I Remember New York City

I remember seeing New York City for the first time. It was the summer of 76 and we were there with Aunt Shelly. She was young and hip and fabulous and she reminded me of Mary Tyler Moore. She was wearing beige pumps and a powdered blue skirt that skimmed her knees. She tied her hair back with a gold scarf which made her look more exciting. And she told stories about traveling to exotic places like Africa and Brazil. She was so different from Mom who, in her pressed navy shorts and clean white tennis shoes, dressed for comfort, not fashion and who had never been on an airplane to anywhere.

We made our way uptown on foot, pushing past businessmen with blue suits and black cases and beautiful women in long skirts and colorful blouses carrying overized purses. I had never seen so many people in one place before and I never thought that there could be this many cars and streets and buildings and stop lights and shops all crammed together like a million pebbles pressed against each other in a milk jug. I admired and hated it all at once and finally had to close my eyes because it hurt too much to see and hear and feel everything that ever existed screaming for my attention all at the same time.

We ate lunch served from a street vendor selling hot dogs and sat on the edge of a fountain. I dripped ketchup and mustard on my shirt and Tina spilled her soda. Theresa didn't drip or spill. She never did. Then Mom scolded us. But she found a napkin to help clean my shirt and she shared her drink with Tina. And I thought it was so exciting that city people ate hot dogs on street corners instead of at the supper table or at backyard barbeques like normal people.

After we finished eating, Aunt Shelly took us to see the World Trade Center. I had never conceived that anything could be so gigantic. Looking up at it made me dizzy so I turned my eyes to the pavement and tried not to think about the enormous monument towering above me.

I was even more frightened to board the elevator that would rocket us to the top in less than a minute. But I had no choice except to follow the steps of my family lest I be swept away in the sea of people below. My ears popped and butterflies danced in my belly as we were whisked from the ground floor. I fidgeted and fretted because I felt so closed in and more than anything, I wanted to get out of the little closet and run around in a wide open space filled with daisies and clover.

When we finally reached the top, it seemed like a hundred years before the doors slid open. Then, as I finally looked out on the city from the largest building in the country I couldn't believe how amazed and exhilarated and frightened I felt to be standing on the top of the world. But all I wanted to do was get my feet back on the ground as soon as possible because the wind was blowing and the building was swaying like a blade of grass. It always blew like this so high up, Aunt Shelly explained. But I didn't care.

So Mom took me back down to the lobby where we sat on the floor and waited silently for a million years until the rest of our crew had their fill of the glorious sites. Maybe when I grew up I would go back and I'd feel different about it.

But when I grew up, it would be too late, the building would be gone.

I Love My Kids. I Love My Kids. I Love My Kids.

Eric is throwing a temper tantrum. It’s one of his better performances. He’ stomping, growling and wailing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was crying. It’s almost realistic. It’s not Oscar worthy. But it might be good enough for a Golden Globe.

At seven years old, Eric is much too old for tantrums. But he’s deluded himself into believing that this routine will persuade me to allow him to stay up past his bed time and watch TV.

It won’t.

Instead of extra TV time, he ends up with a time out and no Mario Carts for two days. Now the real tears start. But I hold fast.

I love my kids. I love them more than I love sunshine. I love them more than I love summer vacation. I love them more than I love chocolate cupcakes.

But as much as I love my kids, they still drive me crazy.

My friend Erin has a boy named Jack. He’s four and is her first and only. Erin will often tell me about the latest heinous thing Jack did.

“I found Jack drawing on the dining room wall.” She says.
“Crayon or marker?” I ask.
“Crayon.”
“Amateur”, I say. “Get back to me after he’s dipped the cat in red paint.”

Erin tries again. “He tried to flush a sock down the toilet.”
I don’t even blink “Was his sister's foot still in it?”

Erin sighs. In the game of “my kids are badder than yours” I am a gold medalist.

My kids aren’t really bad as much as they are…..challenging. Yea, that’s the word. Challenging. Their favorite hobbies are pushing. Pushing each other. Pushing their limits. Pushing my buttons. My challenge is to resist the urge to push back.

Eric’s stopped crying now. He walks up to me and wraps his arms around my neck. We share a warm mother-son moment.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” He whispers.

I hug him closer. Eric turns his big brown eyes up and gazes into mine. My heart melts.

“Mom?” He says.
“Yes Dear.” I smile.
“Can I play Mario Carts now?”
“Go to your room.” I say.

