Tree-Trimming Party

Mom had a tree-trimming party on Friday night. The usual folks were there—Mom, Kris, Sophie, Jake, Bunny, Matt, and me. I was one of the first to arrive. I came over right after work and the living room was already full of the old, familiar boxes of ornaments. Mom was busy in the kitchen making chili and homemade (wonderfully salty!) crackers . . . and cornbread and apple crisp. There was a big pot of hot apple cider warming on the stove. The house was so cozy and fragrant and welcoming–oh, and the cider had cinnamon sticks floating in it.

I got myself some cider and Sophie cried, in a country accent, making buck teeth, “Get over here and help me make my bouncy ball!”

You see, she’d earned a visit to the treasure chest in her classroom, where she’d chosen a bouncy ball-making kit, and now she was keen on testing it out. (Sophie’s nine.)

“It’s called Bounce Bounce Revolution,” she announced, all business now. She pulled me down into a chair next to her at the dining room table and began to read the instructions aloud in a highly professional voice. Sophie’s really smart, much smarter than I am.

Meanwhile, Mom and Kris had started putting up the Christmas tree. It’s an artificial tree (Mom’s first), and Mom wanted help fluffing up the needles and branches to make them look more natural. “Come on, fluffers!” she called to me and Sophie, but Sophie ignored her. She was like a little scientist, deep in concentration, carefully pouring “ball-making compound” into a mold.

Mom kept it up: “Come on, fluffers!” she cried again. “We need help fluffing this tree up!”

Bun and Matt arrived and started helping with the bouncy ball.

“Come on, fluffers!” Mom cried again.

I finally heeded her call and helped fluff up the tree for about one second. Then I started crying, “Come on, fluffers!”

“See!” Mom laughed. It was really boring fluffing the branches.

Finally we got all the branches unfurled, and the tree looked nice and full. Kris started putting the lights on. As she worked, she told me some funny stories about Jake (age seven). Jake was in Mom’s bedroom playing games on her computer so he couldn’t hear the stories—and he couldn’t hear me laughing.

Anyway, apparently the other day Jake said, “Mommy, is it okay if I told my teacher you went to jail?” Kris did not go to jail; she went to court because she’s suing a client who didn’t pay her. But that wasn’t interesting enough for Jake, so he chose to embellish. What makes this so funny is that Jake comes from a long line of embellishers, a line that includes his mother.

“I told him I was fine with it,” Kris said. “Because haven’t I been there? A story’s not quite good enough, so you decide to make it just a little better and pretty soon your mom’s in jail.”

“Oh, totally,” I said. “And of course you have to make up a reason she went to jail, so by the end of the conversation she may have murdered somebody.”

I was speaking from experience, because I am also a huge liar. For example, when Kris and I were in college, I used to tell people we weren’t sisters. Why? I don’t know. Somehow it just made things more exciting. . . . More better. I’d also make up imaginary boyfriends and tell people all about them—just so I’d seem more popular and normal.

Jake is just such a funny kid. He’s sensitive and emotional, 100 percent Kimel. Kris said the other night he was sick and he woke her up at three o’clock in the morning and said, “Mommy, can we talk about my feelings?”

Kris told me, “His feelings are: He likes nature, and he still feels bad about squishing a caterpillar with his chin when he was four.” (He did this when he was trying to look down at the caterpillar and admire it.)

“Those are some nice feelings,” I said.

Finally everybody joined us in the living room around the Christmas tree. Jake had a big pool noodle with him and was hitting everybody with it. Meanwhile, Sophie was bouncing her bouncy ball into Mom’s miniature Christmas village.

“Calm down, maniacs!” Kris yelled. “Or I’m canceling Christmas!”

It was a pretty crazy scene. Jake started kicking Sophie, and Sophie said, “Jake, I really feel like killing you. I really do.”

“Soph!” Mom cried.

Then Sophie got into the long, narrow Christmas tree box and started pretending it was her coffin. “I’m dead,” she said to Bunny. “I need a wreath.”

“Sophie,” Kris yelled. “Get out of that box this instant or we’re going home!”

Matt wanted to tell a joke, but everybody had heard it except me.

“Tell it to Leslie,” Bun said.

“She won’t get it,” Matt said.

(I am a very slow person and often don’t get things. But I always pretend I do. I always laugh uproariously.)

“Tell her anyway,” Bun said.

“Okay, a guy walks into a bar, right?” Matt said. “And there’s peanut shells all over the floor. It’s kind of messy, but he sits down, right, and he hears this voice say, ‘Nice pants.’ He looks around, but nobody’s there. And then he hears this other voice say, ‘Nice shirt.’ But he’s the only person there, right? Then he hears somebody say, ‘Nice tie,’ but nobody’s in there except him, so he asks the bartender, ‘Hey, bartender, what’s going on?’ He’s like, ‘What’s the deal?’ And the bartender’s like, ‘The peanuts are complimentary.'”

