The Story of Christmas Brunch: In which we celebrate incarnation in our own special way

We've always been kind of matter of fact about human anatomy and sexuality with the kids. If it comes up, we talk about it. If they ask questions, we answer them. But if it doesn't come up...well, let's just say, no thank you. I'm not rushing things. Because we've discussed this. I have the mind of a prepubescent boy. I can't say "scrotum," or "labia" without giggling like an idiot.

But human sexuality has come up before. The Dictator has asked questions in the past, and we have answered them. Both of the children have been present for these discussions. However, it turns out that the Anarchist did not actually hear anything. Probably because she was too busy having a conversation with her farts. Or smashing the cat. Or having a tantrum about some imagined injustice. Really, the possible Anarchist distractions are endless.

Of course, we hadn't realized that our dear, seven-year-old Anarchist was not up to date on the subjects touched on in previous talks. And I'm not the kind of mom to double-check these things. Because...scrotum...tee hee hee.

This brunch is fancy. See the candles?

Which brings us to this year's Christmas brunch. My mother hosts one every year. It is always an incredibly classy affair. You can tell because it is held  in the dining room and the plates are made of china. Also there are candles. Seriously, my mother decorates the entire dining room in matching decor that changes from year to year, glitters like crystal, and would put Martha Stewart to shame. And we all do really wholesome family things, like holding hands and saying grace, and asking each other to "please pass the fruit." This thing is epic.

So of course, every year, over the course of the meal, the conversation eventually turns to our digestive systems and embarrassing childhood stories. (Did I mention that my mother has a framed photograph of The Pretty One and me sporting undergarments on our heads and fake mustaches in her fancy dining room?) This year included embarrassing childhood church stories...probably because we had exhausted all of the "Do you remember the time The Pretty One smeared fecal matter on the wall?" stories last year. In one story in particular, toddler me is sitting near the front row of church being extra-adorable, and extra-precocious. Toddler me, upon hearing the refrain "Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again," matter-of-factly yells out with great conviction, "Christ will not come again!" Just to clarify, I was two...so...not a heretic.

In another story, toddler me is once again sitting near the front of church, and once again being precocious. It is quiet, and toddler me has an epiphany that "Father Baldwin has a penis!" Yes. I had that epiphany out loud. Probably while poor Father Baldwin was trying to be all serious about the body and the blood or somesuch. It's a miracle my parents continued taking me to church. 

Anyway, we were recounting this story to The Pretty One's husband, and got to the end and sort of censored ourselves. We did this because it was a fancy brunch. And because there were children present. But everyone knows that if you censor something around children, it just piques their curiosity. And then you have to tell them. But we still didn't want to say it. Because...penis...tee hee hee. The conversation went something like this:

ANARCHIST (delighted by the possibility of scandal): "What did Father Baldwin have?"

ADULT: "You know...that part of male anatomy that girls don't have."

DICTATOR: "OH...I get it now."

ANARCHIST: "What?! What?!"

ADULT: "Anarchist, what is the part of the body do men have that women don't?"

ANARCHIST: "Butts? Hair? Eyebrows?"

ADULT: "Um...no? What part of the body do men pee out of that is different from the part of the body that women pee out of?"

ANARCHIST: "OH! VAGINAS! Men have vaginas!"

(The Bureaucrat gets up to leave, blushing and horrified that his pure, precious flower just yelled "vaginas" during fancy brunch.)

ADULT: "Not usually. Sometimes. Never mind. No. Men don't typically have vaginas. Anarchist, what do men pee out of? Not vaginas. That's women. Men, Anarchist. Where does the pee come out on men?"

ANARCHIST: "OH! Their belly buttons, of course! Men pee out of their belly buttons!"

ADULT: "Uh...no. I hope not. No."

ANARCHIST (confused, but still trying earnestly): "Is it their dimples?"

ME (whispering, because there is a china plate in front of me and there are real candles on the table): "Sweetheart, men have penises. That's what it's called. A penis."

