Magic

Originally published July 24th, 2010. 

I knew a man who was magic personified.
 
Many little kids believe in Santa Claus while growing up, and I was no different. The only difference, is that I had my own personal Santa Claus. I knew he was the real one. His cheeks were always the perfect shade of pink, he wore bells around his wrists, his blue eyes sparkled, and his smile never faded. He was the real deal. I knew all of those Santas at the malls were just helpers, since the real Santa was busy up at the North Pole, getting ready for Christmas. Yet, he was never too busy to visit my brother Tim, and me.

Every year, a couple weeks before Christmas Day, he would show up, always unexpectedly for Tim and myself. Sometimes it was close to bedtime, other times it would be on a weekday afternoon. My brother and I always wanted to follow him out of our house when he left to watch him fly off the roof, being carried away by eight magical reindeer - but my parents always stopped us, the magic wouldn't work if we were watching, they said.

Tim answering the door to one of Santa's surprise visits.

Our Santa was also very crafty, just as Santa should be. He was very good at making things out of wood. One year, my brother had asked for a train set for Christmas, and when he came by for his pre-Christmas visit, he brought Tim a train whistle made out of wood. A few years later, I had asked for a doll house, and when he stopped by a couple weeks prior to the holiday, he brought me a wooden dining room set, perfectly sized to fit in a doll house. It was magical.

There was a brief year when I was a little unsure about this guy, but I came around.

My Santa gave the warmest hugs. He smelled so wonderful too, sweet and pepperminty, just as you would expect Santa to smell. It was better than meeting any movie star or celebrity; I was good friends with the SANTA.

Tim getting a hug from Santa.

Going over my wish list.

So who was my Santa? His real name was Bob Comingore. My mom found him through an ad in the newspaper in 1985, and hired him to play Santa at our house for all of the neighborhood kids. They all got along so well, that he kept up the part, year after year, even coming to visit us each time we moved to a new home, in a new city, no matter how far of a drive it was for him in his red truck (not a sleigh with reindeer).

Bob and his wife, Gloria were probably in their sixties when Bob became our personal Santa Claus. Though they were never able to have children of their own, they loved kids, and after I found out who he really was, they both became like a third set of grandparents to me. I admit, the first time we had them over for dinner as the Comingores, it was a bit strange for me, but Bob had a light and warmth inside of him so enveloping, that I couldn't help but be captivated by his presence. As Santa, Bob brought so much magic and fun to my childhood, and I hope he knew how much he meant to me.

In August 2005, shortly after my brother got married, I wrote Bob and Gloria a letter. I hadn't talked to them in awhile, and I thought they would get a kick out of hearing that the little boy they had known from the time he was three, was now a husband. I never got a response. A few months later, my mom heard from Gloria, and she relayed the sad news that only a couple weeks before I had written that letter, Bob had passed away. I was heartbroken at his passing.

Bob Comingore was a truly special human being; people like him are few and far between. He was just a genuinely kind, warm-hearted person. When I think back on my childhood, having my own Santa Claus, and all of the wonderful memories he gave me is something I will never, ever forget.

Gloria is still alive, and lives in Oregon, near a nephew of theirs. Earlier this year, she mailed my mom a box full of wooden toys that Bob had made before he passed. Most of the toys were little cars, although there was also an adorable wooden airplane that my brother's daughter now has. These wooden toys are so simple, yet they hold so much meaning for me. I can imagine Bob carving them with patience and care, and smiling at the thought of the little children who would enjoy them. I love when my sons play with the cars; I can't wait for the day when I can tell them all about the great man I knew. My only regret now is that Bob never got to play Santa to my own kids, so I am especially grateful for these toy cars, as they are a link from him to my children.

A few years ago, my mom gave me this figurine, to always remind me of the joy my Santa brought to me as a little girl.
I put it out every Christmastime, and whenever I see it, it reminds me of the wonderful man who brought so much magic to my childhood.

This is Totally Random

I'm kind of paranoid when it comes to my front teeth.

I'm always afraid that they're going to be knocked out from one of my kids head-butting me, or from me clenching my teeth so hard at night, I even had to get a night guard. Yes, I look super hot when I go to bed...a little something like Tina Fey from "Date Night", if you know the scene I am referring to. 

All kinds of hotness.

Anyhow, my fear probably comes from the fact that my front teeth have been knocked out several times in the past.

It started with my baby teeth. My brother is actually responsible for both of those.

The first time, we were on a family vacation in Florida in the spring of 1989, and we were taking a boat ride. I was laying on one of the benches on the boat, and my brother was leaning over the front rail, trying to get a good look at the swamp below. The captain told him he needed to sit down. So like any normal person, he just backed up, without looking where he was going, and he sat down.

Right on my face.

Tim: 1, Front teeth: 0.

I cried and cried, but then we went to Disney World and I forgot all about it.

