We're Jewish, although still culturally interfaith. What that means is that we are Jewish with some bonus traditions that I dragged along with me into the family. Really, the only main holiday that we celebrate (other than the Jewish holidays, and other American holidays, like Thanksgiving, Halloween, July 4th, etc) is Christmas. Although that's also like saying we celebrate absolutely everything, with the possible exception of Kwanzaa and the Chinese New Year. We don't make a big deal about Easter here in the house, but the annual egg hunt at my mother's is a favorite tradition.
So right now, we're in the middle of Hanukkah. As a family that celebrates both Christmas and Hanukkah, I find that we're in an odd place. Because we are most definitely Jewish, active and happy members of the synagogue in Worcester, we do Shabbat dinner every week, and have kids CDs in Hebrew on auto repeat in the car. But we also love candy canes, my kids are amused and delighted at the prospect of Santa Claus and we're getting a tree later on this week.
But this weekend was the beginning of the week long celebration of Hanukkah. It's a minor holiday in the Jewish calendar, commemorating the triumph of a small band of Jewish soldiers to reclaim the Temple. Once the Temple was cleaned up, they discovered that there was only enough oil to last one night, but, as they say, "a great miracle happened there," and the oil lasted the eight days it took to make more. We light menorahs every night (Julie keeps calling them Torahs) and every night, we try to do something special. Some nights it's presents, some nights it's a dinner at the synagogue, or we go out and look at holiday lights with hot cocoa.
Saturday night, we had the first night, and we lit all nine of the menorahs we had at that point (we've since added another, bringing the total up to ten). Each child got a book for their present. Yesterday was non-stop Hanukkah, with a family party in the morning, a menorah lighting at Newton Square in the afternoon, and then a big dinner with my stepdaughters and more presents. This afternoon, Jessie has a play that she's performing in at religious school and then we've got dinner at the synagogue. Tomorrow night, we're actually getting our tree, and then Wednesday night, we'll do another menorah lighting at religious school, Thursday night is the Boy Scouts pot luck (we're bringing latkes) and Friday night is Shabbat.
Things are crazy this year, and I'm not sure why. Last year, I remember thinking that Hanukkah was so peaceful compared to the frantic rush of Christmas, but this year it seems the exact opposite. I don't know if it's just that Hanukkah came so early this year, so I wasn't entirely mentally ready for the holidays, or if it's a function of kids getting older. More activities, more explanations about religion and why we celebrate what, more kids running around and bugging each other. Last year, Julie wasn't really walking, and she certainly wasn't claiming all gifts that come into the house as her own, the way she is this year. Last year, Sam was still five, and had no activities outside of school. Last year, Jessie was a lot younger, in many ways, and not as articulate about trying to figure out why different people follow different religions. I feel like this has been a year with a lot more squabbling, a lot more running around and a lot more spiritual questioning. All of which is lovely - don't get me wrong. I love having three (and sometimes five) kids, and squabbling is a part of that. I love having a busy, active life, with lots of friends and huge families to celebrate with. And I LOVE that my kids ask questions, I love that we discuss and debate and ponder these deep spiritual topics in the car and at night before bed.
But I also am tired. And looking forward to my week between Hanukkah and Christmas.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Words We Won't Get Back
Julie is still at that age where she's learning to talk. New words every day (today, we learned lavendar, she was delighted). But she still struggles with pronunciation, and it made me think of the number of words that I have repeated so often that I no longer remember the actual word it's come from. Either that, or the mispronunciation has become a perfectly viable word in and of itself. Here's a list of them...
"fier" - pacifier. Jessie used a fier for years. And it's still what I call it when I hand one to my two year old niece. Despite the fact that I only used them for my oldest child (and she's almost ten).
"potty" - toilet. Actually, this doubles as both a noun meaning the entire room, and a verb, as in "going potty." I worry that I'll be fifty and still using this...
"Boy and G" My son Samuel Earl and daughter Jessica Mary both have beautiful, well considered and well loved names. And we refer to them eighty to ninety percent of the time as Boy and G. Because that's what Julie calls them. Sam called Jessie "Dessi" and that didn't last. But for some reason, Boy and G seem to have staying power.
