JasonLeahRun

Quite Amazing

LeahC — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 15:43:57 +0000

Last week if we would have chatted I would have probably broken down in tears and told you there is no way I can have another baby with the two year old that had become a little crank monster. From pushing me away and saying, “go away mommy,” to just days full of tears and hysterics, I didn’t know how we were going to do it. Add in the fact that a move was happening in a few weeks and I was just about broken.

We determined that my ever expanding belly (seriously growing another giant baby in here) and the stuff starting to go into boxes was making her little brain a little nuts. So we slowed down a little bit. Cuddled with her a lot more and this week holy shit she’s done a 180. Now, she might have been a little sick or had a bit of an ear infection. We took her to the doctors on Friday and there was a little fluid in her ears but nothing to write home about. However, maybe it had already healed by the appointment. Who knows but either way this week has been giant gobs of fun.

Here are some highlights from our week:

Sharing a sandwich with Dad at a Potbellys
Walks home from school. We live a mile from her daycare and so that’s a long haul for a 2 year old. But she makes it all the way.
Finding balance beams all along the sidewalk
Ice cream *before* dinner
As the El goes overhead we stand underneath it and yell as loud as we can. Her favorite part of our walk home. She likes to make sure we all do the yelling. And why not! It’s fun.
Running, I mean just flat out running down the sidewalks in Chicago.
Holding hands while we quickly cross fairly busy streets.
Seeing her friends at the local playground and having her squeal in delight when she sees them.
Other friends seeing her while walking home and them squealing when they see her.
Having a face covered in chalk as we leave school. The chalk is slowly joined by lots of dirt. Then a mouth full of dirt and her request of, “I’d like some water please.” Oops..mom forgot her water bottle.
The walks home take over an hour and up to about 90 minutes. She collects rocks and other little treasures along the way. At one point she took the rock she was treasuring and had to touch it to every fence spoke along the way. If you’ve ever been on a Chicago sidewalk this is in front of every apartment. But what the hell am I rushing home for? I think she was listening to the sound it was making.
She got a new baby doll from Grandma and she likes to make sure the baby is covered up, and sleeping. I hope she will be as gentle with Rocky as she is with that baby….although she did have a frustrated moment and threw the baby on the floor. I think Rocky’s going to be a tough one though so he/she should be able to hand one little Lucille.

And because nothing is complete without some pictures. Here are some from our adventures:

In short, what a fun week on the parent front.

Next week gets super crazy so hopefully Lucy continues to hang in there and be a fun little trooper. Closing on the house on Thursdays and then the movers come a week later. Here we go!

New House

LeahC — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 14:42:53 +0000

Well we are through step one of buying a new house! I think it’s the biggest step, we have agreed on a selling price and so we have a contract! Next on the docket is the inspection on Sunday (but no worries we’ll be home in time for the Superbowl…I made that a must). How did we end up being in a house in our favorite city in the world?

When Jason and I were in grad school we made no money, I mean…seriously we would be super excited if we could get to the end of the month with 10 dollars because we could usually find bar that had a 4 dollar beer and we would go celebrate making it to the end of the month and each have one beer (although we each always wanted more). At that time we lived in a shitty little apartment in the Ukrainian Village and while we liked the neighborhood (kind of), and the commute to Fermilab was easy (this was a huge plus), the apartment was a piece of shit. There was barely any heat in the front of the apartment (seriously how the hell was that even legal?), the previous owner had cats that I think sprayed everywhere so for 2 years I lit candles and would always get a whiff of cat urine smell (although I’m 99% sure that it was my lunatic imagination), the kitchen had no counter tops, but was huge so that was weird. But it was a cheap roof over our heads and that counted for something.

Somehow we made it through those days. And they weren’t all bad. The money thing was always a monkey on our back but we learned how to do things on the cheap. Do you know training for a marathon is quite cheap? Just get some running shoes and go run. So we did a lot of running. We had a lot of fun and traveled a lot (work paid the way to Europe twice).

Since then Jason has gotten a “real job” and I have moved up to the postdoc world which isn’t so bad moneywise where I am. Although my job will probably change in 2-3 years.

