lost and found

liam and susanna are infatuated with their fisher price nativity set. they'll play with it for hours, positioning the figurines in different spots around the stable and pushing the button so that the shepherds and wise men can rock out to "away in a manger" for the 212th time. i love to eavesdrop from the other room, to hear what susanna thinks the donkey would say to virgin mary, or to hear liam informing the motley crew that's assembled there that his middle name is also joseph. our only problem is that for a week or so now, the most important character has gone missing. keep this in mind, as i share with you a glimpse into a typical afternoon of the mann family.

it's 4 p.m. on a cold, dark monday. we're stuck inside because of the weather and susanna's late nap. liam is rummaging around all corners of the playroom in search of some elusive piece to his "five little monkeys" puzzle. the doorbell rings. in a matter of ten seconds ...

1) super races to the front door, howling.

2) i drag her out to the back deck so we're not sued.

3) susanna wakes up from all the commotion and begins her own howling.

4) i open the door to find a somewhat apprehensive UPS guy who needs my signature.

5) liam starts yelling, "I FOUND JESUS! MOMMA, I FOUND JESUS! JESUS IS HERE!"

by the time liam made it to the foyer, clutching his precious fisher price Baby Jesus who had been apparently resting on the floor under the armchair, that delivery guy was halfway down the street and never looked back. i never even signed for the package.

gratitude

during this week of Thanksgiving, i asked liam and susanna what they were thankful for. thankfully, they knew what the word "thankful" meant without needing an explanation. here are their responses, totally unedited, in the order they gave them. chicken nuggets. sand. cake. sippy cups. our house. cheese and crackers. flowers. not being sick. strawberries. the mailman. our family. super the dog. school. books. church. God. Jesus. and Nascar.

advent conspiracy

we're already struggling this year with the over-the-top commercialism of christmas. this concept is nothing new to the world at large (well, to the united states at large), but it's new to our children. for the first time, liam is really getting sucked in -- adding more and more toys to his wish list every day, and looking at the calendar to calculate how many more days until santa arrives. susanna, as with everything, is learning by her big brother's example. ironically, as i was online researching dollhouses tonight, i came across the video below. i love the message; i love the truth of it; i love how it inspires. i'm sure we'll still find ourselves at toys r us within the next few weeks, loading our shopping cart ... old habits are hard to break, and really, we would never want to deny our kids the joy of running down the stairs on christmas morning in eager anticipation of what might be under the tree. but my hope is that through this upcoming season of advent, chris and i will teach them that far more important than what's under the tree is what's around it: family. and love. and health. and hope. and faith. God bless.

it doesn't take much

we saw snow three times yesterday. three times! in november! in raleigh! it seemed to follow us wherever we went, first causing quite a stir in the parking lot as we left gymnastics; then again as we waited for our flu shots (thank you, God, for the distraction); and once more as we pulled into our driveway. each time, there was a whirlwind of flurries for about 45 seconds or so, before it died down completely. still, it was more than enough to get the kids pulsating with excitement. i took a picture to document this monumental event, since we just don't get much snow in north carolina in november. (to be honest, we just don't get much snow in north carolina, period. we lived in the mountains for five years and liam has yet to make a real snowman.) i grabbed the camera as quickly as i could, but we only managed to get to the edge of the deck (hence the scenic background of our half-covered grill) before it was gone. the picture doesn't do our blizzard justice -- but the looks on the kids' faces says it all.

1544

the media coverage has begun. back in the headlines is little davidson college, chris's alma mater and school extraordinaire. i have become an intense wildcat through marriage, and have been anticipating basketball season ever since we (i do use "we"!) narrowly missed the final four last year. chris and i were fortunate to witness the magic from box seats here in raleigh, as davidson plowed through the first two rounds of the NCAA tournament. we have high expectations of the amazing stephen curry and his team this time around, and apparently we're in good company. but sports mania is not the topic du jour. instead, i'd like to highlight a formerly-little known fact about davidson. a fact that sports writers always managed to squeeze into their columns when introducing davidson to the rest of the country, after the school had put itself on the national map. a fact that never ceases to surprise people. the fact? davidson does the laundry for every member of its student body for all four years they attend, for free. (well, some might argue that paying a $33,000 yearly tuition makes the term "free" slightly inaccurate. probably true.) i am reminded of this each time i hang up many of chris's shirts and pants. he still has clothes that are labeled on the inside collar or waistband with the number 1544, which was the Personal Laundry Number assigned to him in the fall of 1992 by the davidson laundry service. i'm not quite sure what is more incredible ... that an institution of higher learning washes and dries and folds and irons the clothing of all of their students -- and did i mention it also includes free dry cleaning??? -- or that chris still owns, fits into, and wears some of the same clothing he did in the early 1990s. i guess that khaki pants and button-down shirts never go out of style. shoot, if we keep them long enough, i'm hoping liam might use 1544 as his Personal Laundry Number. oh -- and get a full-ride scholarship. preferably, a basketball one.

