THIS Close

Harry Harold, the intrepid Heagler family Elf on the Shelf is THIS close to his fundraising goal!

A few days ago he set out to be the first elf ever to raise $1,000 (or even more) for charity. If he does this, the money he raises would push me past the $10,000 mark as an individual fundraiser for Autism Speaks (something that still seems unfathomable to me).

Harry's also pretty sure that this accomplishment will make him a shoe-in for Elf-of-the-Year. I had no idea such an award existed and I'm not entirely sure he didn't make it up, but on the off-chance he's telling the truth, I'd like nothing more than to see him hang that plaque on his tiny, elf wall.

As "Other Impressive Feats" go, this one would be huge. Please help us out if you're able.

Harry for Elf-of-the-Year! Click here to donate.

Harry Harold: Hellraiser or Fundraiser?

This morning I awoke to an ambush makeover in the bathroom. The Barbies of the house had gone to town on Harry Harold, our Elf-on-the-Shelf, and as usual, Harry couldn't look more pleased about it. I was still getting over the surprise of finding an elf in drag in my bathroom when I sat down at my computer with my first cup of coffee and opened my Facebook page. What I found is below. Apparently Harry has all my passwords and helped himself to my Facebook page. That's right. Sometime between the hours of midnight and 6:00 am, Harry managed to hack into my Facebook account, write a compelling fundraising letter and still get a complete makeover. If he does what he proposes, I'm guessing he'll be the first elf in history to raise $1,000 + for a charity. Our Harry's a real trailblazer. So I figured if he could do all that between the hours of midnight and 6:00 am, the very least I could do would be to share it here in my blog. Here's what Harry had to say:

I'm "Borrowing" Lori's Facebook Page: a Note by Harry Harold

(I don't think she'll mind...much.)

I’m Harry Harold and I’ve hijacked Lori Harden Heagler’s Facebook page to write this post. I’m the Heagler’s Elf-on-the-Shelf. I’ve had this job for five years and I’ve accomplished quite a lot (even by elf standards). I’ve staged snowball fights and adorably weird tea parties. I’ve assembled a fake Christmas tree entirely on my own despite my obvious physical limitations. I’ve driven a Barbie car (and a real car too). I’ve been held hostage by a disgruntled group of tiny plastic men. I’ve toilet-papered a child’s bedroom. I’ve played Scrabble and Chinese checkers and ice skated on candy canes in the freezer. I’ve covered popcorn with maple syrup and downed an entire 2-liter soda during a screening of the movie, Elf. I’ve delighted the Heagler children with my mischief for five years and will continue to do so as long as they’ll have me. But now I want to try something that would delight the Heagler children’s mom (not like that, get your mind out of the gutter): I’d like to help her reach a fundraising goal.

                                                                                                                               

Ben and Lucy’s mom, Lori, chaired the 2012 Puget Sound Walk Now for Autism Speaks. When she took over chairing the Walk from the outgoing chairs, she really didn’t believe she could make it a success. But she did.  She didn’t believe she could oversee a Walk that would raise even more money than the previous year. But she did. She really didn’t believe she could meet the fundraising goal Autism Speaks set for the Puget Sound Walk. And she didn’t…yet.

If Lori raises $1,050 by the end of December, she’ll hit the $10,000 mark as an individual fundraiser (her super-secret goal, even though she’d never admit it and she only wrote down $7,500). That same $1,050 could also be enough money to push the 2012 Walk past its goal (yes—the 2012 Walk is that close to goal), allowing Lori to say with complete confidence that she successfully chaired the 2012 Walk.

Here’s where I come in. It’s come to my attention that while I have been delighting the Heagler children with my mischief, I’ve also delighted a few of you. Do you enjoy my antics? Find yourself wondering what shenanigans I’ll get up to next? Have I ever caused you to do a spit-take on your computer screen with your morning coffee? How about you show an elf (and our friend, Lori) some love and make a small donation to Autism Speaks before the end of the year?

There are 440 names on Lori’s Facebook friends list. It would only take 54 of you with a crumpled $20 bill from the bottom of your purse or the pocket of the puffy coat you haven’t worn since last winter. That $20 bill could help give Lori the best Christmas present ever while helping an important cause. That’s something to feel good about this holiday season. (Also, if I do manage to raise this money, I’m pretty sure I’ll get Elf of the Year—my super-secret goal).

To sum up:

·         $20 from you donated here: Click here to donate

·         2012 Puget Sound Walk Now for Autism Speaks meets its fundraising goal

·         Lori is delighted (and super-proud)

·         You feel warm and fuzzy

·         Harry Harold wins Elf of the Year in a landslide (there’s bound to be plaque—BONUS!)

