Begining to Look A Lot Like Christmas

          “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas”, the age old saying and song that will be spewed through radios and mouths alike around the world. For me and my family it is said at the beginning of a royal throw down between two or more of us, at any time of year. My family get togethers, holiday or not, consist of laughter at each other’s expense, talking too loud and too much, fighting and loving each other fiercely. Tough skin and a good sense of humor are necessities for survival in this family. And on the Eve of Thanksgiving, I’m anxiously awaiting for my parents arrival and the warmth of chaos that makes me inherently happy.

                Christmas tidings came early when I got an excited phone call from my mother stating that she had secured herself a winter coat for her upcoming visit. She elatedly told me that my mother-in-law had lent my mom her floor length MINK coat. I, being who I am, quickly retorted with an onslaught of questions, such as, “Who are you Cruella DeVille?”  “Is scarface your sugar daddy” “Do you have baby seal boots to go with it?” Met by silence, I knew I went too far. Then after the pregnant pause, I got a “you ruin everything” and dial tone. Ahh…Christmas at last.  Now mind you she is still bringing this coat and will strut like Giselle all over Bloomington Illinois, now not just with the pride of looking fabulous, but for the satisfaction of sticking it to her daughter.

                Another family tradition, is absolutely scaring the shit out of one another. And let me tell you no one is safe, not my two year old and certainly not my father with a mild heart condition. The minute the sun sets and the TV comes on, my dad willingly lets the sandman take him to the land of nod. I am there to welcome him back into consciousness by screaming “watch out!” as loud as I can and giggle as I watch his arms flail at the unknown aggressor. By the end of our visits together we are all at the edge of insanity, worrying at every corner that someone will be out there to jump. It is absolute torture and absolutely sublime, especially since I am perpetrator numero uno.

                These are traditions laid in cast iron, but our biggest tradition is to expect the unexpected, last year was no exception. Twenty twelve was the birth of the Gonzalez Olympics. Let me start of by saying that my sister is intrinsically athletic, even going to college on athletic scholarship, and above all else, a fierce competitor. I, on the other hand, am not. But five months prior to last Christmas, I had begun to get myself into shape after having two kids... So a joke about my mom not being able to jump turned into a triathlon between my sister and I. The events included, long jump (that was by tile squares), arm wrestling (done on the boys' kiddie table) and the finale being a two house sprint in the middle of the night. Cheered by cousins, friends and spectators alike, I kicked my sister’s ass. Now, being that I have actually seen her get mad at my 5 year old for cheating at Candyland, she was none too pleased. She spent the next six months hitting the gym, shit talking and sending a box filled with assorted girl scout cookies to get me off the wagon.

                My family is deliciously inappropriate, perfectly peculiar and outrageously entertaining and to know them is to love them. Their ability to laugh is what makes them. So as the holidays quickly upon us, I want to give thanks to my family who love me enough to brave to tundra by coming, and for those who are staying down south but understand why we are trying out the holidays up here.

The Wedding

                First of all let me start by saying I was extremely excited and honored when a dear friend of mine asked not only me but my boys to be in her wedding.  That being said, I agreed, whole heartedly believing that it would be easy taking a trip alone, preparing two boys and being in the wedding myself. I firmly trusted that both my boys would walk down the aisle to the finish line in such adorable fashion that my parenting would awaken the green-eyed monster in all those around me. But, alas, I must have forgotten that I am me and my kids are, well , my kids.

                Four days before the wedding , my two year old comes down with a fever of 104. That night I spend the night putting cold compresses on him and explaining that three in the morning was not a good time to go downstairs and watch a show. Three days before the wedding, more of the same, doling out Tylenol and Motrin, like a corner street drug pusher. Finally, I get an uneasy feeling that the worst was now behind us. That is, until my five year old comes home with a cough, a sniffle and an attitude most fifteen year old girls couldn’t rival.  (Two days before) As the night progresses so does Logan’s fever and cough, until I witness dinner splat all over the bathroom floor… And that my friends, is when shit got real. That’s when the cracks in the foundation of my ‘can do’ attitude and frankly, my sanity started to show.

                One day before the wedding and now it is game time. This was to be my first solo road trip and night in a hotel with the boys. I planned the day to a T, I took them to the doctor to ensure they were well enough to travel and left at nap time so Connor would snooze the whole ride there and wake up refreshed for the rehearsal. But as the saying goes,  “If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans”, and if you REALLY want to make him laugh, make plans involving a toddler.

