The Obligatory Mother's Day Post or I Should Have Known Better

It was a sunny day in a sea of rainy ones. Literally, I have had 3 days off in the past 10 days or so, and yesterday was the only one where it did not rain. We were itching to get out of the house. So we loaded into the car, first stopping to get both of the boys much-needed haircuts. Yes, I said both. Zachary got his first haircut yesterday and yes, I took photos and yes, I cried. He looks so much older now with his big-boy haircut that it breaks my heart. As soon as I figure out the great camera debaucle and techno difficulties, I will post them. But anyhow, after that, we headed to dinner. And then to an outdoor mall, which was wonderful in the gorgeous weather. Of course the first stop did me in in a way for which I was not prepared.
We went to Hallmark because I wanted to look at Vera Bradley bags. Lately I carry either a backpack that can fit my textbooks, work essentials, and laptop, or I carry a diaper bag. I wanted to find some sort of big handbag that can be a hybrid for me.
But it was Hallmark. 2 days before Mother's Day. And they had their Mother's Day wares on full display, so I ended up browsing. First at the recordable storybooks they sell now, where a version of On the Night You Were Born got me feeling more than a little emotional at the thought of Zachy's first birthday this week. And then a recordable version of Guess How Much I Love You, which was the go-to book with Evan, who is almost a full decade old. Which made me tear up. And then the display of trinkets and miscellaneous crap designed to be Mother's Day gifts, with their poetry and quotes, which led me to full-blown tears and had me fleeing the store in embarrassment while John and the kids followed behind me, asking a little too loudly, "Are you really CRYING????" (Of course I ran into a coworker on the way out the door who asked the same thing.)
I mean, really, how stupid was I to think I could handle that store this weekend? I thought having Zachary at this time of year was going to make it all better.
Turns out there are some things that neither time nor Zachary and Evan can heal.
I miss my mother.
I have missed her for the 13 years she has been gone. I mourn that she never got to meet my husband and see us marry, that she never got to hold any of my babies. The only reason for me to celebrate this day compared to last year is that last year, I was having unbelievable contractions, as it was just days before they finally took Zachary. And this year, Zach is here. And Evan. And John. I love life and I love my boys. But I miss my mother.
I ended up drowning my tears in some shopping that day: a couple of outfits and literally a huge shoppping bag full of bath and body products from Victoria's Secret. This was my Mother's Day gift, since John is funny about buying me gifts when I am the breadwinner and he has no income from an outside source. But I brought my purchases home and expected to feel a little better once removed from the situation. And I do. I feel a little better, but the whole episode brought on a sort of melancholy that has settled over me for the weekend.

So for all of the mothers out there, I hope you all enjoy your day. I know some tremendous, amazing moms out there, some of whom are celebrting their very first Mother's Day. I would normally post something sappy about motherhood here, but I am thinking you will excuse me of this. There isn't much celebrating going on here. I just miss my mom.

Easter for the Heathen

Okay, so I do not get into the religious stuff. Never really have. And despite the plastering of bunnies and eggs all over everything, I want to remind you that Easter is a religious holiday. And I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty about not going to church. But nevermind that. Chocolate for everybody!

I spent the day being very lazy until about 9 PM tonight, which is when I had the realization that I have yet another of the seemingly endless stream of marketing papers due tomorrow while I am scheduled to work. So I did get that finished. Other than that, I got nuthin'.

Zachy got his first ever Easter basket, which involved a tiny taste of chocolate and a couple of the requisite Peeps. I hate those damned things, but love 'em or hate 'em, they are a part of Easter and Zach got a row of them. And just like Mama, the kid hated them. He took one lick and threw the offending neon-pink chick on the living room floor. Other than that, his basket was filled with small-ish toys, like he needed any more. Evan's basket was another story altogether. I am awaiting the appearance of CPS workers since there is no way in hell that a kid with the dental issues he has had needs that much candy. But he is a kid and it is Easter. I can just make him brush his teeth after Every. Little. Bite.
So after basket fun, my boys and I headed out for a leisurely lunch a local Italian joint. And came back to play video games together on a very rainy afternoon. (Yeah, turns out I am a hardcore bitch and enjoy blowing brains out via Call of Duty: Black Ops. And before you say a word, that one only comes out when Evan isn't around--and he was off watching a movie or plannning his planetary takeover, either one, while we played it!)

