We have been here before. Exhibit A. Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D.

I will stop exhibiting because a) I’m fairly certain you get the point and b) I am just getting more depressed with each added hyperlink.

It’s like they have this sixth sense. They don’t, unfortunately, see dead people. Because, you guys, I would much rather that my children talked to Bruce Willis’ ghost than what they do to me when their daddy goes away.

Fevers. Aches. Chills. Sweats. Phlegm-barfs. I-have-psychological-issues-when-it-comes-to-taking-medication-of-any-kind barfs. (Those might be my favorite!)

To drown my sorrows  and to drown out the whiny-kvetchies, I have enjoyed three pieces of cake, 17 chocolate rugalach, 2.5 doughnuts, 2 bowls of microwave popcorn, frozen yogurt, an entire challah, four slices of eggplant pizza, french fries (I don’t even like french fries).

Hi. I’m Ali. I like to eat my FEEEEEEELINGS!

I really, really like to eat my feelings.

But also, because I am a crazy person of late, I also like to EXERCISE my feelings.

This is really new for me, as I have never enjoyed exercising ever.

But now, as I sit here on my ass, NOT watching the US commercials while I watch the Superbowl, I cannot wait to get my body on my elliptical trainer.

(I don’t even know who I am anymore either.)

And my husband calls from his Kelowna ski trip all, “Well! At least no one has stomach-flu barfed yet!”

(He is probably getting the US commercials while he watches the Superbowl too. Without the sniffly whining kids climbing all over him sharing their germs and giving him the plague or asking him the differences between half-man/half-goats and half-man/half-horses. And without so many SMASH commercials.)

If I could have hunted him down through the phone right there and then, I would have.

He probably shouldn’t be surprised if he comes home and I have a new 85mm fixed lens and a giant anthropologie bill and possibly a new kitchen table and chairs.

(Oh, Pottery Barn. It’s like you and your Benchwright collection are calling to me…BUY US! BUY US!)

I mean, he can hardly blame me…right?

RIGHT?

Especially because it totally hurts when I swallow now.

I’m probably also going to watch the last four episodes of The Wire without him too.

It’s only fair.

Oh, and I might buy the glasses that I didn’t choose.

Because Isabella is now complaining that her stomach hurts. 

OH MY GOD.

(Pray for me.)

(Or for my husband’s credit card bill.)

(Either way.)

Sweet, I thought at first. But then I saw right through her. She’s smart, this one. What’s the easiest way to beat someone at Perpetual Commotion? Distraction.

“Um, so I could have someone to always beat at board games, obviously.”

“Come on, really. What’s the very best part?”

“So I can have someone to play with my hair and watch schmoopy shows with?”

…

“So I won’t be alone when Daddy goes on business trips?”

…

“So I can have someone who looks at me, and says “I LOVE YOU,” and I know, from the bottom of my heart, that they really and truly mean it. Wow. That sounds kind of selfish, doesn’t it?”

“I think it sounds perfect. Mama?”

“Yes.”

“I LOVE YOU. AND I JUST WON THE GAME.”

“You little monster!”

“Mama, what’s your least favorite part about being a mom?”

“That’s easy.”

THIS is my life.

“Mama, are you going to finish that glass of water?”

“Mama! I’m so thirsty! I need a drink right this very minute!”

“Mama, can I just have a sip of your tea?”

“Mama, I need a drink. Can I have your water bottle?”

“Can I have your cup?”

“Can I have your glass?”

“Can I have your mug?”

“Can I have your [insert any other drink receptacle here]?”

And the problem is that I don’t share drinks with my children. (Once they’ve drunk, it’s sunk.)

Not since January 16th, 2007.

That was the unfortunate time I took a swig of my water bottle and realized that the little tiny thing that had just “had a teensy, weensy sip” of my water had left behind some half-eaten cashews.

I’m gagging just thinking about it. And it was FIVE years ago.

*Shudders*

This is the reason why my nightstand often looks like this.

No open water bottle is safe.

Ever.

Sometimes I dream of a world where I can drink my drinks safely without the possibility of theft, or half-eaten food particles.

But then I’d have no one to play with my hair or watch crappy tv with.

And I’d be alone when Daddy goes on business trips.

And there’d be no one to unconditionally love me.

And there’d be no one to beat me at Perpetual Commotion.

The reason this mental image stayed so vividly with me was this.