"punge" - sponge. This one was tough to decipher. But Julie is a girl who loves to clean (with any luck, this'll last beyond toddlerhood), and frequently demands a "punge wid bubbles" to scrub down the table.
"Wabbo!" - Bravo. I have now taken to hollering Wabbo when any kid does anything fabulous. Bring home an awesome spelling test? Wabbo! Remember to put your dirty dishes into the dishwasher? Wabbo!
"Pat Pat" - the Disney show, Little Einsteins. It's Julie's favorite show, and I think it's only because it was one of her first words. We use it all the time, usually the older kids, "Please God no - don't make us watch ANOTHER Pat Pat!"
"fier" - pacifier. Jessie used a fier for years. And it's still what I call it when I hand one to my two year old niece. Despite the fact that I only used them for my oldest child (and she's almost ten).
"potty" - toilet. Actually, this doubles as both a noun meaning the entire room, and a verb, as in "going potty." I worry that I'll be fifty and still using this...
"Boy and G" My son Samuel Earl and daughter Jessica Mary both have beautiful, well considered and well loved names. And we refer to them eighty to ninety percent of the time as Boy and G. Because that's what Julie calls them. Sam called Jessie "Dessi" and that didn't last. But for some reason, Boy and G seem to have staying power.
"punge" - sponge. This one was tough to decipher. But Julie is a girl who loves to clean (with any luck, this'll last beyond toddlerhood), and frequently demands a "punge wid bubbles" to scrub down the table.
"Wabbo!" - Bravo. I have now taken to hollering Wabbo when any kid does anything fabulous. Bring home an awesome spelling test? Wabbo! Remember to put your dirty dishes into the dishwasher? Wabbo!
"Pat Pat" - the Disney show, Little Einsteins. It's Julie's favorite show, and I think it's only because it was one of her first words. We use it all the time, usually the older kids, "Please God no - don't make us watch ANOTHER Pat Pat!"
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
I love a Tuesday
Having a delightful sort of day today - the sun is (not) shining and the everyone was cheerful and friendly this morning. Which is rare, honestly, so I'm taking it as a sign that today is going to be freaking AWESOME.
Today is my free day, devoted to cleaning, baking and probably some reading. Tomorrow, I've got a Mommy and Me planning meeting, Thursday, we're getting the tree, Friday is Shabbat and pizza party for first graders, and then Saturday starts Hanukkah. There's a concert at Emmanuel that we may or may not go to, and then Sunday, it's Marc's family party in the morning. Which reminds me that I have to bake cookies for that. Next weekend, Abby's birthday is on Sunday morning. And I've got another Hanukkah party that night.
Will not be getting a $30 Elf on a Shelf. Am researching other alternatives, and trying to come up with a positive spin. In our family - we do fairies on a shelf. Does that sound reasonable? Or puppies on a shelf - we've got a lot of stuffed puppies. Or even... Shoo Butt (Sam's stuffed lizard) on a Shelf. There are lots of viable alternatives. I just need to explain to Marc that from now until Christmas, every night, he has to make the coffee and find a new place to put the damn elf. Or Shoo Butt. Actually, now that I'm thinking about it - I really should hide three different things, right? Because you know they'll battle over who's going to find it first. This is a complex little tradition, but Sam's really into it.
Another thing he's really into is the daily chocolate. My mother bought the kids advent calendars, and I think it's brilliant. I use them as bribes - if they get dressed quickly enough, they can all open their days and get a tiny square of chocolate. I may look into celebrating Advent all year round. Julie, yesterday, slept late and missed it in the morning, and then midday, went and found it, and opened just one day to get her daily allotment.
Monday, December 3, 2012
My annual December Dilemma Post
This is my tenth Christmas/Hanukkah season with Marc, and I find that as it approaches, it's the first one that I'm relaxed and happy about in a long time. We celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah, and I'm perfectly content about it, for the first time in years. We also do Easter/Passover, but somehow, that's never really been an issue. Passover is a much more significant event - Easter is reduced to nothing more than a fun party at Grammy's house.
