All aboard the Santa Train!

The Kansas City Southern "Holiday Express" (better known to the locals as the Santa Train) was in Slater, MO yesterday. I grew up near there and my parents still live in the area, so they knew all about this wonderful event. I had never heard of it before yesterday at 10 a.m. Here's how the telephone call from my mom went:

MOM: "Hey, you should take the kids out of school, call Karen, and all of you should come to Slater and see the Santa Train. Elaine and Clyde are going."

ME: "Wait a minute. You want me to take the kids out of school, in the freezing cold, pick up my sister in law and her two kids, pack up the strollers, car seats, snacks, diaper bags and play station portables, drive an hour to Slater (which is a town of what, 200 people and no Starbucks,) to see a train? Really? A train that my 70 year old aunt and uncle find interesting enough to go to? Are you kidding me?"

MOM: "It's supposed to be really neat. You should come."

ME: "Are they giving away free televisions or babysitting services? Will Bono be there, or some form of massage therapy be offered?"

MOM: "Um, I think the kids will like it. They'll see Santa--wont that be nice?"

ME: "Fine, but there had better be irreplacable childhood memories I get out of this, that I can throw back at them when they tell me what a substandard parent I was."

MOM: "I'm sure there will be. It's the only reason your father and I took you kids to Disneyland."

The phone call didn't quite go like that, but the gist was that no, in fact, she was not kidding, and as an even bigger surprise, it turned out to be a great time. Those Slater people know what they're doing getting the Santa Train to come to their sleepy little burg whose only other claim to fame is being the boyhood home of Steve McQueen. (Seriously. There are signs everywhere. They're really proud of Steve. Uh, Mr. McQueen.) Once we arrived and secured a good parking space next to the Dollar General Store (in case of a snack or drink or diaper emergency) we swaddled the kids up in forty layers of clothing and stood in line outside to get into the train. The line moved pretty quickly and once inside the cars, we were treated to the heated and dazzlingly decorated interior looking for all the world like Macy's and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir had been shoved inside it. Apparently, the employees of Kansas City Southern Railroad donate their time to deck it out, and they do an incredible job. Every bit of wall and ceiling was ornamented. One of the train cars even had two model trains running inside it (trains within a train--cute, KCSI). The whole thing was well worth it, (don't tell my mom I said that) and as any good scrapbooker would, I got one or two decent shots for the books (more on the Holiday Express can be found here: http://www.kcsi.com/en-us/GeneralPublic/Pages/HolidayExpress.aspx and the actual Slater, MO stop is mentioned here: http://www.cityofslater.com/Santa%20Train%20-%20Holiday%20Express.html)

Here are some photos of our awesome train filled 22 degree, day:

Karen, Megan and Noah in front of the train engine. Noah refused to look anywhere but at the trains.

Once we got inside, the first thing you get to do is sit on Santa's lap. I thought Santa and Peyton made a cute couple, but he was more interested in what was coming in the next train car . . .

Where we got to see the model trains. He LOVES trains, and it was tough to get him away from the little one and out of the big one.

This shot doesn't do the model train justice--let's just say I was very impressed at the detail and effort that must have gone into this thing.

I suppose the moral of this story is, if your mother calls you on the phone and seems to be out of her mind and begins telling you to drive to Slater, MO to see a train in 22 degree weather with small children, you should do it, whether you suspect her to be completely unhinged or not. Merry Christmas everybody!

For the Love of all that is good and holy, MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!

I just wish Ben would assert himself more. He's such a shrinking violet.

Maya Kisses, Benny and Sid-a-nee.

One drink, two straws

Funny

I turned around, and the boys had put on Monte's shirt, with Mason coming out of the left side and Stephen coming out of the right--they're the two headed Ellis! Hilarious, aren't they? It's all about the funny.

Monte-isms

In our many years together, I've found there are very specific and misappropriated phrases Monte makes up that can only be described as Monte-isms. A Monte-ism is a phrase that doesn't make sense on its face, but when you delve deeper into the phrase and really look hard at the circumstances in which the phrase was used and the person making the phrase up, you are forced to admit that it still doesn't make sense.

Not sure what I mean? Need some examples? I thought you'd never ask.

I suggested Mason might like to go shopping with me. Monte said "Shopping?!? Enjoy shopping?!?! He doesn't enjoy doing stuff he LIKES!!!"

Or, there's the example from early on in our marriage when I asked if a particular activity was romantic or not. His reply? "Well it doesn't start the engine, but that doesn't meant it doesn't open the car door."

I don't think Monte is related to Yogi Berra, but I do think he is a great, albeit misunderstood, philosopher and someday, someone will discover a Rosetta stone that will translate all of these Monte-isms into phrases that we mere mortals can understand. Until then, I live lost in translation.