So now here I am. The house is quiet, the paper is done, and I am speaking to you through the blog I rarely have time to write on these days. And I am so very grateful for the fact that we had such a relaxing day. And I am reflecting on the past two Easters. 2009: I was so busy working like crazy that the shopping for candy and basket and other supplies slipped through my fingers. And I had to call John from work the night before and tell him to take my debit card and go to the store and get Evan stuff for a basket and that I would put it together when I got home in the morning. He bought a package of Reese's eggs. That's it. No basket, no grass, no jelly beans or Peeps. No solid chocolate bunny or stuffed chick or spring-themed book. A package of Reese eggs. I cried and cried because when I tried to fix his error by stopping and getting the stuff on the way home, they were all out of everything. That was the year Ev got his Easter basket in a large wicker laundry basket. There were no complaints from him, though. And 2010: Ahhhh, that one. The pregnant one. I won't even go there since it was in the last month I was pregnant, and therefore probably the darkest of all of them. I just remembering John coming through well enough that I was pleased with the way Ev's Easter turned out. And I remember trying not to grimace through the contractions so Evan wouldn't feel bad as we played board games and colored in my bed, all while muching on Easter candy.

I'll never be sure why Easter-time is always so blah for me. The only theory I have is that the period between mid-April and mid-May was always Mom's time. Mothers' Day and her birthday. And since her death, it has been the hardest time of year. This year is so different, though. May 12th will forever more be the day I heard the phrase "mature lungs", got the call to tell me to be at the hospital the next day so they could end my misery. Mom's birthday. And then we have the 13th. Zach's. Suddenly the April-to-May transition isn't a sad time to think about the anniversaryh of Mom's death or how I miss her on Mothers' Day. Suddenly this is a time of gratitude and peace and happiness. Once again, thank you, Zachary.

Before I Forget

I spoke too soon, and Zach has some respiratory thing going on. He keeps spiking a 102 degree fever, has a bad cough, and a runny nose. Evan has the same, minus the fever. Zach, however, also has wheezing. (Yep, I whip out the stethoscope whenever my kids have a cough to hear what is going on in there...). Evan is getting kiddo cold medicine while Zach gets his inhaler and alternating Tylenol and Motrin. Zach's front gums are terribly swollen, so I hope we at least get some teeth out of this.

And Mama Ferris reminded me with her post today that I forgot to mention my V-Day surprise! John got me a virtual crap-ton of roses: a dozen red from him and a dozen of the most gorgeous hot pink from the boys. Before they die, I wanted to capture a pic of the pink ones because I have never seen this color in a rose before. The camera didn't do it justice. But I woke up to get ready for work on Valentine's Day and they were there beside me. Love him.

Now off to work. Again. And hoping my babies are feeling better when I get home tonight.

Happy 2011

Okay, so the New Year is upon us. Incidentally, I am now a year older, and don't even get me started about the Baby New Year stuff. I heard my whole life how I was the second baby born that year, and thus got the shaft.)

2011 has to be better than 2010.

Of course I started off 2010 with contractions. But 2010 was also the Year of Zachary. With this in mind, it was all worth it. But I remember that first trip to the hospital like it was yesterday. Crushing because I had held out hope that my pregnancy with Zach would be so different from the one with Evan. When I felt that first contraction, I knew exactly what it was. I held my belly and breathed deeply and waited. The next came 6 minutes later, and then 6 minutes after that. And I cried. Oh, how I cried. I didn't even tell my doctor right away. I continued having them like that for weeks before I finally admitted to my doctors what was going on. It took them getting to be 2 minutes apart before I told them I couldn't take it, and I admitted in defeat that it had been going on for some time. I know this seems crazy, but I didn't want to admit what was going on. And I had been to the show before and knew what followed. My hope is that you, the reader, will never have to hear your baby referred to as a non-viable fetus like I did with both boys. Because even at the size of a bean, he was still our baby. Somehow we made it through, though.

2010 saw Evan turning 9 years old. Nine! My baby! And when I stepped away from work and pre-medicine and I looked, his face stopped having the roundness of a baby's and took on the angles of John's face. He is in the midst of the last of his primary school years. Before I know it, he'll be a teenager, too cool for mom. And then he'll be in a cap and gown, and I will be regretting each and every minute I allowed to slip by without appreciating it fully. Children grow all too fast.

