Geronimo!

I’m about to email Mr. Tango for an emergency wine run. Prayerfully, he’ll be leaving the office sooner, rather than later. I have just spent the last two hours on another this’ll-be-fun (ha.) family project, and am about ready to cut open that vacuum packed pouch in the sadly empty little wine block and lick it dry. What do I do wrong?

A cake. A simple, homemade chocolate cake with which we’ll make a Christmas castle. We don’t even have to assemble it, it’s a handy dandy bundt pan sent from my aunt, for special holiday cheer. Whip it up, pour it in, and voila’! A Christmas castle pops out, cools on the rack, and is decorated by all for memory making fun. It’s the only thing even remotely like this I’m trying all season, and I’m so nerve racked, I sent the children out in 40 degree, sun’s setting weather to just get out of the house. How can it be so hard?

I thought, this time, I’ll do it right. No frazzled Mom for the children. Warm fuzzy fun for all. I won’t clean the kitchen after breakfast, so I won’t care that we trash it. I won’t vacuum til later in the day, for the same reason (I don’t do these things every day, Monday is chore day). I won’t even shower, so if the flour starts flying, I’ll just throw back my greasy head and laugh. But then we all assembled in the 2x2 corner in which I have to cook, and all hell broke loose.

I’m thinking about it now. Where did I go off course? Was it the desire to actually teach them something, like I tell people I do? Is that it? I only figured this was a perfect avenue. Catgirl is still getting reading under her belt. So have her read out the ingredients, and instructions. Math is not Speedreader’s fav, so have him measure with me for real life application. I had no plan for Blue Boy. There is no plan that will ever be hatched that will ever contain him. I just thought I could hold on long enough to include his grubby little hands in the mixing and licking.

Problem one. Phone rings as we begin to assemble the stuff. Had to take it, was a girl I’d been trying to get a hold of. 10 minutes, max. But it was an eternity and a half to Catgirl, who just couldn’t sit still and stop waving the recipe in front of me, no matter how many I-don’t-want-to-be-mean-but-will-be-if-you-make-me looks I gave her. OK, OK, shake it off. Back in the ring. I can do this. I dance around the children’s I wanna do the first ingredients and assign tasks. After 10 more minutes, the sugar is in the bowl. Ladies and gentlemen, we had lift off. And it was grand. 2 honkin cups of sugar, in the bowl…OK, flour. Speedreader…Catgirl says we need 1 and 3/4 C. of flour. Let’s go. Um, Mom, where is the mark on the measuring cup? There’s not one there, but there’s the one cup mark, and the one and a half…but I don’t know fractions yet….yeah, yeah, yeah you do. This kind. Remember the apple? The pear? The cheese sticks? How we cut’em? Yeah, but this is different. Nooo, nooo, it really is not. Same thing. Now see this mark (1 1/3)? What does that say, I’ll walk you through. Um, one and a quarter (me, deep breath). Okaay, a quarter means ‘4′. This says ‘3′. So what does it say? Three quarters. Um, no, hon (a bit of tension on my part). Not threeee quaaaarters…there is no ‘4′. Try again. One half. A half? Nooo, remember when we did the apples, the pretty little red apples? Cut them in 4s…two of those is a half…this says three. Three. Then he starts throwing stuff out, left and right, up and down, because he will never, and I mean never, let you think he just doesn’t know something. All defensive like, doing the “what, what?” shrug as I eyeball him.Two quarters. One and one half. Four quarters. While I’m pointing at the three. So then I had to make that a lesson. Son, do you not know the answer (duh.)? Just say, I don’t know. That’s all. Just saaaaaay it. That’s what I’m here for. I can tell you. I’d be so very glad to just tell you. Remember, we’re having fun, and learning at the same time? The whole practical life app thing that unschooling is? So he says, just tell me where to pour the flour to, that’s all I want to know. Ah ha! See? You can’t do it, without this delightful little life lesson, because you haven’t learned how yet…you have to let me show you. It’s. fabulous. fun. Meahwhile, Catgirl. Mom, can I read the next ingredient yet? Can I read it, here listen to me read it. I can read it. This is a word I can read. Hey Mom, listen to this…Mom, moooommmm, are you listening. I don’t want to be the White Witch, all promises and smiles in the beginning, only to reveal the ugly underneath when we get into it. I’m trying to give her grace, I mean, she’s waited all day for this. She’s excited. She’s also about to make me want to grab the hammer over there by that chair and bash my head in.

