The First Day of School... Kind Of

We all got up this morning, with big plans.

Mine was to get the kids off to school, send Pumpkin off with Mr. Wright to take pictures of some house a million miles away, enjoy an adult beverage or six, and take a bubble bath. Maybe crawl back into bed. Whatever it ended up being, it was going to be gloriously kid-free. (See photo.)

Yessssssssss...

So, I got the girls on the bus, and off to middle school:

And got the boys ready:

But I decided to take the boys to school, myself, rather than putting them on the bus, because Bravo had not yet been assigned to a teacher. 

Here we are, on the first day of school, and the kid DOESN'T HAVE A TEACHER, YET.

Let me back up a little...

Our district has a pre-K program available for kids who qualify for it. Basically, if their assessments show they're deficient by a certain percentage in one area, or a cumulative percentage over all areas, they're "in." Well, Bravo came to us with an IEP, so he was "in." He finished out the year with the pre-K program, and at the end of school, his teachers told him how much they would miss him, and how excited they were that he was now going to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER! Woot!

They may have also said something like I needed to fill out a packet for Kindergarten, if he was going to be in district when school started, but, you know, we're doing kinship care, and the plan is for him to go home, so back in June, I had no idea if he was going to be around when fall came, so I sort of filed the information in my "Think About It Later" file.

And there it stayed. Right up until Monday, when I was reminded that he still wasn't registered for school. Aw, firetruck...

So, on Monday, I packed the baby into the stroller, walked a couple blocks to the district office, and filled out the paperwork for him to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER, and turned it in (not without some struggle, because I don't have access to a lot of necessary documents, like his birth certificate, and so on). But, I got it done. 

Then, I was reminded that if I wanted him to attend the same school as his brother, I would need to "choice" him, and that was a completely different set of forms.

Let me back up a little further...

A few years ago, the boundary lines for our schools changed. Our house is in this weird little pocket that got changed from the school Curlytop and Snugglebug had been attending, to this other school. At that time, we sat down with the team, and determined it would be best for the girls to stay in the school they were already in, since their supports were already set up, we had a great working relationship with the team, and it was a familiar environment for them. So, we just had to "choice" them to the school they were already attending. And it was no big deal. 

So, when we got the boys, we "choiced" Alpha into the school Snugglebug was, and had been attending for years, because... one bus, convenience, and all that. (Curlytop had moved on to middle school by that time. Interestingly, she moved on to a middle school out of our boundary, because of the elementary school she had been "choiced" into. Snugglebug joined her, there, this year.)

Anyway, I filled out the choice forms, and was told we should have an approval by Tuesday, unless for some weird reason the superintendent decided to deny it. Good thing, since school starts on Wednesday, right?

Yesterday, I got the call that it had been approved, which was awesome. I asked who his teacher would be, and the district rep didn't know, but said the school should have that information for me. 

I was tied up yesterday for quite a while, and didn't get a chance to call the school until after everyone had already left the office, so I was a little anxious, knowing school would be starting today, and poor Bravo still didn't know who his teacher was.

So, this morning, I just drove the boys to school, and trotted into the office with Bravo. "Who's his teacher?" I asked.

"We don't have him assigned to a teacher, but we should have that information for you by tomorrow."

BY TOMORROW? I mean, this kid was sitting there, in the office, with his backpack on, and his shoes that weren't scuffed, yet, and his sweet little clean face, and all the other kids were heading off to their classrooms, and we would know tomorrow who his teacher was?

"So, what do I do? Do I just... take him home for today?"

I got a blank stare from the secretary. After a moment, she recovered, and said, "Kindergarten starts next week. You know that, right?"

Ohhhhhhh...

Anyway, here's what my plans have been changed to, today:

I think he's a little disappointed. I am, too.

I swear, Southern Comfort, we will see each other again, soon.

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Seeing Red

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A few weeks ago at the dental office, Curlytop looked up from her book and said, “Mom, tomorrow is my last day of first grade… Do second graders get to eat Red Dye?”

“Not you, Sweetie – you’re allergic, and so is Snugglebug.”

The color drained from the dental assistant’s face. She’d just finished cleaning Snugglebug’s teeth, a small tub of RED cleansing paste still in hand. “You didn’t use that on my daughter, did you?” I asked, stupidly. Of course, she had.

At that moment, our dentist popped his head in. “How’s it going, here?” he asked.

“To tell you the truth, Doc, I’m a bit alarmed and concerned, since Snugglebug was just treated with red paste.”

He blinked. “But, she’s allergic to Red Dye.”

“Yeah. I know.” I’ve come to believe some medical professionals have hair-trigger backpedalling devices installed during their schooling which activate in response to potential liability, and our dentist didn’t disappoint.

“Well, I know you SAY she’s allergic to Red Dye, but – you know – is it REALLY an allergy? I mean, is it a documented allergy?”

“Well, it’s well-documented with our pediatrician, school nutritionist, neurologist, developmental specialist, five different therapists, and YOUR OWN RECORDS, as evidenced by the all-caps words on that screen.” I pointed to the screen next to him. “Do you need more documentation? I’m sure I can dig it up.”

I could tell our doc was getting a little nervous. “What sort of allergy is it? Do they break out in hives, or what?”

“It’s pretty much straight neurotoxicity. Curlytop has seizures.” I paused, letting that sink in a bit. “Oh, and they do this self-injurious behavior thing where they tear and bite their skin open. It’s a fairly awesome spectacle.”

“Uh-huh… Well, that sounds pretty serious, so, uh… well… erm…”

I took the time to text Mr. Wright: I think you’d better head to the dental office. I’m about to lose my sh*t with our dentist.

Then, I returned my attention to the stammering dentist. “I want a printout of the ingredients in that paste. Like, now.”

The dentist hustled off to find the data, and I was left with the wilting hygenist. “I actually don’t think it has Red Dye in it,” she said, hopefully.

“Really? What do you think makes it bright red?” As it turned out, there were two Red Dye ingredients, according to the emergency hotline for the manufacturer.

Most of the hubbub had died down by the time Mr. Wright arrived, and I informed him we had a rough night ahead of us, following Snugglebug’s exposure.

“I didn’t know whether to contact our attorney, or not,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure we can document this and ensure it doesn’t happen again on our own,” I assured him.

“I meant for YOU. Where’s the bloodbath? I was looking forward to seeing you in action. I even have popcorn out in the car!”

Is it any wonder I love him so?

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My Husband Humiliated Me with a Cheeseburger

Get my recipe for a divine burger alternative here.

The email notification pinged on my Blackberry. It was a message from a reporter, seeking information on local vegans for a piece she is doing on veganism for a lifestyle magazine. Would I be interested in participating? You bet your sweet potato, I was interested!

I dialed the reporter’s number from the passenger seat of the car while Mr. Wright drove around, running errands. She thanked me for calling, and asked me questions such as, “What led you to follow a vegan diet?” and “What advice do you have for those who’d like to try a vegan diet?”

The answers came easily, and for once, I expressed myself eloquently with just the right amount of humor balanced with emotion, intellect and compassion. I was brilliant!