I laughed heartily. And then I bragged to Bunny, “I actually got it. And right away, too.”

We found out Sophie would be singing Christmas carols with her class at the Winter Festival of Lights on Saturday. We found out over Sophie’s dead body. Yes, she certainly seemed to be trying to keep the performance a secret from us. Obviously she didn’t want us to come, so we decided to tease her about it.

“I’m definitely going to be there,” I said. “In fact, I better start practicing my hooting right now.”

“I’m making a banner,” Bunny said. (It’s so awesome when Bunny gets in on these things; she’s a busy, serious teacher, so it’s a rare treat when she acts silly.)

“Oh that’s a great idea,” I said. “I will too. It’ll say ‘Sophie’ in big bubble letters.”

“Mine’s going to say, ‘Sophanne,'” Bunny said in a dramatic, whispery, visionary sort of voice, and we all went into hysterics. Sophanne is a nickname Bun and I gave Sophie when she was a baby; Sophie hates it. Actually, everyone hates it because it’s the stupidest nickname ever.

Sophie was so mad. She was rolling her eyes. “I’m going to be in the back row,” she said. “You won’t even see me.”

“Oh, but you’ll be able to hear us,” I said. “That’s the important thing–that you and all your friends hear us cheering.”

“Your whole class will know we’re there supporting you,” Bun said. “They’ll see the banners. . . .”

“Maybe we could make buttons too,” I suggested.

“And maybe I’ll wear something special so I really stand out in the crowd,” Bun enthused. “I’m thinking maybe angel wings and a halo. . . .”

“Oh, good thinking,” I said. “The TV cameras will really zoom in on that. And then the whole town will know we were there to support Sophanne.”

“I’m not going,” Sophie said. She was rolling her eyes. “I’m not doing it.”

Mom said, “Don’t worry, Soph, they’re teasing. Hum won’t let them come.”

“Nope,” Sophie said, crossing her arms. “I’m not showing up tomorrow.” But her mouth was twitching; she was trying not to laugh.

“Oh, hon,” Mom said. “Those ole goons aren’t going to be there.”

Bun and I tried to drop the subject of the Christmas concert, but we couldn’t. Teasing Sophie is just too much fun.

We talked for a few minutes about Bunny’s recent trip to Cedar Key and hung Mom’s beaded garland. And then I said, practically choking on suppressed giggles, “M-maybe you could sing a few of Saturday’s songs for us, Sophie.”

“Uh-uh,” Sophie said, shaking her head.

“Could you at least tell us some of the titles?” I asked.

“‘Sounds of the Season,'” Sophie said in a monotone.

“Hmm,” I said, nearly crying because I was trying so hard not to laugh. “I think I’ve heard of that one.”

“No, you haven’t,” Sophie retorted. “Because my teacher made it up. She wrote all the songs for the whole show.”

“Are you sure?” I said. “Because that one sounds awfully familiar.”

Sophie looked at Bunny, then rolled her eyes, gesturing toward me. “She’s wrong. She’s never heard of it.”

“Well,” Bunny said with a sly smile, “why don’t you prove her wrong by humming a few bars?”

Poor Sophie. She said, “If you two came, I’d tell everybody I didn’t know you. I’d be like, ‘What? I don’t know those losers.'”

My mouth was trembling with suppressed laughter. “But how would you explain the banners?” I said. “And the buttons with your picture on them?”

Sophie threw an ornament at me.

“Soph!” Mom scolded. “What made you do that?”

“Yeah,” Matt said, “what made you think Leslie could catch?” (Matt loves to make jokes about my athletic abilities.)

Then he said, obviously trying to change the subject, “Anyone catch A Midsummer Night’s Dream on TCM last night? That was messed up.”

Mom announced that it was time to eat. Sophie came to the table wearing a tiny Barbie-sized top hat, and before she sat down she tipped her tiny hat to each of us in a very cheesy, dramatic way. She’s so theatrical.

During the meal, which was utterly delicious, Sophie told us about her “little buddy” at school. He’s a first grader, her mentee. His name is Cody. He sounded totally cute to me, but Sophie did not find him at all charming. “He’s Jake’s friend,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And he reads so slow. It took him the whole period to finish The Cat in the Hat.”

“Well, it is kind of a long book, right?” I said.

“No,” Sophie said. “It isn’t. And he didn’t comprehend it either. I asked him questions. I said, ‘What are the Things named?’ And he had no idea. He had no idea they were Thing One and Thing Two!” Sophie was incredulous. I love her. She’s so dramatic–and so exacting.

She kept doing hilarious impressions of her little buddy daydreaming. “He’s always like this!” she’d say, and then she’d make the funniest, most over-the-top daydreaming face.

“Do you speak sharply to your little buddy?” I asked. “Do you correct him?”

“Yes!” Sophie cried. “I have to!”

Bunny asked Jake if he thought Sophie would be a good teacher.