And my John and our 10-year anniversary. I found a gray hair on his head for the first time this year. And his crow's feet got a little more noticeable. Yet when I was reflecting back and looking at the pictures of the day we married, he looked the exact same to me. I don't know how this is, other than that he is still my JohnJohn.

My family is on the cusp of some great opportunities of which I cannot speak just yet, but I am convinced that 2011 is going to be stellar as I continue on with the three men in my life in this, my 34th year.

So Happy New Year. Be blessed. Be happy. Be healthy.

Have Baby, Will Travel

So we are getting ready for our exodus to John's mom's for Christmas. How appropriate that we will spend Christmas Eve (The Great Ten-Year Anniversary, incidentally) in the very house where we were married in a civil service all of those years ago. I'm also excited for John's mom to meet Zach again. The last time she saw him, we could count the number of his weeks on Earth with 2 hands. He's a completely different baby by now. What am I also excited about? 6 entire days off! I didn't even have to use any vacation time, just some creative scheduling and no overtime this week. (side note: It's amazing I have any vacation time, but I do--2 weeks' worth. It accrues by the number of hours I work, and I have worked that much since my return from bedrest.)
Anyhow...
What am I not excited for? The trip. Zach is on the verge of sitting, but not quite there. After a minute or so, he will do a complete face plant. Which means baby bathtub must go. Bumbo must go. Pack'n'Play, of course, must go. John is unloading the stroller from the car as we speak, and I am opting for just the Ergo for our travel needs. And then, just when I was singing the praises of the way we have chosen to feed Zach, I found the only drawback: travel. Between frozen and fresh breastmilk, homemade baby food, and more, I have to transport a lot of stuff that must stay cold. I'm trying to get creative because I don't think I could fit a standard cooler in the car if I tried. So I finally found the benefit of buying all of those pumps, in that each one came with a day carrier. Plus I bought an extra day carrier. And then there are also all of those little ice packs sent in my shipments of breathine to keep the syringes cold. I knew I kept them for a reason. But regardless, it is a Big Operation.
In the meantime, John is out there right now, cleaning out the car that looks as if homeless people live in it. He just came in and said, in complete amazement, "Ha! The mystery is solved!" As he proffered about a half dozen Avent pacifiers that he insists he found in just one floorboard of the backseat. We had been lamenting the disappearance of the binkies just yesterday. I buy them by the truckload, it seems, but can only manage to find one at a time. And I am OCD enough that I match his pacifiers to his outfits, so this has driven me a little nuts. (I know I may need professional help, but hey, my kid always looks good, right?)
Of course this is all going on when John reminds me that I work at the urban ER tonight, which doesn't have a cafeteria. And so I have to pack food for my shift tonight, my entire pump because there is no lactation room, and more. So God help me, but there is also a huge stockpot of homemade ravioli cooking away on the stove for both my to-go meal and the big boys' dinner.
Zach keeps farting, and so I know the Great Poop is coming.
Evan cannot find his car charger for his DS. (Seriously, can't the kid just read a fricken book???)
And speaking of chargers, where in the Blue Hell is the charger for my camera?

And, holy crap, I forgot about all of those Christmas gifts I have to take.
I should've Fed-Ex'd 'em.
Screw that. I should've stuck with my ghetto, giftcards-for-everyone philosophy. I mean, did I really need to get John's stepdad the UK Snuggie because it was so cheesy that I found it hilarious?

I need a bigger car.
I still refuse to buy a minivan.
Screw it.

No Longer a Believer

Picture the scene: I am sitting on the floor, playing with Zach and asking him (though I know he won't answer) what he would like for Santa to bring him for his first Christmas. Evan, who is sitting beside us, erupts into giggles. I ask him what is so funny. He doesn't answer at first, but after some prodding, he whispers, " We have to keep up appearances, you know, for Zach." I ask him what he is talking about, and his reply was, "Zach still believes."

So we started this whole conversation in which my 9-year-old baby boy confessed that he no longer believed in Santa. When I asked him where all of his Christmas presents come from, he told me he knows I buy them. "Not Daddy because he doesn't work", he said. I first tried to deny this, then told him that the money I earn is Daddy's money, too. That Daddy works taking care of him and of Zach so I can work. He bought this, but still denied Santa Claus.

