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There is an ancient tradition in our family, that reaches all the way back to 2011, where we make paper chains for Advent for each member of the family.

Inside each link we write words of love, kind inspiration, encouragement, or ridiculous jokes.  ( My favorite was one of Critter’s to Grandma Jane:”I’m glad you’re still alive.”)

The object is rather fortune-cookie-esque…to make the opener of the link smile and feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  (Not that a fortune cookie ever gave me the fuzzies; though one time a bad shrimp ball did.)

So every day, starting on December 1st, we open one of our links and go “Aw!”

It beats the heck out of crappy chocolate advent calendars.  (Unless they are Lindt Advent Calendars.  Nothing beats THOSE.)

My Captain has been working 80 hour weeks ever since our rental house in Frederick became vacant.  It’s a nasty time for us financially, but we’ll get through it.  He’s bearing the work load, I’m bearing the parenting load, and the kids, well, they’re just loads.

***snicker!***

Critter, Varmint, and I knew that My Captain wouldn’t have had time to open his Advent chain’s links over the last couple of days, so we took his Advent Chain to him today.

We missed him, after all!

How did he feel about that?  A big strong Captain?  A man among men?

Judging by the look on his face?

You tell me.

We haven’t gotten our act entirely together yet this Christmas Season.

The outside Christmas lights are not on the Colorado Spruce yet.  Haven’t even plugged ’em in to see if the ding-dang things light up.

But we did finish our Advent Chains.

And we did chop down our up until then perfectly-healthy-and-oxygen-supplying Christmas Tree.

And we did put the peel and stick Santa figure up on the bathroom window so the kids feel like they are being watched when they are pooping.

But frankly, if it were not for our Moose, we would be poor holiday greeters, indeed.

“The Moose?” You ask?

Yes.  The Moose.

“What the hell is that thing?”

“It’s exactly what it looks like, of course.”

Our Christ Moose.

We hesitate to add much else to the yard.  It would be like Gilding the Lily.

And we’d hate to be Gauche.

This was not the first time she’d done it to me.  We’d been down this road before.  Sometimes she would call, and beg me, sometimes I would catch it without her telling me.  But always it would end the same way:  I would have to make a special trip.

She’d forgotten her lunch box AGAIN.

This morning, I’d put together the most delicious, nutritious, fantastic lunch, complete with fancy-schmancy mixed fruit carbonated beverage, and gingerbread-shaped peeps for desert (did I say nutritious?), and actually brought it with me as we got into my car to leave for school.

She even asked me “Do you have my lunch?”   To which I replied by heaving it to her in the back seat.

We drove to school, Mother and daughter, alone and enjoying each other’s company in the quiet morning.   We arrived, she got out, dutifully kissed me goodbye, and headed into the school.

I drove home loving my sweet Varmint.  So old and wise for her age.  So competent, reliable, and consistent.

I arrived at our little cottage, turned off the car, and prepared to get out, when I saw this:

I DID say consistent, didn’t I?

I’m telling you, a person has to work at being this forgetful.  Nobody comes so poorly by it honestly.  She must be practicing some kind of 12 step plan to get this scatterbrained.   Maybe she has a life-coach teaching her or something.  It’s like I gave birth to the Absent-Minded Professor.  I keep waiting for her to break into Jerry Lewis impersonations.

“HEY LAAAAAADYYY!”

Of course I know she could just buy lunch at the school.  But now, NOW I was on a mission to get her to remember her own needs.  I knew what I had to do.

So I wrote her this note:

And I made sure I was at school when her lunch period started.

I positioned myself at the front of the hallway before the Cafeteria, and laid in wait.  She saw me.  Looked simultaneously chagrined and grateful, and came in for a very cutsie hug.

And that’s when I handed her the note.

She giggled.  Her friends gathered round on their way to lunch.  Varmint smirked at me with a challenge in her eyes as if to say, “You wouldn’t DARE.”

Oh, Sweet Varmint, I thought you knew me better than that.

