A Midnight Clear

Merry Christmas, dear ones!

I hope this day is full of great joy, sweet peace, and coveted rest.

Here are sweet words written by someone much more poetic than I:

O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.

My prayer for us today is that we could take a deep long breath of grace, that we'd rest beside the weary road and listen. The God who sent angels to sing of His Son's birth sings songs over you, did you know? Now, if that's not a reason for merriment this Christmas, I certainly can't think of one.

Much love to you and merry, merry Christmas!



Zephaniah 3:17

The LORD your God is with you...
He will take great delight in you;
in his love he will no longer rebuke you,
but will rejoice over you with singing.”

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

I'm well aware I'm not Oprah, though I'd appreciate it if people started referring to me only by my first name. Madonna, Cher, Oprah, Kimberly. No, you know, that doesn't work, does it? I need a name that's a bit more unique. Like....Gaga only more wholesome.

Gigi?

GooGoo?

GeeGee?

GollyGolly?

Think about that, will you, and get back to me in 2011?

In the meantime, I, like Oprah, have some favorite things from 2010. Some of them I can't really pass along to you, like the new baskets I have to store all my husband's winter gear. (That is correct: basketS plural.) Or my new earrings that a fantastic girl named Jessica made for me after I stopped by her booth at a craft fair. I would like to share these with you but I cannot because there are only two and I need them to look cute.

But I would like to tell you about a few things I liked this year and that have given me great joy.

NUMERO UNO:
Sara Groves.



I love this woman. I've had the pleasure of meeting her a couple of times and let me assure you, she is all that and at least six bags of chips. If you have not already, please buy her Christmas CD and listen to it without ceasing for the next week. Her voice is beautiful and haunting and human and everything you'd want to hear on any given day.



Also, she sings a hilarious song called "Toy Packaging" that should give all parents everywhere great comfort in these trying days.

NUMERO DOS:
Books. I read them, every now and then I write them and I want to tell you all when I find one that needs to be read. For example, have you read The Help by Kathryn Stockett?



You probably should. I drank it up like a good cup of coffee and was sad when it ended. What about Peace Like A River by Leif Enger? Fabulous. Sarah's Key by de Rosnay and Havah by Tosca Lee were doozys in the best sense of the word. I also ate up Love Focused by the Hughes duo, though I'm warning you to get ready to hunker down. You will probably need a stiff drink by the end when you realize you have a SERIOUS control problem and you have been loving yourself more than all the other people you should love.

There are plenty of others that I loved this year but I will refrain from specific titles as some of them contain naughty words and I don't want to irritate people who don't read naughty words. I DO irritate AND I read naughty words so it's a wonder you're all still here.

NUMERO TRES:

Lindt Lindor Truffles. Marc bought these for me recently and I'm telling you, only one little square in and I was professing my undying love for him. I am suspicious he knew this would happen.



What about you? Favorite things? Hurry! We only have a few days left to influence buying patterns in our homes! What did you love in 2010?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Did you eat your weight in turkey? Are you still feeling grateful? Or just bloated?

I feel full, and not just because of the gorgonzola smashed potatoes. Or the cornbread stuffing. Or the pecan pie. Ahem. I'm full of gratitude to God for many reasons this year, one of which is that Operation Bonnet was just picked up by Wal-Mart! Some sweet person of influence found my book, read it, loved it and placed a huge order this week with my publisher.

God bless Sam Walton!



Only God could orchestrate such a coup. I am not John Grisham, though I've heard he's a very nice man. He might be used to such a big deal and a big order, but I, friends, am not. When my publisher called to tell me the news, I had to hang up. "I have to go cry," I said. He gave me permission and I fulfilled my promise and wept like the crazy-grateful, not-famous writer that I am.

When February comes and the book is released, you might find me hanging out at a Wal-Mart near you. Not for some fancy book tour--I might just stalk the produce section and watch the book section from afar. Don't be alarmed if I kiss you when you pick up my book. And no pressure to buy, even if I'm crying. Seriously. I'm just a bit emotional about it, that's all.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends! I have to go cry.

Playing Dress-Up

Happy Most Uncomfortable Holiday! I try every year to get excited about Halloween and I just can't muster up the enthusiasm. For one thing, what and who looks good in orange and black? Don't say that you do because I assure you, you don't. Your friends just don't feel like they can be honest with you like I can.

