Labels are so unfair. As kids, they can be difficult if not impossible to shake. I had a buttoned-up image in high school. One day I wanted to dress grungey instead of preppy. Not only was I uncomfortable, but so were the kids around me. Like, "Whatcha doin?" Don't screw with the norm, man.
It goes without saying that we all have many facets to our personalities, but most of us settle into a recognizeable label or two, either by choice, or by allowing ourselves to be steamrolled into it. It took me years to have the courage to pick at, peel, and rip the labels off of myself that I didn't want there in the first place. I realized, Gee, that wasn't so hard.
I'm careful with labels and descriptors around our sons. Pointing out one boy's emerging interest or talent has -- at times -- limited the other two, unintentionally. All three boys are finding and creating their personal definition, and they deserve to feel comfortable editing well into adulthood. I don't want my parental power [and yes, I still have some] to influence who they want to be. Or, who they are.
Disclaimer complete.
Inspite of my careful word choice around the kids, they label themselves and each other. The boys have -- in their own words -- been a birdwatcher, bug-catcher, chef, artist, scientist, nature-lover, the athletic one, the diabetic, the creative one, the polite one, the tidy one, the sloppy one, the ornery one, school boy, and the rocker.
Middle Boy [11] is a self-described rocker. He wears his label loud and proud, but I remind him that he's like a Colorform set. He's the laminated board and the labels he tries on in life, as long as he's careful and kind, are vinyl and easy to remove.
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In an effort to get the following photograph for my parents' holiday card...
... we had plenty of outtakes like this one.
Christmas dinner was punctuated with exciting moments like this...
...and a tender moment -- where the young help the old make the "rock on" sign properly -- is captured below. [Although, no one is doing it right. But, shhh, don't tell.]
Even my mother and the son who chooses not to be a rocker, had fun playing with the vinyl label.
Middle Boy seems happy with his evolving identity for now. He feels good about himself and is enjoying the Colorform scene he created. Who knows how long it will last?
All I know is, my sweet boy thinks he's leaving me the "rock on" sign in the shower every day. But the wonderful thing is... he's signing, "I love you."
This crazy blog has provided me joy, frustration, stress, therapy, feelings of self-doubt as well as feelings of self-assuredness. I'm not closing the doors, although I've considered it. People who currently blog or have blogged in the past, know these feelings well. Those who don't blog wonder what the big deal is. It's your blog, write what you want, when you want. Pfff!
And those who don't blog... are absolutely right.
I'm looking forward to closing out 2010 with Chris and the boys. We have a few things to accomplish before the end of the year, but mostly we hope to enjoy some unstructured time, a visit from my parents, and the magic that is Christmas. [I still believe!]
Chris worked hard lighting the too-tall tree that takes four adults to get in our family room. As he balanced on a borrowed 20-foot ladder, moving ornaments a little to the left -- no, back to the right... wait... the blue sparkly one needs to go to the other side -- he accused me of trying to kill him for the life insurance money.
The tree is beautiful. Middle Boy sat on the floor every morning before school, quietly looking at the lights and ornaments. He seemed to be meditating, almost soothed by his private moments with the tree while the house was still.
[Chris and boys decorating.]
[Mary watching.]
I've intercepted the glide slope for 2011 and I'm ready for a solid and safe landing. Bear with me and if I make it, I'll keep fiddling around with this silly blog.
I liked the Grapenuts in my cauliflower fondue at the Renegade Canteen. Dinner with my parents, minus the kids was what Chris and I needed after a long 4th of July weekend in the Arizona desert.
**********
It's become a family tradition, the July pilgrimage to Scottsdale, Arizona. We stay at Mom and Dad's for a week, swim, celebrate the 4th, visit family and friends, and try to relax. There's usually a little drama. A boy finds a scorpion in his room, runs into a jumping cholla, and someone gets a speeding ticket... or two.
[Chris and the boys - funky white.]
[This jumping cholla was stuck on the 4YO's ankle.]
[Dad sleeping, the boys watching TV.]
And every summer, I learn something new.
**********
Mom, Dad, Chris and I were enjoying food, drink and conversation at what has become another family tradition, the End-Of-Vacation-Adult-Dinner. Poor Uncle Joe and Aunt Stephanie [my brother and his wife] were graciously babysitting the boys, foregoing the grown-up outing. Unfortunately for them, this is part of the tradition. [Joe, I love you, man.]
[Enjoying dinner... Mom and Dad. Chris and me - braces off in October!]