During those Ukrainian Village days, Jason and I would wonder if we would ever own a condo in the city. We never even talked about owning a house because that possibility was just never going to happen. I knew I didn’t want to leave the city. I’m a city girl through and through (I always thank my lucky stars that I found someone that loves it and appreciates it as much as I do!) and the thought of living in Schaumburg, Naperville, Berwyn or any other suburb makes me cringe. I get why people live in the suburbs, I really do…but it’s just not for us.

From the Ukrainian Village (before that we were in a shitty apartment in Wrigleyville and before that a cute apartment in Bloomington and before that a shitty apartment in East Lakeview…but really that one was like 2 blocks from the lake so that was a lot of win…my point is a lot of apartment living) we moved to a great apartment in Lakeview where we have been for the last 3.5 years. Great landlord, great neighborhood, great location. But then we started to look at our savings account which has grown over the years, and we started going to open houses. We saw lots of condos in Lakeview and then widened our search to Lincoln Square. And what do you know…houses there were just a little more than condos on our block. And so more open houses. A Redfin tour. Some more houses with our landlord (who is a realtor).

We found a place we liked that would have been awesome “in a few years” since we would have put an extension on it, changed a staircase, landscaped the yard, added a garage and so on. We were planning on putting an offer down on Sunday but on Friday night we went for a walk around the neighborhood and I had a panic attack about the neighbor that had a coach house on the back. There was some bright ass light on the porch and it lit up the entire yard of the house we were interested in. Yes I am sure we could have talked to the owner and changed it and yes I’m sure with a garage, landscaping, a fence, and a deck in the back yard it wouldn’t even have been an issue. BUT I still went into a panic and at midnight on Friday night emailed our realtor that I wanted to see three other properties in our price range before putting an offer down.

He was able to get us into two of the others (the third was probably too expensive and too far away anyways). The first one was on the el track and while that wasn’t a deal breaker necessarily, the condition of the house was. It would have needed *a lot* of work. Then we went to view the original house we wanted (this was the 3rd viewing) and spent a lot of time talking about possibilities etc etc. Then it was off to the third one. Jason and I were so high on the house we liked that we were just kind of walking through not really looking. At one point my Dad came up to me and said, “Leah…do you realize this house is done.” I said, “Sure…wait, what do you mean?” He said, “I mean you can move in and not be thinking about renovations for the next 10 years of your life.” I started to look closer at this cute little house. And harder and harder…and Jason and I started looking at rooms a second and third time and we started to feel at home.

Not that any house is really done, you have to put time and effort into it to keep it nice. These owners have done that making little improvements here and there every year and there are still things to be done. But it’s not like a monkey on our backs that will be, “This house will be nice, when we finish that addition (and deck, and basement, and family room)”. If we had more money that could have been fun because we could have moved in and started with all of those things immediately…but we don’t and so it would have been a long time coming.

We put in a low offer on Monday night and went back and forth and by Wednesday we had an agreement. Thanks to our realtor for being a bulldog in the negotiations. We close on the 22nd of March. Obviously still a few major hoops to jump through (inspection and finalizing the mortgage), but it from where we stand things look to be pretty solid.

The house is 2 blocks from a great school, 2 blocks from an el stop and 6 houses down from good friends of ours (which is funny because when went to their house warming party we said, “Wouldn’t it be awesome to have a house like this someday.”). Turns out the two houses have the same floor plan although theirs does have an addition on the back.

So we are on to the next phase it seems like. With all the excitement sometimes I forget that I’m pregnant. 12 weeks till this little guy/gal comes out. And we have *nothing* ready. With a big move happening, we won’t be doing *anything* until we get into our new house…which will be about 4 weeks before the due date. So that’ll be exciting. Although I’m sure I won’t go early given my previous experience so I should be knowing exactly when things have to be ready!

Exciting times ahead.

Time

LeahC — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 19:57:22 +0000

I read this the other day: http://www.mamapedia.com/voices/an-open-letter-to-time

And then my eyes got a little watery at work.

I look at Lucy these days and I want to ask her where she came from. This goofy, chattering, tall, hilarious girl. She can’t be my daughter, because my daughter is a little baby girl. Of course she is her. After some time.

When she was little I was very excited about things like, “OH MY GOD SHE TOTALLY JUST ROLLED OVER!!!!” or “OH MY GOD SHE JUST ROLLED OVER THE OTHER WAY!!!!” To be fair little babies don’t do much so you are kind of always waiting for the next thing to happen.