I love my kids. I love my kids. I love my kids…….

I Am Six Years Old And I Am Running

I am six years old and I am running as fast as I can. I’ve just left Michele’s house where we were playing Barbie dolls together. Michele has the best Barbie dolls. Plus she has a two story Barbie Dream House with a miniature canopy bed.

Michele has her own bedroom, that she doesn't share with anyone. Her bedroom also with a canopy bed and a fluffy baby blue comforter. The bed is always perfectly made and just right for a princess.

Michele has tons of Barbie dresses, shoes and accessories. And there are no sisters there to bug us when we play.

Michele and I were lost in our imaginations. Barbie was on vacation at the beach and we were helping her swim in the waves, a mass of blue blankets.

That's why I forgot that I was supposed to be home by five o’clock. So at quarter after, when Mom called on the phone, she said to come home right away because dinner was ready and everyone was waiting on me. That’s why I am running.

It’s August and the late afternoon sun is shining, though the shadows are growing longer. I’m wearing pastel blue shorts that Nana made for me. I have a dress made from the same fabric. But dresses are for Sunday, not for everyday play. So I am wearing the shorts with a purple t-shirt.

On my feet, I’m wearing Theresa’s black Converse sneakers,but no socks. Theresa got the sneakers new at the store, not second hand from cousin Mary Beth as sometimes happens. She got them to play basketball and she told me that the shoes are special and make her jump higher and run faster. I think they are magic. That’s why I snuck out of the house wearing my sister’s sneakers, which are two sizes too big for me.

The shoes seem to be working because as I run, I feel like I am flying. I can feel the wind on my face and in my hair. And I imagine myself racing in the Olympics. On your mark, get set, GO! As I speed along the sidewalk I see myself leading the pack around an oval racetrack, certain to take the gold medal.

But a medal is not in the cards today.

I've run this course before and should know that the pavement is uneven. I’m not giving it my full attention; my mind is on the race and my awesome black hightops. Then, a few steps from my house I feel my toe catch in a crack and I lose my balance. I am helpless to stop my body from falling forward where it will slam into the hard concrete.

My knees hit the ground first and I thrust my hands forward trying to catch myself. I do, but only for a moment. Then my palms skid forward and my elbows collapse and I am lying on my face.

I am gasping for breath because the wind has been knocked out of me. I realize everything hurts – my cheek, the palms of my hands, but mostly my knees. As the shock of the fall wears off and the pain takes hold, I sit up to check my hands and arms . There are scratches on my wrists and small pieces of gravel stuck to my palms. I check my knees next. The right one is dirty and bleeding from a large scrape. And it stings. I break into tears.

I pull myself to my feet and I notice that my shoe laces are untied. Was it the crack in the sidewalk or the poorly tied shoes that caused the fall? I don't stop to tie them. Instead, I hobble home with tears streaming down my cheeks.

The family is already at the table as I push open the screen door and wail. They turn to me and a chorus of voices call out "What's wrong?" and "Are you OK?" and "Why are you crying?" But I can't speak. I just stand there, weeping.

Mom rushes over to me and before I know it, I am sitting in the bathroom while she dabs my knee with a soft cloth and rummages in the cabinet for a Band-Aid. I'm still crying but the sobs are quieter.

I tell Mom that I was running and I fell down. Mom hugs me and makes soft shushing sounds. Then she tells me I will be better before I get married. But I am six years old and my knee still stings and the idea of marriage seems like it’s an eternity away.

It's True, I Am Crazy and So Are You

Author's note: Most of my writing is Faction. Part fiction. Part fact. I leave to you to figure out which is which. If I've insulted anyone, that part was definitely fiction.

I am crazy. It’s true. And I just have to come to terms with the fact. I know I am crazy for two reasons. First, I am a mother. And second, everyone else I know is crazy.

If you are a mother, like me you have probably been fighting the battle between sanity and insanity for years. But I lost that battle the day I reached in my coat pocket to get my gloves and pulled out a magic wand.

I was walking from my office to my car and chatting with my co-worker. When I reached into my pocket for my gloves, I found the wand instead. It was a pink plastic stick with silver beads on the stem and a star on the top.

I wasn’t crazy because I found a magic wand in my pocket. I was crazy because the idea of a magic wand being in my pocket did not even phase me.