Mom and I excused ourselves and went to the ladies' room. When we returned to the table, Mom said to Dad, "Our bathroom was nice. How was yours?" Because as most women know, it's all about the bathroom.
"It was fine. There was ice in the urinal."
We all laughed. Dad made a funny.
"Seriously. There wasn't ice in the urinal, was there?" Mom asked as we both studied our husband's faces for signs of lying.
Dad nodded, yes.
Chris nodded, yes.
Dad and Chris explained that ice in men's rooms is common and nothing new. Mom and I still weren't convinced. How could she be married to my father for 47 years and not know about ice in the urinal? I felt the same.
"Why haven't you told me about ice in the urinal?" I asked Chris.
"It's not a big deal."
"I think it's weird you've never mentioned it. ... And I still don't believe you." It might have been the Chianti fueling my fire, but I wanted proof.
Chris and I walked to the men's room. He wasn't thrilled, but he's a good husband and he knew his wife had had enough Chianti to do it by herself if he didn't cooperate.
"It's empty. Have at it," he said as he opened the door for me.
And I'll be damned...
We returned to the table and I showed Mom the pictures. The guys were telling the truth. But now we wanted to know why. Why was there ice in the urinal?
Dad and Chris shrugged. Not only had they kept it a secret all these years, they had never bothered to ask why the ice was used.
We asked the waitress. She had been a server for a decade and had never heard about ice in the urinal. How did she not know about this? We asked the busboy, but the slight language barrier resulted in smiling, scurrying and more ice in our drinks.
The waitress said she would talk to the manager and get back to us. Dad left her his card and he recently received an email that said in part:
...here's the answer for your questions. There is nothing special about it. It was out of necessity. They had issue with not enough flow of the water to flush urine at the time. So they used ice to add water flow.
Regardless of the ice, or the reason for the ice, what I still can't get over is that I'm 44-years-old, my mother is... older, and neither one of us knew about this.
It's my birthday today. I had a nice trail run this morning, the house was festively decorated when I returned, Chris offered to chaperon the four-year-old at a birthday party for me this afternoon [the best gift EVER], while the older boys and I shopped at REI and a running store. It's been a good day.
... to trust my instincts [more than I already did] and not ignore multiple red flags that flutter and shake right in front of my face.
... closure and peace is best achieved privately.
... bullying feels like someone is squeezing the back of your neck with sharp, bony fingers and forcing you to walk down a path, not of your choosing, while you whimper.
... if someone's not well-liked, there's usually a good reason for it. Life's not a popularity contest, but there's a difference between having a funny walk, and walking around while swinging a stick.
... relationships, both old and new, family members and non-family members, continue to intrigue me. The cream consistently rises to the top.
... that my handsome husband is okay being the lust of my life versus the love of my life. How frickin awesome is that? I think that makes him the love of my life, for sure.
... I have no real problems and am one hell of a lucky woman.
[My second birthday. 1968]
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My friend, Em, is the mother to a sweet, seven-year-old boy. He was diagnosed with brain cancer in early February. This treasured family is battling the disease with strength, courage, determination, and the knowledge that they will WIN the fight. Please join Chris, the boys and me in sending healing thoughts, prayers, and an abundance of good juju to Em, her husband and their son, Super T. She's been telling me to live in the moment, enjoy the simple gifts each day offers, and smile and laugh as much as possible. She's preachin' good, people. Let's listen to her!
I've read several New Year's Resolution posts. I'm not there yet. I feel like I'm straddling 2009 and 2010. If forced to claim a resolution, I commit to continuing my quest to triage relationships better. I still find myself watering a few dead plants [unresponsive people], and not nurturing the thirsty ones enough. Rereading my post [here] from last January, reinforces how important this remains for me.
Christmas. It came, it went, it brought joy, and it brought stress. The four-year-old boy refused to sit on Santa's lap, after waiting in line for a very long time, and after his two older brothers had grudgingly agreed to accompany him and prove that it was safe... and fun. We have video of the drama. Maybe...
My parents joined us for the holiday. We went sledding, ate and drank too much, and attempted to get a picture of Mom and Dad with the boys for their New Year's card.
Because the four-year-old has a defiant streak, this was the best we could do.
A virus was amongst us over the holidays, and teased us with fatigue before making it's presence officially known. The kids are doing better, but Chris and I encourage you all to purchase stock in Advil, Sudafed, and Mucinex DM. We're increasing demand at a freakish rate.
