

We do this most of the morning. Each of you rounds the corner as befits your unique spirit. Super Preschooler dances round, blows me a kiss, and hurries past to poof some dragons lurking on the couch. Super Toddler barrels nearly through, clipping the corner every time. Then he shoots it with his laser gun for its impertinence, before climbing on top of the couch to join the rebel dragons in their fight for independence. You, my baby, my little one, my youngest. You crawl up to the corner and pat it softly; you hang onto that corner like a tiny WC Fields trying to get home from the bar. As you rock up on your feet, I imagine that I will see that grin once again on some far off day; it is blissful and slightly crooked in its guilelessness. You see me, and it is like you are seeing me for the first time, every time. The love in your face makes my chest tighten in awe. Then, you take the ultimate leap of faith and let go of the wall. You reach your hands toward me, at first just to wave. Rapid little waves in time with your giggles. Then, they start to reach, an ache in them that I can feel from here. Or maybe it is my own ache I feel. Little fingers, so small and perfect, vibrating in their urgency to touch mine. I acquiesce, and cover them with my rough ones, dry and already feeling the winter's wrath. You don't care. You cling to me as you attempt a few steps, get bored, and launch into my arms for an all too brief cuddle. Then, just like that, you are gone again.

The last time, well, the time before Super Preschooler decides that the dragons are defeated and ready to watch Timmy Time with him, you turn around and look at me before your departure into the kitchen. You smile, which my moody mind makes sad, and then you lift your little hands toward me and wave. A good-bye wave this time. The tightening in my chest intensifies and I can't stop the tears. You look exactly the same, but yet, something is totally different about you. The clothes still don't fit, but they are a little less big; I guess your first year just hit. The lessons and wisdom of the past 365 days just settled into your soul, and even your hands look different. Less baby, just slightly lengthened, a tad more capable. Hands that will one day wave good-bye to me from the driver's side window of an overflowing hand-me-down Camry. And I will wave back, while holding myself back from rushing after you to grab those hands and kiss them one more time. Counting those fingers as if casting a spell that will keep all ten safe and whole. But I won't and I don't. I merely smile and wave right back, as I will some bittersweet morning all too soon; a beautiful morning that I will have to admire through my tears. As I do today.

I love you-
Awkward Mom

Wow. Ummm...thank you for that cheerful take on Super Baby's birthday, Awkward Mom. Puts me right in the mood for cake. Speaking of cake!

Awkward Dad bought a Whole Foods cake, no one seems to know why.

Needless to say, we had no money for gifts as a result.

Waiting is hard!

Why can't you adults just put the lighter in the same place every time,

that way you would have it on hand at pivotal moments.

Super Baby was less than impressed; she is really more of a meat fan.

Super Preschooler more than made up for her lack of dessert love.

 

Even if you don't love dessert, doesn't matter.

The sugar will affect you exactly the same as every other child in creation.

Awkward Mom vs. Ambition

Got your pity ready, Readers? You might want to.

Sometimes I really wish I was a 1950s housewife. I only spend like .01% of my wishing time on this particular wish, by the way...most of the time I wish for hover boards or for Mark Wahlberg to show up with a box of chocolates. I wish this one not because I would be a good 50s housewife. I would be the worst 50s housewife on record. I would be that one that all the other ones, in their pearls and gloves, would gossip about; shaking their adorable hats, perched just so on their perfectly done hair, and saying, "Bless her heart, but the child is useless." No idea why in my head all 50s housewives are southern, but there it is. No, the reason I wish I was a 50s housewife is that Valium would be a lot easier to get. No, I tease. Sorta. But the real reason is that no one would be asking me when I am going back to work.

Strangers ask me this. Friends ask me this. Family asks me this. But if I am being honest, the loudest voice asking me this is the one that resides in my head. The one that also shames me when I miss church, scolds when I lose my temper, and heaves a shuddering sigh when I balance the checkbook. It is usually my mother's voice (the checkbook sigh is always my dad), but it is nothing that she has ever said in real life. No, my brain just figured out that I give her voice a ton of weight, so when molding my self-doubt, it just appropriated her voice accordingly. Much as the advertising world has convinced us that Morgan Freeman thinks Visa is saving the world and if you use it, you will too. (Oh, and admire these Penguins, while you are at it.) Sadly, my mother has never received any royalty checks for the use of her voice, only strangely passive-aggressive phone calls from her daughter on the Sundays we all slept in. Needless to say, the voice is pretty powerful, and lately, it wants to know my 5 year plan.