My goal with baby Rocky is to just be. To just enjoy him or her as she is in that moment, because as soon as the day is gone, the little baby is a day older and a day wiser and pretty soon she’s doing summersaults and building towers with legos and “reading” her favorite books to all of her stuffed animals. The time, it goes so much faster than you realize.

I’m sure I’ll be saying the same thing with the next baby as I don’t think you are ever prepared to see your little babies all grown up. But I just want to take it a little easier. Not that I won’t be excited about the baby rolling over. I mean come on I still get excited about stupid little things that I would get excited about when I was 9 so I really haven’t changed that much, (ahem, Christmas morning).

As far as personally I want to take the same attitude. For example, I’m going to start running as soon as I’m allowed, but I’m not going to train for the marathon this year. With nursing I just couldn’t do it the last time I tried it and having to be out running for 3-4 hours at a time doesn’t work. We do have the baby jogging stroller but Rocky will be too little (although I think we can get an attachment for it that would work). And we have the Lucille to think about. Also last time I was biking about 24 miles a day (Ok I did this for like 3 weeks) to and from northwestern, or downtown to catch the train to then bike to fermilab. All while carrying my pump and then my pumped milk and a change of clothes on my back. No. Not this time. Although I would like to get some more use out of my bike.

I do have a goal of the 2013 marathon though. But I just want to be. I want to run and enjoy it and not feel like I have to. I do like all that I was doing last time because I got into pretty good shape pretty fast after she was born. When Jason would come home from work when I was on maternity leave, I would already be dressed in running clothes and I would hand him the baby and walk out the door. All day home with the little baby is tough so I imagine that will be similar. So OK fine, just no planned races. And no biking with pump parts. And I did love that Core Power Yoga.

With work and keeping the family unit from falling apart, I also think I will have to do all my runs early in the morning at like 4:45 because that is the only time that won’t take away from family time. Which will be tough, but not impossible. I need to make a Moms Morning Running Group. Running Jayhawk I’m looking at you.

Ok, I really meant for this to be a short post and on and on I went. In short. Enjoy the time.

Happy New Year

LeahC — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 13:11:49 +0000

2011 was quite the wild ride for us here at JasonLeahRun. Ok not that wild, but it was a good year nonetheless.

2012 is shaping up to be one of the most exciting years I think we’ve had yet!

We are expecting baby Rocky (Lucy says the baby’s name is “Rock a baby in the treetop” and so we have nicknamed it Rocky) on April 30th.
Jason and I have started a joint creative project that I’m excited to watch grow as the weeks go on. More on this in the upcoming weeks.
I’m planning on doing more professional photography work as well as just *more* photography. I *have* to make time for this. I really enjoy it too much to let it starting slipping.
By the end of the year I hope to be back to consistently running with a plan for the 2013 Chicago marathon. I know that I have a hard time running far while nursing and as I plan to do that for a year again, there won’t be any “real” distance added until April of next year. Which if I’m in some kind of shape will be good timing.
Making a run for a house before the new baby comes? Waiting until next year? We don’t know yet.

Those are the big things this year with the usual suspects with work and city living thrown into the mix.

With that The Lucille is up and I must go play with her before taking her to school!

Five Stories in Five Days: The Final Story

JasonR — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 20:40:01 +0000

Christmas Eve is here! Happy yule tide logs, egg nogs, and green frogs to all!

What you used to think was true wasn’t really true, but now it is true. Sorry about that.

How do you explain to your daughter that you killed Santa Claus?

I obviously didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know he was real. Given this, I was more than a little unprepared when my night of wrapping presents and fine wine was interrupted by a sound that can only be described as fat hitting cement. A cloud of soot poured from my fireplace, filling the room and setting me to coughing. When I finally caught my breath, I looked up and found myself face to face with a great, fat man.

I didn’t even think; I was just so shocked. I raced around him to the fireplace where I snatched up the iron poker, swinging it in a wild arc towards the intruder. He had turned to follow me as I darted past him; his momentum leading him right into the path of my makeshift weapon. I connected; the shock of iron meeting bone propagating from my hand up to my elbow. His legs crumpled under him and he dropped to the floor.