Finally, Mom and I prepared Christmas dinner -- a repeat of last year's menu -- Beef Wellington. The meal turned out great, and this year we remembered to video the flambe part. [I recently posted a video of Mom and me from Christmas 2008 [here], where I mentioned we should have videoed us flambeing.] You'll have to believe me when I tell you that we did a much better job flambeing our sauce in 2008 than we did in 2009. Yes, we were drinking wine, and I beg you to remember that we were being ambushed by a virus, so fatigue was contributing to the lack of focus and general confusion.
And before I go, I need a jump-start for 2010. Anyone?
The "Jesus hates it when you smoke!" ashtray featured in my last post generated strong responses. People either thought it was great or it made them feel uncomfortable. My apologies to those of you who I offended. Please don't read the rest of this post. *kisses*
A few people have asked where they can get their own ashtray...
I recommend searching irreverent, greeting card stores, coffee shops, book stores, or your local gay porn establishment. Here in Utah, it's one stop shopping. I purchase the "Jesus hates it when you smoke!" ashtray at a store where I can buy irreverent greeting cards, best-selling books, keychains, have a cup of coffee and pick up gay porn. Somehow I manage to do this with a four-year-old boy in tow, simply distracting him with the rainbow flags, kites and wind chimes that are tinkling above our heads.
Speaking of the Ashtray... Two of my local friends requested an ashtray last week. We'll call them Mulva and Juicy. Because I frequent the store where the ashtrays can be purchased, and I usually have spares tucked away in my personal gift center, I was more than happy to help Mulva and Juicy score one. These friends' kids attend the same school as our sons, so it seemed convenient to transfer possession of the ashtray at the school.
The Plan
Middle Boy [10] had a holiday concert on Friday morning. I would stay home with Four-Year-Old Boy [uncivilized] and Chris would attend the concert. Juicy would be at the concert, so Chris could discreetly hand her the small Williams Sonoma bag cleverly containing the ashtray wrapped in white tissue paper. Mulva would not be at the concert, so I asked Chris to please deliver the small Sundance bag, also cleverly camouflaging the tissue wrapped ashtray, to Oldest Boy's [12] homeroom teacher. Chris was supposed to simply hand it to the teacher -- we'll call her Mrs. Teacher -- and tell her that the bag was for Mulva, who would be by at the end of the day to retrieve it.
Note: I do not know Mrs. Teacher very well. We've only had the opportunity to chat in person during parent-teacher conferences.
Fat, Dumb and Happy I assumed things went according to plan. I hadn't heard differently. My weekend was busy with ongoing Christmas preparation. I do recall asking Chris, "Did you see Juicy at the concert?" He told me he did and shared pieces of their conversation with me.
Sunday Afternoon
In an unrelated Facebook comment thread, Mulva casually mentioned that Mrs. Teacher wasn't in her classroom on Friday afternoon and an attempt to find the ashtray with the help of another teacher resulted in nada.
Hmmm...
Channeling Inner Special Ops Girl Chris was outside shoveling snow. I high-stepped through the house and out the garage, shrieking, "Chriiiis!" I asked him if he gave the bag to Mrs. Teacher.
"What? Uh. No. I was in a hurry so I gave it to Oldest Boy to give to her."
The color drained from my face. "Did you tell Oldest Boy to tell Mrs. Teacher that she was to hold the bag for Mulva until the end of the day?"
"Uh. No."
I shrieked for Oldest Boy, who was in the backyard. My entire body visibly throbbed with my heartbeat.
Oldest Boy happily answered my call.
"Did you give the bag Dad gave you to Mrs. Teacher?" I manically chirped my question.
"Yes."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her, this is from my mom."
FAINT.
It's AAALLL Good Somehow I managed to find Mrs. Teacher's phone number and dial it, in spite of the fact that I was convulsing. She was gracious as I babbled and explained and apologized and offered myself up for detention. I tried to throw Mulva under the bus too, but somehow it didn't work for me. It was HER ashtray after all.
Mrs. Teacher shared my "gift" with other faculty Friday afternoon during a meeting, and... THE DEAN. Neato. She said it was a huge hit, although admitted to being confused as to why I would give her such a unique gift. She laughed at the comedy of errors and offered to get the ashtray to Mulva. I told her it wasn't necessary. Mrs. Teacher seemed genuinely happy to keep it, for story value if nothing else.
Next year I'll get her a "Jesus Shaves" coffee mug. His beard disappears when hot beverages are poured into the mug.
Nothing. I mean, NOTHING, will make a man lose his cool quicker than issues with Christmas lights. Even the most patient of men.
