Let's Just Say It...

I am in a major blog funk right now, people. I want to write, I like to write, I have no valid reason not to write. And yet....

I'm not sure if NaNoWriMo just sucked the writing life right out of me, or if I have some entitled sense of "I don't have to write anything else now that I've written 50k words" (which? Is a feat, sure, but it's not like I cured cancer here, let's be real--no sense of entitlement warranted, obviously). But every day when I look at "MamaSarahndipity" up on my bookmarks bar, I sigh and then hit refresh on my Twitter or Facebook pages.

It's not that I don't have stories to tell, advice to ask for or rants to rant. Believe me, I do. Like, how to deal with Ethan's obsession over "bad guys" and "good guys" or the "Kindergarten awareness" presentation I attended earlier this week (guys, are you aware of kindergarten? Because it's out there), where the expert-in-all-things-kindergarten-awareness speaker talked about how her kids only watch 30 minutes of TV....PER WEEK, and about how only 53% of kids entering kindergarten are actually prepared for it (which makes one wonder why they are teaching what they're teaching in kindergarten if almost HALF the kids attending aren't ready for it---but that is another rant, erm, topic, for another post).

I could write about Ethan's budding scientific inquisitiveness, like how he grilled me on the topic of electricity yesterday--specifically asking me, if electricity runs through the power lines in our neighborhood, and if lightening is electricity, why don't we hear thunder coming from the power lines? Take that, "why is the sky blue?" We've moved on to bigger and better questions that Mama can't answer without a trip to Professor Google....

I could share pictures with you, like these from our walk in yet another fantabulous, awe-inspiring redwood forest:

Neat, huh? Some of those trees are 2000 years old. TWO THOUSAND, people. Like, "Hi, I'm a giant redwood tree & when Jesus was busy being born 2000 years ago? I was a tiny redwood tree," two thousand. It kind of boggles the mind.

But for some reason, I just haven't been sharing. And because I haven't been sharing, I haven't been reading your blogs that much, either, and I"m sorry for that. Its not that I don't care what you're up to---I do, and I miss reading about your lives, and being entertained by your stories and amazed by your photography. But I end up feeling guilty that I'm not blogging when I read your blogs, so I've been neglecting them. No es bueno.

I'm hoping that the funk subsides soon and that I'll be giving you a reason to check in here more often. And I'm going to spend the rest of the morning heading back to a few of my favorite blogs to see what you all are up to--thanks in advance for your inspiration.

Jungle Gym...

So it's come to this, people. I have embraced the cliche. Last week, 5 days into the new year, I joined the gym. Although honestly, it's got less to do with the fact that it's a new year and more to do with the fact that it is my FORTIETH year. 40, people. 4-0. True, I won't celebrate the actual date of my birth for several more months, but I was born in 1971, which makes 2011 my 40th year. And going into my 4th decade with the body I'm carting around now simply isn't an option. Its got less to do with appearance (which is one of the perks of approaching 40--not that how I look has stopped mattering to me, but it is not one of the primary ways in which I identify my worth any more) and more to do with health and longevity. I don't think 40 is "old" by any stretch (although my 20-year old self is on some alternate plane of existence right now breathing into a paper bag at the thought), but its hard to argue with the facts of aging and the physical changes that come along with it--muscle turning to fat more readily, risks for cancer and heart disease increasing, blah blah blah.

I know, I can hear the "wauh-wauh-wauuuuuh" of the SNL Debbie Downer skit, too. But what can you do?

So I joined the gym down the street from me and if nothing else, I am getting a good look at the throngs of resolution-driven masses flocking to Zumba and crowding the elliptical machines. I have always preferred gyms where the people working out are never going to win a beauty contest, and are there because they need to be there, not so that they can be seen in all their chiseled-abdominal and perfectly coifed glory.

And let me tell you, this gym delivers. We are a motley crew; I'm sure the woman in the row behind me, channeling a combination of Ally Sheedy a la Breakfast Club and South Park's Kenny, would agree. I was on the elliptical machine for an hour this morning and could see her, hooded sweatshirt zipped up almost over her mouth and hood pulled up & tightened around her face until just her eyes and nose were showing, the entire time. I'm not sure if she is on some sort of extreme sweating weight-loss regiment or if she thinks she's invisible. A little weird. But perhaps no more so than the woman on the bike in front of me who was wearing a shirt one (clearly not her, but one) might wear to work or out to dinner. I'm no athletic gear snob--when I work out, I wear a pair of old yoga pants and one of Husband's old t-shirts. But I don't think I'd ever go the gym in a V-neck, three-quarter sleeved, animal print, synthetic fiber blend...maybe that's just me?

