Poor Little Stump

"What is that?"

Things like this don't usually stick out anymore. We drive by, shop next to and eat near obviously-worshiped things here everyday. But we were stuck in traffic. To one side sat this stump. One of the girls asked why it was decorated. For Christmas? Is it painted? Who painted it? What is that anyways?

It's a stump. I'm guessing from a banyan tree. 

Next to a parking lot of a sports store, across the street from a mall sits this pergola (?!) enshrining, or at least sheltering, this remains of a tree. It's wrapped and painted. It's garlanded and streamered (sometimes you just have to make up words). It's worshiped. "Poor little stump," said Molly. 

That stump cannot give life. In fact, it's not even a full tree. It cannot grow anew. But Molly's comment reminded me of the passage in Scripture we had been reading this Advent. 

"There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit. And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him..." Isaiah 11:1-2

It stuck in my mind because we had to explain to the girls what a stump was, and why it is so miraculous for a shoot to grow out of it. A failed, broken family tree...cut down...and in God's providence, the tree grows anew. Same root. Same history. But now we can see life. And not just a boy to continue to the line, the family name. But a Savior, a branch that will carry many shoots. A tree that will include all that are His. Here we can grow and rest. 

"In that day the root of Jesse, who shall stand as a signal for the peoples- of him shall the nations inquire, and his resting place shall be glorious." Isaiah 11: 10

Let us not worship the stump. Let us come to the Branch, the Giver of Life!

Why I Am Not a Feminist

This was the title of a little article in the "Times" here last week. It caught my eye and I did something I rarely do: read the entire article (not just the headline). It wasn't long. It wasn't deep or even very well-written. But the writer, a local humor-writer "Mrs. FunnyBones"...yes, that's her pen-name, caught me off guard.

In my naivete, I supposed this to be a piece on the equality of women while rejecting the lies of feminism: that women can and should do anything a man can and should do, that there is no difference in design or role or desire between the genders, that a woman has a right "over her own body" (and therefore to end any other life within her body) and is defined by her "sexual liberation". A good many books have been written on these sad assumptions and agendas of feminism. I have been shaped by them and their call back to Biblical womanhood and away from the culture's guise of "women's rights". I don't know why I thought Mrs. FunnyBones would fall in line with these books. Like I said, I was naive.

The article basically tells of the writer declaring to her (pink-haired, single, feminist) friend, "I am no longer a feminist". Shock and awe ensues. The accusations and "How could you?"s fly. And Mrs. FB quickly gives some statistics about women's IQ out-ranking men and studies showing women's brain-processing speeds higher than men. This, and her own experience as a woman of course, has given her reason to believe not only are women equals with men, but superior to men. The pink-haired friend calms down. They laugh knowingly...to themselves.

And I put down the paper, looking at my three girls at the breakfast table. I'm disappointed.

Because I'm not a feminist. But unlike this writer, and I suppose the vast majority of women, I have different reasons. I believe in the equality of men and women. All people are made in the image of God, male and female, old and young and unborn, healthy and sick. Women are worth just as much to God and should be treated with the same respect (paid the same for the same job, for example) as men. Yet, women are not superior. Since when did IQ tests prove that anyways? Is this what personhood is based on?

It's going to be an exhausting battle if that is what women are fighting for, to prove they are as-smart-as, as-strong-as, as-emotionally-unattached-as, as-liberated-as, etc any man. I am not a feminist because I am not fighting to show my value in IQ, multi-tasking, job performance or argument. I see what God has designed and what He has declared about His creation. And I will declare that, fight for it, to myself and those around me. This is not the feminist agenda. It is the gospel. It is good news to the oppressed and liberating to those held captive by cultural bias but also captive to their own identity-proving treadmill.

I could write extensively about this...many more paragraphs about my non-feminism. But it's late. And I have to get up early to proclaim the beauty of the gospel to three little girls. I get to show them their beauty and worth in God's eyes and mine. I point them away from earning favor or value and towards resting in what Christ has done for them, calling them His own. I have the privilege of unmasking the lies of this world that say "If you really want to be somebody you have to be _____". And I get to be their mom. Not a superior-than-their-dad sort of mom. Not super-mom or anti-feminist mom or purpose-less mom. I get to love and hold and fail and repent and sing and care for them. And I hope one day they say, "That is one reason I am not a feminist."