I thought Chris had passed this test right after we were married. Dad was sorting through things in the garage and Chris offered to help. Dad found a box of mangled Christmas lights, pushed the box towards Chris and said, "See if you can make some sense of these."
Chris untangled and organized several strands of lights. I was so impressed.
The tree I selected this year is slightly larger than last year's tree. It took Chris, a couple of neighbors and me to get it in the house. We cut two feet off the top, and I trimmed the branches so it would fit in the tall, but narrow space we always place our tree.
Chris teased me about the tree, but remained patient.
Because this isn't our first rodeo, we put lights on the top few feet of the tree before we brought it in the house. It was easier while the tree was on it's side.
Chris began lighting the rest of the tree yesterday morning. At 8:30 last night, he was making another trip to Home Depot. The day taught him, and me, that when we have a tree this large, it's important to have two zones of lights. One for the top half of the tree and one for the bottom half.
Unfortunately, Chris learned this after lighting the same lower section of the tree, having the lights blow, removing the lights, and repeating the process several times. He was wild-eyed and his hair was askew after eight hours of repetitive work. Pine needles were everywhere, we all stayed away from the family room. Foul words, agonizing growls and groans popped out from behind the tree in a Tourette's-like manner throughout the day.
One of the most patient people I've ever known, my husband, lost it.
It's Sunday morning. I rose early, as I usually do, and found a half consumed Vesper in the kitchen sink. I don't know if it was the first or the third, but I know my husband deserved it, or them.
I like deviled eggs, but I've never made them. In spite of this fact, my mother still thinks I need a deviled egg tray.
Every summer we have a Fourth of July party at Mom and Dad's house. The menu rarely changes, but Mom excitedly reminds us that she's made her potato salad, her baked beans and as an extra special treat she sings, "And I'm making deviled eh-eggs!"
The Potato Salad
When I was pregnant with all three boys I begged Mom to make her potato salad. She puts lots of hard-boiled eggs, celery, pickles and just the right amount of mayo. It's not too goopy. Forget prenatal vitamins, just eat Mom's potato salad.
The Baked Beans
Her baked beans are equally delicious. As a young working woman in my early 20s, I was deemed the "Bean Queen" at my office potlucks because I always brought a Crock-Pot of baked beans to share. It was the only food item I knew how to prepare and transport that would feed a large group, thanks to my mother. Brownies, cookies and chips were usually cherry-picked before the potluck sign-up sheet hit my desk. Dumb men.
The Deviled Eggs
Mom's deviled eggs are... fine. There are foods I prefer, but a deviled egg hits the spot once in a while. Having been raised in the Midwest, I don't think there was ever a family gathering, picnic or holiday without a beautifully garnished deviled egg tray. I don't recall one person's recipe out-shining another. The eggs were always dusted with paprika and sprigs of parsley completed the egg tray presentation.
July 4th 2008...
...Mom and I were working in the kitchen. It was late enough in the afternoon that she'd already asked me, "Are you ready for a little wine?" I was. We sipped wine and clanked around the kitchen as we rearranged food, moving it from platter to bowl, seeking the just right serving piece for each snack and hors d'oeuvres. She was ready to plate the deviled eggs...
"Look at my new deviled egg tray. It's even shaped like an egg!"
"Neat, Mom."
"Do you have a deviled egg tray?"
"No. I've never made deviled eggs."
"You've NEVER made deviled eggs? It's really easy. You should make them."
"My life's different than your's. I can't think of a single place or event I've been in recent years where I would have brought deviled eggs."
"Because... you don't have a tray. You need to get a tray."
My Plan
While reading cookbooks recently, I found a simple deviled egg recipe that uses curry powder and capers, two of my favorite ingredients. Mom and Dad travel from Arizona to Utah every year to spend Christmas with us. They usually arrive on my mother's birthday, December 22nd. As a gift to Mom I'm going to prepare the special curry/caper recipe and sing, "I've made deviled eh-eggs," as they walk through the door. And I'll find a way to serve them on a regular plate. Although it's possible Mom's gift to me will be an egg tray... because I need one.
A glimpse of Mom and me at work in the kitchen last Christmas...
From the beginning, Middle Boy said he didn't want to do it. Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old Boy were in. Mary [the dog] seems to enjoy the attention when I fiddle with her, so she's usually cooperative as long as her outfit isn't too tight.
I managed to talk Middle Boy into wearing the costume for pictures only. Oldest Boy tried to persuade him to wear it trick-or-treating, but Middle Boy was firm. He wanted to be Plo Koon, a Star Wars Jedi Master. As far as he was concerned, his brothers and the dog could dress in The Wizard of Oz costumes I so lovingly purchased.
