Yesterday I got a call that my good friend's father passed away.  He was 62.  That's not the saddest part of the story, though. The saddest part is that he passed away while he was packing to come spend a week with her, her husband, her brother and her son (and my godson). 

She went to the airport to pick him up, little J. in tow.  She waited for him to get off the plane.  He never did.  She went to the airline and found out he hadn't been on the plane.  She assumed he'd missed the plane, called his house, called his friends.  She said she was picturing him at the United counter frantically trying to book another flight. She was not picturing him dead in his chair  in Florida, half-packed suitcase spread open on the bed.

She finally called 911, and the police had to go through the process of breaking and entering.  This entire ordeal took hours.  Today she's on a flight to Florida to go settle his affairs.  All she could say between sobs was that he was supposed to be there, in her house, with her son, with her.

How many times have I realized I was supposed to be somewhere, but was not?  How many friends and family members did I disappoint as I went on with my own little agenda, not realizing they wanted me there, just at that moment?  The story of C.'s father slowed down time for me yesterday.  As I rocked the little angel to sleep, I did pray that she would never stand in an airport waiting for me to not get off a plane.  I can't really control that - can't control fate - but I can make sure that she knows I am totally there for her, in the moment, in these precious days and years we have together.

I called my parents after that and told them I loved them. They know that I love them, but I told them again anyway.  It's a good thing to do.  It can't be done often enough.

I can't wait for it to be time to go home for Christmas.  I haven't seen Sister Little or Rock Star Boyfriend since September and July, respectively.  I see my parents quite a bit, but it seems like the more I see them, the harder it is to leave every time.

Every year I write a Christmas poem that I send to family.  I started doing it my first year out of college - 1996, to date me - because at that time I was too poor to afford Christmas cards.  I made $18,000 a year and paid $300 a month in rent.  I remember I couldn't even go on extra errands because I had to ration my gas to make the weekly commute to the next town over, where I faxed things for a living as an assistant account executive at a public relations agency.

So here is this year's poem.  Season's Greetings, Internet.  Merry Christmas.  Happy Hanukkah.  Holy shit.

Understanding Love

Christmas 2005

Scientists found the molecule

that produces romantic love;

its effect effervescent for only one year

before the brain grows numb.

Ribbons, wrappings, receipts and coupons

I let weigh more than deserved.

Years passed without anticipation

of more than getting through

December.

In the stores, my daughter shrieks with delight

at the sight of a twenty-foot tree.

Her grasping, tiny, pudgy hands

seize everything she sees.

As we walk, we swing her in between us,

connected by who we’ve made.

Love, from soul or chemical reaction,

repeats passion already played.

My mind, how quickly it needs a hit

of objects or fame or love,

and shocking how fast it can be reset

by these people who are my home.

Well, we made it.  And a good time was had by all.  Inexplicably, the little angel slept through the night both nights we were in Lawler, but not in the hotel on the way there and not in her own crib last night.  There are a few theories about this:

• She was sleeping in a pack-n-play right next to my side of the bed in Lawler.  She could look up and see me if she woke up.
• It was very, very dark in the room.
• It is very quiet in the middle of nowhere from 2:30-4 a.m., when she usually wakes up.  No sirens, no dogs barking, no Ghetto Bird, no trains.
• She was covered with a Magic Quilt.
• She was in the same room with her new friend, Plastic Fire Hat.
• She was exhausted from All That Fun.

• She was lulled to sleep by the insulation of thirty years of stuff stacked in rooms around her.

Not sure which of these is the reason, but dang it, she slept well.  I ran out this morning to buy new nightlights that are not quite so bright. We will test these one by one to see if they help.  I can almost taste that unfettered sleep, that bliss of waking at 6:30 a.m. feeling as though I'd had two REM cycles.  Damn it, I want it back!