But in years past, I've really agonized over what we do in December. Marc and I were always guaranteed at least one killer battle, whereupon we would argue and debate and theorize for hours over whether or not he was celebrating Christmas with the "right" frame of mind (I never thought he was, he - correctly, I now realize - is in entitled to be angst ridden in his own way, as long as we are unified as a family). Because that's always what it was for me, a way of asserting my own impact on the kids. A way to say to them that yes, we're Jewish, but that's not all that we are, and you don't have to lose out on my traditions because of it. It was an identity thing for me. I wanted desperately for Judaism to be an addition to my life, to their life. Not to have it represent loss.
Because we are Jewish - and I love that. I feel at home with Judaic spirituality, it makes utter and complete sense to me. I love Shabbat, I love the holidays and the everyday holiness. I love the blessings over tiny events, and the sense of appreciation and gratitude. I love the community. I really love the community. I love that my kids are so welcomed and adored and comfortable at the synagogue.
But I also love my own traditions. My own memories of beautiful Christmas trees and hot cocoa and candy canes and I think my kids deserve that. I don't pretend that ALL kids deserve it, if you don't celebrate Christmas because you feel it's a Christian holiday and as a non-Christian, it's not your day, that's cool. But for me, Christmas was never particularly a Christian holiday. If there was any religious significance to it, it was always more Pagan, with the tree and the candles and the light in the darkness kind of thing. Which translates nicely (for me, at least) with Hanukkah. I think my kids get to celebrate Christmas because they're my kids. Because they are my mother's grandchildren. And it's as much a part of who they are as Hanukkah candles, latkes and dreidels.
Because in the end, my kids will make up their own minds about religion and spirituality and what traditions they want to continue and what they'll let slide. I chose to raise them within a religious community that is their's by inheritance, half their family is Jewish- and took the extra steps to convert them so that nobody would question their Jewish identity. I converted myself, due in no small part to my conviction that if my family was Jewish, then I was as well. But celebrating Christmas may well be what makes it possible for me to embrace raising my children in a culture that still feels alien to me, to teach them songs in a language that makes no sense to me, and to learn to make challah and make sure I've got Shabbat candles for Friday.
And in the end, my kids' Jewish identity is going to rely a lot more on the challah recipe that I'm perfecting, the years of religious education I make them go to, the Shabbat dinner every Friday night, and the fact that we simply are Jewish. The conflict was just between Marc and I, and I suppose, the greater culture at large, that insists that being Jewish means NOT celebrating Christmas, and insisting that you can't participate in Christmas unless you believe that Jesus is the Son of God. My kids know they're Jewish, and they know what that means. They don't agonize over it, their Jewish identity is as obvious to them and as undeniable as the fact that they've all got brown eyes. It's not up for debate, it simply is. They also know that they celebrate Christmas because it's my tradition, that it's a holiday like Fourth of July or Thanksgiving. Not a religious one, but one that we celebrate enthusiastically.
Bring on the candy canes, and this week, I'll unpack the endless number of menorahs and the Christmas lights. I couldn't be happier.
But in years past, I've really agonized over what we do in December. Marc and I were always guaranteed at least one killer battle, whereupon we would argue and debate and theorize for hours over whether or not he was celebrating Christmas with the "right" frame of mind (I never thought he was, he - correctly, I now realize - is in entitled to be angst ridden in his own way, as long as we are unified as a family). Because that's always what it was for me, a way of asserting my own impact on the kids. A way to say to them that yes, we're Jewish, but that's not all that we are, and you don't have to lose out on my traditions because of it. It was an identity thing for me. I wanted desperately for Judaism to be an addition to my life, to their life. Not to have it represent loss.
Because we are Jewish - and I love that. I feel at home with Judaic spirituality, it makes utter and complete sense to me. I love Shabbat, I love the holidays and the everyday holiness. I love the blessings over tiny events, and the sense of appreciation and gratitude. I love the community. I really love the community. I love that my kids are so welcomed and adored and comfortable at the synagogue.
But I also love my own traditions. My own memories of beautiful Christmas trees and hot cocoa and candy canes and I think my kids deserve that. I don't pretend that ALL kids deserve it, if you don't celebrate Christmas because you feel it's a Christian holiday and as a non-Christian, it's not your day, that's cool. But for me, Christmas was never particularly a Christian holiday. If there was any religious significance to it, it was always more Pagan, with the tree and the candles and the light in the darkness kind of thing. Which translates nicely (for me, at least) with Hanukkah. I think my kids get to celebrate Christmas because they're my kids. Because they are my mother's grandchildren. And it's as much a part of who they are as Hanukkah candles, latkes and dreidels.
