The Elusive Bunny Shop and a Poisoned Doughnut

We went downtown yesterday. Just me and four roving outlaws out for a good time in the sweet desert weather. We were on a grand expedition...in search of a bunny shop.

You know - stuffed bunnies dressed in cute little outfits? No, I don't really like those. What am I - five? But, I mean, I do like rabbits. They're graceful, quick little creatures, and I've always loved them. I had read about this new shop in my local paper and was eager to investigate a shop devoted to all things rabbit - for Easter gifts for the kids, of course.

We parked at the library and headed out. Berto pushed Danny in the stroller, and it was my esteemed job to shout at various intervals, "Everybody hold hands!" at which point it's usually my custom to begin singing, "People around the world - join hands! Start a love train. Love train!" while doing an electric slide-like line dance. Mostly, I do this to embarrass Matthew, though, and since he wasn't with us, the idea of drawing attention to our family didn't even occur to me.

Not that we needed help with that. People usually notice a procession of one woman followed by a bunch of little kids. Particularly if that woman is shouting at every little side-street intersection, "Stop! Are you looking for cars? I didn't think so! Look both ways. Now go!", and then running with her gaggle of kids, loping along sideways with arms extended around their moving figures as if that could somehow protect them from oncoming vehicles.

We went up and down the major streets of our small downtown. We went into a gift shop that sells souvenirs from Arizona made by actual people living in Arizona. A novel idea! I bought a book on the history of my adopted state to support the new shop. Then we circled around to the alley where people park, thinking the shop might be hidden in an unlikely place. Ana was nervous on the narrow street.

"Don't cars come down here?" she asked several times to remind me of the danger. Then she said, "I'm going to be over here, Mama."

She climbed a low wall by some dinky buildings, clear of the street. Climbing walls is contagious with children, so Berto and Ella quickly fell in line.

After circling streets we'd already trod, we stopped at the green park in the center of downtown in order to take a picture of our city's Christmas tree. It's made of tumbleweeds, and I wanted to capture it on film before they take it down or it blows away bit by bit.

Shockingly beautiful, isn't it?

We went into the historical golf resort next with our shoddy stroller. There I politely requested the concierge to direct us to the new bunny shop where the owner sews and sells stuffed bunnies and their clothing. It's an awkward question to ask, but I was woman enough to admit the child in me. After twenty minutes on the computer, the gentleman still had no clue even when given the address, so we exited the resort hastily before Ella could break a tabletop ornament, topple their fancy tree or jump on the sleek furniture.

We gazed across the next street, the last hope. Nope. No bunnies. Just an Italian eatery and a questionable sushi outfit, so we made our pilgrimage back across the major thoroughfare and started the long return walk to the library past bubbling fountains with deep stone pools around which I watched Ella Belle like a hawk. Danny Sam just sat like a little angel in the stroller, enjoying the scenery as we skirted an office building, by-passed a smelly gazebo and the city's museum of local history before finally entering the library where we purchased some cold refreshment in its gift shop, asking the lady there if she knew where the bunny shop was.

"I wonder if its south of here across from the NY sub place? Or down by the Better Than Sex Cafe?" she added, trying to lower her voice around the kids. "They sell the best cake there. I haven't been there in ages. But, anyway, if you find the bunny place, let me know. It sounds like it'd be right up my alley."

Once the kids had checked out their books, we were back outside. As they were trotting on the low wall in the courtyard (of course), I said casually, "Mama's just going to drive south a ways and see if I can spot that place. Then we'll head home."

"No let's walk!" they all began to chorus. "Please!"

I admire their lust for exercise, but I was the one walking in heeled boots. To be honest, I was tuckered out.

"Aren't you guys tired?" I asked hopefully.

"No!"

"I think we should drive," I said as if negotiating with reasonable adults. "Some of us haven't gone p-o-t-t-y in a while."

I spelled it out so the littlest outlaw wouldn't get the idea suddenly that she had a bathroom emergency. The power of suggestion means everything with kids when you're talking about something you don't want them to do. On the other hand, if its something you really want them to do, words are meaningless; you'd better have candy.

"Who needs to go?" said Berto. "I can wait!"

Telling words. I should have marched them all back into the library to the restrooms. Or to the car. Instead I thought, They want exercise. Exercise is good. I could use more exercise. We're having a good time. We could walk.

The thing I forgot is that when you're having a good time with kids, you should thank the sweet heavens for that blessing, lock the memory in your heart for old age, and quickly put an end to the festivities, because things have nowhere to go but south.

And south we went. After heading west again away from the library, we turned south at the major intersection, and I strained my eyes to every little shop across the street looking for rabbits adorned in flowing dresses or men's overalls.

Berto began seeing bathrooms everywhere.

"Is that a bathroom?" he said. And a few moments later, "Do you think they have a bathroom in there?"

"I thought you said you didn't need to go," I said in exasperation.

"What?" he said defensively. Then with shifty eyes and sulky voice, "I can wait."

We reached a gas station. We went in. Not that I was going to ask the punky teenagers there where the "bunny shop" was. I thought they might have some snacks; we hadn't eaten in a few hours.

"Oh, look. They have bathrooms," said Berto casually.

Nothing quite freezes a mother's heart like the idea of taking her children into a gas station bathroom. And four at once!

"I thought you said you could wait," I said weakly, noting that the restroom doors said the facilities were only for clients. I never knew gas stations had clients. I thought they only had customers; makes you wonder what their side business is.

"Oh, alright. Let's go."

But then I saw a guy open the men's restroom door with a key. Now, usually a key makes one feel privileged, gives one a sense of ownership. Here's the keys to your new car. I'm picking up the keys to my timeshare today. Don't forget the hotel key. Oh, damn! Left my work keys at home!

Gas station restroom keys make you feel desperate. Common. A little seedy. Germy.

"Can I have the key to the women's restroom?" I asked the teenager in charge.

He looked me over.

"Sure. It's right there."

The bathroom wasn't too bad. Everyone took their turn, and we made as clean an exit from that den of germiness as we could, including opening the door with paper towels. But I couldn't save myself from the key; it had to be returned. Thank God I'd brought that sanitizer on our long pilgrimage in search of the non-existent bunny shop.

We picked out snacks. Our options were nuts, chips, candy or doughnuts. The healthy nuts were out, because of Berto's allergies. I knew we shouldn't get anything. We'd already had treats of chocolate, marshmallows and pie at home, but we'd done all that walking, after all. And why does one exercise if not to reward oneself with junk? Besides, those doughnuts looked good.

Three donuts and a box of candy, please.

We're going to find a quiet place to enjoy our snack, " I said to the kids once in the clean sunshine again. Berto pointed out a city bus terminal hopefully. "No!" I said immediately.