Short People

I'm 5'4". I am pretty sure this is on the shorter end of American height. But here, I feel like what my tall friends must have been feeling all along. Put me in a crowd of local women and I'll stick out...for many reasons...one being my towering five feet four inches! I'm even taller than a lot of men I know.

You don't really notice the height difference between our countries until you
1) are in a crowded elevator and are asked to reach above everyone else's heads to push the buttons,
2) easily find your husband in the dark, in the middle of a festival, on an extremely crowded street,
3) are asked to be in a group picture...back row please, or



4) your three-year-old easily reaches the sink in the public bathroom. "Mommy, it's Molly-size!"

Should I break it to her that this country was not made just for her? That her stature will soon surpass her friends and neighbors?

Maybe not just yet. It's fun being short...just like everyone else. 

Starfruit

Bet you didn't know this.

It's starfruit season. 

Rejoice for a little while, but then remember that no one actually likes starfruit. It's bitter and weird.

No one likes it....except perhaps Teresa's daughter. She spent 5 rupees (15 cents) a few weeks ago at a street food stall for some pickled starfruit with chilies (note: in my opinion, this does not improve the taste of said starfruit). Well, Teresa put a stop to her daughter's flagrant spending. But you know us moms. We'll do crazy things to make our kids happy.

So here's how you get to Teresa reaching over our balcony with my kids' butterfly net to snag a few starfruit. It was great fun for all. Plus we got about 30 bitter, unpalatable starfruit. Teresa's daughter was thrilled. She pickled them and added plenty of chili.












The best thing we use it for is stamping crafts.

Aunties and Uncles

"When you're here, you're family." So, says Olive Garden. I don't like to dwell on American restaurants with amazing salads and breadsticks.......for too long.....but I think their little slogan is true of the community here. Not the country as a whole, no. But I feel like we are really becoming good friends, like family, with so many people here.



A cool family thing about here is that kids call any adult older than them "Uncle"or "Auntie". For my American readers, here's the formula:

For people you know: Name+Uncle/Auntie (Manoj Uncle)
For people you don't know: (just) Uncle/Auntie
For people you don't know and are not addressing but want to talk about: Descriptive Adjective+Uncle/Auntie (Ironing Auntie, Fish Seller Uncle, Big Mustache Uncle)
This also applies to adults referring to older adults with respect. It can backfire though. Once a twenty-something called me "Auntie"....









Anyways, my kids have this formula down. It's normal life for them to interact with uncles and aunties every day. Kids, in general, seem to "get" community and welcoming quicker than I ever do. I love this part about being here. They learn to enjoy being with Brian and I as we interact with adults. We do most social things as a family, with other families. We have people in our home and are welcomed into other homes.

Of course, that means Brian and I are "Uncle and Auntie" to some kiddos here too. I, uh...don't know how that is going to turn out. :) 

Molly Turns 3

When you turn three and want a "painting chicken mermaid party" you get an "under the sea" party! There's a limit to birthday theme choices.

She wanted a craft. She wanted a chocolate cake with a crab and fish on it. She wanted a sign for the door, storytime and hot dogs cut in the shape of an octopus. We delivered. Because you know, it's fun to make this little girl happy. 

We made jellyfish out of paper cups. My friend, somehow, made this amazing cake! Lydia and I created a sign for the door. We read "The Singing Mermaid" to a riveted audience of children. I even made octopus-ish looking creatures out of hot dogs. Thank you pinterest. Nailed it. 

Also, we managed to unknowingly introduce a few friends to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (I called them peanut butter and jellyfish...ha!). I was tempted to take credit for this flavor combination, but alas I confessed it was the most popular un-glamorous sandwich in America. 

So, we made Molly happy. She does her share of making us happy every day. I'm supposed to say "I can't believe she's three!" but I can. Because, truthfully it feels like our family is a family with Molly. And it's only been three years since she came along. To think, only three years that we've had this daughter who loves to help, makes up silly songs and lights up a room. What a privilege and joy!

Maybe next year we'll do the "painting chicken mermaid party".

Regroup

I use this word a lot since moving here.

"Regroup."

As in, "Ok, so the store is closed for a holiday, let's regroup and figure out what Mommy will make for lunch." or "Yes, I know I said we'd go read books, but monkeys pooped on my laundry. I'm gonna need to regroup." or "The gas is out. Let's regroup and order pizza!". You get the picture. Basically, it's making lemonade out of lemons. It's not a bad thing to teach my kids, and hopefully it's character-developing for me as well.