A few months later we were back home, and Tim and I went to the park one day with friends. We were throwing a football around. I don't think Tim really wanted his little sister hanging out with him and his buddies, so when I asked him to pass me the ball, he threw it a little too hard and it hit me right in the mouth.

Tim: 2, Front teeth: 0.

Only, that tooth didn't get completely knocked out.

I walked home, with my mouth bleeding, tooth hanging by a couple of nerves. My dad had to pull it out with pliers. I'm thinking I must have blacked out or something, because all I remember is him showing me the pliers, and then nothing after that.

So a few years went by and I had my fancy permanent teeth. It was the fall of 1993 and I was playing outside with my dog. The ground was wet and I was wearing Keds - not exactly known for their traction.  The bottoms of my shoes were wet and I didn't realize that I was literally walking into the perfect storm of slippery shoes meeting cement flooring.

I ran into our garage, and had only take a couple steps when I slipped and my face smacked against the cold, hard floor. I immediately knew something was wrong, and I was terrified. My mom made me open my mouth, and I could tell she was trying to control her reaction, so as not to upset me more. She later told me that she thought my teeth were irreparably damaged.

My two front teeth were broken, so that there was a gap that looked like a large, upside-down "V". It was brutal.

Thankfully, my dentist opened his office that Sunday evening, and was able to put fillers in, so that it looked like I had normal teeth again. I had those fillers until 2003, when I finally got veneers.

While my teeth look and feel real, I know that they are not as strong as actual teeth, and every time that I bump a glass against them, or Ryan knocks his head against my mouth, I think that they're going to break.

I try to be cautious. 

I avoid Gobstoppers and peanut brittle, and when I eat an apple I cut it into thin slices, rather than eating it whole, and I keep my dentist's number handy. I also remember as a kid hearing that if your tooth falls out you are supposed to hold it in place while drinking milk? Or something? I don't know, but I always make sure we have milk in the house too. Although, I'm not sure if the milk thing would work since my teeth are pretty much just tiny pieces of fine China.

Oh, and I don't let my brother get anywhere near me, with or without a football.

Worst Flight Ever

The wings were iced over. 

The ground crew kept deicing them, but within a couples minutes they were iced over again. We were nearly 45 minutes late taking off because of this continual deicing process. 

My worst flight ever.

It was December 2003, in Billings, Montana. My brother and I were on board a Horizon flight, all packed and set to go home for the Christmas holiday, except that it was five degrees outside, snowing, getting dark, and those freaking wings wouldn't stop icing over.

My brother Tim is a commercial pilot, (I know, cool huh? Sorry girls, he's married). But in the winter of 2003, he was still going to school for aeronautical science. He had been flying for several years at that point though, so I liked flying with him. Whenever I would get nervous about a bit of turbulence, or a strange sound, I would just look at him, and if he appeared relaxed and unconcerned, then I knew there wasn't any reason to be worried. 

The fact that we were delayed getting off the ground due to bad weather and ice didn't seem to bother Tim, so I tried to not let it bother me. I was so thankful when we finally took off and got above the clouds. I figured we were good to go for the next hour and a half to Seattle. It was a small plane, and Tim and I were seated in the very front row. The flight attendant was preparing to start the beverage service. He stood only a couple feet away from us, getting his cart ready.

All of the sudden, we heard a pop and then an alarm started screeching. Loud. Piercing. Terrifying. The flight attendant's face froze and he ran - RAN - to his seat at the back of the plane. He had abandoned us! I looked at Tim - my last resort - for comfort. He looked at me, serious as I'd ever seen him, and said, "Tighten your seatbelt. It can't hurt."

OMG! OMG! OMG! We're all going to crash and die!

That alarm went on for what seemed like an eternity, although it was probably less than two minutes. No joke, folks, it sounded like the roof of the plane was going to rip off, sucking us all out into the frigid air with it. My heart was racing and I was saying as many prayers as I could. 

Finally the captain came on and gave some explanation, that, honestly, I didn't even hear because I was still too frightened. In the end though, we landed safely in Seattle. But that was my worst flight ever.

When you have kids, the things that used to scare you about going on airplanes kind of shifts. As I mentioned a couple weeks ago, I still worry about the plane crashing. But when I travel with my kids, my thoughts are usually occupied with worrying about whether or not they will behave on the flight, and hoping that they don't make a terrible scene.

I've had some pretty interesting flights since becoming a mom. In fact, it started before Jacob was even born. 

Richard was taking me to Virginia to see where his parents live. We were on a red-eye flight. I was about 10 weeks pregnant with Jacob, and while I hadn't dealt with any real morning sickness, I had bouts with nausea every now and then.

Everything was going fine, to begin with. Richard was sitting at the window, I was in the middle, and a man, who I did not know, was in the aisle seat. About an hour into the flight, I started feeling notsogood. I was afraid to tell Richard, because I didn't want him to freak out, so I tried to convince my stomach to chill, and to understand that it was seriously not a convenient time.