I gave the bunny shop a last ditch effort by asking some ladies emerging from a car if they might know where it was.

They looked around vaguely. "Is it there?" they asked each other. "Maybe by the fish and chips place? Down by the market area with that realtor's office? No..in that little house, maybe?"

I gave up and moved on. I was tired. My suede boots were dusty, and Ella wanted a piggy back ride. So I gave her one, but she had to push my backpack purse out of the way. I hobbled along pushing the stroller with a preschooler hanging on like a chimpanzee to my shoulders. It didn't last long. Ella wanted to climb the public art. We passed the new city hall - again. The old town family Mexican food place - again. We finally turned on the street with the library, and I told everyone to halt. We sat on some benches in the shade outside a closed breakfast eatery and pulled out our snacks.

I took a bite of my chosen doughnut. It was nasty. Never buy gas station doughnuts in the afternoon, I told myself. But I took another bite to make sure my taste buds weren't foolin'. Wow, it really was bad! I turned the pastry around to test the other end of it. Maybe it was only the one side. No, it was horrible at both ends, and now I was beginning to think it was poisoned. Okay, I have a good imagination, but I thought I tasted anti-freeze. It seemed probable that I was going to end up on the evening news as a warning to others about buying doughnuts after 3pm on a weekday; I just hoped I wouldn't die before the segment aired.

Ah, well. Might as well enjoy my last moments. So I moved on to eating Ella's; she was too busy playing on the sidewalk, anyway.

Then Ana began to admonish me gently.

"Well, Mama, I do love you," she began. "Even though I don't think this was the healthiest snack."

I glared at her with chocolate frosting on my mouth.

"It's just that, well...we already had treats today...."

"I know, Ana. But we were hungry. We've been getting lots of exercise, and those were our choices. We'll do better tomorrow."

She gave me a shrug and a hug. "Okay."

I tried the ugly doughnut again and quickly spit out the bite into the bag. Yep, the thing was definitely poisoned. I threw it in the trash, my cheerful mood destroyed as I worried about my immediate future.

Later, when we had almost reached the library again, and I was arguing with Berto about just how many more hot tamales I was going to let him eat before I chucked them in a trash can, Ana started in again with the guilt.

"Do you think a doughnut is as bad as a piece of pie?" she asked sweetly. "Because..."

I was not going to take it anymore. I mean, for goodness sake, wicked pastry poisoning could be setting in at that very moment; I had bigger fish to worry about.

"Look, Ana," I said irritably, all my good humor and patience gone. "We had lots of treats today. It's not going to kill us unless Mama's doughnut was poisoned. Tomorrow we'll do much better. In fact, we just won't eat sweets ever again, okay?"

"Okay," she said, giving me one of her super-squeeze hugs that always crushes my ribs and seems an incredible feat for a child so skinny.

We entered the library parking lot. I was experiencing black thoughts and a bad taste in my mouth as I herded the kids into the car and threw them their library books. I started mumbling, "We should have just driven. Papa would never let you guys dictate what we do. Never. And I was tired; I'm the one wearing suede high-heeled boots. And that donut was bad! Bad, I tell you...and Papa would never let you do this!"

I thought about that life lesson all the way home as Danny Sam fussed from his carseat. Sometimes Matthew's lack of serendipity gets my dander up. The kids will ask to do something on the spur of the moment - like stay a little longer at the park, and he'll say immediately, "No it's time to go." I want to scream, "Just let's live, damn it!" But Matthew understands that kids shouldn't rule your life; I don't. Sometimes I'll be talking to Matthew about some minor decision, and I'll turn to the kids as if they are my very own appointed team of advisers and say, "What do you think?" And Matthew cuts it short with a, "They don't need to be in on this. It's not up to them." I always wonder why he won't let them participate in planning the details of our familial existence. Then I find myself walking downtown for an hour and a half longer than planned and eating poisonous doughnuts as if they were real food, and I get Matthew's point.

I Need to Go to the Hospital Because You're Sick and I'm Three

Ella wanted a shot yesterday. She definitely had a strong feeling she needed it to save her life...or at the very least an appendage.

Ella's desire to see a licenced healthcare professional was the result of Ana's waking up yesterday in the wee wee wee hours of the morning with a bad earache. I told her to come to me. I was sprawled out on the recliner, pinned beneath a nine-month-old baby. I soon had to send her down the hall to her papa, however, because she was crying, and Mama's comfort wasn't enough. The baby needed to sleep, and she needed medicine which I was unable to get for her.

In the morning I made an appointment to see the pediatrician in the afternoon.

"Does your ear still hurt?" I asked sweet Miss Ana when I got off the phone.

She looked at me with her pale face and fever eyes and made a little shrug. "A little," she said timidly.

"My ear hurts," said Ella clearly to her Papa and me, not one inch of her face pinched or puckered with pain.

"Competing for attention," I whispered aside to Matthew. Then to Ella, "Where does it hurt? Show me."

She pointed to her earlobe.

"Earlobe," I whispered to Matthew, practically rolling my eyes, before saying to Ella, "Come here. Let Mama see."

As soon as she came close enough I reached out and gave her ear a good tug. No reaction. I turned to find Matthew giving me a look like, Really? That's your great motherly diagnostic skill?

"What?" I asked defensively. "If her ear was really hurting, she would have made a face or yelled or something. She's fine."

Matthew picked her up in his arms and leaned his dark head against her much fairer curly head.

"Are you sick?" he asked.

"Yeah. I need to go to the hospital."

(I gave her that line for free. I'm always telling her that if she jumps on the bed or eats toothpaste or something, I'll have to take her to the hospital.)

"Really?" said Matthew. "Do you need a shot? They'll probably give you a shot."

Clever, I thought, applauding his cunning in my head. Ella paused a long moment, looking away from her papa and then back again. Then she straightened in his arms and looked him full in the face.

"Yes."

I laughed. You had to give it to her. She wanted that attention bad. And it's not like she doesn't get her fair share, but in Ella's world any time spent worrying about, cuddling with, or talking to other children is a sheer waste of precious parental resources that should be expended on her. This means if one of the older two complains of a sudden stomachache, Ella will come and sit on Matthew's or my lap and say pitifully, "My tummy hurts!" If we're talking about Berto's allergies, we might feel a little tap on our shoulder and turn to find Ella who says, "I've got an allergy."

"No, you don't!" we tell her.

"Yes, I do," she insists.

Ella doesn't even like that her siblings are ahead of her in the teeth department. Recently, she told her Papa and me that she had two loose teeth and lost them both. Then sticking out both index fingers and holding them up one at a time, she said, "And the tooth fairy brought me a dollar...and another dollar. Two dollars!"

