(Yes, I’m catching up on some much-belated blogging today, lol!)

My little one said a couple of funny kid-isms lately that I just have to jot down for posterity.

1) He was pointing out all the animals in the nativity set: “donkey, sheep, caramel.”

2) We went to the store to browse video game sales, and the boys were looking at the various titles. The little one spotted a copy of Harry Potter & the Order of the Phoenix and exclaimed: “Look!! It’s Harry Potter and the Goblet Stone!” :p

A little bit of Christmas magic dissipated like smoke from the chimney last night. My two oldest now know for certain that Mrs. Claus is … me.

My heart actually felt anxious as the confession unfolded, and I had to fight back an unexpected urge to cry.

They both took the news in stride, and they are taking seriously their charge to keep the magic alive for their little brother … at least for a few more years.

The middle one made a very astute remark when he noted: “That’s why you said that Santa doesn’t always buy us expensive stuff we ask for.” (This is the same child who once pointed out that Santa doesn’t need money, b/c his elves can make whatever he wants.)

When asked why he thought parents would pretend to be Santa for their kids, the older one paused for a second and then said, “Because they love them.” [insert choking up again here]

Now that I’ve had some time to swallow the bittersweet pill, I feel a great sense of relief that they know. We had never planned to lie to them; we always said that when they started asking questions, we’d tell them the truth. It was time they knew. What’s most important, though, is that I know they know the real meaning of Christmas, too.

Four is no longer a baby. Four isn’t even a toddler. Four is a big kid. My baby turns four today. He makes conversation, thinks creative ideas and concludes his own opinions. He offers me his cheek to kiss in front of his friends. He pedals a bike with training wheels and climbs on the big playground equipment that is so high, I get vertigo thinking about it. He has his own chair at the movie theatre, his own ticket to the amusement park and his own seat on an airplane. No, he isn’t a baby anymore.

He says prayers so sweet the angels surely must pause to listen. He prides himself on coloring in the lines, reads “Go Dog, Go!” and “Are You My Mother?” and tries to work the maze on the kids’ meal placemat. He sometimes bursts out with a random song of praise to God, his joyful voice mumbling through words he doesn’t know but continuing to sing gibberish until he gets to a line that he remembers.

Tonight we will celebrate with an exquisite dinner of his choosing (McDonald’s). We will sing and talk about what a big boy he is. We will splurge with ice cream for dessert. He will show everyone his four fingers and play shy when they ask his age.

Then, when the lights are out and the blankets are tucked around him, I will stroke his soft skin, stare at my baby’s sweet, sleeping face and be thankful.

A few months ago, we played a game at work where you had to pick a song from the year you were born, another from the year you graduated high school and a third one that you would characterize as your “life theme” song. For my h.s. graduation year (’92), I chose Tom Cochrane’s hit, “Life is a Highway.” Well, I’ve had that song in my head all day and thought of a few analogies about it that seemed fitting to share.

Life is a highway, but that doesn’t mean you’ll always be going 70mph. Sometimes, you go through podunk speed-trap towns or encounter construction zones that force you to slow down, whether you want to or not.

If you take the wrong exit or turn the wrong way, you can’t always retrace your steps exactly, but if you patiently persist, you can eventually find your way back to the highway.

Periodically, you go through a “dead zone” where there isn’t a decent radio station to be found. Silence can be bliss.

On a nice day, you can set the cruise control and coast down the road. Other times, you have to grip the steering wheel with white knuckles to keep from hydroplaning on the wet asphalt.

At some point, you have to stop and refuel. Running on fumes is neither fun nor safe.

Sometimes you just have to crank up the tunes and drown out the road noise.

There are obstacles on the road, but if the alternative is to sit in the driveway and let your tires dry-rot, isn’t it worth the risk to get out there & drive?

Every parent’s nightmare is losing your child in a crowded place. Numerous scary scenarios have run through my head over the years, but I never expected to misplace a child while standing in line together …

When we arrived at Six Flags on Saturday morning, we immediately designated a meeting place to rendezvous if we got separated, and I read the riot act to the boys about wandering off alone, who to ask for help, etc. The day was going along great – the weather wasn’t too hot, and the crowd was quite manageable.