Do an elf a solid. Donate to Autism Speaks.

Lucy Speaks

Lucy was sick this week and in a twist of fate that would have been comical were it not for her painful throat, she lost her voice. Only those who know her personally can fully appreciate the magnitude of a speechless Lucy, but trust me when I tell you it is without precedent. It’s a world gone mad. It’s dogs and cats living together. It’s positively looney tunes. Lucy really likes to talk. She says a lot of words, usually at the exact moment they pop into her head and often in a quirky, freeform stream of consciousness that begs a bewildered, "Huh?"
 

As much as I enjoyed a few days of quiet, I have to admit I found her silence a little eerie. (Although perhaps not as eerie as the robotic voice of the type-to-talk translator she found online and used for the better part of Thursday morning.) There was an emptiness in the house where all her words should have been and I was delighted when she began to fill that space today. Lucy’s voice is back. And just like that, bedtime is an adventure again.

“I want to live with you forever, mom. Will you let me?” We were lounging in her bed, propped up on squishy pillows leaning against her headboard.

“Of course, Lucy.”

She looked relieved. “Then I can always be with you.” She paused, obviously pleased with the idea, before saying, “I’ll spend Thanksgiving with dad, though.”

“OK. But can we still watch the parade together?” I asked.

“Of course, but then I’ll go to dad’s for dinner.”

“Oh good,” I told her, “Because I don’t really like to cook a big meal anyway.”

“Maybe you could get a cupcake with a turkey on it and that can be your dinner.”

“That sounds perfect, Lu.”

She took a drink of water to quell a coughing fit and I took that opportunity to tell her she probably wouldn’t want to live with me forever. “You know, Lucy, you can live with me as long as you want to, but one day you’re going to want to move out and have your own life—your own home, your own family. You might have kids of your own too. We’ll still see each other, but we probably won’t live together.”

Then she started to cry.

I back-pedaled in the face of her tears, “Or maybe we will, Lu. Who knows? Maybe I’ll live with you and your family. I could help you out. I’m good at laundry.”

“What if I have 19 kids?” she asked.

“Then you’ll definitely want me to live with you. That’s a lot of laundry.”

Now she was on a roll. “We’ll have 20 bedrooms and 20 bathrooms.”

“Twenty bathrooms too?" I asked. "I hope we have Toto toilets. Toto never clogs."

Ignoring me completely, she forged on, “But we’ll need 21 bedrooms because I’ll have a room and you’ll have a room…”

I interrupted her with, “The twins can share a room,” as if a set of twins in this equation was a given.

She liked it. “Yeah – that’s a good idea.” She thought a little more, smiling to herself. “And we’ll have a unicorn. Can we have a unicorn, mom?”

“In the house we share with 19 kids? I don’t see why not, Lu.”

“Or maybe just a dog and we can tie a horn on him,” she said.

“Like in The Grinch?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“OK,” I said. “That might be easier.”

We sat in silence for a moment, pondering our bright future in the giant house with the 19 kids, 20 Toto toilets and a unicorn (or at least a dog with a horn tied to its head). Then I said, “You know, Lucy, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine when you move out someday.” (OK, maybe “fine” is an exaggeration, but still.) “It’s not your job to worry about me being alone.”

“I know,” she said, “But I can’t help it.” And then she started to cry again. “I want to live with you forever, mom. Will you let me?”

I said, “Of course I’ll let you, Lucy,” and then I started to cry a little too. I told her good night and stood to leave.

“Hey mom?" she said, "I love you more than anything.”

“More than words can say?” I asked, grinning at her.

She giggled. “Even more than words can say.”

“I love you more than anything too, Lucy. I'm really glad we had this talk."

I think I might have missed Lucy's voice even more than she did.

 

One of the Gang

This afternoon I drove up just as Maggie pulled into our shared driveway with Dylan and two of his friends in her car. The boys were stopping at the Crandell house to change their clothes and have a quick snack before heading to soccer practice.

When we all lived in one house together, Ben loved it when “the soccer boys” played through on their way to practice. It was loud, chaotic and kinetic and Ben couldn’t get enough of it. He would insert himself right in the middle of the action, following those boys around, doing whatever they did, eating when they ate. But most importantly, he laughed when they laughed (even when I’m quite certain he didn’t know why). Have you ever noticed the power in that? The power to belong can be found right there in the laughter we share.

Ben loves to belong and laughing when others laugh is something he's always done to achieve that. There aren't many social skills that we didn't directly teach Ben—very few he just "picked up out of the air" like other kids do. But sidling up to a laughing group of kids and joining in their laughter is something I didn't teach him—that’s one he came up with on his own. It’s not fake or phony. It's just one of the ways Ben has found to fit in. To feel like one of the gang. One of the ways he connects.