But I get tired of regrouping. And here's where I wish character-development (or call it sanctification) wouldn't take so darn long. Once every four years, Brian's company has a big retreat. It happened just this past week. And on ONE of those days during the retreat we were going to get a free day with an optional family activity! We choose the Singapore Zoo. We were all looking forward to the animals, the cleanliness and order (I know, it's a zoo, but those are the sort of things I anticipate when I visit other countries now!), the whole it's-taken-care-of excursion-ness to it.

Well, it wouldn't make this sort of blog post if it lived up to my expectations. Due to a very slow immigration check-point and a lackadaisical bus driver we never made it to the zoo. Instead, we were dropped in the middle of the city (80 minutes from the zoo) with tired, hungry kids and no clue what to do.

Regroup. Make lemonade out of lemons.

First stop: ATM. We don't know the exchange rate so we guess and find a restaurant. Burgers and milkshakes! (Later we realize the milkshakes gave us food poisoning...but that's another blog post). We explore a toy store and find a park with turtles and some sort of prairie chicken. My kids find a gardener watering the lawn. To these profession regroup-ers, this is a water park!

So, it turned out to be an ok day. We regrouped. But I was so bummed I had to. I anticipated a break from my lemonade-making. Instead I got a pile of lemons. As I lay in bed with food poisoning the next day (with two of my kids on either side), I got angry. Angry at Singapore, the bus driver, the retreat planners, the milkshake and maybe a bit at God. Seems really silly to admit that. But it's true.

Eventually,I got over myself. I have a big enough God to take it, to hear me, to comfort me and surprise me again and again with grace in the midst of every single regroup. And after all, I do rather like lemonade. 

How Martha Saved My Mondays

Oh Martha. 

She's a little crazy. I mean, let's not forget she went to prison. Also, how on earth does she sheer her sheep, knit her own sweaters (after dyeing the yarn in her acai berry blend) and possess intimate knowledge of heirloom hydrangeas? 

Scary right? 

But let's face it. Give Martha butter and she can bake. Her cookie recipes (as well as pies, cakes and breads) are the best. I will not prove it to you picture by picture. This is not that kind of blog. Nor will I poll my audience. I will not be "the girl who ate every cookie" and blogged and later wrote a witty novel about it. I'm just saying. She puts a teaspoon of cinnamon with chocolate chip-peanut cookies. She whips up snickerdoodles without cream of tartar. Citrus cornmeal shortbread...genius. 

A few years ago, my friend Dana introduced me to Martha's baking. She gave me this book. People come to my house and look at like a coffee-table book. It has a pictorial table of contents for every cookie organized by texture. Read that last sentence again. Yes. Light and Delicate? Cakey and Tender? They are all here. 

A few months ago, my husband introduced me to Mondays...in a new way. He started co-leading a small group Bible study. Though Brian let me know it was not mandatory that I go, he really encouraged me (and the 3 kids) to go. Now, I don't want to make it sound worse than it is. It's Monday (right after a working Sunday...something I'm still getting used to), 25 minutes from our house, trying to participate (without frustration!) while my kids are hungry/tired/bored/disturbing the study. I didn't like it. I had a bad attitude, a case of the Mondays. 

Enter Martha. I mean, enter Jesus using Martha. 

I decided to start making cookies for the Bible study. Turns out cookies make people happy (including me as I come having tasted a few before the study). So, I started making a new cookie each week. Pretty soon, anticipation was building. What cookie is next? 

I don't think people come to the Bible study for the cookies. I don't think it hurts. If I'm honest, cookies got me to come a few times. I went out of obligation. I went with a job to do. But as I baked, God changed my heart. Maybe I found my purpose. Maybe I got into a routine. Whatever it was, God used Martha's cookies to get me over myself. 

Now I love Mondays. I really do. The community is coming together and people are seeing Jesus! It's still hot and right after an exhausting Sunday. My kids still interrupt and need me. And sometimes the cookies don't turn out just right. But (never thought I'd use this comparison) Jesus is better than Martha. He knows what He's doing. And I won't go into a baking/recipe analogy for sanctification. This (thank God!) is not that kind of blog. But He will use even cookies to point me to Him, what He's doing and how He will use me (and butter). 