And then there's always the guy on the bike or the treadmill or the elliptical or doing crunches on the floor who has to announce to the room that he is working at full-exertion capacity by grunting repeatedly throughout his entire work out. He's fun, isn't he?

Last week I joined my friend Rachel at a Body Pump class--which is a weight-lifting class set to techno music. The music makes you feel like you're having fun. The music is a dirty, dirty liar.

That being said, I completed the class (and didn't even pass out once!) and I promised to participate with my friend each week, and yes, after one class and a bit of time on the elliptical, I am already seeing definition in my legs. So that's good. Painful, but good.

On Wednesday, I am meeting with a personal trainer for my one complimentary training session. When I first saw the trainer last week, he was plodding across the weight room floor with a rope tied around his waist, hauling about 200lbs in weight plates. So yeah, I'm really looking forward to that. And by "looking forward to" I mean "am dreading with every fiber of my being." Just so we're clear.

I've done this so many times before--joined the gym, committed to getting in shape & healthy--and I've generally always fallen short and stayed the same shape & size as before. This time, though, I'm drawing on my NaNoWriMo experience from November--I set a goal and I stuck to it; something I am, sadly, rarely successful with. But I did it with the writing. And I if I spend the same amount of time exercising and being aware of my eating habits as I did with my writing, and make it a non-negotiable in my life, as I did with the novel in November, I am hopeful that this time will be different, and when I celebrate the actual day that signifies my 40th year, I will do so with a body I am happy to be living in, and a lifestyle that is a good model for my child and for my next 40 years....

wish me luck!

Just Call Him L. Ron....

The other day, Ethan's preschool teacher stopped me in the hallway after pick-up. Last year she *may* have stopped me a couple of times after school to let me know about some, erm, episodes of, shall we say "challenging" behavior on Ethan's part. There might have been a phase of blowing spitty raspberries in his friends' face, at point-blank range. And once or twice it's possible I had to cancel play dates later on in the day as a consequence for being a little pushy or shove-y during outside play time. So, you understand, I was a little nervous when she called me aside.

Turns out, this little impromptu progress report had nothing to do with spitty tongues or flailing hands in the sandbox. His teacher was chuckling; that was my first hint.

"I have to tell you about something Ethan said today," she told me, through a laugh.

Apparently, during circle time the class was talking about what they want to be when they grow up. Ethan declared that he was going to be a scientist. His teacher explained to him that there are lots of different types of scientist and asked what type he might like to be.

Thanks to the fabulous glowing box in our living room, Ethan's become quite a fan of the Nick, Jr. show, Dino Dan--a show about some Canandian kid who sees dinosaurs lurking around in his daily life and who fancies himself a pint-sized expert on all dinosaurs, great and small. Everyone around him seems to humor him, from his teachers and his mom to his classmates, but seriously, the kid is so into his pretend play with the dinos that if I were his mom I *might* be a little concerned that he was delusional and hallucinating prehistoric creatures every second of the day. But Ethan loves the show & has become quite the little expert himself on meat-eaters and leaf-eaters. So I wasn't at all surprised when his teacher said that given the choice of what type of scientist he wanted to be, Ethan told her that he wanted to study dinosaurs.

She informed him that a person who studies dinosaurs is called a paleontologist and apparently it was decided--Ethan wants to be a paleontologist when he grows up.

I couldn't quite figure out what was chuckle-worthy about that (except of course all the Ross Geller jokes), so I sort of nodded and smiled. And then the teacher continued...

At the end of circle time, she was writing down on the big board what everyone wanted to be as adults and when she got back to Ethan, she asked,

"What did you want to be again, Ethan?"

I guess based on their earlier conversation and the teacher's clarification that a "scientist" and a "paleontologist" were sort of the same thing, Ethan decided to combine the two words (how efficient of him), and he informed the class that when he grew up (and at this point, the teacher was almost crying she was laughing so hard) he was going to be....