                Again, I want to reiterate how excited I was to be a part of this special day for a friend that I dearly love, and my boys adore. That being said, Connor’s eyes did not shut until we were pulling into the hotel parking lot and opened about twenty seconds after I placed him gingerly on the bed in our room.  Once it was evident that there would be no nap taken this day, we made time playing, shopping and eating before the rehearsal. And then I thought to myself, ‘ I got this’. The rehearsal went off without a hitch. Logan and Connor walked down the aisle each time with all the cuteness a person could bare. At this point, I am gleaming with delight as we head back to the hotel to try on the boys’ tuxes.  And that my friends, was the end of my good feelings. THEY DIDN’T FIT. Not even a little, and they even had the wrong size shoes. I tried not to panic because a friend of mine and the bride’s was coming in the morning to help me and together we could get it taken care of.

                As night fell and bed time came, I sandwiched myself in between the boys as they drifted into sleep and dreamed of gum drops and lollipops. Or so I had hoped. Apparently gum drops and lollipops are violent little SOB’s because I was fielding kicks, punches and scratches; along with boogers being sneezed in my hair and gurgled in my ear. I prayed for morning or death to take me. But neither arrived. At 3:45 I sought refuge in the other bed, but slowly and methodically those creatures that I spawned found me and took me over once again. Finally at 6 A.M. my torture had ended. At least for a while.

                At 8 Kaitlin came and relieved me, so I could go and get my hair and makeup done. There I was greeted by the blushing bride and all those who loved her and I remembered why all of this was worth it. She was happy. And that made me happy. I shook off my poor attitude and I looked pretty good, if I do say so myself. I liked my hair and makeup and I was ready to seize the rest of this day. OFF TO FIX THE TUXES!

                We were received by a very friendly and competent girl who ensured me there were no worries. She asked me to put the boys into their designated suits, so she could then fix the problems. And that is when things got serious. I know that my son is two and that temper tantrums could be seen as a rite of passage for most little tykes. But in my over five years as a mother I was blessed to not experience too many first hand. Of course, I assume this what I witnessed but it seemed more like something out of a horror movie. I wasn’t sure if I should swat him or burn sage. There was biting and screaming and kicking and drooling and I am pretty sure his head spun at least once. By the end I told her to wing it with his suit and as he sniffled and walked away like nothing had happened… I cracked. The poor women, and  poor Kaitlin finally saw the unraveling of tiny person at the end of her rope.

                Connor fell asleep in the car and I stayed with him while Kaitlin and Logan went upstairs and ate lunch. I sat in the car with my thoughts and psyching myself back to mental stability. I munched on baked goods the bride’s sweet in-laws and packaged for me, as I wondered if a person could give themselves diabetes in one day.

                It was game time and after struggling, bribing, threatening and begging ; Connor would not put that tux on. Logan, however, was a shining star. And I had hoped that his good behavior at least canceled out Connors bad behavior so that those around me only saw me as a mediocre mom. I walked down the aisle disheveled, the day evident in my hair and the baggage under my eyes. But that didn’t matter. Logan did wonderfully and the bride was gorgeous.  The love the bride and groom had for each other was palpable. It made me miss my other half and it again insured me how lucky I was to be standing up as a witness to this special occasion. I will always be grateful to her for letting me be there where I stood.

                By the time pictures were taken and hugs had been had, exhaustion had taken over me. I regretfully bowed out of the reception and went home with my tail between my legs. My best had been given and I feared it was not enough. I spoke to the bride and realized, sometimes your best just isn’t good enough, but when people love you, your best is all that they need. They will love you either way. So thank you bride.. Thank you for two lessons in love.

Worst Football Wife

Football widow… a term most of you would give to your “armchair quarterbacks” who leave you every Saturday, Sunday, Monday and the occasional Thursday, to yell at the television or invade their local stadium to cheer on the proverbial home team.  Football widowship for me and a selected lucky few is a way of life. It’s more than your typical football season of fall and winter gridiron battles; we have spring ball, camps, and recruiting. You brace yourself for one as the other slowly comes to a close. And those battles on the field don’t just result in a grumpy man for the next day or two, it can mean the difference between a contract extension or a career execution.

                But this isn’t to complain about my husband’s career choice, this is about the hilarity of my life as I see it. Because I am the world’s worst football wife, maybe in history. I am the most anti-pintrest, anti-cheerleading, and many times antisocial girl on the block. Most, freely come and gather hours before game time with homemade delicacies, with themed out children in tow, perfectly coifed and ready with rosters embedded in their brains. I on the other hand, barely make it to kick off (even with my kids with a babysitter), hope to God I know who has the ball and will, nine times out of ten, have play doh stuck to my ass.

                So , this is about my life. I am wife of a wonderful man who is scarcely home, and a mother to two adorably monstrous boys. I will video or photograph any wrong doing before I correct said behavior, if I deem it funny enough. I am a ridiculously bad cook and maybe even worse baker. I don’t DIY and the only homemade thing I make is well… oh, that’s right… nothing.  So here I will start my little blog, retelling stories of my dim wit, delciously devilish boys, and my struggling to keep my head above water. So hopefully you will chuckle or at least feel way better about yourself at the end.