And friends, I Gangnam –Style Danced all the way out the door.

In front of 100 6^th graders.

All glorious 220 pounds of me.

Wearing my nasty Crocs.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO YOUR DAUGHTER???”  You cry?

Because sometimes nothing gets a point across like a 220-pound, middle-aged woman, Gangnam-Style Dancing out the door in nasty ol’ Crocs.

It started on Friday afternoon.  Quiet at first; so much so that I wouldn’t have noticed at all if I hadn’t stepped in it.

It got worse overnight, more frequently and loud enough to wake me from a sound sleep.

Nothing will get your attention faster than a cat retching into your clean laundry basket at 2:00 in the morning.

Why do they always heave 4 times before they actually produce a chunk of vomit? Why is that?

I called the vet at Noon.  We talked over options and decided to wait and see if he was still sick on Monday.  By that night he was so tired and dehydrated that after he retched he would just lay down right there in the puke.

He’d stopped cleaning himself entirely.  Saturday night I bathed him with a warm washcloth.

By Sunday he had stopped retching, and started eating and drinking again.  I thought maybe we were over the hump.

So I didn’t take him in on Monday.

Tuesday morning at 6:00am, Varmint called up the stairs, “MOM!  Gracie puked in my closet!”

I knew we would be at the vet that day.

Dr. Simmons is a nice lady, and seemed a competent veterinarian.  We talked about the possibilities.  Considered our options.  Discussed finances.

We did the x-ray.  We did the bloodwork.

And then she sent us on our way.

Getting a professional to confirm that your cat is fine…..$200.00.

The look of gratitude on your daughter’s face for spending her Christmas Gift Money on her cat….PRICELESS.

If you are just now tuning in, you need to know I have arthritis in my right knee, brought on by sports injuries from Collegiate TaeKwonDo, carrying extra weight from my gestations, and treating my body like a pool hall, in general.

Oh, I’m 44 and have the mileage of an 80-year-old.

We’re talking City Miles.

And you should probably know I’m a whiner.  So if you keep reading my  drivel  blog, you’ll hear plenty about the Godforsaken Knee.

This Thanksgiving our little community had a 5K run/walk.  We do it often because one of our townsfolk, Gail Lee, of The Biggest Loser fame, is determined to help the rest of us share in her health success.

I like Gail.  She’s got the energy of a decent-sized star, only brighter.  I like to support her endeavors, and join in her sense of community.  And we do have a wonderful Mayberry-esque community here in Poolesville, Maryland.

The first thing this nippy, but sunny, Thanksgiving morning, My Captain and I put on our comfy clothes and met a none-too-shabby group of stalwart souls in the parking lot where the 5K would start.

Understand this:  My knee cannot handle 5K.  It can barely handle the walk from my easy-chair to the cupboard where I keep the Easy Cheese.  But I hate feeling that I’m missing something.

My Captain kept begging me “Don’t Do This!  You’ll be laid up for days.”

I stubbornly held my ground, determined to walk at least 1 mile.  One. Measly. Little. Mile.

My Captain, well-knowing my current physiological challenges, didn’t even put his tennis shoes on, or his coffee down.

OUCH.

There I am in my yoga pants, my super-spiffy athletic fleece from LL Bean, and my polypropylene underwear, and he’s in his clunky work boots, Carhartt canvas jacket, and carrying an extra-large McDonald’s coffee.  And he’s walking faster than me.

I used to be athletic!  I whitewater kayaked!  I earned a black belt and fought large women, some of whom had hair on their backs!  I biked hundreds of miles around large portions of states.  I WAS A CONTENDER!!!!

***sigh***

And now I limp around whining about the passing of my youth.

But I did my one measly mile, dagnabbit.  Even if I did hobble like a penguin, I’m glad I did it.  I may not be what I once was, but I’m alive.  And it felt good to be out moving in the sunshine with the love of my life.

And I’ll be blogging from my family room for the next several days with an ice-pack on my knee.

Someone go get me the Easy Cheese for gosh sake.