A Scientologist.

Yup. A Scientologist. Super.

Christmas in January...

I guess that's what happens when you don't blog in December...you have to recap the holidays after everyone has put their Elves on the Shelves & mistletoe away, packed their ornaments in newspaper and sawed their beloved Douglas firs into smithereens to fit in the "yard waste" trash can for next week's pick-up. Seriously, I know Christmas is so last month, but there were some highlights....

Like the holiday light show we went to, complete with a basketball playing Santa and the ever-Christmas-y T-Rex chase:

And of course, the historically traditional Christmas mascot, the Santa-hat wearing tooth:

Perhaps this is a nod to Hermey, the little blond elf in Rudolph who really wants to be a dentist, but I kind of doubt it. More likely some local dentist forked over some cash to have a tooth displayed in the festival to remind parents that all those candy canes are rotting their kids' teeth. Point taken, Mr. DDS.

Then, of course, there was Christmas Eve and The Big Day, where Ethan gorged his toy-loving soul on presents! presents! and more presents! On Christmas Eve, we baked cookies for Santa and even wrote a little card for him:

notice how my child has hung his art work all over our living room (and by "art work" I mean 15 sheets of paper out of the printer with one line of pen scribbled on each). The museum of E.

those cookies were tasty....so Santa told me....

And on Christmas day, the gluttony of plastic, lead-painted, right off the boat from China toy binge began. Although I will assuage your fears that my child is a toy-hungry greedy spoiled brat; he randomly told me one day last month, as he was climbing into his carseat, "Mommy, did you know that the true meaning of Christmas is to be nice to our friends and let them know how much we love them? It's not just about toys." Ahhhhh, my little parrot. I don't know who he heard it from, but it was a very Linus-y moment and it made me happy. Of course, I'm sure he couldn't have recited that Golden-Rule-esque sentiment when he was neck deep in holly-jolly wrapping paper and a small mountain of presents, but still...

dinosaurs!

Transformers!

Hot Wheels!

Oh My!

Winter in Northern California...

Growing up in New England, it wasn't uncommon for the winter to strike from out of the blue somewhere around early November, cutting the autumn short by weeks....

exhibit A...the back porch of my childhood home. sigh....

Out here in California, however, autumn takes its time, meandering through the months generally inhabited by hats, mittens and puffy coats and snow angels in my memory. Snow isn't going to happen at all, I've made peace with that (unless we get in our car and trek 4 hours to the Sierras, which we will. Some day.) But even the changing of the trees from their lush green to the crispy reds, oranges and yellows--their own little fiery tree sunsets---lingers through to December.

This picture was taken during the 2nd week of December...

Not exactly a winter wonderland. But, I have to say, the change in the leaves provides us wiht hours of entertainment, even if we have to wait until two weeks before the Winter Solstice to partake in our autumnal activities...

...like raking (or, let's be honest--pretending to rake while actually spreading the leaves around even more haphazardly and poking at them with the wrong end of the rake....)

wrong way, kid....

theeeeere you go....keep up the good work. Mama's going to go sit on the porch and supervise...

We also went on the super fun & fabulous preschool-mandatory leaf collecting walk. Outfitted with a random Starbucks bag, once home to perhaps a delectable baked goodie, we headed out to collect decaying refuse from our neighborhood trees. (SO PRETTTTTTY!) and gathered up the brightest leaves we could find to take home with us.....for no purpose whatsoever....

But who cares?!!! Carpe Diem! Or, Carpe A Bunch of Dying Leaves!

When we returned from our leaf collecting journey around the block, I deflected the fact that those lovingly selected leaves were basically going to be chucked into "yard waste" trash bin on the side of our house within minutes, by suggesting we rake for a few more minutes before the sun went down....

I'm not sure if he's raking here, or practicing being a majorette...

not getting a lot of raking done here....

Pretty sure he is playing guitar here instead of pulling his own weight in household chores. Seriously---four year olds, who do they think they are?

So, dear reader, help me out.

1.) What the hell can I do with a bunch of fallen leaves that is artsy/craftsy funsy/learny with a 4 year old? and...

