Happy Birthday Baby Jesus! We made you a vampire cake!

Our wonderful friends Trier and Andrew invited us over for a birthday party for Jesus on Christmas Eve. Her mom and twin sisters joined us. Trier is a first child/oldest daughter kind of person (like me), so she had everything planned out perfectly (also like me, *naturally*), but she has this wonderful relaxed, welcoming personality that just goes with the flow (um. Not like me. Frowny. Face.). So does Andrew, really. Even with a house full of frosting-toting kids, they were either genuinely amiable and pleasant or they can both do masterful impressions of rainbows.

Trier and Andrew are expecting their second child, and even with that, and house guests at Christmas, and an active preschooler, they still had everything together. My only job was to bring the "Happy Birthday" banner and some birthday hats. I simply couldn't pull that off though. So, Steve was given those items on a list and sent to Wal-Mart on Christmas Eve morning to pick them up (grounds for divorce in some states). He came back with a banner, but no hats, because he couldn't bring himself to buy Hello Kitty themed hats to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior. So, Trier magically made non-cartoon themed hats appear as well.

Their table was set with two perfectly rounded cakes already baked and accompanied by icing and sprinkles fanned out beautifully--one for each family to decorate for Jesus. Levi is their son, and he and his mommy and daddy decorated their cake with a carefully formed tribute to the Christ-child.

Our cake was decorated as more of a tribute to the stable part of the Christmas story. Remember? It's the part of the Christmas story where the stable floor gets cleaned with a shovel.

During events like this, our family lets Anna take the lead. You know, because she's five and totally into stuff like this and will take home lasting memories from it all, and blah, blah, blah. But also because it's hilarious to watch her go. We should probably have warned Trier and Andrew, though.

Anna began the party by putting on a princess dress. We had already accepted that this was non-negotiable. She allowed me to help with the all-over, first coat of frosting.

Steve graciously played goalie, keeping Maria involved, but not too involved. He also kept his head on straight enough to stop mommy from letting our 18-month-old child stuff handfuls of icing into her mouth for the sake of some cute photos. He was right, of course. I only hope my momentary lapse in judgment didn't mean that Trier and Andrew found frosting drool on their furniture later or a sparkly pile of vomit near the tree.

Anna even let me help with the real decorating--at first. We both ran colorful edging around the cake, with lots of loopy fun. Then she got her mitts on the sprinkles. She dumped sprinkles, double-fisted, like Zeus pummeling the mortals with lightning bolts. She squeezed out more icing and sprinkles on more icing and sprinkles until our birthday cake for Jesus looked like an inside-out autopsy. Some of the sprinkles were from Halloween and were actual "Vampire sprinkles," too, which (with my junior high sense of humor) I could *not* laugh hard enough over.

But once the sprinkle dust cleared, we lit the candles and sang. I was a teensy bit surprised to find that I really liked having a party for Jesus. I can easily imagine that depending on who attended such a party, it could result in a get-together of such cheese and fakery, not even Jesus would want to blow out his candles. But, it wasn't like that with genuine people. Trier and Andrew are honest, real, refreshingly humble people. Singing "Happy Birthday to Jesus" means something important when you're singing with people who remind you of Him.

When we got to work on Monday, we discovered a colleague whose birthday was December 25th, and I was going to tease him about whether his parents always compared him to Jesus, saying something like: "I'll bet Jesus never complained about having to share HIS birthday with Christmas." And then I was all, "Huh. Not as funny as I first thought."

And that was sort of why we wanted to have a Birthday Party for Jesus in the first place. Not only does Jesus share his Birthday with Christmas. He's often not even invited to the festivities. I also wondered if having a Birthday Party was just too much, you know, schedule-wise. But, with good friends like Trier and Andrew, it didn't feel like we were squeezing another dutiful event in before the REAL Christmas stuff happened. It was a tiny moment of the real stuff of Christmas, stable droppings and all.

Hope you had a few moments of Real Christmas, too!

Holiday Fun on the Internets

Frogs? Are you kidding me? Frogs?

(This photo has nothing to do with the frogs in the title of this post. This is Tink and Pan on Halloween.)

