But, by God, if that horse’s name is Evan, you cannot make him pee. Unless, of course, you’re Daddy. Six hours — six hours – this kid went without peeing. Daddy walked in, and the waterworks flowed.

We’re in the middle of potty training right now. If Thomas the Tank Engine was the literary soundtrack to my daughter’s lessons in toileting, Cars and Trucks and Things That Go is the literary soundtrack to my son’s toileting lessons. I now know the location of Goldbug on every single page of that book. My life is in the toilet. Literally. I might even be composing this entry on the toilet. Too much information? I said I might…

My favorite holiday card this year came from my college roommate. It included a photo of her two year old daughter and her seven month old son. The photo was, no doubt, one among dozens and dozens taken in an attempt to get the “perfect” holiday snapshot. It didn’t happen. Or, maybe it did. The snapshot selected for the honor of the holiday greeting? A photo of the little boy tipping precariously toward his sister, having obviously lost his shaky balance, and the girl turned away like Judas, using both her hand and foot to make as much distance between herself and her brother. She’s still managing a smile, though — a very, very devilish one.

In my estimation, a more perfect holiday photo could not be taken. For, with one glance at that snapshot, I was given a more clear, accurate, and honest glimpse into their home than any glossy portrait could have ever provided. I knew in an instant that life wasn’t perfect over at her house, but it was still a lot of fun. It brought a smile of recognition to my face.

Perhaps I should take this revelation to heart. I try not to attempt perfection in my life; I know, too well, that it can’t be found. But, too often, I cover up the blemishes, hide the foibles, and toss the dirty clothes under the bed. Not for the general public’s consumption, I say.

Perhaps, though, it should be. Why shouldn’t I let people know about the short temper that flares when the day is long and the time until bedtime is even longer? The weariness that catches me when I’m building a tunnel for the thousandth time? The doubt that accompanies me all too often? I suspect, more often than not, that such a portrait would bring at least a weary smile of recognition to the face of many who gazed upon it.

My portrait — the one with all the blemishes and foibles that Photoshop simply can’t hide — may not be stunning, but it’s charming and endearing, simply because it is real.

I always regret that I don’t remember the books that I read as well as I should. I enjoy them immensely, then put them on the shelf (or return them to the library), and then they fade away from my memory. Lost.

Another thing I’ve regretted — up until now — about my reading habits? I’m too often too lazy to look up words with which I’m unfamiliar, or whose meaning on which I hold a tenuous, at best, grip. But no more.

Tucked inside the last two books I’ve read? A piece of paper and a pen. Perfect for jotting down words I don’t know entirely, to be looked up later.

And, at the risk of uncovering my ignorance to all, I’m going to list those words here. No Longer Lost.

I hope you enjoy as much as I did.

Abjure
Bowdlerize
Elision
Frisson
Pollard
Chthonic
Vicissitude
Fecklessness
Putative
Blinkered
Crenellations
Suppurated
Prescience
Insouciant
Indolent
Moil
Quotidian
Inhere
Hillock
Tumulus
Parsimonious
Slake
Elegiac
Parturition
Attenuate
Diaspora
Propitiate
Simulacra
Miscible
Incipient
Cloyed
Noisome
Reliquary
Fallow
Invidious
Avidity
Predation
Blandishment
Voluble
Unctuous
Chary

I already knew what I was getting for Christmas this year. A mistakenly forwarded email gave it away. Tim already knew what he was getting for Christmas this year. An ill-timed visit from the postman was to blame for that blown secret. There were no surprises awaiting us beneath the tree. Or, so we thought.

But Santa came.

“I hear Santa reindeer! Crash! Boom! Boom! Up there!” Evan shrieked at seven o’clock in the morning. There was no mistaking his excitement and joy. He believed it.

It only took me a moment to believe it, too. Thanks, Evan. Christmas Surprise.

I just installed XM satellite radio in my car. I activated said radio — while in my car — using a laptop computer, connected to the Internet via a wireless network. When my browser didn’t work properly because someone didn’t follow the rules by which we should all play nicely in browserland? Not a problem. We simply brought out my father’s laptop, which he had brought with him on his visit. You know…pack the toothbrush, then pack the laptop. Oh, of course, we could have also used my husband’s laptop, too. Dad’s was just closer to the front door.

It sure is a wonderful life, George Bail –er — Jetson.

Merry Christmas, Mom. And Rebecca? Perhaps you can take some refuge in this as you’re drowning in a sea of activity. Me? I just don’t know. I. Just. Don’t. Know.

