Right Jolly Old Elf

I sometimes struggle with Christmas as a parent. For me, Christmas brings so much magic, largely because of my experience as a child. We had yearly trips to the movie theater for the big holiday movie with our close neighborhood friends. We attended the ethereal midnight mass by candlelight on Christmas Eve. We traveled to my grandparent’s house where all the cousins would pile in one bedroom and my dad would sing ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas. 

I want my boys to have similar magical memories of Christmas. And, I think they will. The struggle for me arises when I realize how many of the parts of Christmas I love conflict with how we raise our kids the rest of the year. Sometimes, Santa feels like an elaborate lie instead of a magical herald of joy. Sometimes, the rush to get gifts seems like a box to check instead of a gesture of love. Sometimes, the decorations seem like a reflection of society’s excess, instead of an act of community. I can’t help but wonder if we were doing it “right,” it wouldn’t conflict with our parenting values at all. 

Last week we were reading the book Saint Nicholas: the Giftgiver, retold and illustrated by Ned Bustard. This book tells the history of Saint Nicholas as an activist for social justice, a missionary, a priest and a bishop. The books tell us that the genesis of his giftgiving was when he threw three bags of gold through a family’s window one night, so their three daughter’s would “avoid calamity” (be sold into slavery). This charming picture book weaves the historical St. Nicholas with the legend of the man with a belly-like-a-bowl-full-of-jelly in a charming way that reminds us that “Santa” brings joy and gifts because he’s a harbinger of God’s love.

And, I like that a lot. I like how this story reminded me that it’s not that hard to recalibrate Christmas. And I think that can be done without getting rid of the twinkly lights and Right Jolly Old Elf. We spend time with those we love, we act with kindness the best we can, and we forget about the naughty list. We offer help in brave ways. And, we remember that there is always magic in the world, but it’s only going to look like flying reindeer for so long.

Woefully Unprepared

I can recite a couple of prayers beginning with “Baruch atah Adonai” by the glow of the menorah candlelight. I also make a mean kugel.

I’m a little bit Jewish. Despite being raised in the Episcopal Church, my dad made sure to incorporate some of his family’s religious traditions into our childhood. Every Hanukkah we would light the menorah and get a bag of gelt, the gold-covered chocolate coins in a pinched net that hurt our fingers when we couldn’t wait for the scissors to open it up. My childhood playroom is filled with VHS tapes about the Maccabees.

Yet here I am, woefully unprepared to teach my own kids about this part of their family’s history and faith. This became evident this week when I took to the Holiday book box and the only Hanukkah books I found were two board books: Biscuit’s Hanukkah and Happy Hanukkah, Curious George! (Sorry, Bubbe! Just kidding, we called her Nana. But that would have been way better.)

Thankfully, Curious George gave us some good talking points. Especially the concept of mitzvah, which stopped me in my tracks while we were reading. It occurred to me while reading that my dad is a walking mitzvah — constantly in service to others. As children, he showed us that we don’t have to wait for the lighting of the menorah to be reminded to show love to others.

Self-awareness hit me that evening. Black Friday brings on this annual shift in which I become so focused on shopping and reliving my nostalgia through my children that I’m like this holiday-spinning Tasmanian Devil, until the moment we sing Silent Night by candlelight at church on Christmas Eve with the wax dripping onto my fingers. I often forget why we do this whole Christmas thing at all. 

Beckett and I brainstormed ways we could be of service. I suggested a beach clean-up or seeing if a neighbor needs us to pick up sticks in their yard. We live in a maritime forest, so he thought that idea was so ridiculous he heckled me for about five minutes. Otherwise, he was on board with getting our hands dirty helping others. Hopefully I can show him that, like his Papa, a mitzvah is a great way to celebrate what we believe, no matter where we light our candles.

After Dinner Horseplay

It’s not our first visit to the emergency room with our kids.

This particular visit was brought to us by after dinner horseplay, iterations of “settle down!” from the kitchen sink as I scrubbed the last dinner pan, followed soon after by the type of crying that spelled out the next few hours before I actually ever saw what happened.

Oliver busted his chin on the floor. So, we buckled them into their car seats with their spaghetti sauce-stained shirts and headed to the ER. Nathan’s assessment assured me there was no critical danger, but I dreaded the stitches that were likely in store for us that evening. 

