Apparently we are all very lazy in this household when it comes to Christmas.

This year I stuffed stockings for the first time, since after all I only completed the stockings last January. And I suppose that, in my own defense, I wasn’t entirely lazy about it. I did make a list well ahead of time, and gather together chocolates and candies and small trucks and a small, toy pair of binoculars. (Nathan really likes binoculars.) I even sewed little organza bags for the chocolates, which I knew the entire time was complete overkill, since the boys would not care about the bags except inasmuch as they needed to get the chocolates out, right now.

The actual laziness came into play on Christmas Eve. It was a late night, and the kids didn’t want to go to sleep. This was not because of anticipation of Christmas morning; at their current ages I feel like I have to talk about Christmas a lot with them in an attempt to drum up interest. No, it was just one of those nights (rare now, fortunately) where being confined to a bed was simply torture for both boys. And after they were finally quiet, I lay there in my own warm, cozy bed and wondered: was it really worth it? I mean, would they care whether the stockings were already filled when they woke up, or became mysteriously filled sometime later in the morning? Since we don’t use the Santa Claus story, would it really matter?

Somewhere in the midst of debating this, it became morning.

And I’ve decided that it was probably a good thing to wait. It gave us the chance to get through breakfast before the kids started gorging themselves on chocolate. Laziness is not all bad.

The laziness is not all mine, either. I did finally bring the stuffed stockings out and set them down on the floor of the sun room. Both kids delved into their stocking… and then, as soon as they’d found the first truck and bag of chocolate, stopped. Mild prodding on my part to explore the rest of the stocking failed to elicit interest. After some consideration, I decided that I didn’t really care, and anyway it would spread out the novelty. After all, the whole point of staying home for a nice quiet Christmas is that we’re not on a schedule.

The gifts were judged to be a resounding success by all. After a good long truck session, they demanded to take a bath expressly to play with their new bath toys.

In any case, I consistently failed to replace it in the months between summer and Christmas, and thus in early December we were out scouting for a Christmas tree for the first time since we were married. I was torn; on the one hand I really like the idea of a living Christmas tree, and was hoping to find another one; on the other, I’d decided that if I was going to put the work in to keep the thing alive (and hopefully I would), I wanted to be picky about what I got. Ever since the extremely memorable 12-ft Noble fir that my parents got one year, I’ve been particular to Nobles. But for some reason potted Nobles seemed to be scarce. Or at least, my rather scattered attempts at searching for one failed miserably.

That idea thwarted, I completely failed to compromise, and instead picked out a six-foot cut Noble fir. Because hey, a big tree would be really fun for the kids, right? And little kids are the best part of Christmas.

To be completely honest, I’m not sure they cared what size or type of tree we got. But they did care — a lot — about getting out the Christmas lights. We could skip the tree altogether and just string lights up around the ceiling, and I suspect that Nathan would be just as happy. At the moment that idea is highly tempting… but I know it’s only because I’ve said “Please be gentle with the Christmas tree” and “Don’t pull on the lights” so often.

In any case, after the intense excitement of putting lights around the tree, the kids were able to muster some enthusiasm for ornaments as well. I brought out a variety — most (theoretically) unbreakable, but a few delicate ones as well, just as a test. After all, I didn’t know: how old do kids need to be before they can resist the exquisite pleasure of crushing fragile glass ornaments?

Answer: older than two. Maybe four as well; I rather suspect Nathan of more subtlety than Ryan, but no more self-control. The breakage didn’t start at once, but after the first (accidental, I believe) destruction, suddenly glass fragments began appearing on the carpet at an alarming rate. Our tree has begun to take on a three-tiered structure. On the top layer, the lights are still fairly evenly distributed, but it has quickly become clogged with ornaments as they were collected from the floor and raised above the reach of small hands. Under that is a dark layer, and the lowest tiers of the tree have become thick with lights that have been pulled down, twig by twig.

At first I tried to rearrange things occasionally, maintaining the tree as a decoration in the household. Eventually, though, I accepted the progression as inevitable entropy. The tree no longer shines quite so brightly (except at the bottom), but I’ve decided that you can’t be too picky about these things.

I don’t for a moment believe that I’ll skip doing a tree next year. That idea might be slightly tempting now, but come next December I guarantee that all caution will be dead, buried, and forgotten. Still, I am trying to embed a mental note to scale down next year. Maybe (I find myself thinking when I hear Nathan driving a truck into the tree’s lower branches — again)… maybe I’ll go for just a little tree next year. A foot and a half is plenty of tree for little kids, right?

