Favorites on Friday -- comedy

Early in our marriage, the story goes that in the middle of the night I rolled over to my husband and whispered earnestly, "You know what I love?"

And slightly startled, he said, "Um, no. What?" Maybe he was thinking I would say, You. Or something about the little baby, our firstborn son, nestled between us in his boppy pillow while the apnea and pulse ox monitor lights blinked their reassuring signals--all is well. 

"Comedy," I replied, deadpan, and I went back to sleep. This was relayed to me the following morning.

This might seem obvious, or at the very least, out of nowhere. Who doesn't love to laugh? It's true that I don't remember saying it, but I do remember where the sentiment came from. I had suffered a bad dream, following our pre-bedtime viewing of the latest episode of The Sopranos--I'm pretty sure it was the one where they beat the stripper to death. And I had decided, as I was falling asleep that night, that I was done watching things that made me sick to my stomach, and I would take care to avoid shows and movies that included man's inhumanity to man, (or woman, or child.) I also decided I wanted the TV out of our bedroom. 

I wanted more things in my life that made me laugh. This was coming on the heels of September 11th and nearly losing our son soon after his birth, when it felt like we had done a lot of crying. I have stood by this proclamation in the years since. I have put accalimed books like The Kite Runner  down because though I have read the summary and reviews and am sure it is a powerful and important story, I saw where it was taking me, and knew I didn't want that imagery in my head. It means most movies I see are pre-screened by loved ones who know my threshold. I stopped watching ER  after they vividly depicted the genocide atrocities in Africa. 

It doesn't mean I don't stay abreast or ignore current events--it doesn't mean I'm an ostrich when it comes to suffering or the horrific things happening in the world. I subscribe to change.org and follow the cases and speak out against unjust or inhumane situations. (I only wish my continued daily hoodie wearing could be recognized as my ongoing protest for Trayvon, but it's also how I always dress, so it probably isn't noticed.) It is not that I don't care about wrongdoing or evil. But in my entertainment life, in those brief moments when I am not working or mothering or writing or running or digging around outside growing things, I want to be entertained, and I want to laugh.

So I was delighted when someone forwarded me this hysterical YouTube, the sixth episode of the Kid History series.  I watched and laughed, and dashed to the bathroom before I peed my pants, and watched it again. Since last weekend, I have probably watched it fifty times, and shared it with everyone I can think of who will love it as much as I do. The other morning, I woke up a little down, and watched it on my phone before I got out of bed, just so I could start out the day laughing. Though I have already noted it on my Chandra Hoffman, Author page on Facebook and tweeted about it, I thought I'd write a quick post in its honor in case there are a few blog followers who haven't seen it yet. Watch it. Wait, if you're a woman of a certain age, who has maybe had a few kids, go to the bathroom, pee first, and then watch it. 

Why are these so funny? I've watched them all by now (and I'll confess that I've even googled 'the Roberts family' and okay, yes, also 'is Richard Sharrah single?') for the story behind the story, but Episode Six is definitely the most hilarious and benefits from the best editing and comedic timing. Maybe it's extra funny to me because I've tried to pull off 'perfectly normal pancakes'. The other night, based on some recipes in the Jessica Seinfeld Deceptively Delicious Cookbook, I made a much-anticipated, colorful dinner--green eggs! pink pancakes! blue milk! I puréed the spinach and beets to color the breakfast food while the kids were at playdates, and then left the food coloring out on the counter after I dyed their milk, so they could all see I had just, you know, been going crazy with the food dye. That there was no reason why anything should taste even remotely 'dross'.  I went a little overboard with the beets in the pancakes and even J and I agreed you could really taste the earth in them. The green eggs went over okay with some parmesan on top. But our adult giggles gave us away and as soon as we let the kids in on our deception, everything ended up in poor Sampson's bowl. 

I've heard people sing the praises of these Kid History videos because they are 'clean'. The Roberts' family is Mormon and Episode One took an LDS film festival by a landslide. But that's not exactly why I love them. Sure, it's great to be able to share these with my kids instead of just snickering and closing the laptop and muttering, "Nothing," to their "What's so funny?!" But the clean nature of them isn't their appeal. I find plenty of humor in things that can't be shared with the kids. What is so funny here is the juxtaposition of big burly men and little tiny voices, the perfect capturing of the dynamics of family life and the priceless, authentic phrases of those cherubic little monkeys.

These have given me endless belly laughs this week, and heightened my appreciation for just closing my eyes and listening to the cuteness of my kids and my nieces and their pals, even when they say things like, "UGH! I'm going to come over there and-and punch you, like I always keep doing!" 

Enjoy. 

