WanderingAmylessly 2.0

I haven't had time to write. Work, swim meet volunteering, holiday decorating and shopping. But truthfully, I've not been in much of a mood to write anything anyway. Last night we put up the tree and Santa chachkies, and I drank my first egg nog of the season, so perhaps I'll be in a cheerier mood. Also, I have spent some time writing the annual Schoon holiday newsletter. If you happen to get a copy, treat it like a drinking game. Every time I make you roll your eyes, take a drink. Nog, wassail, Everclear. Whatever gets you through. One sure way to assist with merriment motivation is listening to Christmas carols. I'm not going to get into a debate over what truly constitutes a carol. You can "Jesus is the reason for the season" yourself until you turn blue; I generally lean toward the secular end of the holiday tune spectrum. And if you just gasped at my use of holiday instead of Christmas, go suck on a candy cane. It's my blog and my opinions. Deal.

Mom loves telling the story of when she went into labor with me, Dad was getting ready to have a nighttime snack. He was going to insist on eating his bowl of crackers and milk before taking Mom to the hospital. Mom, who had been through this pregnancy thing twice before, convinced him that if he didn't get in the car and start driving right away, she was going to deliver me in the back seat on the way there. Once the realization of urgency kicked in, he sped through Derby, Kansas -- notorious police speed trap -- "90 to nothin'" probably in hopes the cops would pull them over, and they'd get themselves a high-speed escort the rest of the way to St. Joseph Hospital in Wichita. Amazingly, he didn't get stopped, Mom avoided pushing until they got to the delivery room, and I was born just before 2 a.m. on  December 1, 1971. Those were the days before men joined their laboring wives in the whole delivery scene. There was no Lamaze breathing, no coaching at the