Here is the real problem, Readers: My family tree, while full of awkward leaves and jam-packed with branches dripping faux pas like oh so many acorns, is also full of amazingly ambitious woman. The men aren't bad, but it is the women who stare at me from their perches, willing me to be more. My paternal Grandma was a musician, a teacher, and, if my father is to be believed, a feisty fashion plate who knew her way around some stunning flapper-ware. She built airplanes during World War II, and then got a Master's degree in Special Education, while raising 4 children (one a set of identical twins). She had a wit that would not quit, and, I imagine, would never resort to puns or cheap rhymes. The dress she wore to my parents' wedding hangs in my closet, and it definitely outshines my wedding dress, which lives next to it. My maternal Grandma is a dietitian, still drives cross-country by herself (at 88), skied well into her 60s, raised 7 children (one a set of identical twins), and wore a cape to my wedding. A cape, Readers. And she totally pulled it off! Early in her marriage, she and my grandfather set off across the country on move 2 or 3, with child 1 and 2, and her cheerful stories of sterilizing bottles at rest stops curls my hair. This summer, at my brother's Special Olympic swim meet, I watched her climb to the top of the bleachers for a better view, her sunglasses on her head, a hot dog in one hand, and a camera in the other. Basically, both women were college-educated firebrands who I doubt ever sat down for more than 10 minutes a day.

Speaking of not sitting down, wanna meet my aunts, Readers? Of course you do! My godmother was roofing a house just last summer, and she is taking a plumbing class next. This is in addition to raising 6 children and running a farm. My Dad's sister just got back from Russia, before that it was Santa Fe, before that it was China, before that I totally lose track. And that is just 2 of them. My aunts are business women, bankers, teachers, librarians, amazing, and mothers of even more twins. (I know, Readers, I know. With every pregnancy, I worry that my time has come.) My aunts are poets, politicians, and pragmatists; usually all at once. If the grass ever attempted to grow under their feet, I am sure they would simply put it in its place with a firm look. And the next generation is more amazing still. (Myself excepted, of course.) My cousins are doctors (of the people and animal varieties), scientists, artists, paralegals, social workers, mothers, and teachers. Let me just tell you about the teachers, Readers. (Sorry for that one, spirit of Paternal Grandma!) Heading into daily battle with the pre-teen mind is about the scariest thing that a person can do, and they do it effortlessly, breezily even, with a grace that belies their status as awkward relatives. Seriously, sometimes I think that the Baba Yaga snatched me from some deeply awkward family, tripped getting back into her giant mortar, and accidentally dropped me into my current family. It would explain somethings. (Look her up, Readers. That's no broom she's riding.)

For example, it would explain how my mother's only daughter could be me instead of, say, President of the United States. Long-time Readers are good friends with my mother and know all about her abundance and antics. I don't really know where to start here, the woman is kinda the definition of fabulous. Like this: she met my father at a Halloween party; he wasn't wearing a costume (duh), but she was dressed as one of the 10 Bridesmaids from Matthew 25:1-13. She delights in telling us that she was one of the "foolish" ones with no oil. She wears this scarf sometimes, a riotous explosion of colors, but if you look close enough, you will see that it is like a million very tiny pictures of a friend of hers. The friend who made it is the one whom she watches Sunset Boulevard with, their hands on their mouths eventually failing to stifle their giggles as Gloria Swanson inches toward her close-up. These are the people she hangs out with and occasionally goes to the track with. She says she just likes the horses. And she does like horses. No, strike that; she loves horses with all the passion of a 12-year-old girl.

My mother thinks the Exorcist is hilarious but is deathly afraid of tornadoes. She can cook, she reads about 5 books at a time, and she is never late. She has a Nativity set the size of a small town (like a real small town), complete with some dude selling wine, St. Francis, and about 16 people I am fairly sure were not even in Nazareth that winter. She also allows the children to add any action figures who might feel like adoring Jesus in-between games. Her reverent irreverence instilled a deep faith in me that exists to this day, and I doubt I would have any faith at all if it wasn't for her cheerful and chaotic Christianity. She greeted my brother's diagnoses of autism with a shrug because why would that change a thing about her love and his ability to have a wonderful life. She greets pretty much every new situation as a potential adventure and every new person as a new friend.

My mother went back to school when I was in grade school. She would study at 3 in the morning because there was simply no other time to do it. I can still see her; reading at the dining room table, the windows pitch black and the lamp glow making her look angelic and very very young. Then, she'd chase me back to bed, and she'd lose her angelicness completely. She got her Master's degree when I was 15 years old, and I do not think that I have ever seen her sit still for more than 10 minutes. Ever.

This is what I am dealing with, Readers. This is the legacy of the Awkward women; they may be awkward but they are ambitious and artful in amazing ways. Imagine my distress when bringing my gift to this feast of gifts. The table is laid with every achievement and talent imaginable, spilling forth in jewel-tones of blinding beauty. And here comes me, holding a little box. Crooked, saggy, probably leaking something. I lay it on a corner of the table where it lurks and slowly turns gray in the presence of so much color. A funny little box. A little box of funny.

Awkward Mom has informed me that if you are related to her, you are not allowed to respond to this and refute anything she has said. You are all fabulous, and if you attempt to convince our Readers that you are not, she will make every Thanksgiving from now until the end of time quite uncomfortable. Love ya!

Super Baby, I would tell you no pressure, but I think we both know that is a lie.