Nutcracker Choir Posse

It started probably in 2004. Our daughter ‘Saji wanted a nutcracker for Christmas. Done.

Each Christmas thereafter, each of her siblings requested nutcrackers for Christmas. We had eight at last count.

Eight nutcrackers — a golfer, a pirate, a mariachi, two drummers, a cymbal player, two poser-kings — endearing in their seasonal tabletop arrangement until one awakens from a midday slumber to see that the nutcracker choir (yes, “choir” — I’ll ‘splain in a minute) has somehow closed in on her and become a semicircular Nutcracker Choir Posse near her head…in her face…those painted teeth, baring….those beady eyes, staring….

I laughed. It was something my sister Brienne would do, only it wasn’t she; it was one of our goofball kids. Sillies.

Their imposing presence reminded they were still outside their storage box only because I held out for a videotaping opportunity: to record for posterity and my good pleasure a song my children sing harmoniously a capella whilst moving their nutcracker’s mouths to their respective vocal parts…hence, a “Nutcracker Choir.”

Uh, yeah, that’s not going to happen this year, if only because I really don’t want the wooden choirboy posse in my living room one more day.

Eight Nutcrackers and a Snowman Stump

They’re back in the box. Maybe the fourth Christmas season will be the one.

I guess my college-bound daughter — if she leaves the area to go to school, will have at least one loop to close for her mom before she goes.

© Aja Lopez, 2011

Freak

I have yet to meet another soul who enjoys — yes, enjoys — any prickly, tickly, scratchy sensation on the soles of my feet.

At least within the walls of our home, I am a self-proclaimed “freak.” My feet are not ticklish…at all. I am not in the minority; I am the minority.

Imagine my delight (and my amusement) when I saw a commercial for “Easy Feet” Now, I haven’t tried this product so I’m not ‘plugging’ it; but the video is difficult to watch if your feet are ticklish.

Booger that I can be, I set my husband up and nonchalantly told him, “come see this cool video,” so I could watch him cringe, turn, and walk away. Even looking at the picture sends him through the ceiling.

His feet are that ticklish.

But mine aren’t. And I want this thing when it’s in the stores in a few months.

SO, Rich….my birthday’s coming up next month….please? Pretty please? I promise not to use it in front of you.

©Aja Lopez, 2011

Better Kid than I Was

Our oldest son turns 13 this week.

When I turned 13, I had already partaken of cigarettes (although I didn’t keep smoking them because they made me barf). Before 13, regardless whether I lived with my dad or  my mom, my friends and I were sneaking out at 1:00 AM and walking to the high school to get drunk under the bleachers. We wandered around in the dark of night, being stupid.

I was such an angry person back then that I even mouthed off to my teachers and didn’t care about my grades. I hated my life, and I therefore didn’t care about others.

My neighbor across the street was a smug classmate whose smugness made me fume.  So at my 13th birthday party, which was a slumber party, we waited for my mom to go do her bowling thing, and in the dark of night we took most of her Avon inventory and vandalized my neighbor’s beige house with reds and pinks and purples… Yeah, I did that.

Reggie has been anticipating this birthday for more than the mere reason that he’s turning 13, which is a big deal in itself. He is excited that he is turning 13 on the 13th, which happens to be Friday the 13th. He sees this as a sign that it’s going to be a fantastic birthday.

“Mom, can I have a couple of friends over for my Golden Birthday?” (That’s what he’s calling it).

“Sure. I’ll get to working on that,” I answered.

He knows me so well that when I say “Sure, I’ll get to that,” I forget to “get to that.”

It’s called poor mental spatial organization. Or something.

So when he heard, “Sure…” from me, he started planning his “having a couple of friends over” because he knew he’d either have to remind me numerous times to “get to that,” or that he would have to do it himself.

Which is what he did.

At first I was confused by the RSVP phone calls I started receiving. “Reggie, what are these kids RSVP-ing about?”

“My birthday party,” he answered. “I made invitations on the computer.”

“How many people are coming over?”

“Six. And they’re spending the night.” My eyes popped out of my head and dropped to the floor.

Selfish me is thinking: “I have to work at 4:30 AM on Saturday, so how is that going to work with six extra boys in my home on Friday night? And when did I say Reggie could invite six boys to spend the night? And where does he expect them to sleep? And we don’t have an extra room or family room for them to have to themselves, so how do I make this fun for them? And what about Asaph, who will likely feel left out because his big brothers will be hanging out with their buddies?”