"No, she didn't, but she will," I told her. Then I bent down to her level and said gently, "Someday, Ella, you will be a big girl, and..."

Ella turned her back and walked away. She wasn't about to let me rain on her parade. "Two teeth!" she called back. "And two dollars!"

Open Seasam for the Honery, Volumptuous Me

I've been thinking the word ornery wrong for thirty-plus years. I've misspelled it in a couple of my blogs recently: "honery" with a silent "h". Since none of my regular readers told me, I'm assuming you didn't know I was mangling that word; you didn't care; or you thought it was useless to interfere with my special way of viewing the universe. That last part, sadly, is true. It's quite useless.

The word did trouble me. I thought it may be missing something, so I looked in my "floor dictionary", a huge dictionary that my husband purchased for my birthday present years ago because he noticed I had an unusual way with language. I keep it by my desk in the bedroom to use as a door prop and occasional spelling tool, and it's starting to lose its pages to the foot traffic and the baby's mouth. Anyway, I could not find honery in that dang dictionary even when I took off the silent "h". So my husband came in.

"I think this word is spelled wrong," I told him. "But I can't find it in the dictionary."

Matthew promptly opened a word document, typed "honery", and hit spellcheck. The poor computer was completely confused, offering me everything from honey to honker. It's really laughable the way these stupid machines can't read a human's mind.

"Take off the h, " I told Matthew, and then it hit target: ornery.

When you say "ornery", it sounds like you're speaking with a southern accent, or imitating John Wayne. Some words are just not pronounced the way they should be, and it's a cruel thing, because I have a chronic problem with pronunciation.

For example, until I was in fifth grade, I pronounced eager with a hard "g" like giraffe -  "eajer". I really liked it that way, so I said it a lot after I acquired it in...oh, third grade or so. My fifth grade teacher heard me use it passionately in some sentence that was probably along the lines of, "I am so eajer to go out to recess!" She laughed, and without further ado advised me to start pronouncing it properly. After all, I was one of her top students; I should speak english.

And, then, would you believe it? In sixth grade there was another incident of word-mangling that garnered me officious attention. I created a spectacle without meaning to, and my teacher about had a fit that drove her to permanent silliness because of it.

It happened like this. I was a great reader. Really. I got called upon often to read aloud in my history teacher's class. Her name was Mrs. Arrington, and I loved her. I believe we were reading something from The Arabian Nights when it happened. I was called on to take up the next paragraph.

I was doing an awesome job with articulation and taking pride in far outshining whoever had gone before. Then I came to that tricky word. Sesame. Okay, so it was one I should have known for simply cultural reasons, but I read it like I thought it should be.

"Open SEA-SAM!" I said in a loud clear voice.

The laughter was immediate, it increased rapidly and within a few seconds my teacher was giggling so hard she could barely breath. My classmates...my friends....apparently they were all some kind of pronunciation geniuses, because not one mouth was silent, not one face was averted to spare me embarrassment. I just glared back haughtily, but especially at my teacher who was leaning on a table at the front of the class, spitting out my name each time her giggles subsided, and then laughing anew when she looked my way.

Finally, with flushed cheeks and streaming face, she finally got out what she had wanted to say since my impromptu inauguration as the new class clown.

"Hillary..." she gasped. "Hillary...it's 'open ses-ah-me' !" Then she laughed again.

History class was pretty much in the can for the rest of the hour.

I thank the sweet goodness that the moment was much more private when years later I was caught saying another more delicate word incorrectly.

I was talking to my folks at home. I was a junior in high school. I was speaking about women's figures.

Here's what I said, "Marilyn Monroe was really very volumptuous. She wasn't a skinny-minny at all."

My dad got an all too familiar twinkle in his eye and sat forward in his chair.

"What'd you say, Hoo-doo?"

"I said that it's..."

"No, did you say vo-lump-tuous?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

Dad bent forward chuckling and said, "Oh, yeah! She was very lumpy!"

My mom was giggling, too, with that sweet little giggle that makes you feel loved and foolish.

"Well, what is it then?" I demanded indignantly. I mean, crying out loud, I was seventeen. How long had I been getting it wrong?

"It's voluptuous!" roared Dad.

Flu and Fudge

This morning I had a fit of uncontrollable laughter like I usually get when I've stayed up late, sleep-deprived and watched the dumb commercials on TV (I'm an easy target, especially for beer commercials.) And...at last...I knew we'd beaten this dang flu bug our family has been passing around all week.

My kids were cracking me up, and because I was being so noisy I decided to call down the hall to see if Matthew was awake.

"mattheew...."I called in a little whisper (I didn't want to wake him up if he wasn't awake, you know). "I'll try again a little louder," I said aside to the kids. "Matthew!"

"I'm sleeping," he called back, and I just thought that was hilarious, so while I was giggling into my baby's hair he added, "Take it easy on the cough medicine, Woman!"

I hadn't had any, of course. I was simply reveling in the fact that this nasty flu bug was defeated after a whole long week of waging battle with Ibuprofren and tissues and sponge baths and Gatorade, water, multiple bathroom visits...and the thing that always works for me-a general bad temper and anger with the universe.

Of course, I couldn't rail with my usual ferocity; I never got above 101. My policy is the higher my temperature, the more I can complain and stomp, huff and puff, so every time I glanced at the thermometer and it said a weak 101, an involuntary, "Dang!" escaped my lips.

Now 102....well, that would have been something to work with. "Leave me alone," I could have said when everyone rebeled at my orneriness. "Look at this thermometer, people; it don't lie. Read it and weep!"

But back to this morning (oh, is it too late? Too bad!).

The kids and I started exchanging knock-knock jokes, and there's nothing that Matthew hates more, because the kids don't understand a punchline, but they still expect a laugh, and they don't care if it's fake as all get out. It gets exhausting for a parent.

For instance, Ana's went like this: "Knock-knock!"

"Who's there?"

"Jingle Lock"

"Jingle Lock who?"

"Jingle Lock...don't forget to take off your sock!"

It's not funny, but you laugh because you want them to have good self-esteem.

Ella's went like this:

"Knock-knock!"

"Who's there?"

"Papa!" (Oh, this was bound to be good)

"Papa who?"

"Papa-lapa...poo-poo!"

"Matthew, did you hear that?" I called down the hall, laughing it up.

"I'm sleeping!" he shouted back, and I laughed some more.

Mine? Well, mine are hilarious, and I giggled my head off, because I'm the best audience I could ever have.

"Knock-knock?

"Who's there?"

"Snow!"

"Snow who?"

"Snow-body!"

"Get it?" I said to the kids. "It's like nobody-only with snow! Or it could be Snow Buddy-haha!"