The Tin Man, Cowardly Lion and Dorothy embraced their roles!
The Scarecrow? Not so much...
After we took pictures, Oldest Boy began feeling... awkward. I think I said, "Adorable!" a few too many times. Middle Boy quickly changed into his Plo Koon costume. Oldest Boy watched his brother don a cool mask and a light saber. His feet were growing colder by the second.
"I don't think I want to trick-or-treat as the Tin Man."
"You look awesome! With [4YO Boy] and Mary, you'll be the hit of the neighborhood. Just wear it with confidence!"
His eyes started to well. Chris, standing behind Oldest Boy, looked at me and gently shook his head, as if to say, "Surrender, Dorothy."
"What are you going to be?" I asked.
"I can be a Jedi. It's easy."
Oldest Boy scrambled, removed his make-up and appeared on the front porch ready to trick-or-treat as a Jedi. Our Cowardly Lion was confused and disappointed. At four-years-old, he was young enough to want to remain in his costume, but old enough to know he'd been duped.
Mary dressed as Princess Leia for Halloween three years ago. I thought it would be inappropriate for her to be Jabba's slave Leia [in the metal bikini], but I'm rethinking for next year...
The boys dyed eggs on Friday evening. I always buy one or two extra Paas egg decorating kits so we can dye eggs another time. Once a year seems unnecessarily infrequent for something so fun, but every month seems excessive. Two or three times a year... feels about right.
On Saturday I was running last minute errands on behalf of the Easter Bunny. While I was away, Oldest Boy whispered in Chris' ear, "I know you and Mom are the Easter Bunny," and gave a smarmy wink. Chris winked back and said, "Shhh. Don't ruin it for your brothers."
Middle Boy still believes... in everything. It's a blast. He's nine so we know he's close to discovering the truth. Either through his own mental gymnastics, or other kids planting seeds of doubt with their stories of revelation.
"Dad, I can't figure out how the Easter Bunny gets around the whole world. How does he get over the oceans? He can't just hop... Santa at least has the reindeer. They can fly super fast... plus they're part of the horse family." [Duh.]
Middle Boy repeated his thoughts and questions to me this morning.
"Mom, even if the Easter Bunny didn't have to cross the oceans, he has to hop way fast... I can't figure it out. Do you know how he delivers eggs and baskets around the world?"
"No, I don't. [looking up, faking a concerned, confused expression] He has a way though. I'm sure."
What I do know? That the Easter Bunny at our house deserves the wine she drinks while dying eggs, because she hops her ass off making Easter special for the children. [Or "shildren" if it's been a particularly long day.] [See wine behind Oldest Boy in photo.]
My family moved from the small town of Winchester, Indiana to Fort Wayne, Indiana the middle of my sixth grade year. I said good-bye to kids I'd gone to school with since kindergarten and known for even longer. Kids who had joined me in playing house, office, doctor, hide-and-seek, Monopoly and 45 rpm records. Kids I fought with, had crushes on, dared to do things and who's dares I often accepted. It's where my dreams of becoming a stripper took root. I walked the same path to and from school for nearly seven years in that little town. It was all I knew.
Dad had received a job promotion that resulted in a transfer. He and Mom both acknowledged the fear and uncertainty involved in a move while giving my brother and me positive things to hold. The new school is great! We'll have a larger home! The neighborhood is nice and there are lots of kids your age! We'll visit Winchester, and you can be pen-pals with your old friends...
We made the move during our school's two-week Christmas break. I returned to a new sixth grade classroom in a new town after the holidays.
My teacher was wonderful. He was a man. I'd only had one man teacher prior. [Except for a man music teacher, but that one didn't really count.] My new man teacher had been raised by deaf parents so he made it a point to teach all of his students sign language. I still remember quite a bit of it. My maiden name is Hautem [sounds like scrotum, not autumn], and he called me Hauty [ho-dee]. I melted. Thought it was the coolest thing to have a nickname from a smart, funny man teacher.
Valentine's Eve 1978 I covered my shoebox in foil, carefully glued cut-out pink and red hearts to paper doilies and taped them to my Valentine box, which had my name in large, purple letters above the slot in the lid. As the new girl, kids were still calling me ChrisTy instead of Chrisy. I always politely corrected them. "No, there's no "t". My name's Chris-ee, not Chris-T." In my mind they were two very different names, and the kids might as well have called me Sue, if they called me Christy.