Because in the end, my kids will make up their own minds about religion and spirituality and what traditions they want to continue and what they'll let slide. I chose to raise them within a religious community that is their's by inheritance, half their family is Jewish- and took the extra steps to convert them so that nobody would question their Jewish identity. I converted myself, due in no small part to my conviction that if my family was Jewish, then I was as well. But celebrating Christmas may well be what makes it possible for me to embrace raising my children in a culture that still feels alien to me, to teach them songs in a language that makes no sense to me, and to learn to make challah and make sure I've got Shabbat candles for Friday.
And in the end, my kids' Jewish identity is going to rely a lot more on the challah recipe that I'm perfecting, the years of religious education I make them go to, the Shabbat dinner every Friday night, and the fact that we simply are Jewish. The conflict was just between Marc and I, and I suppose, the greater culture at large, that insists that being Jewish means NOT celebrating Christmas, and insisting that you can't participate in Christmas unless you believe that Jesus is the Son of God. My kids know they're Jewish, and they know what that means. They don't agonize over it, their Jewish identity is as obvious to them and as undeniable as the fact that they've all got brown eyes. It's not up for debate, it simply is. They also know that they celebrate Christmas because it's my tradition, that it's a holiday like Fourth of July or Thanksgiving. Not a religious one, but one that we celebrate enthusiastically.
Bring on the candy canes, and this week, I'll unpack the endless number of menorahs and the Christmas lights. I couldn't be happier.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Project Make Sam Like People Commences
I know - it's a crappy name for a project, but I'm still working on it.
At our last school conference, his teacher raved about how well he's doing in school this year. Smart, fun, interacting with everyone, totally socially acclimated. But there was a pause, and I asked the question that had been weighing on my mind - will he be able to go to first grade next year, or is his comfort level completely dependent on having you as his teacher? In other words, I know he's awesome, I know he's bright and funny and sweet and all around a great kid. But I also know that he's really afraid in new settings, and that if she's not there, his beloved teacher that he's had for two years now - he might regress completely. And his teacher reluctantly agreed that it was a possibility.
So she suggested babysitters. Playdates. Leave him often with other adults, put him in new settings without Marc or I there and expand his confidence.
I blame myself. Of course. I know that I sheltered him a lot, I kept him with me when he really wanted to be, I didn't force him to go to preschool, I didn't force him to go to soccer camp. I've cancelled playdates wily nily when he started sobbing at the prospect of going.
So I'm leaving him at my mother's house more and more. He's over at Joy's house for a playdate today, and has big plans on going over to Nicky's house tomorrow. He's ready for this - he's eager to go and be a six year old boy, with friends and legos and ninjas and running and all kinds of BOY stuff.
And I think this is why, even though I blame myself, I also give myself credit. Sam is who he is. And he's not a kid who was ready to trust anyone, really. For a very long time. He was a kid who was really scared, and didn't feel safe out in the world alone. As much as I wished it might have been different - I wish that only for his sake. Because it was HARD to be him. But he had a blast at my mom's house last weekend, and his eyes lit up when I asked if he wanted to go play at Harrison's house today. And he's been counting down the days to his playdate with Nicky. He's ready now. I don't think he could have been pushed or forced into this - he had to be ready on his own. Like potty training, or learning to read, or sleeping thru the night.
At our last school conference, his teacher raved about how well he's doing in school this year. Smart, fun, interacting with everyone, totally socially acclimated. But there was a pause, and I asked the question that had been weighing on my mind - will he be able to go to first grade next year, or is his comfort level completely dependent on having you as his teacher? In other words, I know he's awesome, I know he's bright and funny and sweet and all around a great kid. But I also know that he's really afraid in new settings, and that if she's not there, his beloved teacher that he's had for two years now - he might regress completely. And his teacher reluctantly agreed that it was a possibility.
So she suggested babysitters. Playdates. Leave him often with other adults, put him in new settings without Marc or I there and expand his confidence.