2.) At what age do you think chores, with or without an allowance, are reasonable for kids? Raking was definitely not Ethan's chore--he thought it was great fun and did it pretty much on his own (and with, let's be honest, very little actual leaf-raking success--but he totally nailed it on the "being cute" part, so it's all good). But as Ethan gets older & more able to help out around the house and be in charge of his own things, I'm curious about the concept of chores & allowance and what other people do with their kids. Thanks!

Weird Science...

Part of the challenge of being a stay at home mom and shopping for the holidays is that you have to find presents for under the tree that are going to provide entertainment for the preschooler, while at the same time being interesting enough for an adult that you don't feel your IQ swirling the drain down into the stoopid sewer when you are forced to play the same game over and over again blissfully fostering a love of quality time between mother and child with yet another round of Go Fish. (number awareness! fine motor skills! organizational skills! communication skills!!! Mother-of-the-Year, GO. FREAKING. FISH!!!)

So while Ethan isn't quite ready yet to start explicating Walt Whitman, or William Shakespeare, and since he's more interested in reading about dinosaurs and Knuffle Bunnies than in discussing Dante's myriad circles of hell (although clearly one of those circles is rife with Hot Wheels cars that must be crashed together for all of eternity) or Charlotte Bronte's symbolism of the heath in Wuthering Heights (seriously, just writing that makes me giddy. GIDDY.), I opted to fill out his "wish list" (read: Mama's wish list) with puzzles and games and science kits to entertain the child and give me at least the faintest sense of using my brain on a daily basis.

Among the Melissa & Doug puzzles of the solar system, dinosaurs and the map of the United States, the My First Dino Kits, and the board game Mouse Trap, we received a "Mind-Blowing Science Experiments" Kit. A few days ago, we decided to bust that sucker out. And blow our minds.

Now none of the experiments were really brain surgery. Because? Ew. Its not as though I felt myself becoming necessarily smarter, but I did get to read a lot of directions and I even put on my teacher hat and asked Ethan questions about the chemical reactions we were creating and had about as intelligent a conversation one can have with a preschooler about mixing citric acid and baking soda (or maybe it was baking powder--will that be on the test?)

First we created carbonation in our little cups of water by mixing the two above mentioned substances. We discovered that the reaction is faster and bubblier if you use hot water and much slower, but longer lasting and consistent if you use cold water (Stop the presses!!! Someone alert the soda companies that COLD soda is better than hot soda!! Oh, wait...). This discovery was the first time Ethan uttered the words "This is blowing my mind!!!", but it wouldn't be the last.

Then we moved on to the red cabbage powder, which does this when you put it in the water:

ooooh, pretty purple water fall...

And then you add stuff to it and depending on whether the stuff you add is an acid or a base, it will change colors.... like this....

look how excited! His mind? Blown.

And then blue!!! The amazing discoveries just. keep. coming!

We only got through 2 main experiments because after the carbonation experiment and the color changing experiment, we went outside-the-box and started carbonating the colored water, like two mad scientists on a bender.

Sure, I guess in my heart of hearts, I have to admit it wasn't the most intellectually stimulating experience of my life (oh, stuffy British literature professors, I miss you more than you'll ever know). BUT, it was so fun to watch Ethan's eyes widen in surprise and delight as he manipulated matter before our very eyes, that until he gets to analyzing literature and fractions (and really, anything mathematical is going to feel more like anxiety and nausea than intellectual stimulation...), I'm happy making water bubble and change colors.

Let It Bowl, Let It Bowl, Let it Bowl...

Really there's no better idea than giving a bunch of preschoolers solid six pound balls to huck down a greased up alley. After almost two weeks of vacation-y bliss (read: Ethan demanding that we crash Matchbox cars together over & over again until I thought I might run screaming from the house like my hair was on fire....), we ditched the living room 'o new toys for an afternoon of disinfected multi-colored shoes and shouting, "keep your hands out of the ball return! The balls will smash your fingers!" at a bevy of 3 and 4 year olds (okay, it was only three 3 and 4 year olds, but it felt like a bevy).