"Mother, do you really expect me to believe that one man goes to all of those houses, all over the world, in one night??? It would take him all night just to get here from the North Pole."

First of all, "Mother"????? When did I stop being Mommy or Mama and start being Mother??? Secondly, I tried to explain that Santa is magic, to which I got this reply:
" No way. Magic is just an illusion. And besides, like I said, he couldn't posibly get to those houses. He would have to travel at the speed of light and no human can do that."
It became apparent that I was not going to win this one. And then I became sad.
My baby is growing up too fast.
It isn't that I am so distraught over Santa. I am sad over the loss of innocence. The loss of wonder at the holiday season. He will no longer give that little gasp of surprise and have that little spark of amazement when he sees the gifts under the tree on Christmas morning He won't hurry to the plate of cookies left for Santa, just to check if they had been eaten. And for him, from now on, Christmas will no longer be magical. He'll know I worked to pay for those toys. He'll know John and I stayed up late wrapping them for him. He may even say he is too old to visit Santa and get the cute annual low-quality photo we get to chronicle that year's holiday season. I can literally see him grow in those photos over the past nine years. And because we are not a religious family, Christmas will just be about gifts.

(Image: Evan at 2 years: when he still believed, when I was still "Mommy", when Christmas was still magical, and his innocence was still intact.)

Ghetto Me

I've been bringing out my inner Ghetto self here recently. The evidence is as follows:

Exhibit A:
I have resurrected my maternity coat from last winter. I had been making my other non-maternity coat work--a lovely charcoal wool peacoat--until the lining got snagged and ripped. It came time to buy a new one. I had put it off over and over, but then I bought this beautifully tailord black wool peacoat from a maternity bouique. The thing cost a great deal more than I woud ever spend on a coat. And then I got put on bedrest. So other than a few rogue outings that were against doctor's orders, it never saw the light of day because I didn't. Unless you count the gazillion trips to the hospital in which I was so miserable that putting on my coat nver even came to mind. The beauty of this coat is that one could never tell it was maternity witout looking at the tag, and I noticed last weekend that it easily fits around Zach in his Ergo carrier. So I am wearing it this winter.

Exhibit B:
After our run-in with cooties, I need new furniture. I am seriously disgruntled about the bed. But the problem is our home. We live in a 2-bedroom. At the time, the price was right. Plus I was in school, and had no plans of any other children beside Evan. So here comes Zach. It was no biggie at first because I wanted Zach in my room, and if we lived in a 15-bedroom mansion, I still would have put his crib in my room. Plus, there is too much of an age gap to have him share a room with Ev. Evan will be in the throes of 'tweendom when Zach is a mere toddler. Well, my plan has fallen through. Zach has so much crap that it is taking over the entire house. (Incidentally, I forgot about this part of having a baby.) He needs his own room, and I refuse to move until we are ready to buy. I'm a big girl now and am tired of renting, but we are't exactly ready to make the leap because I cannot, at this time, afford a house that suits my above-my-means taste. So, as I am perusing furniture, I come up with what I think is a solution: a sleeper sofa! That's my bright idea. This way, as we are putting our life back together, Zach can have his own room complete with more room in other living spaces bcause his crap will be PUT AWAY in his new, all-to-himself, spcious room. John and I will sleep in the living room on the sleeper sofa. This means that is the only piece I have to buy, too. Of course I realize this will suck afer a while, but I think we can make it work for the interim before we buy a house that fits us better as a family. Then, once we reach that stage, and can be an extra bed for guests. Ghetto!

Exhibit C:
I really don't give 2 craps about this one! Unless you are my child, you are getting giftcards from me this Christmas. Sorry 'bout it! But odds are, if you got a card or gift from John and I, as a couple, in the past 10 years, I was the one who fought the crowds at the stores, fretted and waffled over what to buy for people who are as unlike me as anyone can get, then waited in line forever, ony to get home and gift-wrap the damned thing I bought. Quite honestly, I don't have time or energy for that shit this year. I have endured a hellacious pregnancy, fought cooties I brought home from my job taking care of sick people, and subsequently lost everything from said cooties. I attach myself to a milking device every 2 hours, whether I need sleep or not. I have a new baby and haven't done this crap in 9 years. And I work too much---so much that every offday is another opportunity to work more---about 70 hours per week. No matter how much I love you, I am not going to spend even more time away from my babies on your gift this year. Forgive me. I'll be less self-centered and tacky next year. Look at the bright side: your acceptance of a thoughtless gift means I may actually find time to take my offspring to see Santa, or give me a chance to bake Christmas cookies with Evan. My children will thank you!