Sad News

About six weeks ago, Stephen went through a period of desperately wanting a pet. We already had a dog we had to give away (nobody had time to play with her, and I'm not a dog person), and some goldfish that got flushed because, again, nobody really paid any attention to them. Clearly, we're not pet people.

I attribute some of my "pet desensitization" to growing up on a farm and watching pet after pet die under tractor wheels and inside farm machinery. Monte grew up with pets in the house, but they for the most part were cared for by his mom. Since I'm not so good in that role, the question of having a pet has rested largely in the "stalemate" pile. He wants them inside, I'll tolerate them outside, so nobody wins. This system of mutually assured destruction has worked for a long time for our family.

Over the last year or so though, Stephen has really pressed us hard to get a pet. I blame the public school system and their class turtles, guinea pigs, frogs, baby chicks and the like. Clearly, they are attempting to teach science with a little psychology thrown in, but I've been out of school for years, and I think I'm the only person this lesson is aimed at. So, after Stephen's repeated begging we got a guinea pig. She was a pretty little calico thing, and Stephen named her "Sam" although everyone called her "Puppy" because that's what Peyton called her. She was doing well and growing and things were looking good . . . for a while.

Then, once the honeymoon period was over, she didn't get a whole lot of attention. Nobody had much time for her and it looked like she was going to live the life of an island--solitude in the midst of activity. This time though there was a new wrinkle--after a week of acting lethargic and strange, Puppy died. She started her downward when we noticed she had stopped eating. Then came the lying very still, even when someone was near her cage, and finally, all she did was put her head down in the grass and breathe very fast, with a little whine thrown in. You don't have to grow up on a farm to know what was going down, but my country education didn't fail me. I figured we were headed for the big Timothy Hay pile in the sky.

What I didn't count on was Stephen's reaction. He cried and cried, and asked if we would see Puppy again in heaven, and why Puppy had to die and and so on. I was really surprised. Yesterday he didn't have time to play with Puppy, and today he was shocked and saddened to hear Puppy was gone. Monte decided we'd have a little funeral for Puppy and I was so touched when Stephen said a prayer over his pet's lifeless body, wishing her new happiness and health in heaven (we didn't argue with his theology). This scene moved even my dried up remote practical cranky heartless heart.

Monte is already saying we should wait at least a week before we get Puppy's replacement. I nearly choked on my shaken iced tea lemonade. We really don't deserve another pet, Stephen's big blue eyes notwithstanding.

Separated at egg, uh, birth

Baby Ben got glasses, and it touched off a firestorm of controversy. IS he the true and uncontested twin brother, NOT of Sydney, but instead of Egghead Junior of the Warner Brothers Foghorn Leghorn cartoons? Perhaps of Chicken Little? You have the photographic evidence before you. You be the judge!

Freedom, baby

Peyton has been developing such a funny little personality. He likes to say "Hi" to total strangers. We're a family of introverts, so this part is new to us. The thing is, he's choosy. He doesn't go after the grandmotherly types who fawn all over him, or even motherly types who tell him how cute he is. He likes a challenge. He only says "Hi" to the cranky man or woman with the downward gaze and averted eyes of a person on a mission of great importance for, let's say, the government. Or Gene Simmons (he strikes me as somebody you don't want to do a poor job for.) Know what I mean? The W.C. Fields types who have "I hate kids" tattooed on themselves somewhere, or who clearly think the effort of returning a 19 month old's "Hi" is beneath them. That's when P-dog goes to work. "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" over and over, each greeting working harder than the last. (Yeah, that's right. W.C. Fields. I said it. Google him.)

I'm such a sap, because it always bothers me that the people he's "Hi"ing never ever turn around and throw him a bone. Ever. So I end up saying hi to him for them, as a sort of a "they suck, but don't worry, I'll always be here to say Hi to" consolation prize. I seriously doubt he notices the difference, but I'm in there, plugging away at the positive language reinforcement, so that I can regret it later when he turns 9 and recites for me all in one breath the entire L.A. Lakers roster, complete with alternates and coaching staff. (I have one of those already.)

He's also big into independence. This is fine for his overall development, but frankly it stinks when I have to go to the bathroom, or take groceries in, or pull the laundry out of the washer . . . basically when I have to do something that requires both hands, both eyes and most of my brain. It's a given these are things I can't hold a baby while doing, but things that I am negatively reinforced in if I put them off (see the bathroom entry). Again, this is when Peyton springs into action. Today, I had to bring in the groceries. I had frozen food in there, so I couldn't put it off. Peyton was in the yard in a safe location, next to the car, looking at a leaf.