I haven’t updated the blog in a while. I hate to disappoint my many followers. All six of you. So, I’m posting again, but as my blog is not enormously well read, it’s going to be like in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, when Lucy comes running up to everyone going “I’m back! I’m okay!” except no time passed for anyone else and they hadn’t even noticed and she gets this confused look and goes “But...I’ve been gone for hours.” Yeah, that’s me. Returning to my blog. Here’s why I’ve been gone and you’ve all lost sleep worrying about me:

I returned to work full time. That’s all. Rest easy, good people. I knew returning to full-time would knock me on my ba-donk-a-donk—now that we’ve got the two girls and all—so I just decided to give myself a break on all the extra things I do and focus on the necessities (like remembering to eat) till I got the hang of it all. So, I started back on site, full-time, in late September, and I’ve spent the weeks since adapting to the cardio regimen of getting two small children out the door in the mornings. Steve and I work together (we write for an instructional design company), but he leaves earlier to get to work at 7 a.m. and I drive the girls and get myself to work by 8 a.m. Theoretically.

Since returning to work, I have had one of those life opportunities to notice how very little I am capable of handling on my own. Thankfully, there are some truly great people in my life who take extra good care of me.

The one who usually ends up with the delightful job of talking me down off the ledge is my husband. He has also taken on the duty of waking, feeding, and dressing Anna before school. Depending on her mood upon waking, Anna will spend her mornings doing alternating impressions of Shirley Temple on crack, Garfield on Nyquil, and Naomi Campbell when she’s particularly disappointed with the kitchen help. He knew this and applied for the job anyway. I do love that man.

Also, my parents and sisters take good care of me by gently replying to my constant texting and taking my calls at all hours of the day. They tell me they love me all the time and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. (Chenille bathrobe fuzzy, not legs-in-the-winter fuzzy.)

Then, there are the lovely ladies who care for my children. Mrs. Jenny and her family take care of Maria for us in the mornings. My heart grows big like the Grinch’s after Christmas came without packages, boxes, or bags when I think about her and her amazing family. And, Anna’s teacher is also on our side. She is always reminding Anna that she doesn’t have to know how to do it all perfectly yet. And that it’s okay to ask for help. I have no idea where Anna learned to try to control everything.

Finally, there’s Nonie. Nonie is Steve’s mom and she picks up both girls and keeps them every afternoon. We don’t know what we’d do without Nonie. She takes care of all of us.

I’ll finish by offering proof of how it took less than one day for me to realize I couldn’t do all of this on my own. The night before my first day back at work, I was determined to have every bless-ed thing go perfectly, blast-it-all. I packed lunches, backpacks, diaper bags, and purses. I filled sippy cups and water bottles. I planned and assembled dinner a day in advance. I checked homework, emails, and the gas gauge. The ship was going to sail on time, or I was going to go down with it. Actually, everything did go extremely well most of the morning. I could tell I was on edge, tunneling my vision on getting out…that…door…on…time, but I was managing to keep it together. That is, until we went out to get in the car.

While buckling Maria into her seat I noticed a tree frog had scooted up into the door frame of the car right above her head. I scooped him into my hands, but he spike-hopped right into the car and disappeared into the abyss of junk that collects on the floor. Then, I look up and there was another frog on the door frame! Looking back on this moment, I realize God was just trying to show me early that I was going to have to ask for help. One mini-plague was really all it took to trip the wire.

I started frantically swiping at the second frog, while simultaneously skittering around and raging “Frogs? Are you kidding me? On my first day back at work? FROGS?” Anna thought all of this was hysterically funny, so she started chanting too: “Frogs? Are you kidding me? Frogs?” I managed to grab the second one and deposit it on the ground. The other one was still hiding in the sink hole of back-seat rubbish. I delicately got out a baby-wipe to rid my hands of tree-frog gunk, and then did breathing exercises before climbing into the car to explain to the excitable five-year-old that we would be driving to school with a tree frog somewhere near her feet. I remembered to pray a little after we pulled out of the driveway, which I’m guessing is the only reason I didn’t spontaneously combust when our little stowaway hopped up onto Anna’s backpack. Suffice it to say, there was some screaming. It wasn't me. Probably. I stopped the car and somehow managed to get the poor frog out the window. So, for the second time that morning, I wiped my hands with baby wipes, except that by then my nerves were so frazzled I couldn’t really feel my hands.