I always believed that the soccer boys tolerated Ben insinuating himself into their group because it was, after all, Ben’s house too. But maybe it had more to do with the power of shared laughter—the power of Ben’s laughter—than I realized.

This afternoon as Maggie and I both pulled into the driveway, Ben came walking up the hill from school. He saw Dylan and his friends piling out of Maggie’s car, smiled broadly and said to me, “I’m so glad it’s soccer season!”

I held my breath for a moment, wondering what would happen next. We no longer live in the same house with the Crandells. Same roof, yes, but we have completely separate spaces in the duplex we now rent. Ben no longer has an excuse to be where those boys are. I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect. I envisioned Ben watching Dylan and his friends walk inside without him, then quietly sulking away to our own house in the back, feeling left out and disappointed. But that’s not what happened.

Instead, Ben breezed right past me and followed those boys into the Crandell’s house, still carrying his school backpack and his viola. He didn't ask. He wasn’t invited. He wasn’t even encouraged. He just followed them inside as if he belonged. And in that moment, I guess he did.

I’m not sure which makes me happier or gives me more hope: Ben having the confidence to follow that group of middle-school boys, completely uninvited into the Crandell’s house, or Dylan and his friends tolerating their elementary-school tag-along without question. I stood there and watched as the front door closed behind them and I could hear them laughing as I started down the path to my front door.

I believe there’s real power in shared laughter. The power to belong can be found there.

I'm so glad that Ben has a really great laugh.

Some Things I Shouldn't Admit

I had every intention of being productive this weekend. The kids were away and my to-do list a mile long, but I got to very little of it. An unexpected call from an ex derailed my weekend (not to mention my psyche) and made fresh again the pain I’ve been working so hard to dull. On the bright side, I've always wanted to work, "What fresh hell is this?" into a conversation and this presents the perfect opportunity.

In Houston last weekend I discovered photos of him and a date on Facebook. Photos that everyone could see but me. Hiding photos from your ex on Facebook is as easy as a mouse-click, but when you have 52 mutual friends, it’s not exactly a fool-proof way of keeping a secret. Already feeling sad about being at the Halloween party without him, I felt my heart break just a little bit more when I saw him smiling in those photos. Of course his intent was to spare me pain, but if you have to hide big chunks of your life from a Facebook “friend,” they probably shouldn’t be your Facebook friend any longer. So I did the logical thing and unfriended him. Then I cried. And then I rallied. I relished in my time with my dearest friends, ate too much Tex Mex food, drank margaritas and generally put my game-face on (along with a costume so terrifying I won the Scariest Costume prize in a landslide).

And all of that made me feel a little bit better. Until the phone rang and his name popped up in huge letters on the comically-oversized screen of my new cell phone. Along with a photo of the two of us smiling and embracing (god-damned giant cell-phone screen).

It seems he had an “overwhelming urge” to hear my voice. He said he didn’t think I would pick up the phone. If he knew me at all he would know that was ridiculous. Because here’s the thing (and I shouldn’t admit this, but here goes): every time he contacts me out of the blue, a tiny part of me thinks (hopes) he’s contacting me to say he loves me and he’s sorry and he can’t imagine life without me. I have to pick up the phone. Just in case. I know I’m not supposed to admit that. It goes against the unwritten code of strong, fabulous women.

More than one well-meaning, strong and fabulous girlfriend has said to me, “You don’t need a man.” That’s the party line, right? And of course it’s true. I don’t. So I usually smile and nod and accept the love, friendship and solidarity conveyed in those words. I’m not supposed to say, “No, but I really want one. I don’t want to be alone.” I’m not supposed to admit that. It goes against the code. But every now and then I say it anyway.

And then I gather my wits about me, remember the unwritten code of strong, fabulous women and do what one does when trying to mend a broken heart. This weekend, for example, instead of completing any number of tasks on a to-do list, I drank a bunch of wine, bought a kick-ass pair of boots and became a red-head (technically a dark brunette with hints of mahogany—everyone knows I’m prone to exaggeration). I left out getting a pedicure, enjoying a bubble bath and making out with a stranger in a bar because all of those seemed like too much trouble. Now I’m camped on my couch alternating between the sappy programming on Lifetime Television for Women and The Hallmark Channel. Like I said, just doing what one does.

But if I haven’t surfaced by the time you read this, send help. I may need an extraction team.

Letting the Days Go By: Even More Candy Wrapper Wisdom

I have David Byrne stuck in my head. As voices in my head go, the lead singer of the Talking Heads isn’t bad. In fact, given that “Once in a Lifetime” is the song he’s singing, I’d call him downright insightful. “You may ask yourself, how did I get here?” You got that right, David Byrne. I have been asking myself that.

