So what if I'm on the naughty list?

Try to imagine my shock when there arose a knock at the door last night at 7:30 pm and Santa Claus walked into our house.

There he was, in his beautiful red suit, snowy white beard, and black, shiny boots. He had a fist full of candy canes and began passing them out to my children. He called each one by his or her name. He encouraged good behavior. He inquired after their wishes. He explained the presence of his pickup by pointing out that his reindeer were resting at the North Pole. 

He was everything you've read about him and the physical manifestation of all those stupid Christmas specials we've been watching all season. He was jolly. He was kind. He was merry. My children were delighted.

Except for my four-almost-five-year-old daughter.

After Santa disappeared into the cold, dark night, she turned on me like the Mad Hatter on an empty tea cup.

She stamped her foot and narrowed her eyes at me. She was distrustful, suspicious, incredulous. With an accusatory finger pointed in my direction and a hand on her cocked hip, she began the cross examination.

"Mom! You told me he wasn't real!"

Uhhhhhhh. . .

"You said he was just pretend. But he knew my name!" For a second her voice changed from scolding to dreamy as she wondered, "How did he know my name?"

Then she presented the irrefutable evidence. She held her candy cane up in the air and recounted, "He had a beard! It was white!"

Then with disgusted dejection, "Why did you tell me he wasn't real?"

Ohhhhh, dear. 

I turned to my husband. In tones that were panicked and hushed, I begged him to help me out. "What do I do with this?"

Ever the helpful man, he replied, "Nothing. Just leave it alone."

"What?!?" I asked. "But I don't like these wild accusations flying around that I'm the Christmas Killer!"

Taking his own advice to heart, he didn't respond.

I never came up with the appropriate answer. So I just listened to her intermittent lectures for the rest of the night. I swallowed my pride and anger; I abstained from pointing out all the obvious evidence that I am the reason our house is filled with Christmas cheer; I stammered and reddened and fumed all night. 

And then it came to me. It's time to teach her the truth about Santa Claus.

Come Christmas morning, she'll have her Christmas wish wrapped snugly under the tree with a tag on it that says, "Love, Mom". And in her stocking?

Coal.

The truth about Olivia.

Today you had your first baby! Olivia's grandpa sent me a text with your first family picture.

There you are: my courageous, beautiful, tired sister, holding the most gorgeous baby I've ever seen, with her new daddy hovering over you both and wearing a smile--the width of which should swallow his face whole. I swear the picture is illuminated with love and pride.

When I saw you holding your new baby daughter, all I could do was sigh and stare at that perfect little baby girl. She's absolutely perfect.

And I know about baby girls. Each one of mine is as precious and beloved and perfect as the one before. So I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. There is one little problem with her.

She'll grow up.

You can't slow it. You can't stop it. You can't ignore it. She will grow up.

She'll turn nine months and get two teeth in the same week. She won't sleep normal hours, and she'll gush all kinds of snot out of her tiny nose. She'll carry a low grade fever that will keep her from playing like she normally does. But even though she'll feel rotten, she'll take her first steps. And when she takes six in a row, and her parents clap heartily, she'll smile demurely and clap her hands, too.

When she turns two, she'll have her own opinion about everything. She'll call all the shots and run the whole house. She'll talk about nothing and everything and sing about it, too. She'll dazzle you with her giant smile and break you with her giant tears. She'll want jelly beans before she goes potty, and she'll follow you around whining when she doesn't get her way. She'll use your iPad more efficiently than you could ever hope to. She'll crawl into your bed at night because Mr. Grinch ate her. She'll give hugs that heal hurts and kisses that dissolve disappointment. She'll fall asleep at night and be even older the next morning.

At four-and-a-half, she'll teach you all you wanted to know about all you never knew. Her laughter and song will dance off the walls and the ceiling and get under your skin. She'll have ideas about how the rules should be adjusted and at what time the reward should be given. She'll kiss all her dollies many times a day and want you to do the same. She'll draw pictures of princesses and dragons and tell you her brothers are handsome. She'll talk like a grown up and dictate the theories of angels. You'll wonder when she got so big.

It will happen almost every day. Your heart will cry out, "Where are you going? Come back! Come back!" while your voice tells her, "The world is yours! Go on! Go on!" 

At night when she's asleep, you'll tiptoe into her room to check on her. And you know what's weird? When you see her lying there, eyelashes kissing her cheeks and mouth closed just so, you'll remember her as a newborn. You'll see her as she is today--the day she changed your life and your heart by coming to your arms.

So even though you're trying to commit her face and form to perfect memory, the truth is, you'll see her as she is today--with perfect clarity--all the days of her life.

Because she'll always be your baby girl.