Unfortunately, after our joke-telling spree was done, the kids started begging for TV or video games. It wasn't yet 8am, but after five crummy days of electronic media-overload with maybe a half-hour break here or a potty vist there, they'd become spoiled and no doubt were getting used to their brains feeling comfortably mushy.

"We ain't doing it!" I said flatly. Then I put on my Michael Buble Christmas CD to reinforce that we all have choices to make for our own entertainment diversity.

Then I made myself some tea and went to test the fudge.

A cruel side effect of this flu has been that the fudge had lost its luster. And here I had been thinking it might even have a mystical medicinal quality, because for almost the whole week, surrounded by my ill babies, I had no symptoms to speak of. Wading through the germ-hole that was our home where tissues peppered the living room floor like some evil flu-feeding albino fungus, I was clear-headed and "normal". Privately, I told myself, It's the fudge-it's gotta be! So I kept eating; it was my duty to save everyone from the bear I become while ill.

But then Thursday night I felt chilled. It was the cold breath of flu laughing in my face. But look....it's Sunday, and I'm nearly victorious, except for the constant need to blow my nose. That fudge helped me fight it for sure! Still...I'm achy, and my energy has fallen since this morning...

"I'm just going to tell myself I'm well," I said to Matthew.

"Good! I don't want to hear any belly-aching," he replied.

"No belly-aching!" I cried. "Who said that? That's how you know I'm alive!"

My belly-aching hasn't been so bad, though. My kiddos were worse off than me, and my baby son has caused me a good deal of concern with his scary temps, hoarse little cry (so cute and heart-breaking at the same time), and his sensitive pink nose that so dreaded another swipe of the tissue. I was on 24-7 Danny Sam watch. Meanwhile, "The General" (that's my wonderful husband)  monitored our older three at all hours of the night-dosing medicine, offering cups of water and giving lukewarm showers when needed.

I got them all day, because Matthew preferred to go into work sick than be home with four sick kids. Crazy! But it wasn't so bad, except Ella's constant whining for, "Tissoo!" which sounded too much like "Bless you!"
I always thought someone else had sneezed, so I'd considerately add my own, "Yes, bless you!" That's when she would practically scream, "TISSOO!" and we'd all tell her, "They're right there! On the table. Go get them! You're a big girl." And then would begin a few rounds of Ella shouting, "I can't!" with snooters dribbling down her face and a box of tissues two feet away while Berto and I yelled back, "You can! Go get them!" until angelic Ana grabbed a tissue and silently but gently handed it to Ella.

Berto summed up Ella's sick persona well when talking to his dad on the phone after lunch one day.

"Ella?" he said. "She's still behaving like the Queen of England!"

Yep.

Thank goodness, most of that's behind us now, and nothing to look forward to but Christmas...and all the stuff we should have done last week to prepare for it.

But who cares? I had my fudge this morning. After force-feeding it to myself for two days to no good result, today it was good, baby. Everything is right in the world!

I'll tell you a little secret, though-it was meant for my brothers-in-law, but I honestly didn't think they'd want a tub full of fudge with a disclaimer tag that read: We wish you a Merry Christmas....and a flu-full New Year!



If you read my blog often, consider following me. I know I have some regular readers who drop in every little bit, and I'd like to know who you are.

The Three Bears and a Box Full of Toys

Before we lived on that beautiful ninety-eight acres outside Charlotte, Tennessee, before we had a large forest in which to wander and a creek to swim in and a field to run in, our family lived in a little town called Kingston Springs outside Nashville-an easy location from which Dad could pursue his music in Music City.

And every time we drove home to our little house there on its quiet, pretty suburban street, we passed the Three Bears' house.

Yes, I do mean that house-the one that Goldilocks trespassed so rudely in. It sat on a hill very near our home, and a winding drive led to the log house that was, obviously, quite big. I was very proud because my dad had been payed to paint the inside of it and knew the Three Bears. However, I was put out, too, because I desperately wanted to meet the Three Bears, and Dad would not take me.

"Daddy, let's turn; let's go see them now!" I said each time we passed the house. "Pleeease!"

"I would, Hoo-doo," Dad replied. "But, uh...they're gone," or, "they're on vacation," or "oh, today wouldn't be a good day, honey. Papa Bear told me their relatives are visiting from Canada. We don't want to interrupt their visit, do we?"

Each time it was a new excuse, but I knew without a doubt that the Three Bears did live there, and I couldn't understand why Dad wouldn't take me to meet them. I wanted to talk to them-I mean its the Three Bears-so badly.

When I grew up a little I knew. You figure stuff out somewhere between three and ten. Life puts the kobash on your flighty imagination that makes bricks out of children's bedtime stories. And Dad saved me from a huge disappointment.

Though I never met the Three Bears or got their autograph, I really liked our little house there in Kingston. Not nearly so well as that little square of a place off Spann Road, of course, but so far as a suburban situation could go, the Kingston Springs house was very pleasant. And my very best friend, a little boy, lived over the back fence. I went to play there often in his dirt yard with its shed full of toys. We'd play for hours-for years it felt like.

Then there's Christmas. It's that time of year, after all, and so I reel out the old slideshow of images from my mind and become a tiny child again.

The first Christmas I remember is a silent film: the lights are very low in the living room or are off completely, but the tree is glowing through the dark from the other side of the room. Mom and Dad are holding hands on the couch to my left. I'm sitting on the floor looking toward the colored lights of the tree, and my three siblings are each on the floor in front of me with their new toys in their hands.

I am fascinated by what they have-far more than by my own gifts. (Well, except for Vinca's; I don't remember what she got any more than I remember what my own gifts were that year-no doubt, her present was too mature for my taste.) Nate has a huge Transformer-like action figure he is playing with, and Annie is creating iridescent art with her Lite-Brite. Our dog Rueben is sprawled on the floor, head cocked to the side with a long rubber shark in his mouth, gnawing on its tail as the wicked toothy grin at its head dribbles dog slobber. Yes, I am even enthralled by his Christmas gift.

That is all I remember, as if I were in a sleepy little trance produced by the lights of the tree and the screen of the Lite-Brite. It's the feeling I had that Christmas as a toddler that I call back to mind-warmth and joy and family.

The second Christmas memory has little to do with actual Christmas day. It occurred a few days before the big morning when Vinca instigated a present raid.

A well-to-do family lived down the street from us. I remember their son; he was an enormous brat, but I believe both my sisters had a crush on him. Anyway, that family gave my parents a box of little-used toys to distribute among us kids on Christmas morning. Mom and Dad stuffed the box in their room and forbade us to step one foot inside the door.

I'm not sure where Mom and Dad went on the crucial afternoon in question. They were close by; I think they were talking to the landlord or a neighbor on the sidewalk in front of the house, but they were gone for awhile.

"Alright, let's go," said Vinca, standing tall and speaking with authority.