Dog Blog--Sampson, 11 months old

Sampson and Piper

It's hard to believe but Sampson's first birthday is fast-approaching next month. Piper (right) has the cake all dreamed up: there will be tiers of ground beef and meatballs, possibly a sausage and bacon layer, and a McDouble on top. We have no idea of our big boy's current stats. Big. Heavy. When he jumps up in the bed and lies on top of you, it can kind of press your bones togehter. I'm guessing he's around 160? 

Personality-wise, he is mellowing beautifully. He loves his kids and has taken Jonah's old place at the base of the trampoline, or herding them away from the water's edge. He loves swimming, much to the chagrin of our fisher-friends at the pond. He has built up incredible strength in his hind legs (an original concern of mine) and can now paddle around behind the boys in the canoe, assuring all painted turtles sunning on the rocks an easy warning and escape. 

There are still vestiges of his puppyhood status in his personality: Sampson can still take a game too far with Hayden and is oblivious about his size and superior strength when it comes to wrestling. It is still not safe to leave things lying around, as one of Sampson's most classic attention-seeking behaviors is to saunter by you and dangle whatever he thinks you might want (that running shoe? this nice permanent marker? a mangled Barbie?) out of his mouth, then break into a delighted, head-high canter when you react. 

With the help of the gentle leader system, he is a good walking companion and though he is not perfectly trained--my brother-in-law suggests a refund is in order on obedience school--he is the perfect dog for us. A little naughty, a little budgy, a whole-lot-lovey.

Fisherman's Friend

Stay tuned for the photos of Sampson's spring home hair cut and his brother's matching 'do--we sheared Hayden's Anthony Michael Hall curls at the same time. Also coming up is Anna Cole's training lesson with her eager, intelligent German Shepherd 'Claude Giroux'. 

MONDAY MUSING--Christmas books

Over the past few years, I have started a collection of books that get packed away with our Christmas decorations. They come out of the ornament trunk in early December bearing the scent of pine and beeswax from the candles that are nestled beside them. As my boys set up the G scale train that is also a Christmas-only treat, I put these special books out in a basket by our fireplace. We read them for several weeks and before the newness or magic of them is gone, they get packed away again on the 26th of December.

Here are the Hoffspring cozied up for a story, and some favorites from our fireside basket: 

Jan Brett's Christmas Treasury--this classic, weighty collection with it's gorgeous colors is a decoration all in itself. Between the covers are a smattering of stories that you may know from other times of year, like "The Mitten" and "The Hat". But there are some special holiday favorites, like "Trouble with Trolls", about Treeva and her dog Tuffi who encounter rascally but dim trolls as they try to scale Mount Baldy. When Treeva has outwitted the trolls the final time, when she sighs,  "Okay, I'll hold the dog," and zooms down the mountain on her painted skis, my kids always collapse into laughter. "Christmas Trolls" features the same girl and a new set of naughty, bickering trolls.

The collections has Brett's trademark rich illustrations and corner details on classics like "The Night Before Christmas" and "12 Days of Christmas." 

The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey--My aunt introduced us to this gorgeously illustrated story of a widow and widower in Pioneer times when Christmas could carry with it the sadness of those lost, "Because those were the days before hospitals and medicines and skilled doctors." It is a love story with hauntingly realistic illustrations that highlights the innocence of children, and the possibility of miracles. Every time I read this, I am awed by both the simplicity and complexity of this tale, the weaving of objects and symbolism. It reaches each of my children on a different level.

The Christ Child by Maud and Miska Petersham-- We grew up on this version of the Christmas story, illustrated by Maud and Miska Petersham and adapted from various parts of the Bible. The illustrations are so nostalgic and touching--the animals couldn't look more benevolent, and Mary and Joseph are as radiant as Herod is sinister. 

Pippin The Christmas Pig by Jean Little -- I picked this up at a book fair the year that we had our own little Piper, who sometimes goes by nicknames like Pippa, Pippi and even Pippin. It is an odd tale of a little pig who wants to know the true meaning of Christmas and is shunned from the barn by the boastful animals as one who has nothing to offer. Pippin the pig is leaving her barn in shame and sadness when she encounters what my sister and I interpret as a woman and baby girl fleeing a domestic violence situation in the middle of a snowstorm. Pippin leads them back to her barn and gives them shelter, the animals own little nativity. It gets more bizarre when the farmer and his wife discover this woman under the donkey's blanket and the baby girl asleep in their hay manger, and the story ends without us ever knowing what happens for any of the humans in the story. Because of this, I would have long ago donated this book to the thrift barn if it weren't for a snip of dialogue between Noddy, the curmudgeonly donkey and innocent little Pippin as she is ordering all the animals to help the woman and baby who stumble into the barn on the wings of a blizzard:

"But that's not a special baby," Noddy protested.

"Of course she is," said Pippin. "All babies are special."

