Today I have the pleasure of being a part of the #HoHoHoHolidayswap ( every single time I say that , I hear the lyrics..hotel, motel, holiday inn...streaming through my head.What's that say about me?) . Anyways, these are a great bunch of bloggers who will blow your socks off.
But it is my pleasure to introduce to you one of my favorite people in the world ( bloggy, real and otherwise) Naomi de la Torre the talented and beautiful author of Organic Motherhood with Coolwhip.She can also be found these days writing her velour covered ass off at SheKnows and also as the voice behind baby Lucha @ Baby Banter.
She is a talented writer, a fabulous friend, and can be found on twitter hanging out with the cool kids! Make sure to check out her blog and leave her some love here, as well! Now, let's give a big Truth About Motherhood welcome to the sweetest, mojito drinking, fallopian tube crossing, salsa dancing, baby wrangling, organic ,baby loving blog bestie of mine.....Naomi!
Today, I can be found spreading my holiday mayhem at A Belle, a Bean and a Chicago Dog.
Stop by and show me some love!
Please stop by as many of the blogs as you can. These ladies are all great writers and you will be in for a treat.
The Bad Sister’s Favorite Christmas
I’m a good sister. Usually. Mostly.
But, according to my little sister Aliza, when we were young, I was bad. Very bad. Very bad indeed. My various crimes include:
1. Tricking her into eating cat food to impress a babysitter.
2. Excluding her from plans to move to New York City and live in a super fabulous loft and write encyclopedias for a living with our same-age cousin Hillary.
3. Not taking her to the bathroom and causing her to have various accidents that could have been avoided. (More on this later.)
4. Sending her out onto a small pond in our backyard on a raft that didn’t float. (Yes, she sank.)
5. Not playing Barbie Dolls with her. Even when she asked nicely.
I must admit, I did all those things. And more. But the worst of all my childhood crimes is probably one that occurred on Christmas one year.
This was during the era when neon clothes, shoulder pads, knee-length sweaters, and Cindy Lauper-inspired stirrup pants were all the rage and my sister had just received a brand-new pair of hot-pink jean stirrups. She was over the moon for her new outfit, which also came with a handful of jelly bracelets and a matching Mickey Mouse shirt. Just as we were trying on all our Christmas loot, my sister said, “Uh-oh! I have to pee!”
For whatever reason (I simply cannot explain my motives) I raced in front of her, dashed into the bathroom and stood on top of the toilet. She came in and pleaded with me to get off. She begged me to get down. She told me that it wasn’t funny. She told me it wasn’t nice. But apparently, I found the whole situation quite hilarious and I stood there on top of the toilet laughing hysterically. That is, until she became very quiet , turned bright red, and stood motionless while a big wet circle grew on the front of her brand new hot pink stirrup pants.
After that, I felt bad.
But apparently not bad enough to avoid the many other crimes that I’ve been accused of during the rest of my childhood.
Is this really my favorite Christmas?
No, of course not. There was also the Christmas during which I got my period for the first time and my mother felt the need to shout this information at top-volume throughout my Grandma’s house in front of a whole slew of male relatives. Which caused me such intense mortification that I considered taking up residence in the bathroom and never coming out again.
But that was probably my sister’s favorite Christmas. Not mine.
In truth, my sister and I are the best of friends. But when we were kids, we fought as often as we got along. My two boys are the same age difference apart as us and their daily squabbles send me over the edge. Regularly. They tease each other incessantly. They fight over toys. They tell tales on each other. Sometimes, I just want to scream, “Why can’t you just get along!!??” But I guess, considering my sordid past, I really don’t have the right to say this.
Christmas, for me, above all else, is a time for family. And family is love. I love my family with an intensity that sometimes crushes me to bits and makes it hard to breathe. I can’t imagine my existence without them. And I adore this time of year because it gives us all a reason to come together. With a family like mine that is spread halfway across the globe, our times together are infrequent, but they are wonderful.
And yes, though we are now grown, we still tease each other. We argue. We play favorites. We tell stories on each other. We throw each other under the bus. Even as adults. No one is perfect.
And though you won’t find me standing atop any toilets when my friends or family are desperate anymore, I can’t claim that I don’t do something equally irritating and juvenile, just maybe something a little more fitting for my age range.
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