catalog complaint

dear toy manufacturers and vendors, 

 

congratulations! you've done it. you've obviously been working feverishly since last december 26, finding all the perfect gifts that no preschooler could possibly be without, and your efforts have paid off. what generous spirits you must have, to feel compelled to impart this wisdom on helpless parents by bombarding our mailboxes until they're filled to the brim with your bright, shiny, enticing catalogs! a pat on the back for enlightening my children about how poor and destitute they are, by sharing images of all the fun they COULD be having if they just owned ... those walkaroo sticks! that remote-control dog that barks and dances! that drift cars street team kit with a special carrying case free with purchase! i owe you a debt of gratitude for reducing my children's vocabularies to four simple words: "I WANT THESE, MOMMY" (repeat 570 times between now and dinner) while somehow at the same time increasing their voices in volume several decibels. you've just really outdone yourself. 

 

yes, you certainly have succeeded in providing countless hours of entertainment for my children. in fact, you've given me the best idea of all! i think i'll just wrap a few of your catalogs in pretty paper with a bow on top, put them in the kids' stockings, and call it a day. 

 

sincerely, sara mann

leaves add up

4 year old boy in a huge pile of leaves + a lost pair of shoes somewhere in that pile = a very, very long search hard-working husband with a fear of heights + wife who has no fear of heights

= wife walking on top of the roof, cleaning out the gutters with a blower a yard FULL of trees + autumn = calloused hands, aching backs, and a sense all this work might be a tad futile

you've got mail

when we were house hunting, the way i'd describe what kind of location i desired was always the same: i wanted our children to be able to go get the mail from the mailbox. in other words, i wanted to be able send out my young children to the end of our driveway without being concerned for one second about their safety. i immediately ruled out almost all of the houses we saw because i just wasn't convinced they weren't on a quiet enough street. truth be told, there really aren't that many lots like the one we have, nestled at the very end of a long cul-de-sac, where the only cars we see are those of our neighbors. the house itself certainly needs work (we are on a first-name basis with our electrician, plumber, and handyman) but as far as location goes, we couldn't ask for anything more. i had no way of knowing that the aforementioned mailbox would become such a part of our daily lives, however. our mailman usually arrives here in the middle of susanna's afternoon nap, so we're almost always at home, allowing liam to take on the role of Mailman Monitor. he watches in anticipation from the window, and as soon as he sees the mail truck making its way down the street, he shoves his feet into whatever shoes happen to be nearby and races out the door. it doesn't matter if it's freezing outside and he doesn't have on socks. he doesn't care if it's pouring down rain. in less than fifteen seconds, he's at the end of the driveway, waiting to say hello to our postman and eager for any letters or packages coming his way. it's his job, and he accepts his position with pride. i often wonder if all of this, in a generation's time, will be a thing of the past. it surprises me that we still operate with a system that relies on human eyes to read often illegible handwriting, and that uses real live people who drive from house to house to deliver it all. the postal service seems out of sync with the rest of our impersonal, technology-driven culture. at the risk of sounding like an old woman waxing poetic about years gone by, i actually still remember the days of having a milkman. i remember opening up our back door in the morning to retrieve the glass milk jugs that had just been delivered, as the Pine State truck pulled away from our house and ambled on down its route. my mind is especially adept at conjuring up these images on the days when i'm wrangling both kids, who are stuffed into winter coats, out of their carseats so we can dash into the grocery for another gallon of organic 2%. i hope that the whole concept of a postman won't seem as incomprehensible to the next generation as the milkman must seem to my children today. getting the mail -- the daily ritual, the sense of responsibility assumed by my four-year old, the banter back and forth between him and our mailman -- is truly one of the highlights of our afternoons.