She asked me if my entire family followed a vegan diet, just as Mr. Wright pulled into the high school parking lot to pick up Pepper. No, I explained, the rest of the family is omnivorous. However, the meat in our freezer is either hunted by Mr. Wright, or raised by extended family under humane and hormone-free conditions.

“I really think there’s more integrity in the meat my family eats than in that found at the grocery store meat counter,” I said. “The animals didn’t live a life of suffering, as is so common in commercial farming. They existed in nature, or in a compassionate, well-monitored environment.”

I was on a roll, driving home my point that, although veganism might not be for everyone, we can all make conscientious decisions about our food. Did I mention I was brilliant?

At that very moment, Mr. Wright made a sharp left turn into the drive-thru of an establishment which represents the very antithesis of the point I was making. I won’t name names, here, but suffice it to say all my credibility on the ethics of eating was destroyed when he rolled down the window and started rattling off, “I’ll have a cheeseburger, Quarter Pounder, Big Mac and a McChicken… Pepper, do you want anything else?”

Have you seen the movie Pulp Fiction? Never have I more desired to resurrect the classic line, “…I’m hanging up the phone! Prank caller! Prank caller!” I asked for the entire incident to be stricken from the record, but… I’ll have to wait, with the rest of you, to see what the final article includes.

By the way, do you know why divorce attorneys are so expensive? Because sometimes, they’re worth it.

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Making Time to “Make Some Time”

"Soup" is good for the soul.

Since collecting seven kids, I’ve learned that there just isn’t time for all the things we parents learn to expect and appreciate in our Before Children (B.C.) days. Twenty minutes alone in the shower, for example. If I have time to wash, rinse, and repeat, I know I’m either dreaming, or the kids are scheming to set fire to the house.

Nothing, perhaps, is so missed as the B.C. convenience of having Grown-Up Time at any time of the day, in any room of the house. We have so many little ears around, we don’t even call it Grown-Up Time anymore—we use code, and call it “making soup.”

B.C., steamy soup was abundant, but these days, it seems the soup kitchen’s experiencing budget cutbacks, with the all-important asset of time excruciatingly difficult to come by—especially since all the kids are too old to take naps, now.

Speaking of naps, I fall for it every time... Mr. Wright says, “Hey, the kids are watching a movie downstairs. Wanna take a ‘nap’ with me?” A nap? In the middle of the day? You can bet your bumpus I get excited about the idea of having a little siesta. The problem is, I always assume Mr. Wright is actually hinting at sleep—a breakdown in interpretation which always causes disappointment. For him, I mean. I’m usually sleeping and unavailable for disappointment.

If he really wanted to be clear, he’d say, “Do we have time to whip up a batch of soup?”

Gone are the crock pot days of slowly simmering batches of soup. Now, it’s microwaved, or everyone goes hungry—if we even stay awake long enough to push “start.” At bedtime, there’s always a kid who has to have just one more story read to her, and another who has to have one more drink of water. There’s always one more back that needs scratching or a kid who needs a parent to cuddle—just in case the closet monster decides to make an appearance.

Mr. Wright offers to do the bedtime routine, because (and I won’t lie, it’s true) I’m too much of a pushover, and I play into the kids’ hands for hours on end, reading The Little Fish That Got Away seventeen times. “Start without me!” he calls down the hall, determined to efficiently and quickly cut through the preliminaries of the nighttime games.

Soup really is best when made for two, and even enjoying an appetizer alone is, well, lonely. So I wait for my super souper to join me as the sounds of “one more story” drift down the hallway for thirty-some minutes, and then... Silence. Success! Any minute, now...

Seriously, any minute... What’s taking so long?

I tiptoe down the hall to the girls’ bedroom, quietly push the door open, and peer in. Curlytop and Snugglebug are wide awake. “Shhhhh,” they whisper. “You’ll wake up Daddy.” Sure enough, Mr. Wright is fast asleep at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, well,” I sigh. “Maybe we’ll be able to reheat some leftovers tomorrow night.”

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Jackie Versus Marilyn

Honestly, it’s not a difficult job.

Look pretty, plaster a smile on my face, make small talk with the right people, ask compelling questions at the right time… So why do I have so much trouble being Mr. Wright’s “plus one” at business and political events? Why can’t I be Jackie to his JFK?

I’m terrible with names, and I can rarely place a face. I’ve conducted lengthy conversations with bigwigs, discussing their families, the real estate market in their state—wherever that is—my upcoming book, and what the kids are up to, only to walk away, whispering to Mr. Wright, “Who in blazes was that?”

Jackie was too classy to bungle associations that way, I’m sure.

Last night, at a reception, I was greeted with an enthusiastic hug from a charming man who—sadly—was not wearing a name badge. “It’s so good to see you!” he said. Who was he? High brass? Someone we had dinner with in Miami? A leadership colleague of Mr. Wright’s? My mouth kicked into Stepford Wife mode, automatically producing an always-appropriate, “Great to see you! How have you been? How’s your family?”

“I’m fantastic,” he said. “As far as I know, my family is fine, though not much has changed since you and I chatted for an hour yesterday.”

Oh. He did look a little familiar.

My mental Rolodex is always flipping at top speed, trying to place the friendly folks who kiss my cheek, pat my back, or try to squeeze the stuffing out of me. I always feel inadequate when a well-wisher greets me with, “Christina-Marie! So wonderful to see you!” and I’m forced to respond, “Hey… you… It’s great to see you, too!”

As the wife of a man with a certain level of influence, I’m occasionally called upon to make introductions. It usually goes something like this:

“Mr. Bigwig, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, um,—I’m sorry, what is your name, again?”

“It’s Bill.”

“Of course, it’s Bill. I meant your last name, Silly!” Insert light, flirty laugh, a la Marilyn.

It’s anything but nimble, yet I’ve used this technique to not-so-gracefully reveal the first and last names of acquaintances I’ve forgotten many times, with success. Only once did a gentleman call me out, rolling his eyes as he said, “I’m such a dear friend, she can’t remember my name. Yeah, we’re really close.”

No social grace at all. It’s no wonder we’re not close, Mr.—I’m sorry, what was your name again?

As difficult as it is to open my mouth and say the right thing, it’s sometimes more difficult to keep it closed to avoid saying the wrong thing. The absolute biggest challenge is to remain absolutely silent.

During our most recent trip to Washington, D.C., I performed remarkably, if I do say so myself. I avoided the low-hanging fruit as we walked near the Capitol and two Planned Parenthood petitioners approached, asking, “Do y’all support Planned Parenthood?”

I equally avoided intervening when a particularly shrewish woman suggested Mr. Wright did not boast the proper credentials to attend a privileged reception.

I’ll never be the refined, polished Jackie-like gem on the arm of my husband I’m expected to be. I tend to be a bit too loud, too brazen, too forgetful, too aloof, too much of a spectacle, too “Marilyn” in drawing attention to myself.

I do succeed in sporting a fabulous collection of hats, though. Perhaps I’m Marilyn, with the benefit of Jackie’s hats.

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Can't Argue with Pre-K Logic

I don’t know what I’d do without Curlytop and Snugglebug. They always have an explanation for things which might otherwise confound the world.