My co-worker laughed nervously, like he was afraid I would turn him into a frog. When he said “On your way to the fairy godmother convention?”, I realized something out of the ordinary had happened. I didn’t say anything, but a magic wand is by far NOT the strangest thing I have found in my coat pocket while leaving the office.

One time last month when I reached in to get my keys I found Beth’s left shoe. That immediately raised the question “If I have Beth’s left shoe in my pocket, what is Beth wearing on her left foot?” The answer, of course, was her brother’s bedroom slipper.

Then there was the diaper incident. I was in a restaurant during my lunch hour and had draped my coat over the empty chair to my right. After I ate and paid the bill I stood up and started to pull on my coat.

As I struggled with my zipper, an elderly man at the table next to me reached down and picked something up from the floor. A moment later he handed it to me with a puzzled look saying “Is this your diaper, ma’am.” The oddest thing about that incident is that it wasn’t the first time it had happened. (No, it was not a dirty diaper...in case you were wondering.)

So while a magic wand protruding from one’s pocket might seem odd to most people, in my world it was just another day at the office. And that fact alone confirms that I am crazy.

The second reason I know I am crazy is because every other person I know is also crazy. If you are reading this blog, there is a good chance that you are either my mother, a relative, one of my friends or someone who I believe is my friend even if you really are not. And I know you are thinking to yourself “But you know me and I’m not crazy.”

Sadly, you are wrong. Because the reality is that either I don't know you or...you are crazy. And even if I don't know you, I am not giving you the benefit of your sanity. As far as I'm concerned you're guilty until proven innocent.

For a long time I believed everyone was normal and I was odd. Then for a while, I thought I was normal and the rest of the world was weird. But slowly over time I’ve come to realize that both are correct - I am odd and everyone else is weird.

If you shake my family tree, a whole bunch of nuts will fall out. Like my parents; they're crazy. No offense, please, Mom and Dad. I love you. But it’s true.

My mother, for example, likes to count things. Cotton balls, dishes, blades of grass. Whatever. One time while she was visiting me she informed me that there were forty three stained glass windows at my church. “How do you know this?” I asked. “I counted.” She said. I didn’t ask her why she counted. I knew the answer. It’s because she is crazy.

My Dad still acts like long distance phone rates will cost you an arm and leg. So when I call my Dad, he is always rushing to get off so he doesn’t run up my bill. “It’s the cell phone”, I tell him. “I have unlimited calling on weekends.” But the next time I call it's the same routine. He doesn't get it. Why? Because he is crazy.

My sisters are crazy. The older one won't enter a public restroom. EVER. One time she “held it” for a 17 hour car drive from North Carolina to Illinois rather than enter a roadside facility. But why did she do it? Because she is crazy.

The younger one has a wardrobe that would put Imelda Marcos to shame. She has clothes from every decade of her life. Why does she stuff her closet with ten thousand outfits, many of which which she would not be caught dead wearing? It's because she is crazy.

It’s not just my family. My friends are crazy too. I have one friend who is a neat freak and another who is a germ-a-phobe. I have friends and relations who are obsessive to the point of insanity about their cars, their cats, their dogs, their lizards, their snakes, their motorcycles, their shoes, their booze, their boobs and their hair.

The people I meet are off the scale conservative or beyond the pale liberal. They all think they are moderates. None of them are.

But they are all crazy. In fact most people I know or have met are just one tin foil hat and an Elvis sighting away from a summer vacation in Roswell, New Mexico.

And there aren’t enough terabytes on the Internet for me to scratch the surface of my spouse’s insanity.

So I have accepted the fact that I am crazy. And it’s time for you to accept the fact that, by virtue of my knowing you, you are crazy too. But it’s OK. Because I have also discovered that being crazy is a very normal thing to be.

(P.S. The photo accompanying this blog? Its an odd duck, of course.)

A Small Red Basket

Authors Note: This is another fictional piece that I wrote for my creative writing class. Please be warned, its a bit of a sad tale. But its what came out when I started to write.

A small red basket, about the size of a first grader’s shoe, had been pushed far under the tree. It had been there for weeks and no one seemed to have noticed it except for Roger. It was made of wicker and had been painted carefully by Roger, who was seven years old, as a present for his Dad.

Roger had painted the basket at school the week before Christmas during art class. His teacher, Mrs. Bernard, patted him on the head and told him how much his father would love it. And when Mr. Potts, the fifth grade science teacher, popped in the room to wish everyone a Happy Holidays, he smiled at Roger and told him it was the best basket he had ever seen.