I looked down at his face, snowy white beard and rosy cheeks, mouth forming a perfect “O”. His final “Ho Ho Ho” never made it past his lips. His eyes stared back up at me; glassy, empty. He was dead. I’d killed Santa.

Holy shit! I’d killed Santa!

My concern at that point wasn’t the ruination of Christmas or all the disappointed little boys and girls. No, at that moment, my only concern was the corpse laying in the middle of my living room. I grabbed him by his armpits, bending at the knees to hoist him off the ground and out of my apartment. I heaved. Nothing. I grabbed at a shoulder, hooking my hands under his left armpit to drag him across the floor, but strain as I might, he would not budge. I tugged and I tugged at him, forward and up and then down again, rocking him, attempting to gain some kind of momentum. But the only evidence of my efforts was an echo of waves across his girth, his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jelly.

I slumped next to Santa, wiping at the sweat beading on my forehead. This was hopeless. I needed help. I called my friend Joe, the one person I always joked I could call if I were stuck in a Turkish prison and needed saving. I figured the corpse of a mythical figure sprawled across my area rug was close enough.

. . .

When Joe arrived a half hour later, I was sitting on my couch holding an untouched glass of wine, staring down at the body. Joe entered without knocking as I had instructed (last thing I needed was a curious daughter woken up), stopping abruptly in the foyer as his eyes fell on the familiar red and white figure sprawled across my floor.

“Jesus Christ,” he cried. “Is that guy dead?”

I just stared at Joe, my eyes saying what I couldn’t bear to admit over the phone.

“Jesus, you killed a guy,” Joe mumbled to himself, assuming the thousand mile stare of shock required for visitors to my private hell.

“Joe,” I said, my head in my hands. “I didn’t kill a guy. I killed mother fucking Santa Claus.”

Joe stared at me for a solid minute. “Santa isn’t real,” Joe said, using the tone generally reserved for the unhinged. “You killed a guy dressed up like Santa.”

“He came down my chimney.”

“Well, then that was breaking and entering. Congratulations, you’ll probably duck jail.”

I just shook my head and pointed to the ceiling. “Hear that?”

Joe cocked his head at the ceiling, squinting slightly as he listened. Coming from above was a muffled scuffling sound.

“Reindeer,” I said in answer to his unasked question. “I went out to look after I called you. They won’t go away. They’re just up there shitting all over my roof.”

“Alright,” Joe conceded. “That is weird.” He walked over to the body, ducking down to look closely at the bearded man. “Holy shit, is this really Santa? Wow, real all this time.” Joe smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. In the next instant his smile dropped and he looked at me in horror. “And you killed him!”

“Fuck, Joe, do you think I wanted to kill Santa? He was first on my list? Yeah, you know what, I did do it on purpose. And you know who’s next? The fucking Easter Bunny. I’m taking him down along with the Tooth Fairy. I’m going on a rampage.”

“Okay, okay,” Joe said, gesturing for me to calm down. “I’m sorry. Shit, what are we going to do here.”

. . .

Fifteen minutes later, we both were crouching over a rolled up area rug with a rather pronounced lump in the middle, like a chimichanga served in Hell’s cafateria. Joe looked up at me, opened his mouth to speak a couple of times, but each time caught himself.

“What?” I asked.

“Well, I mean,” he dipped his head as if apologizing for what he was about to say. “Does this mean you’re Santa now?”

“Seriously?”

“Well, you know. I thought that’s what was supposed to happen.”

“Based on what? The collected works of Tim Allen?”

“Alright, nevermind.”

“You seriously thought I was going to grow a beard? Get fat? Command an elf army?”

“I said nevermind. Let’s just do something with this…thing.”

. . .

When my daughter awoke the next morning and padded down the stairs in her favorite pink pajamas, she found me sitting on the couch, glassy eyed and exhausted after a night spent staring into my half-filled wine glass. I smiled as she approached, swallowed hard, and said “Merry Christmas, honey.”

She looked at the motley pile under the tree, a mix of wrapped and unwrapped presents. She looked over at me, brow furrowed.

I just shrugged. “Santa didn’t get a chance to wrap all your presents this year, kiddo. He fell behind on his schedule.”

My little girl smiled shyly, “It’s okay, Daddy. I’m nine now. I know the truth.”

“What truth is that?” I asked, pouring all the innocence I could muster into my question.

