By the Number aka Go Figure

Twenty two years. That’s how long The Gingerbread Tradition has thrived in my family.

Six is the minimum number of hours it takes to assemble and decorate a Gingerbread House. This does not include the time it takes to mix, roll out, bake and cut out the pieces. Nor does it include the time it takes to make the candy for the windows. This work is already completed by Gingerbread Day.

Once is the number of times I have laughed until I peed my pants while we ate almost as much frosting as we used on our houses.

One hundred is the decibel count (according to our husbands, especially Quinn) when Aunts and Cousins start singing along with our good friend Karen Carpenter. We get even louder when we start in on the Charles in Charge theme song.

Three is the number of Gingerbread Houses that were made the first year in Auntie Kim’s kitchen.

Last year there were at least twelve.

Thirty seconds is how long my decision not to make a Gingerbread House this year lasted after I announced it to my family. All of them, including the Husband, were devastated by the news.

Two is the number of friends I invited to make their Gingerbread House number One.

Two is the number of friends who want to come back next year.

Zero is the number of regrets I have about changing my mind, keeping the tradition alive, and spreading our Gingerbreadness across the country.

Thank you so much, Robin and Teresa.

In which I confess to crimes from my past

I was an eighth grader at Thompson Junior High School in Bakersfield, CA and my youngest brother was preparing to make his appearance into the world any day. For some reason long forgotten I had signed up to volunteer at the nursing home up the street.

I nervously watched The Woman across the desk eyeing the note with my mother’s name signed at the bottom giving me permission to be tested for T.B., a requirement before I began my volunteer work.

“Your mother wrote this?” Each word dripped with suspicion.

“Yes ma’am.” I lied.

I watched her hand reach for the phone and squeaked out my phone number when she requested it. I held my breath as she explained to my mom who she was and why she was calling.

When she smugly said “That’s what I thought” I found my voice and asked her to allow me to talk to my mom.

“Mom,” I began. “Don’t you remember? I wrote the note and asked you to sign it . . . no, you didn’t actually write it, you just signed it.” It didn’t take much to bully her into believing that she had signed the note and just forgotten about it. I felt evil and manipulative as I handed the receiver back to The Woman. She wasn’t fooled, she knew exactly what she had just witnessed, but with mom on the other end of the phone backing up my story, there was nothing she could do about it.

I continued the charade when I came home and told my mom that she must have forgotten signing the note because she had so much on her mind, what with the new baby on its way and dad working so much. Then I went to my room and didn’t come out all night.

I didn’t miss a single week at the nursing home until I finally had to quit a year later because we were moving.

I never forged my mother’s signature again.

The End

P.S. I have apologized to my mom for this, and she says I am forgiven.

Overheard

Otherwise titled “Proud moments in Parenting”

Jack: Mom, who is the smartest person in the world?

Me: Your mother.

Jack: Seriously, mom. Is it Stephen Hawking?

Me: Maybe, he is pretty smart.

Creed: I know who the FIRST person in the world was.

Jack: So do I, it was Adam.

Creed: Yep, but then Eve was the second person.

Jack: Yeah, ‘cause they needed to breed.

“Daddy was the horsey and I was the cowgirl . . .”

“ . . . and I fell.”

That’s what she said when the E.R. nurse asked her how she broke her arm.

Humerus near the elbow, for anyone who’s interested.

Lovely Lady Bump @ 16 weeks

Self portraits are hard! I wish a tripod would find its way to my doorstep. A new lens would be nice too, and a camera bag.

Not much of a bump yet, but I neglected to adequately document the progress of the growth of my belly during my first three pregnancies, and I am determined to stop making that mistake. I would have loved to see pictures of my mother round with me in her belly.

I had an appointment today with my O.B., and everything looks great. I miss brie, and blue cheese, and feta, but my doctor assures me that it is still the national standard to advise expecting mothers against consumption of such cheeses. Boohoo, I guess I have to console myself with swiss, cheddar, and mozzarella. However, if Aunt Kim (or anyone else) makes baked brie while I am home for Christmas, I reserve the right to have some.