She led the way down the hall and stopped just outside a closed bedroom door-Mom and Dad's bedroom door. My little heart pitter-pattered. Toys!

"We have to be quiet," said Vinca. "And we have to listen for Mom and Dad, okay?" Three quick nods. "Alright. C'mon."

She opened the door, and I saw the box. Oh, my gosh! The thing was taller than I was! What glorious discoveries would we make?

I must have stood on a chair, because I remember peering down into a great, disorganized heap of toys. After pushing some things around, I grabbed a potato head and began assembling his face merrily on the floor.

I don't think we were quiet at all-not as we should have been. Toys were dumped haphazardly on the floor in the quest for something that would absolutely blow the searcher's mind with its awesomeness. But then...

One of us must have heard them. There was panic. Stealth was no longer a priority as we all began to throw toys hairum-scarum back into the box. We had finished this adrenaline-fueled process when Mom and Dad came down the hall. Their bedroom door was closed, and we were all standing around as casual as we could be, no doubt with hands stuck in our pockets and whistling collectively off-key. But they knew. All they had to do was look in the box to garner the evidence.

What did they do to us? Sorry, I don't know-must have blocked it out. We kept the toys, but their Christmas morning surprise was ruined.

Still, if I'm really honest here...it was all Vinca's fault! No, no-just kidding. If I'm honest, I'm forced to admit that sneaking into our parents' bedroom to play with a huge box full of toys was a near equivalent to the joy of Christmas morning surprises. And, of course, we had the added exhiliration of knowing we were up to no good. So maybe-just maybe-my little Ella Belle is right: adventure and fun can't always be had while behaving.

Of course, that's not a Christmas lesson of which St. Nicholas would approve.

Holiday Tales of Horror: The Ugly Stocking and Evil Elevator Button

I went shopping this morning in my pajamas. This is because yesterday broke me. Yes, it did. So I asked myself, If I can't go shopping in my pajamas at Christmas, when can I go? Matthew would say never. What does he know?

Okay, so I didn't change into nice fresh pajamas; they're the ones I wore to bed. Still, the bottoms are a rich Christmas green with a snowflake pattern, and I managed not to get toothpaste on my shirt while brushing my teeth this morning. Afterward I put on my prettiest pink lipstick and added some dangly earrings in hopes that I would confuse my fellow shoppers, Is she really in pajamas or are those just some crazy pants? I suppose it hurt my chances a little-they're flannel.

But the story really begins with this past weekend. We got out some Christmas stuff-my snowmen, the nutcrackers, tree skirt and stockings (We didn't get out the tree; there's a small battle waging about that. I want to invest in a table tree this year, so Danny Sammy can't get at it; Matthew doesn't want to spend the money.). Berto pulled out the stocking I made for him and cried, "Oh, my stocking!" in true yule-cheer greeting. I dragged out Ana's and held it up for her, "Ana, here's yours," I said. Ana glanced at it and looked away, quickly but discreetly moving on to another decoration.

"Ana, don't you like it?" I asked, turning it toward myself to examine its limp purple velvet, its green felt tree with glitter glue ornaments and the winged fairy at its top so meticulously sewn on.

She looked back shyly and took it from me. "Well....."

And that's when I knew she thought it was the ugliest thing on earth. I wasn't really hurt, but I was thinking, "Damn! Now I got to rustle up another stocking!" And I still had Ella's to make, too.

"You really don't like it, do you?" I said matter-of-factly, but the tears smarted in her eyes, and she snuggled up against me as close as she could come.

That's when we began a long exchange of feelings in a complicated mother-daughter tango of emotions. I tried to convince her I wasn't hurt; I just didn't want her to be stuck with a stocking she didn't like. She tried to mop away my deep imaginary pain with her many shed tears, and she communicated with me in tones so softly uttered I had to hold my ear an inch away from her mouth while screwing up my face in concentration and saying continually, "What? What?" like an honery old lady. But finally, finally I figured out she didn't hate it just because it was ugly; she had specifics-thank God!

And so later I began to rip off the fairy. Even I had to admit that fairy just did not go. However, I had sewn the dang thing on so well that it took me awhile to disconnect its tiny (even, I might add) stitches. I really admired my handiwork as I was decimating it, and, unfortunately, the imprint of the fairy was still to be seen on the stocking.

"How? How am I going to get this done and Ella's this year?" I wondered pitifully while the kids were playing outside.

"Just go get them some stocking from the store," said Matthew. "Like ours."

Brilliant!

Except the kids didn't go for it.

"I like my stocking," said Berto. "I don't want another one."

Ana agreed she'd rather have an ugly handmade stocking from her sweet mama than one made by an expert seamstress and needlepoint genius in China.

"Look, they can have two," said Matthew. "Each year they can choose which one to hang out."

Yes, this seemed like a plan, so we made the decision to go stocking shopping on Wednesday right after school.

We were off to a decent start at the mall. Daniel was in the sling on me, Gabriella in the stroller-Berto and Ana walking dutifully near, but then I assigned shopping buddies. Berto chose Gabriella. Oh, boy! What was that kid thinking? Didn't he remember the long johns episode? I mean I had taken the precaution of bribing her with a candy cane as a reward if she behaved, but still, with her it is always a shaky proposition. She likes adventure, and it can't be had while behaving.

Half our time was spent examining stockings, half my time was spent shouting, "Berto nab her-dagnabbit! She's your shopping buddy!" as Gabriella skuttled off, skirting around bold Christmas displays and dodging around breakables. The stroller thing hadn't lasted long, and Berto was constantly running interception on his little sister's every move. Ella did her preschool best to thwart him. All else failing she'd buffet him with her fists when he came too near and yell, "Stop, Berto!" as if he were the pest for trying to keep her safe.

Ella had early on chosen her stocking at Macy's. A simple-"That one-uh-huh," to designate it as her life-long present recipient (It was an angel in flowing robes holding a horn, and I have, as you can imagine, no comment on that choice-no comparison to make between her behavior that afternoon and the angelic stocking meant to represent her on Christmas Eve). After that she had nothing but time to burn and trouble to find. We moved on to Dillard's and things got hairier, especially when Berto pushed the button in the elevator without consulting her wishes. "Next time," I told her, so she decided to practice navigating our dusty stroller around tight turns at tables loaded with precariously stacked stoneware and by trees dripping with delicate ornament displays. I put my foot down-literally-by the stroller to stop its wheels and threatened to take away her candy cane for the day if she drove one foot farther.