The Valentines I'd selected and addressed for my new classmates were ready to go. I'd chosen each one purposefully for the recipient. Studying the graphic and little saying to make sure I didn't convey the wrong message to anyone. I decided the over-sized, special Valentine [there used to be one in every commercial box] would go to a taller than average, blond-haired boy named Ryan. One day he looked at my face for a long time, then he said, "Your eyes sparkle," and walked away. [More like skipped away. He turned out to be gay and wear lip gloss and flowing scarves around his neck every day in high school.]
Valentines Day 1978 It was time for the party. Cupcakes, cookies, punch, conversation hearts, atypical noise in the classroom. There was nothing like the feeling of a party at school. Teachers were happy, and sometimes I could overhear them talk about real things with each other, and laugh. "We were playing Bridge last Saturday with the Jamison's, and you wouldn't believe Richard's opening bid..."
I distributed my Valentines, timing the delivery of Ryan's when he was very far from his desk. I had two close friends in class, so the three of us giggled and chatted while eating treats. The end of the school day was approaching, and the buzz of the party was calming. I returned to my desk.
A few kids were still delivering their Valentines. I didn't want to appear too anxious, so I discreetly lifted the lid of my foil-covered box and quickly peeked inside. There were only two Valentines. My heart started to pound.
I understood exactly why it happened. I was old enough to follow the logic. My name wasn't on the new class list. It was an innocent oversight by 11-year-old kids, maybe even teachers and parents. I was still mortified and didn't want anyone to know and feel sorry for me. It was a giant feat to not cry, or sweat, or have my voice waiver. I worked hard to manipulate every conversation and social interaction away from my Valentine box.
Ten minutes prior to dismissal backpacks were ready, coats and hats were on, and most of the class had dumped their Valentines on their desks and were rifling through them. My man teacher walked around and told everyone to put their "love notes" back in their boxes and get ready for the bell to ring. He saw me sitting there with my tidy desk and nervous smile... waiting.
"You didn't open your box, Hauty?"
"I'm going to wait 'till I get home."
He knew.
I walked home, had a good cry in my room that afternoon, with a solid understanding that it wasn't personal, yet unable to deny the pitiful scene I'd just played the leading role in.
February 15, 1978 I returned to school, grateful to have Valentine's Day behind me. Ryan skipped around the classroom and I tried to make eye contact with him so he could see my "sparkly" eyes. My beloved man teacher called upon me for every task that required a lovely assistant. I wrote things on the chalkboard. I erased things. I distributed worksheets, and collected them when students were finished. I walked important papers to the Principal's office, and was selected to help the girl who broke her pelvis sledding, get her hot lunch from the cafeteria. [I didn't know her very well, and the body cast intimidated all of us. She only came to school three days a week.]
Chris and I were talking this morning about how heavy things feel,
for all of us. None of us [or very few of us] are completely insulated
from what's happening with the economy. It's a difficult, stressful
time and not knowing what the next several months will bring, compounds
the heaviness.
There are always things for which we are
thankful. We know this. And after we have discussions where we review
the worst case scenarios, we take a breath and remind ourselves of the
good things.
Mom and Dad lived for a few years in Caracas,
Venezuela right after Chris and I were married. As a Christmas gift
one year, Dad flew Chris, my brother Mallory Joe and me to South America for a couple of weeks. I think it was a gift for Mom and Dad too.
On
the surface, everything appeared wonderful. Mom had spent much of her
childhood in the Philippines so she spoke Spanish well and had
experience living as an expat. Mom and Dad lived in a beautiful
penthouse apartment overlooking the new U.S. Embassy, had a full-time
driver, maid and memberships to a prestigious country club. Two months
prior to the move Dad had been diagnosed with kidney cancer, had
surgery to remove a kidney and was sent to Venezuela with a clean bill
of health. Life is good! Right? Well...
Mom's birthday is
three days before Christmas and she was turning 50 that year. She
missed her friends, understandably. Navigating life in a foreign
country where only 3% of the people spoke English [statistic per Mother, at the
time], required her to rely on the Spanish she hadn't used for years and it exhausted her. We were out for lunch one day and she was trying to
order sandwiches for all of us. She became frustrated, looked at me
and said, "I can't remember how the hell to say mustard in Spanish. Can we lose the mustard?"
One afternoon, Dad was at work, Chris and my brother Mallory Joe were playing ping-pong, drinking Venezuelan beer [Polar tasted good. Chris and Mallory Joe consumed it daily while playing ping-pong.] and Mom and I were sneaking a smoke on her veranda.
