A few weeks ago, I said to a dear friend who for these purposes shall remain nameless, “I have a theme this year! It’s a Homemade Christmas, Darn It!”

Without skipping a beat, she replied, “Me, too! Mine is It’s a Half-Assed Christmas.”

By last night, I had to admit that my theme has officially changed to, “It’s a Half-Assed Homemade Christmas, Darn It!”

There are three indie craft fairs in Phoenix this weekend, all featuring stuff far cooler than I could ever hope to make, and here I am, clinging to beads and embroidery floss for dear life, desperately avoiding the life rafts of big piles of gift cards that keep floating by.

Why? Money, naturally, but of course, I had to admit that’s not really it, as I handed over my debit card in Jo Ann’s Fabrics the other night. (That’s a place I’ll never return, by the way; I swear the clerk could smell the fear on me.)

It’s not really about money. I’ve spent far too much on supplies already to get away with that one. It’s about that whole back to basics, creative expression, show the person how much you really care with something you’ve made yourself thing.

Or so I told myself as I closed my 23rd jar of limoncello the other night. Really, I think it’s about the fact that this time every year, I go a little crazy.

Now I must go — I have to make my attempt to trace Annabelle’s drawings onto paper so I can iron that onto fabric for an embroidery project I can already tell will be disastrous.

Maybe a better attitude would help. Someone should come up with “The Secret” for the crafting world.

Oh wait, they already did. Gift cards.

Dear Santa,

For Christmas I want a Chrissa IM Me (for girls) more muffy clothes, and gogo pet hamsters. (with track.) Please!!! Any ways, How are you? Are those movies really true about you? Is Rudolph real? Why don’t you let anybody see you? Santa, this is a very hard question to answer, but, do you know Tabatha? Doesn’t it consern you about those fake santas at the mall? I mean, Why would you want to pay money to a fake santa? I’m sorry not a lot of people beilive in you, but I do!

Love Annabelle

Merry Christmas! P.S. I hope your still watching me this weekend, cause I’m in the snow queen!

(Note: All spelling and capitalization are author’s own. “Tabatha” is Tabitha Fairchild, Annabelle’s tooth fairy. “Muffy” is Muffy Vanderbear. More on her later.)

(As dictated to her mother; all exclamation points individually mandated by the author.)

Dear Santa Claus,

Happy Christmas! I’m good! I want a nail kit, American Girl doll — not Chrissa, one with blonde hair like me! A whoopie cushion. Me and Sarah play with the whoopie cushion. We play hide and seek. I want sippy cups. I want a hair set. Diet Coke for Mommy. And I love my mom!

Sophie

Not to get all cornball on you, but my favorite part of the holidays comes before they’ve even started.

When it’s all still an idea in your head, waiting. My little silver Charlie Brown Christmas tree/Hanukkah bush will never look as good as it does in my mind’s eye.

But I’m sort of liking it this way, bare with just one bird that was sitting on the top of the pile inside the Rubbermaid, the pile I have yet to dig into.

I thought I’d hit all the parenthood milestones, but an hour ago — when Sophie literally puked in my face — I realized there are still some firsts I have yet to experience.

I held her head, both of us dripping with what I think was once stuffing, and thought, “This is love.”

Not to say I didn’t mind, but it just wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Weird, huh?  I surprised myself.

A reminder to be thankful for (relative) good health and close family.

Uh oh. I hear her again. Hope your Thanksgiving was wonderful, and surprise-free.

Drumroll, please.

I finished my first embroidery project. Also, perhaps, my last, though I do own the Sublime Stitching chick’s latest book and enough materials to half-fill one of my Rubbermaids.

So we’ll see.

I’m happy with my final product — maybe I’ll show you the front sometime. I’m going to frame it for Annabelle as a Hanukkah gift (so I’ll have to do at least one more for Sophie, who’s requested something in purple). The front’s not so bad — if you squint. It looks a lot like the pattern. Some friends and I took a fun class last week at Frances.

But here’s the thing. It was a pattern. Mine looks just like everyone else’s, only not as good. If I do more of this, I plan to branch out — that’s the cool thing about Sublime Stitching. There’s room to play.

Meantime, I kind of enjoy the final results of the back of my first project, which might be the biggest mess ever, in the history of embroidery.

I’m so proud.

Last week was “Human Growth and Development” time at the girls’ school.

So far, it hasn’t been a big deal. I giggled like crazy years ago when Annabelle was in kindergarten and Ms. X announced she’d taught the kids the difference between “vulva” and “vagina”, but other than that, not much has been said about the whole thing. It’s pretty mild stuff, early on.

I knew third grade would be different. It was in either third or fourth grade that I discovered the book “What’s Happening to Me” strategically placed where I’d find it at home. I read “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret” by Judy Blume. And most memorable was the visit the school nurse made to the classroom.