Way to go, Mama.

Joy and Life Reborn

December is--without a doubt--my craziest month of the year. I have actually found myself wishing the month and the season was over.

When did I become such a pessimist??

December--and especially Christmas--was my favorite time of year when I was a child. Christmas was always forever away, even if it was coming tomorrow. I'd lie awake at nights and just smile.

Where did all that joy go?

I've been thinking about that. A lot. And the answer I came up with is, I don't think it's gone.

I think I buried it.

Under the shopping, the wrappings, the pictures and seasonal cards, the obligatory gifts, the mandatory meetings, the bills and receipts, and the overwhelming expectations, my childlike joy is hidden.

It's time to bring it back. It's time to rediscover what the celebration is really all about. It's time to reclaim the heavenly joy that was brought to the world, which the world seems so intent on casting aside, forgetting, burying.

In my quiet searching, I found the answer of why those angels were shouting for joy.

It was for ME.

(That sounds very pompous, but bear with me, because it was for YOU, too.)

The worth of one soul--my soul, your soul--was worth summoning all those heavenly choirs and singing the dawn of redemption into existence. The birth of the Babe born in Bethlehem was really the rebirth of souls that He would save.

We were no longer lost! We were no longer buried! We were to be reclaimed, redeemed, and exalted!

(Are you starting to hear your inner child sing yet?)

I am so valued, so precious, so loved, that my Savior came for me. And He came for you. He came for us all.

I don't know about you, but I let that fall from my focus far too often. And sometimes I try to bury it alive.

If I really understood that I am God's child and Jesus Christ died for me, then I would change some things.

I would forgive myself faster. I would treat you better. I would pray to see the potential of mankind instead of seeing only the fog of faults.

And you know what else? I would rejoice more. I would truly rejoice. And no amount of wrapping, meetings, shopping, and bills would soften the volume of my triumphant exultations.

I hope I was in those angelic choirs, singing praises to Him who was born to save souls. But whether I was or not shouldn't stop me from singing now.

Let us adore Him with such clarity and purpose that all will know what the celebration is really about.

"For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

This stuff is BANANAS, yo!

((Puff!))

((Pant!))

((Wheeze!))

((Gasp!))

Dear Shaun T,

I'm writing this letter to you with a bright red face, shaking limbs, and dripping sweat. I've been doing your INSANITY workout, and I think you hit the nail on the head when you named this baby. But I have some points I'd like to bring to your attention since our acquaintance will continue for another 48 days.

First, I want to define our relationship. People ask me what I think about this workout program, and being an honest person, I reply, "I hate it. Absolutely hate it." And then in a reluctant, small voice, I add, "But I really love the results." So, you know where I stand.

I have a theory about your intentions on the days you wear your long sleeve Under Armor with the white chest-stitching. You want me to think you take off your shirt because you are warm. I know the truth. And it's not because you want everyone to see your chiseled chest and six pack. Let's call a spade a spade. You want to see yourself without your shirt on.

Were you referring to something besides my grave when you scream, "Dig deeper!"? Because a big, black, gaping hole is all I can see from about the three minute mark on.

I don't understand why you refer to yourself in third person. Furthermore, the updates you give in third person really go without saying. I can see the perspiration falling off your face; I don't need to hear, "Shaun T startin' to sweat!" Also, the third person narration is contagious. 

Worst words of the day: "Jack it out, right now."

I have never met a more arrogant person in my life. My whole life. But the truly insane thing is, I still think you're entirely likable, which is why I keep letting you back in my living room day after day. Thanks for coming.

When you say, "Stand on your right leg for the quadricep stretch," you say that like I have the ability to use my legs at all any more. I find myself yelling out, "Nat G startin' to fall!"

I despise Globe Jumps. Could you find a suitable substitute exercise? Also, I pity the poor foo' who stands behind me when my jiggle starts doing Football Sprints. Just sayin'.

What does, "Take a break, but keep going," mean??

Have you noticed that every time we start the One, Two, Three Heisman move, you say, "Boo! . . .Hah!" Let me be clear. I'm not logging a complaint here. I actually think it's hilarious. It makes me smile every time. I've started to say it with you.

When you ask the cast how they feel during an exercise, and they curse at you, it's not a joke--even though you laugh. It's a measure of how they truly feel. Show some respect.

Can you speak with the camera people and tell them I don't want to see so much of Tania? I haven't decided what it is about her, but I could use a lot less of her in my face while I'm struggling for breath.

Whose idea was it to turn interval training on it's head? Was that you? If so, you are insane. Ingeniously insane. Are you a glutton for punishment, or just a pursuer of crazy results? Maybe I don't want to know the answer to that question.