I knew he was going to be fine, but I still felt anxious and guilty, and maybe even wondered if I would be questioned for bringing my filthy, bleeding child into the ER. As we waited to be called back, one of his preschool classmates was frantically rushed in by her mother with a head wound from...after dinner horseplay with her big sister. A few minutes later, the ER door opened and out sauntered Oliver’s preschool teacher and her daughter. These familiar faces shifted our conversations from debriefing scary experiences with furrowed brows to exasperated laughter and friendly chatter.  

This was on my mind when we read Lost and Found by Oliver Jeffers this week. In this book, a sad, silent penguin shows up on the doorstep of a little boy. Assuming it lost, the boy searches far and wide to find out where the penguin belongs, only to hop in a boat to the South Pole to find the penguin’s home. All the way there, the boy chats with the silent penguin and tells it stories. They don’t find the penguin’s community at the South Pole, but the boy drops the him off, noting he looks sadder than ever. On his trip home, it dawns on the boy that the penguin was never sad, he was just lonely. He turns his boat around, reuniting with the penguin. 

Jeffers reminded me of how important it is to have community. As my family continues to emerge from Covid isolation and settles into a new town, I’m reminded that we are not meant to journey through life alone. We have to find our people that will laugh at our tales, listen to our wild days and … keep us company in the ER waiting room.

A Cutlass And So Much Other Stuff

 

My parent’s house is full of stuff. They may be upset if they knew I published that. 

My brother, sister and I have come and gone over and over, each time taking the treasures we wanted and leaving the junk we didn’t. We came home from college and left movie posters and textbooks. We got married and neglected the wedding RSVP cards that were sent to their house. We visited at Christmas and left our gift wrap and weird-distant-aunt gifts. We stopped by for the weekend with our dog crates and infants’ travel cribs and left the bassinet attachments and rawhide bones. We brought them coffee mugs after we traveled and picture frames after we added one more member to the family. 

Last weekend I went home to help clear out some of that stuff. I pulled into their driveway, with a trunk full of empty Rubbermaid containers, and there they were. Brightly standing side by side to welcome me home, faces painted with big smiles and arms already spread wide. A sight I see every time they welcome me home and every time I set off again.

This was fresh on my mind when I read Faraway Things by Dave Eggers this week. This book, beautifully illustrated by Kelly Murphy, tells the story of a boy who lives by the sea and collects treasures washed up on the shore, or “faraway things” as his father had called them. We learn the boy’s father has died, but was the keeper of the lighthouse that stands prominently on the cliff. One day the boy finds a cutlass, only to learn that it belongs to a mariner who hit a sandbar because there was no longer a beacon from the lighthouse. The man offers a trade, the cutlass in return for any of the treasures on his ship the boy pleases. The boy picks out a lantern, which he places at the top of the lighthouse, returning a lost beacon of light to the shore.

If I take one thing from last weekend it’s the realization that, like that cutlass, my little boys are already my faraway things. They are not ours to keep. From the moment they are born our job is to provide them a safe harbor and to prepare them for an unimaginable life at sea. We have to keep our beacon shining, with big smiles and arms already spread wide when they come back home.

#daveeggers

What I Should Have Done Was Nothing

I had visions of what I would do with this free time. 

Lounging on the sofa binge-watching my own shows, shows that aren’t Cocomelon. Laying on the beach reading a book, not clutching my toddler from the current at the surf. Sitting in my quiet office and focusing on my writing, instead of typing on my phone in a stolen moment waiting for my Instacart pick-up (#sorrynotsorry). 

This past summer I couldn’t help but fantasize about a few hours a day of down time while the boys are both at school. I love these days fully immersed in motherhood, but my boys are one hundred percent non-stop. That first day I dropped Oliver off at school I did completely bask in a morning at the beach with Nathan but I, admittedly, have not lounged at all since then. I’ve chosen to do a lot of the same things I did before when I had Oliver balanced on my hip...post office, grocery store, quick run, clean the kitchen before the next meal.

As a stay-at-home parent, I’m unsure of how to reconcile that completely self-imposed guilty feeling of doing nothing. I have this overwhelming drive to knock out the laundry, the dishes, the meal prep, but probably not mail the wedding RSVP that will still somehow ride around on my dashboard for weeks until the due date passes. 