When reminded they can’t play outside alone, my faith-filled girls assure me, “It’s okay, Mama. God is with me.” Um, no. I follow too many missing children cases to let my little ones wander beyond the front door without the watchful eye of a Trusted Big Person.

Interestingly, inside the house, those same girls won’t even go to the bathroom alone, never mind pick up their room without an adult hovering over them. The tune quickly changes to, “I need you to come with me! God isn’t with me—I can’t feel him!” Now, I’m not a theologian, but I suspect my wee philosophers are simply seeking my attention.

My insistence that certain activities are for grown-ups only has finally sunk in, ensuring Curlytop and Snugglebug understand there are just some things that can’t be tackled until they’re older. Driving, for example. In fact, the girls are so accepting of the concept they’ve decided to selectively apply it to other activities, as well. The other day, I tried to coax Curlytop into trying a new dish. “I’ll do it later, Mama,” she said. “Like, when I’m a grown-up.”

Our mild and sweetly aging family dog, Perseus, went missing the other day. For the record, he’s never lived up to the image of his adventuring, battling namesake. He’s what we call a “watch dog.” In the event of a burglary, Perseus would assuredly “watch” the perp haul off the stereo, the television, the computer…

Anyway, we searched and searched for our loyal canine, calling and whistling for him outside, walking through the house to scout where he may be hiding. A minute short of calling Animal Control, fearing he’d wandered off, I walked into Curlytop and Snugglebug’s bedroom. They both looked completely angelic and nonchalant, watching a video. Too angelic, in fact. “Girls, have you seen Perseus?” I asked. They glanced at one another before answering, in unison, “No, Mama.”

I turned to leave, and heard a muffled scratching sound. “What’s that noise?” I asked. Curlytop and Snugglebug both shrugged their shoulders, turning their attention back to the movie. As the scratching grew more urgent, I followed the sound to the closet. I turned the knob, pulled the door open, and struggled to keep my footing as Perseus burst out, nearly knocking me over.

“How did Perseus get in the closet?” I demanded.

Curlytop shrugged her shoulders again, but Snugglebug cleared up any speculation with a wide-eyed explanation of astonishment. “It must be magic! Perseus is a magician! Isn’t that cool, Mama?”

Cool, indeed. I must be the only pet owner in the world with a magical dog who not only disappears himself, but also traps himself in closets.

Speaking of pets, Mr. Wright recently “fished” a piece of chewing gum out of our aquarium. The reason the gum ended up at the bottom of the tank? “Fish love to blow bubbles.”

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Miami Vice-less

I'll admit, it was a bit unsettling getting to the airport with enough time to walk to the gate, instead of sprint. I was equally surprised when our checked luggage actually made it to the same airport we did. Those things just don't happen to the Gonzos. We're always rushing this way and that, making frantic phone calls after lost luggage, having difficulty with botched reservations at the hotel and so on, but none of those familiar, soothing scenarios presented themselves. I felt a tiny bit better when our seatmate on the plane filled us in on the latest news about cruise ships - namely, the recent capsizing of the ship in Italy and the widespread outbreaks of Norovirus among ships departing from Florida.

When you live like The Gonzo Mama, crisis and chaos are more comfortable than safe and laid back.

"Maybe, just maybe," I thought, "this trip will be a real break for Mr. Wright and me... No kids, sunshine in February, walking hand-in-hand along the beaches of Miami, and finishing with a cruise through Key West and the Bahamas."

We checked into the hotel with no glitches and headed to the welcome reception, where Mr. Wright effectively ate dinner while I sipped a mango mojito, in the absence of any vegan-friendly fare. We had big plans to take on the Miami nightlife, but I fell dead asleep as soon as we got to the room.

Mr. Wright says that's what happens when a girl drinks her dinner, but I'm blaming jet lag.

The next morning, it started raining. The winds picked up, giving a certain monsoon-like feel to our walk along South Beach, and adding a bit of flair to our outdoor dining experience. I ate a salad, by the way, and passed up the opportunity to enjoy a 36-ounce tropical drink served in a fish bowl in favor of a soy latte.

We headed back to the hotel, soaking wet but prepared to enjoy some private, grown-up time. We drew the curtains to prevent any guests at the neighboring hotel from benefiting from a room with dual views, set the deadbolt on the door, and looked into one another's eyes for the first time in a few years. Just as we barely reached our target aerobic heart rate, one of the kids called, which simply confirmed my suspicion that they intuitively know when it's most inconvenient to interrupt their parents, and they use that skill with deadly accuracy every single time the opportunity is presented.

I'm not asking for a hurricane or anything, but a little adventure would be nice. Where are Crockett and Tubbs?

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Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Four-Wheel Drive?

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About three weeks before the first big snowfall, a wholly terrifying CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK began thunderously beating from my front axle. I pulled into the nearest parking lot (coincidentally, my favorite coffee shop) and called Mr. Wright, sobbing hysterically. He agreed to meet me, but wouldn’t arrive for about two hours.

I enjoyed a soy mocha while chatting with my barista pal, who was actually happy my car was kaput, because she hadn’t seen me in months due to some silly determination on my part not to spend a quarter of the family grocery budget on caffeinated beverages with enough calories to solve the world hunger problem.

Three mochas and ten bathroom breaks later, Mr. Wright arrived to rescue me. Or, at least, give me a ride. If he could fix or diagnose the car, I’d take it as a bonus. Plus, I was out of cash, and as spun out as a washer full of pantyhose. Mr. Wright started the car, threw it into reverse, backed up to the rhythm of CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK, and pulled back into the parking space.

“It’s making a lot of noise,” he said.

“Really? I didn’t hear a thing. Actually, how did you know I was here? Did you hear my synapses buzzing, from the caffeine?” I countered. “Of course it’s making a lot of noise! That’s why I called you.”

My husband gave an indignant sniff, then bent down and looked under the rig. I always sort of laugh when he does that. The thing is, he has no idea what he’s looking for—like when I walk into the laundry room and push a couple buttons or turn a dial on the washer or dryer. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but figure if I tinker around until the thing starts, the clothes might get clean. Or dry.

Mr. Wright walked around the car, peered under the other side, rubbed his chin and said, “Well, you got me.”

“Yeah, I know. And sometimes, I wish I’d accepted Mr. Goodwrench’s proposal. Then I’d have him, right now.”

He got back in the car, started it, and asked, “Why are you driving around in four-wheel drive?” I heard a soft click, and Mr. Wright backed the car up—with absolutely no sound but the tire rubber on pavement.

“That’s amazing!” I cried, and showered my husband with the appropriate number of “it’s so sexy when you fix things” remarks. The problem, he explained, must have been something wonky in the hub, making noise when the four-wheel drive was engaged.

When the Snowpacolypse hit, the only operational function on my big, heavy rig was rear-wheel drive, due to a crazy-high estimate from the mechanic and a crazy-low balance in the checking account. Why can’t those of us who need snow tires and chains every year file our taxes a few months early, to get those returns in time for winter vehicle maintenance? I’m going to write a letter to my Congressman.

