Wildcard Quilts

What a crappy Christmas.

Yes, please let me explain the title of this particular post. You see, each year, the day after Thanksgiving, you won't see the WildCards out amongst the deal shoppers. But you'll see us up just about as early. Because, after a 364-day wait, it's finally here:

Christmas Decorating Day!

Boxes upon boxes and bins upon bins and even more bags are carried, shuffled, and tossed into the kitchen from the depths of dusty and dangerously high garage shelves. As we unpack the abundance of sparkly and twinkly things, we find holiday treasures from years past. The Rastafari-type ornament we bought in Jamaica--our honeymoon destination. The bright-red yarn garland made by my mom while she was in college (now in several long and short pieces). The collection of Santas--oh, so many wonderful Santas!--given to us by my generous mother-in-law. A stunning traditional Christmas quilt, given to me by prolific quilter and fantastic all-around woman, Nancy J. Martin, to commemorate my 10th year of working for her company. All Christmas heirlooms I cherish.

And then, to Brett and Jack's delight, we unearth it. The Christmas decoration that has been in our family for at least a decade. Each year we carefully unwrap it from the tissue we pack it in. Then we carry it joyfully to the place where it graces our holiday home each year.

And where does this mysterious decoration spend its holiday, you ask?

On top of the toilet tank. Tucked inside the Kleenex box.

Yes. It's Mister Hankey. The Christmas Poo.

(Thought I'd share the first photo, just as Jack had left Mister Hankey one morning on the bathroom counter. And as you can tell from this month's blog banner, when Jack isn't costuming himself, he is costuming anything that will let him.)

Jack was so excited to see Mister Hankey after one long year of waiting. He immediately shared the delights of Mister Hankey with Charlie. Then, Jack began teaching Charlie how to say Mister Hankey's proper name.

I caught one of their 18-second rehearsals in an audio file.

Mister Hankey

(If clicking on "Mister Hankey" above doesn't work for you, try right-clicking and choosing "Open link in new window.")

Jack has been very persistent with his lessons. Charlie, a willing student, has practiced a lot. I'm proud of their team effort. And Brett? Well, he says I'm the coolest mom on the block. "I'll bet no other family on the block has a stuffed piece of poo in their bathroom during Christmas." I think he's right.

Funny how family traditions are established. How they evolve and flourish. I wasn't expecting a tradition of this sort for our little family. But it's a tradition nonetheless, born unique and strange and funny. Like any other family's traditions. It's ours. I'll take it.

Although we'll pack Mister Hankey away come New Year's Day, he'll always be a part of our holidays. He's found a place in our hearts. He's found a home in our bathroom. But luckily, not in our noses. Mister Hankey smells just like any other plush toy that has been well-loved.

Thank goodness that's part of the tradition, too.

Thanksgiving preparations.

I've been a vegetarian for over 15 years now. I kinda know the ropes. But raising a vegetarian? I'm only five years in. Essentially a newbie. Which makes Jack a newbie too.

Case in point. Kindergarten. I wasn't aware of this, but the day after Halloween, kindergarteners begin a month's worth of celebrating what, for many, has become the focal point of Thanksgiving. TURKEYS. The kindergarteners get into the spirit of Thanksgiving by crafting scores of the birds. Cut-and-color turkeys. Cotton-ball turkeys. Paper-plate turkeys. Coffee-filter turkeys. Handprint turkeys. Turkeys embellished with waddles, wings, and feathers that feature all types of mixed media. Some really fantastic turkeys have come home in Jack's backpack. Surprisingly artistic, given the subject.

What also came home in Jack's backpack was a note to parents, letting them know that kindergarteners would be treated to a Very Special Thanksgiving School Lunch. With kindergarten lasting only 1/2 day here, it was a very special treat indeed--Jack had never eaten school lunch before! After receiving the note, Jack and I talked in the car about the upcoming Very Special Thanksgiving School Lunch:

Me: "So, a Thanksgiving lunch sounds really fun! You get to eat at school like the big kids who stay at school all day."