It didn't work. 

Richard looked over at me at one point, and said, "You look kind of pale. Are you feeling okay?" 

Right then, my nausea kicked into overdrive. I knew we had a problem! I shook my head no, afraid to open my mouth to speak. Richard started searching desperately in the seat back pockets for barf bags, and OF COURSE, we were the only two seats on the entire plane that didn't have them. 

Uh oh. 

Vomit was coming up my throat, I slapped my hand over my mouth, in an attempt to keep it down. Richard looked terrified, thinking I was about to puke all over him. I knew I couldn't wait for him to ask someone if we could borrow their barf bag, so I literally jumped over the stranger next to me, and raced like 13 rows up to the front bathroom. I just barely made it. I didn't even have a chance to shut the door behind me before I was throwing up.

So that was a bad flight.

Then we had a nice break for awhile. Jacob was a really easy baby. Before he was six months old he flew to Hawaii, California and Virginia, and he did great on all those flights. After that we didn't do any flying for awhile. 

Last December we flew to Illinois to spend Christmas with Richard's parents and extended family. At that point, Jacob was 20 months old, and Ryan was 9 months. I had Jacob in my lap, and Richard had Ryan in his. Because of airplane rules we weren't allowed to sit in the same row, so Richard and Ryan were seated about three rows behind us. I knew Richard was nervous, since that was his first time flying with both the kids.

Not even five minutes into the flight, Ryan barfed all over Richard's shirt. Since I was so far ahead of them, and in a window seat, there was nothing I could do to help, so he sat there for the next three hours with a whimpering Ryan, and dried puke on his sweater.

Jacob didn't throw up on me, but I think I might have preferred that. He spent the entire three hours screaming and kicking at me and thrashing his arms. It was exhausting to say the least, and only slightly embarrassing.

The minute we landed in Chicago and the four of us were reunited, Richard looked me straight in the eye and said, "We're not having any. more. kids. And we're never flying with them again!"

That was our last trip with them. It's been almost nine months, and today we are heading to California to visit my mom's family. I keep telling myself that it's not even a three hour flight, and that this will be Jacob's first time in his car seat on the plane. He normally loves being in his car seat, so I am keeping my fingers crossed that we don't wind up being that family that the rest of our fellow passengers shoot dirty looks at, and then recant to their family and friends for years afterward of their "Worst flight ever".

Please tell me about your worst flight ever, so that hopefully, whatever ends up happening today, won't be as bad as the stories you share. 

And if they aren't worse than today's flight, then I guess I will just have to update this post on my worst flight ever.

Plagues Upon Us

The other day I was driving home from Seattle and I called my mom to check on how the boys were doing.

Mom: Oh, they're good, but...I think you might have a problem..."

Thoughts flash through my mind - A problem? The boys are sick? They aren't getting along? One or both of them is showing signs of being socially-awkward, or sociopathic - or some other negative socio-word??

Me: Uhm, what's the problem?

Mom: Well, in the last hour, I have killed probably 15 to 20 flies in your house.

Ohmigod. Bugs?! This is so much worse than anything I had thought of.

Me: You mean, like, fruit flies? (Please, please, please let it be just fruit flies!)

Mom: No, like regular house flies. The big ones.

Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!

Me: Ohmigod! Gross! What do we do?? We need to bomb my house. This is so disgusting!


My mom calmed me down, and said she had researched fly infestations. She had taken all of the precautions suggested on how to remove the sources of the flies. That sounded great, but I mean, it's not like we live amongst solid waste, people. I may not be the most organized person, but I do try to keep my house freaking sanitary! Unfortunately, those precautions did not help. Later that day I killed a little over 10 flies myself, the next day was about the same, and yesterday I killed close to 20. For the life of me, I cannot figure out where they are coming from, they just seem to be multiplying out of thin air. It is disgusting and frustrating. It makes me wish more than ever that Richard were home, because I am so not cut out to handle this sort of business.

Then I got another wonderful surprise before dinner yesterday evening. I was about to get the boys' chairs set up, when something caught my eye...something that was moving. Actually, it was about 20 somethings - ANTS. Yes, not only do we have a fly infestation, but we now apparently have an ant infestation on top of it. Seriously? I mean it's like we've got the 10 Egyptian Plagues descending on our house, for crying out loud.

No sooner had I vacuumed up those 20 ants, but dozens more appeared. I was almost in tears at that point, and my parents are out of town, so I called my brother and all but begged him to come help me. Tim drove all the way up here - bless his heart - with his baby in tow. He sprayed all around the outside of my house and helped me place fly traps around the windows. I am keeping my fingers crossed now that this is the end of the story, because I don't think I can handle much more.

Oh, but if I start breaking out in boils, all bets are off.