MY DESK.

It’s Chocolate Chex instead of Cinnamon.

It’s a coffee mug instead of Diet Coke.

But this right here?

It’s genetics at work.

Because, you see, once upon a time I had an office job. Sure, I didn’t wear scrubs, but I wore the editor’s version—heels and pencil skirts. But now, I have myself a cushy work-at-home desk job where I shout into my phone that NO! I can’t fix that HTML code on that post on my own! from the comfort of my swiveling desk chair. My AAA-personality keeps me from taking regular breaks and my snack-habit drives me to the box of cereal and the coffee—for quick bursts of energy, I know.

We may live in different countries. We may look different. We may act different. We may have different taste in Chex and caffeine.

But we are the same.

I wonder if he spoils TV shows too…

They are our reminders of the last eight days, all that’s left of our Atlanta trip.

Well, not ALL that’s left.

We have three kids who are in need of a decent night of sleep. Six cousins sleeping in one room means only one thing, really. No one is falling asleep before midnight and no one is asleep past 7am. Also, nobody wakes up in the same place that he or she fell asleep—kids end up in parents’ beds, on couches, on the hardwood in the hallway.

We have ticket stubs from two movies—We Bought a Zoo and Chipwrecked. The first was amazing, I cried my fool head off throughout the entire film. I was surprised by how much more I enjoyed it than I had expected to. When I saw the previews I was all, “Really, Damon? This is the best you can do?” but by the time the movie was over I was all, “Matt Damon! I love the heck out of you, even your slight wattle.” The latter was less than amazing, but I really can’t complain too much, as I fell asleep about 3 minutes after the chipettes whipped their tails back and forth. Unexpected nap for the win.

We have American-bought Mucinex and Tylenol, reminders of the 103.3 fever Miss Emily had.

We have fascinators that are worthy of a royal wedding.

We have an extra ten pounds.

We have receipts from no less than eight trips to Target, the only place I did any shopping while in the states. I bought incredibly exciting things like $13 hoodies (to complete my WAHM outfits) and socks and Barbie underpants and Chocolate Chex.

We went to Mighty Jumps and Zoo Atlanta.

We shed some tears and rallied around a sick dog. (Another state dog, but this time it’s Montana and not Indiana.)

We had Chinese and Italian and Mexican and CPK and Chick-fil-a and Flying Biscuit and Dunkin’ Donuts and frozen waffles and hot dogs.

We played UNO and Wii and Cars dominoes and Barbies and Lalaloopsy and squinkies and princesses and American Girl dolls.

We played Settlers of Catan and Ticket to Ride and Ticket to Ride Europe.

We sang the “pee pee in the potty” song and celebrated successes with brand-new underpants.

We had an 80s dance party, complete with Rick Astley and Paula Abdul and Michael Jackson and George Michael and Tiffany and Culture Club. We made Emily cry. “If it’s from your generation and it wasn’t on Glee, it’s bad.”

We had a very, very happy MawMaw to be with her six very delicious grandbabies.

We can’t wait for next year, when there will be seven.

(NO. IT’S NOT MINE.)

I posted a picture of desserts and then discussed them:

Pumpkin pie. Carnegie Deli cheesecake. White chocolate mousse cake. Coconut cake. Key lime pie.

Not pictured: Homemade Reese’s cups. Homemade shortbread cookie amputees. (It was a sad state of affairs really. Who in the heck put me in charge of making these cookies out of sugar and butter? Did they really think they would come out in one piece?) Homemade chocolate chip cookies. M&Ms. Homemade chocolate pastries. Homemade sugar cookies. Pound cake.

This year we can lather, rinse and repeat, only replace coconut cake with mini red velvet cupcakes. And replace cookie amputees for homemade shortbread S’mores and Cake Pop amputees.

I wrote about all the awesome things happening:

There are so many lovely things about this time of year. Getting to spend time with my brother and my sister in law and HOORAY FOR ALL COUSIN TIME complete with playing dolls and watching movies and nail painting and fashion shows and hip hop dance routines and theme songs and communal baths! Getting to be in the US to reap all the benefits of both pre-Christmas and post-Christmas sales. Getting to watch my children’s faces as they open up their new toys and games and clothes and omg Isabella’s face when she opened up her brown cowboy boots. Getting to open my own gifts (Paige jeans and 7 jeans and J.Crew sweaters and an 85mm prime lens and new pjs oh my!) and getting to play new board games with my siblings and drinking expensive wines and escaping the dead of winter and, of course, Target.

