The Parent Hood

A Christmas Story

snowglobeMany years ago, there was a mother.  No, a mommy, really.  There was a mommy and she loved her little girls.  She wanted to start a new Christmas tradition that was all theirs, something special they would look forward to every year.

“A snow globe!” she exclaimed with delight.  “I’ll choose just the right special snow globes, one for each of my two girls!”

And so it had begun.

Every year, the mother would search high and low for the perfect snow globes.  Some of them were very expensive!  But the joy on the face of the children was worth ten times the price.  Each year, the little girls were excited to discover what sort of snow globe Santa had chosen for them that year.

And so it continued.

The mother had more daughters and folded them into the snow globe tradition.  Eventually, she was buying five snow globes for five daughters.  One year, she thought she spotted an eye roll when the snow globe was unwrapped.  Maybe not.  Perhaps she imagined it.  None the less, there wasn’t the same magic around the snow globes anymore.

When she had to have a new wing built onto her home for the storage and display of all the wonderful snow globes, she began to suspect she had a problem.  While it was true she had no cats at all, it was clear she was in the running as the crazy snow globe lady.  Still, she couldn’t stop.

In 2005 came the realization that two of the daughters had moved out into their own places and taken no snow globes with them.  What could this mean?  Had the tradition outworn its welcome?  Was the snow globe magic gone?  And if Armageddon were to occur, could the family even drink the water from the globes for survival?  What good were the damn snow globes anyway?  Stupid tradition!

If only she had saved all the boxes, then the snow globes would have retained their value.  She could have sold them all on eBay to other crazy snow globe collectors and perhaps raised the $2,800 necessary to buy a Wii on the black market.  Live and learn, she thought to herself.  Live. And. Learn.

Alas, the snow globe tradition ended after 2005 but each year when Christmas was imminent, the mother had to stop herself from window shopping.  From stopping in the San Francisco Music Box Company store and touching the beautiful globes on the shelves.  From visiting the Disney site’s snow globe section.  From thinking about the snow globe tradition and how much it had meant to her, to them, when it was at its peak.

Sometimes at night she’d go into the special snow globe wing of the house (which was really not a wing at all but a set of glass-doored shelves in the little girls’ bedroom – pardon the literary license) and looked at them… the Tinkerbell one from when Amber was crazy for Tink, the Eeyore one which was Katie’s favorite character from Winnie the Pooh, the carousel horse one when Katie was into carousel horses,  the dolphin when Amber was into dolphins, the Noah’s Ark one for Sarah’s first Christmas, the ones with the girls’ college mascots from when they were in college, and so many more.  All those snow globes, all those years.  Each one representing a special Christmas memory, a special time in the lives of these girls.  These wonderful girls.  So many years collecting them.

Sometimes she would lift one up, blow the dust from its dome, and wind the key on the bottom just a little, just enough to hear a few seconds from “It’s a Small World After All” or “You Are the Wind Beneath my Wings”.  Maybe from “Brahms’ Lullaby” or “Fur Elise” or any number of other sentimental and sappy tunes.  Snow globes always have sentimental and sappy tunes.  That’s the part that makes the mother cry, right?  Those sentimental and sappy tunes… hard to keep a dry eye.  Because of the tunes, you know.

Late one night, when everyone else was sleeping, the mother snuck online and found a beautiful snow globe with Big Nutbrown Hare and Little Nutbrown Hare that said “Guess How Much I Love You” on the front.  Quietly, quickly, when no one was looking, she snuck it into her shopping cart and did a swift check out.  When the package arrives, she will open it in private, listen to the “Ode to Joy” music that comes out when she winds it up, and then she’ll sneak it onto the shelves behind the glass doors in the little girls’ room.  It will be her secret – no one else needs to know.

And they lived happily ever after.

By |December 12th, 2007|Indiscriminate Drivel, The Parent Hood|Comments Off on A Christmas Story

The mommy-van is ankle deep with French fries


I was never one of those women who stated that I wouldn’t drive a minivan. I spent years being envious of minivans. In fact, there was a time I had to squeeze three children in a Ford Escort 2-door with no stereo and no A/C. I lusted after minivans the way a Susan Lucci lusted after that daytime Emmy award.

When we got our first one, I was in heaven. Oh, but it was nice. Plenty of room for the kids and their friends. Me, up front on my throne where I could open and close all the windows and lock and unlock all the doors. I was like an egomaniacal dictator driving around in my own little country on wheels. “Quiet!” I would shout, “Or I shall fade the stereo from front to back and blast Simon and Garfunkel into your young and impressionable ears!”

The thing about having a lot of space is that, well, you have a lot of SPACE. And, oh luxury, oh opulence! I could fill that space with stuff. I had jackets and blankets and strollers and tool kits and toys and…. and well, it just kept going. The other thing about having a lot of space is that there is no incentive to take things OUT because, well, there is still more space.

Being one of those working moms (and yes, I do realize that ALL moms are working moms but I’m that kind that loses ten hours a day to a professional commitment that does not include taking care of my house or family which provides me with a paycheck that allows me to spend all my left over time [and by that I mean about 35 minutes per day] taking care of my house and family). So where was I? Oh, yeah, being one of them there working moms, I spend a lot of my life in my car.

I mean, there’s always something going on, right? Girl scouts or volley ball or gymnastics or PTO or something. How I managed to stay out of PTO for the past 18 years, I’ll never know but I’m in it now and I even have a project to manage. Let this be a warning to you – NEVER LET YOUR GUARD DOWN! So I leave work and grab a child or two or three and on our way to wherever we’re going we need to grab dinner on the run.

There is a law about dinners on the run – somehow they must always include French fries. Yeah, the Senate passed it by a two-thirds majority and thank goodness the damn conservatives didn’t get their way, trying to go with mashed potatoes, but see? the liberals ARE good for something after all so French fries it is. So we worship at the alter of the Golden Arches, for they are the greatest damn marketing geniuses in all of the land putting their dumb little toys in their happy little meals so the children whine louder and louder until the mommy gives in and says “Yes, for the love of all that is holy, we will go to McDonalds if you’ll just – shush – up.” (Did you see that little mommy trick? I didn’t tell them to shut up – I told them to shush up. Had I said shut up you all would have called me a bad mommy but even GOOD mommies say shush, right?)

So my point is, me all proud in my minivan and it seeing more food in it than the Meals-on-Wheels truck and then the French fry law and all, well, it was pretty bad back there. But up front where *I* sit, all is well. Up in my throne, there are no French fries. So I rarely pay any attention to them. Maybe I vacuum it out every time a democrat is elected to office. But I’m relaxed; I’m a laid back kind of chick, so I don’t worry.

So where am I going with this?

Well, I was going to have to drive the PTO ladies to some PTO thing and so I thought I’d better manage the French fries, you know, since it’s the first time that non-child human beings would be riding in the mommy van in a long, long time.

So I pull into the car wash vacuum thingie (see? I do it so seldom, I don’t even know what it’s called) and, to my horror, here’s what I found:

~ twelve pounds of French fries
~ seventeen pacifiers
~ a group of Japanese tourists
~ an active colony of mushrooms, possibly psychedelic
~ the never-mailed letter to NBC outlining my fresh idea for a reality show with Donald Trump
~ Jimmy Hoffa

It wasn’t pretty.

So what’s the moral of this story? Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it is DO NOT LET THEM ROPE YOU INTO JOINING THE PTO! (It probably should be more along the lines of keeping your car neat and tidy but hello, I’m Linda, have we met!)

By |September 15th, 2005|Indiscriminate Drivel, The Parent Hood|Comments Off on The mommy-van is ankle deep with French fries