I blame myself. Of course. I know that I sheltered him a lot, I kept him with me when he really wanted to be, I didn't force him to go to preschool, I didn't force him to go to soccer camp. I've cancelled playdates wily nily when he started sobbing at the prospect of going.
So I'm leaving him at my mother's house more and more. He's over at Joy's house for a playdate today, and has big plans on going over to Nicky's house tomorrow. He's ready for this - he's eager to go and be a six year old boy, with friends and legos and ninjas and running and all kinds of BOY stuff.
And I think this is why, even though I blame myself, I also give myself credit. Sam is who he is. And he's not a kid who was ready to trust anyone, really. For a very long time. He was a kid who was really scared, and didn't feel safe out in the world alone. As much as I wished it might have been different - I wish that only for his sake. Because it was HARD to be him. But he had a blast at my mom's house last weekend, and his eyes lit up when I asked if he wanted to go play at Harrison's house today. And he's been counting down the days to his playdate with Nicky. He's ready now. I don't think he could have been pushed or forced into this - he had to be ready on his own. Like potty training, or learning to read, or sleeping thru the night.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Gratitude List
Thanksgiving is my mother's favorite holiday. But not mine. I like the prep work, but the actual holiday has never really appealed to me. None of the beauty of Christmas, or the quiet peace of Hanukkah. None of the candy and spring time excess of Easter, or the spiritual meaning attached to Passover. It's okay. But not my favorite.
Sam was sick this year on Thanksgiving. We have a tradition in our family, girls and boys night is the night before. I always take my girls and sleep over at my mother's house on Wednesday night. We stay up late, prepping stuff for the next day, and talking and gossiping. Marc takes Sam and they go out for Chinese together and then stay up late watching what I call "inappropriate tv." We get up super early, and spend the morning eating and cooking and talking and Marc and Sam come down to my mother's house and we all have the holiday together.
But this year, Sam woke up and threw up all morning long, so he and Marc stayed home, and the girls and I had dinner with my parents and come home after. And because it isn't Thanksgiving unless we're all together, we're having a redo today. The turkey is in the oven, the kids are coloring placemats for everyone (we've got some friends joining us) and I've got Christmas carols on in the kitchen. And I'm glad, because it gives me a golden opportunity to think about one comprehensive list of what I'm grateful for today. So - in no particular order - here's a few of the many blessings I have to be grateful for this year...
- My husband. Marc and I will celebrate our eleven year anniversary in February, and I'm still so in love with him. He's my best friend, my partner, and the one person who's always, always on my side. He's brilliant and kind and funny and endlessly, endlessly devoted to our family. But more than that, he's just as goofy in love with me as I am with him, and that's such a wonderful gift.
- My Jessica Mary. She'll be ten in a few months, and my baby girl is growing up so much faster than I think she should. She was, and is, everything I always wanted in a daughter. All my hopes and dreams of being a mother paled in comparison to the reality, and she's the reason for that. It's better and more magical, more infuriating and harder than I ever dreamed. She's simply awesome, and I'm blessed to be her mother.
- My Samuel Earl. My boy child, my sweetest little love, and my right arm. He's the one who changed me, who stretched me and taught me and made me the mother I am today. He's my heart, in a very real sense, and I'm forever in awe of him. He's smart and sweet and so tender and vulnerable at times. Stubborn and determined and this little bundle of emotion and sweetness. Worships his dad, but adores me, and I'm blessed to have him for my son.
- My Julianna Ruth. My angel girl, my love bug. She's just so funny and happy. She's in love with the world, and delighted to be a part of it. She makes motherhood easy, and has from the very beginning. I was laughing as she was born, and it's still the way I think of her. She just makes you smile. She's cheerful and easy to please, unless you cross her, in which case, she'll kill you. Or at least try hard to. She's such a gift, such a perfect blessing.
- My stepdaughters, Lilli and Sarah. Being a stepmother isn't an easily defined role, and it's one that is different for each stepmother. But I think I've got it easier than most, because these girls are just a delight to me. And one thing that easy to define is the relationship between them and my three, and that is one of siblings. These two girls are their big sisters, best friends, mortal enemies and lifelong companions. My kids are blessed to have them in their life. And let's face it, my husband makes pretty great kids - and his oldest two are great examples. Smart, funny, kind. I'm proud to have them in my family.