In a bizzare twist on cheap booze and cheaper perfume, I come home from my solo nights out on the town smelling like roasted coffee. Tim thinks he’s safe. Of course, he is. Unless you count the exhiliration I feel upon tasting those dark chocolate and espresso chip truffles. They’re worth at least three deadly sins…

We were living in Saudi Arabia at the time, my father having been sent there by the Navy, and, the rest of us, dutifully, following. I was in fifth grade. My sister was in eighth grade. I was young enough to still enjoy Barbies and birthday parties, but too old for a sitter. Being housed on a guarded compound had given us an early, odd sense of independence; with no where, really, to go, and a constant, but unbeknownst, eye of supervision upon us, we had been given the false freedom to roam about the compound. Throughout that compound we had run and caroused and hid and played all throughout the summer and fall after we first arrived. No, we didn’t need babysitters. At least, that’s what we thought.

But, there he was. Bob. Solidly middle-aged — older than my parents, even. A bachelor, for all intents and purposes. Not your typical babysitter. He lived across the compound in the villas that were reserved strictly for the childless couples and bachelors. He might as well have lived outside the compound. Foreign. How my parents had gotten to know him was a mystery to me. How they had decided he would be the one to take care of us while they went on a much needed vacation was a question I never even thought to ask. Why he had agreed to the request was, and remains, a tickling curiosity. I’ve never asked. I’m simply glad he did.

It was a week of Anne Murray, guitar, and the Chinese restaurant. Those are, really, the only details I remember of that week. Time has a way of erasing details. Usually she leaves behind the sentiments. Funny thing, though, about that week. I don’t remember missing my parents, though I’m sure I did. I don’t remember being afraid of this stranger suddenly taking care of us, though I’m certain I felt that way, if only for a moment.

But I remember the Chinese restaurant, in the middle of Riyadh. Driving to it with Anne Murray accompanying us along the way. Can I have this dance? His own voice singing along. My voice, singing, too. My first chopsticks. A taste of Shark’s Fin soup. A night-cap of his big hands strumming a guitar and still more of his voice. Everything was just a little different. Exotic. Adventurous. Fun. This stranger swooped into our lives for a week, bigger than life, and brought with him just a little glimpse of Something. Else.

That was also the year my parents told me there wasn’t really a Santa Claus. I’d pretty much assumed as much already. Hearing it from my parents, though, made it seem so final. Too old for Santa Claus. But not really. I was still young enough to be star-struck by an old man with twinkling eyes and a smile that lit up a room. Real. But not.

I still send a Christmas card to Bob every year. He’s well into his seventies now, and, from what I hear, his health is failing him. I’m uncertain, even, if he knows who the card is really from. My name has changed. It’s been 25 years, almost, since that week of chopsticks and the Chinese restaurant. But, I still send him a card. Because, each time I address a card to him, I’m right back at that restaurant, just a little nervous and terribly excited as I taste that first spoonful — of soup, of adventure, of growing up.

“Where are you from?” I’m often asked. And, almost always, the inquiry is accompanied by an air of sleuthing curiosity, not the attitude of mindless conversation that most often comes with that question. Despite being born and raised, more or less, in the South, I haven’t, apparently, any discernible accent. No roots are clearly uncovered when I speak; thus, the curiosity. I’m predictably able to elicit a shocked response when I give them my answer. “I would have never known,” is almost always the reaction.

This has never sat well with me. I want my roots to be easily identifiable, if only for my own reassurance that I, in fact, posses them. Know my roots; know me. This is as much for my own knowledge as it is for others. It’s all a part of figuring myself out.

“Naw, ma’am, you wouldn’ wanna live where ah’m from,” muttered a humble laborer to my mother while painting her house one day. “Where ah’m from, loneliness is dripping off tha treeeees.”

That achy, jealous, filled feeling you get when you’ve read something perfect? I felt it for the first time ever on that day, overhearing that painter’s conversation with my mother. The words weren’t written, but they might as well have been. And though he heartily recommended against it, I’ve never yearned more strongly to have roots than I yearned to have the roots from those very trees in his poetic hometown.

I’ve never been one to actually stick to my New Year’s resolutions. Lose weight? Yeah, right after I eat another cookie. Exercise more? Well, my kids are getting heavier and I’m still lifting them; does that count? You get the picture. The only resolution I’ve ever managed to stick to was the resolution to not fall into the resolution trap any longer. From now on, I said, I’ll have no resolve.

But, it seems, I’ve even failed on that attempt.

I’ve got to get out of this funk, I said to myself the other day. Pamper myself more. Don’t let myself go. A bit of makeup, some more pride in my clothing, that type of thing.

And so, on Saturday, with a surprise windfall in my pocket, I did just that: a trip to the makeup counter and a few wintry-warm colors later, I was ready to go. Nothing extravagant, mind you. Just something simple — blush and lip color — but enough to boost my ego a tiny bit when I catch a glimpse of my reflection during the day.

Getting into the habit of pampering myself — just a little, every day. Now, surely, that can be something I can stick with.

That was on Saturday.

On Sunday? I spent the entire day in my pajamas.

This does not bode well for me come New Year’s.