Boring Halloween decor is my specialty.

When you live far away from the majority of your friends and all of your family, you tend to say "What's the point?" to a lot of things. Decorating for Halloween for example. I mean, no one but the four of us will ever see it. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. The UPS driver who comes to my house 2 to 3 times a week (give or take) gets to see them. And Derek's players who come over for a home cooked meal might notice them. But really...Derek doesn't care about Halloween decorations. The boys think our decorations should be a gigantic spider climbing over the roof of our home toward a humongous web blocking our front door and obviously that's not happening. They think my decorations are boring. So...what's the point?

But honestly, it's near impossible to have a major holiday like Halloween roll around and not put up a toothy pumpkin or two. I do have cute Halloween decorations that in the end serve no other purpose but to change up my regular decor. I guess that's reason enough to put them up.

I try to keep it simple. Nothing too fancy. Nothing too elaborate. Nothing bleeding. Nothing scary. No gigantic spiders. No humongous webs. Sorry kids. Mama ain't got time for that.

The two pictures below are a must every Halloween. The one on the left is of 2 year old Bentley, dressed as a Gap teddy bear at the McFarland pumpkin patch in Norman. This pic was snapped at the end of a photo shoot with my mom. The bear was totally over it.

The pic on the right was Palmer's first Halloween. Both boys spent their first Halloweens dressed up as Dalmatians (we had two Dalmatians at the time.) Bentley was a fireman to go with Palmer's Dalmatian. By this time the following year, we were living in Southern California and I was the one who was totally over it.

Just a classy, somewhat boring, Halloween display outside. The drought has done a number on the pumpkin crop this year. Normally, you would find large bins of pumpkins at every grocery store, making it quite easy to purchase a pumpkin or two. Not this year. Even our local, longstanding family owned pumpkin patch didn't open this year. This drought is now screwing with the holidays. This is a real problem, people.

Decorating with past holiday family pictures is my holiday decor fallback. This one is another favorite, featuring the cutest Storm Trooper and Yoda you've ever seen. And our sweet Freddie did such a good job posing for the picture when all he really wanted to do was get away from everyone and find a quiet place to lay down.

Let me reiterate, I like decorating with pictures. Wouldn't you if you had a picture like this one? I mean, look at how cute this little pumpkin was! His Aunt Gee had given him a pumpkin onesie from Gymboree for his first Halloween. He's so stoic, sitting there holding his little hands together, I can't get over it.

And that is the end of my Halloween home decorating tour. Short and sweet, just like me. (Although I'm not really that short, and very few if any would use the word sweet to describe me.) It's not much, but it is less to clean up. And as the queen of holiday decorating Martha Stewart would say, that is a very good thing.

Post Party Stress Disorder

thanksgiving feast (i.e., PPSD creator)

I have an issue I haven't talked about before. I have PPSD. Post Party Stress Disorder. It's real. I have the mental and emotional scars to prove it.

I spent the past couple of weeks getting ready to host a Halloween party for kids at our church. A small party, just for kids in the 5th and 6th grade. A 2-hour party with tacos, queso, cupcakes and games. Simple, easy and fun. No big deal.

I started stressing about planning this party early. I made lists. Multiple lists. Made lists of my lists. I took way too long creating a simple invitation. I spent hours on Pinterest looking for just the right games, fun party food and decor. I didn't get any of my regular responsibilities done for the week because I spent so much damn time planning this party. It was borderline ridiculous.

Finally last weekend, I woke up and realized that I was giving this simple party way too much time and attention. Our church has events for these kids every two weeks. It might sound like a lot, but it's meant to be a way for these to get together socially in fun and safe ways. Parents take turns hosting the outings. I chose the date closest to Halloween thinking a Halloween party would be an easy one to do. But I was being obsessive about making it perfect when it didn't need to be. These kids weren't going to care one bit about how cute the decor was or what the photo booth was like. (Yes, I was planning on having a photo booth.) I needed to stop caring so much.