Mom said, "I don't know what to do. This has just been so difficult."
We
discussed various solutions, all involving travel and being away from Dad longer than she felt was reasonable. She
recognized she was tired and in a funk due to the many life stressors
she'd just endured. A major move, culture shock, a husband with a
cancer diagnosis, finding homes for three animals she loved dearly
prior to the move, turning 50, and missing her family and friends. She
knew she simply needed to keep moving forward.
She vented about the difficulties of living in Caracas. There were many - all legitimate.
I said, "But Mom, there are some neat things about living here. Can you think of just three good things?"
She thought...
"The birds are beautiful. I love seeing parrots and macaws flying. Free."
"And the orchids. I can grow orchids on my veranda. I've
never been able to grow orchids like this. Aren't they beautiful?"
[Mom has always loved gardening, so this was important and valued.]
She was looking a little perkier as she lit another cigarette. We sat quietly while she thought.
Finally
she said, "And when your father and I go out to eat, and I order a
drink... anywhere... they bring you the whole bottle, even if it's Grey
Goose, and set it right. On. The. Table."
Happy new year. I don't want to add an exclamation point - a few people might be tired and headachey. I'm tired, but my head's fine.
All the Christmas stuff that was *fun* to drag out and place around the house, now looks like clutter and has to be returned to boxes and the closet. Not *fun*. Chris tweaked his back a couple days ago, so he can't lift or bend very well. The tree might remain in our family room with the top third of it decorated until he feels better.
A few things I've learned recently, that I should already know at my age...
Don't pluck your eyebrows when you've been drinking.
Sometimes severe flatulence in the car can linger for days, even if you have leather seats AND spray enough Lysol to make a small child retarded. [I didn't do it - fart, that is.]
We buy our kids too much on Christmas and say we won't make the same mistake next year. We will NOT make the same mistake next year.
When you're flambeing something - don't blow on it.
Don't get all excited when your mother's in town helping you get the decorations OUT, and all tied, stapled and glue-gunned to the house. Because your mother LEAVES and you have to undo all that crap by yourself.
When Toddler Child says he wants a stick so he can give the snowman an arm and help "like the Big Boys", guide his arm placement.
Wishing everyone health, happiness, and the courage, strength and peace to handle what life throws your way in 2009!
NOTE: Chris just read this and wants it known that he didn't have the severe flatulence in the car either.
I'm certain everyone's tired of looking at, and reading about Christmas trees, cute kids and food. This is the last from me. Promise.
I posted a photo of our naked tree a few weeks ago. It stayed naked for several days, and I really liked how it looked all undressed. A couple of people [literally two] wanted to see it decorated. Some of the ornaments are as old as I am, some are made by the kids, and some are from the grocery store "impulse buy" section near the gum, videos, and *warm french bread [*every day at 4:00!].
Other than having a tall ceiling, our family room isn't very big, so it was difficult to get a photograph of the tree in it's entirety. Apologies for three unusual shots.
My parents spent Christmas with us. Mother's birthday is December 22nd and I had intentions of doing a post in her honor. I'll do that... later. Mom and Dad arrived on her birthday after a long, snowy drive from Arizona to Utah. We celebrated.
Christmas week, we went sledding, worked on a puzzle, ate and drank, shoveled snow, built an igloo in the backyard, relaxed, ate and drank some more, and shoveled more snow.
I made Beef Wellington for the first time EVER. [Sorry Sherri, I know you're a vegetarian, so don't look at this or click to enlarge. It's a big hunk of "tortured flesh" - John Robbins' words, not mine.]
The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas were fewer this year. I know many of us felt it. I was mailing Christmas letters on the 24th, and I have a few more to address.
Christmas morning arrived even though I wasn't quite ready for it. And everything was just. fine. It was better than fine. It was peaceful, there was falling snow, and we were all happy to share time together.
The economy dampens my spirit, and increases my stress. It affects us all. Chris and I are taking things a day at a time and trying to focus on what's important, and release the things we can't control. [Remind me I said that when I freak out - please.] I hope everyone was/is able to enjoy the simple things this holiday season.
I really thought this year would be different. Toddler Child seemed excited to see Santa, let him know he'd been good and would like an R2-D2 Potato Head, drums, and cymbals for Christmas.
I picked up the two older boys from school on Wednesday and told them this was THE DAY, so please be patient, do it for your little brother, be a good example... and I'll buy you garbage food in the Food Court when we're finished. They could even have a beer. Deal.
