How was your Christmas? Ours was awesome. We had guests and gifts and oversugared children and dinner. About ten minutes after we all finished eating there was a *crack* outside and the power went out. From our house and east the neighborhood was black.

No biggie, we thought. At least the food was all cooked and eaten. We lit the fire, lit some candles, and sat down to visit. (What good would it do to clean up right then? We can’t open the fridge and let the cold out, right?)

Fast forward to the next day. I sat down to the computer, flipped it on, and waited for it to wake up. Only instead of a smiling, fresh face I got a slurring, stuttering psychopath muttering, “Data loss imminent…disk failure…no boot…”

That screeching you heard the day after Christmas? That was me clutching the CPU and screaming for it to give me back my lesson plans, my library catalog, weeks of my life! (Thank God I am meticulous about Photoshop backups on an external hard drive. The photos are safe.) After running every diagnostic in the book, I took it to my neighbor, who happens to run a computer business. His diagnosis? I’ve got a bad disk, baby. It had been acting funky for a while, but the sudden loss of power finished it off. Almost exactly a month past warranty.

HP was fun to visit with. Does it matter that we have been loyal customers with repeat purchases? No. Does it matter that said disk is part of a behemoth custom configuration for which they were handsomely compensated? No. Making me happy would have cost them under a hundred dollars. Instead, they would rather lose thousands in my future purchases and be incredibly rude in the process. Buh-bye, HP.

So now I await my shiny new hard drives – that I bought elsewhere – to replace what I had. (3×750 Gig Raid configuration. Catch me.) And I get to spend weeks of my “free time” re-entering the school year. The library cataloging will have to wait until summer.

So, kiddies, listen to MamaGeph. Learn from my mistakes. Back up every stinking month, your whole system. More often if you are working on a big project. And I have to mention the most important part – look at the path: remember, if you back up on the internal drive and it crashes, the backup won’t do you any good at all.

Then again, go ahead and don’t. I could use some company in the stupidest club of them all.

God bless you and yours through the holiday, and into the New Year!

This is a story that needs a lot more attention. I hope it gets some, because what we are dealing with is a broken system.

I will tell you that the pressure is present in all branches of our military. It destroys marriages and families. If this situation comes as a surprise to you – it did to us – it’s because the recruiting world is like Fight Club. It is relentless, it is brutal, and you don’t talk about it.

Sgt. 1st Class Patrick Henderson, a strapping Iraq combat veteran, spent the last, miserable months of his life as an Army recruiter, cold-calling dozens of people a day from his strip-mall office and sitting in strangers’ living rooms, trying to sign up their sons and daughters for an unpopular war.

He put in 13-hour days, six days a week, often encountering abuse from young people or their parents. When he and other recruiters would gripe about the pressure to meet their quotas, their superiors would snarl that they ought to be grateful they were not in Iraq, according to his widow.

Less than a year into the job, Henderson – afflicted by flashbacks and sleeplessness after his tour of battle in Iraq – went into his backyard shed, slid the chain lock in place, and hanged himself with a dog chain.

Go read the whole thing.

The cookie is the perfect food.

(Well, that and pizza. I could very well live on cookies and pizza.)

Cookies can be healthy or decadent, thrown together or labored over. And they are perfect for giving, since they are of such lovely, bite-sized proportions.

Cookie making and eating is one of my favorite Christmas traditions. This year I made eight different kinds…plus fruitcake.

I made chocolate orange biscotti with hazelnuts.

I made macaroons.

I made chocolate chip oatmeal with walnuts.

And salted nut bars.

I made no bakes, which are decidedly unfancy but are much requested so I make ‘em.

I make penuche nuts because my father in law likes them and his usual source doesn’t make them anymore. I’m so glad I was given the recipe.

And I made chocolate chip ginger cookies with little candied ginger people dipped in chocolate and stuck to the top. Chocolate and ginger may sound strange at first, but trust me, it is delish.

Oh, and I also made Kahlua balls which are dark and yummy.

Now if only I can get them all in tins and keep from scarfing them myself…

Besides being in the church Christmas musical, the Bigs also had their piano recital this week.

The Bear was ticked that he made some mistakes. He wants so badly to play like a master. The fact that he only started a little over a year ago is no consolation.

I am constantly amazed at the Princess’ lack of stage nerves. Not only does she not get them, she doesn’t particularly understand what they are. She just knows deep down that she will do well. I wish I had that.

Now they will polish up their pieces for Sunday’s trip to play at a local retirement home. What a kick!

For the last month and a half the Bigs have been practicing for the Church children’s Christmas musical. It was the first time either of them was even in a play.

When speaking parts were handed out, the Bear emphatically said no. Being in the choir was fine with him. Only three days before the show did he change his mind and ask for one of the biggest parts, only to be gently told that no, that part was taken. Tears! It was what you call a teachable moment.

The Princess got a big speaking part and studied for it entirely on her own. She read the script and listened to the CD. She was totally stoked.

They both attended every practice. Since I wasn’t there, I had no idea how it was going.

A vacant spot came up for the Bear to have a small speaking bit, but he wouldn’t say it for me. Well, he would, but he sounded like an auctioneer.