Well, we made it.  And a good time was had by all.  Inexplicably, the little angel slept through the night both nights we were in Lawler, but not in the hotel on the way there and not in her own crib last night.  There are a few theories about this:

• She was sleeping in a pack-n-play right next to my side of the bed in Lawler.  She could look up and see me if she woke up.
• It was very, very dark in the room.
• It is very quiet in the middle of nowhere from 2:30-4 a.m., when she usually wakes up.  No sirens, no dogs barking, no Ghetto Bird, no trains.
• She was covered with a Magic Quilt.
• She was in the same room with her new friend, Plastic Fire Hat.
• She was exhausted from All That Fun.

• She was lulled to sleep by the insulation of thirty years of stuff stacked in rooms around her.

Not sure which of these is the reason, but dang it, she slept well.  I ran out this morning to buy new nightlights that are not quite so bright. We will test these one by one to see if they help.  I can almost taste that unfettered sleep, that bliss of waking at 6:30 a.m. feeling as though I'd had two REM cycles.  Damn it, I want it back!

I married Clark from Christmas Vacation.  He likes itineraries.  He fixes the newel post with a chainsaw.  And every year, he dresses up as Santa Claus so that we can drink with twenty or so of our closest friends and familiar strangers.

Two years ago, he bought me a leather skirt.  Not because I like leather skirts, mind you - it took me until I turned 30 to even think about buying a leather jacket.  For some reason, I put leather jackets in the same category as huge engagement rings and wearing eyeliner to football games - just too damn high-maintenance.  But my beloved, he insisted it would bring something to our marriage.  I'm still trying to figure out what that something is, because after I wore it to Santa Pub Crawl, I got a wicked cold I'm still fighting and never cashed in on my leather-encased booty.

We are leaving tomorrow for Lawler, Iowa, population 450, to get together with five out of the nine families that comprise my husband's extended nuclear.  My mother-in-law happened to mention that Santa was not coming to Lawler on Saturday as planned, oh, so too bad for all the grandkids.  I foolishly mentioned that my beloved not only owned a full Santa suit - oh, no - this year he also purchased a fake belly.  So now we are hauling the suit along with a monster tub of hand-me-downs, the camera, video camera, toys for the car, extra food in case the little angel remains picky (tonight was a Food Showdown that ended with me crying for mercy and offering beans-and-wieners), the Pack-n-Play, sheets for the Pack-n-Play, Tad, Gray Kitty, Pink Bear, African-American Cabbage Patch Kid (mine from my not culturally diverse childhood), bedtime books, clothes, medicine for the little angel and me, clothes and boots for all three of us to go sledding, 1.5 liter bottle of wine (my Survivor luxury item), portable booster seat, diapers, diaper bag, extra sippy cups and myriad other kitchen-sink-type items.  It's a good thing we drive a Ridiculously Large Vehicle for our three-person brood.

The first year we did Santa Pub Crawl I dressed as the elf from A Christmas Story. HO HO HO.  The second year I reeled it back in with jeans and a turtleneck.  The third year, I was pregnant and introduced the famous Jingle Bell Necklaces.  Last year, I got a little crazy and wore a frisky tank top in December.  This year, the leather.

Yeah, baby.  That's me - Mrs. Claus, if you're nasty.

I married Clark from Christmas Vacation.  He likes itineraries.  He fixes the newel post with a chainsaw.  And every year, he dresses up as Santa Claus so that we can drink with twenty or so of our closest friends and familiar strangers.

Two years ago, he bought me a leather skirt.  Not because I like leather skirts, mind you - it took me until I turned 30 to even think about buying a leather jacket.  For some reason, I put leather jackets in the same category as huge engagement rings and wearing eyeliner to football games - just too damn high-maintenance.  But my beloved, he insisted it would bring something to our marriage.  I'm still trying to figure out what that something is, because after I wore it to Santa Pub Crawl, I got a wicked cold I'm still fighting and never cashed in on my leather-encased booty.