After lunch, we ventured to the outskirts of the park to ride Judge Roy Scream. All three boys wanted to ride it, and the little one was just barely tall enough to ride. He wanted to ride with his oldest brother. So, we got to the front of the line and split into three groups: dad by himself, the middle one & me, and the oldest & littlest one together. The gates opened, and we filed into our seats, buckled up and dashed away on the roller coaster. When we got back to the starting point, three of us got off the coaster and began looking for the other two. They were nowhere to be found! Dad and #2 headed down the exit ramp toward the tunnel, thinking perhaps they had run ahead of us. I stayed behind, scouring the crowd and wondering how in the world we could have gotten separated.

Years or moments later, the other train came barreling down the track toward the exit. There they were – having a grand ol’ time and begging to ride again! The oldest explained to me that when the gates opened, someone cut in front of them, and since the rest of us were a couple of cars ahead, we hadn’t seen the incident. They had to wait for the next train.

I commended my oldest for not panicking and handling the situation well. He did what he thought he should do: stay in line and keep his little brother with him at all times.  If I thought my stomach dropped during the Superman ride, it was nothing compared to those few moments! I knew they couldn’t have just vanished into thin air … what a relief.

My son and I were in the car together last night, and he asked me out of the blue: “Who are you voting for, Mommy?” The conversation that transpired made me think of all the banter in the news lately and how I wish that if an almost-9-year-old can dig it, why can’t everyone else?

Me: “I’m voting for McCain.”
Him: “Why?”
Me: “Because I think he’s the best choice to lead our country, and I don’t think Obama is.”
Him: “Ebenezer thinks so.” (Ebenezer is a friend from school.)
Me: “Yeah, some people do, but I think he’s making promises that he isn’t going to be able to keep.”
Him: “Like what?”
Me: “Well, sometimes, when people run for office, they tell you what you want to hear to make them look good. They offer things that they aren’t going to be able to give you. For instance, if someone said that you won’t have to pay when you go to the doctor, that would sound really great, huh?”
Him: “Yeah.”
Me: “Well, doctors don’t work for free, do they? Someone has to pay, so if the patient doesn’t pay, who will pay?”
Him: “Other people.”
Me: “That’s right – we’ll all have to pay more in taxes.”
Him: “Ahhh.” (light bulb moment!) 🙂

First of all, let me make it clear that I am immensely grateful that Hurricane Gustav wasn’t as bad as predicted. Having lived through a few myself, I know that hurricanes are not to be taken lightly … which is precisely the reason for this post.

Some numbskulls who left on mandatory evacuation orders [for once] for Gustav, only to find out later that the storm would lose oomph before making landfall, are going to scoff at the next hurricane and stay behind stubbornly. We’ll be back in the we’re-all-victims-oh-save-us Katrina mentality.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m all for helping my fellow citizens and women & children first, blah, blah. But if you’re told to evacuate and choose to stay behind, then it isn’t the president’s fault — nor FEMA’s, nor the governor’s, nor the Red Cross’, nor mine — if you’re stuck on your roof for two days.

Hope for the best; prepare for the worst; never cease praying. If you can’t deal with it, then perhaps you should consider moving to higher ground. There are some lovely places along the Gulf and many logical reasons for wanting to live there … I’m just saying that you must know your circumstances and be prepared. Don’t expect the rest of the country to come running every time the thunder claps.

While I’m on a rant, could someone please point out to the newscasters that New Orleans is NOT the only city on the Gulf of Mexico? For crying out loud! I have family & friends in several coastal towns, and for once, I’d like to hear how their areas are faring.

I heard a commercial on the radio this a.m. advertising patio furniture. The narrator mentioned that the name-brand furniture was crafted from “hand-woven wicker.” That perked my ears and made me wonder if that remark was really just code for: “Made in a sweatshop by Sri Lankan children.”

The other day, I saw a fast-food sign offering “center-cut” chicken breast wraps. Mmm, I thought — that sounds pretty good. Then, I realized — doesn’t “center-cut” just mean half of a chicken breast? The wrap didn’t sound so unique, after all.

I read a funny (though in an ironically frightening way) comic in this week’s Chronicle of Higher Ed. A waiter was taking a customer’s order and asked if he’d like his steak with broad-spectrum antibiotic additives or the special protein-boosted option. Eww. I’ll just take the center-cut chicken breast … or, better yet, give me the eggplant, please.