ANARCHIST (squealing with the genuine delight of making a wonderful discovery): "PENISES! MEN HAVE PENISES! PENIS! PENIS! PENIS! PENIS! MEN HAVE PENISES! PENIS! (etc., ad nauseum...)"

The child squealed penises with more excitement than she had mustered for Santa Claus, our Elf on the Shelf, or the incarnation of the Christ Child put together. She squealed forever. I think the Bureaucrat died a little inside with each repetition. I think my mother, who clearly had taught her young toddler the proper names for human anatomy at the ripe-young-age of too-young-to-not-yell-it-in-church, was shocked at my parenting neglect. I think that The Pretty One was relieved that we weren't once again discussing her escapades in fecal matter. And I'm almost certain that I broke at least one rib laughing and weeping hysterically as I rolled around on the fancy hardwood floor of the formal dining room, gasping for breath and wiping tears away. 

And that, my friends, is the story of the Christmas Brunch Penis. Because what is the Incarnation, without the very reality of the human body? I know. We are so theologically inclined. And we wanted to share our enlightened discussions with you. You're welcome.

And also, penis. Tee hee hee.

Dance of the Sugarplum Wildebeest

I've always wanted to be in the Nutcracker. Ever since I caught a glimpse of some dance company performing excerpts of the ballet near the elevator at the mall when I was tiny. I remember watching them slowly and gracefully execute the haunting Arabian variation and thinking, "I will do that some day."

I did not do that some day.

Dancing daughter. Dancing in her craftily-
obtained pink dress with "Guacamole" the
(probably haunted) creepy doll. 

Once I finally did start dancing, it became evident that my dancing style was more...erratic and flailing. More "Dance of the Fleeing, Wounded Wildebeest" than "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy." Sure, I had oodles of stage presence and could tap dance like a pro, but slow, graceful and haunting Arabian dances were clearly out of the question. Every year, I would go and watch my friends dance in the local Nutcracker and secretly imagine myself onstage in sparkling costumes not wincing in agony at the pain of my curly toes' knuckles rubbing themselves raw inside of my pointe shoes.

I have an active imagination.

Anyway, the Nutcracker was clearly out of the realm of realistic possibility. My choir sang during the snow scene for a few years and that was about as close as I got. My senior year of high school, a couple of my friends talked me into auditioning for another company, farther from home and easier to get into. I don't count that as a real experience, because while I got wonderful parts, I was awful at them. Chalk it up to the curly toes. 

But that's okay. Because all the while I was hatching a top-secret, highly diabolical plan.* I would dance in the "real" Nutcracker yet. I just needed time. And a daughter. A dancing daughter.


Now, many people live vicariously through their children, and that's all well and good, but I don't think those people dream big enough. Why simply bask in the glory of your children's accomplishments? Why not use your children's accomplishments to sneak your way into living out your childhood dreams? And so I waited. Patiently. And I put my plan into slow, deliberate action.

The Dictator as Angelina Ballerina.
Evil Plan step numbr 3.

1) Have a child. Done. And with time to spare, I might add.
2) Ascertain that said child is a girl, and more likely to have ballerina-aspirations. Done.
3) Have girl-child watch Angelina Ballerina like it was her job. Done. (Bonus points for girl-child asking to be Angelina Ballerina for Halloween. I am an overachiever.)
4) Enroll child in bitty preschool-person dance classes and hope it sticks. Done. With child number one. Child number two, not so much. But I have other dreams to live out. Other children to exploit. Her time will come. Her time will come.
5) Take girl-child to see local Nutcracker Ballet. Done.
6) Buy girl-child small souvenirs and refreshments at Nutcracker, creating an association between the Nutcracker and toys and candy. Done.
7) Allow child to audition for Nutcracker. Done. She begged to and all I had to do was say yes! I win.
8) Wait for request for parent dancers. Sign up. Muah ha ha!
9) Dance awkwardly/poorly as the confused (drunk?) party guest in the "real" Nutcracker! Childhood mission accomplished!

