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Traditions are a haphazard thing with me. Some of my traditions are based on activities the Meloch family did when I was growing up (birthday cake to Jesus, hiding Easter baskets) and some I picked up from various places that I have lived. I picked up one such tradition while I was in Germany.

Last night, Gabe said, “Mom, tomorrow’s December 1st and you forgot to get the chocolate calendars!” Boys after the ages of 7 love to be know-it-alls. They view themselves as so much smarter than their mothers and inform their mothers of this fact throughout the day.

I have developed the following response to this “I’m smarter than you attitude” based on education completed. For me, I say, “The day you start your Master’s Degree at University is the day you are smarter than me. Until that day, I am smarter than you whether you believe it or not.” If you did not go to college, you may adjust this remark to , “The day you start college or trade school is the day you are smarter than me. Until that day, I am smarter than you whether you believe it or not.”

Hopefully, by the time that day comes they’ll be out of the house and no longer driving you nuts. When I told Gabe this, he replied, “The day I start my Masters degree, I’m going to call you on the phone and say, ‘Mom, I’m smarter than you’.” I’m certain he will. The kid will probably get a phD, just to prove how much smarter he is than his mother. If he wasn’t so like his mother in doing whatever it takes to prove someone wrong, it would be easier to stomach.

Not wanting only to prove his mother wrong, last night he decided to prove his aunt wrong as well. Every year my brother-in-law’s mom sends me a wreath she makes from the pines on her land in Northern Minnesota. Whenever I open the box, the smell of home greats me.

Considering this a good task for Gabe, I told him to hang the wreath under the lights by the door. I asked him to check if his daddy had any wire and a wire cutter for the task. He declared, “I’m going to use a pipe cleaner, it has wire in it.” I was on the phone with my sister at the time and she commented that she didn’t think that would hold. After hearing this comment, Gabe was determined to prove her wrong.

He found a 10 pound exercise hand weight and tied it under a chair using the pipe cleaner to test the pipe cleaner’s strength. (The boy spends an excessive amount of time watching myth busters, his new favorite show, and is constantly relaying to me how the two guys have proven or disproved something.) The kid is destined to be a mechanic or engineer or maybe a mad scientist.

The wreath is now hanging by a pipe cleaner safely outside under the light. It looks lovely.

However, even though he had proven my sister wrong, he was behind the power curve with the chocolate calendars. Abby informed him of this fact, “Gabe, Mom buys the calendars in,like, August!” (Eye roll for emphasis)

She was close. Not quite August, but October. At the Commissary (military grocery store) they put out the German Christmas items at the same time as the Halloween candy. I buy them right away every year and store them away for fear of repeating the mistake of waiting too long and finding them sold out.

I first started buying them for Dale and I when we were assigned to Germany in the early 1990s. The calendars are a simple thin rectangle of cardboard with little doors to open from 1 to 24. Under each door is a piece of chocolate pressed into a holiday shape (present, tree, candle, etc.)

You eat a piece of chocolate and count down the days until Christmas. In my opinion, a fabulous tradition.

Every year Abby’s middle school hosts a Christmas party where the boys must wear ties and the girls must wear pretty dresses. I have learned it is not easy to find appropriate dresses for girls ages 11-13. They outgrow the little girls dresses and the junior dress assortment is either too casual or decidedly lacking in material.

Last year we searched and searched in vain until I drove to Richmond and went to Dilliards. Dilliards is a department store based in Texas. Therefore, they have plenty of teenage girl shoppers who need party dresses for quinceanera and debutante events. They have the most lovely little girl dress department.

Even though Abby can still fit in some of the dresses in the girls department, she refused to buy one. “Look how cute this is,” I would say. She would say nothing and just give me the teenage girl flat eyed glare. She may have done a bit of over exaggerated sighing as well.

Prior to driving to Richmond, Abby had printed out pictures of dress possibilities from their online store. Her father did not care for these possibilities for they were all lacking in material. So, we had discussions regarding appropriate dress length and shoulder coverage. Almost all junior dresses have skimpy straps or no straps at all which forces you to buy a sweater.

Abby loves to shop. My mom loves to shop. I do not love to shop. I suppose this is why on the way to Richmond Abby told me  “You make it no fun.” My most enjoyable shopping experience is when I can give Abby and my mom the money and wait for them to return and tell me about the great deal they found. However, my mom is too occupied for shopping right now, so Abby is stuck with me.

For Abby there are a few absolute No’s with clothing: No elastic, No scratchy netting, and absolutely No puffed sleeves. Even though the sweater was really cute and the puff on the sleeve was really small or the netting was a tiny amount on the bottom of the inside skirt…No! No! No!