There were a few scary slips, one embarrassing failure to get up my own driveway, and one miracle. Oh, yes—there was a miracle.

Mr. Wright had to drive me to Target to get a pair of snow boots for Curlytop because they were on a fabulous sale, and I was too chicken to drive. As we exited the parking lot, we saw a small car high-centered on the berm between lanes on the avenue. “I have a tow strap,” said Mr. Wright. “Let’s pull them out.”

“Are you crazy? Our four-wheel drive doesn’t work! We’ll get ourselves stuck, trying to pull them out, and you’ll cause an accident and we’ll die, making it impossible for me to punish you for weeks over insisting on such a stupid idea. No way!”

After the tow strap was hooked to both vehicles, Mr. Wright flipped the dial to four-wheel drive and started to pull. The CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK returned. The small car stayed high-centered, and the front of our rig was sliding on the ice, threatening to enter the next lane of traffic. Mr. Wright pressed down the accelerator, and the small car dismounted the berm.

The car’s driver and passengers gave hearty thanks to Mr. Wright, and we drove away. In four-wheel drive. Without a single clunk. The force of tugging the small car off the berm forced the hub to lock in.

Guess how many “it’s so sexy when you fix things” that cost me.

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Car, Pay Diem

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“It rattles, shakes and knocks,” I said to my brother, Bubba. “I’m almost afraid to drive it.”

“So, it runs like a car with 280,000 miles on it?”

“No. We refer to 280,000 miles as ‘the good old days,’” I sighed.

Big Green came to us about seven years ago. She had more miles on her than we’d like, but she started, she ran, and she accommodated enough cabooses for our giant clan. Considering I’d just rolled our family van in a three-flip horror, Big Green was in considerably better shape than our other car.

Now, she shimmies and clangs like a two-ton belly dancer. The dash lights went out a couple years ago, and because Mr. Wright deemed removing the dashboard to fix the bulb too problematic, I now use a flashlight propped on top of the steering column to check the speedometer. The back window doesn’t properly close anymore, so we have a rag stuffed into the latching mechanism to keep the interior light from staying on – or would, if the interior light worked.

A family of four could be fed from the scraps and crumbs of French fries, potato chips, dry cereal and assorted other snack foods wedged into the cracks and between the seats. We could probably create a small island with the mud caked on the headlights – which, by the way, we can’t wash because we have a low beam out, and the dirt is masking the fact that we’re driving around with our brights on all the time.

Vehicle maintenance is not a gift the Gonzos possess.

Big Green is getting on in years. She has a ton of miles on her, and she’s held together mostly by prayer. She doesn’t look as great as she used to. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for the big scratch on the rear panel. I just haven’t confessed to Mr. Wright yet that I backed into the fence around the pool. He was pretty upset at the thought of a stranger doing the damage in a parking lot, so I’m not sure how he’d react to his beloved bride proving to be the culprit.

Like Big Green, I’m getting older. I’d like to say I’m aging gracefully, but really, I’m just aging. My odometer keeps ticking, and some days I, too, am held together by stubbornness and prayer. The mirror reports I don’t look as great as I did ten years ago – though Mr. Wright swears I look better.

As beat-up and sad as our old rig is, Mr. Wright isn’t making plans for trading her in. He has this funny idea about getting a full lifetime out of things. Thankfully, he feels the same way about marriage. I’d hate to see him driving around in a new, sporty convertible. Know what I mean?

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I’ve Adopted an Eighth Child, and My Husband Doesn’t Know

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I've “known” for a while there’s another kid intended for the Gonzo clan. I don’t know the sex of the child, the age, or where the little blessing is coming from, but I do know the name.

Asher.



That’s the name I hear, over and over again, during my prayers, my dreams, my most peaceful moments, and my most chaotic crises. “Asher,” I hear. Surely, this child is on his or her way to our family. I just don’t know how, yet. Or when.

In the meantime, I’ve taken the preliminary steps to securing the munchkin. That is, I said to my friend, Mike, who runs an adoption agency, “Hey, if you come across any kids named Asher, give me a call.” Mike asked if there were any other pre-adoption screening requirements, and I said, “No, just the name.”

“Does it have to be a given name, or can it be a kid whose name we can change to Asher?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, yet. Let me get back to you.”

I’ve been periodically checking the “children waiting” website for our state—you know, just in case—but have yet to see the name pop up. It’s silly, really, since we haven’t completed a new home study, submitted any paperwork, or taken any other steps to show our preparedness to welcome a new child into our home.

No matter. I’m way ahead of the game. In fact, I’ve already incorporated Asher into our lives. When I shop, I check out the baby department. If an incredible sale pops up, I want to be ready to stock up on sleepers and burp cloths.

That may be awkward if Asher turns out to be eight years old.

I envision the football games we’ll attend, cheering Asher on to victory. True, Asher may be a girl. That’s where my back-up vision comes in—dance recitals and volleyball tournaments. Maybe Asher will have special needs, so I’m reading more blogs by special needs parents. I’m also reading more blogs on food allergies. Asher may have special dietary requirements, you know.

I find myself preparing larger quantities of food these days. Asher has a large appetite, and is in the middle of a growth spurt. I marveled the other day how hot dogs—although I don’t eat them or feed them to my children—come in packages of eight. Surely, that’s a sign. What happens to the extra hot dog, if a family only has seven children?

When we’re headed somewhere as a family, I find myself counting Asher’s among the cabooses we need to seat. Since we only have five kids at home, now, we’re still doing okay with our eight-passenger vehicle. I don’t know what I’ll do if Asher is part of a sibling group.

Every fairy tale princess knows someday, her prince will come. I, too, “know” someday, Asher will come. Just as those princesses are too busy trying to survive wicked stepmothers and evil witches to actively pursue said princes, I’m far too busy raising the kids I already have to worry much about how the next one will find us. Some days, that’s on par with escaping evil witches.

Let’s not forget, dear readers, that Mr. Wright and I were minding our own business when we accidentally adopted the last two. These things have a way of working themselves out.

Until that time, I’ll continue to dress, feed and house my imaginary eighth child (Asher is so cute when he/she is sleeping!), while trying to figure out a way to break the news to Mr. Wright.

“Honey, we’re expecting.”

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Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

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*Admittedly, this post was supposed to go up last Wednesday, but I was on my way to California with my main squeeze and my kiddos. Ah... Glorious distraction!


As a vegan, I’m aware my diet is different from others. Still, it’s always perplexed me that when I’m invited to dinner, my dietary restrictions seem to boggle the minds of people who are accustomed to preparing “normal” food. I prepare vegan meals for my family every single day, and don’t bat an eyelash. It’s not difficult, so what’s all the hubbub, Bub?

Myself excluded, I’ve never planned a meal for someone with a special diet. All that changed last week, when Mr. and Mrs. Editor came for dinner.

I consider the Editors a couple of fine and discerning taste. They are, after all, friends with me. So I was thrilled to have an opportunity to showcase my not insignificant culinary skills by pulling them away from the chaos and busyness of running a newspaper, and giving them a chance to relax and enjoy a fine meal and a drink or two.