Yeah. That's right. Who needs to audition? Just wait 15 years, and you can get into the Nutcracker right through the backdoor.  They practically beg you. For real. Granted, it's not exactly my childhood dream of Arabian variations and Snow Queen solos, but whatever. Also, just wait until they see the secret pas de deux the Ballerina Bureaucrat (who wants this even more than I do) and I plan to bust out during the final act. It's going to be amazing. They'll totally cast me as Thirty-Something Clara next year, I can feel it!  Which is good, because if this evil plan had failed, I was going to have to resort to Wildebeest dancing in harem pants near the elevators at the mall, and I think we can all agree that no one wants that. 

So, I cordially invite you all to see my adorable Dictator  me, me, me (and the Ballerina Bureaucrat) in our Nutcracker debut. We are not good. We are phenomenal. Depending on your definition of "phenomenon." It will be the experience of a lifetime. In advance: you're welcome. *jazz hands*

* I didn't actually give birth to my children as part of a grand scheme to do ballet poorly. The Dictator actually wanted to audition for the Nutcracker all on her own. We signed up to dance in the party scene because the other parent volunteer options, such as "sell tickets" or "move scenery" seemed scary and intimidating. But "dance poorly and confusedly," strangely, did not. Also, you should definitely go to see the Dictator in the Nutcracker. She is going to be the world's cutest mouse. If you happen to glimpse the Ballerina Bureaucrat dancing with me, so much the better (or worse, depending on how things go). Maybe we'll provide comic relief (I think my character's back story is that she is ill-bred and maybe a little slow, and maybe a lot drunk...which will account for her confusion and propensity to crash into pieces of furniture and other dancers). But anyway...Dictator. Dancing. Adorably. Go see it. Get tickets here: http://plymouthcantonballet.org/

A lot cuter than I am. Also a lot
less likely to crash into things
while dancing.

Update (12/5/2014): 

Guess what! They're letting us all back onstage! They must be desperate. I get to wear an amazing bright red dress and try not to trip on people. The Bureaucrat gets to wear harem pants and carry people (I'm jealous of the harem pants). The Dictator gets to dance in the party scene this year. She gets to be a girl at the party and not a boy. She managed this by conveniently "forgetting" the boy choreography every time it was rehearsed, while diligently practicing the girl choreography at home, school, church, the grocery store, etc. She is also thrilled to be costumed in a pink dress. We think she managed this through some manipulative scheme, but she claims that she was the smallest child and that the pink dress was the smallest dress. Maybe she's been deliberately stunting her growth so as to fit into the pink dress? I wouldn't put it past the child. The Anarchist is being farmed out to various relatives all weekend with the promise that she can audition to be a mouse next year. The Dictator has been coaching her in "mouse runs" and "scared-mouse knee trembles" for the occasion. And it's all coming together. And so far no one is sick. I was convinced someone would be sick. (To be fair, I'm always convinced someone will be sick). So you should come watch my pink-clad baby, and my harem-pant clad husband dance their hearts out in a Christmas classic. Also, there's a 50% chance one of us might do something super-awkward on stage (and a 100% chance that I will try to work in some jazz hands). And that, my friends, might be well worth the price of admission.

Even MORE updated Update (11/30/2016):
Uh oh, they're letting us dance again. Mike is the only one of us who gets to live out my dreams of being in the Arabian dance. Sylvie gets to be a green flower (a role she's been dreaming of since...last year). And it's very likely that one of us will be awkward onstage, or that my hoop will totally fall off of my skirt, creating a hilariously scandalous wardrobe malfunction). And as an extra bonus, at least one of the dolls in the party scene is DEFINITELY haunted this year. You don't want to miss it!

The Dictator and the Anarchist Throw a Parade...of DEATH!

Yesterday, people everywhere celebrated Father's Day with backyard barbecues, festive downtown running races (that just sounds awful), dinners out, and  neckties. We encourage the Dictator and the Anarchist to be free thinkers, so they chose to celebrate Father's Day in their own unique way. While the fathers in the house passed out and drooled while watching golf on TV, and the ladies roamed the garden and discussed weddings like Edwardian Jane Austen characters, the Morton children were busy at work writing, cutting, constructing and choreographing a lovely parade to crown the Father's Day festivities. The Dictator and the Anarchist were so busy putting together the exciting event that they almost missed dessert. Adorable!