“I know Santa’s not real. I mean, he used to be. He was called Saint Nick, but he died and now he’s just a story. Right Daddy?”

I looked at my little girl, so grown up. I mean, what could I say?

“Yes, honey,” was my reply. “You couldn’t be more right.”

Five Christmas Stories in Five Days: Story 4

JasonR — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 13:34:37 +0000

It’s Christmas Eve Eve! Santa has pre-packed the sleigh to check and make sure everything fits and then unpacked it just to do it all again on the 24th. A meticulous man, that Santa.

Prelude to a Christmas Carol

“What do you want me to tell him again?”

“Tell him how terrible it all is. Make him fear the afterlife.”

The ghost looked down at his ethereal self, a translucent version of who he once was, the only difference being the chains draped from his limbs. He then looked up at the figure before him who was explaining his task. The Angel Mitch, overseer of the guardian angels, keeper of Christmas, and patron saint of small, collectible figurines, was readying the ghost who had once been Jacob Marley for his trip down to the mortal realm.

“But I guess it’s not clear to me what about my situation he’s supposed to fear. Are you referring to the chains?”

The Angel Mitch sighed deeply, exhaling slowly. “Yes, the chains. The symbols of your wretched life that you must drag behind you. The shackles you placed on yourself through a lifetime of cruelty. To what else would I be referring?”

Marley twisted a short length of chain between his hands, shrugging. “Well, I don’t know, but you know, these chains aren’t really such a big deal. Granted, they slow me down. No argument there. But I just leave myself more time when I need to get somewhere. And, if we’re being completely honest with each other here,” Marley leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper, “the sound is kind of nice. Reminds me of a ship in port.”

“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” Mitch said, stabbing a finger in the direction of what had once been Marley’s chest. “Just because you don’t mind the chains doesn’t invalidate the torment. If you want to help your old business partner, you’ll convince him he needs to turn his life around.”

Marley shook his head emphatically. “No, no, I’m really pretty confident about this. I know Scrooge. He’s just like I was. The money he’s making exploiting his workers more than makes up for an afterlife of chains. I mean, maybe you don’t appreciate just how rich Scrooge really is. It’s worth it. Just trust me on this.”

The Angel Mitch stared icily at Marley. “I don’t have time for this. I went to a lot of trouble to line up Past, Present, and Future for tomorrow night. Christmas eve night! Do you have any idea the strings I had to pull to get them to agree? And I need you to pull it all together; someone he knows and trusts. Otherwise they’re going to show up unexpected and he’s going to either assume it’s all a dream or that he’s lost his mind. And neither case helps his immortal soul! So just make an appearance, moan a little, and shake your chains. It’s not that hard!”

“So, shake my chains, moan, and lie,” Marley said, eyebrows raise. “As an angel, you’re telling me to lie?”

“As an angel, I’m telling you that if you ever want to change your eternal punishment, you’ll do as I say.”

“Eternal punishment. Again, you mean the chains?”

“Yes, the chains.”

“The things that make me walk slightly slower and jangle pleasantly?”

Mitch closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and softened his expression. “Look, I’m asking you please. Please. Don’t do it for me, do it for Scrooge. Do it for Bob Cratchit. Do it for Tiny Tim.”

Marley snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up. “Cratchit! That’s an idea. Make him a ghost and have him do it.”

“I’m not going to kill Cratchit just to convince Scrooge! Half the point is to help the Cratchits. Jesus, how did you ever make your money? You’re a fucking idiot!”

“Hey, come on now, “Marley said. “Let’s not get personal here. It’s fine, I’ll do your little task and introduce your ghosts. Just try to be a little nicer.”

Mitch relaxed his posture, the anger draining from him, regretting taking it’s place. “I’m sorry, okay. The holiday’s are a stressful time and I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

“I’m sorry too. I know I can be a little stubborn sometimes. I’ll help you out tomorrow night. I’ll have that ol’ miser shaking in his boots.”

The Angel Mitch’s mouth twitched with a half smile. “Thanks Marley. And hey, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Mitch.”

Five Christmas Stories in Five Days: Story 3

JasonR — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 12:56:22 +0000

Three more days until Christmas! Here’s another story to get you in the holiday spirit.