Then there's the candy. My children would prefer to hook themselves up to a pumpkin-shaped I.V. and just ABSORB candy all day long, so Halloween is a built-in battle of wills. My favorite approach is to let them wallow in it for the two days after tricks and treats and then peel them off the ceiling at the expiration of 48 hours. Also, I steal their candy and eat it when they're in bed. (I learned this technique from my mother, who sometimes still pilfers my candy out of the drawer where it's hidden. She has a bit of a sweet tooth.)

There is a bright spot, however, for the Halloween scrouge. The costumes can be lovely. I shake my head distastefully at anything involving ketchup-blood or webs or vampire teeth. Also, boys wearing white and black make-up or girls using trick-or-treat to be code for "skank-o-skank." You can call me a traditionalist. But some people really don their Clever Hats when it comes to costuming. Take this man, who was inspired by a Chia Pet:



Or this man, who was later arrested for trying to cook his child:



Now, here's an option for those of you think all those cute duckie and sweet pea costumes are so 2009:



My favorite costume, though, was worn by a friend of Marc's during grad school. The guy was a bit of a class clown, sported a healthy Midwestern belly, and sure did show up to the Halloween party wearing a lot of tin foil and a big sandwich board sign that said "Mammogram Machine: Place Breast Here." Not one female at the event took him up on it, but bless you, B.K., wherever you are.

Happy Halloween, friends. Try to be cheerful.

p.s. Am I allowed to be a Christian writer and use the word "breasts" in a blog post? Christians still have breasts, right?

Slow Start

I've had a rocky start to the school year. I realize I am not actually IN school, but two of my children are and I think that counts. Plus, I'm the one making sack lunches, so I deserve the love and pity.

Mostly pity. For example, the first day of school, Mitch looked like this:



This is also what he looked like the second day of school because he wore the exact same clothes. AND HIS MOTHER DIDN'T NOTICE until she picked him up at the end of preschool. He looked at me like I smoked dangerous chemicals when I expressed my concern about wearing a shirt that had yogurt artfully spilled around the collar.

"Mom," he said, "I look awesome."

And then there was the Calendar Confusion Incident a few weeks ago. It was a Monday and I kept Ana home because she had the day off from school. Probably teacher planning or something, I wasn't sure. Mid morning, still all in our pajamas and considering a trip to the science center or maybe a movie and I noticed a fleet-footed thought take a jog through Ye Olde Maternal Head. I wondered why I hadn't heard any other moms talking about their plans for the day off from school. Why? Hmm. Well, turns out there was a simple answer to that question. Other moms didn't have day-off plans because school was in session. People who read calendars with a savvy and literate eye know things like this but people who send their children to school in yogurt-crusty shirts do not.



So I'm warning you now: Do not trust me with important information or the hygienic care of children. You can trust me with pretend stories and fake people that don't exist. Fiction is safe! Anything else, though, and we're all taking our chances.

Paging Kimberly Stuart

Well, I did not perish. I should get that out first. Everything's still ticking and I'm still experiencing the glories and travails of life with three young children and their spectacularly handsome father.

But, good gravy, has it really been five months since I checked in with you people? What have I been doing, you might ask, that might warrant such a hiatus? We did move to our home and I love it, love it, love it. I can't say this often around Ana, who has been brainwashed by some well-intentioned mother to say things like, "Things aren't important. People are important." (Someone should tell that mother to STOP being so preachy.) But secretly I love it and I love our new neighborhood, our trees, our dear neighbors who brought us cookies and plants and little buckets of toys and Teddy Grahams for the kids. Mayberry, people! I am living the Andy Griffith Show!

So we moved. I'm slowly starting to brush off the gears in my brain because Operation Bonnet is set to release this February, which might seem like a long time away to you but we all know how productive I've been the LAST four months.

Here's a glimpse of the fantastic cover.



The Amish never looked so sassy. (Actually, the girl on the front is an aspiring P.I. who wants to infiltrate the Amish. More on that later.)

I'll tell you one thing, though. There are a lot of things I HAVEN'T been doing the last few months. I have not been organizing my cosmetics.