I was annoyed that he went forward without consulting me along the way…

…until I realized how proud I am of him that he planned this very well, very methodically. He even told his friends not to bring video games rated “T” or above because of his little brothers…

…and until I remembered what crap I was pulling when I was his age.

I have to make this work. For Reggie.

I must not allow our “limitations” — spatial or otherwise — to mar what is a big day and a major step for him.

I’m proud of my boy….Ahem, I mean, my young man.

Oh, and we were busted for the vandalism. After my friends went home, I got to spend the whole weekend trying to get all those beautiful colors off our neighbor’s house.

© Alexa Lopez, 2009

To Laugh at (with) Oneself

I don’t know what I would do without a sense of humor about  myself.

Oh, wait. Yes I do. I would do things like…well, like take everything personally.

I would probably also second guess everyone else’s motives for laughing around me. I would assume that people are laughing at me. I would believe that everyone thinks I’m a fool and a loser. I would convince myself that people — friends included — make it their purpose to crap on my day.

I would get along with nobody.

Because if I don’t laugh at myself, then nobody else is allowed to laugh at me. That’s how it goes, right?

I don’t know whether it is possible to “learn” a sense of humor about onself. I just know that if I couldn’t laugh at myself — including laughing with others when I’ve accidentally done something funny — I’d be friendless.

Because I’d be sour.

A party pooper.

This I know about me: I am a goofball, and sometimes clueless; I make careless mistakes and I sometimes don’t get the obvious jokes. For instance, I wore camouflage pants to work one day, and as he walked toward me, the Head Dude (they don’t like to be called our “bosses”) said, “Oh no! I can’t see anything but a torso!”

“What?” I asked, totally confused about what he was talking about.

“You’re wearing camouflage pants,” he said in passing.

Oh…Duh! Laughter. I shook my head as I walked on. How’d I miss that?

I wish I were funnier, quick-witted like my husband or my daughters, or like my sister Jole’, or my friend Cathy at church; I do a lot of funny things accidentally, but on purpose — not so much.

Instead, I am funny in my head.

A sense of humor is part of the art of leadership, of getting along with people, of getting things done. — Dwight D. Eisenhower

© Alexa Lopez, 2009

Toilet Terrors

~~ Our daughter gave me permission to tell this story. Thanks, “Sis,” for being able to laugh about it now. ~~

I had some wacky, unreasonable fears as a child.

One of those was my fear of the toilet clogging. I guess I was convinced that a clogged toilet would overflow and flood the house and we would all drown. Unreasonable fear.

So I would finish my business, wash my hands, open the door, then flush the toilet and run for my life. I did this everytime I used the toilet and, of course, outgrew it at some point.

Our second daughter had the same fear.

‘Saja feared a flushing toilet…not the sound, but the possibility of it clogging and her being trapped there, next to it.

When she was six, her aunt took us to Disneyland and she was in one of the bathroom stalls FOREVER. Then I heard her crying, and I became concerned.

“What’s wrong, Honey? Are you sick?” I asked.

Through choked sobs she answered, “I…can’t…get…off…the…toilet.”

“What? Why?” I’m thinking someone put superglue on the seat or something.

“The toilet’s going to flush by itself.” It was one of those sensor/self-flushing toilets. In her mind, she was trapped because if she got off the toilet seat, it would flush and she would die before I could rescue her from the flood.

I giggled at the horrible irony of this. She couldn’t get off the toilet to open the stall so I could set up her escape, and she didn’t want to be in there when it flushed. My memory of the dilemma ends there. I know we got her out alive.

That same year, she was in the bathtub and one of her younger brothers needed to use the toilet, so she closed the curtain for the sake of both their privacy. From the living room we heard an alarming scream and panicked cries for help. Richard and I sprinted down the hall to see the bathroom door open, her brother hopping around in a panic, his eyes wide with fear, and pointing into the bathroom; we expected to see a bloody headwound from a slip in the tub or something.

‘Saja’s worst fear had happened. She was trapped in the bathtub while the toilet, which stood between the her and the door, overflowed. Her brother had used too much toilet paper and clogged it. The expression of sheer terror on her face gripped my heart. “Oh, dear Lord,” I prayed. “Of all the people in the house this could have happened to, it had to be her.”