A Very Ursine Christmas

What I didn’t know, until just today that is, is that bears celebrate Christmas. Brown bears, grizzly bears; they all celebrate the birth of Jesus – although, oddly enough, not polar bears. Maybe they live too close to the birthplace of Santa? Or maybe they’re all just Jewish. Who knows.

But Bears have been deeply integrated into the story of the brith of Jesus from the very beginning. As legend has it – and, of course, it has to be only legend as our story begins over 2000 years ago – three great brown bears traveled down from the forests of Russia (which, at the time, was known throughout Jerusalem as “The Really Cold Place with the Good Perogis”) bearing tiding of great joy and the carcass of a deer. Guided by the tip of Ursa Minor (or, as the bear community refers to it: “Little Bear’s Nose for North”), these three bears lumbered South. So, I guess they must have walked away from the North Star? That’s actually kind of confusing, but hey, bear legend is bear legend. It’s not like the Bible doesn’t have a few head-scratchers of its own.

After many months of travel, they found the King of Kings lying in a manger. Out of deference to the baby Jesus, they ate didn’t eat any of the livestock hanging around the nativity scene despite their great hunger, and they refrained from mauling the Virgin Mary despite the fact that she had the scent of one who recently given birth. No, they merely bowed their massive heads in respect and silently presented their dead, bloated gift to the holy family, commemorating the blessed event. After lying the deer at Jesus’s feet, they left, setting out on the long journey north to their homeland.

Apparently they should have said a little something, though, as their efforts do not seem to have been enough to make it into the Bible. Or maybe with the wisemen already there, three bears and three wisemen seemed just a little too cute, too on the nose. It’s hard to say, but whatever the reason the Bible fails to celebrate the efforts of the three bears of legend, not so with modern bears. Oh no, the bear community pulls out all the stops in commemorating the birth of Jesus and the journey of the bears.

It really is a wonder to see a bear’s cave decorated for the holidays. To symbolize the joy Christ brought into the world, light is brought into the caves, pushing out the gloom and darkness that usually inhabits a cave. But as candles aren’t an option with bears (you can’t light a match without thumbs. And have you ever seen a thumbless attempt at sparking a lighter? Just embarrassing), more creative solutions are needed.

To funnel light into the caves from outside, the bears have come up with a rather ingenious solution: squirrel heads. Basically, you string the squirrel heads up around the entrance of the cave – like you might string lights around the eves of your house. You then angle them just so and light from the moon will reflect off the silvery lining on the back of the squirrels’ retinas and into the caves. It’s the same science behind why a cat’s eyes flash in the night, harnessed for the holidays. This redirected light is then picked up by an array of quartz crystals and guided to the back of the caves by the milky-white prisms, casting a warm glow throughout the bears’ den.

Then, and this is simply gorgeous, rubies and amethyst are hung from the stalactites. When light hits these gems, red and purple shapes are cast on the cavern walls, dancing like butterflies as the precious stones slowly turn.

Christmas eve dinner, as you can probably imagine, is an elaborate affair. There’s deer, of course, in honor of the original offering. But there’s also honey by the comb-full, pile upon pile of fish and, oddly enough, yams. Bears love sweet potatoes.

How do I know all this? How am I the first person to tell this story when the tradition has been alive for over 2000 years? Well, this year there’s a special treat being added to the holiday menu: an intrepid spelunker who got just a bit too ambitious in his winter cave-hopping. And so I’ve had a front row seat to all the preparations as I’ve sat in my pool of brine, tenderizing in anticipation of the blessed event. After of couple more days of this I’m really going to be quite delicious.

In many ways I consider myself quite lucky to have been able to witness this secret ritual. Although the feeling of wonder is somewhat mitigated by the knowledge that, in two more days, I’ll be eviscerated and eaten alive, guts displayed before me like the back room of a butcher.

But hey, live in the moment I always say.

And I’ll be damned if this isn’t just delightfully festive.

Five Christmas Stories in Five Days: Story 2

JasonR — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 12:30:10 +0000

The fun continues with another original Christmas story. Deck the halls, everybody!

There’s Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself. And Santa. You Should Fear Santa.

“Billy”

Little Billy Watson of 1113 Honey Oak Drive bolted upright in bed. He’d been sound asleep in his Batman pjs when the sound of his name brought him out of dreamland. And what a dream it had been, soaring over his friends’ houses in his new bright, silver jetpack. That was the only thing he’d asked Santa for: a real, working jetpack. But now Billy had been wrenched back to reality, wide awake, his listening ears on and tuned to the sounds of the night. With intense concentration, he worked to separate ordinary sounds from those of weirdos calling his name.