sweet satisfaction

parents of teenagers have often warned us that coming down the pike are the days when our children will make poor decisions, and how we'll just have to bite our tongues and let them learn from their mistakes. i have many examples of just when this has happened in my own life ... times that i look back and initially think, how in the world did my mom and dad not say anything? but then realize that the lesson would have been lost had i not had the opportunity to learn it for myself. unfortunately, at the tender ages of two and four, our children have already begun making such poor decisions that, frankly, it worries chris and me. the issue? candy. they both have a bucket full of halloween goodies, hard-earned from parading up and down our neighborhood streets and remembering to ring the doorbell ONLY ONCE and saying thank you without being reminded. it's only fair they are allowed to enjoy the fruits of their labor -- even though we allow them just one piece after lunch and one piece after dinner, and only if they eat their meal. so what do they do after meeting all our demands? they bypass the good stuff. the butterfingers, snickers, kit kats -- ignored. instead, time and time again they dive into their stash, rummage around, and soon emerge triumphant, holding what chris and i refer to as Reject Candy: the stuff that would normally be left at the bottom of the barrel come mid-november. what child in their right mind chooses mike & ikes over a reese's cup? a box of dots over a nestle crunch? gummy worms over a milky way? chris and i watch in silent amazement as they make poor choice after poor choice. but then, behind their backs, we give each other a high-five. you know what they say ... their loss is our gain. i need to sign off now. i just smeared almond joy chocolate all over the space bar.

bzzzzz

i've written about how liam's halloween costume came to be this year -- a process that began a few months ago when he informed me of his desire to be a pirate, and involved a very thorough search online and in stores before i found the perfect one.

i neglected to describe how susanna's choice of costume came to be. let me elaborate.

1) i opened the box of halloween decorations.

2) i found liam's old bumblebee costume.

3) i told susanna that this year she would be a bumblebee.

poor second child.

pumpkin imperfection

we carved our pumpkins last night. it was one of those times where chris and i got super excited in anticipation of the event, hyped it up to the kids ... and it flopped. liam preferred riding his bike all around the deck, giving us a sideways glance now and then, and susanna was totally grossed out by the gooey innards and wanted nothing to do with it. of course, you'd never know their lack of interest from the picture. amazing how they can perk right up when all the dirty work is done, making it look like they were quite the involved participants! i wish that i could say that liam was laughing hysterically at my creative jack o'lantern design, along with everyone else who stops by. alas, no one is really getting it. i guess not everyone channels their inner math geek like i do. chalk the entire experience up to a disappointment. what's the halloween form of the phrase "bah humbug"?

a study in contrasts

just a few contrasts between the last presidential election and this current one, at least on the super small scale of sara mann ... 2004: i voted in the final hours on election day 2008: i voted eight days early 2004: my voting companion was a sleeping 2 1/2-month old son 2008: my voting companion was a very-much-awake 2 1/2-year old daughter 2004: i voted in the united order of masons building, which had absolutely nothing interesting to look at while i waited 2008: hooray! voting in the local mall! what could be better? 2004: chris and i cancelled each other out (as we have also done in 1996, 1998, 2000, 2002, and 2006) 2008: chris and i agree! will wonders never cease? it only took chris and me twelve years to find some common political ground. maybe there's hope for some congressional bi-partisanship yet.