My father, the Leprechaun,
watches golf intently while the
Bureaucrat drools.

Now, the Dictator is practicing hard to someday become the successful ruler of a totalitarian regime, so not only was there going to be a parade, but attendance would be somewhat compulsory, as we were made aware by the numerous flyers posted in every square foot of the house.

 

Yeah, that's right. Or else.

While my mom explained to the Dictator that false advertising is cause for legal liability, the precious children handed out homemade cloth tickets and jumped up and down in eager anticipation. Ah, the innocent joys of childhood!

Thump. She totally didn't make me rich or famous.
False advertising. Thump.

 After being herded welcomed upstairs into the "parade" room, the delightful ceremonies began.  In the recesses of the sweet little bunk bed that my parents keep for the girls we could make out a well-constructed parade of Zhu-Zhu Pets and stuffed animals, replete with miniature floats and banners. How cute are my kids?!

An adorable parade...

And then, my young, sweet girls began their sweet little parade...of death.

A festively morbid banner.

"Have a fun time in hevan, Nugget!"
Apparently, you won't be missed.

We miss you. (We're pretending)

A painstakingly-crafted float.
Because we miss you...just not that much.

So, apparently, in a move vaguely reminiscent of exultant Munchkins at the death of the Wicked Witch, my children's toys staged a victorious parade in celebration of the untimely demise of one of their less lovable fellow-toys. Ding-dong, the hamster is dead, etc.

Dead Nugget on parade. With flowers. And blood spatter.

I don't know what atrocities a motorized hamster could have committed to invoke such an extreme response to its very existence and maybe I don't want to. I think that the larger question here is really this: why are my children being so darned creepy?

The Anarchist laughs in maniacal delight
after dropping an effigy (yes, effigy) of
the mean dead hamster in a fit of zeal.

So...happy Father's Day, Bureaucrat and Leprechaun (and Pastor Grandpa, who was mercifully spared this unholy terror...until now). Your (grand)children got you a dead hamster...on parade. You're welcome. 

Just remember as you are forced to watch this macabre spectacle, these are at least partially your creepy, creepy morbid genes at work in my adorable little girls. So...maybe this horrific Father's Day Parade of Death is your own fault. But you have to admit, it could be worse. They could have just bought you another necktie.

Not another necktie.

Esquire Daddy and the Bad Barista

So Thanksgiving was this past week. Everyone was thankful for stuff. We ate turkey and mashed potatoes. We were thankful for that. Then we all went out and bought a bunch of stuff we didn't need. We were probably not as thankful for that as we should have been. Then we stopped worrying about being thankful and turned into the holiday consumers we were meant to be.

But the thing about me is that I have a tendency to be a touch slow about processing things. So while the rest of the world camped out in front of Walmart or whatever, I started having profound thoughts about thankfulness (maybe because I was at work, and hadn't slept much, and things just feel profound when you're sleep deprived). 

Wait! Work?! 

Oh, yeah. That's right. When I last left you I was desperately, but not very actively, seeking employment. I had made a snarky resume and everything. So I guess I owe you an update. I haven't written in almost a year because we've been a little busy. In case you've been living under a rock these last few years (or just don't know us that well), I should let you know that the Bureaucrat has been extra busy pursuing the pinnacle of bureaucratic careers, and is now a card-carrying (literally...he has a literal card that looks just like a health insurance card...classy) member of the Bar. Bureaucrat, Esquire. Or, as the Dictator dubbed him, "Esquire Daddy." He now is a hardworking attorney and we're all very proud.

Back Row Left to Right: Esquire Daddy, Aspiring Trophy Wife
Front Row Left to Right: Anarchy with a Blanket,  the Dictator

I, at the same time, have been actively pursuing the pinnacle of liberal ed major careers and am currently working my dream job as a (bad) barista.* It turns out that clumsiness isn't an asset when your job involves working with piping hot liquid at 5:30 in the morning. That's okay. I consider this a transition career. I am really an aspiring trophy wife, and I have the credit card debt to prove it. 