“Hey Billy,” the voice called again, the words bringing forth goosebumps from Billy’s arms. “I’m watching you.”

“G – go away,” Billy stammered, pulling his covers up to his eyes.

“I can always see you. I see everything. You’d better watch yourself, Billy.”

That did it, Billy had reached his limit. “Mom, Dad, come quick,” he screamed. “Help, help help.”

In the span of two gasping breathes, Billy’s mom and dad burst in through the bedroom door, eyes wide and ready for battle. Mom wearing a teal nighty and carrying a pair of scissors in her right hand; dad in his boxers and a white t-shirt, a lamp wielded as a weapon. Dad looked around the room and, seeing nothing, lowered his combination reading light/club. Mom kept her scissors at the ready.

“Billy, what is it?” Mom asked, her voice anxious.

“Mom, mom, there’s a man outside my window. I heard his voice. He said he was watching me. Mommy, there’s a monster after me.”

Mom and Dad exchanged knowing smiles; Mom’s mouth a bow, Dad’s eyebrows arched. Dad walked over to by Billy’s bed and crouched to his level. Mom lowered her scissors, relaxing. “No son,” Dad said, “that wasn’t a monster. That was Santa!”

“Santa? The same Santa that brings me presents and stuff?”

“The very same. He’s just keeping an eye on you, checking to see if you’ve been naughty or nice. You know the songs, silly.”

“He comes to my bedroom?”

“Sometimes, yes. Probably you’ve been a little naughty this year,” Dad said, tilting a crooked eyebrow in Billy’s direction. “He keeps an extra eye on anyone who’s been naughty.”

“But Daddy, I’m scared.”

Mom came over from the doorway and put her arm around her husband and together they pulled the covers up snugly around their sons chin. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” Mom said. “Just be good and he’ll eventually stop watching you. You still have four more days to make the nice list. Now let’s turn out the lights and get some sleep.”

As Billy’s Mom and Dad retreated from his room, Billy lay back down, clutching his covers up around his collarbone, eyes on his window.

. . .

Ester and George Franklin sat on their worn, plaid couch; Ester drinking a frothy glass of Ovaltine, George a Busch Lite. Each had their eyes on the TV, watching as Billy whimpered softly in the dark. At the bottom of the screen was a phone number and at the top a company name: The American Behavioral Center. A man walked into Billy’s room as the lights came up, addressing the audience directly.

“Has your child been on the naughty list this year?” the perfectly coiffed man asked in a rich, deep voice. “Are you at your wits end? If so, call The American Behavioral Center and we’ll send over one of our trained Santa’s to scare your kid straight onto the nice list. Call now; elves are standing by.”

George belched loudly, crushing his now-empty beer can in his hand. “What a load of crap,” he said. “You know what we needed for behavior fixing in my day? A foot up the ass. God damn soft kids these days.”

Ester sipped her Ovaltine in silence.

Five Christmas Stories in Five Days: Story 1

JasonR — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 13:35:46 +0000

For the last few months, I’ve been writing about a short story – maybe one and a half – each month. I’ll write during my commute to and from work whenever I can manage to get a seat and then, after I finish, re-read and revise until it seems done. But I thought I’d try something a little more ambitious: five stories in less than a couple of weeks (very short stories, more flash fiction than anything). This didn’t really leave any time for revising (this is pretty much just written in one go and then edited while typing up), but what the hell. I’ve written five original Christmas stories that are sure to be instant classics; feel free to tell them to your kids around the Christmas tree. Today we begin the countdown to Christmas: five original stories in five days. And so here we go: Day 1.

The Revolution Will Be Pine Fresh

”I tell you, my friends, it’s time for action! We can not sit idly by any longer and allow our numbers to be decimated. We can not allow ourselves to be sacrificed at the altar of the fat, bearded man. My friends, it is time we unite. It is time for revolution!”

His speech concluded, the great fir tree relaxed his limbs, his boughs swaying gently in the breeze. He cast his gaze around at the forest of conifers surrounding him. A forest of trees looking for a leader, looking for an end to the yearly Christmas tree massacre. He moved to call for a vote of support when a voice piped up from his right.

