And look at those goofballs. I mean, Middle Son looks rediculous. Adorable, but rediculous.

I know that sometimes I put a video on here, and y’all do the blogosheperic (?) equivelent of patting me on the head.

But please look at this. Please?

A child in Italy had his named changed by the courts, against his parent’s wishes.

Is it wrong of me to be glad it wasn’t in an American court?

A few years ago, Middle Son heard ‘Feliz Navidad’ on the radio. He spoke no Spanish at the time (he’s taking lessons now, and doing really well! I have to study twice as hard to keep up!), and didn’t know what Feliz Navidad meant.

What he heard was, ‘Please Buy Me That.’ And that is what he proceeded to sing, at the top of his voice. Youngest Son took up the refrain.

Imagine for a moment, two small boys singing ‘Puh-leez buy me that!’ very loudly, walking through the mall. Hilarious.

In the ‘What U.S. City Are You?’ test, I scored:

Your Score: HARTFORD!

You scored 42% Style, 39% Climate, and 45% Culture!

You are Hartford, Connecticut. Hartford, located at the end of the navigable portion of the Connecticut River, was settled in 1623 as a Dutch trading post. In 1636, a group of English settlers left Massachusetts and formed a colony here. The settlers made peace with the local Algonquin Indians, who called the town Saukiog, and renamed it after Hertford, England. Shaped by the social and economic forces which gave rise to industrial growth in America, Hartford grew and prospered as successive waves of immigrants came to work, build and settle in the community. This ethnic and cultural diversity continues to be a prominent part of Hartford’s heritage and one of the city’s greatest assets. Hartford also became an important cultural and communications center. The nations oldest public art museum, the Wadsworth Athenaeum, was founded in 1844. Supported by prominent benefactors like J.P. Morgan, the museum grew to become one of the top ten art museums in the country. Authors like Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe were drawn to the area, because, as Twain said “of all the beautiful towns it has been my fortune to see, this is the chief.”

You have landed yourself in a more laid back city because you are not fond of typical city crowds and city folk, but would probably be happier in a smaller town. You also don’t mind the change in seasons, even though you prefer more sunshine and warm weather to the opposite. You probably enjoy a good film or art show every now and then, but more often than not, you just like to kick back and enjoy the outdoors and nature. You could stand to be a bit more open-minded because it would make you all the more well-rounded. Hartford fits you alright, although you’d probably do well in the countryside, too, far from the hustle, bustle, and stress of the city.

I’m sorry, but I never saw myself as The Insurance Capital of the World. I think of myself as more of a Savannah, Georgia, sort of gal, minus the Junior League.

Sign in a grocery store:

So, I don’t live in a mansion or anything. I am a suburban housewife who volunteers at school, loves my boys, and tries to take care of any other children who pass my way. We worry about money, try to make ends meet while keeping the uglier side of life away from our children – for now, at least. We’re pretty average, on the whole.

Tonight I had multiple experiences that showed me how blessed I really am.

First, Youngest Son and Middle Son had their Holiday Pageant. They dressed up and sang songs, painted their noses red, and tried to show off their parents to any who would sit still for it. As I had spent my entire day at the school, cutting and gluing (just like yesterday), and helping with “Craft Day”, I was old news to the kids. I got a coupla high fives, and some proud shiny faces shouting at me, “Have you met my MOM!?” Tired looking Moms and Dads shook my hands, wished me Merry Whatever, and we all chased our children down different hallways. It was fun, and sweet, and so very reminiscient of my own childhood. I was happy that my boys will have that same memory.

I then came home to whiny children who complained that they hadn’t eaten enough, and want to stay up long enough to see the Survivor finale, even though it’s way past their bed time. Feliz Navidad, know what I’m sayin’?

But the simmering in my soul came later.

My ex-boyfriend, who I am proud to say is still my friend (and Hubby seems to like him, too) called to tell me that Grandpa is dead. I liked that old man, and I am sorry to see him pass, though I am confident he is with his Maker and happier now than he’s ever been. I added his family to my prayers weeks ago, but now I have a special place for Grandma, who finds herself alone for the first time since she was 19 years old. I asked my ex how I could help – with realistic suggestions like, “does anyone need a ride?” and “Does anyone need leaves raked or homes cleaned?” Let’s face it – when there’s a death in the family, extended family tends to show up, and no one should have to worry that Aunt Fanny will see the dust bunnies. Feel me?

That’s what I want more than anything.  When I’m dead, call in the Merry Maids before my mother sees my house. Once CSI is done, and Hubby has been exonorated, I want the Merry Maids to do a clean sweep. Full-on clean, including grout. No shit. This is my last will and testament, I am of sound mind and body, and I am totally not kidding. The most important thing you can do for me in this life is to make sure my house is CLEAN before my Mother sees it.

But I’ve strayed from my point…

Grandpa was a good man, and his family will miss him. He had an impact on this world – at least his grandson is doing him proud. Which leads me to my nexy story…

My Grandmother died not too long ago. I miss her. My mother misses her even more. Her passing has left a hole in our lives, and we’re really sad she’s gone.

Grandma had a tradition. Every year, she mailed a Christmas Poem. She took the year’s events, made them into a poem, and sent it out to the family. One of the best things Mom ever did was collect all these poems, put them in a book, and before Grandma died -(your timing was FANTASTIC, Mom!) – sent a bound copy of all Grandma’s poems to the family.