Generally, we're all very happy with this arrangement. Despite three years of a family dynamic that would have made  most marriage counselors' "What Not To Do If You're Not Interested In Divorce" lists, our family is still very much intact. Granted, most of my conversations with the Bureaucrat involved a bunch of Latin words I didn't understand (mens rea just sounds a whole awful lot like something discussed in a chapter of What's Happening to My Body?, for example). But I feigned interest while looking at the top of his head bent over a book every night of my life for three years straight. If that's not love, what is?  

And now he's graduated, I'm working, he gets the kids off to school, I pick them up from the bus stop, we see each other at night, and all is well...that is, if you consider our children going to school looking like characters from Lord of the Flies "well." It turns out the Bureaucrat, while usually having an eye for detail, fails to notice if the Anarchist has dreadlocks or the Dictator has decided that a shirt, see-through tights, and tennis shoes are a complete, school-appropriate outfit. The price we pay for success! 

The Dictator is still a good student, despite her continued lack of concern for handwriting technique. The Anarchist is a card-carrying (not literally) kindergartener. The Fat Assassin is still fat and ornery. I am still neurotic (albeit, less so). And we're all very busy. So that, of course, completely explains why I haven't written in over a year. (And also, I was trying to spare you, but I've decided I don't care anymore...tough. You're the smart one who clicked the link, and now you have to live with the consequences). 

Okay. That almost completely explains why I haven't written in over a year. As it happens, it's a little more complicated than that. It turns out that there had been something that had kept me writing, compulsively, week after week (besides, of course, the very gratifying ego-boost of watching the little graph chart all the hits each post would get...mostly from my mom, I'm sure, but gratifying nonetheless). And I thought that the something was gone/over/completed. And so I didn't need to write anymore...like...ever. But it turns out I was a little bit wrong. Things are never all the way gone. The things that happen to you reach out in a million different directions, spin off out into years and years later, touch everything and everyone you come in contact with, whether you want them to or not. You don't just get to be "done" with things. That's not how it works. And for that, I am thankful. Which is what I was originally going to write about. Which is what I'm still going to write about. Later. Maybe tomorrow. 

Right now, I'm going to be a good American and get back to my online shopping. I have my future trophy wife image to think about. 

*At what other job could I find a copy of Orthodox Psychotherapy in the men's bathroom and spend 10 minutes a day reading it? (Okay, maybe the library; but librarians don't get tips...and I like tips). Also, I should mention that you'd better not ask where I work, because I had to sign a lengthy legal-sounding document promising not to reveal too much via social media, and I have no idea what "too much" is, but I felt like I was signing on to work for the CIA, and I think that means that if I told you, I would have to kill you, so let's just pretend it's Starbucks ('cause it's not), and move on with our lives.

What I Learned On My Christmas Vacation OR An Insider’s Guide to Pushing the Morton Family Buttons

This year, Christmas vacation afforded the Morton family the rare and much-needed opportunity to actually be present in the same room—all of us together—for more than 30 minutes at a time.  Truth be told, I had forgotten what the Bureaucrat’s face looked like, having only been able to view the top of his head as he ate his dinner or leaned over his law books for the past several months.  Turns out the children resemble him as much as they do me…go figure.

Of course, our children resemble us in much more than just physical features (the Dictator has my eyes, the Anarchist has his forehead); our children also have inherited a fascinating mix of our personality traits, both good and not-so-good, so that the combination of personality traits clashing and sometimes exploding in the Morton household this Christmas was nothing short of a fascinating spectacle.  We had to reacquaint ourselves with each other, with our various personality quirks and compulsions, and learn how to live with one another again.  In the process, we fast discovered how best to torment one another, deciding by trial and error exactly which buttons to push to manipulate, annoy, retaliate, or destroy, depending upon our needs. 

The following is a guide to pushing our buttons, should you ever need to seek vengeance against any of us.  Use it wisely.

The Bureaucrat:

• Leave a mostly empty mug of coffee wherever you go.  When you need a refill, get a new mug and leave it somewhere different.  See how long it takes to grow mold on the mugs.  Insist that the house’s growing mug collection is part of its charm.