I think that's all for now, except to say, thanks for today's workout. It was bananas, yo.

Your INSANITY trainee,
Natalie

For you're a jolly good fellow

I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday, so I waited up until midnight to post it on your Facebook account. There's just one leeetle problem.

You still haven't accepted my friend request. 

But I know you are my friend, and here's why:

You forgive me immediately and forget just as soon
You love my mother
You have given me encouragement and council at the most important moments of my life
You write me letters with funny poems and compassionate wisdom
You let me be your breakfast helper
You provided everything I needed and wanted
You pray for me
You seek my opinion and listen when I give it
You demonstrate the importance of loving everyone
You teach me to stand up for myself
You dance with me
You speak simple, powerful expressions of your faith in me
You live your beliefs
You sound the alarm
You laugh at my jokes (and at my mom's)
You are constant in righteousness
You are true to your core
You encourage my husband and cherish my children
You gently urge me to change
You sound happy to hear my voice when I call
You fill my heart with beautiful memories
You are careful where you step because you know I am following
You gave me life
and
You are my dad.

And I
feel profoundly blessed
to be yours.

Happy Birthday!

P.S. When you post party pictures on Facebook, I won't be able to see them since we're not friends....

The Pants

It's been a life long struggle for me; "Mein Angst", as it were.

I just cannot find jeans that I love. In truth, I wear jeans only when I'm going out to run an errand or something, because exercise pants (code for, "pajama bottoms") just seem too casual, like I've given up entirely. Like that man who strolled onto the Lido deck the last day of our cruise in his "Holland America" bathrobe and flip flops. Really? And my follow up question is, perhaps he's figured out the secret of life?

But I digress. When I come home from running errands, I pass by the emergencies waiting for my return and face none of them until I am in my comfy pants again. 

I use the following list of musts from my Jeans Bible when I'm shopping for new denim. (I'd rather scrub toilets. Literally. And I know what literally means. I don't mean figuratively in this case.)

1. Must have high waist line so I can tuck my muffin top in. I'm way past low rise, ladies. Trust me.

2. Must have "short" written on the inseam description. Must. All 5'5" of me is in my torso. My eleven-year-old sister has longer legs than I.

3. Must not look used, a.ka. "faded", "distressed", "pre-washed". Add any one of those descriptions to my daily mommy badges of spit-up and toddler love prints, and I look like I run a day care. Even though I kinda do. I just don't want to look it.

4. Must not make my bum look like it belongs on a fifty-year-old. I'd like to look as young going as I do coming. At least for now, anyways.

5. Must possess magic powers that make me look ten pounds lighter than I am. 

These five absolutes make it impossible to find jeans I love. Impossible! (And I know what impossible means. I don't mean improbable in this case.)

In a recent conversation with my husband, Dr. Always Wear Jeans, he told me how much he loved, loved, loved, at the very least really liked the jeans he was wearing. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued. Don't we all want to know the secret to fame, money, beauty, success?

So he faithfully divulged his list of musts from his Jeans Bible.

1. Must have a lot of pockets. A higher number of pockets means a higher level of satisfaction in the function of the jeans. That is to say, five pockets pants equals “Lame Sauce Pants”. Ten pockets pants equals “Those'll Do Pants”. Twenty-five pockets pants equals “I Could Totally Stunt Double for Chuck Norris Pants”.

2. Must be one of two colors: dark wash, or camouflage. Dark wash for special occasions. Camo for all other occasions, including grocery shopping, four wheeling, impromptu hunting, running basic police drills, and scheduled x-rays at international airports.

3. Must have the right fit. And for him, there is only one fit. Straight leg. Always. My man won't be wearing skinny jeans.

4. Must be able to carry a concealed weapon in comfort for the entire day. (And this is the big one. I actually heard him sigh, "You know, I felt really comfortable with a gun in my pants all day.")

Well, no wonder I'm up the Jeans Creek without a paddle! Too many pockets clashes with all of my rolls, I have no chance of making camo invisible (even to an elk!), there is no such thing as a universal women's fit, and I couldn't carry a gun comfortably in my pants to save my life.

And just so I thoroughly embrace my defeat, I'll confess that I'm typing this in my "exercise pants", I have no plans for accomplishing errands any day soon, and my hand gun is a comfortable distance from my person. 

Ergo, I do not wear the pants in our family. And we're all better off that way.

'Tis better to give than to receive.

THE best things to give:

(I know because I've received all of these,
and it has made all the difference to me.)

a second chance

a foot rub

a scrumptious, nutritious dinner

encouragement

a hug

kindness

an opportunity to learn truth

a listening ear

a compassionate heart

and

enduring love

But it you ask my beagle, he'll tell you the best thing to give is food.