Or maybe (as I hear his truck hit again)… maybe just a branch nailed to the wall.

• We’ve made it to chapter books! Nathan and I have been reading the Magic Tree House series together. They are short enough that we can read them at a gulp in one (rather long) sitting, but they are still real chapter books. I’m not sure which one of us enjoys them more.
• The bedtime battles have diminished considerably. Not so much our battles to get them to bed, but the battles between Nathan and Ryan after they’ve been tucked in. It used to be that, even with a bolster positioned strategically between them, fighting ensued as soon as they were settled next to each other. And then, miraculously, it nearly ceased. A few nights into this cease-fire, Ryan crawled out of the blankets where I’d just tucked him in and snuggled down over on Nathan’s side instead. He told me he wanted to snuggle. “That’s fine,” I said, trying to keep the wariness out of my voice, “as long as Nathan’s ok with it.” “I’m ok with it,” said Nathan, and wrapped his arm around Ryan. They lay there snuggled together and looked up at me like a couple of… well, sweet angelic children. I did a quick pinch-test to make sure that I was not in fact dreaming, and then accepted that gift with grace and got the heck out.
• Ryan has acquired a new habit lately. “I yike you!” he’ll say, throwing his little arms around my neck (I admit that this is most touching when he doesn’t do so from behind). He hands out a sweet hug and a kiss. Sometimes he mixes it up a little by saying “I yuv you!” instead. Man, that makes me smile just thinking about it.

This year we were gifted with some wood from one of our neighbors, as well as some from my dad. This led to some family project time to retrieve the wood and process it.

Nathan was very interested in the whole process, and helped shuttle wood from the chopping block to appropriate piles.

And of course he wanted to help with the chopping as well. Dave was happy to explain the theory…

…and let him take a turn at the axe. Nathan wasn’t able to make much headway, but he has a lot of years yet to gain in skills.

Ryan, meanwhile, could hardly lift the axe head from the ground. He tired of that game quickly and played with sticks instead.

How satisfying is a nicely stocked woodpile?

As a warning: The post contains lots of foul language, as well as references to Kipling. If either of these offends you, don’t read it.

With that in mind: here it is.

A few weeks ago, after having prepped the kids by reading them various Halloween picture books, I asked Nathan if he’d like to dress up for Halloween. He told me that he’d like to be a pirate. (He was introduced to the concept of pirates via a playgroup birthday party, and I’m not sure he has much of an understanding of piracy beyond eye patches. In particular we’ve glossed over the rather blood-thirsty aspects of their history. But so what?) Ryan immediately declared that he wanted to be a pirate too. I was delighted; a pirate costume was one that I thought could reasonably be put together at a thrift store.

And sure enough, black pants and white shirts were fairly easy to obtain, as well as some inexpensive plastic swords. But things like coats, hats, or boots? To be honest, everything I saw was either stupid or expensive or both.

So we went to Plan B — the plan where I would sew the remainder of their costumes. In my original imagination, there were black cloaks lined with a silky fabric of another color; the same silky fabric in a flowing sash; an additional head scarf that neither would probably wear; and, just for good measure, matching lined bags to take trick-or-treating.

What I ended up completing, with approximately an hour to spare, were two plain black three-quarter circle cloaks and a couple teal sashes. But that’s okay. The boys were still very cute, dressed up in their matching finery. Nathan interpreted his cloak as detective’s garb (he’s watched a lot of Madeline) and refused to carry a sword, opting instead for his magnifying glass. Whatever — we are pretty loose here.

We headed off that evening (the Saturday before Halloween) to a trunk-or-treat. It did not occur to me until too late to bring the camera.

In case you’ve never heard of trunk-or-treating, it’s exactly like trick-or-treating only it happens in a parking lot, with people handing out candy from the backs of their cars. In our case, we’d been invited by a friend in our playgroup to attend one put on by her church. There was a corresponding Halloween party going on inside, with costume competitions and cupcake walks. Our boys stayed firmly in our laps during these festivities. Even when Nathan’s friend Quinn won a cupcake, Nathan himself could not be persuaded to participate.

Then it was time for the trunk-or-treating. We headed out with the rest of the kids, holding back just a little to avoid the main rush. Dave took Ryan, who followed obediently along with Quinn and, while hesitant at first, quickly got the hang of this trick-or-treating thing. By the third car he was helpfully pointing into his bag to indicate where the candy should go. And when he got to pick what kind he wanted — oh, that was exciting indeed.