After things had settled down I had the chance to revisit it with her. “Hey, you know what? Your biggest fear happened today. And you survived it.”

She is fourteen now. I just noticed today that she has outgrown that fear…to the extent that when the toilet clogs (thank you, little brothers), she’s the first one to get the plunger.

When did that happen?

That’s my girl.

© Alexa Lopez, 2009

Just Because I Can

I underwent a pretty major surgery five days ago. I recover quickly from surgery….quicker than the average patient, so I wasn’t intimidated by the “major” part.

Well, they say it’s major. I guess it is considering the list of “Don’ts” my surgeon gave me (this is only a partial list):

I’m supposed to avoid climbing stairs for a couple of weeks, and if I do, I’m to pause every few steps.  Okay, all the bedrooms are upstairs and the living space and kitchen are downstairs. This restriction is unreasonable, especially since I have no pain when I climb the stairs. My conclusion: this restriction doesn’t apply so much to me; I estimate I’ve been up and down the stairs ten times each day since I got home from the hospital.

I’m not supposed to drive for a couple of weeks. Yeah, right. I don’t understand this one. I haven’t driven yet, but I’ll need to next week when school is back in session from Spring Break. My conclusion: I’m off my pain meds, so maybe this restriction doesn’t apply to my situation?

I’m not…absolutely not…to lift anything heavier than 10 pounds for six weeks. I’ve been here before, after two hernia repairs. This one is do-able and I take it very seriously…provided I remember to ask someone to come grocery shopping with me.

I can’t vacuum until my doctor says it’s okay. Are you kidding me? I have five kids and two cats! Besides, vacuuming is the one thing about housekeeping I actually enjoy. Alas, I’ll delegate that until I’m released by my doctor.

The instructions also say to walk as often as I feel able. As in, walk about aimlessly, doing nothing. I can’t do that.

So I suppose I am taking things at a pace according to what I think I’m ready for, not taking into account that there likely are solid studies that make the post-op restrictions necessary for proper recovery.
Today I was feeling really good, so I asked my oldest daughter to drive me to the library and then to the store. See? No driving, no lifting.

We get home; I’m still okay but feeling like I should probably get off my feet. Knowing that getting me to rest when I feel okay is like trying to catch the wind, Richard is pleading with me to take it easy and ask the kids to help me while he’s gone.

After a rest, I color eggs with the kids. Then I make egg salad with the extra eggs. Then I clean the kitchen. Then I do a load of laundry, all the while telling my daughters “No thanks, I’m good” when they ask if I need any help. Doing well, right?

Once I finally sit down, I notice my surgical incision is bleeding for the first time in two days. I’ve overdone it. *Sigh*

Richard arrived home to see me on the couch with an ice pack. He was pleased that I was off my feet. Then I told him about my incision. Now he’s really worried about me, and perhaps thinking he can’t leave me alone for a minute because his doer wife does too much.

Well, I’ve learned (or have I?) that just because I can do, doesn’t mean I should do.

Which means I don’t get to do what I enjoy so much: take care of my family rather than they taking care of me.

This is really hard.

© Alexa Lopez, 2009

My "Tall" Sunglasses

My younger sister passed me up in height when I was in sixth grade. I never caught up. Today, she’s 5’9″ — a full six inches taller than I.

I have always wondered how it feels to be taller…not statically and for just a moment, as in using a step stool to reach something…but to be moving about life, doing dishes, cooking, running, walking,  or whatever, as a taller person.

The cheap sunglasses I bought recently gave me a false sense of “tallness.” They were pretty cool for dollar store sunglasses but I didn’t notice when I tried them on that I seemed taller than when I had entered the store.

Oooh, unexpected pleasures! I walked around the lake with the perception that I was a much taller person. This took some getting used to, the weird feeling of gaining six inches of height in a second. The effect is so obvious that I would expect a sticker on them: wearers of these  glasses feel taller than they actually are.

Strangely, I walked more confidently, took longer strides while relishing the feeling of added height. I didn’t literally have a better vantage point in my fake height than my normal, shortish stature, but no matter.

