The Elf that sits on our shelf

No tantrums for 32 days is what I saw when I picked up the shiny white box. Perhaps that was just my wishful thinking…

Christmas time for the Timmerman boys typically means reaching arms in the store, attention paid to every toy commercial to grace the television, teary-eyed visits to the store, and massive handwritten lists in adorable handwriting asking for things I’m sure even the President of the United States couldn’t afford. iPads, all the Lego’s in the whole wide world, motorized scooters, iPhones, a rocket ship with their very own astronauts, an Xbox 360 with all the games, a car, an alligator, and also the moon with all the stars in the galaxy.

Instead they got Jingle Bells, more commonly known as the Elf on the Shelf. Hand-wrapped and specially delivered by the big guy himself. The package was placed on the counter top with care in hopes the pair soon would be there.  No sugar plums were present at the unwrapping of this special delivery, however. The boys manhandled the wrapping before I was able to remove my camera from its bag. They squealed with delight and then the look of question marks danced in their eyes… “This looks cool, but what is it?”  They cautiously opened the box as if expecting something to jump out.  What they found was their Elf patiently waiting for my boys to bring him to life and a hard back copy of his story tucked inside his box.

Inside our Elf's storybook was a letter to my boys from none other than Santa Claus…

 

We placed him high on the shelf as I read our elf’s story. The boys gazed up at him while I read looking for any spark of movement.  The boys were delighted to find that they could name their little Elf. And so, in true Holiday spirit  they named him Jingle Bells or Jingle for short.

Each morning the boys will find Jingle Bells in a spot of his choosing whether it be at the kitchen table playing a rather intense game of Candyland, making s’mores next to an unlit candle, or even folding laundry (now that’s my kind of elf!).Once he’s been found, up on the shelf he will go to keep a watchful eye on the troublesome duo. Each night he’ll return to his home with Santa at the North Pole to suggest they receive a gift or a lump of coal.  

Because I'm the Momma...

·         I get to say Because I said so

·         I get to clean off the toilet seat…

·         I get to kiss their owies better

·         I get to relearn division, exponents, & fractions

·         I now have an excuse for the times I’m caught watching the morning cartoons

·         I get to read them fairytales and other stories, and steal a glimpse of the wonder and magic in their eyes

·         I’m the one they want when they have bad dreams

·         I get to say no

·         I have their hearts forever locked in mine

·         I get to watch as the world prepares itself for these two brave boys

·         I get to sew patches on the knees of their jeans

·         I’m the one who gets to hear both sides of the story, most often two very different sides of the story

·         I get the momma “nuggles” (snuggling)

·         I get to explain to a perturbed teacher how my boy learned the art of break dancing.

·         I get to read stories to keep the bad dreams away

·         I get to hear their dreams big or small for now or for the future

·         I get to make sure they know girls have coodies until they’re 99

·         I‘m their example

·         I get to make blanket forts with them while pretending to be pirates, ninja’s, or Star Wars characters

·         I get to discover that dirt and mud are not as gross as I had imagined them to be

·         I get to learn how to wrestle

·         I’m the one they tell the stories of their days to

·         I get to feel little arms around my waist or neck that assure me that I am loved

·         I get to swear at a staring wal mart patrons (still sorry about that…)

·         I get four extra hands at the grocery store

·         I get to be thankful every second of every day for the two little lives I’ve been trusted with

·         I get to watch them grow into amazing and thoughtful gentlemen a little more each day

·         I get to be the momma of a US Government employee

·         I get to wash mountains and mountains of laundry

·         I get to buy chocolate milk

·         I’m the one who is always “it” while playing hide and seek

·         I’m the one that will love them forever

·         And I’m the one that will always be their momma

Emergency Rooms & Bicycles...

Four stitches and over $1,000.00 later…

Any of you who have met and know my boy, probably aren’t all that surprised to see a blog post such as this. It was bound to happen at some point right?

Actually, this is the second round of stitches for this little dude. The first was a mishap at a fast food restaurant where a missing sign probably wouldn’t have helped Caler, running,  from meeting with a metal corner of a table right above his eye.

After frantically searching for a babysitter unsuccessfully, while I had to work, my momma had graciously accepted the responsibility.  

I knew it wasn’t good after the third phone call. After finishing up a call and entering notes for work, I called her back. I was surprised to hear the sound of worry in my momma’s voice. After calming a VERY worried Myna, I found out what had happened. My little man had split open his lip after taking a spill on his bicycle.

It’s moments like these when I long to be a stay at home momma. I wanted to be there to hold his hand as the doctor worked diligently to stitch his lip, and the six nurses worked just as diligently to keep my nervous son from moving. He was scared and he needed his momma.