Roger planned to give the basket to Dad on Friday - Christmas Eve, before they left for the hockey game together. So he hid it under the tree, near the base where it would be safe.

It wasn’t a real tree, like the one Cole’s family had in their living room. But it looked real to Roger. It had bright lights of red, yellow and green that blinked like crazy and hundreds of glass ornaments and an angel at the top.

Roger, Dad and Mom had decorated it together. And then Mom had made hot coco with marshmallows which they drank together by the fireplace before they went to bed.

Roger felt the prickly branches that scraped his back and neck as he crawled deeper into the branches to hide his treasure. The tree was real enough for him.

As he lay on his belly and admired the brown living room carpet and the underside of the tree, Roger imagined himself presenting the basket to Dad, along with the note inside that said “To the Best Dad Ever! I love you, Roger.” He could almost see his Dad’s broad smile and hear his cheerful laugh as he thanked Roger and hugged him.

Then Roger would say “This is the best Christmas ever” and everyone would laugh because Roger said that every year. And maybe Dad would take the basket to his office and put it on his desk where everyone could see it. And then Dad would say “This was the best Christmas ever.”

But it didn’t happen that way. There was no hockey game. There was no Christmas Eve. The gifts were never exchanged. And Roger never had a chance to see his Dad read the note and hug him close and say “I love you too.” And it wasn’t the best Christmas ever. Because, in all the confusion, the holidays had been forgotten.

First there was the phone call from Dad’s office and the sound of Mom gasping, dropping the phone on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably. Roger was whisked off to the neighbor’s house while Mom rushed over to the hospital.

It was hours before Mom came back and her face and eyes were puffy and red and she couldn’t talk. Aunt Carol, who had come with Mom from the hospital, had to help Roger brush his teeth and say his prayers.

Then there was the funeral to plan. And relatives dropping by with pans of lasagna and baskets of muffins. And so many people hugging Roger and telling him how sad they all felt and that if Roger needed anything to let them know. But Roger didn’t need anything, except for the one thing he couldn’t have.

Then there was a cold December morning when Roger wore his best white shirt, his brown pants and his shiny black shoes. He watched Uncle Rob and some other men carry the cold black coffin across the wet grass and place it on the rack over the gaping hole.

Roger held Mom’s hand and looked at the ground. He hoped no one noticed that his socks didn’t match. Mom hadn’t done the laundry all week and Roger didn’t want to bother her. So he was wearing one white sock and one black one because that was all he could find.

The wind was blowing and a cold misty rain had started to fall. But Roger had left his gloves in the big black car that was parked just outside the fence and his fingers were cold. Mom's hands, which were usually warm, were cold too.

The car wasn’t Dad's. Or Mom’s. A big white haired man with somber eyes and a long dark coat had brought it to their house and then driven them to the church. Roger was afraid to ask the man if he could go and get his gloves because the man seemed to be in charge and was very busy making arrangements.

And now it was the second week in January and Santa had somehow missed their house and Mom still cried every morning. And Aunt Carol had moved into the guest room so she could fix Roger’s breakfast and help him get dressed for school.

And the Christmas decorations were still up. And so was the tree. Even though Valentine's Day was right around the corner.

And the little red basket under the tree had been forgotten by everyone except Roger who wondered when he would be able to give it to Dad.

The Festivities are Finished

“Where is the Christmas Tree, Mommy?” Beth asks. Beth just woke up from her nap and is surprised to discover that the tree is gone. I decide to have a little fun with her. “Maybe it’s under the table.” I say. Beth runs into the kitchen. “It’s not there.”

I send her to look behind the couch next and then in the laundry room. It becomes a little game. After a few rounds I tell Beth that Santa took the tree back to the North Pole. She’s two and the explanation satisfies her.

In reality, I just spent the better part of two days taking down the Christmas decorations. I put it off as long as I could. But we’re almost two weeks into January and I’m pretty sure the neighbors are starting to refer to us as the “crazy Christmas people.”

I consider rebelling against convention and leaving the tree, the garland, and the lights up all year. Maybe this year I’ll take a stand. Let the symbols of good will and peace on earth shine for fifty two weeks! Rebel against the Establishment!

But I’m not going to rebel. I think we all know that my real motive for proposing to skip the un-decorating is that I am lazy.

