Usually I can hammer out a long list at 11:59 pm without even thinking about it. Be a better listener, ignore gossip, cook more, etc. But this year I’m stumped. It isn’t that I have no room to grow, perhaps just no energy to do it. Or, maybe…just maybe, it’s time to face this looming challenge before me – the same one that’s been taunting me since 2005.

To write a book.

“You have a great book in you,” advised Christine Fugate – an extraordinary writer I’m lucky enough to call my mentor and friend. “I wish I had your story.”

So I think I’ll do it. You may see threads of it in my monthly columns this upcoming year, because this story – my story - changed me. How I parent, how I love and how I live.

So I’ve said it. I’ve committed. 2008 is now claimed…

It’s time for Sugar Mama to start talking.

Every year, we tape all of our cards to the kitchen cabinets – peppering our already bright blue kitchen with holiday cheer. I’d like to say it’s because we’re artistic, but it’s really because we have no mantle. Well, that, and my husband still won’t let me drill nails in the walls in a house we built THREE YEARS AGO.

“It’s still brand new,” my husband pleads with me, “we need to get a sense of where things go first.”

I’ve decided it’s time we finally move in this week. Photos need to be hung, our “temporary” window coverings need to be upgraded, and our housewarming champagne needs to be drunk. Which, of course, has undoubtedly gone bad.

A therapist would tell me that my husband has commitment problems. (What, with me having to grab the ring he was hiding for two months “waiting for the perfect moment to give me” in his drawer and propose to myself almost ten years ago?) But it isn’t that. Joe simply has what I call a “rainbow complex”. Chasing the perfection of beauty – in a moment, a wall, or a painting – only to trip over the pot of gold, occasionally, right under his feet.

So as I gaze at my cabinets covered in red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet this morning, I not only marvel in the beauty of all the cheer that surrounds us this holiday season, but I cherish the fact that I know where my husband keeps his hammer.

And, that I know how to use it.

I kept both kids home from school today because one had a bad cough, and, well, the other had to keep me company while I nursed him back to health. Terrible parenting, I know. What’s worse is that we were all sick of each other by lunchtime so I took them to a movie.

May I just say that Alvin and the Chipmunks RULES.

My youngest was on top of his chair dancing the entire time and my oldest laughed that kind of laugh you want to bottle up and open up at a party.

Or submit to Ellen’s ‘funniest kid videos’ segment.

Go see it with your kids. But not on a school day.

My husband has been on kid duty for six consecutive nights. (Hey, I’m a popular gal.) And by night #3, he casually mentioned that he couldn’t bear reading one more nighttime story.

So I told him to make one up.

And so he did, evidently. A “real story,” according to my five-year-old, “the kind that really happened.” And then Jackson recounted the tale on the way to school this morning that I can’t imagine coming out of my husband’s mouth. “Triangle,” it’s called, and it’s about a horse with three legs. 

According to my son, my husband had a horse with three legs when he was a boy just about Jacskon’s age (in the 1800’s…?) And whenever the horse slept, his legs formed the shape of a triangle, hence the name. My husband and Triangle had many adventures, explained Jackson, and faced a lot of adverse attention from passerby’s.

“What good is a horse with three legs?” Old Sam would jeer. “Yeah, and how can you pull a cart when you’re missing a foot?” another burly cowboy would add.

Poor Triangle. And what was a young boy to do? Cast him aside for a horse more normal? Yell back and tell Old Sam he thinks he’s funny looking too? Alas, no. My husband found the good in Triangle’s skills – mostly in squatting for kids to climb up and pick apples as it was his front leg that was missing – as well as a special friendship that poor Old Sam would probably never know.

It was a story about compassion from a guy whose office manager is probably buying my Christmas present for him at this very moment. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking he’s pretty spectacular on his feet.

All three of them.

I vowed not to make any overwhelmed-holiday-blog entries this year (a little cliché, don’t you think?), and here I am. But blame Pixar, not the 11 holiday functions I’ve had so far with 7 more to go. Nor the 50+ presents I’ve had to buy and wrap and ship to four states.

No, it’s that goofy looking kid from Polar Express that drove me to this entry. The kid who couldn’t hear the bell, couldn’t believe.

A nay-sayer already at age seven?

Not that I expect kids to “believe” in Santa (or Hanukkah Harry) past six, but it’s a respect for the tradition that I expect. Or respect, at the very least, for all of us running around like a bunch of loons, preserving this “magic” for the ones we love most. I mean, the “phone calls” to the North Pole, the cookies we bake, the wish list letters we write and mail to God-knows-where…

The kid ultimately switches sides as you may have already seen 37 times this season with your kids. Our side. But it’s always painful for me to watch. Just think about the great lengths his parents must have gone through to research JUST the right drug to conjure up that hallucination! All while undoubtedly breaking their necks that Christmas Eve, making a darned cookie crumb trail, finishing last-minute wrapping, and checking his vitals every fifteen minutes.