The visit was accompanied by the viewing of an 8 mm film about menstruation. I don’t recall details, but I will never forget that the nurse — whom I remember as being around 110 years old, though I suppose she might have been as young as 50 and prematurely gray — felt the need to explain to us in great detail that when she was a girl, they had to use rags.

Really, what was the point of telling us that?

Anyhow, when I signed the Human Growth and Development permission slips a few weeks ago, I knew the lessons wouldn’t be tacky. The school has this stuff down. In fact, I forgot the week was even coming up, til Annabelle and I were driving home from her piano lesson last Tuesday and I tried a shortcut that didn’t work.

“Mommy, do you ever get scared you’ll get lost in the car?” she asked from the backseat. (The car is where we do most of our deep communicating.)

“No, not really. I have my phone. I can call if I get lost. Why?”

“Well, Ms. D says she gets scared of that.”

Ms. D is one of the third grade teachers at the school. Annabelle explained she had her for Human Growth and Development, and that that day they’d been discussing fears. Annabelle was afraid of meeting new people in new situations.

Weird segue, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.

By the end of Wednesday, my mom friends were giggling about how their daughters were talking about “the S-E-X” (no specifics, thankfully) but when I asked Annabelle, she said only that they’d discussed “kindness” in her class.

It wasn’t til Thursday that I caught on.

“How was Human Growth and Development today?” I asked Annabelle, as we cuddled on the couch before bed.

“It was good!” she said. “We took a Messy Room Pledge!”

I pulled back and looked her in the eye.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I asked, suddenly wise. “Did you ever turn in that permission slip I put in your Important Papers folder?”

“What permission slip?”

I hugged her, shaking with silent laughter.  Then asked her to name the other girls in Ms. D’s section of Human Growth and Development; yep, all the religious kids.

So, anyone interested in teaching my kids the facts of life? When we’re at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving, I intend to search for “What’s Happening to Me?” My mom volunteered to talk to her, but I said no thanks, Annabelle doesn’t need to go through life referring to both male and female body parts as “wieners”.

Someday, I know, Sophie will be a much bigger challenge. I’m happy to put that one off as long as possible. Anyone seen “Pink Slip”?

Frankly, I don’t even know if Bernie Goldberg IS a Jew, but since he doesn’t even know if I’m a liberal, I suppose that makes us even.

Last night an old friend from my days on Capitol Hill (really old days) working for what some (in Arizona, at least) would consider a liberal senator, shot me an email with a link to the latest Sarah Palin/Down syndrome controversy.

It’s more about a guy named Bernie Goldberg. I’ll let you read about what he said for yourself. I have some thoughts on it — some very hot thoughts — that I’m going to let simmer before I start sharing.

Even if you don’t care to read about some asshole claiming liberals don’t have babies with Down syndrome, you will enjoy Schyuler’s Monster, a really great blog. There’s even a link to a Jon Stewart clip. Enjoy. And, I suspect, get really, really mad.

Jon Stewart’s reaction at the end of the Goldberg portion will make your day, I promise.

This morning I was multi-tasking — emptying a case of Diet Coke into the veggie drawer of the fridge (fine, judge me!) and chatting with Sophie.

Luckily I had remembered that her box of items for the Mayflower was due today — 3 to 5 items that one might need on a cross-ocean trip, placed in a shoe box or other small box, the teacher wrote on the flier.

“We need to find a box for you,” I told Sophie.

“How about that one?” she asked, pointing.

I couldn’t think of a good reason not to let her use it. So this morning Sophie went to school with a 12-can Diet Coke box packed with the following:

Two Yo Gabba Gabba bath toys (including one shaped like a boom box); two paint brushes; two snack pack chocolate puddings (one for her and one for her friend Sarah, she said when I tried to limit it to one); some beading wire she snagged from me when I wasn’t looking; Piglet; and her stuffed Foofa doll.

Not bad staples, though I think I’d prefer a 12-pack of Diet Coke.

I can’t show you a picture, or I’ll get arrested. So you’ll have to take my word for it that Sophie is currently stark naked, dancing to Paul Williams’ rendition of Rainbow Connection, which he is performing on Yo Gabba Gabba. (I couldn’t find the performance during a quick Google search, but I prefer this one anyhow.)

I guess this answers my question about whether or not Sophie is really sick. Her temperature was 99 during two trips to the school nurse yesterday; that’s not enough to get you sent home, even in the age of the Swine Flu.

She did pass out long before dark last night, and this morning she felt a little warm. Our crappy Walgreens thermometer registered 94.5 (maybe her tiny ear openings? I can never get an accurate temp) so I took my own, which was an alarming 100.1, even though I feel fine. I took some Tylenol and we both took the morning off.

I think a little Yo Gabba Gabba (and for Sophie, a disgusting-sounding peanut butter/jelly/butter sandwich) was just what the doctor ordered. Boy, poor Paul Williams is looking old. I think he needs a morning off, too.