I liked being — er, feeling — as tall as my “little” sister. If only I had inherited the tall gene………

Oh, wait…if I were as tall as her, I would have no excuse for the  accumulation of dust on top of the fridge because I would then be able to see it.

Never mind. Being less than tall rocks!

© Alexa Lopez, 2009

I'm 40 Today!!!

Aging doesn’t scare me. Not one bit.

The effects of aging I’m not so fond of (excluding the gray hair, which I appreciate and desire more of). I’m especially frustrated with that saggy abdominal skin—exercise doesn’t fix that! — that happens when you have a baby after age 34 — my skin’s elasticity suddenly betrayed me after our sixth and final cherub. Sigh.

I’ve been asking myself what specifically about this birthday is so exciting for me, and I have no answer ~ except that I’m 40!! Woo hoo!

I feel like I’m finally growing to be the individual I was designed to be. Maybe that’s it!

I don’t want gifts or parties or special anything…just our small-scale but significant family tradition: the birthday girl (or boy) chooses what we prepare for dinner that night and the seven of us have a secretly decorated cake afterward. Simple…the best.

I’m 40!

I wish these grays would hurry up already…

© Alexa Lopez, 2009

Is That a Trick Question?

In the early 1990’s when “dollar stores” were kind of the “new thing,” another young mother and I went window shopping at the mall, pushing strollers with our young sleeping babies.

The store called “Everything’s $1” invited unnecessary spending with its wall-to-wall display of colorful variations of “must haves” that one usually doesn’t need and non-durables that one could actually use. (Would you believe I still have a mixing bowl I bought that day, which we use quite often? A rare durable purchase from the dollar store…).

Richard mentioned a few days later needing to find some new sunglasses after he lost his.

“Hey,” I said. “There’s a store in the mall called ‘Everything’s $1’. It has some pretty cool sunglasses, and they’re cheap, so no big loss if they break.”

“Are you sure they’re only a dollar?” he asked skeptically.

I  said, “Well, yeah…it’s called ‘Everything’s $1.”

“Could you please make sure the sunglasses also cost one dollar before I stop there on the way to work” he asked, “Because I only have two bucks on me.”

I found the phone number and called, asking the guy who answered if the sunglasses in the store also cost one dollar.

Pause. “Is that a trick question?” he asked. His wit amused me.

I explained, “No, but I saw sunglasses there with tags that had prices of $5.99 and up and I was wondering whether they are higher priced.”

Another pause. Perhaps he thought I was prank calling him. Then with a tone that communicated, how much clearer could it be?…he emphatically stated, “Ma’am, everything’s a dollar.”

“Even the sunglasses?” I persisted.

“Everything in the store.” He was being nice, but I think he was starting to think I was an imbecile.

Richard stopped there for sunglasses on the way to work that day. I wonder whether the guy knew Richard had something to do with the simpleton who had called earlier.

I guess sometimes….rarely, but sometimes…things are exactly what they are.

© Alexa Lopez, 2009

Balance Ball

I bought a balance ball last summer, intending to work on my core and rehabilitate my abdominal muscles after last year’s surgery.

Well, I guess being in my 30’s means having equilibrium issues…which I should have remembered after showing-off my fancy bar-twirling tricks at the playground for my kids. Wow. I may still be able to spin around that bar like lightning, but my head spins and my stomach churns the rest of the day.

Lying on my back atop that ball, trying to balance myself while rolling up with my abs did one thing for me: it made me want to vomit. Literally. After one set of abdominal crunches I had to concede: this kind of multi-tasking — balancing and rolling up — doesn’t work for me.

I put the naughty ball in time-out for reminding me of my age.

Then I forgot about it — for months — until I read that exercise balls are an easy way to encourage good posture when used in place of a chair. I freed it from the back of the closet.

My big posture-correcting plan was simple: I would balance on the big ol’ ball for a chair while I worked at the computer.

“What are you doing?” Richard asked me.

“I’m working on getting my posture back,” I answered excitedly.

The next night as I proofread, I leaned on the computer desk, my chin resting in my hand. I caught Richard turning to look at me every few minutes and trying to hide a smile.

“What? Why do you keep looking at me?” I asked, expecting the answer he always gives me: “Just looking.”

“I can see the ball is reallly helping with your posture,” he giggled.

Sigh.

© Alexa Lopez, 2009