It Will Come Just the Same

Flipper is obsessed with the original animated "how the Grinch Stole Christmas"--the one that came out in 1966, not the More recent Jim Carrey travesty. She LOVES it. Watches it daily, tries to song along to the Whos and their carols, just loves it. As a child, I hated how mean the Grinch was to his poor dog, Max, and even now I cringe when he picks Max up by the scruff of his neck and glares at him. This bothers Flipper not at all; she is more concerned with the poor Whos (literally, as their homes are stripped bare).
But the message behind the whole Grinch thing really resonated within me this year; the message that Christmas isn't about presents but something more, and, more pertinent for me, it is going to arrive, no matter what. A week ago, it was hard to imagine being chipper for Christmas, my very favorite holiday. My best, most amazing, friendly dog died in the middle of the night, unexpectedly. I sat with him as he got colder and colder and his breaths came farther and farther apart until he finally took no more. It was awful. I had to get his body out of the house, call Flipper's father (Seamus was his dog first), make a million muffins for school, wake Flipper up and tell her (sobs, then "where's my Advent calendar?"), go to work, exhausted as I had been up since 1 a.m. and then come home to a house without him. The phone rang, and it was a close friend with the equally unexpected news that she has cancer. Then, a day later, the head gasket on my car cracked enough to leak coolant like mad, and, well, we all know how expensive THAT is going to be. I lay on my bed-without the dog that has slept here every night for years- and tried to drum up some enthusiasm for the season. Even the brief but beautiful snowfall, while sending Flipper into a frenzy, didn't work it's usual magic on me: he loved snow and would run around in circles, snapping up mouthfuls as he cavorted. My worry about my friend was-is-impossible to shake. Night came, and Flipper and I headed up to the graveyard in our neighborhood for an evening snow walk. Luckily, she still likes to hold hands, and she said, "Something bad happened today; Seamus died. But something good happened too, it snowed!!" Right she was; how wonderfully she summed up this crazy old life of ours.
And so tomorrow is Christmas, and it will come with packages and stockings and cinnamon rolls. It will come even despite the loss of our dog and the hopefully temporary illness of our friend, indeed, it will come just the same. And now, at this moment, on this day, I will be happy. Very, very happy. Cheers to people everywhere on this special day!

A Beautiful Self-Deception

I was reminded, recently, of not just the capacity that children have for magical thinking, but their ability to not just believe but to HOLD ONTO those beliefs in the face of any evidence to the contrary. It is amazing and slightly disconcerting all at the same time. On the evening of December 6, Flipper belatedly remembered St. Nicholas Day and insisted on placing one of her clogs by the front door in the absolute, concrete belief that he would magically fill it overnight. These are the things that throw me into total panic, since I desperately WANT to support her magical beliefs. BUT...some things require planning ahead, and some things require the ability to leave the house to purchase tiny treats. This cannot happen at 8 p.m. on a school night, not in a million years. Here is where a tendency towards pack-rattishness comes in handy: I waited for her to fall asleep, then jerked one drawers and looked on closet shelves, under sofas and in the kitchen all-purpose junk drawer. After some heart-pounding, stressful moments, I gathered some trinkets, and one of the hastily-grabbed presents was a little barrette I purchased the day before at our school's annual Holiday Faire. A tiny niggling doubt intruded; would she connect this particular one to the display yesterday, a display I am not even certain she actually saw? I decide that I had to take the chance, some grubby coins just weren't cutting it. The next morning she flew down the stairs to behold her little clog, the traditional tangerine and nuts spilling forth, hiding the tissue-paper wrapped barrette. With some real trepidation I watched her slowly unwrap it, and then her face break out in (thank god) joy, not disappointment. But then..."This came from the Holiday Faire!! I saw it there!!" While I struggled to form a quick response that keeps the magic but avoids an outright lie, she solved it for me, "He must have been there too!!"
And that, my friends, is the magic of childhood, of good old St. Nick, and the power of imagination.
As I am sure you can imagine, there are no questions of Santa not being real in our house. At least not yet. I'll enjoy it while I can!

To Change...or not.

Remember the frightful stuffed chihuahua Flipper was going to work so diligently towards? The very creature I had to practically to sit on my hands to keep from buying for her spontaneously and therefore making her ecstatically happy and avoid any kind of money lesson at the same time? Well, finally, after a few weeks of sporadic work but a lot of scrounging for change, the hideous thing is living at our house. My plan to have Flipper work for the money to buy "Goldie" was a partial success, disappointingly derailed by her sadly accurate statement that, "I can find enough change on the floor and in the car that I don't have to keep doing dishes," but beyond that, I will chalk this up as a success. I have long struggled with the whole "chore" thing; our life is consistently inconsistent, which means it is hard for me to even conceive of a chore chart, let along make it and actually follow it. She's good at helping when I ask, although she can get frustrated with clean up; luckily a task that felt overwhelming at times has become much more manageable since I tossed about 50% of her toys and art stuff.
Usually parenting issues and decisions seem crystal-clear to me, but this is an area that always feels cloudy. What chores should she do, and when, and how and why...I can't ever seem to get a good handle on this in our lives. Plus, I don't regularly or consistently do anything beyond walking and feeding the dogs every day. Sometimes I wash all the dishes after dinner, sometimes I do them in the morning when I get up at 5 a.m. Sometimes we spend an hour or two cleaning and dusting and vacuuming on Saturday mornings, sometimes it is Sunday. Or Wednesday. I feel like this should bother me more than it really does. I seriously hope-like I do with just about everything-that I am not going to scar her for life, or that she will grow up to be one of those poor hoarder-type people, all because her mother didn't have a chore chart. I can't even imagine what I would actually put ON a chore chart for a 6 year old, besides setting the table (which she does) and helping out when needed. What do all of you do with your kids?