As is my custom, I contacted my guests, asking if they had any food allergies. Mr. Editor replied, indicating no food allergies, and a preference for “only fruit for dessert.” Talk about crushing news! I’m writing a vegan dessert cookbook, and my guests don’t want dessert? Not satisfied with the idea of a peel-your-own course, I created a delicious cherry balsamic reduction to serve with fresh sliced Pink Lady apples from the tree in our little orchard. Not terribly gourmet, but a little fancier than just plain fruit.

I planned a delicious Eggplant Pomodoro as the main course, and Mr. Wright insisted on cooking off a hunk of organic dead cow. He calls it “prime rib.” I call it “carnage.”

A couple days before the big day, I spoke with Mrs. Editor, who informed me her husband wasn’t exactly accurate in his report that any old food would be fine. Turns out the Big Guy was in the middle of a bout of elevated blood sugar, brought on perhaps—and this is only a guess—by a night of imbibing glorious cocktails with his favorite columnist. Okay, I’m guilty. But his blood sugar levels meant certain foods were strictly off the table, so to speak, including wheat, beans, tomatoes, sugar, and a whole host of other things I can’t imagine living – or cooking – without.

“You’d better cook a double portion of that carnage,” I told Mr. Wright.

I know healthy food. I don’t always choose it, but I know it. I have a pantry full of brown rice, quinoa, millet, couscous and other healthy grains. Turns out they, too, were off the menu, along with the fresh fruit. I decided to leave feeding Mr. Editor to my husband. Mrs. Editor, the kids, and I would enjoy the scratch-baked dinner rolls, Eggplant Pomodoro, and dressed-up apples.

That day—like so many, when you run a newspaper—wasn’t an easy one for my friends. That afternoon, I said, “The dinner rolls are rising, the carnage is thawing, and it’s peaceful here. Come enjoy it.”

Maybe I was stretching the truth a bit on the “peaceful” part. Twenty minutes before our guests arrived, the eggplant was crisping in the oven, the warm rolls nested in a pretty wicker basket, the carnage was nearly roasted to the Department of Health’s “safe” temperature, and fresh, pretty apples waited on the counter to be sliced for dessert. I decided to grab a diet soda from the cooler in my office.

Big mistake.

Mr. Wright was at his desk, trying to get some last-minute work done. Boy, howdy—there’s nothing more attractive than a man providing for his family. I took a minute to flirt a little with him, and he took five minutes to flirt back, and I took...

Fifteen minutes later, I sashayed back into the kitchen to find smoke filling the oven, rolling off the charred, blackened slices of eggplant. A brawl broke out between Curlytop and Snugglebug over a cheap metal bit of jewelry. I began yelling out ingredients for Mr. Wright to fetch for my “meatless balls,” which would have to replace the eggplant over the pasta, while alternately yelling at the little ones to stop yelling. Just as the situation reached an honest-to-goodness riot level, the doorbell rang.

It was the best night I’ve had in a long, long time.

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Seven Reasons I Need a Clone

July 5, 1996 marked the birth of the first mammal to be cloned from an adult somatic cell. She was a sheep, cloned by scientists at Roslin Institute near Edinburgh, Scotland, and named “Dolly.” The cloned donor cell was taken from a mammary gland, and, as one of the scientists explained, “Dolly is derived from a mammary gland cell and we couldn’t think of a more impressive pair of glands than Dolly Parton’s.”

Which just goes to show, I suppose, that you can lead a man to science, but you can’t evolve his thinking.

I remember having serious concerns about the project, wondering if the cloning of humans could be far behind. I tend to agree with bioethicist Leon Kass, who opined back in the 1960s that “the programmed reproduction of man will, in fact, dehumanize him.”

Still, there are times I wish I had a double to fill in or give a little help during my busiest moments. Ethics aside, I can’t deny the allure of being able to be two places at once, or getting twice as much work done in my limited time, or perhaps training a clone to do the chores I detest the most. For example:

1. Parent-Teacher Conferences: While we only have five kids at home now, those twice-yearly conferences add up. In the past, we’ve tried the “divide and conquer” technique, scheduling conferences at the same time and sending Mr. Wright to one, while I attended another. The problem is, I’m too much of detail-oriented gal to accept “fine” as an answer when I ask how Mr. Wright’s conference went. Details, man! I need details!

2. Sports Season: Has it ever occurred to athletic directors and administrators that having a house full of ambitious children is particularly straining on parents? Having soccer, football and junior high volleyball seasons occur concurrently has certainly made our calendar full, and try as we might, we can’t attend every single game or match.

3. Work-at-Home Mom; Stay-at-Home Kid: I know I’m asking a lot for Snugglebug to happily entertain herself with educational materials while I work on a deadline, but if she’d just stop trying to climb the six-foot fence to get into the pool, I’d get a lot more done. This is where I ask for my clone to have a Mary Poppins gene or two inserted.

4. The 6:15 A.M. Alarm: I’m a night owl by nature, and that alarm does little but tick me off and make me want to throw things—namely, the alarm clock. If I could program my clone to do the morning kids-to-school bustle, I could sleep in, making me a grateful, cheerful mama instead of a cranky, sleepwalking beast.

5. An Extra Lap: When you have kids with Sensory Processing Disorder, you double as a jungle gym. Those sensory-seeking kids need constant touch, and they always seem to be climbing, sprawling, or rubbing on you. Such is my life with Curlytop and Snugglebug, and all too often, fights over who gets to sit on Mama break out. Imagine two mamas, with two laps!

6. Aviation Advocate: Somewhere along the way, I developed an unrealistic fear of flying. A few times a year, Mr. Wright gives me a sedative and pours me into a too-small seat on some enormous aircraft to fly to some wonderful place to attend some important event on his blessed arm. Once my clone arrives, I’ll be sending her. I’ll even spring for first-class seats, if it means I don’t have to get on an airplane.

7. Church Versus Deadline: Due to an illness I’m sure my clone would have been immune to, I had to ask for an extended deadline this week. Now, instead of attending church with my family, I’m eking out this column—and Mr. Wright didn’t spare me his look and oration of disapproval.

I’m convinced… bring in the clones!

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My Glamorous Life as a Rock Star’s Wife

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What’s the difference between a large pizza and a musician? 


A large pizza can feed a family of four.

It’s an old joke, and perhaps one even rooted in a bit of truth. We artsy types aren’t exactly celebrated for our ability to hold “straight” jobs. Still, Mr. Wright doesn’t completely fit the stereotype of Starving Musician—he has other skills that people actually pay him for, like selling real estate and lobbying politicians.

You wouldn’t know it by his last gig, though. I’m pretty sure he ran the gamut of stereotypical behaviors for musicians.

Always arrive late. The musician must always arrive late; so late, in fact, the people who hired him must be scratching their heads at 30 minutes before the curtain, wondering if he will actually show up. Mr. Wright met this challenge by making an eight-hour drive before showtime, and getting stuck in Labor Day weekend traffic.