In fact, I realized yesterday I own one dried-up tube of mascara and an eye shadow that bears the tracks of Thea's fingernails in a nifty criss-cross pattern. (*Please note, the above photo is courtesy of a Google search and not my own. I'm entirely unsure of what most of the items in this photo are.)

I also have not been learning another language, though my new neighbor speaks German and didn't seem all that impressed with my "Du bist vie eine blume" (You are like a flower) from my undergraduate smart aleck days (I'm entirely over that phase).



(*Please note: The man in the lederhosen is not my new neighbor.)

And finally, I have not been doing this:




Having myself photographed in the nude, holding a large designer handbag and petting lion cubs. I saw this ad in the paper yesterday and asked Marc why no one had asked for me to take a photo like this. He looked up briefly from his Grape Nuts and shuddered. I'm not taking that personally. Instead, I'm getting back to blogging. If my husband can't banter with me about lion cubs and Julianne Moore, I know where to find like- minded souls.

I've missed you. :)

Swagger Wagon

We're moving. Have I mentioned that yet? This is the reason for my mute blog as of late. That and I'm finishing the edits on Operation Bonnet. Oh, friends. I can't wait for you to read this one and it's not just because my livelihood depends on it. It's also because I really think you'll like it. More on that (and the cover image!) coming soon.

In the meantime, I can wield a tape gun like a samurai.



Seriously. I'm fast. There have been a few mishaps, like my left hand having only three fingers now and the time I "accidentally" enclosed Thea in a well-taped box. But otherwise, I'm super great at it.

We're only moving about a mile away from our current residence, which makes people say, "Oh, that's nice. That will be much easier." Those people, though well-intentioned, are on crack. Because we still have to PHYSICALLY MOVE everything to the NEW HOUSE. It's not as if I can, a month from now, stand in the new kitchen and say, "Oh, shoot. Forgot the mixer. I'll just run over and get it on my way to Redbox." First, the mixer will need to move when I do, and second, I'd only know a Redbox by its current listings of animated full-length features. So double depressing errand.

I'm actually thrilled out of my mind to be moving to this particular home. The whole process has been an enormous blessing from start to finish and we are very, very excited to be starting this next chapter of the Stuart Family Escapades. And I'm sure Thea, for one, will be really happy in her new home after I unwrap her on moving day.

Before I try to find a Mitch-sized box, I leave you with this. It appears Marc and I have competition. Swagger on, dear friends. Swagger on.



If you'd like the wide-screen clip, click here. Thanks to Stacey P. for alerting me to this day-making video.

Wheel Spinning

I try to lead a productive life. This is what it gets me:



I turn my back to, say, scrub a toilet (hypothetically). Or to pluck my eyebrows, which have, sound the alarm, grown together in the middle of my forehead from neglect. Or to stand in front of my closet wondering how, exactly, I came to Spring 2010 with not one weather-appropriate shirt that is fit to be worn in public. And in those precious, fleeting moments, one or more of my children starts to weep, needs help applying rubber cement to his or her eyelids (!) or spills an entire, full box of cereal on the stairs.

And still we press on, don't we? Trying to get something accomplished during the daylight hours? Here are a few of the items I cannot seem to scratch off my list:
~Editing a manuscript about a quirky girl and an Amish boy, to be released next spring. Incidentally, the Amish are woefully productive, as is my friend and fellow writer, Erik Wesner, who just released his book on the Amish. Check out his book and his fascinating blog and further decrease your productivity but have MUCH more fun than organizing your silverware drawer.
~I've been getting some speaking things together for The Sweet Life this Friday (Come on out to Connxions, Des Moines girls! There will be chocolate!) and some upcoming fun in Austin, Texas, and Sioux City, Iowa.
~And I've REALLY been trying to pluck my eyebrows with more regularity. It boggles the mind how quickly one can go from looking sufficiently groomed to the female counterpart to a Yeti.



What are you up to? What happens when you turn your back these days? Anybody else in need of one of those weird vacuums that follow you around like a stray cat, picking up your messes? How's the productivity quotient out there?

In Glowing Terms

I had coffee with Anita Renfroe last weekend. Do you know this woman? You might have seen her Momsense song on YouTube. Or heard her spots on Good Morning America. Or read about her in the New York Times. Or laughed yourself to painful sensations listening to her at Woman of Faith. Anita and I write for the same publisher and met through the book bih-nuss. Let me assure you, she is the real deal. Smart, funny, kind to minions like me, AND she has great skin.