- Worcester isn't my hometown. In fact, after living here for nine years, I still get lost more often than not, and think longingly of my little hometown of Maynard. But Worcester has a lot going for it, not the least of which is great schools, fabulous library, wonderful neighborhoods, Congregation Beth Israel, Charlotte Klein's dance studio, Troop 54 Boy Scouts and the Girl Scout troops. My kids live in a peaceful, pretty world, filled with dedicated adults and really good friends. I'm grateful for that.
My turkey smells wonderful, and there are potatoes and squash waiting in the kitchen for me to peel and prep. My kids are happy, my husband is enjoying his first day off in long time (because Thursday doesn't count, as he spent most of the day cleaning vomit). I've got a pile of new books to read, friends coming over this afternoon. I think I might do a Thanksgiving re-do every year. It might even turn into one of my favorite holidays too.
Sam was sick this year on Thanksgiving. We have a tradition in our family, girls and boys night is the night before. I always take my girls and sleep over at my mother's house on Wednesday night. We stay up late, prepping stuff for the next day, and talking and gossiping. Marc takes Sam and they go out for Chinese together and then stay up late watching what I call "inappropriate tv." We get up super early, and spend the morning eating and cooking and talking and Marc and Sam come down to my mother's house and we all have the holiday together.
But this year, Sam woke up and threw up all morning long, so he and Marc stayed home, and the girls and I had dinner with my parents and come home after. And because it isn't Thanksgiving unless we're all together, we're having a redo today. The turkey is in the oven, the kids are coloring placemats for everyone (we've got some friends joining us) and I've got Christmas carols on in the kitchen. And I'm glad, because it gives me a golden opportunity to think about one comprehensive list of what I'm grateful for today. So - in no particular order - here's a few of the many blessings I have to be grateful for this year...
- My husband. Marc and I will celebrate our eleven year anniversary in February, and I'm still so in love with him. He's my best friend, my partner, and the one person who's always, always on my side. He's brilliant and kind and funny and endlessly, endlessly devoted to our family. But more than that, he's just as goofy in love with me as I am with him, and that's such a wonderful gift.
- My Jessica Mary. She'll be ten in a few months, and my baby girl is growing up so much faster than I think she should. She was, and is, everything I always wanted in a daughter. All my hopes and dreams of being a mother paled in comparison to the reality, and she's the reason for that. It's better and more magical, more infuriating and harder than I ever dreamed. She's simply awesome, and I'm blessed to be her mother.
- My Samuel Earl. My boy child, my sweetest little love, and my right arm. He's the one who changed me, who stretched me and taught me and made me the mother I am today. He's my heart, in a very real sense, and I'm forever in awe of him. He's smart and sweet and so tender and vulnerable at times. Stubborn and determined and this little bundle of emotion and sweetness. Worships his dad, but adores me, and I'm blessed to have him for my son.
- My Julianna Ruth. My angel girl, my love bug. She's just so funny and happy. She's in love with the world, and delighted to be a part of it. She makes motherhood easy, and has from the very beginning. I was laughing as she was born, and it's still the way I think of her. She just makes you smile. She's cheerful and easy to please, unless you cross her, in which case, she'll kill you. Or at least try hard to. She's such a gift, such a perfect blessing.
- My stepdaughters, Lilli and Sarah. Being a stepmother isn't an easily defined role, and it's one that is different for each stepmother. But I think I've got it easier than most, because these girls are just a delight to me. And one thing that easy to define is the relationship between them and my three, and that is one of siblings. These two girls are their big sisters, best friends, mortal enemies and lifelong companions. My kids are blessed to have them in their life. And let's face it, my husband makes pretty great kids - and his oldest two are great examples. Smart, funny, kind. I'm proud to have them in my family.
- Worcester isn't my hometown. In fact, after living here for nine years, I still get lost more often than not, and think longingly of my little hometown of Maynard. But Worcester has a lot going for it, not the least of which is great schools, fabulous library, wonderful neighborhoods, Congregation Beth Israel, Charlotte Klein's dance studio, Troop 54 Boy Scouts and the Girl Scout troops. My kids live in a peaceful, pretty world, filled with dedicated adults and really good friends. I'm grateful for that.