So there you have it: Ghetto Andrea. Just a few examples of how I am losing my class.

Thankful

For cherub cheeks and baby giggles.
For Eyes of liquid brown and sparkling blue.
For children's smiles that can light the darkest of rooms.
For adventures in motherhood.
For healthy boys.

For memories of my mother.

For 10 years in December.
For his ability to make me laugh.
For the strength with which we cling to one another when the times are rough enough to be able to pull us apart.

For my job.
For the patients I am able to comfort.
For being tough enough to endure it when I have done all I can.

For a home filled with kind hearts and warm laughter on this cold, rainy November day.
For good books and warm blankets.
For great cups of coffee at any time of day.

For my yesterdays that taught me so much.
For today with all of the great loves in my life.
For tomorrow and whatever it may hold.

For all of these things, I am filled with gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving. Thanks for reading.

In Pictures

So my computer has been acting goofy for quite some time. It wouldn't let me upload photos for anything! Well, I temporarily fixed it, though I will need to replace it soon. (Excuse to buy my MacBook, yo?!?) So this is what you've missed over the past month or so.

Exactly 6 months after his birth, taken on November 13 at 1:05 PM.

Zach works on crawling.

Zachy on our first really cool day.

Zach's new-found affinity for the remote control.

This has to be the cutest ear of corn.....EVER!!!!!

Ironman and company, ready for departure. Halloween, 2010.

Don't Tell Him

We have this running joke in my little family. That John got off too easy. My birthday is New Year's Day. And our anniversary is Christmas Eve. He will never, ever be able to forget one or the other, thus saving him from the Doghouse forever. John, you're welcome.

So a coworker was making me rather sad because she is a single mother and for one reason or another, she has just had rotten luck with scheduled holidays this year and has missed out on that time with her kid. So after looking at the schedule and confirming our tentative holiday plans with John, I told her I would help cover her Christmas Eve assaignment. John's mom has 20 days off in a row in December, and so long as I am off for Christmas Day so I can spend time with my family, 4 or 8 hours of work on the eve are not going to wreck anything.

Then two of my coworkers piped up: "Andrea, isn't that your anniversary?????"

Oh. Shit.

Yes it is. I forgot.
My 10-year anniversary, to be exact. A milestone that is a pretty big deal, considering the crap we have endured together. I didn't even think about it because our anniversary always gets lost in wrapping presents and making sure Santa has cookies, in last-minute shopping and stuffing stockings at 2 AM after Evan has finally lost the sleep battle. Somewhere in there, we tell each other "Happy Anniversary". That's it. And that is our fault because we are the ones who got married on a date that would never be about us anymore once we became parents. And so I forgot.

Don't tell John.

Succumbing to the Pressure

I did something comletely against my religion--if I really had a religion, that is.
Lemme explain!

Every year, I have made Ev a killer Halloween costume. It all started when he was a year old. There was a costume contest, and Ev was dressed in a store-bought costume as a little lion. Not original, I know. But so, so cute because he even learned to roar. And he was little--about the size Zach is now because Evan was such a scrawny baby. So for what we were lacking in originality, we made up for in cuteness. He got zilch! And I took it as a personal attack and vowed never again!

The following year, when Evan was just 2, it became my mission in life to win that stupid contest. What made it especially difficult was that everybody competed against each other for the big prizes-all ages, all costume types....And I had never so much as sewn a button on a shirt before. But, damnit, I was going to find a way to make THE costume to rule them all. And so I bought fabric, buttons, hair dye, face paint, and tights.