The line wasn't long so we only waited 15 minutes. While waiting, I noticed it wasn't the usual Santa for this mall. The new Santa was rounder, yet didn't have a soft appearance, and he had a floating eye. Uh-oh.
As the line moved along, Middle Boy and Oldest Boy were rolling their eyes and whispered to me, "Do we HAVE to do this?" YESSSSS! I hissed. Be positive for Toddler Child, I said through gritted teeth.
Toddler Child asked to be held and began the possum cling when we were third in line. "I don't want Santa. I scared," he said. I told him Santa loves children and would never hurt him. I pointed out the infant on Santa's lap at that very moment who was NOT crying or frightened. Toddler Child watched every move Santa made and continued to cling to my torso.
We were up. I took charge. I told the two older boys where to sit and what restraining techniques to use on Toddler Child. I told the photographer, "We've got a screamer and a fighter. I'll hand him to the Oldest Boy, tell Santa to protect his sensitive parts, and just get a shot - any shot. GO!"
The two older boys moved quickly and were seated next to Santa, who looked confused and stressed - it was hard to tell with that floating eye. As I stepped towards Santa, Toddler Child screamed like he was being murdered. Oldest Boy tried to pull him off of me. It wasn't going to work. Toddler Child was terrified and I felt badly. I looked at the photographer and said, forget it.
I snapped a few pictures then the photographer tapped me on the shoulder, showed me a little stool, and suggested I sit in front of Santa with Toddler Child on my lap.
It didn't go well.
As we left, I apologized and promised all three boys we'd NEVER do this again. I meant that. I wasn't even going to post this picture, but Supermodel (my friend, workout partner, and neighbor) talked me into it.
We all got drunk on greasy food in the Food Court and felt a little better. Toddler Child was worried that Santa didn't hear what he wanted for Christmas in all the chaos. Oldest Boy assured him that he had told Santa everything on his behalf. [He really did too. I heard him. Oldest Boy's a much better mother than I am.]
Leaving the mall, I expressed my regret over the scene we caused. And it was a scene.
Oldest Boy said, "Yeah. Everyone was staring at us. Those Mom's were mad 'cause you scared some of those kids waiting to see Santa. Kinda like a dentist."
We haven't taken the kids to see Santa this year... yet. We will though. And we'll pay nearly $500 for the quality photo taken by the harem of Mrs. Claus's that work so patiently and quickly to get the "money shot".
We have forced our children to sit on a strange man's lap every year for eleven years now - since Oldest Boy was two months old. Some years it's a peaceful, fun process. [Well, maybe it was like that twice. Or once.] Usually, it's terrifying for at least one of the boys and completely stressful for Chris and me because of the lines, the screaming, the fitting, and the families with obviously sick children sneezing and coughing in our air space. We drink when it's over - even if it's in the morning. True.
I won't bore you with every Santa photo... just the good ones.
December 2001. This marked the first and only year that Chris and I both had to enter the photo in order to force encourage children to sit on Santa's lap.
December 2002. Only one child needed restraining coaxing. [Chris put the DARK socks on Oldest Boy that day. I would have NEVER let something like that happen.]
December 2006. Toddler Child had been crying and struggling to escape [he kicked off his shoe], when suddenly he became hypnotized by a member of the Mrs. Claus harem. I wish that woman lived with us.
December 2007. THIS is the beauty of having older children. They can participate in the restraining coaxing.
I'm puffy. Everywhere. I've consumed too much fat, sugar, meat, and alcohol and stayed up past my bedtime three nights in a row. It was worth it, but I'm on the wagon for a while.
We've slowly begun the Thanksgiving to Christmas transition in our house. We have a kissing ball and carolers.
I managed to throw some coffee berries in a vase and ensure there's
plenty of seasonal food on hand - every variety of M&Ms ever created.
I prefer Dark Chocolate, Plain M&M's. Chris likes Dark Chocolate, Peanut. We
have a few other flavors, so please stop by and pick your poison. We've also placed our dancing Santa on the mantel... with care.
We purchased our Christmas tree and it's resting peacefully, and naked, in our family room. I decided I kind of like the tree naked.
Our last decoration (for now) is an important reminder to everyone...
...and one I'm considering leaving right where it is - all year long. Maybe if I look at this once in a while, my detoxing days will become a Ghost of Christmas Past.
Wife to 1 man, mother to 3 boys, with an inner desire to be a congresswoman, doctor, professional athlete, actress, or stripper (not the kind that gets naked though - a Gypsy Rose Lee in a one piece leotard, covered in sequins and feathers, who gets money thrown at her while singing "Let Me Entertain You").