Abby tried on dress after dress. Too short…Too skimpy…Too old…Wrong color… Finally a peacock blue dress with a skirt that fell below the knees. The shoulders were bare, so we started in on the sweaters. Too short…Too skimpy… Too old…Wrong color.

Sweaters were abandoned for capes. We disregarded Edna Mode’s advice of “No Capes!” and found a black cape to wear with the dress. Victory! We went to the register to pay and the girl rung up Abby’s dress. Without my being aware of it, Abby had chosen a dress that was 50% off. She did her grandma proud.

My Mom told me she was thinking of calling me at midnight before Thanksgiving since she suspected that I was up “clanking around the kitchen.” She didn’t call in case, for once, I had gotten my preparations done ahead of schedule. I had such good intentions as always, yet there I was at midnight, pouring fudge onto two buttered plates.

When Dale was growing up, the favorite holiday dessert was peanut butter fudge. Cakes, pies, cookies, and fruit salad were ok, but the holiday wasn’t complete without peanut butter fudge. He asked me to make it when we first married and I vividly recall attempting to make a batch in Germany that turned out like cement and was completely inedible.

I tried again and again without success until one day in Colorado when Dale’s Mama came to visit. I made her show me. Now Dale’s Mama did not measure anything. She would pour the approximate amount in and I would take it out and measure it. She then cooked it to “just so” and I had to figure out what “just so” meant.

After the fudge was cooked she would pour it onto two buttered plates. She did this for two reasons: 1. Her 9×13 pans were either being used for something else, or were lost or damaged. 2. One plate was saved for Dale’s Daddy so the kids wouldn’t eat it all before he got home from work.

When making the fudge, I had usually poured it into a buttered 9 x 13 glass pan, but the night before Thanksgiving, I felt the call to tradition and poured it instead onto two buttered plates.

The two buttered plates worked out quite well this time. I brought one plate of fudge to our friends house for Thanksgiving dinner and Dale and the kids were thrilled to have another plate at home waiting for them.

Peanut Butter Fudge:

3 cups sugar

1 1/2 cups evaporated milk

1 t vanilla

1 T butter

1 28oz jar smooth peanut butter

(I recall Dale’s Mama telling me her brand preference for use in fudge was Peter Pan, then Skippy, then Jiff. However, Tami claims Skippy was most preferred. This is an unresolved family dispute.)

Pour sugar and evaporated milk into thick bottomed pan. Stir to combine. Bring to boil on top of stove. Lower to simmer. Stir often. Color of mixture will turn caramel. Cook to soft ball stage. (When mixture is dropped off a spoon into very cold water, it forms a soft ball) Remove from heat. Add vanilla and butter. Stir. Add almost entire jar of  peanut butter. (The amount of peanut butter left in the jar is the cooks preference. Dale’s sister Tami uses approximately 2/3′s of the jar. I use approximately 3/4′s of the jar.) Stir until fudge starts to stiffen or arm grows tired. Pour into buttered 9×13 pan or onto 2 buttered plates. Place in fridge until set and store in fridge. It is a soft, not hard fudge.

Periodically I reenact a scene from earlier in my life. The main difference in the scene is that I am now cast in another part.

This morning Abby picked up her school sweater (jumper) that had been hanging on the back of a chair to dry. She touched the sleeves and realized they were still damp. She informed me, “The sweater’s not dry.” Being a mom, I replied, “It’s not that wet, just put it on.”

So, she put on the sweater and stood with her arms held disgustingly away from her body and gave me the look that all thirteen year old girls give their mothers when they obey their mothers full well knowing to the very core of their being that their mother is wrong.

I replied to this look with the standard Mom phrase, “It’ll dry.” I had already said this to myself earlier that morning as I was hurriedly stuffing a running shirt into Josiah’s gear bag.The shirt was damp, “It’ll dry,” I told myself.

Because I am a mom, I  was thinking of her spending an entire rainy, foggy day at school without a sweater to keep her warm. She had just recovered from two days of illness after getting soaking wet and cold at a party. In my mind, she needed her sweater…be it wet or dry.

There are always moments in a scene when you can step back from the edge of mom thinking madness, but it is so very hard. So instead of saying “Don’t wear the sweater,” I gave her a ridiculous mom solution. “Go upstairs, get the hair dryer, set it to high and dry the sleeves.”

I spilled my tea and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I cleaned the bathroom after the toilet overflowed and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I ironed my son’s clothes and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I baked cookies for after school snack and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I put a note in a lunch box and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I listened to my friend’s worries and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I prayed with someone who was crying and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I laughed with old friends and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I encouraged my daughter when I needed encouragement myself and I thought:

“Just like my mom.”

I, for one, am glad I am “Just like my mom.”