Be disorganized. The musician must always leave an amp cord or microphone behind, causing the entire band to scramble and pray for miraculous provision before sound check. Mr. Wright is a drummer, so he doesn’t have an amplifier or cords, but he rose to the occasion by tossing every piece of his kit into the back of our Expedition, willy-nilly, and forgetting to pack spare equipment—a glaring oversight noticed mid-show, when his snare drum experienced a blowout.

Have an attitude of expectation. The musician must earnestly believe every person in his life is there to appreciate his talent and yearn to serve him. As Mr. Wright casually grabbed a glass of wine and chatted with his bandmates, Pockets and I were left to unpack the equipment. If you are the child or spouse of a musician, you may as well get used to being a roadie. The role is not optional.

Be broke. The musician must bum money off friends and relatives, because his gig money rarely pays his bar tab. Mr. Wright “borrowed” my last ten bucks cash, right before sending me off in a car with a gas gauge hanging a half-inch below “E.”

Be mysterious. The musician must have an air of mystery about him. People must wonder what creative beauty is churning in that brain of his. Mr. Wright actually failed on this count—at least as far as I’m concerned—but I’ve known him for more than ten minutes. 90% of the time he’s thinking about one thing, and the other 10% of the time, he’s thinking about food. Still, those dark sunglasses he wore probably fooled some of the audience.

That’s my man… over forty, father of seven, and still living his rock and roll dreams. Thankfully, he’s no longer wearing Spandex onstage. Back off, ladies—I saw him first!

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Tanks for the Memories

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I’ll never be rid of the heap of the metal Mr. Wright calls a car. “The Phoenix,” as I’ve taken to calling it, is a dilapidated pile of parts slightly resembling an older model Honda.

It is the bane of my existence. Well, the Phoenix and grease spatters on the stovetop.

Loyal readers may recall it was stolen last year. Unfortunately, our local boys in blue solved the crime and returned the bucket of bolts to us. Someone hit it in the grocery store parking lot and we received a check from the insurance company, but I decided I’d rather pay bills with the money than buy a new jalopy. I sort of regret that decision. A poor credit rating can be fixed in seven years, but the Phoenix seems determined to hang around much longer than that.

As a vegan, it shames me to say it, but I’ve sort of been hoping Mr. Wright would “accidentally” hit a deer, and the insurance company would be forced to total the car. I mean, he’s a hunter, so killing Bambi, whether by bow, firearm or vehicular deerslaughter shouldn’t bother him in the slightest.

When I was in high school, my idea of a “hot” car was a cherry 1966 Mustang. Now that I’ve grown, my idea has changed. I now know, without a doubt, that a truly hot car is one which has broken air conditioning and a radiator leak. The Phoenix is all that, and a bag of chips—spilled across the back seat.

As you can imagine, I was thrilled when Mr. Wright called me the other day to tell me he’d been in an accident. “Really? That’s fantastic!” I said.

“In case you were wondering, I wasn’t hurt,” he replied.

“But the car’s a total loss, right? I mean, you can’t possibly drive it, right?”

“Thank goodness I was wearing my seatbelt. Not a scratch on me. It was pretty scary, though…”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week! Be sure to get a lot of photos. I’ll start checking the auto section in the classifieds. What color do you think we should get? Black always looks so dusty, don’t you think? Oh—I didn’t even think to ask… Are you okay?”

As it turned out, the car wasn’t exactly totaled, and I must say I’m rather disappointed in Mr. Wright’s ability to get into a proper accident. He was driving down the highway, about twenty minutes out of town, when a rogue scissor jack, liberated from a vehicle in front of him, came bouncing down the road. In spite of his best efforts, Mr. Wright was only able to lodge the animated road hazard into the bottom of the Phoenix’s gas tank, effectively immobilizing the vehicle and requiring him to call AAA.

Our roadside assistance program provides towing for situations such as these, and Mr. Wright assumed he’d be picked up within a matter of minutes, being only fifteen short miles out of town. Imagine his surprise when the AAA agent told him to expect the wrecker to arrive within an hour.

“An hour? Are you kidding me?” he asked. “I’m only twenty minutes out of a major city.”

The agent laughed, and explained that Mr. Wright was two miles over the coverage boundary of a contracted company fifty miles away. It was hot and dusty that day, and Mr. Wright was not pleased.

He was even less pleased when the wrecker finally arrived an hour later, and the tow rig busted. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said when I answered the phone. “The tow truck broke down, so now the driver has to call for two wreckers—one for our car, and one for his truck.”

“That’s a shame,” I said. “Did you ask him if he has AAA?”

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I Mean This in the Nicest Way Possible

The pen is said to be mightier than the sword,
but that doesn't mean I'm not tempted to test the theory.
Photo source

The deadline for Sweet and Simple Vegan Desserts, the vegan dessert cookbook I’m co-authoring with international best-selling author William Maltese is growing nearer. I’m actually not even sure when the deadline is, because I’m afraid to review my publishing contract. For some reason, though, “August” is written in bright red letters across my brain.

Mr. Editor once advised me, “No one cares that you’re writing.” At first, I thought he meant no one cared what I’d written. As my hate mail file clearly demonstrates, that is not the case. What he meant is no one—including, and perhaps especially so, my husband and kids—sees me banging away on my keyboard, with beads of perspiration running down my face, and thinks, “Wow! She’s really busy. Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt her.”

Um, no.

As far as I can tell, the sight of me typing on my netbook triggers an irrational, desperate, and immediate need for my young children to start an un-caged cage match, and for Mr. Wright to be mysteriously unavailable to send the fighters to their respective corners. Strangely, my tappity-tap-tap is also the signal for Mr. Wright to start unloading every small bit of trivial news from his brain.

“Did you read what Johnny Whosit posted on Facebook this morning?”

“No, Honey. I didn’t,” I sigh. “I’m sort of working, here.”

“Oh, well, he was just commenting on how the House Republicans need to blah, blah, blah-ity blah…”

“Mmmmhmmm…” Tappity-tap-tap.

“…and so I said, blah, blah, blah-ity, blah-ing blahblahblah. Pretty good comeback, huh?”

“Mmhmm.” TAPPITY-TAP-TAP. “Hey, could you pull Snugglebug off Curlytop? I think she’s starting to draw blood.”

Mr. Editor is right. No one cares that I’m writing. My amazing, generous, talented, handsome and patient co-author, on the other hand, certainly cares that I’m NOT writing. Sweet William doesn’t have seven children, or a very-cute-but-slightly-oblivious husband, so he doesn’t fully understand that when I said, “I’ll write a cookbook with you,” I actually meant, “I’ll attempt to bang out 140 pages while working in the domestic equivalent of a demilitarized zone, with chaos erupting on every side of me.”


Frankly (and I mean this in the nicest way possible), I want my family to shut their ever-loving mouths, get out of my personal space, and for crying out loud in the dark— let me write.

No, Mommy won’t open the pool for you, because her battery is low, and her extension cord won’t reach that far.

No, Mr. Wright, I wasn’t planning on making dinner, and yes, I was actually expecting you to feed yourself and the kids.

I’ll just have coffee, thanks.

I’m sorry you’re having trouble figuring out how to update your social media sites, Dear, but you’re just going to have to figure it out, like the rest of the world. I’m not your personal social media guru. Believe it or not, I’m an author—or, at least, trying to be one. Last time I checked, authors actually write books.