It’s got the place of resprect on my coffee table as we speak.

But this year – no Grandma.

I got the following in my mailbox tonight:

“Merry Christmas, 2007.

The day of wonder is almost here – the day we remember our loved-ones far and near…

The day when we celebrate our Savior’s birth, and give Thanks for all He’s given us on this Earth.”

Grandpa took up the tradition. My heart is broken, folks. There is nothing – and I mean that, nothing – better to undo your heart than Grandpa sending out Grandma’s poems. 

Following is eight stanzas of our family. Births, and deaths, and travels and heart-felt love.

My Grandfather, who my husband once referred to as “Jack Palance with soul”, took up my Grandma’s tradition, and sent out the POEM. I’m awestruck.

I’m not going to replicate it here, because it’s mine, and I have to just love my Grandpa some more before I hand him over.  But I’m so very, very proud of him. Maybe one day I’ll let the world see his poem. Today, though, I’m going to be proud, and weepy, and loving my Grandpa so very, very much.

So Chistmas has made me humble. My family has taught me, again, that there is so much more to life than I’ve ever seen.

My children are so proud of me that they high-five their friends in the hallway. That’s how much they love me.

My Grandfather is letting the world know that he loves us, loves Grandma, loves our family. I am so very proud.

Silly, yes. But heart-felt.

…and that really is a shame. We don’t do fast food too much in my family, but with three young boys, we opt for fast food on occasion. And when we do, we usually agree on BK as the best option.

But I am so disgusted by the ‘Hit-moms’ ad campaign, the only way I can show my displeasure is to no longer do business with them.

The idea that suburban homemakers (like myself) would be so distressed by a better sandwich that they would band together and hire a hit-man is absurd, upsetting, and when I think that my sons may find it funny, disgusting.

Since when is threatening someone’s life funny? Since when is threatening someone’s life the choice we should make when they do something better than we do? Since when have mom’s been so insecure about their skills that they would hire a hit-man (unless, of course, their daughters are cheerleaders)?

Now, of course I realize the absurdity of the campaign. I am not inclined to find a hit-man to whack the King based on this sorry example. But what kind of asinine message is this campaign sending to children – the very demographic that Burger King hopes to receive its future money from? This campaign is stupid, insulting, and a tragic indication of how ridiculous many large corporations believe the American consumer to be.

Eldest Son and his class (sixth grade) took a field trip today to Agecroft Hall and ‘The Citie of Henricus‘ as part of their study of English settlement of the New World. I got to tag along. It was interesting.

First stop: Agecroft Hall. A Tudor manor, originally located in Lancashire, England, Agecroft was purchased in 1925 by Thomas C. Williams, Jr., who then crated it up and shipped it to Richmond.

The kids were given jobs as servants in the manor house, and tour guides dressed in period clothing showed the kids what their jobs might have entailed in the early 1600s. Eldest Son was a shearer’s assistant. He thought it was a pretty cool job, considering some of the options (chamber maid, for example. Not a lot of maturity happening when sixth graders are having the truth about chamber pots explained to them, or how 16th century laundresses got stains out of clothing. Hint: they used ammonia.) After a tour and some hands-on (here’s ES brushing wool:) the kids signed seven year indentures, and voyaged to the New World.

Of course, the voyage was really a comfortable ride in a chartered coach, and the New World was really Henricus Historical Park, located on the site of the second permanent English settlement in America.

Once the indentured servants arrived at Henricus, reenactors took them around the settlement and showed them what life may have been like for the settlers. Not pretty. If the fact that 2/3 of the settlers died didn’t scare ‘em off, the idea that they had to live for seven years of labor with 350 men and boys (no women until 1619, at which point I think the men just grabbed whatever women were near the docks) pretty much made them go, “Yuck.”

Not to mention, it was really cold. We’ve had a temperate season so far, but of course the day when we’re outside for six hours is the day when it’s forty degrees (4.44 Celsius for all you metric-system types). I made lots of friends, as I’m a pretty good wind break.

Here’s the kids lined up to train as militia:

ES is way in the back on the right, so you can’t see him. Wait – I think I have another angle:

Not a great pic, but ES has misplaced my camera, so I had to use an old one without the nifty gizmo that makes the pictures come out clear even when your hand is shivering.

Check out nutjob child next to ES wearing shorts. What kind of parent lets their child go outside in winter wearing shorts?

After farming tobacco, trading with natives, and mustering for the militia (all while freezing their tucasses off), the kids were ready to get their freeman papers and strike out on their own. (In our case, striking out meant jumping into the mini-van and turning the heat up.)

It actually was a pretty neat trip.  I love experiences that make history come alive. Especially for kids like my son, who has no interest otherwise. I start talking about Tudor England or early N. American settlement, or even US history, and the boys/men in my family glaze over in a manner moments. Youngest Son will listen a little longer, but I think that’s mostly because he’s learning the art of humoring me. (Middle Son doesn’t even try – but then he rarely believes anything, anyway. I told him I was born in California, and he told me I was lying. When faced with a skeptic like that, what can you do?)

All in all, a worthwhile day.