Jack: "So, will they make me eat turkey at the lunch?"

"No, baby, they won't make you eat anything. You get to pick and choose what you want on your plate. If you don't want something, you just tell the lunch ladies and they'll skip it."

"Okay. But mom, what does turkey look like?"

Hmm. I was stunned into a short silence. Certainly the turkeys served on Very Special Thanksgiving School Lunch day were not going to look like the turkeys Jack had been crafting all month long. Jack has seen a real turkey here, but that turkey was alive and running around. What to do?

Ah, yes. I knew the subscription I bought from my niece for a school fundraiser last year would come in handy some day. It's Better Homes and Gardens to the rescue!

Me: "I have a magazine at home that's all about Thanksgiving dinner. I bet they'll have a picture of turkey in it somewhere. I'll show it to you when we get home. Then you'll know exactly what it will look like at school lunch."

Jack: "Okay."

We arrive home. I get out the magazine. I find a full-page color photo and point out to Jack what turkey looks like.

Jack: "Can I tear out this page and put it in my backpack? On the day we have the Thanksgiving school lunch. Just so I remember what it looks like."

Me: Sure, honey, we can do that."

Here is a photo of the photo, all ready for Jack's backpack on
Very Special Thanksgiving School Lunch day. 

Jack enjoyed his Very Special Thanksgiving School Lunch on Thursday. He ate mashed potatoes, peas, bread, and a pumpkin goody. Did he need to use the photo after all? Nope. He told his kind teacher that he was a vegetarian, and she helped him along.

I'm so glad she did. Because, after taking a closer look at the photo above, I noticed the caption on the page:

"Loin of Pork."

Oops.

Geez. I really have been a vegetarian for a long time.

Whatever you choose to grace your table with on Thursday, here's wishing you a wonderful Thanksgiving!

One Halloween knight. And his alligator squire.

After face painting ...

... and cookie making ...

... and lots of costume prep ...

... the Great Dark Knight is ready to grace the neighborhood with his tricks. For treats. (With a bright-red, handknit-by-me shield grip to boot, thank you very much.)

The knight's faithful squire, although not thrilled with his getup, got in the spirit when he realized candy was to be earned. Knock-knock. "Tik-o-teet. I wan' candee."

Hope your Halloween was filled with lots of tricks and even more treats. Of the knight and alligator variety.

Summer 2009. Gone.

New schools. New jobs. New projects. New responsibilities. New budget. New outlook. New season.

Autumn, I was looking forward to your cool. Why'd you go and get so dang busy? NOT cool.

I'm still remembering our summertime fun. Fondly.

From the last day of preschool...

to the first day of kindergarten. (Holding self-portrait. Cape included.)

From planting a blueberry bush...

to harvesting and preserving (for the first time!) fruit from an apricot tree.

From turning my baby boy into a little girl... (For just one day. Okay, two.)

to turning my big boy into a concert-lover (his first, American Idol--you Lambert fans know what the blue means!).

From first soccer games...

to first grape-picking.

From costumes...

and costumes...

and costumes...

and costumes...

and costumes...

to teaching Charlie about costumes.

And to this... which may just be the cutest picture of our summer.

Our lives have changed dramatically this past month or two, with hopes for an even better future (although we are blessed to have an incredible, awesome NOW.) But what a wonderful, relaxing, fun summer it was. I'm so glad we took the time to be there for it.

Five years.

For those of you who have been following along for awhile, I need to tell you something incredible that happened this month. Jack turned five years old. FIVE. YEARS. OLD. I am officially the mama of a five year old. I'm feeling quite proud.

Jack, you have grown so much this past year. In shoe and shirt sizes, yes. But also in your mind and in your heart. You have transformed from a pant-leg hugging, bashful soul into a social butterfly who will walk right up to a new person, look them straight in the eye with a smile, and say, "Hi, I'm Jack!"

That's huge. Not even I can do that. And I'm 37.