Next week I’m heading to the infamous Halloween party I attend in Houston every year. My favorite weekend of the year, hands down. But this year it’s yet another thing that I shared with Troy that I’ll be doing solo. Another thing I believed I would be doing with a partner this year. And next year, and the year after that too.  Instead it’s yet another time I’ll explain to friends why the man I was sure I’d grow old with—the man who told  everyone closest to me that he was in my life to stay—is not with me.

How did I get here?

Since our breakup, I’ve flown solo for my summer trip to Dallas and the Autism Walk. Next is the Halloween party and then Thanksgiving and Christmas—all things we shared last year. Things we shared with the promise that each would be the first of many. Once I make it through these milestones I’ll have done without him all the things I did with him that were so meaningful to me. I’ll be one year removed from the memory of how good it felt to share these things with him. One year removed from the feeling of contentment and security I felt when I was with him. One year removed from that wonderful feeling of being part of a team. And one year removed from the intoxicating feeling of being loved.

I hope the distance created by that one year will provide clarity and some measure of peace. But for now, I’m just letting the days go by (at the suggestion of the song stuck in my head) and letting the distance unfold.

Last night while I was doing just that, I figured I might as well eat some chocolate (I could tell you that I also figured I might as well drink some wine, but that probably goes without saying). So I sipped my wine, unwrapped a Dove Chocolate Promise and checked the inside of the wrapper. It said, “Chocolate won’t let you down.”

Normally I feel gypped when I find some bullshit about the wonders of chocolate where my pithy pearl of wisdom ought to be. Normally I would read “Chocolate won’t let you down,” and say, “I’m sorry…what?” to no one in particular, “What kind of crap is that?” But last night I looked at that tin foil square and thought, “Whoa. Dude.” (And I wasn’t even high.) Chocolate won’t let me down. Ditto wine and far too much coffee. A true friend. Hugs from my kids. (And let’s face it, a certain battery-operated appliance, provided I keep enough batteries on hand.)

                                                                              

Armed with the knowledge that I would not be let down, I opened another chocolate (and poured another glass of wine). The wrapper on this one read, “You are exactly where you are supposed to be.” I looked at this tin foil square and thought, “Seriously?” Because if you’d asked me a year ago, my idea of “where I’m supposed to be” would have looked nothing like this.

However, I’m not one to doubt the wisdom and insight dispensed on the inside of a Dove Chocolate Promise wrapper (lest you forget, I once checked the car’s glove box and under my bed when one suggested I look for love in unexpected places). So at least for the time being, while I’m letting the days go by, I have decided to sit very, very still.

Y’all be careful not to jostle me, OK?

Love Notes

This year, on the first day of school, instead of putting notes in my kids’ lunchboxes as I’ve done every year before now, I left the notes on the kitchen counter next to their sandwiches. “Happy first day of 6^th grade, Ben,” and “Happy first day of 4^th grade, Lucy,” each followed by a small heart and “Mom.”

While treating my kids with respect is something in which I’ve always taken pride, being hyper-vigilant to avoid embarrassing them is still pretty new to me. I’m learning, but I still mortify them from time to time (unwittingly, of course). It doesn’t take a rocket-scientist, though, to know that opening a lunchbox in a crowded school lunch room to reveal a Post-It emblazoned with hearts, smiley-faces and “Mommy loves you!” would prove humiliating for any nine or eleven-year old.

Or would it?

The kids packed their own lunches, so when I found the counter empty except for the note I wrote to Ben, I assumed he had glanced at it, shrugged and said,“huh,” under his breath before leaving it exactly where it was. I couldn't be sure, though, what Lucy had done with her note, but I imagined it went something like this: she picked up the note, read it carefully, smiled to herself (perhaps while holding it to her heart) and then promptly recycled it. I thought I had a pretty good idea of how each scene had played out.

Until Lucy walked through the kitchen, saw Ben’s note still on the counter and shouted,“Ben! Why didn’t you put your note in your lunchbox?”

Why not, indeed?

A couple of weeks later during Curriculum Night at school, I tore a corner off the Parent Hand-Out on which I should have been following along, wrote Lucy a note and tucked it away in her desk for her eyes only (so as not to embarrass her, obviously). After the first-day-of-school lunchbox note, it really shouldn’t have surprised me that when she found the note in her desk, she slid it into the clear, front sleeve of her binder where it has remained ever since. Right where anyone can see it. It says, “Hi Lucy,” followed by a smiley face and, “Mom.”

It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Don’t worry, though, I didn’t gasp and tear up at the sight of it when she walked out of the classroom with her friends.

Because that would have been embarrassing. (I may still be learning, but even I know that.)