all i want for christmas is everything you've never given to me:

we will never stop blogging about our families. we don't care how annoyed you become/already are. we love crazy people; they simply won't be ignored.

after posting about molly yesterday, she calls, says, "something's happened to mom." preface: my mother is a superhero, a businesswoman, a concert pianist, a writer, and a mom who made fresh squeezed orange juice in the morning for her kids before heading off for a 12 hour work day. each day. she takes care of everyone. all of the time. she does "the right thing" a startling--i daresay unnerving--amount of the time. she buys cars and cuts her hair off like a man's without giving anyone the heads up. basically: bad ass. that being said, she does does does and never asks for anything. seriously. i don't think she bought herself a new outfit for the greater part of the eighties and nineties.

so she calls from her plush office chair. we imagine her in pressed trousers and one of my dad's sweaters. perhaps her red leather day planner is opened before her. the woman likes to make lists and lists. she uses the word "sub-lists."

molly answers. and this i can tell you for sure, no imagination needed. luke is throwing himself against the stove and spitting because mol won't give him candy. morgan is yelling that the neighbor boy is "THE MEANEST MAN IN THE WORLD" at the top of her lungs. they are thawing uncrustable sandwiches for dinner. mom tells molly to grab a pen. molly looks for one in the cupboard.

mom says, "as you know, my birthday is coming up. and christmas. this is what i'd like." pause. "are you ready?"

molly: yeah.

mom: a flannel nightgown from wal-mart, brand name lanz, spelled l-a-n-z, size medium; decorative socks; a gift certificate to dillards so i can get my erno lazlo skin care regime; gold hoop earrings--

molly: you don't wear hoop earrings.

mom: yes, but i think i will. anyway, those; your father and i want to try the new brasserie downtown, so a gift certificate there; lavender bath salts; cocktail napkins; the oscar de la renta perfume i like...not the one with the spray but the old kind they don't carry anymore. and if i think of anything else, i'll let you know.

she's snapped, understandably. this has only happened once before, on mother's day in 1991, when we didn't do anything for her. let me explain: we were 10 and 14. we blame my father absolutely. all i remember is that she left for a day and the rest of us no longer knew what to do with ourselves.

decorative socks. without a trace of irony.