Ana finally found her stocking: an angel, too-dark-haired with a serene Anie-like expression. After paying for it, we beat it back to Macy's to procure Ella's stocking and had to wait in line behind some demanding and irascible little grinch women for a good twenty minutes. Berto was done at this point; he's not a shopper in the least, and all the dodge and run of tagging Ella and withstanding the impromtu boxing matches had depleted his willpower to continue. Finally, our transaction complete, we were free to leave the mall, but we again had to take the elevator to the lower level.

"I want to push the button this time," said Ella, striding down the short hall to it, swinging her arm authoritatively.

A family ahead of us let my children and me take the elevator; there wasn't room for both families, so my brood stepped in, the doors shut, and Berto's finger honed in on the button.

"No-me!" yelled Ella.

"No, Berto," I said quickly, trying to forestall more yelling and tantrum from Ella. "Let Ella push it. We told her she could push it."

"She didn't ask," said Berto. "She just screamed, 'I want to push it!' "

He had a point.

"Ella," I said. "Use your big girl words and ask properly."

"Please coin I push it?"

"Apologize to Berto for yelling at him."

"Sorry, Berto," she mumbled. Then we all looked at her and waited. She stared at the elevator panel.

"Ella," I said, after a long moment. "It's this button right here-the UL button. See it?"

Still she didn't move. Here eyes started casually surveying the walls and floor of the elevator.

"Ella, push it. Push this button!" Berto said in supreme exasperation.

"Push it, Ella, or I'm going to let Berto do it," I warned her.

She folded her arms and wouldn't budge even when I tried to direct her to the panel of buttons. I wondered if the family that had forfeited their place on the elevator could hear our ridiculous negotiations with a preschooler, and also if there was a panic button for being held hostage by a three-year-old who threw tantrums like a little devil and had the curly pigtails that made her look like one?

No, but there was justice, for just as I was telling Berto to push the button, and Ella began to scream and try to jockey her way to it before him, some benevolent shopper on the outside hit the call button, and we began to move down.

What kind of voo-doo magic is this? said the expression on Ella's face. "Wait!" she yelled.

"Go ahead and push it again," I said. "But someone hit the button for the elevator. You had your chance."

When we stepped off, Ella tried to get back on. I grabbed her and turned her around, and it was then that my sweet-faced, curly-haired munchkin turned into an absolute gremlin, and I was forced to stuff her unceremoniously back into the stroller.

She screamed down the hall away from the elevator, and she screamed on the long walk through Macy's as I graciously acknowledged the many dirty looks thrown our way. Her undulating screams maintained one long, piercing theme:

"I WANTED TO PUSH THE BUTTON!"

"I know; I know you did," I said repeatedly in a low soothing voice while plotting her discipline.

We turned a corner toward the doors near where our car was parked, and a saleswoman who had heard us coming all the way through the store laughed as she finally saw the procession accompanying the little monster making all the noise. Daniel was wide-eyed in the sling on me as he bent his body awkwardly to look with fear and confusion at his sister the spectacle. I was dressed impractically in shirt, skirt, nice jewelry and boots, and if my expression reflected my strategy for making a dignified exit, it was completely impassive. Ana's big brown eyes were filled with sorrow because she alone was beginning to feel sorry for her little sister. Berto's face was scrunched up in disgust like the Grinch's when he talks about "The noise! Oh, the noise, noise, noise, noise, noise!" of all the Whos down in Whoville on Christmas.

I saw an obstacle on the way to our exit: an elderly lady who had that tell-tale look of concern on her face that says, "Poor little angel! What must have happened to her?" She waylaid us.

"Sweetheart, what is wrong with you?" she asked Ella as she bent over her.

"I WANNEDA'PUSHTHEBUTTON!"

"What?"

I looked at the store clerk and the elderly lady and said calmly, "She wanted to push the button in the elevator. We all told her to push it, but she wouldn't do it, and then someone on the outside hit the call button, so now she's upset."

"Oh, well! That's the shakes," said the store clerk in true Mama fashion.

"Yep, that's the shakes," I concurred.

The elderly lady had faded away. I didn't even see her anymore as we left the store.

Berto was about to break with the incessant noise and kept yelling at Ella to stop screaming or else, but she still wailed as we crossed the parking lot. A gentleman waiting by his car laughed at the spectacle, too, as he heard me tell Berto, "Let it go. Just let it go, son. This is what happens sometimes when you shop with a preschooler."

In the car I told Ella that there would be no candy cane, and that I was considering returning the stocking, so Saint Nicholas wouldn't bother putting treats in it since she so little deserved them. This last part I did amend. Ella adores candy, and the loss of the candy cane caused such anguish I was satisfied. I lectured her all the way home, and she sniffled and cried, "I love you, Mama!" And soft-hearted Ana cried, too. Berto growled in the backseat about the cruelty of his fate-two sisters!

Matthew got a calm recital of events that evening, but, as I said, it was the morning after when I faced another trip to the store to get some items we should have been able to get on the stocking expedition that I realized I was broken, my Christmas spirit wounded. It felt more like a chain of obligations on my feet than an angel singing carols at my shoulder.

So I went shopping in my pajamas. I just didn't care, and you know what? No one even noticed.

Santa Lives Down That Road.....

Every year before Christmas vacation, we four kids would get off the bus at the end of the lane with a king-sized candy bar in our hands. Sometimes we'd get off humming a holiday tune we'd been singing with classmates, led by Mr. Owen.

Mr. Owen, our bus driver throughout our years in school, had a large cardboard box by his chair filled with candy bars in mid-December. As each child exited the bus, he'd hand one to them and say, "Merry Christmas!"

He could have done simple traditional candy canes, but the bars made such a better impression, especially to kids who didn't have the pocket money to buy their own and hadn't seen hide nor hair of a good candy bar since Halloween.

And, truly, those chocolately bars made the chilly walk down the long lane to our little square home so enjoyable-at least for Nate and me who ate them right away, pausing after that first step away from the bus to tear open the packaging. Vinca and Annie had the pleasure of holding them in their hands in plain sight, denying Nate and me the joy of twice our share as we pestered them to let us have them since they obviously didn't feel the proper urgency to enjoy them.

It's funny the little things you remember so fondly this time of year.

For instance, there was a farmer, a hard-working southern gentleman named Mr. Wellins, who lived just off Spann Road and whom Dad helped occasionally in the fall and summer in his fields. There were other farmhands who regularly worked for Mr. Wellins. At noon, Dad'd tell us, they'd all gather at the Wellins' place for lunch, and Mrs. Wellins would lay a fine spread on the porch table with biscuits, fried Chicken, pork, grits, gravy, carrots, corn, greenbeans, potatoes and dessert as well (you were always expected to procure seconds for yourself, because there was plenty of food, and one should never walk away from a Southern table without asking for more of something). Dad would still feel full when he came home many hours later.