This was on my mind this week when we read Frederick, a 1968 Caldecott Winner, by Leo Lionni. This story is about a family of mice working hard to store up for winter, all except Frederick, who seems to be barely pulling his weight. When his family asks him why he is not working, he says he is collecting rays from the sun or colors from the meadow or words to fill the long winter days ahead. Sure enough, hibernation brings hunger and boredom to the mice… and Frederick’s moment comes. He shares his memories of the sunshine and the colors of the meadow. He even regales them with a poem, filling their hibernating hearts with joy.

Frederick reminded me that, while, sure, the kitchen does eventually need to get cleaned, doing the chores is not what I bring to the table. Frederick reminded me not to confuse sitting still with doing nothing. If I don’t rest now, I won’t have any real joy to give later. 

#leolionni

Mavericks

I have all these new words in my vocabulary since moving to the Outer Banks. Words like pop-up and swell and barrelled.

I have these words in my vocabulary because when we moved, my husband almost immediately took up surfing. Now Nathan and the boys are constantly practicing paddling and popping-up in the living room. New wetsuits and boards that are completely necessary keep appearing in the garage. Nathan slips out the door before first light to surf before work. I don’t know what’s happening anymore at my house but, I’m not going to lie, it’s fun. 

Last weekend we took the boys out to the beach to watch a pro surf competition. We could only manage to keep them engaged in one heat — the women’s finals. The young women were amazing, carving out these intricate rides out of lackluster waves. The reality is that I would have been dazzled by just about any level of surfing, so it wasn’t until their heat was over that I was really impressed. The defeated surfer (who happened to be the 2018 World Junior Champion) lingered at the shore until her competitor finished her victory ride. Despite her visible exhaustion and tearful disappointment at losing, she and another young woman hoisted the winner onto her shoulders and carried her up the beach.

There’s a chance this is customary sportsmanship in surfing. But it brought tears to my eyes, nevertheless, that I pretended weren’t there as I continued to bury the boy’s feet in the sand in an attempt to keep them still a bit longer.

This was on my mind when we read Sarah And The Big Wave, written by Bonnie Tsui and illustrated by Sophie Diao. This nonfiction picture book is about Sarah Gerhardt, the first female to surf the big waves at Mavericks in California. It’s an inspiring story about an unknown surfer who made a name for herself in a sport largely qualified by male victories. There is a timeline on the last page, the final event occurring in February 2020 when Maya Gabeira broke the world record for the largest wave surfed by a woman.

While I hid my own tears from my boys, I hope they saw hers so they know that their own hard work matters, but the real impact comes from hoisting up those on the journey with us.

#sarahandthebigwave

First Words

Oliver has started talking quite a bit this summer. 

As a parent, this is something you eagerly wait for. You read board books and sing folksongs and talk to him in the car about the birds you see out the window. Then that magical day comes when the ga-ga’s become, “No, I’m not,” or “Let go me!” or “Un-thank you” or a quite clamorous “No! Baby do that.” 

Those long-awaited words have revealed a lot of defiance and indignance. Apparently, my diaper-clad child has inferred these last two years that he’s the king-of-this-castle, and now that I think about it, he may not be wrong. We actually have been tirelessly accommodating his every need since the OB-GYN told us we could no longer hide in our postpartum room at the hospital. 

Perhaps, like childbirth, I forgot since Beckett’s toddler years how two-year-olds behave. Perhaps, like childbirth, I forgot about how they manage to go limp and gain forty pounds on the floor of Walgreens when you don’t give them the candy they asked for. Perhaps, like childbirth, I forgot about how they crumble the Kashi breakfast bar onto the floor because it no longer meets their expectations of three-minutes-ago.

The other reality is that we just have a kid that’s figuring out how to be heard. That changes things a little.

The other night while we were reading Knuffle Bunny by Mo Willems I was struck by the first line: “Not so long ago, before she could even speak words, Trixie went on an errand with her daddy…” We are told the story of how Trixie loses her stuffed animal, Knuffle Bunny, on their errand to the laundromat. Her babble makes it so hard to share her needs with her dad that she resigns to tears and tantrums. They frantically retrace their steps. Upon finding Knuffle, Trixie bellows, “Knuffle Bunny!” which happen to be the first words she ever speaks.

I don’t have the solution for Oliver’s phase of toddlerhood. But, I do know that finding your voice is hard at any stage in life. We don’t always have the tools to say what we need to say. More likely, we don’t know how to say it effectively. All I do know is that we can carry patience and love for one another, and some compassion for those still figuring it out.

#knufflebunny