I cried. I did, I sat at my desk and I cried the only comfort I took was knowing it was my own momma’s hands he was holding.  The same hands that comforted me when I was hurt.  

A month has passed and now the only scar left is the little line across his bottom lip… OH, and I guess I should mention the concern he has that his lips might be shrinking. But only when he makes that face.

A letter to Mr. X

Dear Mr. X,

Greetings from the great State of Free Will. I’m sorry… did that sound like I was rubbing it in your face? It did? Good.

Really though, this letter isn’t meant to hurt you. This letter’s intended purpose isn’t meant to cause any response in you at all, actually. It’s for me. And it’s about time.

So often you told me I wasn’t good enough, skinny enough, pretty enough… or just plain enough for you. Which is what, I’m sure, you attempted to use to console your soul as you were doing the things you did to me. I was focusing on the wrong words for so long that I felt I deserved most of what you gave me. The words I focused on were “for you”. I concentrated on “for you” for so long that I forgot about the words ‘for me’.  What was good for me? Was your constant negativity toward my physical appearance good for me? Were the names you called me good for me? Were the fists and back hands to my face good for me? Or the blood that dropped from my nose, lips, and head good for me? What about the bruises no one could see under the layers of clothing I wore? Or how about the deep emotional bruises your words left long after the marks were gone from my skin? My guess… is you didn’t think about “for me”. I’m probably right.

I ignored the other women, the late nights, the alcohol, and the nightly agony you put me through. I couldn’t ignore the embarrassment and shame I felt when someone noticed a bruise. Their accusing eyes searching my face for the answer I would not give. They knew. I knew they knew… but my silence remained. Faithful, I was, to the promises you forced me to keep in your slobbering, slurring, and torture filled nights. Faithful, I was to you.  Faithful to me, you were not.

I also could not ignore the eyes of my children. Their eyes questioning and learning. Is this how a momma is to be treated? Each day I continue to pray to our Heavenly Father their young minds did not take notes. I pray that by your removal they will learn from me and not from you. They are beautiful. The only beauty and good in you… you gave to me. Thank you for them.  They are safe.

Your head was bowed low when the judge asked you to admit your actions. Yellow and Orange were never good colors on you.  The silver chains, though, fit you well. Two 1 – 15’s and four 0-5’s. Do you think that’s fair? I sat back, freedom and loved ones by my side, to hear the pounding of the hammer as the judge read your sentence out loud. I heard whispers saying “robbery”, “injustice” , and “an eye for an eye is what he deserves”. I don’t wish you harm and I never will. I like to think I’m better than you. And you just aren’t good enough, strong enough, or just plain enough… for me. For me.  

Sincerely,

The Single Momma

P.S. Please give my best to Bubba in cell C Maximum Security, who I’m sure, you’ve made great friends with. 

Conversations I have with my almost ten year old...

Caler – “Momma you’re so beautiful”

Momma – “Awe, buddy I love when you use nice words!”

Ayden – “Don’t believe him Momma, he just wants to use your phone.”

Ayden – “Did you know the square root of 9 is…”

Momma – My eyes glaze over and I nod my head

Ayden – “The name of Google came from a misspelling of the word googol, which is a very, very large number (the number one followed by one hundred zero’s to be exact).”

Momma – “Did you google Google again bud?”

Ayden – “I may or may not have typed the letters g o o g l e into the search engine titled Google”

Ayden – “Were you aware that you did not come to a complete three second stop at the stop sign Momma?”

Momma – “Err…”

Ayden – “If I were a cop I’d have pulled you over.”

Ayden – “Hey Momma – Forty is the only number that has all it’s letters in alphabetical order.”

Momma – Five minutes later – “Oh my gosh, you’re right!”

Ayden – “I know.”

AND WHILE WE’RE ON THE SUBJECT OF MATH…

Ayden – “An icosogon is a shape with 20 sides.”

Momma – “I love that you love math kiddo. If we were in school together, I’d totally let you do my math homework.”

Ayden – “I wouldn’t let you, that would be cheating.”

Ayden – “A three dimensional parallelogram is called a parallelepiped.”

Ayden – “Momma… Caler is climbing the railing again. I wonder what he’s going to do when he discovers he’s not the real Spiderman?”

Ayden – “Girls are so gross Mom! They always ask me out. Gross!”

Momma – “It’s because you’re so handsome!”

Ayden – “No it’s because I told them I was getting an iPod touch for my birthday.”

Ayden – “When I grow up, I want to be just like Steve Jobs.”

5 minutes later…

Ayden – “Can I get Steve Jobs’ biography for my birthday?”

Ayden – “Can I play on your phone?”

Momma – “Not right now kiddo, I’m texting.”

Ayden – “Can I play on your Nook?”