My turkey smells wonderful, and there are potatoes and squash waiting in the kitchen for me to peel and prep. My kids are happy, my husband is enjoying his first day off in long time (because Thursday doesn't count, as he spent most of the day cleaning vomit). I've got a pile of new books to read, friends coming over this afternoon. I think I might do a Thanksgiving re-do every year. It might even turn into one of my favorite holidays too.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Stuff
I've got my faults, believe me. I'm stubborn, I hold a grudge, I whine a lot. I'm not always brimming over with patience, and I hate making my kids unhappy. But I'm not really into... stuff. I don't care about clothes, I have little to no jewelry that I care about (I like my wedding ring, but even that, I don't actually wear it all that often), I borrow all my books from the library and can't remember the last time I actually enjoyed a shopping experience.
Which is why I'm perplexed that I've given birth to hoarders.
Jessie was first, obviously. And I noticed the tendency early - she collects stuff. Odd stuff. Stuff that doesn't look all that appealing to me, for example, rocks off the side of the road. Little dustcatchers that have no particular significance to anything in her life - like a plaster nurse figurine she picked up at my stepfather's father's house after he passed away. She got a dozen tiny little things, porcelain tea sets that make me crazy because I feel like they're just aching to shatter all over the place. Stuffed animals, oh Lord have mercy - the stuffed animals. Every-freaking-where.
But Sam... my Sam is a sentimental hot mess. And today, I broke his piggy bank. It was glass (why, oh, why do people give him glass stuff???) and up on a high shelf. I was putting something on the shelf, and the pig fell down and shattered. Of course. And the poor little guy... it broke his heart. We had already had a rough morning, after my mother sent home boxes of fruit snacks (but I can't blame her, I brought them into the house, I know it was my fault). Fruit snacks are like crack to him - he simply can't stop himself from eating all them. One after another. And they're utter crap for his teeth, and really, there's no good reason for any six year old to sit and inhale sixteen little packets of fruit snacks.
So he cried, and sobbed and then Jessie hurt his feelings by calling him a jerk. So he came into his bedroom, where I was misguidedly trying to put away all his clean laundry. I got him thru it, patted his back and consoled him - and distracted him by having him help make the bed. Once his bed was pretty and made, he got out a little stack of books to read - and was so content - and then BOOM, the piggy bank broke.
It's almost bad enough to make me whip out a package of fruit snacks to make him feel better. But I was tough, and he soldiered thru, but sobbed like someone had died.
Which is why I'm perplexed that I've given birth to hoarders.
Jessie was first, obviously. And I noticed the tendency early - she collects stuff. Odd stuff. Stuff that doesn't look all that appealing to me, for example, rocks off the side of the road. Little dustcatchers that have no particular significance to anything in her life - like a plaster nurse figurine she picked up at my stepfather's father's house after he passed away. She got a dozen tiny little things, porcelain tea sets that make me crazy because I feel like they're just aching to shatter all over the place. Stuffed animals, oh Lord have mercy - the stuffed animals. Every-freaking-where.
But Sam... my Sam is a sentimental hot mess. And today, I broke his piggy bank. It was glass (why, oh, why do people give him glass stuff???) and up on a high shelf. I was putting something on the shelf, and the pig fell down and shattered. Of course. And the poor little guy... it broke his heart. We had already had a rough morning, after my mother sent home boxes of fruit snacks (but I can't blame her, I brought them into the house, I know it was my fault). Fruit snacks are like crack to him - he simply can't stop himself from eating all them. One after another. And they're utter crap for his teeth, and really, there's no good reason for any six year old to sit and inhale sixteen little packets of fruit snacks.
So he cried, and sobbed and then Jessie hurt his feelings by calling him a jerk. So he came into his bedroom, where I was misguidedly trying to put away all his clean laundry. I got him thru it, patted his back and consoled him - and distracted him by having him help make the bed. Once his bed was pretty and made, he got out a little stack of books to read - and was so content - and then BOOM, the piggy bank broke.
It's almost bad enough to make me whip out a package of fruit snacks to make him feel better. But I was tough, and he soldiered thru, but sobbed like someone had died.
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