Wish List

Flipper thinks-and I agree with her-that "stores are being mean to Thanksgiving," because they put up decorations and Christmas music before Thanksgiving happens. Raleigh parade people, are you listening? I briefly entertained the notion of trying to explain to her that stores do this so they can make money, and they make much more money on Christmas than they do on Thanksgiving. Then my actual, working brain kicked in, and I spared her (and myself) the agony of this explanation, and the ensuing questions it would bring about, ones I can't really grasp the answers to myself. So I agreed with her, and we walked on. But I REALLY agree with her-and I don't even like Thanksgiving! Too boring. It reminds me of Sundays when I was young; dull, plodding days that I simultaneously wanted to end so I could return to school to see my friends, and wanted to last forever, so I DIDN'T have to return to school to do anything resembling work. And so, were I in charge of the world...as a benevolent dictator, mind you, here would be my Official Holiday Creed. Bearing in mind that "creed" is a kinder, gentler way to say "law."

1) No Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving. All the stores can pull all-nighters to prepare for my own, private vision of hell: Black Friday. It isn't as though anyone flocking to the malls to elbow others out of the way are going to buy more because the decorations are up. They are too busy shopping and running and buying. And elbowing.
2) In this vein, no Halloween decorations before October 15. Actually, I would extend this to every holiday: nada until 2 weeks before. Valentine's Day, Easter, etc. It would make it special!! I promise.
3) Now, I love Christmas lights; love them on other people's houses, and during the month of December Flipper and I take different routes to and from home in order to scope them out. BUT-they must come down January 2. I can't understand this extension of Christmas until February. It makes them less special. They lose their magical, twinkling appeal.
4) Those vicious plastic ties that are impossible to remove a toy from without serious injury (just ask Rosie O'Donnell) would be outlawed. Use twisty-ties, or rubber bands. ANYTHING but those things; they could keep a jet grounded if they were sunk into the runway. I hate them.
5) All toys that require batteries would come with them. Period. Actually, I am surprised toymakers don't do this; they could charge MORE for "batteries included" toys. They would make a killing!!
6) All Internet shipping would actually cost what it would were you to trot down to the local post office. No more paying ten dollars to send a t-shirt that should cost 2 bucks to mail. However, I have received free shipping codes for complaining about charges that just seem crazy.
7) Only hospitals would be open Christmas Day. Thanksgiving too. I feel sorry for the people that have to work at gas stations and grocery stores Christmas Day. I don't care what your religious beliefs are; the silence and hush that come from a single day when things come to a halt is wonderful. Fill up the day before.
8) I would put something magical in the air that would render booze largely impotent, a teeny warm glow would be permitted, but no violent, ugly drunkenness would ruin any family's holidays. Actually, I would extend this to the entire world forever.
9) And...everything would be divvied up (I think they call this "socialism") so everyone would have enough to eat, and everyone would get a present, if that aligns with your beliefs. And all nutty medical bills would be automatically paid on December 31, letting everyone start the New Year with a clean slate.
10) Finally...all bird feeders would be filled to overflowing, and all deer would magically fly like Rudolph over cars.

Makes you want to vote for me doesn't it? So...add to my list! You might be tapped for BDVP!!
(That's "Benevolent Dictator Vice-President," an unpaid position, but highly fulfilling!!)

A Few Sour Notes.

You know how it is before you have children, when your mindset is one of flowers and fairies, that frolic in a land where all babies are beautiful and sing with the voices of angels? As an aside, I have always wanted to print a bumper sticker that reads: Parenting. Where fantasy and Reality collide. I would make MILLIONS. Anyway, one (or more) wee ones arrive, and then you slowly let go of-or have stomped to smithereens-the belief that all children are gorgeous, because, honestly, some simply are NOT, although we all alike to pretend that they are. But I really and truly believed, with all of my tiny black heart, that children can sing with, well, maybe not the voices of ANGELS but with something close. Something pretty. Can you hear the reality vs. fantasy collision yet? It is loud. And it is out of tune. I'll just say it straight out: Flipper cannot sing. Or, rather, she CAN sing but wow. It....hurts. The poor thing can't carry a tune from here to the kitchen. Blessedly, she sings very, very quietly (so far) but there is nothing melodic, nothing harmonious about the notes flowing forth, nothing remotely resembling music at all. I remember singing all the time at her age; idiotic, redundant songs learned in kindergarten, or Christmas carols 6 months before and after Christmas (why, yes, that would make it year-round) but she-thank God-hasn't done much singing yet. For a while there, I missed it. I would hear little snippets of songs from the backseat, but never loud enough to really hear, until recently. Now, she is cutting loose. Letting it fly. Singing her little heart out. And so, one more dream gets squashed: this kid will never be onstage at the Metropolitan Opera, channeling Beverly Sills, or, really just about any ten million people that can really sing. No, she'll be in the back seat of my car somewhere, happily warbling away, while her black-hearted Mommy drives along, teeth gritted, and the radio on. Loudly.