I tell this to point out the fact that the hospitality of the Wellinses was not limited to their own home and table, for invariably we four kids would arrive at our own front porch after the walk down the lane one December afternoon, and there would be a plain cardboard box sitting by the door. Some years it had a card addressed with a Merry Christmas to us kids-sometimes no, but it usually contained the same things: apples, oranges, peanuts (still dusty), and candy bars as well as other yuletime confections. It was always a joy to climb the porch steps at the end of a school day and be greeted with that unpretentious cardboard box, its flaps hanging open expectantly. Mr. Wellins never forgot us. For year after year at Christmas, we'd find the box at our front door.

I know not whether we really showed our appreciation for these annual gifts, but I hope these family friends in Tennessee felt our thanks and knew that, in their own way, they were our Santa Claus.

Busted at Breakfast

They may be a friendly old country store, but I'm betting they don't want to see me ever again.

I couldn't pay; I broke some things - at least I didn't break a rocker....

Yesterday was supposed to be a relaxing day. I went out to breakfast at Cracker Barrel with some friends from my Mom's group. Lovely ladies...saved me from the misery of raising children by myself. Uh, I mean...besides Matthew, of course. But you know the old adage about it taking a village? They're my village. Together, we can discuss important child-rearing topics that men hate hearing about such as: Why has my daughter suddenly started biting her toenails? When can you expect a little boy's potty training to advance to the point where he isn't peeing all over the guest bathroom - age 10, 12...20? And at one point do you let your little guy go to the men's restroom all by himself - kindergarten...college?

Toward the end of the meal I rushed out to the car to retrieve the cellphone I forgot there, because, believe me, if Matthew tries to call while I'm out, and I don't answer, I'm likely to get a grilling when I get home - complete with fluorescent lamps suspended inches from my face, making me sweat and promise that from then on, I'll glue my cellphone to my head.

Got it just in time, because Matthew called two minutes later to ask if I was home yet so he could drop off the kids on the way to get his hair cut. No, I wanted to look around at all the neat country store goodies first.

"Hey, Camille," I said to my friend after getting off the phone. "Let me pay for your breakfast. I didn't get you anything for your birthday, and I loved the cards you gave me."

I took the checks up to the counter while she watched my little Danny Sam for me (he had come along; we're really inseparable at the moment, though I think I could bear the separation better than he). I drew my ugly black canvas diaper bag around my shoulder, flipped open the enormous flap, unzipped the top zipper, dug in, pushed things around and unzipped the inner pocket of the dang thing, and then stared blankly at some papers there while my hands continued to grope around desperately for something...

I looked up at the young woman behind the counter.

"Oh, no - my wallet!" I said plaintively. "I don't have my wallet. It's in my baby sling at home. You know, I put my baby in it and wear it...or him. You know?"

I had added this last part because this girl was staring at me with an expression that said I always knew I'd encounter you someday, as if I were her own personal nemesis. She acted as if she did not believe there were such things as baby slings and doubted that I even had a child.

"I'll have to ask my friend to pay for it," I said. "I'll be right back!"

She just stared as I walked away, still not speaking. I hurried up to Camille and Geraldine.

"You'll never believe it, Camille," I said excitedly. "But I don't have my wallet. Could you pay for it, and I'll give you cash later for both? Sorry."

Camille smiled and took it back, but then Geraldine took all the checks.

"I'll pay for it," she offered.

"I'm so sorry, Geraldine," I said. "I put my wallet in my sling when I walk in to get the kids from school, so I don't have to carry the whole diaper bag, and I just forgot to put it back."

"Believe me, I understand," she said. "I had to run back in for mine this morning. I was literally out the door."

"I'll pay you back," I said. "Next time I see you..."

"No, never mind," said Geraldine graciously. "It'll be my treat. Happy birthdays, Merry Christmases!" she added, laughing.

She went to pay for three times the breakfast she had anticipated. Camille and I started to walk around the store, looking at all the Christmas merchandise on display. Geraldine joined us a short time later, and we began talking again, but pretty soon my friends realized I had an issue before I even noticed.

"Whoa, Hillary," said Geraldine, putting out a restraining hand. She pointed. "Watch out for that angel there."

I had almost wiped out this angel with the car seat complete with child (Danny Sam in his own personal equipage) that I had hung on my arm. I took a step away from it.

"Maybe we should go," said Camille.

I was fine with that; I had no money for the cute, and highly breakable, things on display.

"Did you want to look around, Geraldine?" I asked.

Geraldine then told us that she was still waiting to pay for the checks, because for some reason they had been canceled after my failed attempt to pay, and the cashier couldn't put them through.

So we moved off through another part of the store, the car seat still slung casually across my arm and Danny Sam trying to sit up to look at all the displays. I blame him, really; he must have shifted his weight just right while I was passing a bulky display of vintage soda to propel the car seat into it. There was a sudden collision which knocked one of the whimsical boxes full force off its comrades, then the crash of colliding bottles and a slow agonizing fizzzzzzzz as the sodas released their carbonation in a pitiful plea for help, or attention.

I gave a short laugh and said, "Oh, no!"

Okay, it was really not the appropriate response, but I've lost the proper ability to be embarrassed anymore. On the other hand, I've mastered the art of apologizing repeatedly with subtle variations, "I'm sorry! So sorry about that...I'm really sorry! Please accept my apology for the destruction of your (fine china, vase, glass, priceless ornament, or, in this case, vintage soda). Really-I'm very, very sorry!"

Within two seconds a female store clerk showed up to assess the damage. My wave of apologies didn't have one ounce of effect on the decidedly sour expression that assailed her face as she watched the syrupy soda bleed beneath the display table. I stopped apologizing to wonder about a more pressing issue of damage control: just which one of my friends could I convince to pay for the havoc I had wreaked on that old country store? Since Geraldine was already paying for my breakfast, should I ask Camille? My company was becoming expensive, but maybe there were still a couple of unbroken bottles in the box they could take home for later...

Thankfully, the manager came up. I started my program of groveling anew, but I didn't need to bother because he promptly said, "Don't worry about it! It's okay. It's happened before!" At which point I paused to try and recollect the last time I may have been there and broken a box of soda.

I tried again to apologize to the poor lemon-faced lady responsible for cleaning up my mess, but it was useless; she wouldn't even acknowledge me. Meanwhile, Geraldine went again to see about paying for the checks, and Camille began to run defense for my every move.

"Don't get too close to that," she said. Then she added a moment later as I was admiring some Christmas decorations, swinging Danny back and forth on my arm, "Here! Step this way a little, Hillary."

When Geraldine had at last been allowed to pay, and we decided to leave, Camille pointed down an aisle. "There, Hillary," she said. "You should have a nice wide path...."

We made it out, and as we opened the heavy doors to freedom, I said, "They may be a friendly old store, but I bet they don't want to see any more of Hillary Tornado!"