Noddy gazed into the small, sleeping face.

"You are right," he said. "I'd forgotten."

Somehow, it is hard for me to read this aloud without choking up. All babies are special indeed. 

My latest addition to our Christmas basket is an out of print story by Leon Garfield: Fair's Fair. I remember hearing my Uncle Dean read this story aloud to his children as we lolled in the bunk beds in the Catskill mountains one Christmas, haunted by his deep baritone and the story of a huge black dog who seeks out starving, homeless orphans in the the middle of a blinding snowstorm and leads them to a mansion the week before Christmas. It took some digging to find a battered, retired library copy of the book, but it has quickly become one of my kids' favorites. A big black dog? Rescued orphans, a blizzard and a mansion? How could it not be? 

Question: I would love to hear what holiday or Christmas stories your family cherishes? 

Monday Musing: PLASTI-CHRISTMAS-CRAP

Does everyone feel this queasy when holiday shopping? I am sitting here at midnight, the veritable dawn of CyberMonday, preparing to fill my online shopping cart with items for my kids, anxious to get the major chunk of my Christmas shopping out of the way, and sick about it all at the same time.

I've spent a month scouring the expensive catalogs for the meaningful toys, the lasting toys, the learning toys, the art supplies, the games and crafts that will bring the family together. I've made my list and I've checked it way more than twice, trying to stay on budget, be equitable, and have things that everyone will love both on Christmas morning, and long after. I take this very seriously. So, hang on to your order slips, Museum Tour, Hearthsong, Nova Natural and Back to Basics: you're about to get your cyberboom. 

But there are a few more items on my list, the ones that give me even more pause. I refuse to brave the mall and after roughly sixty fishing emails from ToysRUs this weekend I've decided to boycott them too. (There must be a term for that--when your marketing is so aggressive that it backfires, making people pissed enough that they'll look elsewhere.)

And I know I have to hit a sporting goods store for the 'gear' items on the boys' lists sometime quiet midday/midweek, but then there's still these last few things... these nagging six items...

Sometime between now and Christmas, I have to make a Target/WalMart run for what my husband and I call plasticrap.

Not literally, not rubber dog doo, but the jazzy-looking, one-hit-wonders of Toyland, the crap plastic toys that get advertised on TV, that will have *wow* factor for three to seven glorious minutes Christmas morning, followed by their random parts turning up in the bottom of toy bins, under the couch cushions or jamming up my central vac for the next six months when, if I can find enough of their parts, I hustle them on to the Thrift Barn.

Last Christmas, I tried to avoid this. I told my kids we were going plastic-free for Christmas, went so far as to show them the plastic sea in the Pacific . My then eight-year-old and fervent marine-life lover Hayden was horrified by this, but he was equally concerned about a Christmas without Bionicles. "But, Mom?" he asked in a heartbreakingly hopeful voice, "Can't our plastic just go in a landfill?"

So here's my question: 

How do you handle the influx of plasticrap, of the nagging need to buy meaningless, multipart, overmarketed toys?

Go ahead. You can tell me. I won't feel bad if you do it better than me, if you hand-make all your kids' gifts or buy them all at local craft sales, or if you have your kids convinced that Christmas is about cooking at the homeless shelter and knitting for the needy. But I just might steal some of your ideas for next year...

PS Last year's solution was also to let grandparents be exempt from my rules about the plasticrap, a la Max's ridiculously large collection of crazybones from his Maynah in the photo at right. As you can see from his Christmas morning grin, we are a-okay with this. And I have to tell you, the boys continue to love these, use them in trading situations with friends and play a modern version of jacks with them several times a week. Win win? 

Favorites on Fridays: Benadryl

So I'm going to try something new, writing each Friday about one of my favorite things. You can also look forward to some exciting new guest posts from the likes of MoxieMomma and The Bird Sisters' Rebecca Rasmussen. But for now, an ode to my favorite thing this Friday...

To the gods of Benadryl, 

I have been infrequent in my prayers and thanks; I admit I only come to you regularly when I am flying alone with children under the age of five who prefer to fall asleep somewhere over Maryland and wake up when the plane touches down in the Caribbean. And then there was that time at the VOA black tie dinner, when I ate a bite of crab cake, not realizing that I had developed an adult onset severe shellfish allergy--you really came through on that one. If not for you (and the guy at the bar who thought I was choking and whacked me on the back until I threw up in my napkin), I might not be here. But I confess I don't think of you often, don't even carry you with me at all times; I forget just how important you are to me. 

So thank you for hearing me last night when Max came inside shaking and "chivering" he called it, covered in full-body, dime-sized welts and hives, an allergic reaction to new meds for pneumonia. 4 teaspoons later, your powers amaze me--YOU are my favorite thing this Friday.