“Well,” Jake said, “not at home. She’s kind of mean at home. But probably at school she’d be pretty good.”

“Do you ever see Sophie working with her little buddy?” Bunny asked him.

“Yes,” Jake answered. “I have seen them. I know what they both look like. I know what Sophie looks like. And I know what Cody looks like too.”

We were all cracking up. (As Rob says, Jake has a flair for the obvious.)

“But have you ever seen them together?” Bunny persisted, smiling.

“No,” Jake said. “Uh-uh.”

I talked about how I used to like peeking into Jacob’s classroom when I was in eighth grade and he was in first. I thought it was so hilarious to see my baby brother at school.

Jake chimed in excitedly, “I know how to spell ‘Jacob,’ Mommy!”

“Wow,” Kris said, “your own name . . .”

Jake cried proudly, “J-A-C-O-B!”

Once again, we were all in hysterics.

Bunny wanted me to tell about my trip to England. “What did you and Rob do the first day?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t count the very first day.”

“Why?” Bunny asked.

“Well, we didn’t get to our hotel until about four. And then we fell asleep at seven-thirty.”

“Were you able to sleep the whole night?” Kris asked.

“No,” I said. “I woke up at midnight and Rob got mad at me.”

“Why?” Kris asked. “Were you trying to do stuff?”

“I was crying,” I said.

And everybody laughed. (I always get homesick on vacations.)

After we ate, we finished up the tree. (It was a triumph in wonderfully sparkly tackiness.) Then Sophie took Bun and me into the front bedroom and showed us her latest clay sculptures. Sophie is really talented. She had created tiny pink shrimp, and a teddy bear in a pink tutu. Bun and I complimented her profusely. Then I noticed a bit of gold sequined fabric on the bed, fabric I knew was for a purse Mom is making. . . .

“Is that–” I said, pointing and giggling. “Is that for tomorrow, Sophie? For the concert?”

Bunny joined in. “Your costume?” (We already knew she’d just be wearing a T-shirt with the name of her elementary school on it.)

Sophie made “angry eyebrows.”

“What’s the matter?” I said, hyperventilating, almost unable to speak. “I like it. Adds a little razzle dazzle . . .”

Sophie started hitting me. “Jackapple!” she cried.

“Sophie!” Kris yelled.

“What?” Sophie smiled. “I didn’t cuss.”

“Well, don’t say that at school.”

“I wouldn’t get in trouble,” Sophie said.

“Yes, you would.”

(I was so jazzed to report to Rob later that I’d been called a jackapple–because I totally deserved it. I am a jackapple.)

Jake was playing computer games again; he sat at Mom’s desk quietly demolishing buildings. He was wrapped in his favorite blanket, B.

Back in the dining room, Sophie and Kris told this funny story about the time Jake played Joseph in his preschool Christmas pageant. He had one line (“Thank you for taking such good care of our baby.”), and he practiced it over and over again. But then the night before the pageant, Phil (Jake and Sophie’s dad) and Sophie started teasing him, trying to mix him up. Phil told him the line was actually, “A dingo ate my baby.” And then Sophie repeated it a million times in an Australian accent. Poor Jake. He was so little, only three. I’m so surprised he didn’t get up there on stage and say a dingo ate his baby as Sophie died laughing in the audience. But he didn’t. He did everything right. It was a Christmas miracle.

Sophie loved remembering the dingo story. She was laughing and laughing and speaking in a wild Australian accent. Then she went and got some slippers and started walking on her knees (her knees fitted in the slippers), pretending to be short. She “walked” up and down the hallway several times. The scene was total chaos.

Sophie was going nuts. She found a scratch-and-sniff ad for Chanel No. 5 and rubbed it all over her body.

“Hey!” Kris yelled. “Things are getting stupider and stupider around here! We’re leaving!”

Then the next thing she knew, Sophie was crawling down the hallway with my jacket over her head and back, pretending to be a turtle. Kris got “mad” (she wasn’t really mad; yelling is just part of her schtick). Jake wasn’t really doing anything (he was just calmly blowing up buildings), but he got in trouble too.

“Okay, crazies!” Kris yelled as Sophie crawled down the hall. “This is beyond the pale! We’re out of here!”

Kris called me later to tell me about the ride home. She said Jake started crying because he suddenly realized he’d played so many computer games that he’d basically missed the party.

Kris said, “He was feverish–I guess he was getting sick–and his mood was swinging so wildly. He’d be all remorseful and say, ‘I was being bad because I was sick.’ And then five seconds later his mood would change and he’d add, ‘Sick and tired of being the youngest kid!’ Then he’d be like, ‘I was being bad because I’m sad. ‘ And then suddenly he’d get mad again and say, ‘I’m sad because I wish I had a better mother!’”

Oh, poor Jake. He’s so complicated.

In contrast, Sophie was simply happy on the way home. She said to Kris,

“Wasn’t that the best time? Were you embarrassed when I went crazy? That was the best part.”