Ethan took to bowling quickly. By this I mean that it didn't take him long to realize that throwing the bowling ball overhand might not be the most effective way to get his ball down the alley to the pins. By the end of the second game, he was twisting at the waist, holding the ball with both hands and then flinging it for all he's worth. And though it slowed his ball down a bit, he seemed to really enjoy heaving the ball towards the bumper, so that it bounced off and zig-zagged its way down the alley. Bowling with flair. This technique served him well. In fact, he may or may not have beaten me (he definitely did).

But in my defense, the kids' lane had bumpers and the adults' lane did not. So there's that. Also, I've only gone bowling a handful of times since these pictures were taken at my 10th birthday party (for reference, I am the one in the sporty velour pastel striped zipped up sweater, the faux Jordach jeans, crazy-ass pony tails and the glasses so giant that they could totally beat up Nicole Ritchie's giant-est glasses, any day):

rocking my "mom jeans"....at 10.

My best friend rocking her Mickey Mouse appliqued back-pocket mom jeans, which totally steal the show in this picture that is supposed to be of me and the teeny tiny bowling ball...clearly Dad didn't have a zoom lens....If you can manage to take your eyes off that Mickey Mouse, check out the glare coming off of my glasses. Nice.

Oh, 1981 Sarah, what were you thinking with those glasses? I'm not sure how I managed to hold my head up under the weight of them, quite honestly, but I loved them.

Aside from a few forays into the laser-show type bowling alleys in my 20's, which really focused more on consuming pitchers of beer than actually knocking anything down with a bowling ball, my 10th birthday was probably my greatest bowling moment (and definitely the only one of which there is any photography evidence). So I guess we shouldn't be surprised that my four year old beat me by at least 10 points in both games we played. I seriously considered taking a cue from his 3.5 year old friend, Maddy, who simply sat down in front of her lane and gave the ball a good shove from her sitting position. Incidentally, she may have also beaten me (she definitely did.)

"Get your fingers away from the ball return!!!!" I still hear it in my sleep...

cheeky monkey.

Zen and the art of bowling...Ethan contemplates the universe & bowling pins...

The blurry arms actually make bowling look like an active sport, don't they?!...The ball must be blocked from view by the rest of his body because after that shot I took this one....

...and clearly, in spite of all that arm-blurring activity just seconds earlier, that ball is not breaking any speed records.

In fact, Ethan and his friends had enough time after their throws to sit down at their lane and watch, in breathless anticipation to see what their ball did as it moseyed down the lane. Although a couple of times, the balls went so slowly that the kids completely lost interest and by the time their ball made contact with any pins at the end of the lane, they were engaged in some dance or song, or they were busy getting their fingers smashed in the freaking ball return.

Sunrise, Sunset...

and all that stuff...

I'm not even going to begin to bother with resolutions or anything of that sort because, as always happens, the New Year snuck up on me (in my defense, I spent much of the holiday season face down in a pecan pie, and it's hard to read a calendar through all that dark corn syrup and egg yokes....oy), and I haven't really even thought about resolutions yet.

One thing I have decided to do, to get myself back into the swing of blogging, is to post every single day in January--my own personal NaBloPoMo, since I was all NaNoWriMo'ing during the official NaBloPoMo month. In related news, I think it would be fun to create a language based on this blogging and noveling challenges; for example, perhaps January could also be GeYoOwDaDinMo--which would be, Get Your Own Damn Dinner Month. (I'm just kidding; I am totally going to start cooking dinner again--starting tomorrow).

But until I get back into the swing of it, with the relentless attempts at wittiness (I know, the above paragraph is not encouraging where that is concerned...) and the pictures and what have you, I will share a little story with you from this past week. It would seem as though my son got married. My four year old. Just this past Thursday.

He eloped on the back porch, with his best friend Tiny P. While her mother and I sat in the living room, huddled under blankets so the kids could play outdoors in the backyard w/ the screen door open (Northern California beats New England this time of year, but its still not lounge-with-the-doors-open weather), we heard some sort of giggling outside and then the declaration from Tiny P, "And now we're married!!!"

Oh my.

Clearly this overheard information warranted a trip to the backyard to find out what exactly was going on.

And there they were--Ethan and Tiny P (just to be clear, though apt, "Tiny P" is, in fact, not her given name...in case you were wondering), the happily giggling newly weds, holding hands for their first dance. Tiny P has been studying weddings quite a bit, because she was very well-versed in the concept, "Now we have to have our wedding dance!!" she said gleefully as she and Ethan held hands in a little circle for two and spun around on the back porch.