See? There he is. Just fine. Enjoying nature. The kitchen is only about 20 steps away, to and from. I'll just take a bag of groceries in to the kitchen. I mean, it's not far at all. Ten seconds, tops. Maybe less at a light jog. He'll be just fine right where he is, long enough for me to get this bag of melting food inside.

Yeah, right.

When I came back out, he was past the circle drive and nearly three houses down, running at full crazy-happy-drunk toddler speed. This is a picture of him coming back after finally heeding my impassioned pleas, smiling all the way. "Looooookit me!"

Freedom, baby.

A Firm Foundation

Monte's latest trick is turning carpet into hard wood flooring. We replaced our computer room floor, and although I was worried some or all of our crazy computer connections wouldn't go back, everything seems to be up and running.

The only drawback is, with carpet, the dust settles in it to be [eventually] vacuumed out. Hardwood says, "Hey, world, I'm dusty, and the people living here walk RIGHT over me and do nothing at all about it." Dang it, now I really really really need to mop more.

Captain Underpants

For the last two weeks or so, Monte has been reading to Stephen at night to help fulfill a homework requirement. They started out with some Dr. Seuss stuff, and Junie B. books (which I personally loathe beyond all reasonable understanding), but lately, they've progressed into the "Captain Underpants" series by Dav Pilkey. At first it was just Monte and Stephen. But they laughed and laughed so much, it lured Mason in to the room to pile into the big purple chair with two other people just to see what all the hubbub was about. Now Mason reads with his dad and brother every night, even though Captain Underpants really isn't 4th grade reading material (it's more like 4th grade writing material! I kid, it's actually funny.)

So like moths to a flame, everyone wants to read with daddy now. Even Peyton stops by during his endless walkabouts around the house to find out why even the big guy is giggling.



He is giggling, because the name of the book is Captain UNDERPANTS! UNDERPANTS!!!!!!! Apparently, if you are a boy there is no law of diminishing comedic returns when it comes to saying the word underpants. It's funny every. single. time.

My Sweet Little Boy

Stephen: "Mom, when can I marry you?"
Mom: "Marry me?"
Stephen: "Yeah, you know, when I get bigger."
Mom: "That sounds great, but you'll probably want to marry some other girl when you get bigger."
Stephen: "No I wont. I want to stay here and live with you when I get bigger. Me and daddy and Mason and Peyton should all stay here with you."

What started out as a cute and sweet mom and boy moment turned into visions of adult children living with me forever in my basement. Aaaaaaahhhhh!

Nah, it was still cute. Until some little girl flounces in and takes his heart away from me. Forever.

Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

Tasty Kitchen Indeed

CLICK HERE --> Molten Chocolate Cake – Tasty Kitchen
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Ree Drummond (a.k.a. Pioneer Woman) has just launched a recipe website called Tasty Kitchen. I know, right? With a billion recipe sharing websites out there (okay, maybe not that many, but there are several, trust me), why, oh why, does Pioneer Woman take time from her insanely busy life to start one?

Molten Chocolate Cake, baby, that's why. Apparently her deal with the devil that allows for raising and homeschooling four kids, participating in a working cattle ranch, taking pictures of everything that moves and some stuff that doesn't, and publishing her own cookbook available on Amazon, WITHOUT an Oprah sized team of underlings or super powers (that we've been able to detect) . . . also gives her inside access to recipe conveyed heaven like the one I've shared above.

It took me a couple of tries to get this Chocolate personification of pure joy to turn out okay, and even then I don't always do it just right, but seriously, they taste good enough I don't even care and I end up eating the over toasted ones. My sister had me make them three times for her while she was here, and my friend Susie said they were really good, and Susie knows her really good food, being married to and being herself also, an amazingly great cook.

If you're feeling blue, give these a shot. I swear after you eat one, whatever was bothering you will be shoved so far to the back of your mind you wont be able to find it again for at least an hour, maybe more.

Getting an Education

When family comes to town, keeping up with your own life gets a little problematic. You want to put the rest of the world on pause so that you can focus on your guests, but unfortunately, the earth abjectly refuses to stop spinning. Case in point, the Fairview Elementary 2009 Back To School Night. It was scheduled for August 20, which was not only during my sister's visit, but also at a time when Monte would be in Arizona helping my sister's husband drive their two cars back to Missouri.