Hats off to them. Seriously. He didn’t even look hung over!

A girlfriend asked me last night what I would change about myself if I could change one thing. It ruined my whole night because I couldn’t stop thinking about what that one thing might be. While everyone was eating and laughing and drinking, I was completely over-analyzing my faults, leaving no weakness unturned. When it occurred to me that that right the was one thing I’d change. This obsession with everything I’m not instead of heralding all that I am. Constantly worried about that people think. Am I kind enough, fair enough, talented enough, worthy enough?

So I finally blurt this out and my girlfriends just stare at me.

Well, one actually spoke. ‘Wow, how deep… we actually were just asking about one physical thing you’d change about yourself, but no worries if it’s going to upset you.”

“Oh. Well, I’m legally blind in one eye so I guess I’d change my eyesight.” 

“Huh. I thought you’d say you’d want bigger boobs.” said one friend.

“Or you’re stomach. I thought you’d say a flatter stomach.” said another.

“What, nothing about the thighs? Flabby arms?” offered a third. 

I don’t know why I hang out with these people. No wonder I’m insecure.

I had the opportunity to spend fourteen consecutive hours with one gorgeous-but-taken hairstylist and another gorgeous-but-also-taken make-up artist, both with resumes littered with stars.

Naturally, I had to get all the scoop about everyone who has graced their chairs. There were many expletives in their telling, as well as illegal activity, which – unfortunately – I am not at liberty to share. However, we came up with a key – or a legend, if you will – which serves up just-as-juicy info on these elusive Gods and Goddesses.

PERSONALITY LEGEND

• R = Ruder than the manager at Tiffany & Co. when you come in wearing sweats
• UTBNBNAJ = Used To Be Nice (when they were a nobody), But Now A Jerk
• #@$#! = Run the other direction if you ever cross paths
• SN = Sooo Nice

1. Sheryl Crow = UTBNBNAJ
2. Tom Hanks = SN
3. Faye Dunaway = #@$#!
4. Valerie Bertinelli = SN
5. Tommy Lee Jones = #@$#!
6. Mariah Carey = SN (I know, I was surprised too!)
7. Ashley Judd – UTBNBNAJ
8. Sally Field = SN

Hey, what can I say? I’m here to serve.

So I came across this company, Goody Tubes (www.goodytubes.com), and was instantly intrigued. A great spin on the whole corporate gift thing. But here’s what’s SO funny – I MET the girl who runs it in high school. She was one of those really pretty, popular girls with perfect hair and a cute boyfriend named Chad. Anyway, she let me borrow her acid-wash overalls one night and I thought that was really nice. The least I could do was return the favor.

By no means does Parenting OC endorse products, yadayadayada, or…you know what I mean. Plus, she doesn’t even know I’m doing this. She probably doesn’t remember me OR my ugly hair. I just thought I’d cross something off my list like Earl does. And, it’s a cute idea.

There was this guy. His name rhymed with Skip, (but he wasn’t like you’re picturing. He was the dark, artist type - not blonde and zinc-nosed.) Anyway, I adored him in my twenties. He was my soul mate, I thought. There was just one tiny problem…he had a girlfriend named Maria. The reason why I remember this is that my kids were watching Sound of Music when “How do you solve a problem like Maria…’ came on. I was immediately catapulted back to 10 (ok, 13) years ago when that song was my anthem. I’d sing it daily, hoping for a break.

And then one day he dumped her and asked me out.

It was funny, because I really thought it was the song.  Like all that positive-thinking-ala-The-Secret mumbo jumbo. Although mine was completely evil thinking and I kept none of it a secret.

As it turned out Skip and I lasted one week. What this has to do with anything is pretty clear. It doesn’t. But I feel badly that I abused a classic for personal gain – albeit fleeting. I dreamt about Maria last night. She was beautiful and I had a big butt.

Perhaps that’s my penance. Anyway, I am so sorry, Maria.

It was like I was 16, going on 17.

Everyone can relate to Charlie Brown and that pitiful tree. We personalize it, feel sorry for it…romanticize it, even. Like it’s a test – if we look beyond the surface we are sure to find a glowing nugget of gold. Which is why I end up with a sorry looking Douglas year after year.

But as I gaze at my tree this morning, lopsided and balding, I can’t help but succumb to the sense of righteousness. I did a good deed last night at the tree farm and gave Gangly a home. I don’t know if Santa really cares, let alone will he look fondly on me this year. But I was that gangly tree in my youth, with four eyes and a bad haircut, and Joe took me in. Maybe he knew that as time passes, he’ll start leaning to one side, too, only to reveal his own bald spots. But if I give him some water and hang a few lights on him, he’ll transform into the glorious tree I married.

Without the sap, of course. Just like Charlie Brown’s classics, some things never change.