Thankfully, this was one time I actually got it. I just got it. Since starting back to work, I have unclenched my teeth, pried my white-knuckled hands off of the proverbial steering wheel, and stopped breathing shallow caged-animal breaths. Instead, the plan is to just keep thanking everyone.

So, thank you, God, for staffing up on guardian angels at the Samaha house. Thank you, husband, for jumping in to help even when you have to dodge the fiery laser beams shooting from your crazy wife’s eyes to do it. Thank you, Mrs. Jenny, for teaching Maria to fold her hands to pray over her itty bitty toddler food. Thank you, Mrs. Clark, for teaching Anna the snack-time chant, “You get what you get and you don’t fuss a bit.” Thank you, Nonie, for coming out of retirement to help us raise the girls. And thank you, parents and sisters, for being worth your weight in psychiatrists. And thank you for reading my silly little blog.

The internets make me happy

I could not agree more

see more Engrish

So far, I've loved all the blogs I've perused on the Cheezburger Network, but Engrish Funny is my absolute favorite.  I seriously cannot eat a snack and read this blog simultaneously because I almost throw up from the laughter.

Anna's Last Hurrah, or Steve and Cheryl Meet the Principal

Anna started Kindergarten today.  We made a big deal out of this weekend and planned extra family fun to commemorate her last weekend of summer before she started school "for reals." We called the weekend "Anna's Last Hurrah."  Our weekends start on Thursday (so there!), so we spent Thursday night dining out and dancing in Seville Square--enjoying our local wedding band's hit parade of cover songs. 

I will pretend that Anna did not spend the evening crying and throwing fits about how every other kid in the entire place was getting to ride on the swings before her.  Instead, I will tell you of the five minutes of crazy fun she and I had getting down to "Dancing Queen." We had to sprint to the front and hurdle a few trannies to get to the free tiaras though.

(Yes, I AM very sweaty in this picture. It was 8 p.m. and still 80 degrees with 80 percent humidity. Go take your judgy pants to someone else's blog.)

Friday night's itinerary was supposed to include an outdoor showing of Monsters vs. Aliens, but we decided to take a night off due to the aforementioned crying and fit throwing.  Saturday took us down to the beach for a dinner at Peg Leg Pete's where the kids meals come in a sand pail with eye patches all around.

Then we went to the boardwalk for the Smart Brothers concert, but it was apparently cancelled due to thunderstorms earlier in the day. So, we played in the water till sunset instead.  Not a bad alternative, really.

You can see from the picture that things are overcast, but not actually rainy (what up Smart Brothers?).

So that brings us to this morning.  The big day.  She was fantastic.  So sparkly and shiny and ready for the big leagues.

And only a tiny bit apprehensive...

We live directly behind the school, so Steve took the morning off and we walked Anna to school as a family.  The school seems wonderful, as is Anna's teacher (I loooove her).  You can see Anna in her classsroom below, though she's dwarfed by her gigantic Tinkerbell backpack :-) After we left Anna in class, the school served breakfast for the parents in the cafeteria, so that was cool.  I did not cry, but we did have to see the principal soon after...

See, even though we live directly behind the school (the buses unload 30 feet from our bedroom window and all last school year we awoke to a lady teacher yelling herself hoarse: "Waaaalk!  Waaaalk!), we can't just hop our 7 ft. fence to take Anna to school.  We can, however, walk 7 minutes down a side street to go in through a back gate.  But if that gate is closed, we have to shlep the baby into the car, drive over 3 miles around the neighborhood, out onto the main highway, and turn onto the long road to the school lined with cars for drop-off. Naturally, I'd rather walk as long as it's not raining.

So, as we were leaving the school, feeling like we had this parenting thing down, we came to a locked back gate.  Our backyard was right there!  We could see our cars! But, unless we wanted to climb a 7 ft. fence in our business attire and hoist the baby over between us, we were looking at a 3 mile walk in 80 degrees. Carrying a baby. Steve wanted to hoof it. I told him we were going to the office. But neither one of us wanted to be the idiots that got locked in the first day. We started walking the perimeter of the school grounds looking for weak spots in the chain link but failed to find any.  Into the office we went, smirking, to ask for help. A nice lady said she would let us out with her key, so we followed her and tried to chit-chat politely.  Things got downright embarrassing when she introduced herself as the principal.  Nice one, Samahas.  