“Untoyouachildisbornuntoyouasonisgiven-gasp-andthegovernmentwillbeuponhisshoulder-gasp-andhisnamewillbecalled-”

“SOLD!” I wanted to yell.

Sunday morning we woke to a rare snowfall and even rarer below freezing temps. It meant the sanctuary would be pretty empty , since people here simply don’t drive in the snow. (The state schools call a snow day even when you can still see grass poking through the “drifts”.) It was okay, though. It felt very Christmasy and the kids were pumped.

As everyone took the stage, Mr. MG and I quiety held our breath. It’s not that we expected them to bomb, but it was a first for both of them. And we wanted so badly for them to have a good time and not cry.

What a revelation! The Princess not only hit all her lines, but had awesome pacing and expression. And the Bear…well, he is five. He knew all his line. And during the second service performance he muscled his way past his sister to deliver it at the front microphone. With a satisfied little grin.

Now they want to know when the next one will be. And if they can try out at the local playhouse. And what about acting camp?

I guess all the drama they display at home can now be spread around a bit.

Every year the war begins when the Christmas tree is erected.

Long ago, I learned to buy shatterproof globes and only put indestructible ornaments on the bottom four feet of branches. Precious, irreplacable items are within a foot of the top. I decorate like some people play chess, thinking of attacks and counterattacks. I try to get into the mind of a cat which, I have come to find out, is a very teeny tiny place.

Yes, that’s right. I’m defending the tree from the cats, not the kids. The kiddos listen to my threats more than the dastardly felines.

The first onslaught comes while the tree is being constructed. We cut the tape and open the box, pull out the green pipe that is the trunk, and the furry devils take flying leaps into the jumbled branches waiting to be unpacked. Midair they hear our shouts and barely have time to land before scattering to plan their next move. After the tree is together, they wait until we go to get the lights and practice scaling it while keeping alert for our return. Ninja tree-climbing cats!

They know that when we leave the room it’s open season. As we gather to put on the ornaments, they slyly wait in the shadows to prioritize: take down the “Baby’s First Christmas” bootie, or start with the silk poinsettias instead? And then there is always the joy of eating the fake needles and then barfing them up when company comes over. Festive!

I’ve tried everything – stinky spray deterrent, squirt bottles, bitter apple, the plastic hall runners turned spike-side-up. (Okay, I haven’t tried everything, but I have thought about it. Is it so wrong that I have a tiny cackle of glee just pondering the crispy zap?)

Last year they actually broke the tree. They scaled the side, knocked it over, and snapped the base into pieces. This Christmas Mr. MG built a sturdy new one out of two by fours and unless the cats have some explosives ready, it should last for years.

All along, I blamed the large part of the damage on the youngest cat, Amy, and the rest to Wayne. (Emma is too fat. She just blinks and looks bored.) After all, kittens are always the culprit when it comes to homewrecking, right? I spent most Christmas seasons glaring at her wicked self. And at Wayne, who had been such a bad influence.

But something strange happened this year. After an initial few tries, Amy has decided that it is more trouble than it is worth; it doesn’t even fight back, the stupid green thing. Her only weakness is the tree skirt, which she is just sure conceals wicked forces that she must attack and subdue. Otherwise, she is the picture of restraint. All this time – over a decade – it was all Wayne’s evil work. I have effectively been battling one cat and his mission to obliterate Christmas.

I am not sure whether to miss him more, or to sigh deeply and raise a glass of eggnog to my fallen foe.

I am in total denial. No – you can not be two. No way.

I couldn’t even bring myself to blog it yesterday on your actual birthday. Somehow, two seems to be the end of babyhood and one year 364 days old was easier for me to acknowledge.

Not that it made a difference to you. You think you are bigger than anyone. Bigger than the queen of England. In fact, if the queen came to visit you’d be fighting mad if she didn’t immediately acknowledge your supremacy and hand over the kingdom.

I think it’s really funny that you are such a dragon. People come up to you at church or the store and ooh and ahh. “Oh, so pretty! And look at those curls!” they say. And you fairly glare at them. “You’re darn tootin’.” you say with your eyes. If only they could see how you pitch a screaming fit when your brother has the nerve to take back his cars and tools from you. Or how you slap your sister’s leg and grin at me. “I hittin’ Princess!” you crow proudly. Good grief.

You take my breath away in a good way, too. You already know a ton of letters and numbers, your colors and shapes, and count to ten on your own or alternating numbers with me. You love books and pretend you are reading out loud. And you fold your hands neatly and pray over your cooking toys. “Dee-ah God, tank you for da yummy food. Amen.”

You are delicious and I have to squeeze you and squidgy you and bury my nose in your neck several times a day. I love how verbal you are, yelling “Stop with the hat!” when I tried to insist you wear it. I love changing your stinky, nasty diaper in the middle of the night because it means I get to hold you afterward and snuggle you into bed.

You are a blessing every day and an answer to prayer.

Happy birthday, baby girl.

“Aarg!”

“What is the problem, Bear?”

“Someone keeps moving all the Bible people back into a regular creche instead of a space super hero dungeon ice cream parlor! Villains!”