voting irony

life, as they say, is full of ironies. one prime example would be my voting history. i can vividly remember discussing current politics in my ninth grade social studies class and our teacher pointing out that the next time election day arrived, we'd all be able to exercise our civic duty and vote. at the time, the mere thought was thrilling. we tittered at our desks excitedly, thinking of the distant future, when we'd be adults and full-fledged citizens and off doing far more important things than sitting in a trailer being taught social studies by the football coach. and then, of course, it hit me: i would actually be six weeks shy of being old enough to vote in the 1992 election. as with anything bad that happens to a teenager, it was all my parents' fault; i cursed them for making me skip a grade and thereby inserting me into a peer group in which i'd always be the youngest, and swore that i would never inflict such pain on a child of my own. i cried myself to sleep that night -- melodrama was my middle name -- but by the next morning, it was forgotten. our social studies class had moved on to discuss the upcoming friday night game and the makeup of the judicial system (in that order) and i never gave it another thought. by the time 1992 actually rolled around, i graduated from high school and, on a hot day in mid-august, drove the three hours up to virginia to begin my freshman year at the university of richmond. besides being consistently rated as the most beautiful college campus in the country [i can see chris rolling his eyes now, as i remind him yet again of this fact], UR had the national spotlight for a week that fall. on october 15, 70 million people tuned in to watch george bush sr., bill clinton, and ross perot battle it out in the very first town-hall format presidential debate ever, all from our own small (but beautiful, mind you) campus. so the irony of it is, of course, that in the midst of this monumental event, where the national media descended upon us, where we walked past famous news anchors with their microphones and cameras, where we witnessed three powerful men and their secret service agents and bodyguards and entourages walk mere yards away from us, where the entire student body was rife with interest and opinions and emotions that somehow ego-centric college student bodies believe are theirs alone (and nowhere more so than where such an event is taking place) ... well, the irony is that i couldn't vote. on election day, i happened to find myself in the registrar's office, begging for mercy so i could drop my physics-for-majors class. really, just because you're a math major does not mean you should be a physics major, and whoever thought that if you're good in math then you must also good in science had obviously never met me, and i was pretty much drowning: this was my argument. (i could go on, but suffice it to say my pleas fell on deaf ears, i stuck it out, and wound up with a C+, which was the lowest grade i ever received in college. truth be told, i think it had to do as much with my lack of scientific prowess as it did with the fact that it was an 8:15 a.m. class, including fridays, which shouldn't even be legal.) anyway, in the middle of this futile conversation the registrar woman glanced down at my records, paused, and then informed me that to the best of her knowledge, i was the only student at the university of richmond who was not old enough to vote. "isn't that ironic?" she chuckled, as she gestured toward a copy of the college newspaper with a picture of the three candidates on the front page. i walked back to my dorm that afternoon, dejected for being forced to remain in this awful class, and then even more dejected since i was the only person within a five-mile radius without an "i voted" oval sticker proudly displayed on my shirt. ever since then, i have voted. i went to excruciating lengths to vote two years later while living in spain, when there wasn't even a glamorous or exciting national election to follow. i mailed off my absentee ballot across the atlantic and wore my very first "i voted" sticker, which -- here's a last bit of irony -- hardly anyone around me could even translate. but i did all of this. there's just something about being told you cannot do something that really makes you want to do it. i hope i never forget that sense of frustration. minorities and women dealt with that frustration for far too long for me to take it lightly now. no, i'll never forget my right and my duty as an american citizen. come hell or high water, i will always be a voter.

out of sync

a few weeks ago, i informed the kids that it was their aunt leslie's birthday. they understood that they wouldn't be seeing her to help her celebrate, since she lives on another planet in california. the next best thing? serenading her in a VIDEO, of course.

in the time it took me to get out the camera, they were ready to roll. they had positioned themselves in their play kitchen, had located the toy ice cream and toy cupcakes, and liam had donned his apron (incidentally, a christmas gift from the birthday girl herself). they had taken care of every detail without any parental input -- down to the blowing out of the non-existent candles at the end of the song.

the only thing they forgot was any sense of unison.

infinity

liam loves to quantify things. if we pass a busy parking lot, he wants to know how many cars are parked there. when he notices a tree becoming bare during this fall season, he asks how many leaves it's already lost. he's curious about the same things most children are: how many stars are in the sky? how many waves are in the ocean? and, the age-old question that's been asked of parents for generations: how much do you love me? of course, you can't quantify love. but i felt compelled to try. i got out the magna-doodle and drew a sideways 8, and then attempted to explain what infinity means. as abstract as this concept is, even for adults, i'm starting to think that a little bit has sunk in with him. sadly, death is weighing heavily on my mind these days. a good friend of mine's father is in the final stages of pancreatic cancer. another friend of mine's teenage son committed suicide last thursday. whenever i feel the tears beginning to well up in my eyes -- which is often -- i hug my children tighter. i'm reminded of what an amazingly miraculous gift life is, and how precious my family is to me. i find myself kissing their blond heads even more than normal and repeating several times a day, "you are the world to me. you are wonderful. you are amazing. i love you more than you can possibly know." liam looked up at me yesterday as i said this yet again to him, and replied, "i know, mommy. you love me infinity times infinity." he grinned. "you love me infinity squared." and i do.