We are leaving tomorrow for Lawler, Iowa, population 450, to get together with five out of the nine families that comprise my husband's extended nuclear.  My mother-in-law happened to mention that Santa was not coming to Lawler on Saturday as planned, oh, so too bad for all the grandkids.  I foolishly mentioned that my beloved not only owned a full Santa suit - oh, no - this year he also purchased a fake belly.  So now we are hauling the suit along with a monster tub of hand-me-downs, the camera, video camera, toys for the car, extra food in case the little angel remains picky (tonight was a Food Showdown that ended with me crying for mercy and offering beans-and-wieners), the Pack-n-Play, sheets for the Pack-n-Play, Tad, Gray Kitty, Pink Bear, African-American Cabbage Patch Kid (mine from my not culturally diverse childhood), bedtime books, clothes, medicine for the little angel and me, clothes and boots for all three of us to go sledding, 1.5 liter bottle of wine (my Survivor luxury item), portable booster seat, diapers, diaper bag, extra sippy cups and myriad other kitchen-sink-type items.  It's a good thing we drive a Ridiculously Large Vehicle for our three-person brood.

The first year we did Santa Pub Crawl I dressed as the elf from A Christmas Story. HO HO HO.  The second year I reeled it back in with jeans and a turtleneck.  The third year, I was pregnant and introduced the famous Jingle Bell Necklaces.  Last year, I got a little crazy and wore a frisky tank top in December.  This year, the leather.

Yeah, baby.  That's me - Mrs. Claus, if you're nasty.

Setting:  2:30 a.m., Little Angel's Lair

According to my spreadsheet, the little angel has not slept through the night (meaning: 8 p.m. until 5 a.m.) since last Thursday.  She and I have both had a wicked bad cold, and she also seems to be the victim of some nasty teething.

But then there's this other problem of the Diva Effect.  The little angel never used to be a diva.  She used to be quite agreeable. Then a few things happened...she turned twenty months old, and the "babies" came into Waddler B.

The children in Waddler B graduate to the two-year-old room when they, well, turn two.  The little angel's friend J. is getting ready to move over, much to his mother's relief.  You see, Baby M., Baby S. and Baby R. have entered Waddler B, and they are terrorizing the place with their howling, refusal to understand the word "no" and other annoying-to-toddlers baby behavior.

To be fair, it's not their fault.  When the little angel and her posse entered Waddler B, the little angel couldn't even walk. They all still drank from bottles and took naps in cribs. So this expectation that these new, walking, talking babies should act any older than they already are is completely unfair.

Not that the toddlers care about this.  Mama J. told me that J. sits around at home saying "NO BABIES!"  He refuses to read books about babies.  He hates them.  I wonder if all the disruption is fueling the little angel's need to completely control her surroundings at home.

Or, it could just be That Time.  That Time When The Angel Becomes Possessed.

Anyway, after all that backstory, back to the lair.

The little angel usually sleeps through until at LEAST 3:30.  We already got to the point where we consider 5 a.m. "long enough" to sleep in the crib.  It started to creep toward 4 this week, since she had a bad cold and was having trouble breathing and such.  However, 2:30 is NOT ACCEPTABLE, so we went in to see what was causing the problem.

The little angel didn't seem to be in any kind of pain, but we gave her some Oragel just in case.  She wanted to get out of the crib.  We decided it was too early for that, but since she has enough phlegm to vomit at the drop of a hat, we decided to stay in the room to make sure we could catch the vomit before it sullied the sheets, if she decided to go that route.  She didn't, thank goodness.

What she did do:

• Dance around the crib in anger, tossing out Gray Kitty, Orange Fishy, Pink Bear, White Bear, Green Frog and Yellow Blanket.  Each time she tossed something, she would scream "NYO!"
• Throw herself on her mattress and beat her tiny feet against the sheets, howling all the while.
• Kick the slats of her crib in frustration: rat-a-tat-tat.  "NYO!"  This part was actually pretty funny - my beloved and I tried not to make eye contact so we wouldn't outwardly laugh at her.
• Stand back up to see if we were still watching.  At this point, we were tired. We laid down on the floor and went to sleep for a while.
• Rinse, lather and repeat.

This went on for about forty minutes until she went to sleep herself and we crawled back to bed, feeling oddly triumphant, considering we really weren't.  We didn't pick her up AND she didn't vomit. This is a major accomplishment lately.