I know this only by hearsay. Nathan and I were back at the first car, which he refused to approach.

Now, I have this thing about trick-or-treating. I’m happy to take our kids out, happy even to walk up to the door with them if they need that. But I won’t do the trick-or-treating for them. I understand that Nathan is shy about crowds, and I knew, based on what I’d seen from him before, that the trick-or-treating would be a bit nerve-wracking for him. One of the reasons we’d done the trunk-or-treat was because it seemed like a gentler introduction to the sport, and Nathan could follow his friend Quinn along, and I just generally thought it more likely that he’d be willing to participate.

Nothing doing. Nathan wanted me to walk up to the car, get the candy, and bring it back to him. I insisted that he at least walk up with me. We sat and discussed this for quite a while, as a stream of kids ebbed and flowed past us.

Finally a lady from a car near us, taking pity on him, came up to Nathan and dropped a packet of M&M’s into his bag. Nathan fished it out. A big shy smile spread over his face, the simple delight of a child who’s just been handed a handful of chocolate candy.

He asked me to open it for him. I pointed out that I could do that — or, I suggested, we could get some more candy from some of the many waiting trunks. I watched as he pondered that idea.

We managed two more trunks on the momentum of the M&M’s, and then he was done again. At that point Dave and Ryan were coming around, having finished the loop. Dave took Nathan in hand and coaxed a few more trunks out of him while Ryan dug through his bag and handed things to me to open for him.

Soon after that the boys were pretty done with things, and we thanked out friends and headed back home, sharing out candy on the way. I figured that Nathan had a couple of days to mull over the idea of trick-or-treating. When he saw trick-or-treaters coming to our door on Halloween night and receiving candy, maybe he’d get the bug and be ready for another go. Dave pointed out that he does better in less crowded arenas. We’d just have to see.

But on Halloween we didn’t even get as far as dressing up. Both boys proved completely uninterested in their costumes, and showed no inclination to head out for trick-or-treating. Why should they? There was a big bowl of candy right in our own house. But even more than that, it turned out that what Nathan really, really liked about Halloween was handing the candy out.

Historically this is Dave’s job. (Another of my quirks about Halloween is that I dislike being the person answering the door.) But halfway through the evening Dave ended up over at the computer watching TV. Nathan hung around near the door, peering out of the window, sometimes taking the bowl of candy outside to sit on the front step and watch for approaching kids. It made me wish there were more trick-or-treaters. All his shyness had vanished — he was incredibly excited each time someone headed for our door, and often saved them the trouble of knocking by rushing out to meet them. “Hello!” he would say joyfully, as he held out the bowl for them to choose their treat. Honestly I’ve rarely seen him so happy. It made me want to volunteer with him somewhere where we could hand out lunches to the hungry.

So who knows? Our Halloween traditions might be a little different than what I grew up with. Or by next year trick-or-treating might be a breeze. We’ll just have to play it by ear.

And then that feeling you have when, after hearing the little voice greet you from inside, and asking them to please unlock the door, and asking again many times, and instructing the little voice on how to unlock the door, you hear the little voice begin to panic?

And that’s when you know that this is not going to be one of those easy, laid-back evenings.

The last time I had this feeling, Nathan had locked himself in our bathroom. The bathroom has two doors, but he couldn’t figure out how to unlock either of them. However, in that case it turned out that the doorknobs had been installed with screws available to the outside of the room. Note: this is a serious security flaw, and a major parental bonus. Taking off a doorknob was slightly tedious but not difficult, and then we had a little lesson on how the locks worked. Then we taped over the locks with packing tape. End of problem.

The sewing room doorknob, though, had no such convenient security flaw. Nor had Ryan been around to have the lock lesson, back in our previous experience. On the plus side, Dave was home.

Dave assessed the situation and pointed out that a new doorknob would be cheaper than an emergency locksmith call, and the process of breaking out the doorknob might be just as fast as getting the locksmith there anyway. He started with a hacksaw, but eventually brought out a hammer, a screwdriver, and two pairs of pliers. Much loud noise ensued.

Ryan started out slightly panicked, was calmed a bit by the sight of my fingers under the door and a cookie slid through the conveniently large gap, escalated to crying (is there anything more pitiful than a small child’s voice crying “Want out!” from the other side of a door?), and then gradually calmed down as he remembered that he was in the forbidden sewing room, quite possibly the single room in the house most packed full of interesting things. His unhappy noises became less and less frequent, and the sounds of minor crashes and things spilling ramped up accordingly. At one point Dave looked at me and said, deadpan, “He’s just distracting himself from the trauma of the situation.” This was after a particularly impressive and mysterious series of crashes, punctuated by delighted laughter.