Yes, Mommy would love to play “princess” with you, as long as she gets to be the poor princess trapped in a tower by the evil queen. The game is even better if the evil queen forces her to make words with a mystical electronic device. Throw in a curse that doesn’t allow anyone to talk to the princess, tug on her arm, or try to climb in her lap, and we have mutual acceptance on the deal.

I considered running away to a cabin in the woods, Thoreau-style, but realized it’s difficult to write a cookbook without a proper kitchen, and considerably more so without power.

A hotel room with a full kitchen is outside my budget, what with the cost of vegan powdered sugar and all. I have a friend in Sandpoint, Idaho who offered to let me stay with her to finish the book, but she’s allergic to gluten, and I’d hospitalize her with my beignets and brownies—not exactly what I had in mind when I set out to co-author a book of “killer” vegan desserts.

What’s a writer mama to do, besides tappity-tap-tap—“Stop choking your sister!”—tap?

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Really, I’m Trying to Listen!

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Most moments, I have—on average—between eight and eighty people talking at me. I try to listen. Really, I do. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult. That’s why Mr. Wright and I have conversations like this:

Mr. Wright: Do you want to watch Almost Famous with me?
Gonzo: I’m really tired, and I might fall asleep during the movie. I haven’t seen that one yet, so I want to be awake for it.
Mr. Wright: Okay, how about Notting Hill? You’ve seen that.
Gonzo: Well, I don’t know... What do you want to watch?
Mr. Wright: Almost Famous.
Gonzo: Maybe something else? I haven’t seen that yet...

Curlytop and Snugglebug become understandably annoyed when I don’t listen to or respond to their every word. Here’s a question for you, though: Have you ever intently listened to a four- or five-year old talk? It starts with “Mommy, I’m hungry,” segues into “...and then you can ride on my purple dragon...” and continues with “Mommy, she’s not sharing!” That’s before the child even pauses to take a breath.

Try. Just try to focus all your energy on that conversation which, by the way, originates from the back seat of the car during rush hour, with a county sheriff in the rear view mirror. Try to mediate the not-sharing issue without physically turning around to grab the unshared object away from the dueling darlings. Try to ask all the right questions about the pink dragon— Oops. It’s purple. You’ve already lost the respect of your children, who now know you never listen to a word they say.

I’ve dropped into a dead panic when children didn’t come home, knowing—just knowing—they’ve been snatched by “the bad people” or involved in an accident. When I finally track the kids down, they are safely and comfortably enjoying the event I was told about the week before, and wasn’t I listening when they told me they wouldn’t be home?

Does motherhood affect one’s hearing? How about marriage? Mr. Wright claims I haven’t heard one word he’s uttered since “I do.”

The more I hear, the harder it is to listen. The world is staging an auditory attack on my brain, and I’m absorbing less and less of it. I can hear a can of forbidden soda pop hiss open behind a closed door in another wing of the house, hear tiny footsteps coming down the hall in the middle of the night, pick up on a subtle vocal inflection when a kid is trying to pull a fast one, but I can’t process the words my child is saying two feet in front of me.

While attempting to navigate a recipe to make dinner, I’ll have one kid asking if they may go to a friend’s house; one kid telling me the latest drama among her circle of friends; one kid asking where the power drill is; one kid tugging in my shirt, asking for a drink of water; one kid foisting a party dress on me, asking for help putting it on; and Mr. Wright telling me his schedule for the rest of the week.

Is it any wonder I squeeze the dress onto the wrong child, give the power drill to the kid with the drama, tell the teen girl she can’t go anywhere until she gets a drink of water for the wrong little sister, hand the recipe book to Mr. Wright, and retire to the hot tub with a snifter of Southern Comfort?

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My Mom Tried to Buy Me Porn for Christmas

Photo by D Sharon Pruitt

As a writer, I know the difference one single letter can make. Maya, a dear friend and publisher, once printed a thousand copies of a book in which “taping” was accidentally typed “raping.”

That, my friends, is why I read my work out loud before I run it, as often as possible.

It’s different with the whole texting thing. I rarely proofread text messages before I send them off, and so far, I haven’t made any critical mistakes. That is, until now – and it just figures that I would make that embarrassing error while texting my mother.

About a year ago, my cell phone buzzed, alerting me to a new text message. I opened my inbox. GUESS WHAT DAD GOT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY? it read. Although the callback number was my mom’s, I found it hard to believe my mother was texting.

A teenager to send text messages for you? I responded.

It was just the beginning, of course. Mom must also have learned to use Google at the same time, because clearly, she found a guide to texting abbreviations somewhere and in short order started sending me texts like: K... C U L8R! My kids don’t even abbreviate to that point, and still, every message was entirely in capital letters, indicating my mother was shouting at the top of her lungs every time she sent a cellular quip. Let’s face it – fine is a far cry from FINE.

The next time I saw Mom, I asked if she was angry with me. At her blank look, I explained using all capitals in a text message was the same as yelling. She laughed and said she didn’t know how to change the case of the letters. I showed her how to disable the caps lock and reminded her to only use all caps when she intended to scream.

Mom recently texted to ask me what the kids, Mr. Wright and I wanted for Christmas. I responded with a lengthy reply, ending with a gift certificate for me from Zazzle.com. I’d designed an entire line of Gonzo Mama merchandise, and wanted to order some stock for my book signings. (Check out the entire Gonzo Mama line!) Anyway, I accidentally replaced the first letter of “Zazzle” with another, and Mom went clicking around the interwebs, trying to order my gift certificate.

The next texts I received were:

• R u sure this is what u want?
• Having trouble finding a place 2 order gift certs here... 

and

• It sez COMING SOON?

Confused, I pulled up the Zazzle site, where the link to order gift certificates was clearly functioning and prominently displayed. I sent Mom a response, asking her for the URL she was viewing. She sent me the web address I’d sent her – with the typo.

I then went to check out the page she’d been viewing. Sure enough, there was not a link to purchase a gift certificate, and the site did say “coming soon,” but the entire phrase was, instead, “COMING SOON: Readers’ Wives Photos!” and the site certainly wasn’t selling anything the Gonzo Mama would put her name or face on.

In certain situations, a phone call is more appropriate than a text, and I determined this to be one of them. I hastily dialed my mother’s number, and when she picked up, I began shouting, “Don’t click on anything! Go away from that page, Mom!”

She asked, “Are you angry with me? Because you’re using your ALL CAPS voice...”

Naïveté at the Nativity - Revisited

This is one of my favorite holiday posts, because it demonstrates so perfectly the dynamics of my family. In fact, it may just become an annual post. Enjoy, and please feel free to share your holiday program mishaps... You know, so I don't feel so dysfunctional and whatnot.

My kids make up eighty percent of the children and youth in our church, so there’s little question that they will be cast in the Christmas production each year. The competition for roles is—what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yes… “nonexistent.” In fact, it’s not unusual for a single child to play two or thirteen different roles in each year’s program.