Thankfully, though, there was another couple stranded at the gate when we all got back out there.  They joked about climbing it too, until the principal smilingly mentioned that perhaps they needed a security camera at this entrance.  We all laughed, ha ha ha ha, but it wasn't so funny when we told them later she was the principal. Now we're all busted.  

Bragging Rights

My cousin Nathaniel and his friends put this together. The footage is fantastic.

I have never been this cool, nor will I ever be. My cousin is the one that is playing the guitar in the beginning and rockin' the plaid shorts. I could never rock the plaid shorts. I was hoping that by having this on my blog, some of his awesomeocity would rub off on me. Geez, I certainly hope it doesn't backfire and my old-person-ocity rubs off on him by association. But I did ask his permission to post it, and he knew the risks. (Maybe I should have had him sign a waiver too, poor guy.)

The Smart Brothers

We're going to see these guys at the beach this weekend.  Have a listen. This is great stuff.

Fragile

I was re-reading an old yoga book the other day and the yogi, Rodney Yee, was conversing with the writer, Nina Zolotow, about why she practices yoga. You can see the conversation here on page 4. Essentially, the writer wanted to feel more confident and less fragile, and the yogi asks, Why? So I've been thinking about that.

Why don't I like feeling fragile? Babies don't mind being fragile. Strip 'em down to their nakey, and they glee up like it's Christmas. But of course, they don't know they're fragile. Can I go back to not knowing I'm fragile? In the conversation, Yee says that yoga isn't to keep you from feeling fragile, but to let you be fully mindful of your fragility but okay with it. I haven't practiced yoga long enough to say whether he's right or not, but I have been a Christian for a while, and I think I can see how faith in God would make me okay with fragility. Maybe eventually. Not today obviously.

Two things recently have increased my awareness of my fragility (and of course it's my own fragility that really bothers me, not any one else's, sadly): I re-watched Louis Giglio's talk about the size of the universe and the complexity of creation, and my papa died. Now, Giglio's talk you're just going to have to see for yourself. A-stound-ing. I usually love when God explodes out of the box I keep trying to cram him in, but this time it was uncomfortable. I wanted to get out the super glue and try to piece together the shattered box again. Just watch it. You'll see.

But the Papa thing didn't shatter the box, it shattered me.

I am one of the very few people my age who, up until a few months ago, still had all four grandparents. My parents are still married, as were all the grandparents. Crazy, eh? I grew up in a ridiculously loving and supportive home and family, and though people hate me for it and say I'm a loser because I didn't suffer enough as a child, I'm not sorry one bit. But a few months ago, my dad's dad got sick enough to tell the doctors and nurses he was going to head home to heaven. He's was getting a new body --his had just broke-on-down. Now, I love that this guy was my heritage, and I fully intend to get my sassy pants on in the same way when I'm old, but I wasn't ready to say good-bye. So I spent a while stuck in a black hole of self comforting and self medicating. I over-slept, over-ate, procrastinated, made excuses, and drank a few extra. It was pitiful and disgusting, and I just kept it up, watching myself be pitiful and disgusting.

It doesn't really make sense either. I certainly know better. In the Christian tradition, you don't really lose anyone unless they reject God's love completely. The gospels even allude to a "great cloud of witnesses" around us -- those who turned in the earth suit -- so the whole dying thing has really become more of a re-arranging of dimensions for me. Whether I see him in the earth suit again doesn't matter; I will see him again, regardless. But I was fighting that fragile notion.

So here are the real questions. Am I not fragile and just get convinced that I am? Should I be ending this post with this declaration? The truth is, I am not fragile. Not at all. I'm created in the image of God for crying out loud. Or is that declaration just an effort not to feel fragile?

At least the porch gets watered

Inch by inch, row by row

Gonna make this garden grow

All it takes is a rake and a hoe

And a piece of fertile ground

Inch by inch, row by row

Someone bless these seeds I sow

Someone warm them from below

Till the rain comes tumbling down