I Hate Lunch

I am perilously close to labeling Flipper with one of the most annoying labels of all: picky eater. How, how HOW can this be happening to me??? And do note that I said "me" not "her" because believe me, her myriad inconsistencies affect me WAY more than they do her, the little tender-palated creature. While she does like a nice variety of rather sophisticated "adult" foods, like marinated pork loin, she does not like many typical "kid" foods, even things like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or macaroni and cheese. I make the best mac-n-cheese in the world, from scratch, with real homemade garlic breadcrumbs on top no less...and nope, she won't eat it. What is so maddening is that she USED to be this GREAT eater, inhaling sushi like there's no tomorrow, all manner of fruits and vegetables, and then, slowly, the edibles have become narrower and narrower, and the inedibles greater and greater, until I am going to go insane if I have to throw out one more uneaten honey-and-peanut-butter sandwich, while she melts into a sobbing mass on the kitchen floor because she is so hungry and therefore teetering on the very edge of rationality. Note: she's not the only one teetering. Part of me, the nurturing, mommy-part, cares a great deal. The other part of me can't really get too worked up about her disdainful rejection of food that just a few weeks, or days, or even hours ago she happily inhaled. And the third part of me simply cannot stand to toss money out. Nor can I bring myself to let the dogs devour her rejects day after day. They are both on diets. And pack her lunch past the age of 7? I think not. There are many students in the high school, 18 year old kids, mind you, that bring a lunch packed by their mothers. I can't get my brain around this. How? And, really, WHY?? I am already beyond sick and tired of it; merely doing the very, very advanced math required to figure out how many lunches that is after 14 or 15 years of school is enough to put even me off my feed. It should be noted that the math required for such a sum is advanced only for someone with my low math skills. Nonetheless...I find it maddening. And frustrating. And a bit humbling, since my smug, she'll-eat-anything smile has been diminishing more and more as each week passes. But maybe that's what it's all about: the rise and fall of pride. And taste buds.

Farewell to Two Gourmets.

Last week I heard the news that after 70 years in circulation, Gourmet magazine would cease to publish. I was surprised and saddened, although I don't have a subscription to it (I have one to Bon Appetit instead). I hate and fear the death knell I hear sounding for print journalism of all kinds; I have no doubt that one day my favorite paper, the New York Times, will also fade away. But the death of Gourmet?? Too soon! You might well wonder why I have a soft spot for a magazine I don't even receive, or buy except in airports.
It goes back to my grandfather. He was a long-time subscriber to Gourmet, it came right to his house in West Virginia. It is a never-ceasing sense of amazement to me that this man, who grew up in a coal-mining town in West Virginia went to college, had a successful career as an engineer and photographer in WWII, and an even more successful career at a hideously ugly DuPont chemical plant less than a mile from his house in Belle, West Virgina, loved Gourmet. He loved all of life's gentler pleasures, but food and wine and travel and golf were right at the top. And us. My sister and I were his only grandchildren, and the word "spoiled" really doesn't accurately convey the amount of adoration, time and attention he showered us with. We were very, very, lucky. Very. It was with him that I was able to, with his encouragement, override my parents' rules about ordering food at a good restaurant (never get the most expensive item) and tasted lobster for the first time; at another meal in Hilton Head, SC, where he and my grandmother spent their winters, he, my sister and I shared a plate of escargots, washed down the inevitable Shirley Temple, which was quite a treat for kids that had no junk food of any kind in their home.
But he also had serious, seemingly endless string of health problems that stemmed from a heart that was strong in the emotional sense only: he suffered his first (massive) heart attack in his late thirties, then went on to have 5 or six more, bypass surgery, surgery for an aneurysm, a benign brain tumor, all before succumbing to lung cancer (he was a non-smoker) in his mid-70's. After his death, my grandmother slipped away into Alzheimer's, and died some years later. When we were clearing out their house, there, in the basement, were hundreds of copies of Gourmet, all in special magazine storage boxes. I wish they could have stayed there forever, or at least been transported back to Durham. But my parents' house has limited storage, and so they, too, were disposed of. The house my father grew up in, the one right down the road from the DuPont plant was, along with the whole neighborhood, razed to the ground so the already-wide river could squeeze in a few more coal barges, bearing their load from another pillaged mountaintop. The house, the magazines, all of it gone forever. But whenever I saw Gourmet in a store, at a friend's house, at a rack in the airport, I couldn't resist picking it up, and thinking of him, a natural gourmet from West Virginia. And so another print magazine falls (it certainly won't be the last) but it might be, for me, the saddest.