Momma – “Why don’t you go play outside? Ride your bike or build a fort?”

Ayden – “Nah, I’m more of a computer and video game kind of guy.”

Momma – “I love you Ayden!”

Ayden – blushes and smiles showing off his sweet dimple (he’s probably not going to like that I mentioned that…)

Conversations I have with my seven year old...

Sometimes it's rough being a gangsta

Caler - "Sometimes I just want to be an alligator."

Caler - "If Michael Jackson was still alive do you think he'd love me?"

Momma- "Unless I'm being stung by a jellyfish, I won't appreciate being peed on.”

Caler – “You have to get peed on if you get stunged by a jellyfish? Awesome!”

Momma – “You’re feet smell like something from a dump in the middle of a hot desert at noon.”

Caler - “Wanna smell em’??”

Momma - “I love you. I don’t love your tantrums.”

Caler - "My tantrums don't love you either."

Momma - “I swear if I step on another Lego, I’m throwing them all away.”

Caler “I bet you can’t even find them all til you step on them silly momma”.

Caler - “I love you to Florida and back. That’s a lot mom. That’s more longer than to the moon.”…

Momma -  I just cry in response.

Momma - “Please don’t hit your brother." (Repeat 5 – 100 times daily)

Caler -  “I won’t if he stops being so ridiculous. ”

Momma – “Please don’t climb the railings? I’m afraid you’re going to fall Spiderman”

Caler -  “Spiderman doesn’t fall, he uses his webs and flies through the sky.”

Momma – “You make my heart smile little man.”

Caler -  “You’re heart can smile? You’re like magic momma!”

Momma - “What should we do today Caler man?

Caler - “let’s drive to China and then come back home.”

Caler - “Hey momma guess what?”… “umm guess what, hey momma guess what!”

… twenty minutes later I’m still waiting…

Caler -“smell my armpits Momma, if you don’t get sick I don’t need a bath”

Momma – “Boys are disgusting, get in the bath!”

Caler - “Bed times are for babies like Ayden.” 
Momma - “Caler, Ayden is older than you.”

Caler - “Bed times are for older kids.”

Caler – “ Working for the US government makes me not have friends. I think they’re jealous.”

Caler - "Did you wash my Shark costume? My superiors will not be happy if it's still dirty" 

FOLLOWING PARENT TEACHER CONFERENCE:

Momma – “Caler do you know why break dancing isn’t ok to do in the middle of class?”

Caler – “because then my teacher will want to break dance too, and that wouldn’t be fair to all the other kids?”

Momma – “yes, and also because you’re there to learn Caler man… you can break dance at home.”

The time I thought I was an auto mechanic...

A typical charge for brakes at a mechanic shop - $150 (depending on how high your skirt is, of course), brake pads at an auto part store - $20 (lifetime warranty included), the look my cousin (who happens to be a mechanic) gave me when I showed him my brake pad job – Priceless.

I like to think of myself as resourceful and self sufficient. So when my car started making growling noises at me every time my foot even came near the brake pedal, I figured I could take on the task of changing the brake pads all by myself.

Proudly, I walked into the auto parts store and I asked for the parts I would need to complete the task. Skeptically, they gave me what I needed but not before they asked me if I knew what I was getting myself into.  I made my purchase, which included a Dr. Pepper, a manual, grease, and of course the brake pads. I totally knew what I was doing.

With my grungy jeans and t-shirt on, I attempted to remove the lug nuts. I failed. After fifteen minutes of trying, I asked my sweet neighbor for assistance. He obliged and the lug nuts were off and so was the tire. I got down to business.

Removing the caliper and switching the brake pads, I tightened the bolts not checking them twice. I reattached the caliper back to the rotor.  Wiping my cheek, I stood up and admired my work. Brake dust gets everywhere, by the way… I don’t recommend a white shirt or wiping your cheek.

I put the tire back on and had no trouble tightening the lug nuts with the tire iron, and repeated the process on the passenger side. The sense of accomplishment and pride I felt could not be measured. I felt like rolling my windows down while cruising down State street, my car donned with the best brake job the world had ever seen, and shouting my victory over brake pads to anyone within earshot. Except that it was the beginning of January, negative schfifty five degrees, and I don't have hydraulics... which I totally had in that daydream.  

Fast forward two weeks…. (mid January)

My brakes were working so well, until they didn’t. They stopped, but not in the way that they were meant to. They stopped working. The grinding, whining, and moaning started up again and it took me a whole two blocks of near slamming on them for them to even start to consider coming to a halt. (Okay, that was an exaggeration.. but I think the point was made.) They stopped working.  The brake pads I bought must have been faulty.