The other day we made a family grocery trip.  As we were checking out our 8,000 items, the cashier complimented the little angel's faux-fur, leopard-print jacket.  I smiled, since it was the second time that day a cashier had been drawn to it.  The little angel, she is a diva.

This cashier, however, didn't stop. The first one said something about how her little girl had a coat just like it in 1968.  This cashier said also that her little girl had one when she was the little angel's age, but now that she's three, she just can't find any that fit.  Then we got talking about the muffs we apparently both had when WE were little girls.

"Well, little girls love their fur," I said absent-mindedly.

The cashier pulled herself up to her full height (she was pretty tall).  "Yes, we do," she said.  "Umm-hmmm, and those PETA people, I can't believe they throw paint on fur."

"Oh, well, hmmm," I said, not really wanting to talk politics with the cashier.

"You don't ever see them coming in the urban areas," she continued, slamming the groceries across the scanner.  "My grandmother has a fur coat, and I wear it sometimes."

"That's great," I said, trying to hurry her along.

The cashier looked at the little angel again, smiling.  "If someone threw paint on my granny's fur coat, I'd cut 'em," she said.

My mouth dropped open.  I looked over at my beloved, who was staring at Star Magazine, shoulders shaking. I thought I saw a tear creeping down one cheek. 

"Wow," I said.

As we were walking out of the store, we burst into laughter.  "Well," said my beloved, "at least she's descriptive.  It would be interesting to see animal activitists take on the urban core."

Yes, I guess it would.  I'm not sure who I'd be rooting for, but I bet it would be a hell of a fight.

It's been difficult to explain to the little angel this weekend that no one can own snow.  I tried a few different methods, but it was sort of like the Native Americans trying to explain to the Europeans that no one can really own land.  "Oh, yes they can," said the Pilgrims, and well, it stuck.  So this is an age-old problem.

Yesterday the little angel and I bundled up and ventured out for her first real walking snow experience.  First, I put her in the toddler sled and strapped her in, as a good parent should.  I started pulling her around through foot-deep snow, and about three seconds in, she shifted and the whole thing went over.  Unfortunately, she was strapped in with a noggin full of snow.  It was about nineteen degrees out at the time, and the very Sirens could not have screamed louder than she did.  Of course, once I stopped laughing, I felt terrible.  We went in, gathered ourselves, then went back out. After that I stuck to pulling her around on the driveway and other packed surfaces.

Today, it was considerably warmer.  All of the snow on the flat surfaces had melted, and my beloved was with me this time, so we took turns letting her sled down the little incline in our front yard.  She thought this was grand.  Then we decided to make a snowman.  After much discussion, we found a way to wedge rocks into eyes and a mouth.  "Happy!" said the little angel.  She sat down in the snow and pointed to it.  "MINE," she decided.

This "mine" thing just started in earnest this week, when she got into a fight at the Emerald City with Baby M. over a doll she was trying to feed fake Kool-Aid.  "MINE!" she howled, pushing him away.  To be fair, Baby M. has some control issues himself, but still.  Last night she decided the regular telephone was "MINE," though I disagreed.  She only pays, like, twenty percent of the phone bill.

Today at lunch, I tried to give her peas. She's been on a hunger strike since this last cold set in.  She refuses to stop until Saddam commits to being tried in Iraq without kicking up such a fuss.  I tried to reason with her about this, but considering the tribunal isn't having much luck with old "hey, glasses, don't you recognise your former dictator?" I didn't think I would get very far.  She started throwing the peas on the floor, so I grabbed the bowl before she could upend the whole thing.  "NYOOOO!"  she howled.  "MIIIIINNNNNNNEEEEE!" 

I decided lunch was over.  We went upstairs.  She drank some milk so she wouldn't actually starve to death and passed out about halfway through, snuggled into my chest.  Her breathing is getting clearer, so she doesn't sound quite so much like a wild hog while sleeping.  Just before I put her in her crib, I gave her a tight squeeze. 

"Mine," I said.