You are gentle and thoughtful and helpful with Charlie, your little brother. You often introduce him to others by simply saying, "This is my baby." Yes. Just as much as ours, he is yours. And you his.

You have become intensely inquisitive, asking me questions I need to open a dictionary to answer. Being shrouded in the throes of mamahood and babyhood these past few years, I thank you for getting my mind back up on its feet. I've been in a fog. You are making me think again. It's a good thing.

One of my favorite changes in you during the past year? Your facial expressions. Coming from a family of many deaf people (hereditary, on my side), you have effortlessly learned the art of communication through animation. In your hands, in your feet, in your face. You are expressing yourself visually. And it's all quite convincing. You can convey emotions ranging from satisfied to terrified just with a tiny squint or widening of your big blue eyes.

(Oh, and let's not forget that this year Jack learned to cross his eyes. Always used to express excitement. Silly excited. Makes me think we should all cross our eyes when we're excited. Try it sometime. Really. It will take your excitement to a whole new level.)

This year I put together a special birthday party for you, with art as the theme:

The invitation.

There was quite a bit of party preparation on my part: 

Testing of projects, collecting of materials . . .

Calling of other mamas to make sure their kids could come.

And then party day came. 

There was painting of shirts . . .

Collaging of frames . . .

Painting of paper (a keepsake for Jack) . . .

Tracing of bodies . . .

And decorating of cupcakes, too.

I think some people wondered why I went to all the trouble. I mean, I worked on your party for a month. It was a two-hour long party. And I worked on it for a MONTH. Why? Why, mama, why?

I'll tell them why, Jacky. Because you turned FIVE. Because you are wonderful. Because I want you to always remember what it was like to be five. I hope you will always remember.

I have a feeling you will never forget.

One year.

This weekend we celebrated Charlie's first birthday. Our closest family, a few pizzas, and a gorgeous star-studded cake (and a smasher cake, too!) made by Charlie's Aunt Nini. All day long I found myself glancing at the clock, trying to remember what was happening exactly one year ago--now I was having mild contractions, now I was having horrible contractions, now I was crying through my contractions, now you were born, now you were two hours, six hours, ten hours old.

And now you are one year old. My sweet Charlie-Barley. One year.

I'm your mama, Charlie. And out of the small circle of people you have gotten to know, I would guess that I just might know you best. After all--with the exception of an hour or two, here and there--I've been with you these 365 days. This year of firsts. First laugh, first cry. First nursing (still nursing). First food ("Mama, I'll eat a whole loaf of bread before I eat that fruit or vegetable, thank you very much.") First sling ride. First outings--the park, the library, the duck pond. Aunt Nini's and Grandpa George's and Uncle Aaron's. First rain, first snow, first flower. First roll, first scoot, and just this month, first crawl. First kisses and hugs. First I love you's. I was here.

I'm still not sure who you are just yet. I'm watching and patiently waiting. But here are a few things I know to be true about you:

When you were this tiny, you liked to sleep. Now? Not so much.

You adore your brother.

Your brother adores you.

You are a gentle soul who likes to explore, play, mimic, and laugh. And you seem to like my quilts.

You'll jump out of my arms and into daddy's for bathtime.

You are lovable, laid-back, and a little shy. Like your daddy. May be too darn cute for your own good. Also like your daddy.

You love birthday cake. Like your mama. May like it too much for your own good. Also like your mama.

Happy first birthday, my little love. I am so glad you have been with us this past year. Our world has only gotten better and brighter with you in it.

On to year two.

For our Cookie Monster

Just one more Valentine's Day story. The story isn't actually about Valentine's Day at all. But the story inspired Jack and I to make these for the man of our house:

Jack was instrumental to the dough making, dough testing, dough rolling, dough testing, dough cutting, and dough testing. And cookie frosting. And frosting testing.

The story was told to me by Brett's dad, Dean. It's the gosh-darn-it cutest story I've ever heard about my husband. Goes like this:

Dean went into four-year-old Brett's room one evening for the nightly tuck-in. He noticed that little Brett, already in pajamas and under covers, was staring off into nowhere, lost in thought. Dean sat on the bed next to little Brett. He quietly asked, "Brett, what'cha thinking about?"