I blame it on my PPSD. My Post Party Stress Disorder. I haven't always had this problem. I have hosted a lot of parties in my adult life and have always taken pride in throwing a great party. It is one of the many gifts that my mother has given me. But last year around Thanksgiving, something happened that changed the way I will approach a party forever.

Last year I served as homeroom mom for my youngest son's class. I had done it previously for my oldest son (twice actually) and I felt obligated to do it for my youngest even though after doing it the last time I had uttered the words to my husband, "I am NEVER doing that again." Mom guilt is a powerful thing and in the end I couldn't help myself. I was approached about being the homeroom mom and before I knew it, I was saying yes.

One of the responsibilities of the homeroom mom at our school is planning the Thanksgiving Feast. It is a half day of school with nothing but eating, crafting and partying. The school serves a huge feast and the homeroom moms have to plan a craft and for the older kids, a service project.

Last year, the administrators asked us to not serve a huge breakfast to the class because it keeps the kids from eating the feast that is served for lunch. In previous years, homeroom moms have served huge breakfasts (some actually catered from local restaurants, and no I'm not kidding) and the kids are so full they don't end up eating any of the lunch which, of course, ends up in the trash. It is a horrible waste, especially when there are so many in our own city who are hungry. We were asked to keep whatever we serve the classrooms for breakfast--if we serve breakfast at all--small and simple, something like milk boxes and donut holes. Which is exactly what I did.

Side note:  I had been communicating with these parents for weeks prior about the day's festivities. I had made it perfectly clear that we were only having donuts and milk when the kids got to school. Just needed to throw that out there.

The day of the feast was going great. The kids had enjoyed donuts and milk when they got to school. We made a cute Thanksgiving craft with terra-cotta pots, popsicle sticks, and leaves. We counted all of the cans that we had collected all week long for our local food pantry. The kids were enjoying the day and before we knew it, it was time to go outside and enjoy the Thanksgiving feast.

For the first time that day, I finally got to sit down. I purposely sat down next to another parent to thank her for some cute things she had made for our feast table. If I had known what was coming, I would never have sat down. After thanking her, she started to lay into me. She was PISSED OFF that I hadn't served a hot breakfast. She was angry that I had not provided her child a real breakfast, but only a snack. A sugary snack at that. She went on and on and on. I couldn't believe it. I tried my best to remain calm speaking to her with patience, but that didn't matter. She treated me like I was the shittiest homeroom mom ever. EVER. I was crushed.

My best friends now refer to her as Hot Breakfast.

Hot Breakfast gave me PPSD.

Unfortunately, I still had two more parties to plan for the year. And now, because of my PPSD I stressed out for WEEKS about planning the party perfectly as to not piss off anyone. Stressed out enough to give me diarrhea for weeks. HOW CRAZY IS THIS?!?! I mean, we are talking about parties for 10 year olds. Kids who are fired up just to have a party. Kids who could give two shits about having a hot breakfast.

When the last party of the year was finally over and started to come down from the stress induced adrenaline I had been experiencing all day, I breathed a sigh of total and complete relief that I would never have to plan a homeroom party ever again. But I now realize that even though my time serving as a homeroom mom is over, the effects of PPSD still remain. At least now I am aware that I have a problem. I'm dealing with my anger issues brought on by the feast incident, although I still find it hard to be friendly to Hot Breakfast.

I've come to realize that there are a lot of people out there who lack graciousness. They lack the ability to simply say thank you. Thank you for doing a job that no one else wants to do. Thank you for spending your own money and time to do something special and fun for my child. I appreciate you. Thank you for all you do.

Graciousness would help cure my PPSD, I'm almost certain.

In the meantime, so does wine.

Oklacalihomans.

We've lived in California for over 9 years now. That is 9 years longer than I ever thought I would live in California.

Don't misunderstand. We are happy here. California has become home. It took me 8 1/2 years to get there emotionally, but California feels like home.

Except when it doesn't.

There are so many things that differ from living in Oklahoma to living in California. Plenty of material to fill many a blog post. There are lots of times that I find myself homesick. OU game days are the worst. Social media is a blessing and a curse. I love seeing everyone's pictures on game days. I also hate seeing everyone's pictures on game days.