Every year, I bristle at the thought of all that work. First I have to pull the red and green storage boxes out of the closet in the basement and haul them upstairs. After that, I’ll need to yank the ladder out of the garage. Then, for the next few hours I’ll pull all the garland, bows, lights and swag off the walls and windows. After spending hours organizing ornaments and boxing baubles, I’ll have to drag all the crates and cartons back to the basement. It’s not fun. But it has to be done.

And while its amusing to consider revolting against social norms, in the end I probably couldn’t suffer the stigma of being the Wacky Neighbors. I get enough of that when Ken steps out the house in his pink golf pants and lime green shirt (no, he is not being serious with that outfit). Peer pressure, in this case, is a powerful motivator.

So I spent my weekend buried in boxes and baubles, carting and carrying, heaving and ho ho hoing. Now that the decorations are down, the festivities are officailly finished. And our house is back to normal – or as normal as our family can muster.

I have to go now. Beth is looking for the Christmas Tree again. I told her to check the bathroom. She's been gone too long. I’m afraid she may try and test whether I flushed it down the toilet.

Car Keys. Rabbit. Grocery Store.

So I am taking this online creative writing class. Last week the instructor gave us an assignment to practice "galumphing." Galumphing, she explained, is where you write whatever pops into your head and follow the thought whereever it takes you. I was relieved to hear that it had nothing to do with elephants.

But my apprehension returned when she gave us each three random words to work with and said to let our imaginations run wild but to incorporate the three random words in our story. I am deeply concerned that the bounds of my imagination are clearly demonstrating that I am, in fact, as crazy as you may have suspected. My three words were "Car keys, Rabbit, Grocery Store" and this is what popped out of my brain.

Car Keys. Rabbit. Grocery Store.

“Can I borrow the car keys?” Trixie asked.
“But you don’t know how to drive.” I said.
“No, but the Rabbit does.” She answered.

The Rabbit? While I had noticed Rabbit tracks in the back yard, I hadn’t realized that the Rabbit and Trixie were friends. It seemed like an odd pairing. After all Trixie was a small brown and black house cat. And the Rabbit was...well…the Rabbit was lunch. I immediately suspected that something fishy was going on.

“Well, where will you be going?” I challenged her.
“To the grocery store.” Trixie said.

It seemed like a reasonable request. But still, I wasn’t sure. Trixie had a penchant for mischief. One time while we were on vacation she rearranged all the furniture in the house so that the bed room was in the kitchen, the kitchen was in the basement and the family room was in the bed room. She claimed it was more convenient that way. I didn’t buy that for a minute. And when a beer bottle cap rolled out from between the couch cushions as I was putting things back in order, I suspected she had thrown a raucous party in our absence. Of course, she denied any wrong doing but from then on, I knew I couldn’t trust her.

“Do you even know how to get to the grocery store?” I asked.

Apparently, Trixie had anticipated my question. She unfolded a street map on the table and pointed her paw to the page. She had drawn a neat red circle at the intersection of College and Brown. Yep, that’s where the store is. Obviously, she had done her homework.

I pulled the car keys from my pocket and jangled them in my hand. A devious smile crept across her face and her whiskers twitched as her eyes fixed on the keys. She licked her lips, hungry for her prize. Then, just as I was about to toss them to her waiting paws, I noticed something.

“Hold On Just One Minute!” I shouted. At the bottom of the map I saw a small black X sketched on the page in Trixie’s paw-writing.

“That’s the race track! You’re planning to bet on the horses!” I cried.
“Wait, let me explain!” Trixie pleaded. “You see the Rabbit has some inside information!”
“This otta be good”, I mumbled.

But Trixie kept going. “See, the Skunk told the Rabbit that the Owl was out of the stables last night and overheard Whinny the Pooh complaining about her oats. She’s the favorite in the second, you know. Anyway, according to the Owl who told the Skunk who told the Rabbit, Pooh said that if her meals didn’t improve she’d throw the race. Or did she say she would show or place? Either way, it means Smokey the Bandit is a shoe in!”

“How did you intend to place a bet?” I demanded “You don’t have that kind of money.”

Trixie looked away, afraid to meet my gaze. That’s when I remembered that Lou’s House of Clunkers sits right next to the Race Track.

“You were going to sell the car!” I yelled.
“I think its time for my nap” Trixie shouted as she darted out of the room.