• Eat graham crackers on the couch.  When graham crackers are halfway finished, sit on them.  Let crumbs collect over time for maximum effect.

• Wait until the Bureaucrat is at a lengthy mid-sentence pause (this should be easy, as they are frequent).  Sigh heavily and urge him to “hurry up.”  Snap your fingers impatiently in his face while doing this to maximize his rage.

• Become convinced you are dying of your head cold.  Attempt to convince the Bureaucrat you are dying of your head cold.  He will LOVE this.

Dictator:

 

• Touch anything that might arguably belong to her.

• Insist that skirts and cloth shoes are not always practical clothing options.  Suggest pants and boots, instead.

• Make dinner.  Place her sister’s cup at her place at the table.  Suggest that violent rage might possibly be an unwarranted response to the aforementioned cup-mix-up.

• Run out of blackberries or strawberries.  Offer apples, pears, oranges, peppers, pineapples, carrots or blueberries instead.  Suggest that violent rage might possibly be an unwarranted response to the aforementioned produce "shortage."

Anarchist:

 

• Sit on the spot on the couch nearest the television.  Refuse to move.

• Use the phrase, “use the potty.”

• Wait until she has consumed a coin.  Remove the remaining stash of coins to a safe, undisclosed location.

• Suggest that she is too small to do anything.

Me:

 

• Discuss at great length, and in extremely minute detail, your plans for some part of some specific activity for the day.  Be sure to obsessively analyze the various ways in which the mundane task (for example, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, packing your Littlest Pet Shop Friends) might be carried out.  Ask constantly for reassurance that your decided way of carrying out said task is the most reasonable.  Repeat regularly for maximum effect.

• Be excessively compliant until two minutes before we have to leave to go somewhere important.  Upon my urgings to hurry, remove your shoes, coat and hat.  Run off to another level of the house to “get something.”  Forget you are supposed to be leaving.  Weep because someone touched your possessions.  Insist that I help you find something.  Start dancing in front of a mirror.  Cry because I’m angry.  Become angry with me because we’re late.

• Put the dishes away, but neglect to put them in rainbow order. 

• Leap out from a dark and secret place and sink your fangs into my calf.  Go on, try it.  I dare you.

and, lest we forget, the Fat Assassin: 

• Pass the upstairs linen closet (in which the cat treats reside).  Ignore repeated, entitled meowing for cat treats.  Neglect to give out cat treats.

• Wrap Christmas gifts.  Refuse to let the Fat Assassin luxuriate all over the overpriced designer wrapping paper.  Kick the Fat Assassin out of the room. 

• Attempt to sort the dirty laundry mountain in the closet upon which the Fat Assassin has made her cozy bed.

• Withhold your fleshy calves for any reason.

New Year's Resolutions...ha ha, yeah, like those ever work...

This year I resolve to be alluringly mysterious.
Or maybe just more organized. 
Whichever turns out to be the easiest.

Okay, so this year I resolve to go on a completely Vegan, raw produce diet, wear exclusively fair trade clothing, never lose my patience with my children, reduce/reuse/recycle everything, take up smoking so that I can promptly make a valiant effort to quit, take shorter showers and save the world.

Nope.  Nope.  I definitely do not.

New Year's Resolutions are a ridiculous tradition.  People consistently break them.  The new year is not really a useful psychological motivator to start doing things differently.  I don't make New Year's resolutions because I'm better than that.  Or lazier.  Or I just don't like to set myself up for disappointment.  Pick any or all of the above.

That being said, I'm totally making a few, modest resolutions this year.  Because when everyone else does it on Facebook, I feel left out.  And I don't like feeling left out.

So without further ado, my 2011 Completely Unrelated to New Year's Non-Resolutions:

1)  I will make an attempt to wake up early enough in the morning that I am not forced to rush the Dictator to the bus stop.  Rushing the Dictator is the most futile and frustrating endeavor known to humankind.  And it results in yelling, crayon-throwing, crying, whining, and tantrums...mostly on my part.