The Fridays of OU/Texas weekend suck. I want to be there, stuck on I-35, headed south to Big D with the rest of the Sooners. This year, I felt even worse when Bentley came home from school Friday informing me that a friend of his here in California was headed to Texas for the game.

"What?!?"

"Yeah, his parents are Sooner fans so they are headed to the game. Why won't you and Dad take us to the game? When are we going to go?"

"Maybe next year, bud."

"Yeah. That's what you said last year."

Ouch.

So I spent most of last Friday feeling sorry for myself. While moping I discovered something. There's A LOT of Oklahoma in my house. My home state pride is evident throughout.

At my desk...

In our entry way...

In my utility room...

When I go to the local farmer's market...

Near the back door...

In the kitchen...

By the pool or in the car...

In the living room...

Yes, we've become Californians but we will always be Oklahomans. We are what I like to call Oklacalihomans. Just look around.

Pretty damn magical.

{photo credit here} 

Sometimes memories become so distant that you start to wonder if they were ever real in the first place. Was it really as magical as I remember? Did it really happen? When it comes to my early childhood, I no longer trust my own memory.

Many memories of my childhood seem idyllic. Unreal. The cynicism of adulthood has made me question the magic. My brain whispers that something that beautiful, that magical, couldn't possibly be true. Surely my little 7 year old mind made it up, but my little 7 year old mind wasn't that creative. I could never have thought up something this magical on my own.

And yet, maybe I did.

I was in the 2nd or maybe the 3rd grade. I'm not sure exactly what that day involved, there is nothing else about the day that I remember. Beyond the back of our school, beyond the playground, beyond the field was a grove of trees, trees that I'm sure look much smaller today than they did then. Through the trees lay a small park named for my great grandfather. Beyond the school and the trees and the park, next to a small creek was my home. My grandparents lived one block to the west. My aunt, uncle and cousins one block to the east. My life was in a 1-mile radius. A normal life that was simple, easy, protected.

I spent plenty of time at that park, playing amongst those trees. I have quiet memories there; memories with no sound like old silent movies. Memories of metal jungle gyms and tornado slides and best friends from the neighborhood. This particular memory, my magic-filled memory, included my classmates. Kids named Mitchell, Issac, Amy, Angela, Todd and Jodi. Kids that I haven't seen in over 30 years and wonder if they have this memory too.

Is it as real to them as it is to me? Do they remember?

I don't recall walking through the field or stepping into the grove of trees, but our teacher took us out there with clear intention. We stood amongst the trees, my classmates and I, all of us looking up into the afternoon sunlight streaming through the trees. Everywhere around us, on the trees and the leaves and in the air were thousands and thousands of monarch butterflies, the trees absolutely covered. They were migrating south I'm assuming, taking a rest in our part of the world before heading on their way to a fabulous winter vacation south of the border. For a little girl around 7 years old, thousands and thousands of butterflies covering everything around you is pretty damn magical. A memory that you never forget.

It wasn't long after seeing those butterflies that I left that school, that park, and that home, leaving me with little magic to hold onto. Parents divorcing and being moved away from your simple, easy and protected life tends to do that. My memories of living there are varied and vast--some painful, some joyful, even idyllic at times--but nothing compares to or can compete with my memory of the monarchs.

I believe in the magic of the memory. I believe that those butterflies were real, that God and Mother Nature were in that moment together, giving us a small taste of the beauty and wonder and magic that exists in the world. A perfect moment when everything was okay.

My youngest keeps asking me if Santa is real. Once or twice a week I get the question. He presses and looks at me hard, waiting for me to confess. Instead I respond with my own question:

"Do you believe in the magic of Santa?"

To which he replies, "Yes."

"Well then, that's all that really matters. Right?"

I never asked my mother if Santa was real. I wanted the magic. I needed it in my life. Santa and monarch butterflies were a way to believe that amongst heartache, there was still magic in the world. I still need magic in my life.

If my memory of the monarchs wasn't real, don't tell me. I don't want to know.