Hooray, hooray, Christmas shopping is done! Except not stocking stuffers or stuff for people who don’t live in this house. But gifts for our kids? Done!

The hardest part was paring down the book list; I came in hundreds of dollars over budget and had to purge at least two-thirds of my bookstore shopping cart. (Cue rending of garments and gnashing of teeth.) But after a few tense IMs, Dane and I came to an understanding.

ME: Choosing books is freaking hard. When we win the lottery, I am totally investing in our own library.
HIM: ok
ME: sigh. dude, I do not think I can do this.
HIM: ok
ME: Taking books off the list is akin to removing slivers of my soul. Except not as bad, but almost.
HIM: right. just put them is a special jar and we can rebuild your soul later.
ME: Wait, WHAT? You’re cool with soul removal as long as it’s eventually reversible???
HIM: LORD VOLDEMORT!!!!
ME: oh crap
HIM:

The understanding being that as long as we stay under budget, the soul thing is apparently negotiable. I don’t think I’m entirely comfortable with this plan.

Also? I forgot one crucial book. Just $10 more! That’s doable, right? Well, plus another $15 to get free shipping. So $25 more. That’ll work! No one else needs gifts, do they? I think not.

I was thinking about ages and stages today, courtesy of Staci’s post on the subject, and remembered a conversation I had years ago. Abigail was maybe two, and I was explaining to a woman whose children were already grown that I was enjoying each new stage of child development better than the last.

“There hasn’t been a stage I didn’t like,” I told her, “I just like the new one better every time.” (More independence, more development, more fun. This seems perfectly reasonable to me, even now.)

She looked more than a little horrified. “Oh no!” she exclaimed, “When my children were small, I was always sad to leave a stage behind. Always.”

“So you were always… miserable?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” she reassured me. “That’s how I knew I was enjoying their childhoods.”

I see the logic, but I don’t think I have the emotional energy for that particular strategy.

How the haircut postgame show could have gone if I’d come home crankier.

DANE: Your hair looks great!

ME: It’s full of product.

DANE: It looks great.

ME: It won’t look like this tomorrow.

DANE: Well, it looks great today!

ME: Are you saying you think I need product?

DANE: No, it’s just—

ME: Are you trying to tell me you don’t like my hair?

DANE: No—What? No!

I swear it did not go down like that. But I totally need to go back to the salon and buy whatever it was that the stylist put on my scalp. Because while I am sort of freakily anti-chemical, the magic gel-ish stuff made my hair all smooth and not fluffy or frizzy and now I need it.

So sorry to have been missing all week—three sick kids plus one sick me somehow does not make for much computer time. But some of us are better, and today was a busy day, so! Here I am.

We bought a new car this afternoon (alright already, it’s a minivan), thus putting an end to the what-to-drive angst. We wavered between “reliable with good resale value” and “cheap with no car payment,” but in the end the shiny eight-seater won out. I haven’t actually seen the thing yet—the car’s in the driveway, but the clouds opened up and poured rain down upon it as soon as it arrived. I haven’t ventured out for a peek. I’m sure it’s zippy.

Abigail and I also happen to be sporting sassy new haircuts today. She’s been dying to lop her locks off for months now, and we finally did it. Eight inches of wispy princess hair, gone. No more braids for a while. I think they cut out a little piece of my heart along with the hair. I’m trying to focus on how great it is that she doesn’t know (or maybe doesn’t care) that she chose her own opinions and her own convenience over girly conformity—and that IS really cool—but secretly I was kind of attached to the long pretty hair. The new look is absolutely adorable, made even more so by her nonstop grin. We haven’t decided if she looks younger (this is the style she wore when she was two and three) or older (she looks taller and more athletic, somehow). Mine’s shorter too, though I look neither younger nor older. Better groomed, maybe. Though it did nothing for my dark under eye circles.

But really you’re looking for cute kid anecdotes, right? Okay then:

A grownup friend took Dane to pick up the new car this afternoon, leaving his two-year-old at our house to play. She asked if she could have an apple. “Sure,” I said, and let her choose one from the bin.

“And this?” she asked, pointing at a tub of red pepper hummus. “Can I have this for dipping?”

“Sure,” I said again, and scooped some onto her plate.

She watched me with wide eyes, then stamped her feet with glee. “Abigail’s house is like a playhouse!” she declared, “A great big playhouse!”

Yes, that’s right. A great big hummusy playhouse. (At least she wanted to stay and play—last time she was here, Abigail told her how our tree fell: “Ka-BOOOM! And smashed our car to bits!” The little girl replied, wide-eyed, “Our Christmas tree never does that!” and then spent the rest of that visit warily eyeing our evergreen in the corner. It didn’t even twitch. Which is good.)

Amusing moments to look forward to, should a tree ever fall over on your car. Bonus points if the tree isn’t yours and the tree-responsible party is refusing to cover damages, because that’s funny, right?

- Your six-year-old’s response to being told the tree had fallen in the night: “Thank goodness! I’ve been praying for a new car, and you kept saying this one was working just fine!” (Note to parents: Give the child what she wants. Do not make her resort to divine intervention.)

- The number of neighbors you’ve never seen before who stop by to tell you mournfully how “it was such a beautiful car.” (Um, people? It was just a camry. That’s all.)

- The relief with which relatives, friends, and acquaintances will declare that “now you can get a minivan!” (And here I was kind of thrilled that we could fit three car seats in the backseat of a sedan. Eh, what do I know.)

- The teenage girl you’ve never seen before who will stand on your lawn and take pictures of the car because “This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me!” (Wha-huh? Who are you?)

- The fact that a tree falling on the car will not set off the alarm. What does it take to set off the friggin’ car alarm? (Answer: A troupe of guys with chainsaws cutting the tree off the car. Of course, you won’t be able to get close enough to turn the car alarm OFF at that point.)

- Speaking of the troupe of chainsawers: They will arrive in the pouring rain three days after the tree falls, because they couldn’t be bothered to show up over a holiday weekend. Don’t worry about their rain-induced discomfort, though; every time the rain lets up, they will dry each other off with a gas-powered leaf blower.

And that’s all I got. If that’s not enough entertainment for you, well, I suggest you not park your car under root-less trees. Just a thought.

I don’t like having snot on my shirt. Especially when it’s someone else’s. Which it always is, seeing as I myself am kleenex-proficient.

Time for another cup of tea.

I bet you’re thinking I’ve neglected my blog the last few days because I was burnt out over nablopomo, right? What, you hadn’t noticed? Oh, whatever.

Anyhow, while I’m no longer posting every single day, I do intend to post sometimes. The kids and I all came home from Disneyland with a lovely little fever-and-phlegm combination, though, so I haven’t been stringing words together in sensible patterns for the last few days.

On a brighter note, I am now entitled to post this baby:

Woo-hoo! Though I am not up to messing with my sidebar. I think we all know what happens when I open up that template without paying enough attention. (And yes, I’m still using my old blogger template. I tried to switch over to the new deal, but widgets! Everywhere! Ack! So I’ll deal with THAT some other time as well.)

And now I recommend that you go take some vitamin C so you don’t end up like me, with clogged sinuses that make your ears want to explode.