Picture of the Week: Asian Molly

I like to think that my girls are seeing themselves as not so different than the people around them. It's still strange to my ears to hear Lydia or Molly refer to this place as "home". America is a place we visit. It's a place with Grandma, Chick-fil-a and dreams of riding bikes on smooth streets. But they don't have dosas or mangoes. This is home. For now.

So you can see where I'm going with this: The Magic School Bus, exactly. We have this book, "The Magic School Bus Gets Eaten". A magical story of food chains and how you can connect green pond scum to a tuna sandwich...get on board and let's find out! Ok, the story is not important for this post. It's the pictures. Molly...my blond-hair blue-eyed Molly, loves to point herself out as one of the characters in any story we read.

In this story she is the fifth kid behind Ms. Frizzle. That little girl in the pink wetsuit. On every page, she will find that girl and point her out, "That's me!".

Notice the girl two kids behind "Molly"...the one who looks like my Molly.
"No, Mommy. That's not me."

Who am I to argue about the self-perception of a two-year-old who's lived most of her life in Asia?

On Toil: [or "What's with all the worms, rotten eggs and poo?"]

There are worms in our eggs.

One I cracked last week was totally black. Rotten, stunk up the whole house.

Isabella has had terrible poo (may or may not be related).

Something mysteriously gnawed one of my cucumbers in the night. Our road has been dug up for repairs. One of the repairing trucks literally fell through the road.

Sometimes I feel this curse of toil. Adam got the bad news that because of his sin, work would no longer be easy. The ground would fight back. Eve got that whole pain in childbirth thing. That's real. Believe me. But also, as a helper to an Adam, I am not immune to his curse of toil. This curse affects me as I make a home. Home fights back.

Some of it's living in another culture. Some of it's having three young kids. Some of it's just my laziness or unmet expectations or selfishness. Some of it's rotten eggs. I mean, it just happens as I make my banana bread. And it's continual. Spinning like this merry-go-round.

But let me not despair into fatalism. All is not meaningless. And at the same time let me not make my battle with the worms an analogy of God's faithfulness. It's real. It's gross and frustrating and pressure-cooking my sin. It's covered by grace. Because we can expect toil but we can also hope in the promise of God working all things for our good and His glory. God will not redeem rotten eggs, but He will redeem me. He has promised to transform me more into His likeness (whether that's thanking God for rotten eggs, making a list of gratitude for all the not-rotten eggs, asking what Jesus would do with a rotten egg, or just processing my thoughts on a blog...I don't know yet).

I can hope with certainty in His promise. I can expect toil. Home will fight back with all it has. And yet, I am not home yet. I look toward that Home where there will be no fight, no wasted time, no fruitless work, and certainly no worms. 

Picture of the Week: Bake Sale

Alison and I accomplished a lot on Saturday morning. We got our kids out at the park (the "frog park": the one with no frogs but potential to have them because it has a small area of standing water, and some grass...that you cannot walk on). We met neighbors and realized we actually know quite a few people in our community. We ate baked goods (and sold them). We made 1800 rupees (about $30).

Clearly, the money wasn't the driving force.



Our little community hosted a "flea market"...which basically means you can rent a table and sell whatever you want. Alison and I baked. Pumpkin bread and cookies are kind of an oddity here. So in between the pani puri (look that up) and embroidered elephant purses, we were the sellers of exotic imports: things-baked-with-butter. Our cinnamon rolls and snickerdoodles sold quickly. Our kids found interesting caterpillars and flowers. And we felt like part of this community. Despite our uncommon goods ("Sooo, the snickerdoodle doesn't have Snickers in it?"), I dare say we didn't feel so uncommon.

I am starting to love this city. There are good many days I don't. But Saturday was a day that God gave me joy in where He's called me.

And all that butter didn't hurt. 

Isabella's Birthday Party (Video)

Isabella's ONE year old Birthday Party from Brian Stock on Vimeo.

Picture of the Week: Syrup

Far from the maple trees of Canada (and the even the factories of high fructose corn syrup), we must survive on whatever waffle toppings we can find.

Today, for Brian: cream cheese and green olives (which by the way, both are considered "gourmet imports" from our grocer). I was pretty excited just to get a waffle maker. We bought in Thailand while on a visa run. I forgot about the syrup.

My girls "settled" for peanut butter (another "gourmet import") and a dusting of powdered sugar.

I ate mine plain. Not because I'm trying to make a point. I just like plain waffles. And bland food in general. But that's off topic.