And then the wild one. Precariously balancing on a 3 and a half foot barstool because I can’t remember to get a blasted safe kitchen stool, and he alway always always wants to see into the bowl. He’s not even as tall as the stool that threatens to topple him to his most certain death. He wants get the ingredients, so just starts pulling stuff out of the fridge. Mayo. Diet Pepsi. Ham. Half a jar of salsa. No, no, no, noo, no, no. Those don’t go in the cake. But I just want to heeelllp, they get to help. Oh, Blue Boy, of course you can help, you can, uh, you can, you can lick the beaters clean! But I thought I got to lick the beaters, Catgirl wails and tears ensue.

At this point, we’re still on the dry ingredients. With one more to go, and like, 4 wet ones following. I have a twitch in my eye. There is a continual low level noise that I finally identify as slight whining from Blue Boy, as he can never see as well as he wants (I can’t see, I can’t see, I can’t seeeeeee). Which means, he can’t stick his head in it, hands all over it, and take it apart and put it back together for inspection. Anything short is sorely disappointing for him. I go into high gear. Catgirl, crack eggs. Speedreader, find the one cup dealy, Blue, get the heck out of my way. I can’t do anything with your head in my head. Which, by way of his poorly positioned stool, is where he was. Everytime I turned to the left, we were eyeball to eyeball. Tears for removing him from his post. Don’t care, just move.

Then, it is finished. In the oven. Done. And as I finish this, the timer is starting to go off. The timer designed by Satan. It is so loud, so beep-y, the neighbors can hear it. It is just like the forklift back up warning beep at Lowe’s, echoing off the concrete and 2x4s in the lumber section. But every time it goes, all three children yell Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-mmmm! to help me remember the thing in the oven is done. And don’t tell me to just not use it, get a little handheld timer. I’ve had 4. They’re all gone. Can’t imagine what happened to them. Now the precious cake is cooling. I’m just hoping it’ll come out of the fancy pan. The children have asked, giddily, are we going to decorate it tonight? Hell no. We are not. At this point, I am positive a Christmas Castle Cake must cool aaaalll night before successful decorating can begin. Maybe two nights.

Hey, it did come out.

You wake at 5:27 am to “get your fix” of blogging, and blogsurfing, and have a sore, cramped and slightly shaking hand and arm, up to the elbow, by 9:50 when you must stop, because the children are finally awake. I need help. But I don’t want it. I’m very happy in my addiction, thank you. But because of the intensive day of housework and some promised projects with the children ahead, I just had to get it all in before the day really got rolling. I’ve written, I’ve written some more, and I checked in on everyone. Annika is doing better. Running2ks has already posted fine art, and Fair Dinkum is finally clean. Now I can go on to other things, for a bit. Besides, I’m starting to be unable to type.

Over at CoolClan. I just love this post. Finally, someone’s talking real stuff about trying to celebrate the Advent!

and stumbled into Narnia. With Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. And it was a wonderful land. And I was quite disappointed when we all inevitably had to come back through. As soon as we spied the old, ivy covered lamp post, I knew our remaining time was so short. And suddenly, there was the professor, holding the cricket ball, waiting expectantly for our tale.

The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe was nearly as incredible as it is being billed to be. I only say nearly because it is difficult to live up to the hype this movie has received. A year ago now, my family began watching the trailers at the few other movies we’ve seen, with growing anticipation at each Lion’s roar. So when finally able to brave crowds, I have to say, I wanted something great. And it was. Something great. For me, just shy of perfect.