This photo does not do it justice. When I look at this photo, I have a hard time getting past the WIDTH and BREADTH of my forehead. Mammoth. I also get distracted by the beginnings of double chin. Forehead-y and chin-y. Sweet.

If you can get past those issues, and I have faith you can, you need to look at Anita's skin. It is phenomenal. Clear of any signs of problem areas, shiny spots, and altogether glow-emitting. And this was after two solid days of speaking to a crowd of 7000 Women of Faith goers! I get cold sores after watching athletic competitions WHEN NO ONE CAN SEE ME, people. I can't imagine the riotous shape of my skin after public speaking in an arena equipped with hot dog vendors.

So she has great skin. And she's very patient with people who can't get over it. Anita promises I, too, could glow if I could only move to Atlanta and become a client of her "facialist". I don't think I'd know a "facialist" if she hit me in the T-zone, but Anita assured me I would because her facialist is a Hungarian woman who beats the living daylights out of a tense facial muscle and can tighten even the most stubborn pore. I think Anita talked about other stuff, like what it's like to film the pilot of a sitcom and what she's thinking about the book industry and what it feels like to fly to four cities in the space of one week. But all I could think of was how soon I could get to Atlanta to track down the Hungarian woman and let her get to WORK.

Now that I've seen this photo, however, I might have to wait. The forehead alone is going to require a special kind of "facialist," one who can see beyond the vast, untethered landscape and right to the well-intentioned heart.

I'm off to exfoliate, but you should visit Anita's site. Watch the video clips and check back, because I saw the first bit of her not-yet-released cover of Beyonce's "Single Ladies." Anita's version: "Wrinkled Ladies."

Not that she'd know anything about that.

Lessons Learned

Well, it's over. All the glory, all the drama, all the weeping people who'd just like to thank God, their parents, and Red Bull. I'm older and wiser after this Olympiad, and I'll take this chance to share the lessons learned.

Number One: We should host next time around.



Do you see the cement at the bottom of the pile? That's our driveway. Do you see the child at the mountain's summit? That's my Mitch, who would like to take up aerial skiing or snowboarding, whichever involves pizza and chicken nuggets in the winnings.

Number Two: Speed skating is too stressful for my constitution.



(I don't remember anyone looking like these two at the Olympics, but they do have admirably feathery hair. Counts for something.) After the first night of watching Apolo Ohno and the Koreans come close to knife fights, Marc couldn't get to sleep for two hours and I sprouted a cold sore. A SPEED SKATING COLD SORE, people. So Marc made the rule (he loves rules) of no speed skating after 9 pm Central Time.

Also, speed skaters are built like T-rexes.


And I mean that with all respect, by the way.

Number Three: Olympians are a rare breed. I understand that technically they are human beings, but they are a tidge crazy. The commentators cracked me up when they'd read down the litany of struggles and ailments preceding the Games. One of my favorites: "So-and-so has had a great year of skiing. You know, she blew out both knees and broke her jaw at the beginning of the season but she's been skiing GREAT."

I can identify because I started skiing up to my potential only after I broke my jaw and my kneecaps. And I write WAY better novels after surgery. Surgery and near-death falls on mountainsides.

Speaking of writing, my manuscript of The Next One (not its real title) is in the able hands of my brilliant editor, which is best because I have a lot of make-up laundry and dusting after the Olympics. Literature is so distracting. But don't worry-- I'll be more focused after my jaw's feeling better.

p.s. For those of you living in Host City Des Moines: Come to Connxions Friday, March 26, for a night out! The Sweet Life is what they're calling it and I know COPIOUS amounts of high quality chocolate will be consumed. Also, I'm one of the speakers and I promise I won't wear my speed skating unitard. You have my word.

Go Team!

Listen, I'm supposed to be editing a manuscript right now. It is due in less than a week but I can't FOCUS, people. And the singular reason for this lack of discipline: The XXI Winter Olympics! Do NOT groan, all you naysayers who don't care about national issues like curling and the biathlon. If you're looking for someone to bemoan the lack of prime time television during the SEVENTEEN DAYS OF GLORY, then you're at the wrong blog. Here, we love images like this:



And this:



And this!