Little Brett said, "I'm thinkin' about cookies."

Little Brett is all grown-up now, of course. A wife. Two children. A job. A mortgage. A 401(k). A really, really high-end computer for incredibly lifelike gaming. But every night, in the middle of the night, that grown-up Brett will still steal into a dark kitchen, open the pantry door, and grab two cookies. He'll gobble them down with secret sips directly from the milk carton. (He thinks they're secret sips, anyway.)

That's our Cookie Monster. We love him so.

Inauguration art

During our own little inaugural celebration today, a crayon portrait of the new first family was created:

I offered to tape the portrait in our front window. Jack insisted that instead, we send it to President Obama. And so we will.

Hope, personified. Here in our home. Happy inauguration day. Happy day.

No strip. But a whole lotta tease.

The pincer grasp can take considerable time for babies to master. It's a daily process of practice makes perfect, really. Charlie's been using bits of cereal for his rehearsals. He's getting pretty good at it.

But sometimes he drops the gooey bits in the unlikeliest of places.

Since the womb, I had a feeling you were gonna be a good dancer, baby.

I just didn't expect you'd want to become a professional one.

A winter wonderland. But not for snowmen.

Did you know that Utah has the greatest snow on earth? It's true. Our license plates say so. Skiers and snowboarders come from around the world to visit us. Olympians train here. Oh, yes--we even hosted an Olympics here. Why? Because our snow isn't what you think of when you think of snow. Snow is cold. Wet. Heavy. Icy. Slushy. But not our snow. Not Utah snow. (Well, okay. It is cold.)

We have what you might call "desert" snow. Pick it up in your hand and it doesn't clump. You can scatter it like crystal-candy sprinkles on a cupcake. It's DRY. It's like powder. It's like really super frozen . . . sand. Yes. In fact, it's like having a sandy beach right in our front yard. Except the temperature is suited more toward polar bears. And you must wear at least four layers of clothing over your bathing suit. Plus snow boots with at least two pairs of socks. And you must be sure to walk slowly and surefootedly, lest you slip on a patch of un-snow-blowed sidewalk and break something. Something important. And there is no beach volleyball. Ever. Aside from that, it is exactly like a sandy beach. Right in our front yard!

Anyhoo, in celebration of Grandma Sophie's annual holiday visit, we decided to venture outside in our bathing suits--along with a mountain of assorted wooly and downy cover-ups--to build a snowman. How charming. How idyllic. What a great excuse to enjoy some traditional wintertime fun! Out we trudged.

Jack the four-year old quickly picked up a handful of snow and attempted to mold it into a snowball. Ah, a snowball fight. That's the spirit--wonderful idea! He squeezed the snow in his gloved palm and then released his fingers. A spatter of powdery specks fell to the ground.

Snow, yes. But no ball. No snowball.

Jack looked at his grandma. With both hands, Grandma scooped up a mound of snow and squeezed. Half of it quickly blew away in the gentle mid-morning wind. The other half she let silently fall to the ground.

"We can't make a snowman out of this," she said. "It doesn't stick together!"

Indeed. Lots and lots of snow. But no way to build a man out of it. Or was there?

Out of the necessities of a Utah winter, I give you our best shot at a snowman. Introducing . . .

FLAT SNOWMAN.

Run over by a Mack truck? Pummeled by a pro-wrestler? Flattened by a steam roller? The story behind Flat Snowman's flatness remains a mystery. It couldn't be that tragic of a story, though. I mean, he looks happy enough. And he's still sporting a completely three-dimensional nose.

Took about two minutes to build Flat Snowman. Then we headed back in to remove the mountain of woolies and downies. (Took about four times as long for that task.) Checked in on Flat Snowman this morning. Obviously, we've had more snow fall since that day:

Thank you, Flat Snowman, for making this winter more magical. Just the teeniest-tiniest of a smidge more magical, really. But still. Thank you.