2)  I non-resolve to keep track of all the adorable things my children say so that when they're teenagers I have something to embarrass them with.  Note the new "Pages" section at the bottom of this blog.  That's where these adorable things will be stored...because I also resolve to be that irritatingly doting parent that forces my kids' perceived adorableness on all of my friends/acquaintances.  You're welcome.

3)  I pledge to actually go get a new pair of eyeglasses frames to replace the pair I sat on last year.  That way, I'll be able to see again when I drive at night...and look a little more like Liz Lemon.  Who may or may not be my personal hero.

Donning the ill-fated glasses, back when I could still read street signs.
Note the loving relationship the Dictator and I share here. 
It's because I wasn't rushing her.

4)  I non-resolve to work-out so that I no longer feel winded when climbing (slowly) a flight of stairs.  Also, I hope to reduce the blurred vision and chest pain I experience after my sporadic, but apparently intense rounds of "So You Think You Can Dance" disco-themed cardio by building up my stamina.  Yes, I know this is a terribly cliche New Year's Resolution.  So I will add to it this: I resolve to workout this year when I feel like it.  There.  At least it's honest now.  Isn't that refreshing?

Some of you may perceive this as a Keeping Up With the Joneses New Year's Resolutions sell-out.  To that I can only say, I want to be just like the Joneses some day, because they're the cool kids and they recycle, quit smoking, save the whales and all that jazz.  If you pretend you don't want to keep up with the Joneses, you lie.  Liar.  Pants on fire.

Some  of you may perceive this as a lack of effort on my part...I'm assuming this applies to those of you who are making those extra lofty New Year's resolutions involving veganism, responsible energy consumption, organized closets, community involvement and all that nonsense.  To you I say, best of luck in 2011.  Seriously.  You're going to need it.

Santa Baby...

I think I've mentioned before that the Morton children are not known for their austerity.  Maybe I've also mentioned that us Morton's aren't exactly rolling around in piles of cash right now.  So Christmas, in all its commercial glory, has become a particularly interesting time for us.  Trying to curb the greed of the Dictator and the manic excitement of the Anarchist is a formidable task.  And while I'm tackling things on the moral/theological front, we still have quite a way to go in turning our crazy tiny people into thoughtful, compassionate human beings who create manageable Christmas lists.

Step One: Limit Christmas Lists to 10 Items per Kiddo

The Anarchist did a remarkable job keeping her list neatly pared down to 10 items.  But then she kept changing it.  It turns out she's three-years-old and an anarchist, and therefore has little to no understanding of limitations.

The Dictator, on the other hand, attempted many sly tactics to increase her list's yield: clumping two or three similar items together, asking for expensive gift sets (only $60 for 5 Princesses!), and insisting that while it may be reasonable for Mom and Dad to ask for a pared down list, Santa is a man of unlimited resources, and will therefore be willing to dole out plentiful gifts without restriction.

The Anarchist and the Dictator, victorious after Santa Visit

Great.  So that didn't work.  Especially when I mentioned to the Dictator that she might not get everything on her list.  There were two hours of hysterical weeping.  You would have thought the Chuggington character she was in danger of not receiving was a beloved relative breathing his last breath.  On the other hand, I did overhear her say to the Anarchist, "Now, Anarchist, you have to remember that won't get everything on your list.  Not all of it, Anarchist.  So don't be disappointed.  Because you won't get everything..." (Hooray!  She understands!), "But I will get everything on my list, Anarchist, because I have a good list."  (Never mind).

Step 2: Avoid the Overly Commercial Aspects of the Holiday

I think I failed this step utterly when I took them to the mall to see Santa yesterday.  Or maybe it was when we walked through the toy section of Target last week and they begged incessantly for things and I told them to ask for them for Christmas. Or maybe it was when I bought them adorable Christmas-themed dresses to wear to school.  Or possibly it was when the Dictator absconded with all of the toy ads from the stack of mail on the coffee table and used them to make collages of all the things she "needed."  Oh boy. 