OK, that one's a little creepy, but don't you feel the excitement? Can't you hear the national anthem? Don't you wish you and your husband could hang out in the living room doing THIS?



There's really no substitute for the Olympics. I have loved them since birth and was insanely pleased when they stopped making us wait FOUR LONG YEARS and started alternating summer and winter. And long about 1995 (right after Lillehammer '94 and before Atlanta '96), God be praised, I met the man and future husband who loves the Olympics even more than I! Unbelievable! Marc has the Olympic fanfare as his ringtone, friends. He tears up every time Bob Costas tells of an athlete who beat the odds, came out of misery and hardship, worked until he bled, and then dedicated his medal to his dead father. EVERY TIME. Can you see why I love this man, and not just for his rapping abilities?

So if you're waiting for an e-mail from me about a speaking gig or if you'd like me to pick up the kids for carpool or if you think it's about time I took down the Christmas lights, I'm afraid you're going to have to wait. I'm busy. Busy with greatness. Busy with the guts, the glory of Vancouver!

Cue tympani here and get out the eye make-up!

Behind the Music

I noticed today that our video has 1000 hits. I'm pretty sure that's not quite up there with the man who can burp the alphabet underwater but it might be nearing less popular vids, like my Great Aunt Millie's bridge tournament or the State of the Union address. I feel this auspicious occasion is a great time to answer some of the more oft-asked questions regarding this whole debacle, I mean, character-building exercise.



1. Yes, the cell phones were ours, of the early 1999 vintage. Even at that time, our friend Sean made it a point to ridicule Marc each time he pulled out the antenna and talked into a phone the size of a Chihuahua. In addition to the phones, we also are the proud owners of the Walkman, Marc's stunning shades, and the tundra hat, which Marc wore to work today. I have TRIED, believe me, I've tried, to limit the wearing only to family gatherings indoors. But he loves that hat. And he got to wear it in his first music video. Give and take, people, give and take.

2. The laundry just HAPPENED to be in that state and at that height the day of the shoot. Our video guy, the brilliant Matt Johnson, tried to act like he wasn't scared, but his eyes betrayed fear. Just wait, Matt. Soon you'll be married to Jess and then you'll have babies and one day, you'll just give up on laundry all together and simply sleep on the pile. It's super soft.

3. Marc worked for eleven years to perfect that move in front of Mount Rushmore. I'm so happy the fruits of his labor are being appreciated, at least by six-year-old Colin from Colorado, who, his mother reports, has become a fan of the song and likes to shout "SHIMMY!" each time he sees Marc bust that particular move. You just keep practicing, Colin. One day you, too, will be able to don a tux and shake it in front of a green screen. Shimmy!

4. Fame has its price. This weekend, we were eating out and a woman approached our table. I recognized her immediately as a dear friend from high school whom I hadn't seen in a decade. Danielle now lives in Chicago but was home to celebrate her engagement (congrats, friend!). As she ate and unbeknownst to us, she kept looking at Marc, thinking, "I KNOW that guy. Why do I know that face?" Fortunately, at that moment, Marc stood up and started singing Spellbound with choreography and she got it. Just kidding, but she did realize she knew Marc before she knew me. I feel this is unjust.

5. I'm a bit ashamed at how little height I achieved with those 80's bangs. Back in the day, I wouldn't have shown my face with such a pathetic showing. Maybe next time...Should there be a next time? Wait---I can't hear your answer. Marc is SINGING too loudly in the next room. If he asks me one more time to critique his Roger Rabbit...

Elevator Music

Photo by Bert Hardy

One thing about birthing children is that it has made me friends with all other women who have gone through the same ordeal. I find myself chatting up anyone pushing a stroller. In previous phases of my life, I would have needed to screen possible friends with questions like:

“What was your major in college?”
“What book are you reading?”
“What’s your favorite restaurant?”

These are COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY now that I only need a stroller for prospective friend-prey. First, it doesn’t matter what our majors were because we don’t use one bit of what they taught us any more, even if we work outside the home, because we’re too tired to think about things like higher education and Venn diagrams. Secondly, books are beside the point because we don’t read anything that doesn’t rhyme and/or is by a woman named Stuart. And finally, we find talking about our favorite restaurants confusing. Do you mean which one has kids-eat-free tonight?

