'Twas the Night before Christmas

And a very lovely one it was, our first Christmas Eve with just the three of us.

We lazed around all morning. Had German pancakes for "breakfast" (at noon). John convinced Evelyn to fall asleep, unassisted, for nap time within 20 minutes of when he put her down (a minor miracle these days). After nap, we headed over to the Church of the Heavenly Rest for their Christmas pageant, which was perfect. Then, we came home for soup, bread, and cheese. The particulars differed, but these three ingredients, we have discovered, were part of the typical Christmas Eve dinner for both Pretes and Barretts. After that, Evelyn hung her stocking and we read the Christmas story again for good measure.

Then she went to bed. With her jingle bell. Which was confiscated within about 10 minutes.

John and I just finished wrapping gifts and straightening up a little bit, so we're ready to roll. It's only 10 p.m.!

I have to say, I miss our family, both Pretes and Barretts, but I don't miss hurriedly "opening" gifts we didn't even bother to wrap in 5 minutes the morning of December 23, rushing around all day on last-minute errands and packing, struggling with a toddler on a late night flight, and waking up exhausted to unpack on the 24th.

Recently overheard

"Old MacDonald had a farm

E, EIO

On that farm he had a H

EIEIO

With Hhhhh, Hhhhhh here

Hhhhh, Hhhhh there

Everywhere Hhhhh, Hhhhh

Old MacDonald had a farm

E, EIO"

Thank you, Letter Factory, for making this moment possible.

Tradition . . . tradition

Lest you think that we are neglecting our holiday traditions in favor of repeated trips to the post office, let me assure you that celebrations of the season are alive and well here.

Trimming the tree

Gingerbread building and decorating. This year: a train.

Family Christmas movie night: Miracle on 34th Street (1994). This was momentous. For the first half of the movie, Evelyn sat transfixed, frequently pointing at the screen and saying, "He's the real Santa," "The real Santa. The real Santa is coming to town," etc. It's definitely the most interested she's ever been in a movie. Up next: White Christmas.


And finally, although this is not specifically a holiday tradition, french braids are certainly a Barrett family tradition of some sort. These survived the morning fairly well but were no match for naptime.

Follow up : UPS

Since this is fresh in my blog history, I thought I'd provide a little follow up to my "Ode to Doormen" post from last week.

John and I finished up most of our Christmas shopping via Amazon this weekend. After receiving a flurry of tracking emails, I settled in to see what our local common carriers would have in store for me this week. Today, UPS attempted a delivery at my apartment while I was gone. The driver failed to check the reason why he could not leave the package. Then, he checked boxes indicating that he would deliver it on an unspecified day sometime between 10:30 a.m. and 5 p.m. Obviously, I would need to change the delivery address or make arrangements to pick up the package at will call.

After a few hours, the InfoNotice number finally started working, and I logged on to change delivery on my package. I was surprised to see this InfoNotice associated with, not 1, but 2 packages. One of which was delivered today at 2:30 and signed for by a "DR." Which brings to mind a couple of questions.

First, why was one package delivered but not the other? In this case, the undelivered package contains an item worth less than $10. Second, since he was filling out one of those handy papers anyway, what exactly prevented the UPS driver from just jotting me a teensy little note saying, "By the way, I left another package for you in apartment X." Or possibly an even shorter note that just said, "Apt X." Cryptic, maybe, but I think I could have puzzled it out. Third, who is DR?

I'm off to the post office to pick up (at least) two packages tomorrow morning, then back to my favorite UPS facility in the Bronx to pick up that undelivered package later in the day. And possibly score some illegal substances. Okay, not really. This time.

It is important

If you are going to be temporarily uninsured, to have an unsuspecting friend or family member to whom you can text pictures of injuries and ask whether those injuries warrant paying out of pocket for a visit to the pediatrician. Fact of the day: Should your child partially rip off his or her fingernail, no need to worry unless he or she rips out the base of the nail, in which case, someone should stick the ripped off nail back into the base so it doesn't grow shut. Lovely. Thankfully, such dramatic measures were unnecessary, since I almost vomited all over the Trader Joe's checkout counter as it was.

On the plus side, being uninsured saved me a weight check in the middle of the holidays and an hour or two of trying to control my toddler in the obstetrician's office yesterday. So far so good.

Ode to doormen

In the past week, I have been to the post office 3 times to pick up packages. Each time, the process took at least 20 minutes of waiting, although that seemed longer with Evelyn yelling the whole time (i.e. "I'm stuck! I'm stuck!" "I want out!" "I want to go home!" "There's not enough room." "It's too full." "I'm stuck! I'm stuck!").

My third post office trip, today, was a real winner. In addition to the package I had come to retrieve (which of course, I was unable to retrieve during my second post office trip, last night), I noticed while standing staring at the counter for 20 minutes that a package right behind the worker had our last name written on it in big bold letters. This intrigued me since I knew of at least 2 things that were mailed over 2 weeks ago that had yet to arrive. When I reached the counter, I presented my slip for the package that had brought me there, then told him that he had another package of mine for which I had never received a slip. He laughed.