You wouldn't think Monte's absence from BTSN would matter much. I mean, after all, I didn't have to take Peyton, so each absence balances out the other, right? And I had prepared in advance. I filled out all the forms. I pre-ordered my school supplies from the school itself--no fighting the retail crowds on August 19 for this mom. But once I got there and cheerfully produced my paper work, it turned out each school age son had to have additional paper work filled out and turned in to their new teacher. Once I got to the room, new forms I had never seen before had to be carefully considered and completed, and the easy peasy school supplies, which again, were pre-ordered from the school itself back in May, had to be tracked down and placed in desks.

Big deal, right? Wrong. It suddenly became apparent Monte is not just a Peyton carrier at these kinds of events. He also fields questions from the audience while I concentrate on the information I'm providing. Mason and Stephen both had things they urgently needed to say to me at all times, which meant I couldn't really focus on meeting the teacher or her pesky forms. Confusion growing all around me, I finished the forms, grabbed the school supplies, dumped them out of the box into the desk and struggled to insure I had done enough of what I was supposed to do for the state to accept the children I ejected from my vehicle come Monday morning. I then fled the scene.

The first clue that I am not together as a single parent came Monday when the boys came home. Stephen said, "Mom, my desk was empty." I said, "What do you mean your desk was empty?" He said, "The school supplies weren't there." I called and left a voice message for his teacher, but it was pretty half hearted. After all, these are boys that call to me complaining they can't find their shirt or their backpack or their right foot, only to have me walk over and point out that the object in question is eighteen inches from their left foot. Surely the supplies were there. I put them there. Heck, I dumped them with extreme force there.

They weren't there. Naturally Stephen hadn't told his teacher, and I guess in all the craziness of the first few days of school she hadn't gotten my voice mail--so when I asked her about it she was completely baffled. After realizing that in my haste I didn't stop to label any of the supplies, we admitted that even with a crack CSI team and several days of leg work we were never going to know what happened to them. At the heart of the matter was the inescapable fact that Stephen still needed his stuff. So I resolved to go out after dinner and get him everything he needed. Again.

Remember the ten plagues in the bible? Famine, locusts, frogs, flies, and so on. There was a little known 11th one--the school supply availability plague. We had to go to four different stores in order to get glue, scissors, erasers, pencils, crayons, markers, notebooks, a pencil case, post it notes and plastic folders. Four stores. Wal-mart was out of erasers, but they had plastic folders. Target didn't have folders made of any material, but they did have post it notes. Nobody had pencil cases. We had to settle for a plastic box of approximately the same dimensions at Michael's, which by the way is the only place in town you can get those otherwise ubiquitous pink erasers on the second day of school. Oh, and you also have to crawl over cranky last minute college students and their frazzled parents just to get the stuff. At one point, Monte had to go around to the back of an aisle and reach over the top just to get to the plastic folders that were being blocked by an angry mother daughter team bent on denying access to anything that might hold paper.

I can't decide if I was overly dependent on my preparedness or underestimated the distractions my sons can be or if, baby, we just got robbed. I have learned one thing though. If I have to do another BTSN on my own, then it really will be on my own, because all the boys will be duct taped to chairs in my basement.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree

When family comes to town, it's showoff time. See what new tricks the babies can do. Here is just a small sampling of how that went.

Mom: "Peyton, what does a doggie say?"
Peyton: "Moo"
Mom: "Noooo, a doggie says woof. What does a cat say?"
Peyton: "Moo"
Mom: "No, no, a cat says meow. What does a COW say?"
Peyton, sensing dinner time was near: "Chee?" (Which loosely translated means I'm hungry and I want six or eight pieces of cheese.)

So there you have it. Shauna's kids know all their letters, numbers, colors, algebraic equations and a little string theory. My kids are interested in the position of class clown, if they can get it. Nature, 1, Nurture, 0.

Been Farmin' Long?

Peyton and new BFF Hunter rode Hunter's Peg Perego John Deere Gator all over Hunter's farm today. The property is pretty extensive. Three year old H-dog drove 20 month old P-dog over hills, up the sides of valleys, down into ravines and out again all without too many near misses. And nobody worried. All the adults stood around and laughed and laughed without a care in the world like it was 1973 and seatbelts, helmets and knee pads were still a pipe dream. We probably should have feigned some concern, but hey, my parents let me ride farm machinery and such at their ages, not to mention all my childhood winter sledding memories involve a 20 foot length of rope and an international pickup truck. It's a miracle I made it to 40!

Man Pretty

I was making some bows for Sydney, and I needed to see if they looked okay. Sydney is at the farm, so I found some other, more convenient models.

Now before you judge, look at those eyes! He's a beautiful baby. He would have made such a cute little girl if the DNA wheel had gone the other way. He can't help it if he has beautiful eyes and sweet little lips . . . he's man pretty. I mean he's got a wii controller to balance it all out, right? Right?