Our little party broke up in the parking lot, but there was one last thing: a note I had in the car to thank Geraldine for hosting our Mom's Group Thanksgiving.

"Wait, Geraldine! I have something for you," I said as I opened the rear door of the car and bent down to grab it. But it wasn't there. I hunted around to no avail, then straightening I looked at my friend pitifully and said, "I don't have it; I guess I forgot it."

Camille laughed, and then Geraldine and I laughed as well. It was one of those days.

And I don't think I can go back to that Cracker Barrel again....

The Snowman: A Tragedy

It rarely snowed in Tennessee, but it was not a completely crazy concept like it is for the place I call home now. If it snowed here, at my house, I would run around the neighborhood with my children screaming, looking for flying pigs to catch on film for the evening news.

So, as I say, snow was not expected in a Middle Tennessee winter, but it was quite possible, and when it did pay us a call on that ninety-eight acres of land that was home, we kids could count on the fact that there would be no school until every last drop of precipitation had disappeared from the earth, and that in itself was a joyful thing.

We could also count on the fact that if the accumulation was steady, we four kids would be hiking to the top of the big hill in the field with Mom's cobbler pan in hand and a hubcap or two to use as sleds. And it was very likely that we would have some of Dad's old socks on our hands for mittens.

With such a good snow-those hard small crystals that pack the ground so well-Dad would build snowforts with us in the field in order to have a really top-notch snowball fight. Nate and Annie were brutally competitive in a battle. I was the weak link who always landed on Daddy's team, so he could run defense for me as I futilely launched balls that exploded on the ground always shy of their targets.

But snow held an extra fascination for me outside the hysterical trips down the long hill in Mom's cobbler pan or the prospect of no school for several days.

Snowmen.

I believed in snowmen-really believed in snowmen-like some kids truly believe in Santa Claus. Frosty the Snowman, I thought, was based on a true story...or was the true story-only with cartoon characters. I loved Frosty and felt certain I might get to meet him or one of his cousins one day when the snow was just right.

One day Dad explained to me what the right snow must look like.

"See, Hoo-doo," he said, kneeling on the ground. "See how the sun sparkles on this snow? Do you see it? There's red, blue and green crystals there. That's how you know the snow is just right for a snowman to come to life."

Maybe Dad got the idea then. Or maybe he had had it for a while and was just waiting for a good solid snow to surprise me. But it was shortly after that that the snowman tragedy occurred.

Dad disappeared in the woods one late morning. He was gone for a while. I didn't think much of it, except for maybe regretting that he hadn't taken me with him to gather more wood as I assumed he was doing.

But when Dad came back to the house, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were alight with excitement.

"Hoo-doo," he said. "Get your coat! I want to show you something. C'mon, everyone! Let's go for a walk in the woods."

"What is it, Daddy? What do you want to show me?" I pestered on the long walk across the cornfield.

It wasn't until we were just outside the first vangard of trees that Dad turned to me, bent down and said softly, "Hoo-doo, there's a snowman in these woods. I want you to meet him. I think the snow is just right for him to come to life. Are you ready?"

I nodded, my heart beating faster as we broke through the brush at the edge of the forest. We found him a few minutes later leaning against a tree in a small clearing.

He was a plain fellow. He had peeble eyes and something for a nose, the usual stick arms and a vague smile-but no scarf or tophat, not even a stocking cap. I did not hold it against him. Not at all! Still, he wasn't moving...

"I think we should all dance around him," said Dad. "Like the children do in the movie. We can sing Frosty the Snowman."

If my siblings disliked the obviously puerile thing we were about to do, they didn't say a word. And so we began to circle him as a family, hand-in-hand and singing (at least me) at the top of our lungs, "Frooo-sty the Snoooww-man was a jol-ly, hap-py sooouul....."

Then we stopped at the end of that first verse, and the woods were quiet once more, for the snowman didn't move or talk as I stared at him expectantly.

"Ask him questions, see if he answers," said Dad, retreating behind me. "Go on, Hoo-doo."

I was suddenly shy, but this was it. This was the big moment.

"Hi," I said softly, then cleared my throat. "I'm Hillary. Are you Frosty?"

"No, no," the snowman said in a man's wavering tenor. Then he laughed quietly. "But I know Frosty. We're good friends."

I clapped my hands and jumped for joy.

"You are alive!" I shouted.

"Well, of course I am! It's the snow."

"I know; it's magic snow!" I said. "Do you live at the North Pole?"

"Sometimes," he answered in his strange voice. "But at other times I visit little children like you."

Thus began our conversation about Santa, snow, and Frosty-all those topics you might wish to cover when addressing a man built of frozen crystals. I smiled at him. He still stood motionless against the tree, but for some reason his inertness didn't bother me in the least. What did concern me was that I was running out of things to say. I had been waiting for this moment for most of my life, and now I hesitated awkwardly and turned to look back at Dad.

"Go on," he whispered.

"Well...." I began again. "I love you, Mr. Snowman, and I hope, maybe...." I trailed off as I sought more words.

But it didn't matter, because suddenly it had all become too much for one of my siblings.

"Hillary!" blurted out my brother Nate in exasperation. "Hillary-it's just Dad!"

I turned and looked at my dad's face. It was frozen with a fearful expression. Of course. Of course it was Dad. That's why he stood behind me as I addressed the snowman, that's why the the voice was strange but familiar. The truth always makes sense once we realize it. And it only took me a quick moment to realize it, but once I did, I began to sob, my back to the snowman.

Mom grabbed me quickly in a hug. I don't remember a word she said to me, or if she spoke at all. Dad hovered nearby, not knowing what to say or how to comfort. It had all been his idea, and he never thought it'd end up breaking his little girl's heart.

I don't know whether someone nudged him or not, but Nate approached me as my face was buried in Mom's chest, patted my back and said softly, "Sorry, Hoo-doo. I'm sorry."

Mom guided me out of the clearing, and we all walked out of the woods and across the cornfield-a quiet, pitiful procession. I held Mama's hand, sniffling and wiping my wet cheeks with the cold backs of my hands. Dad kept glancing my way as we made the return trek across the field. I can still see the sad expression in his eyes, and knowing now what it is to be a parent and all the heartbreak it entails, I'm sure that day was worse for him than for me.

I was wiser after that, perhaps, but I was not really disillusioned. I still felt sure my dolls and stuffed animals had feelings. And that the trees in the woods were happy to see me when I took a walk beneath their boughs and laid a hand on their trunks in greeting. I spent many more years pretending and imagining, well after most kids had given it up. And to this day I adore snowmen, and I do truly appreciate the memory my dad tried to give his daughter on a snowy afternoon all those years ago.