Step 3: Cultivate Compassion

I took the opportunity to explain that not every kid has lots of toys and food when the Dictator came home with a Toys for Tots flier in her backpack.  The thing I forget is that the Dictator most likely believes that the "Tots'" lack of toys will simply be greater incentive for them to pull themselves up by their tiny bootstraps.  At least, that is what I deduced from the strange look she gave me when I mentioned "homelessness."

The Dictator recounts her extensive Christmas list

Step 4:  Teach Financial Responsibility

Maybe if the Dictator and the Anarchist understand the concept of budgeting, they will understand the dangers of greed, frivolous spending and debt.  When the Anarchist asks me for a piece of Christmas tchotchke while shopping, I quickly explain to her that Mommy didn't have any extra money to pay for the piece of useless plastic.  "But don't you have MONEY?!"  she asks, confused.  "Mommy has credit card debt, Sweetie.  Mommy doesn't have any money," I respond.  "Oh, okay!  You can pay with CREDIT CARD DEBT!  THAT would be okay!  You can buy these with some CREDIT CARD DEBT!" she shouts to the entire store.

The Anarchist at the mall, learning to be a responsible consumer...or something like that.

Take two.  As I'm getting ready to run errands, the Anarchist asks to get a toy car while we're at the store.  I tell her "no" because we have no money.  Two minutes later, I hear her heaving herself down the stairs, lugging the giant bucket in which the Dictator stores (stingily) her pennies.  "What are you doing with the Dictator's bucket?!" I demand.  "See, Mommy.  I got you some money.  NOW you can buy me a car!" she exclaims proudly.

Step 5: Give up in Defeat

Maybe reason and compassion aren't concepts upon which I should be expecting kids under the age of five to have an excellent grasp.  Maybe there's still time to teach about poverty, financial responsibility, fair trade, commercialism and the like.  At least, that's what I'm going to tell myself as I watch the Dictator rock herself in a fetal position as she tries to cope with the grief of getting only 9 of the 10 (AKA 18 of the 20) things on her Christmas list.  Because they look so cute when they're giddy with anticipation, and I think maybe there's a fighting chance they won't be total spoiled brats.  I, on the other hand, have a list a mile long.  So if anyone's looking for ways to express their generosity to me this holiday season, let me know...I'll email you my list.  And I promise to only cry a little if I don't get everything on it.

The Dictator and the Anarchist bid Santa Claus farewell, and salivate over their anticipated stacks of toys.

Thankfully

Sigh...the Mortons came out of the Thanksgiving craziness well-fed, thankful for the blessing of wonderful families, and relatively unscathed. Here is what we are thankful for:

The Dictator:

• Princesses
• Drawings (of princesses)
• Markers (with which to draw princesses)

The Anarchist:

• "Bllrrrbt..."*
• "I don't know-WUH!"

The Bureaucrat:

• His phenomenal wife allowing him to sleep in until 10 am the day after Thanksgiving
• His beautiful wife cooking pumpkin pancakes for him when he finally did decide to wake up
• His gorgeous wife

The Fat Assassin:

• The singularly stupid human family not forgetting to feed her, even in the midst of their collective turkey coma

And Me:

• Mashed potatoes (always the first thing that comes to mind, even though I know I should be saying something schmaltzy and sentimental like "family and friends.")
• IKEA furniture-thanks for being affordable enough that I can actually have furniture and not feel like a squatter in my own home.
• Only vomiting twice as a result of my own Thanksgiving-related gluttony
• Those nice people shopping at Target or Meijer with their children who say things like, "Just SHUT UP! You never have anything important to say anyway. You are SO annoying. I'm gonna beat you good!" for making me realize that I may actually not be the world's worst parent
• Those folks who are clearly not hard-up for cash, who hold up entire store lines squabbling with the cashiers over 50 cents worth of fried chicken legs or economy Christmas wrap. Thank you for reminding me that it's crazy to care so much about things and money.
• The Anarchist's really loud set of lungs, which remind me daily--and usually in a quiet, public place--that we are so blessed to have her lungs actually working and healthy.
  
• Family and friends. No. Seriously.
• Mashed Potatoes