Okay, okay, I was out of control, but aren't they cute? I think I read somewhere cinema tough guy Charles Bronson wore dresses when he was a baby and had ringlets until he was like three or something . . . Clint Eastwood did too probably. And look at those guys . . .

I think Sydney needs to come back.

Reunion

There aren't words for how happy this picture makes me. These are some of the people I love best in the world, assembled together at my parent's farm. They were there to eat burgers and talk, and maybe ride the 4-wheeler. Nothing else. Just to be, and do it next to each other.

Some of the memories that keep me above water on a daily basis are of just hanging out with one or more of these guys. Doing stuff, or nothing, but having some sort of connection all the same. Really, if you get right down to it, the person I am is a direct result of the effect all the people in this picture have had on, well, the person I am. That was a bit circular, but you get the gist.

This post doesn't have a moral or a grand point or anything, but I would advise any reader who doesn't presently have a big extended family, to run out and get one right away. They're worth what they cost, every penny. But not this one, because it's mine, and I'm keeping it.

I love Cracker Barrel

GeoTagged, [N38.96086, E92.28708]

Is it the sweet tea or the hashbrown casserole or the sweet potato casserole or the strawberry short cake that keeps me coming back time and again to my neighborhood Cracker Barrel? Is it the candle selection or the seasonal items or the old fashioned candy or the toys? Maybe it's the audiobooks or the bluegrass music? Nope. Those things are great, don't get me wrong, but I think its something else. The checkers. Yep, definately the checkers.

Trading Spaces

It finally came down to the boys bathroom. We had avoided the boys bathroom for a time because, well, that's the bathroom the boys use and they need a space uninterrupted for bathing, teeth brushing and peeing near the toilet. But eventually all things change and so here we are with the BEFORE picture:


Another BEFORE with the happy home owner documenting his project. One backache, creaky knees and many nicks and cuts later . . .


Our AFTER picture. We've already moved the boys back in. They were peeing near the toilet in my bathroom, and that was not to be tolerated for long.


We have the painting left and then carpet and then we're done, and we can go back to watching TV and taking our ease. My Tivo will thank me. He's full and would like it very much if I'd watch some of those shows he's been good enough to record.

Comic Con

This is a comic book store in Chandler, Arizona. In July 2006, my sister and her husband moved to Chandler (Phoenix) so that he could work at Intel. There was a 20+ hour road trip involving video cameras and small marital disagreements specific to traveling that were ironed out over large fries. Oh yeah, and me--I went too, to "help." (I basically helped myself to Chinese food, American food, fast food, etc.) My sister and her husband were beginning a new life, a new adventure, and I documented it all with a camera in one hand and a cheeseburger in the other. While they lived there, the Ellis family went to visit them a few times in the spirit of the "stay with relatives who live in paradise and save on hotel costs" vacation. We swam in their bathtub water warm pool, which was conveniently located adjacent to their palatial house and surrounded by beautiful plant life and a few dancing geckos. Unmitigated joy was to be had by all. Even the geckos.

Alas, it was not to be.

Fast forward to August 2009. My sister and her husband are moving away from Chandler to Dayton. Ohio. The Midwest. The heartland. Where people routinely carry guns and bibles under the seats of their cars (at least that's where I keep mine.) No red rocks, no sun worshipers, no new age anything. Just corn. Rows and rows and rows of it. And you know what? I'm thrilled. Phoenix was too dang far away and the plane rides too long and too expensive. And once you make it TO Phoenix, this idyllic place, this utopia known for shorts weather year round, reveals an underbelly of 115 degree in the shade summers and absolutely NO bakeries. None. Okay, maybe one, but you had to drive 20 miles in intense 115 degree traffic with your tires melting out from under you to get a tiny loaf of Ciabatta bread, for which you drove back thankfully and nibbled carefully, lest you have to get back out into flaming Hades to get another one. That, my friend, was NOT in the travel brochure.

But truthfully, they could build bakeries upon bakeries and it wouldn't matter. The simple fact is Phoenix is farther from Missouri than the moon, and finally, FINALLY, my sister is leaving there and moving to a state where her kids wont cry when it snows and start screaming "Mommy the sky is falling! Mommytheskyisfallinggggggggggggg!!!!"

So what does all that have to do with a comic book store in the middle of Chandler? When they first moved to paradise, I took this picture of Atomic Comics with my camera phone thinking that when I got back to the greater Phoenix area with one of my superhero worshiping boys, we'd go inside. But we never did. They were there three years and we never made it to the interior of the comic book store that was less than five minutes from their house. Sad, really.

Unless, maybe they have comic book stores in Dayton? Ha! Silver lining achieved!