It’s really very convenient to find friends with the stroller approach. It’s SUPER efficient. I can get to a nitty gritty conversation in a matter of seconds. Today, for example, I met up with a woman in an elevator. She, like me, was pushing a double stroller. She, like me, was desperate for adult interaction. I found out about her family, her ethnic heritage, her political views, her thoughts on the precarious peace in Israel, and even used the word “perineum,” all in the time it took to descend two floors. EFFICIENT, I tell you.

This chumming up with random mothers makes my husband nervous, and not just when we discuss birth stories. I think it’s worrisome to him that I don’t know these people and I’m engaging in memorable conversation with them. He’s more into forgetting what others say almost as soon as they say them. For example, Marc can have an hour-long conversation on the phone with any given relative and not remember ONE WORD of what was exchanged.

Kim: “How’s your mom, honey?”
Marc: “Um, fine?”
Kim: “Is that a question or an answer?”
Marc: “Not sure?”

So the idea of bonding immediately with Melissa, who has three children, one who is in school and having a hard time with her spelling words but really loves soccer, in the elevator and then remembering the whole conversation over dinner, well, we’ve got something of a divide.

In the meantime, I’m happy to talk with you while our children stare at each other with Goldfish-crusted faces. Just PLEASE don’t ask me what my college major was.

P.S. GREAT NEWS FROM THE DESK: Thanks be to God, I’ve finished the rough draft of my next novel! Woo hoo! Lots of nipping and tucking to get it to the shape I’d have you all see, but I wanted to share the news. The working title makes me giggle, but I’ll have to ask if I can share. It’s my favorite book so far, which I say every time, but can you really trust a woman who uses the word “perineum” in idle banter?

Can’t WAIT for you to read this one! ☺

The Year of Slack

I’ve been AWOL here and with all the usual eggnoggy reasons. We’ve been Christmasing big time. Have you ever heard that Karen Carpenter song where she says she’ll be “Christmasing with youuuuuuu” in that buttery kind of voice? For the record, it was my husband that brought Karen Carpenter with him to the marriage. Karen, ABBA and three copies of Vanilla Ice’s debut and only album. I brought Amy Grant and the Indigo Girls, so I think I might be morally superior.

Anyway, we have been, like you all, happily exhausted and are just now starting to look like normal, paler versions of ourselves. I’d like to mention here that it is UNFATHOMABLY COLD where I live. I’m talking single digits when we’re really tropical and negative temps when we’re not. Mostly, this kind of weather makes me want to do three things:

1. Eat high calorie foods and finish every meal with a chocolate lava cake.
2. Lock my children in their rooms so I can read a novel by the fire.
3. Curl up to the humidifier and tape my lips around the wet air. You knoweth not dry air until you knoweth Iowa in the winter.

Unfortunately, no one around here seems to want to accommodate any of these requests. I could eat the cake every day but I’d also have to make the cake every day. Also, by about the eleventh day, I’d start looking a lot like the cake, lumpy and liquid in the middle and such.

I suppose I could lock the kids in their rooms but what about the Department of Child Welfare? We do have one of those in Iowa and although I could get a couple of hours lead time just because of the snowy road conditions, I still think it’s too big a risk.

As for the humidifier, the tape on my lips starts to hurt after about four minutes, though I got a great (and cheap!) upper lip wax.

In the absence of getting what I want, however, I will not be coerced into doing what I do NOT want to do which is make a list of New Year’s resolutions and show them to Marc. All my life, from the time I could write my name, my dad made me write a list of goals for the New Year.



Or at least that’s how I remember it.

Then I went and married Part Deux! Marc’s no better. He just uses his laptop and makes spreadsheets. I followed along for the first ten years (learned helplessness) but have decided that this year, no, I won’t! I will live a live without goal sheets! No goals! Intentions, perhaps, but that’s it! And if after a month or so, I’m dying in wilderness of goal-lessness, I’ll write one or two down in ancient Babylonian script so no one asks me next year what they say and if I did what I set out to.

Ha!

Ha ha!

Did you see that Big Wheel in the background? I think I’m due for a spin. Ha!