This year we can lather, rinse and repeat, only replace 7 jeans with Husdon jeans and J.Crew sweaters with Anthropologie sweaters and replace prime lenses with photo backdrops.

I wrote about the lack of willpower and the SAUSAGE and deciding not to eat dessert:

So. Here it is. There will be no more dessert. I have eaten my last piece of pumpkin pie. My last just-one-little-bite of key lime pie. My last cookie. My last M&M. Done. And done.

This year we can lather, rinse and repeat, only replace no more dessert with LOTS AND LOTS OF DESSERT.

Because what on earth was I thinking?

Dessert is delicious.

Bring it on!

Who needs to fit into new jeans when I can wear yoga pants FOREVER? (Note to self: next year put Lululemons instead of skinny jeans on Chrismukah wish list…)

Here’s to more yoga pants in 2012!

Yes! Let’s save ourselves the $3,000 by flying AirTran out of Buffalo.

But in reality, at the end of the day, we look at each other with that face. You know the one. The one that clearly asks the other what in the hell we were thinking—with nothing more than a defeated look and a slight eye roll.

Actually, if I’m being completely honest, in the grand scheme of things of what could actually go wrong, we are really lucky.

The drive to Buffalo was fairly uneventful, save for a few “are we there yet”s, a few “I NEEDA PEE!”s and an excessively long wait at the border because we chose poorly; there’s no Nexus pass line at the Queenston/Lewiston bridge (grrrr.) Also, someone had to pee at the border. (The 33-year-old someone).

It was really once we got to Buffalo that everyone became unglued. I honestly cannot even count the number of times my husband and I accompanied a child to the bathroom. It’s funny, we have one child who shares our fear of public washrooms. Our other two children, however, did not get the germopohobic gene from us. They got the “Cool! A public bathroom! Let’s see just how many I can visit and how many surfaces I can touch with every inch of my body! I love a challenge!” gene.

And, just to add to the fun, the two who love public bathrooms had some strange case of the stomach gnomes yesterday, which required even extra bathroom visits.

Me: “Oh my heavenly days! I can’t find my trusty anti-bacterial hand gel anywhere.”

My loving husband: “Oh, I saw it fall out of your purse at my mom’s.”

Me: “Um, thanks for picking it up for me. Ass.”

Note to self. Do not touch your face. Do not touch your face. DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. Oh my god.

And, well, let’s just say that all of this ended with several people who are in desperate need of showers.

I swear, you travel with children who are no longer in diapers, you think it’s safe to assume that your travels will include less poop.

You would be wrong.

Combine the teenytiny confines of an airplane bathroom, and a child who is choosy about what she allows you to assist her with, and some awesome turbulence…

(NOT MEANT FOR TWO PEOPLE.)

(NOT REALLY EVEN MEANT FOR ONE.)

…and you get…

I seriously cannot even talk about it. At least not until everyone has been hosed down and disinfected.

The funny thing is, we will do this again, I’m sure. Many time. I mean, it’s $3,000.

Only next time, I will be traveling with no less than eight anti-bacterial hand gels.

And no child of mine is ever allowed to touch his or her face again.

And no one is eating OR drinking for a week before the trip.

I am not taking any chances.

Emily! I’m pretty sure the word is playing, not sleeping.

No Mama, it’s sleeping. That’s how the song goes.

Do you think it’s safe to leave a menorah with candles burning and just go to sleep?

I dunno. 

I bet those same people just leave their frying pans on the stove too, eh?

Why am I having this conversation with you, Mama?

I don’t know. We really should be spending our time stuffing our faces with fried foods and chocolate gelt.

I agree. 

At least we agree about something.

Well, we also both agree that Ozzy got robbed.

You speak the truth, young Padawan. Now pass me some latkes.

Happy Hanukkah, internet.

Or Happy Chanukah, if you are so inclined.

That’s the beauty of this holiday! Spell it how you want! It’s all good! It’s a celebration, after all!