And of course in the end Dave triumphed over the doorknob. He got his hero pedestal shined up a bit, Ryan got a nice warm bath (“nice warm bath” is a favorite phrase of his lately), and Nathan and I got to pick up the colored pencils, play beans, pens, boxes, and other assorted paraphernalia on the floor of the sewing room.

2. Kids at the beach don’t need toys. At least young kids don’t. They have sand, rocks, dunes, grass, sticks, water, foam, and their hands. Toys are irrelevant. The only place where toys are useful is in the hotel room, where you would like the kids to entertain themselves in some way that involves neither destruction nor excessive noise. Speaking of which:

3. Hotel choice is critical. Thanks to Oregon Coast Magazine and Google, I decided on the San Dune Inn. It billed itself as kid-friendly, and boy was it ever. It wasn’t just that they had things like videos in the office that you could snag for a quick distraction. Far more importantly, the hotel room required almost no child-proofing. Compared to the room we stayed in the year before, which was crammed with all kinds of games and knick-knacks, this was a dream. And then there was the kitchen…

4. Don’t eat out. Eating out with small children just annoys me. Trying to select something they’ll eat, entertaining them before the food comes, trying to snatch bites of my own food in between helping them with theirs, running off with them again once their appetite and patience wears out… I think it was on our last trip to the coast that I began to hate the whole process with a passion. So this time we didn’t do it. Our hotel room had a decently stocked kitchen; I brought supplies for our meals; and I planned ahead (again, thanks to Oregon Coast Magazine) for fun places to scrounge our dinners. The first night we were there, the Manzanita Farmer’s Market was open, and we feasted on corn-on-the-cob and a stir-fry of beef and fresh veggies. The second day we hit Cannon Beach and the Ecola Seafoods Restaurant and Market, and used the salmon and prawns thus obtained for another rather excellent meal. I’d planned to go out a few times, but in the end we didn’t — and we all enjoyed it much more. Especially me.

5. Young kids must be outside. Maybe there exist small children who will play quietly and contentedly for an hour in the hotel room before bed. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never met them. Except for meals or sleep, our children needed to be outside pretty much all the time for things to be happy. I had mostly planned on that anyway, but making slight adjustments to our plans to include things like, say, after-dinner walks… that made everything smoother.

6. Always carry extra clothes. Not just because of the rain, either. You never know when your tired two-year-old will try to stomp in the edge of a tide pool, totally misinterpreting the clear water to be shallow, and end up stumbling down the steep side of the pool four steps and falling over into the water, so that you have to pull him out and take him, wailing, back into a cave out of the wind to be stripped down and wrapped into warm dry clothes. Just as an example. We got so many Bonus Parent Points for having those extra clothes on us.

7. Know when to bail. Our first day, Friday, was lovely; we spent all afternoon in beach heaven. The forecast for the weekend had called for a few showers Saturday and Sunday. Saturday morning this was true, and we got in a great hike to another fantastic beach. It poured all Saturday afternoon. We are not afraid of rain, but shivering little kids are not happy kids, and their parents are not happy parents. Coupled with Lesson #5, this meant that we drove back Sunday instead of Monday. We first got in a another great rainy morning at the beach on Sunday — and then, when everyone was wet, cold, and (in Ryan’s case) exhausted, we changed into dry clothes (Lesson #6) and headed out. It was the right choice.

And we’ll go back again. We like Manzanita a lot. Maybe we’ll make the coast trip a yearly tradition.

Undoubtedly more learning will occur every year.

New this year: cranberry beans. Actually I planted a variety of shelling beans this year, in various nooks and crannies of the garden. The Tiger’s Eye beans have already dried and been harvested — ten beans turned into about a cup and a half. I also have some black beans coming. It’s clear to me that growing my own supply of dried beans, besides being rather silly (they’re about the cheapest things ever to buy) would also take a lot of space. Still, it’s been a fun experiment, and I might keep growing some specialty types if I have a good corner handy.

I intended to let the cranberry beans dry too, but at the last minute ended up cooking them fresh instead. They’re so beautiful, creamy and plump and streaked with pink, when they come out of the shell. Unfortunately they lose their striking looks as they cook. But with some garlic and sage, they turned into a rather delicious side dish.