My friend, K, and I, stood at the back porch door like two yentas, all glowy and kvelling, at our little bride and groom. Watching them smile and spin with each other, we wondered if we couldn't just put something in writing so that when they get older we can just tell them, "oh, forget about all that dating and getting your heart broken crap--you're already married. You got married at 4. You were totally on board with it--it was your idea!!" But alas, we live in a world where eventually our kids get to make all their own decisions, so, short of packing up our families together and living off the grid, ensuring that Tiny P and Ethan never realize there are other people their own age in the world, there's probably nothing we can do to ensure that this marriage will actually stick.

And that's a bummer, because these two are super cute and I would have the most gorgeous grandkids.

After their wedding dance, Ethan and his bride announced that they were "off to buy a house!" But really, I hope that Tiny P comes with a big dowry, because otherwise these newly weds are going to be living in our basement for a looooong time.

He's always been a ladies' man, but it does seem that, at least for the time being, Ethan is off the market. I don't think of it as losing a son; I think of it as gaining a daughter. Right?

Happy New Year!

I'd Like to Thank The Academy....

or, In Which I Give My Mother-of-the-Year Performance by Gaslighting My Child About Santa and some Elves....

Because I'm awesome.

Nevermind the fact that we're Jewish and have a Christmas tree--most years I can pawn it off as a Hannukah bush, but this year the Festival of Lights came so damn early in the month that there's no way I'm fooling anyone with the 5-foot pine tree sitting in the middle of our living room. Sure, its decorated in blue and white lights and glittery silver and blue ornaments, but no one's going to buy my "Hannukah bush" racket this year. It's a Christmas tree. This, though, will not have any bearing on Mother-of-the-Year for me; although it might put me in the running for Jew-of-the-Year. That, along with the fact that I haven't been to High Holy Day services in just shy of a decade make me pretty much a shoe-in or that award. Such honors.

No, I'm awesome because I totally sold my kid out and allowed him to feel that he was losing his grip on reality to cover my own bad gift-hiding ass last weekend. In years past, I could basically put a pile of presents any-old-where. For his first holiday season, he was still pretty much a squishy, rolling blob, so as long as I didn't leave presents unwrapped and littering the living room floor, I was pretty much assured he wouldn't find them. Even as he got older, so long as the presents remained in a Target bag and relatively out of the way---tucked under the dining room table, on the guest bed, wherever, he was pretty oblivious. Ethan wasn't keenly aware enough of the idea of presents and Santa to really think about searching the house for loot. Note to self: apparently, 4 years old is when that phenomenon kicks in.

I had, per my usual lackadaisical toss the toys wherever gift "hiding" habit, thrown some bags from Borders, Target & ToysRUs behind the bed in the guest room. On average, Ethan goes in that room...never. So I figured it was a fairly safe bet on keeping the presents hidden, even out in the open, in there. And so I went about my life, likely to forget about said presents, thereby continuing the excessive shopping and child-spoiling until the day before Christmas. Case in point, in mid-March of this year, I found an entire bag of stocking stuffers on the top shelf of our coat closet that I had forgotten to give to Ethan at Christmas. How the hell do pea-brained little squirrels remember where they've buried nuts all over our neighborhood and I can't remember a freaking bag full of M&Ms and Hot Wheels in my own damn closet?

On Saturday morning, as Husband and I were re-arranging furniture in the living room to make room for the not-really-a-Hannukah-bush, Ethan decided to take his little American Girl boy doll, Joey, for a stroller tour of the house. A tour of the house which apparently included the on-average-visited-never guest room. Where he promptly stumbled upon the unburied treasure, and from what I could tell of the wreckage, flung poor Joey into the hallway and came running out into the living room (poor Joey).

"Mommy, when am I getting my Hannukah presents?!" he asked excitedly.

"When Grammy & Grampy ship them to us, honey," I responded absent-mindedly--we'd just returned from celebrating Hannukah with my family and my parents were going to ship all the presents that Ethan had opened at their house in South Carolina back to us. I assumed those were the Hannukah presents about which he was referring.

Then...

