Flash and Me

So we're on the way home from the movie Marley and Me. No one is saying a word; we're all too emotionally distraught. I'm thinking of John Grogan's (Owen Wilson) soliloquy, reminding us how dogs don't care about material things and how they love us unconditionally. Of course, this is true of our own family dog, Molly, and most dogs in general I think.

Then my thoughts turn to Flash, our hamster.

Flash has been with our family now for, well, longer than any other hamster we've had. But I have prepared myself for his departure -- I know all to well that a hamster today doesn't guarantee a hamster tomorrow.

Flash. So dear to our family. When he or she (we're not sure)is gone, what won't we miss?

...Like fighting over who gets to clean the cage...or trying to lure the panic-stricken motionless mouse out of the cage...or the aroma of the cage that houses poop that could have come from a small cat...or the neurotic grinding of the cage bars in attempt to escape...I must stop, lest I cry.

Hamsters seem to have only one expression, but no one can deny it's adorableness. It's the "are you going to kill me now?" look. You've seen it -- if not, just look at one my many photos of Flash. (I have almost as many as my kids.)

While I write this blog mostly in jest, likely I will be a red-faced, watery-eyed mess the day we lose him. Unless, of course, we find him in the laundry again. If that happens, the family will rejoice upon the reunion, we'll stick him back in the cage, and go back to watching TV.

Post Christmas Commotion?

See the utter joy in this boy's face? The boy that just shot his mother at point blank range?

After a hectic Christmas week, I was ready to come home from work, put my feet up and and watch either a thought-provoking episode of What Not to Wear or some sappy DVD we received for Christmas. Then what should my wondering eyes should appear? Cole's godfather, Jim, came over with Christmas gifts - an electronic dartboard game and the seemingly mother of all gifts...dart tag. While it was refreshing to see Cole put the DS down, I wasn't prepared for all hell to break loose.

Flashback to the 1970's:

Stef: Raised as an only child, evenings with her parents consisted of practicing piano, reading, watching the news while consuming a modest meal, a bath, and of course rounding out the evening with one of our favorite sitcoms. (Wednesdays nights were always a treat when I could stay up past 9:00 to see Charlie's Angels.) Occasionally Stef could convince her parents to play checkers or monopoly.

Doug: Raised on a farm with four other siblings, evenings consisted of farm chores, active endeavors(like biking, three-wheeling, snowmobiling, shooting hoops, playing catch, climbing into bins, swinging from ropes, etc.), devouring as much of the large meat-and-potato type supper before his brother got too much, and topping off the night with a wrestling match while watching one of their favorite shows or sporting events.

Back to 2008 in the Kramer household:

As the darts left tiny pink patches on any exposed piece of skin, I could feel Doug coming into his own. You see, mostly the nights are fairly quiet around here -- similar to my own upbringing. But once in a while, a gleam sparks in my husband's eye and the terror of chaos rules. While the offensive and defensive tactics become employed in the imaginary war scene, laughter prevails. Even mother breaks a smile.

A baking tip that you all probably know...about almond bark

So, I'm continuing my conversation with Pat about the weekend and I mention how I must have bought some bad almond bark. Just then, Justine walks in (at the age of 20 something) and asks, "how high was your stove?" Medium. "You have to cook almond bark on low." Then Pat adds, "or use the microwave." Hmmm. Well simple mistake. I'm sure many women have done the same thing. Then Randy Coenen comes into the conversation and tells me, "Oh, you need to use a double sauce pan with water in the bottom pan. He even knew better.

So my almond bark cookies look a little lumpy. But the next time I use the stuff, I'll know better. Next December.

I love Christmas, but I'm tired

I'm done. No more shopping. No more cookie baking. No more cranberry wreaths. Okay, I never really got to the cranberry wreaths. Now, I've decided to listen to my husband and "just relax and quit worrying about everything!" Has anyone noticed how good grandparents are at not worrying? They really know how to enjoy moments with the kids.

Today my friend Pat was telling me how she had her grandkids over to make marshmallow truffles this weekend. Test. What's your first reaction?

a)"I bet those kids looked so cute with marshmallows and sprinkles adorning their faces?"

Or,

b)"What a sticky mess."

Pat assured me that it was a mess, but it was quite worth it.

Too often, I miss out on the moment by worrying about what I need to do next. But since God decided relocate the Artic to the Midwest this last weekend, I was forced to heed Doug's advice. And it was heaven. Alex and I watched Roman Holiday. We baked so many cookies that every Kramer in this household can barely utter the word almond bark without invoking a gag reflex. And of course, Cole entertained us greatly. He's written two, no three more letters to Santa. Apparently, Santa can answer many of those great mysteries of life, such as "Does Rudolph still lead the sleigh?"

So my holiday wish to all of you is to enjoy the many wonderful moments of the season. I intend to revel in them.

Santa's New Penpal

It was one of the best days in Cole's life today. He received a letter back from Santa! Someone famous! Santa informed Cole how fun Nintendo games are and how superheros are wonderful because they "teach us to make the right choices." Now, Cole has written another letter back to Santa to say thank you and that he will do just as he says ("Be nice to your sister and listen to your Mom and Dad.") He mentioned at supper, "I wonder when I'll get my next letter from him."

Looks like Santa's got himself a new penpal.

Poor Molly

"Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit." -Pablo Neruda

...as published by Oprah in her last issue. As you all know, I hate to defy Oprah, but apparently dogs can be shamed. Just try putting a sweatshirt on them...

Bad Santa?

Do you remember Clark Griswold's cute, poor little niece on Christmas vacation? The one who doesn't "get shit" from Santa every year? Apparently she and my Cole share the same doomed fate.

As the kids got to spend a late afternoon at the bank one day, Penny (our famous receptionist) asked Cole if Santa was coming this year. His response, "Well, Santa never really gets me what I want anyway." Despite past Christmas's that included scooters, a new bike, endless Spiderman toys, five thousand light sabers, and even a WII, ole' St. Nick just hasn't been cutting it. No wonder he's been throwing caution to the wind and incessantly displaying bouts of poutiness and anger. I guess he's trying a new psychology on Santa.

Anyway, Cole went on to explain to Penny that it's "his sister who always gets him what he wants." Last year she got him the Ben Ten alien force watch (approximatley $10). The year before she got him the voice-changing Darth Vader mask (approximately $10).

So that day I heard that Alex threatened Cole that she wouldn't get him a present. Cole was greatly disturbed. When she told him she was just kidding, he was still upset. "Alex? Why would you want to make me so sad?"

No wonder my "You better not pout or Santa won't bring anything" comments are like talking to the wall. Not anymore.

Guess what Cole? Alex is making a list and she's checking it twice...