We Jews certainly know how to celebrate. Sure, we have some holidays like Yom Kippur where we spend an entire 25 hours fasting and praying while we don’t wear any makeup or leather shoes and we hit our chests a million times. But then! Oh, internet, then we have holidays like Shavuot, where we are basically COMMANDED to eat dairy products for two days straight. I kid you not. Bring on the blintzes and the cheesecakes and the cheeeeeese! And then, there’s Hanukkah! Where we light beautiful candles for eight nights and are basically commanded to eat jelly-filled doughnuts (called sufganiyot)(I don’t dig on jelly…so we fill ours with such lovely things as salted caramel and vanilla icing) and potato latkes and chocolate coins and spin dreidels.

It’s all about oil, you see. A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, some evil people were persecuting Jews (Yes. It’s a theme in our religion…) By a small, small miracle, a small groups of awesome people  (The Maccabees!!) defeated one of the largest armies ever. And then when they went to light their menorah in the temple, they had but a wee amount of oil…BUT, THEN A MIRACLE HAPPENED and the tiny bit of oil lasted for an entire eight days. So, we celebrate this awesomeness and we celebrate with delicious foods that are fried.

There is nothing not wonderful about this holiday.

Except perhaps when you forget that you need to get candles…(Seriously, how do I forget every single year?)…and that Isabella’s menorah had a teeny little accident last year and broke into forty thousand pieces and we promised her we’d replace it and then we never did and figured we’d buy one in December and then December came around and we didn’t and, well, let’s just say that there were tears last night. Loads of ‘em.

Guess where I’m going today?

Just guess. 

Well, right after I make a pit stop at the bakery for some more doughnuts…

Emily has just finished up her fifth-grade science unit on the human body. So far, in her almost eleven years in this planet—and in her however many years of formal education—she has not enjoyed a unit in school as much as this one. I mean, the girl was doing extra research at home in her spare time, just for fun. If you know Emily, you know this is not like her. She is an excellent student, always has been, but she typically isn’t overly enthusiastic about academia. She loves the social game of school—the extracurriculars, the brown-nosing, the student government, recess.

Until now.

This one stuck.

“I want to cut people open and play around with all of their insides. And then close them up.”

“It’s amazing that doctors can just FIX PEOPLE. I really want to do that!”

“The human body, Mama. It’s really so unbelievable that it does what it does. SO unbelievable.”

“Or maybe I’d like to do c-sections—cutting babies out! Awesome!”

“Or maybe I could just be on Grey’s Anatomy. But I better get to wear scrubs and a white lab coat.”

I’m not saying this is set in stone. I mean, in fifth grade I wanted to be an anchorman. But, I love that she is interested in something academic at school. Truthfully and honestly, though, if you asked me, I’d say that I already know in my heart of hearts that this child is destined for the stage. Or the small screen. Or the big screen. That’s where her passions truly lie. She lives and breathes music and dance. Her face alone gives her away. I remember taking her to see The Sound of Music several years ago, and I spent the entire play watching HER FACE instead of watching the actual performance.

She was watching everything, noticing everything, soaking it all in.

Studying. 

That’s what she was doing. Studying. Researching. Learning. How to stand on the stage. What to do with your hands. Who to look at when she  is on the stage, but not part of the conversation. How to project. How to keep that smile. SCHOOL. That’s what it was. School for her.

This past weekend, we threw the kids in the car for a quick, just-over-24-hour trip to Montreal for my brother-in-law Manny’s 30.5th birthday party. Curling. And, obviously, for some cuddles with our La Belle Provence nieces. That’s a long way to go to go curling and cuddles, you say. It is, indeed! But truthfully, we just really like them. I feel more than a little lucky that I honestly and legitimately LIKE my husband’s three sisters and their spouses. I really like them, I like spending time with them. This was almost a no-brainer for us—not after we essentially pumped the coffee straight into our veins and popped in our earplugs.

And as souvenirs, Uncle Manny sent my three home with three used pacemakers that he dug out of the trunk of his car.

It was like he had given Isabella a brand-new American Girl doll.

It was like he had given Josh a legit cloak of invisibility.

It was like he had given Emily a cell phone.

Uncle Manny might be the favorite right now. 

I’m just saying.

So, last night I asked Emily.

“Do you REALLY want to be a surgeon…because that’s kind of more than a little bit awesome.”

“Well…maybe. If the career on stage doesn’t work out. It’s a good fall-back plan, don’t you think?”

MEDICAL SCHOOL. AS A FALL-BACK PLAN. WHO IS THIS KID?