Just a note. Yes, we can find syrup. It is $7.50 a bottle (for the imitation stuff). I consider it a sacrifice to support our ingenuity (and my love of plain).

When in Sri Lanka

In case you, dear reader, ever travel to Sri Lanka, I'd like to give you a some things to frame your expectations.

 There will be baby sea turtles, that you can hold...on a random shack-like rescue project on the beach. Adults pay $2.50. Kids are free. The turtles are pretty awesome. 

 Your hotel will have the normal toiletries: toothbrush, shower cap and this random fun one - a "lady kit". I was hoping it was a chocolate bar and lavender body lotion. The mystery box contained two q-tips and a nail file. 

 Your bathroom may have a bottle opener in between the toilet and sink. You never know when you need to pop open a cold one. 

 There may be cute babies. But in my opinion the cutest are when you travel with us. 

 The sunset is beautiful. 

And if you have any ordained travelers, they will get to sick on comfy white seats partitioned off from the rest of the airport. I mean, if they want to. 

I know, I could be a travel agent. Let me know when to book your flight!

Picture of the Week: Urban Fun

What this blog is mostly about these days is the vast differences between living HERE and living THERE. And yes, it's about three cute little girls. That too.

I attempt to show you the surprising, odd-becoming-new-normal, fun and bothersome ways we live as foreigners here. Despite my irregular blog-posts there is quite a bit to write about. But sometimes I forget some of my culture shock doesn't come from this country or people, but from the fact that I live in a city. Brian spent most of his life in the suburbs. I grew up on an Air Force base, then in pseudo-countryside, finally to settle down in the just-barely-metro-Atlanta suburbs. This 11-million-people thing is new to me.

When you live in a city, at least our city, there are not many wide open spaces. The pools are...well, let's just save that for a different blog post. The grass is non-existent. We only have one store in the city with a parking lot. I'm not exaggerating.

So, when my friend Alison and I were on my apartment building's rooftop watching our kids ride scooters under the laundry lines and the water pipe flooded (how could I make this up?) we let them play in the puddles. "Urban fun," said Alison.

Urban fun comes in walking to the store, seeing the usual street dogs (we named them after ice cream flavors: Vanilla, Caramel, Chocolate). In eating a custard apple for the first time (slimy seeds...). In seeing a rat steal from the local market. In "pool parties" on our balcony.

All this everyday life, all this urban fun.

Picture of the Week: Hotdogs

It was a Friday night and I planned to make a simple American dinner at home. One of Brian's (and my kids') favorites: hotdogs and potato salad. Easy. But this is where the blog post comes in. Nothing catastrophic happened to mess with my dinner plans. It was just the little things, the unexpected but not "out of nowhere", the disruptive annoyances (or adventures...depending on how you look at it!) that made this dinner not so simple.

Friday morning: My girls and I walk to the store that has the hotdogs we all like. It's called "Village". They have the good cheese and scotch tape. It's pretty much the go-to place.
Anyways, despite the plentiful hotdog inventory, Village does not carry hotdog buns. Not a one. Basha (the other store down the road that sometimes carries the good pickles) is out as well. So, hotdogs, no buns. It's ok. I'm sure I can make a modified pigs in a blanket situation.

Friday lunchtime: I look online to figure out the right dough for pigs in a blanket. I get depressed at the amount of crescent roll recipes ("it's just so easy!") due to the lack of said crescent rolls in this country. Then I get a tinge angry ("this is not a recipe! crescent rolls and hotdogs...why are people giving this stars?"). Then I find some down-home mom that has justified pigs in a blanket "homemade" is somehow healthy for her growing kids. Whatever. I have the dough recipe.

Friday afternoon: I wash, cut and boil the potatoes. Twenty minutes later I check the stove and the flame is gone. Gasp! The gas went out. We have a propane tank that lasts usually 6-8 weeks and then with no warning, poof...gas is out. No more cooking.
I call the "gas guy"...I honestly don't know his name. "Gas guy" is how he's listed in my phone.
He is "out of station" (out of town) and won't return until tomorrow. Fortunately, the potatoes are cooked and I can make the potato salad. And I have a loving husband who has a restaurant up his sleeve he wants to take us to. He's not willing to eat starch with a side of starch for dinner....though I might be.

Friday evening: The restaurant, Connies, is a weird mix of plaid table clothes, diner feel and Bob Marley music. They don't have Coke. We order steaks (pretty good here!) and my kids dance to "We're Jammin'" in front of a random full length mirror they have set up.