"No, really, it's right behind you."

More laughter.

"I'm not kidding. It's right there. See it? Right there. Behind you. With L-A-S-T N-A-M-E in big black letters on it? Yeah, that's the one."

This is the same post office that has managed to only forward about 10% of our mail. I understand when catalogs and junk mail don't get forwarded. Secretly, I kind of appreciate it. But reimbursement checks from my husband's employer, baby shower invites, and other things sent first class mail are typically passed along right?

Our troubles aren't limited to USPS. Earlier this week, my mother-in-law almost called Amazon to report something she had sent to us as stolen. A "Poblano" had signed for it while I was out two days earlier. I asked the super if he signs for packages but he said no. Apparently, the word spread after I talked to the super, and as it turns out, a neighbor had signed for it on my behalf. His English wasn't great, so I guess I can't really fault him for not leaving me a note, but it would have been nice if the UPS guy could have slipped one of those little papers under my door telling me where he left it. A few days before that, UPS left a prominently labeled package containing electronics outside my door. Luckily, no harm befell it. Funnily enough, a week prior, he refused to leave a large package of diapers without my signature. I would have ended up running out had I not borrowed some extras from a friend. (For the uninitiated, it is not always possible to find reputable brand of diapers in your child's size at the corner store, even if you're willing to pay five times what you would pay online. The last time we ran out, John couldn't find anything other than Duane Reade brand in size five during his late-night run. She leaked out of every single diaper she wore from that package).

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. My UPS/FedEx/USPS track record before moving into a doorman building was less than ideal. There was the time John ordered me an Ipod and it got stolen off the UPS truck. Twice. The (innumerable) times we changed delivery on a single item and UPS unilaterally decided to start shipping all items for our address to the address specified for the one changed item. The time FedEx returned some of our wedding gifts to Target.com because we were gone for a week and a half and therefore missed the little slip of paper. Of course, I found this out only after trekking from the upper east side all the way to 42nd street and 12th Avenue. The only time I remember crying during our wedding planning was when we went to the post office to mail our invites. The only time I've been solicited to buy narcotics in New York was when I went to pick up a UPS box from 138th street.

For the past three years, I've lived in the dream bubble of 24-hour doormen, and man has it been great. No one ever followed me into the building (I think I've got about an 80% hit rate on people sneaking in here - 80% of the times I enter or leave the building, someone else enters without buzzing up or unlocking the door themselves). I could leave things for people. People could send things to me. And every day I got a smile and hi when I came in and out.

In fact, having a doorman was so great, so wonderful, that I didn't even know how good it was. I must have blocked out all the non-doormen frustrations. When we were first looking at apartments to buy, I was totally on board for a unit in a nondoorman building. How foolish.

One of the first times my brother visited us at our former doorman apartment, he asked me, "Doesn't it bother you how they're sort of supposed to serve you? How they always do this or that for you? Doesn't it make you a little uncomfortable?"

No, no it does not. Not one little bit. Sigh.

Kids say the darndest things

Evelyn and I have been spending a lot of "quality" time together on the subway lately. Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention; our increased transit time has led to the development several new joint activities. First is Evelyn asking me to read to her and me saying I can't because I don't want to vomit all over the subway floor. We usually settle on me holding the book so she can see the pictures and turning the pages without actually reading anything.


Another newly rediscovered favorite is singing, as long as it's Old MacDonald or Christmas carols. I am allowed to sing only the requested song. Singing of a nonrequested song leads to loud protests (e.g., "No, not that one. Not That One! NOT THAT ONE!!! THE TOY ONE! THE TOY ONE!! THE TOY ONE!!!"). If the requested song is Old MacDonald, I am required to sing verses based on animals of her choice. Our Old MacDonald has a very diverse farm with top animals being a lion, a fish, and a giraffe. (Since giraffes apparently have limited vocal abilities, Old MacDonald's giraffe makes a loud chewing noise.)


Yet a third new game is name that letter. Or the sound it makes. Or both. I love this one because it's so fun to see her learning her letters thanks to innumerable viewings of The Letter Factory; that DVD has been on repeat in our house for about a month now.


A week or so ago, we were playing this game on the A train. Those in the know will recall that the A train is also the 8th Avenue Express and the Fulton Avenue Express. I know this because of the handy electronic signs, like so:





The A train's sign circulates among 3 or 4 different messages, refreshing itself every few seconds. Every time the sign changed, Evelyn excitedly called out the first letter or two of the newly displayed phrase. Particularly, the first two letters of F U L T O N S T E X P. At first, no one really noticed. After a few repetitions, though, the toddler cheerfully yelling semi-obscenities and then clapping her hands to congratulate herself caught the attention of some fellow riders. Attempts to point out other letters on the train were unsuccessful in deterring her interest in these particular letters. Unfortunately.


We've been riding the C a lot more lately. It has older cars with paper signs.