“Violence is not the answer,” came the high pitched voice of a young pine that couldn’t have been more than 40 years old. ”The problem is simply one of marketing.”

The ancient fir gathering himself up and scoffed mightily. “Marketing? Who is this little pine? Marketing indeed.”

“I’m just someone who doesn’t want to see any more sap spilled,” the pine said. ”I want this to end peacefully. And what I’m saying is, we can win this through marketing. We can be smarter. My fellow trees, what’s our problem?”

“They cut us down and take us into their homes,” someone chimed up from deep in the forest.

“Yes,” the pine said patiently, “but why?” The trees all fell silent, the only sound that of the rustling of needles. ”Why would anyone cut down a living tree just to take it indoors? It’s the act of an insane people.”

“Of course it is,” the fir interjected. “That’s what I’ve been saying all this time. These “people” can’t be reasoned with.”

“No, that’s my point. They’re not insane, they simply have twisted cultural beliefs. They don’t know any better. They’ve been told this is the way things are and people have never thought to question the practice. They just need to be taught new traditions.”

“And you’ll teach them?”

The pine dipped her branches. ”I can. Give me a little time and I’ll have them decorating oaks and joking about the old days when they used to have to deal with pine needles in their carpet. Christmas trees as we know it will be a thing of the past and evergreens and humans will again live in harmony.”

The great fir, stately with his short, crisp needles and broad trunk, shook himself from roots to crown. ”It’s this kind of thinking that’s allowed us to be cut down for centuries. We’ve remained passive for too long. Maybe it’s time to cut down a few humans and bring them into our forest. Decorate them for the holidays. I’m not speaking of revenge, my friends. I’m speaking of justice!”

A murmur of assent rippled through the forest.

“I’m calling for the forest floor to be fertilized with the bloody remains of the human race. As their life drains out, so shall we grow strong! Now I ask: who’s with me?”

“We are,” cried the trees in unison, all but the young pine. ”Kill the humans!”

“My brothers and sister! Tonight we march! We marching into the cities! Into the villages! Tonight the blood will flow! Onward!”

And with a cry that shook the earth, the forest of pine and fir, cedar and spruce all rustled their needles in unison.

“Um…” came a voice from the edge of the forest.

“Oh,” said another.

“Hey guys, I’m stuck.”

“Yeah, uh, I seem to be rooted here. Can any of you guys move?”

And so it was, on the evening of December 20th, 2011, the human race was narrowly saved from extinction by the simple fact that trees can’t walk.

Another Calm Baby?

LeahC — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 15:35:31 +0000

When I was pregnant with Lucy around 20 weeks people would say, “Oh you must be feeling the baby?!?!” And I would smile worridly and say…well not yet. The whole pregnancy was me not feeling Lucy move, me sitting on the couch calmly drinking an ice cold blackberry izze and waiting for her to do a little bit of a song and dance. But it was never like, all the time. She moved enough (eventually) to know everything was ok, but in general it wasn’t that often or that violent.I failed a stress test once because she wouldn’t move (go figure she’s still a good sleeper).

For this baby I was sure that it would be different. I was sure that I would know what the baby moving felt like, as maybe I had missed it the first time. And I would already be all stretched out and so the baby would have an easier time moving and so on and so forth.

While I am feeling little tiny kicks maybe like once a day (if that more like every other day), it’s not anything dramatic. The baby didn’t do much for the ultrasound and so we were done really quickly. Stories from friends and family of the baby going crazy during the ultra sound or their bodies being used as a punching bag have me a little jealous (well not for the painful part of the punching bag scenario but just to have nice big movements goign on). Maybe it’s because I’m tall (I’m almost 6 feet) and so there is more space in there so I won’t feel it as much as someone who is short. Maybe I just have calm babies in utero. But because the baby doesn’t move that much I tend to worry a little bit that everything is ok. At one point when I was pregnant with Lucy, Jason suggested that she had yarn arms. I suggested she was a weeble wobble and didn’t have any arms or legs. Yes even after the ultrasound. I didn’t say I was rational when it comes to pregnancy.

Yes I realize I’m only 20 weeks pregnant and so it’s still early. That doesn’t mean I can’t have irrational fears.