Saturday: Make the pigs in a blanket. Serve up the potato salad and green beans (cut, destringed, frozen 3 days before!). Brian asks if there is coleslaw. I shoot him an angry look. He wisely compliments the potato salad.

And we live to eat another dinner. Simple, American dinner. 

Picture of the Week: Real Life (part 3)

This is real.

Sometimes your toddler wakes up from a nap (wearing only a diaper) and wants to (no, insists on) playing bunny-house with your Hindi tutor. 

Picture of the Week: Real Life (part 2)

This is real.



















Sometimes a mosquito is left undetected (unzapped) in your baby's room. You wake to find a smiling, bitten baby face. 

Picture of the Week: Real Life

This is real.

Sisters can stay focused on art projects when the other is under the table eating your (paper) scraps. 

Picture of the Week: High chair

First time in a high chair. Eating puffed rice. Looking quite cute. (This is blog-talk for complete sentences.)

Molly moved into a "big girl booster seat" as Isabella sequestered her chair. Mealtimes don't involve Isabella on my lap attempting to pull my plate off the table anymore. Hooray for progress!

Picture of the Week: Adjusted

People want to know how are kids are adjusting. From what I can tell that's about all kids do. They adjust. New playmates? Later bedtime? No, you can't go outside right now. Yes, you have to wear clothes today. We're having that for dinner? Move to a different country? Adjust, adjust, adjust.

I picked up one of Lydia's sketchbooks and found this drawn inside.


"Lydia," I said, "what is this a picture of?"
"It's our flag Mommy."
"Our flag?"
"Yeah. This flag is our flag."




Whatever else it means, I think it means these little girls are adjusting quite well.

Picture of the Week: For Delivery

Brian continues to remind me that although these surroundings seem ordinary to me after a while of living here, there are still many things that may seem odd or funny to others.



This may be one of them.

In this country, you can get anything delivered. Anything. I get my groceries delivered. The milk man comes to my neighbors' every morning. I had a pair of dress socks for Brian delivered once. There is usually no extra charge besides the customary 50 cent tip.

And almost everything is delivered on motorcycles. Lots of riders wear backpacks stuffed with orders. Other bikes have coolers or hotboxes on the back.

There is a man in our neighborhood who delivers fish from his bicycle. He doesn't have a cooler. You can pretty much smell him coming. Maybe I'll get a picture of him next time. 

Lydia's Ballet Recital

Lydias ballet recital full from Brian Stock on Vimeo.

Lydia's "Bee"-Day

She's five! 

Her birthday fell on a Friday this year, so we got to have a bumble bee 19-kid-strong party the day of. She has a nurturing and adventurous love for lizards and other creatures in our garden. She loves books, princesses, art, dressing up (for real and pretend), her scooter, running, making her sisters laugh, helping Mommy, candy and hosting parties. Lydia makes up songs about seasons, if she were an ice cream (she'd eat herself all up), Isabella's cuteness and Jesus. She is my second favorite introvert, my little sidekick, my beautiful sweet daughter. 

A few pictures from the big day:

Helping Teresa clean up before the party. 

The Queen Bee

These outfits only lasted the first 20 minutes...but they were cute anyways

Bee on a spoon relay...epic!

Check out Brian's socks

My best attempt at bee stripes. Yes, I know it's crooked. 

Picture of the Week: Bump

They've torn up the road adjacent to our apartment. This manhole cover was propped up and a huge mound is surrounding it. Finally someone had the decency to put this "bump" warning sign in the hole (yes, IN the hole).

The picture does not do this justice.

Picture[s] of the Week: Christmas!

A smattering of Christmas pictures

 Christmas dresses on three beautiful girls

 I mean, what is this cuteness?

 Our building's Christmas party (hosted by neighbors upstairs) attended by mostly people who do not actually celebrate Christmas. 

 Let's get this party started!

 "Candy Cane Bread" our traditional Christmas morning breakfast

 Yes, we got Molly a potty for Christmas. Don't judge. 

 Bella is psyched by these teething rings

 Santa Brian passing out gifts

 Cranberry lotion from my girls. Yes!

 Church kids perform "Away in a Manger" (Here they are the "cattle lowing")

 She wanted a baby you could bath with REAL water

 The most-favorite...scooter. 

Helping Daddy build a play-house