And I made Evan into the cutest Oompa Loompa ever. Strangers were asking to take his picture. I did so well And when it came time for the contest and John walked Evan up onto the stage, you could hear everyone saying, "Look at that little boy!" And when it came time to announce the winners, Evan didn't win a thing for his age group. But he did win for the entire thing, beating out other babies,bigger kids, teens and adults. The seed was planted, and I have been making his costumes ever since. We've done french fries, a dinosaur, a bus driver (complete with the bus), and more. And with each passing year, as Evan gets older, it gets more and more difficult to do this because his tastes and interests change. This year? He wanted to be a pilot. Have you ever tried to find pilot-looking clothes for a 9-year-old boy? So it was a no-go. And then we found ourselves beyond the Gates of Hell this week (see next post) and it never dawned on me that Halloween is just days away. And Evan doesn't have a costume. Gasp! At this point my Mommy License is in serious jeopardy of revocation. But I just figure I'll come up with something.

So tonight, we're at the grocery store, of all places, and Ev finds a rack of cheap Halloween costumes. Including an Ironman one. Oh, the horror! Other than the Oompa Loompa, I have this thing about characters. (Technically, the Oompa Loompa was first a literary character and thus exempt from this.) No characters. I just can't do it. My children have received shirts with characters on them as gifts, and I hate it. I have no idea where this came from with me. A perfect example is the shirt Evan got as a gift from John's sister when the movie Cars was all the rage. And it had Lightening McQueen on it. And I really would have been happier if I could toss it into the bin of clothes to be donated, but Evan insisted on wearing it, and I secretly longed for the day when he would outgrow it. I just find it too commercial, too unoriginal, too cheesy. So we steer away in every way, including clothes, toys, and even Halloween costumes.

So back to the grocery store: Evan wants the Ironman costume, and I want to die. I'm trying to come up with arguments to counteract his. But he has some pretty damned good rationalizations as to why he needs this costume. These arguments include my role as Bad Mommy, that he still doesn't have a costume 2 days before Halloween,and there is no way, at this point, that I can make one. That it is the only one in his size. That it isn't tacky, cheesy plastic, but rather good quality. That it is on sale because no other respectable mom waits until 2 days before Halloween like we did. Ahhhhh, the drawbacks of having a smart kid--he could rival the most hardcore, cutthroat attorney out there!

I bought him the damned costume. It kills me. Trick-or-Treat this year is going to be a traumatic experience for me this year, because everywhere I turn, I will see a kid dressed exactly like mine. I imagine myself losing Evan in a sea of other Ironmans on the street. But on the bright side, this is a learning experince for me: never, ever wait until the last minute!

The Snob's Worst Nightmare

I am a snob when it comes to holiday decorations. If the person I am about to describe sounds like you, I apologize in advance. Know that I am talking of the people who take it to the extreme. Every year, John and I do this thing. We will pick a day that has been particularly stressful or otherwise difficult, and we will go on our annual Tacky Plastic Christmas Parade.

Let me give you the history of this. Just a few years after my mom's death, I was still having a difficult time with the holidays. I had befriended a girl who ended up being the one who introduced me to John, and one day I was feeling rather down.
"I know what you need, Andi," she said. "You need to go on a Tacky Plastic Christmas Parade!"
We all loaded into her small pickup truck, and cruised the neighborhoods of Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky and laughed our asses off. I think I may have even peed a little bit. Laughing, of course, at the people who fill their lawns with the most amount of the tackiest Christmas statues and decorations one could imagine. Mismatched lights thrown haphazardly over bushes. And a few years later, the enormous inflatables. One or two of these is fine. This is something different altogether. But when you live in a run-down trailer, there is probably something better upon which to spend your money than an inflatable that is indeed bigger than your home.
So how do I decorate for Christmas? A tasteful wreath on the door. Maybe some candles inside on windowsills. Possibly a Christmas tree in the front window. Garland on the front porch railing. If I put up any lights, they are always white, placed precisely, and both are put up and taken down in a timely manner. Tasteful.

Of course th phenomenon of tacky holiday decoration has not stopped at Christmas. Nooooo. They do it for all sorts of holidays. And since I live in a duplex, I fall victim to the tastes of others.

So I wake up from my nap today after working a 12 last night to find my neighbors coating the front lawn--the shared front lawn---with that fake spider web shit. And they had the nerve to ask me if they could put my patio furniture--tasteful wrought iron patio furniture--in the back yard so they could put some tacky ghost he whittled out of wood in the front. And they are rigging up a fake dead body to the tree. And have a giant plastic fake spider they are putting on the house as I am typing ths. I cannot take it. I am going to die. And I have a feeling our house is going to be on the Tacky Plastic Christmas Parade this year.