"No, the other ones. By the bed. There are presents there!"

Crap!

This is where the most basic holiday-cheer-preserving instinct to totally deceive your own flesh and blood kicked in. I smiled at Ethan and denied the existence of any such present-esque matter in the house. "Oh, honey, I don't think so. It's not Christmas yet and your Hannukah presents are in the mail." I'm not proud of myself, people.

"No, come! I'll show you! There are presents."

Now I'm thinking--he hasn't actually looked in the bags. If he had, he'd be flipping out, losing his ever-loving mind over the fact that there's a giant Optimus Prime in the Target bag. No way he could have seen that and not be screaming it from the roof-tops. There's still time to save my own ass.

"All right, honey. In a minute. Mommy has to go potty. Maybe you can help Daddy move these books out of the way for the tree while I'm in the bathroom.....Daddy? Hello, Daddy?! " Husband is OBLIVIOUS to what is going on and the "nudge nudge wink wink" is almost literal as I get up and race to the guest room.

Sure enough the bags are undisturbed--you've got to give him credit for having such holy-grail-esque reverence for the concept of presents that he dared not touch them. I grab all the bags, singing to myself as loudly as I can to disguise the sound of the rustling bags (we did have holiday music on in the living room, so that's not as bizarre sounding as it seems--maybe) and threw all the presents into the closet in my bedroom. Of course, in the process, I knocked Optimus Prime's shield and he began bellowing at me in his automated super hero voice to prepare for battle.

CRAP! I had to ramp up my "Hark the Herald Angel Sing" to new volumes of Christmas Pageant gone awry (did you have that kid in your Christmas pageant who just YELLED all the words to the carols? A little girl named Jean Nye did that every year from 2nd-6th grade at our school Christmas pageant and even as an elementary student, it made me mental. Just YELLED "Silent Night" at the top of her lungs. Jeez.)

Finally Optimus quit his jibber-jabbing and I got the closet door closed. Sweaty-palmed, I made my way back to the living room, but stopped in the bathroom to flush the toilet, you know, to remain true to my "have to go potty" ruse.

"Okay, honey, show me what you're talking about; I didn't see any presents." I said to Ethan as I came back in the room.

He was so excited I almost felt like declaring last Saturday the unofficial official day that Jewish-people-who-are-going-to-celebrate-Christmas celebrate Christmas....but I did not.

Instead, I let him take my hand and lead me to the guest room, around to the other side of the bed, to present to me....the empty floor.

I really didn't know whether to laugh or cry as he spun around looking for the pile of bags that had been there just moments ago.

"They were right here!" he said, looking up at me, spinning around looking all around him, and then pulling the blankets back on the bed to see if he had actually seen them underneath the covers (which totally cracked me up.) "Come with me," he took my hand and led me out of the guest room. For a minute I panicked that we were going to embark upon a house-ransacking tear until we found the newly relocated stash, but Ethan simply took me to each bed in the house and searched its perimeter. Closets didn't cross his mind; thank goodness he's still new at this.

I felt like a heel seeing how confused he was and didn't want him to think that the presents were taken away from him because he'd found them, so I took the deception one step further and totally blew his mind,

"Maybe the elves came to get them and took them to a safe place."

"The elves?" he whispered, looking up at me in awe.

"Sure, the elves."

"Wow."

"Let's go help Daddy move the rest of those books, okay?"

And that was that. He bought it. I pulled it off. I'm conflicted on several levels; one there's the whole we're Jewish and shouldn't really be dabbling in Santa and giant trees in our living room in the first place. Then there's the "Big Brother, erm, Santa is watching you" type of good behavior-inducing paranoia that makes me feel twitchy, and then there's just the out-and-out lie of "little tiny men dressed in jingly pointy shoes must have descended upon our house and moved your presents." Part of me LOVES it and thinks its a magical part of childhood and I love for Ethan to experience that wonder and amazement. The other part of me thinks, "you just totally sold your kid out to cover your own ass, you big fat lying liar who lies!!!!!!"

But in the end, it's fun, and I highly doubt anyone's ever needed psychotherapy later in life for having had parents who encouraged a belief in Santa and elves and magical presents that appear and disappear until Christmas morning.

That Star of David tree topper totally makes it okay, right? Right???