“Sounds good, Emily. Sounds like a great plan. If the stage doesn’t work, you can become a doctor like Uncle Manny.”

I wonder what she will think of her next unit in school. It’s too bad we don’t have any anthropologists or archeologists in the family…

Thing #1: I have bought exactly 1.5 holiday gifts. I can only count the burnt sugar crumbly fudge as half of a gift because I ate through the entire bag before I even walked out of Indigo. Actually, scratch that. I have only bought one gift. It’s a good gift. One that my sister-in-law is really going to like. But still. I am a gift-buying fail.

Thing #2: I had 4 cups of tea today, but not one cup of coffee, which pretty much explains the headache I now have at 8:00. It may also be the fact that Isabella is watching The Mysterious Ticking Noise on repeat. So now I will probably have another coffee, especially now that I have trained my son how to use the keurig and how much milk and splenda I take in my coffee (hooray for slavery!), and then I will probably be up all night. Which perhaps I should consider a blessing—I can use the time to online shop my face off.

Thing #3: Not having a commute may be the most amazing thing to ever happen to me ever.

Thing #4: I really want bangs again. Stop it, stupid Glee promos and the lovely fringe on Rachel Berry, bangs are always a mistake unless you have hair people.

Oh! But now I have something to add to my Chrismukah wish list that now includes Jon Hamm, dance lessons, and a pair of UGG boots.

I KNOW.

But there’s logic here. If someone else buys the UGGs FOR ME, it would truly embarrass the gift-giver if I were to, say, let the poor ugly boots sit in the box or sell them on ebay like I usually do with the gifts I don’t like. So I would have to wear them, you see. Logic.

LOGIC.

So now we add hair people to the list. Because I really need me some of those.

And some more burnt sugar crumbly fudge.

Because Jesus, those were delicious.

Just this week, we had lengthy discussions about what a Christening is, how in-vitro fertilization works and what a Jehovah’s Witness is.

Dinner conversation in our house. 

I tell you about these specifically because if I simply write that my children ask a lot of questions, you may be quick to jump in with a quick and hearty me too, even though your dinner conversation may not have involved a detailed conversation about whether or not it actually did rain for 40 days and 40 nights and what it means if you do believe that it happened and what it means if you don’t believe that it actually happened. Interestingly, one of my children mentioned that he (or she!) believed that the actually flooding and whole collecting of animals in a two-by-two fashion hoopla did not happen, but the story was written to help teach us important life lessons and about what kind of people we should be.

Oh my heavenly days, my kids are kind of amazing.

(That heavenly pun was completely unintentional, I swear.)

I have always kind of secretly hoped that my kids would be this way. And I’d like to this, at least a little bit, that I had something to do with their constant desires to ask and learn and understand and think. You see, while I want to protect my children from the harsh realities of the world, because, there are, indeed lots of shitty things out there, I still want them to learn about the world. This is a really tough position to be in, as a parent. In one moment you want to scoop all three of them up in your arms and bottle them as they are now, not allowing them to grow any older and any more independent. But then in the next moment, you want to set them free to grow their own wings and explore the universe through these three unique pairs of brown eyes; free thinkers.

It makes sense, really. This is exactly how I grew up.

I want both. Protection and independence.

Last year I took Emily to see a performance of Spring Awakening. And I don’t regret it, not even for a minute. Not even after three people who worked at the theater asked me if I knew what the play was about and if I was sure I was okay with my child seeing it. Not even after many theater patrons gave me some serious stink eye.

YES. I had seen the play. YES. I knew what it was about. YES. I was aware of the parental guidance suggested content.

That’s why I was there.

Parental guidance, you see.

She is going to ask questions about things. She is going to learn about things. She is going to see things.

And I sure as heck want her to ask her questions and learn about important things and see everything with me there. I want to be a part of it.

And interestingly, she asked exactly one question after seeing Spring Awakening, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the objectionable content.

“Mama, do you think one day Jonathan Groff and Lea Michele will ever play Melchior and Wendla again?”

She saw the performances, she heard the music, she watched the dancing.

She didn’t even notice anything else.

I’m just glad she didn’t notice the stink eyes from all the people around us, judging me so harshly.

Because you know what? I’m pretty sure I’m doing something right.

I wonder what kind of questions she’ll ask about vampireslashhuman babies and werewolves imprinting on babies…