Jonathan is refusing to watch Jim Carrey in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
"I'm afraid of his long wiggly fingers--that he'll use them to steal our holiday."
I can see his point a bit, can't you?
Those are some long wiggly fingers.
Holiday greetings from the kiddos
Quick coffee break on Wall Street
Jonathan is feeling the effects of a busy Christmas seasonI'm relatively certain that tears are not the normal reaction to the Rockettes and all their accompanying extravagance.
Awe, laughter, increases in Christmas spirit...all expected reactions.
Crying-- probably not so much.
I took the morning off from work so I could chaperone Jonathan's preschool class on their field trip to the show. (Jonathan complained that I was the only mom who never helped at the preschool. Little does he know how much of my job is "helping the preschool." It's just that I am in the school office, and he doesn't see me.) The other chaperones and I led the undulating line of giggling/pouting/chatting plaid-clad preschoolers as we walked the 6 blocks to Radio City Music Hall. We found our way to our seats, the ushers handed us 3-D glasses and magically lit star-shaped wands, and the show began. Lights flashed, the orchestra played, dancing ensued, and Santa welcomed us to the greatest show in the greatest city on earth.
It was all very...LARGE.
I glanced at Jonathan, perched on the edge of his upholstered seat, sitting still as stone while he took it all in. It was then that I was blindsided by the thought.
I live here. In this city. And this is NORMAL--that my son and I are on a school field trip to what surely is one of the best known shows in one of the best known venues in the world.
Thus began the tears of gratitude.
I used to have those Wait, I LIVE here moments quite frequently...while playing in Central Park or walking down a crowded sidewalk. But lately, as I've grown accustomed to life in the city, those thoughts have receded. I wasn't prepared for this one.
God is good, my friends. Good because He's called our family to a city that we love, to do work that we love. And while we're working, we're experiencing a vast and rich culture that testifies to God's love of beauty and creativity.
We live here.
We love here.
It's the kind of things the kids and I do on early Sunday mornings.
Watch it here.
(We don't dance together very good, said Jonathan.)
Now that the temps have dropped and the wind has taken the opportunity to whip against all who dare to venture outside, I love my sleeping bag coat more than ever.
There was a brief moment this week, however, when the coat and I had to work through an issue.
I arrived at work one morning, cozy as could be and so appreciative for the warmth the coat had lent me on the journey. The fur on the collar had gently brushed my face and kept the wind from blowing down my neck. "What a great coat I have," thought I.
Out of curiosity, I decided to check the coat's filling. Was it a special down that made it so warm, or was the down intermingled with some new man-made insulation that kept the cold from reaching me?
Down,
Waterfowl feathers,
Wool lining--
All there, the magical combination of warmth.
But what's this?
The fur is
Raccoon Fur!?
I was horrified. And not because I was offended by the presence of real animal fur (sorry PETA, that's not my cause), but because it was RACCOON.
Raccoons, the rodents of my childhood.
Raccoons,
the
trash invading,
birdseed stealing,
rabies transmitting,
roadkill thieves in the night.
And now, I'm wearing a coonskin. Against my face. And liking it. What's next? Ratskin gloves?
I imagined Michael Kors searching the highways and byways for a dead 'coon with which to make the trim on my coat, and suddenly, I liked both Michael Kors and my coat a little bit less. (To be fair, I never said my reaction was rational. I'm sure Michael Kors didn't search the roads for a dead 'coon. He probably sent his people to do it for him...)
How to resolve this dilemma?
In the end my pragmatism won over (as usual).
This is the warmest coat I've ever owned. It can't help it that someone made a bad choice in fur selection.
I was able to forgive it for its rodent trim,
but I have not forgotten, and I still can't nuzzle my cheek into the fur like I did before.
I'll work on that. Maybe with time...
How fitting that we awoke this morning, the Morning to Start Christmas Baking, to find the season's first snowfall had arrived in the night
Frequent breaks in the baking to check snow status ("Yep, it's still snowing!")
Cutout cookies with the secret ingredient and a nod to our Dutch heritage: almond extract
Jonathan didn't buy my "less is more when it comes to sprinkles" pitch;
Bing Crosby's White Christmas+plenty of flour+50% of sprinkles finding their way to floor= Job well done
More pics of our Griswold-esque courtyard.
I especially appreciate the neon lining of the streambed.