I read in another review that it is pretty tough to capture awe on screen. By its very definition (reverence, respect, dread, and wonder inspired by authority, genius, great beauty, sublimity, or might), trying to capture it in any way is nearly impossible, I suppose. I had some of that feeling when we saw the The Passion. As moved as I was, you just can’t truly script and film something as incomprehensible as the act of Christ’s crucifixion. So I had a bit of similar feeling for Aslan, the Great Lion. Reading the tales written by C.S. Lewis allows my imagination to go to wild places and picture the Lion that is “not tame, but good”, that is fearsome, but kind, and that silences the evil Jadis (the White Witch) with a single mighty roar, in a way that naturally surpasses what any CGI can do. But Aslan is still impressive in the film.

I loved the children (see cast) used to act in this film. They are not cynical, jaded child actors leaning on cute. They seem very believable, very real. And relate to each other tenderly as the story progresses. Packed off to a safe house during the air raids over Great Brittain in World War II, they are left to wander fairly alone in an cavernous old stone castle, waiting for the day they can return home. In the care of an elusive professor, and his house keeper, Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy spend day after day trying to find ways to pass the time. Until Lucy stumbles across, and into Narnia, through the magic wardrobe. After some serious doubt on the part of her siblings, the tale begins.

Unwittingly, they enter their prophetic roles in returning Narnia to the control of Asland, and to assume the four crowns that have awaited them for hundreds of years. Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia. As they battle the White Witch (played brilliantly, in my humble opinion, by Tilda Swinton), and end the 100 year freeze over the land, and eventually grow into adulthood, not one full minute passes in the world they left behind. They meet fauns, griffins, minotaurs, unicorns, and creatures indescribable. And they take their place in the battle against evil, and the Witch who would kill them. For she knows, that the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve mark the beginning of her destruction.

For us, there is great symbolism. Afterall, the Great Aslan has his own crucifixion of sorts, to appease the Witch’s claim on the blood of Edmund. In Narnia, only one who has not commited any treachory can stand in stead for the wrongs of another. And in this world, that is Aslan. And yes, he rises, again. And when the White Witch attempts to remind him of the law of the land, Asland impatiently bids her be silent, for he was there when the law was written. He needs no reminding. I loved the passionate battle for good to vanquish evil. The romantic notion of fighting to the death for what you hold truest in your heart. Of faith in things unseen. Of a Savior. As a believer, I was tingling on the edge of my seat with the ideas suggested to me by the storyline. That there is love that powerful for us. That there will be a day of ultimate and final victory, and a place of no pain, no tears. And that each and every one of us has a critical role in this great drama of life. I have a role. For me, it just oozes with wonderful allegory. But it doesn’t have to. It is also an epic tale, full of adventure, danger and triumph. Stuff fun movies are made of, no matter what symbolism may or may not be there for the viewer. The New York Times ran a great piece with just this point, referencing Lewis’ own comments on the matter. “The lion Aslan, he wrote, bounded into his imagination from his experience as a Christian, coming to him naturally as should all good writing. ‘Let the pictures tell you their own moral,’ he advised in On Three Ways of Writing for Children. ‘If they don’t show you a moral, don’t put one in.’ ” The review goes on the remark, “in keeping with that advice, the Narnia chronicles don’t beat you on the head - nor does the faithful movie adaptation. If everyone stays on his own level - the surface for adventurers, and the depths for believers - we can all enjoy, so long as the advertisers stay out of the way”. Excellent point, in my opinion.

Forget the hype, just go enjoy the movie. With a world covered in snow, and an appearance even by Father Christmas himself, The Chronicles of Narnia is fun for the holidays. And that boy who plays Peter, well, I’ve got a Mrs. Robinson thing going on him. Looks so cute so earnestly brandishing his sword at the evil Witch! I just checked out is bio. He was born the year I was a senior in highschool. Ouch.