Outside the Lines

I like to color. There! I said it! My secret is out. Coloring is fun and I don’t care who knows it. In fact, I’d go so far as to say there are few things in life more exciting than the moment I receive an unspoiled coloring book and a fresh box of crayons.

I’m lucky because I share my home with three children. My house holds a mass of magnificent markers, caverns of colorful crayons and piles of petite pencils. And I can choose from thousands of coloring books, like Spiderman, Cinderella, or The Fluffy Bunny. Plus, I have a perfect excuse to color my heart out without raising eyebrows. “I was just entertaining the kids.” I smile as I dab a few shades of green onto the grass beneath Snoopy’s toes. In reality, the act of rubbing pastel pink across the page feeds my sense of self.

While I color, my mind is in the first grade and I relive the first moment I popped open a box of Crayola 120 Count - with the built in sharper, of course. I see myself turning back the lid and gasping with glee as my eyes consume a rainbow of pinks, reds, blues and greens. They are lined up in neat rows with their heads held high. I giggle as I study each perfect little soldier, so shiny and bright and beautiful. I savor the scent of wax as my fingers skim each cap, tenderly addressing the troops and promising that they will all get a turn to shine.

I carefully consider how each will contribute to my grand designs. Slowly, I pull out the first color, roll it between my fingers and read the label. Hello, Brick Red. You are strong and dark. I can use you to shade the chimney. There you are Burnt Sienna. Though you are a dull clay hue, you’ll do nicely for the flower pot on the window sill. Turquoise Blue, you are so soft and calm. You will span the sky scape save for the orb of brilliant Lemon Yellow at the top. The flower bed will be Magenta, Mauve and Mulberry. And pretty Mountain Meadow, you will cover the grass.

Coloring books, I am certain, should not be reserved for children. And its a crime against society that such appears to be the case. The sensation of the waxy tip gliding across dull white pages and creating brilliant dreams feeds my need to believe in magic. Watching a small piece of the world get slowly and neatly brighter creates an immediate sense of victory. Good over evil. Triumph over tragedy. The sensation of a sweet scented marker swishing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, slowly filling in the gaps and details, feeds a focus on beautiful ideas and exhilarating wishes. At less than five dollars a shot, it’s the cheapest form of therapy money can buy.

If I had my way, several copies of The Coloring Adventures of Scooby Doo and an eight pack of primaries would be standard issue at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Think how much calmer everyone would be if they could renew a license after turning the Mystery Machine into a Midnight Blue and Melon mini-bus. It might even help improve smiles on the ID Photo cards.

If I were in charge, airports would be littered with My First Looney Tunes Coloring Book and a thick set of Magik Markers. Then no one would care that their flights had all been delayed two hours because of a thunder storm in Toledo while their luggage had been diverted to Topeka. And the biggest concern would be remembering to place the cap back on the Razzle Dazzle Rose.

More coloring books in the hands of adults, I am convinced, could be the missing step to World Peace. I propose that the United Nation's next order of business should be to declare an International Day of Coloring. And henceforth, all border disputes among hostile nations should be settled by holding a Free Drawing Fiesta.

So my friends, you are free to envy me. Because I am one of the lucky few. My position as a parent permits met to sit for hours, smiling at my children and coloring to my heart’s content. I can color the sea Canary and sketch the sky Salmon. I can draw Denim daises and paint Purple pandas. I can become one with the wax. Zen and the Art of Coloring Books!

And, most important, I can color outside the lines. And no one can stop me!

Tiny Bear's Christmas Adventure

Author's note. I had to write a short fictional piece for my creative writing class. I remembered when my niece Katelin was little; she had a tiny white bear that Santa brought her for Christmas. She named him Tiny Bear. So my story is based on Tiny Bear and my imaginary tale of his Christmas Adventure. Its a bit corny. Buts its written for the three and four year old age group. So please bear with me (oh, sorry for the pun) as I tell you about...

Tiny Bear's Christmas Adventure

A small white polar bear peered over the edge of a cliff at a red cottage dripping with snow. The cottage windows were cloudy so you could not see inside. And they were made of clear plastic. The little house was made from ceramic. The bear was stitched from a soft cotton cloth and stuffed with beans. And the cliff was just a pile of red and green throw pillows.