I took my car to my cousin (a top notch mechanic). He took one look at my brake job and I kid you not… immediately started laughing.  I stood there my pride slowly fading into the dust.. brake dust. He looked at me and started laughing AGAIN! I self consciously asked him to explain…. He said these words to me “Rotors are meant to be round and smooth. They aren’t supposed to look like a gear. There are chunks of metal missing from these" And another fit of laughter started up again. “Can I keep these rotors please?? I’m gonna hang them up in my garage.”  I just asked him how much it was going to cost me to fix my mistake. . . turns out bolts & nuts are meant to be there. If you miss one (or several) the brake pads won’t stay where you put them. Jerks. Brake pads are jerks!

So after a very nice cousin helped me out of a not so nice situation, my brake pads have never worked better. Turns out… I’m not an auto mechanic after all.

My public apology to the Wal Mart Patron I swore at...

I swore at a Wal Mart patron. 

And not to brag,  but my child also survived the trip. Much to his momma’s surprise.

The trip to Wal Mart was supposed to be short and sweet (aren’t they all…). And for the first fifteen minutes, we were doing awesome. Then I mentioned winter coats. My seven year old lost it. Like LOST IT. He, apparently, is allergic to winter coats and wanted a camouflage jacket because, he is a hunting man. This allergic reaction apparently causes loud outbursts and screams that are glass shattering loud and are comparative to the sounds one would make while having a limb ripped from the body.

We walked around the boys clothing department for several minutes. Each agonizing minute I was telling myself he was almost done. He wasn’t. He wanted to leave the store and go home.  I am not sure how he wasn’t embarrassed. I, his momma, was mortified and upset. The looks we got were obscene. I tried mouthing the words I’m sorry. I tried to ignore them. I couldn’t. This momma was broken and suffering from a ruptured ear drum. 

I just felt sorry. Sorry for myself, sorry for my son, and sorry for the general public within a 5 mile radius.

So when I not only got “the glare”, but the accompanying words that did me in “if I was that mom I’d…”. It was Momma’s turn to lose it. And I did. I looked at her and I said the following; “Lady, I can f*** ing stare also.” And I turned and stepped off my soap box and pushed my cart out of the boys clothing department and into further embarrassment. Did I really just say those words? In front of my children?

I did. And I knew that I did because my son had stopped his screaming fit and was now standing with his mouth agape.  Horrified, I quickly left the vicinity in search of a hiding place. Was I going to be kicked out of Wal Mart? WAL MART??? I figured now was a good time to get out of the store before I continued my rampage and swore at any more of the onlookers. I was distracted then, by the familiar shrieking of a perturbed seven year old starting up again.  Awesome. (Yes, you read that right…seven.) I nearly ran to the checkout.

The screaming continued until we reached line #1. Despite my demanding, threatening, bargaining, and near begging for him to stop, he didn’t. I wanted to cry. Instead, I knelt down to his level and I hugged my yowling victim of winter coat allergies. I hugged him. He melted into my arms. This little ball of screeching was tired. He was frustrated and tired and he needed love. He needed to be reprimanded as well, but first he needed to be reminded that he was loved. As my arms released him, he looked at me with his red puffy eyes and he said the words I’d been hoping to hear. The words I probably needed to say to that woman, he said “I’m sorry”.

Thinking back on this,  I feel bad for the helpless woman I swore at.  And I say helpless, in that I probably wouldn’t have been able to control my staring either had I been in her place.  And I’d like to think that Caler taught me a lesson. You can always say you’re sorry. It doesn’t erase the action, but at least you’re making steps to correct it. So please consider this my public apology to the wal mart patron I swore at. 

And yes kids... I did wash my mouth out with soap.

Witchcraft, Wizardry, & Freeway Exits

I missed the freeway exit. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, except for the fact that it’s the exit I take to go home. Every day. Same exit. I could say I was talking on the phone, or pretending I was the next Beyonce, or looking for my sunglasses all of which I do on a regular basis. But, none of those things happened. I just missed it… and I glanced out the window and watched as the familiar scenery passed by.  I should have waved, but instead my mouth dropped. I did it, again. Yes… again. And again…

I’m 99% convinced that while the humans are sleeping peacefully, dreaming of their familiar commutes to work and home. The freeway exits move. They change direction and location. They might as well be the staircases at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry.

Now, it has been suggested to me that I use a GPS or Siri. That would be an excellent suggestion if Siri wasn’t a witch and the GPS (which I’m told is already installed on my phone???) wasn’t sorcery. They stress me out and I end up pressing buttons that shouldn’t be pushed and then Siri yells at me in her monotone voice. I try to retaliate and I talk back to her,  but she just tells me the carpet needs vacuuming. Witch.  The buttons that I pushed on the GPS suggest I take a left turn to Hong Kong or some other weird place. I give up.