In 2006, a three-month-old Snugglebug made her stage debut as baby Jesus. During rehearsals, we’d placed her in the wooden manger (filled with shredded paper instead of hay, due to her asthma) several times so that she wouldn’t be startled by the sensation. There was some discussion of a song that would be sung during the manger scene, but we never ran the scene with the music. Our director said things like, “This is where everyone is gathered around baby Jesus in the manger. Is the baby in the manger? Okay. Now, there will be music here, so everyone will just be still and look at the baby, okay? Okay! When the music is over, the curtains will close, and the baby can come out of the manger.”

We actually didn’t hear the music until the performance. Mr. Wright and I were backstage, assisting with costume changes. There were many. Shepherds became angels who became sheep who became shepherds, and so on. Snugglebug was napping in her infant carrier, and I held out hope that she’d stay that way through her big scene. Naturally, just before her cue, she woke up, hungry and fussy.

A volley of urgent whispering took place behind the drawn curtain, with Princess (“Mary”) asking, “What do I do? She’s crying. I can’t take her out there while she’s crying,” and me thrusting a bottle into her hand and directing her to “wing it.”

Nestled into the manger with Princess holding the bottle for her, Snugglebug calmed down, and no one even brought up the anachronistic use of the plastic bottle that fed the infant savior. Then, the song started. It was “What Child is This?” With two verses down and just the slightest discontent stirrings from Snugglebug, I thought we were in the clear. I prepared for the curtain to close, planning to whisk her offstage before she let loose with any serious wailing, but the music went on. And on. There must be thirty-seven verses of “What Child is This?” that I have never heard.

Snugglebug began making the small whimpering sound I recognized as the prelude to full-volume, fist-clenching, rage-filled screaming. Mr. Wright heard it, too. We looked at each other. “What do we do?” we mouthed.

As luck would have it, I married a genius. Mr. Wright grabbed a pair of donkey ears from the pile of costume accessories, put them on, and entered the stage. What’s one more donkey, in a manger scene?

It did raise a few eyebrows when the large donkey stole the baby Jesus from the manger, but I’m sure the wisemen would have called in an Amber Alert if they truly thought there was cause for alarm.

This year, Curlytop and Snugglebug couldn’t wait for their cue to enter as angels and followed “Joseph” and “Mary” on the road to Jerusalem. “Oh, look!” a chuckling Joseph ad-libbed. “The Lord has sent guardian angels to watch over us on our journey. God is so good!”

The unscripted guardian angels appeared in several scenes, including the manger scene. When Snugglebug saw her Cabbage Patch doll resting in the wooden trough, she shouted, “That’s not baby Jesus!” over the playing of “Mary Did You Know?” With haste, our precious cherub yanked the doll from the manger and tossed it across the stage.

Taking note of the empty manger, Curlytop pulled off her wings and crawled inside. “I’m not baby Jesus,” she announced to those who may have been confused. “I’m not an angel now. I’m a little girl. I’m gonna use the baby Jesus bed, okay?”

In fact, the only scene Curlytop and Snugglebug didn’t participate in was the Choir of Angels scene they were cast in. Instead, they ran, screaming, down the aisles of the church. It’s tough raising divas.

Call me naïve. Call me an optimist. Call me out of touch with reality. The fact is, the church Christmas program only happens once a year. That means I have ample time to forget everything that went wrong with the previous year’s program, and get excited about the current year’s performance.

Merry Christmas, and may the Lord richly bless you in the coming year!

Delta Blues

Nothing satisfies me more than things working out splendidly after they go horribly wrong. Take our recent flight to Baltimore, for example.

Mr. Wright accidentally booked me on a flight precisely 24 hours before his. When he realized his mistake, he tried to rebook through Delta’s call center. We figured if the cost of changing was lower than putting me up in a discount hotel for a night, we’d do it. Sadly, it was not to be so. Mr. Wright loaded my carry-on into the car and set off on what would be the first of two trips to the airport for him.

In the car, I used my netbook to check in online and was virtually assaulted with Delta’s invitations to try “mobile ticketing,” which promised to save all sorts of time at the airport by sending my boarding pass to my smartphone. Always a fan of better living through technology, I decided to try it.

We arrived at the airport early, in spite of my attempts to postpone our arrival with requests for Starbucks stops and just as many for potty stops. Unfamiliar and ill-at-ease with the experience of arriving early for a flight, I decided to burn the calories I’d normally expend racing to my gate in a different manner; I made out with my husband in the backseat of our car.

It was still an hour before my flight when we approached the Delta counter and tried one more time to rebook. Sometimes, those counter people are sympathetic and let you rebook for fifty dollars if you, say, forget your asthma inhaler and have to go home to get it, which is the angle we took. No luck.

“Lemme use your computer. I need to book your room in Baltimore.” Have I mentioned Mr. Wright’s thriftiness? He wasn’t about to give up before he found the absolute, none-lower, rock-bottom, cheapest room. “I’ll give up the limo if you don’t send me to some rat-infested alley motel,” I begged. “And my flight boards in thirty minutes. Hurry up.”

But Mr. Wright did not hurry. That’s how, fifteen minutes before my flight boarded, I found myself as the only person in the security line, and without my sunglasses, which I’d taken off my head in the car before hopping into the backseat.

I can't live without them.

I can’t live without my sunglasses. My eyes are very sensitive to light. Sure, it was the middle of the night, but it would be daylight when I landed, and then what would I do? Mr. Wright hadn’t made good on the envelope of cash to go shopping, and how could I even find a sunglasses store when I’d be blinded by the sun’s harsh glare?

Mr. Wright made record time retrieving them. I had five minutes until my flight boarded, which meant fifteen until they locked the door. I was still the only one in the security line. I could make it. I kissed Mr. Wright and trotted up to the TSA agent and showed him my mobile boarding pass.

Delta failed to mention their mobile ticketing image may not be properly sized on some devices. The image Delta sent me was refused by TSA! I was sent to the Delta counter for paper tickets.

I ran – in my socks (I’d removed my shoes for security) – to Delta, skidding to a halt when I saw not a soul was there. It was two minutes until my flight boarded. I called out and waited for someone to help me, but no one came.

I raced down the escalator to Delta’s baggage claim area, where hoards of people waited in the “lost baggage” office – a ringing endorsement of Delta’s service, to be sure. “TSA won’t take my mobile ticketing, my flight is boarding, I don’t have paper tickets, no one is at the counter upstairs, and I need help!” I cried over the complaints.

One of the women behind the counter glanced at the clock and said, “Yeah. You’re not going to get on. Go sit out there on the baggage carousel and wait for someone.”

Well, I called Mr. Wright and cried and made him come back to yell at those Delta ladies until they rebooked me – without a fee – on his flight. Then, he called Delta’s national customer service and yelled at those people until they gave me 2500 frequent flier miles. After all, it was Delta’s bad mobile ticketing image that made me miss my flight, right? Finally, he was able to cancel the reservation for the Baltimore hotel room, saving enough money to buy me a sandwich.

The moral of the story, of course, is:

Don’t make out with your husband in the airport parking lot if he is thrifty and you have sensitive eyes and you’re trusting Delta’s technology.

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