The bear belonged to Corey and Corey belonged to Mom and Dad. God brought Corey to Mom and Dad over three years ago. But now that she was almost four, Corey always took time to remind Mom and Dad that she was not a little kid. “I’m a big girl” she squeaked in her high pitched voice. Then, just to prove it, she stood tall on her tip toes, threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin high in the air.

As for the little bear, he had arrived in Corey’s stocking the year before. Corey loved the little bear and named him Tiny. Corey slept with Tiny every night until the end of January. Then, after the Christmas decorations were put away and the novelty of the Holidays had worn out, she forgot about the white bear the way Spring forgets about Winter. So Tiny spent the remainder of the year sleeping with a pile of ducks, bears, dogs and cats in a small blue basket at the foot of Corey’s bed.

But when Mom pulled out the decorations in November, just after Thanksgiving, Corey remembered Tiny and how happy he made her feel. So she fished him out of the pile of toys and brought him downstairs to play under the tree among the little cottages in the miniature village that Mom had placed there on a bed of white cotton. Now, on the day before Christmas, Corey and Tiny were playing their favorite game – hide and seek.

When Corey closed her eyes and counted to ten, Tiny snuck in and out among the pretty pink, blue and red cottages and churches, being extra careful when crossing the train tracks, and looking for the perfect hiding spot. Last round, Corey found Tiny nestled in the lowest branches of the Christmas tree. This time, he was sitting behind the large white and green church, the one with the bell, tower while Corey closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she finally located him at the church, Corey shrieked with glee, plucked him up and cuddled him close to her heart.

Corey had just placed the small bear behind the legs on the tan leather chair and was getting ready to count again when Mom came into the room. “What are you doing Corey-bell” she smiled. Corey laughed and hopped into her mother’s arm. “I was playing hide and seek!” she giggled. Mom giggled back, scooped Corey off the floor and carried her upstairs for her bath.

Tiny looked around. He wondered whether Corey would be back to finish their game. From upstairs, he could hear her chattering with Mom and splashing in the tub. After that, he heard the sound of the tub draining and little girl feet pattering down the hallway. And finally, the sound of Mom's feet walking into Corey’s room to read good night stories. Then all was dark and the night grew quieter and quieter.

Tiny sighed and settled himself against the leg of the chair. I guess Mouse will get to sleep with Corey tonight, he thought. Tiny didn’t mind sharing Corey with Mouse. After all, Mouse had known Corey since they were babies and even spent summer vacation with her last year when the family went to the beach. But even if he couldn’t sleep with Corey, Tiny still missed the warm spot in the basket with his other friends and the soft sounds of Corey breathing while she dreamed.

A few hours later, when the house was still and cold, Tiny was feeling lonelier than ever. Maybe Corey would forget about him and leave him under the chair for a hundred years. Or maybe the cat would catch him and toss him around, tear a hole in his ear and then drop him behind the couch where he would be lost forever.

Peeking out from behind the chair, Tiny made a bold decision. He would make his own way back to Corey and the soft, warm bed. It was a long way to the stairs but Tiny felt encouraged and set off on the trek.

Tiny was only half way to the stairs when he heard a soft padding. It was the cat. Tiny made a dash for the dining room table and hid behind a thick brown leg. Soon, the gigantic orange striped tabby slinked into the room, rubbing its back against the furniture and sniffing at the air. Tiny tried to make himself as small as possible and held his breath until the cat pattered out of the room.

A few minutes later, Tiny started off again. This time he made it all the way to the stairs. But when he looked up the long dark passage, he suddenly realized that he was too small to scale the mountain in front of him. Tired, lonely, and certain the cat would return, Tiny sat down to cry.

Just then Tiny heard another noise. But this time, it wasn’t the purr of the cat. Instead, it was a soft tinkling sound, like a miniature bell ringing. Then, out of nowhere, a chubby hand wearing a soft red mitten reached down, plucked Tiny off the floor and carried him up the stairs.

A few moments later, the soft red glove gently laid Tiny in Corey’s arms where he neslted close to her heart. Before Tiny settled in to sleep he looked up to see who had rescued him. The white bearded face winking back at him was familiar and Tiny recalled a similar night just one year ago when a red gloved hand had placed him in a green Christmas stocking and brought him to live with Corey. Before the cheerful man disappeared through the door, Tiny waved his paw and whispered “Merry Christmas, Santa.” The tinkling of a miniature bell told Tiny that Santa had heard him.