A South Texas Christmas

I was behind on everything this year. There just wasn't any pressure to get things accopmlished. Cheeseballs and fudge (thanks Paula Deen!) were finally conceived on the 23rd. I have a slight cheeseball addiction: rice crispies, cayenne pepper, shredded cheese, a little flour and butter, they are the seasonal treat I look forward to the most. So if I consumed, oh, let's say 14 of them myself throughout that day, you understand why now. The fudge is the easiest recipe I've ever used. A fourth of a block of Velveeta cheese will make anything taste good, right?

Santa came, of course, this year. She worked very hard on Christmas Eve. Apparently, a little elf told me, she had to put together the much ignored art easel FOUR times before it was right. Overall the instruments are the favored gifts. For Winston, an accordian and harmonica, and a pipe whistle and violin for Wednesday. The boys terms are slightly different. Winston shouted "It's a recordian!!" upon seeing his gift, while Wednesday calls the violin his "aguitah-yee" and the bow his "by-oh-lyn".

There was a short time in the past week when I was worried there would be nothing under the tree for me. I know it sounds selfish, and I guess it really is. But it would hurt if the love of my life completely ignored the gift giving rituals of Christmas while I spent time choosing things for him and his children. He told me not to worry, and after breakfast with a friend and a trip to Grandma's house with the boys so Mrs. Santa could work on the damn easel, he finally left to do some shopping. Breakast, Grandma's, and his birthday all happened on Christmas Eve. Somehow he pulls it out every year with the late shopping. I think he likes the thrill of finding such delectable gifts at the VERY LAST MINUTE.

My husband has very interesting wrapping skills when it comes to presents. Bags are the easiest, but inside each of my "bag ladies" as he called them, I found things like papertowels, empty candy bags, old tissue paper, and target bags. I look forward to seeing what he crams in the bags to cover the gifts, and in one bag, containing a Liza Minelli CD no less, there was a lone Papa-sizd sock! It promptly went on my foot, and flopped around my toes for the rest of the morning. Next year, I'll write a little reminder on it and hang in on the tree. I have a story about socks as tree decor, but that's for another time.
So after Santa and family gifts, I talked to my parents and brother on the phone, and made our traditional Christmas breakfast. Santa always brings big navel oranges and juice in each stocking, which are then part of our morning meal. To complete it, I open a can of huge cinnamon rolls and bake them off, and heat up a couple of quiches. It's fast and easy, but different from our normal eating routine enough to make it special. Winston is very picky, and so to get him to eat the quiche I had to explain that it was like "a frittata and a pot pie mixed together". He devoured it, thank you baby Jesus.

General playtime commenced after breakfast, and then a nap. A much needed nap. Winston only slept for 45 minutes though, so I sent him to my husband and kept sleeping with the baby in my lap. After a shower for Mommy and stripping half the jammies off of the boys, we went outside when everyone woke up. It was ironic, I guess, watching the babies run around in their undies on Christmas Day when I'd been almost jealous of the snow pictures everywhere online. But the joy they felt outweighed everything else. They had a system going; Winston would run around with the hose, and just when he'd get it spraying really high or far, Wednesday would turn off the water. "Brother, do it again!", he'd shout, and Wednesday would turn the water back on and squeal. Watching his big brother until just the right moment, he'd then shut it off again with a little dance. Santa brought a pop-up soccer goal that got a little use, and a golf game that both of the kids enjoyed. Standing behind my sons, showing them how to hold a golf club and spread their feet brought back memories of my Dad doing the same thing with me. I think he'd be proud of my technique, as everytime I set them up, they got a hole in one.

Three rituals were left undone this year. My husband got no gifts for his Christmas Eve birthday. Yes, I realize I was just complaining in an earlier paragraph about my fear of being ingored during the holidays, but if you could have seen his face when I told him, you'd understand. He's not a gifty person, by any means. So announcing the lack of gifts got me the biggest hug I'd had all week from my husband. I done good. This isn't to say that we didn't celebrate. I dressed up and put a bow on my head, I made him a Feast of the Seven Fishes, and dedicated a short post to him at my home place. Gifts, without giving gifts. It was perfect for him.
We also neglected to open the box from my Nanny on Christmas Eve and read the Christmas story. Those were both remedied on Christmas Day. The sock monkies from my maternal grandparents were much loved, especially by Wednesday. "Hi Monkey! You a monkey!", is exactly what he said before he smothered the creature in little boy hugs and kisses. I held my own need to read the Christ's birth story in the back of my mind as we headed to my MIL house Christmas afternoon. She had surgery last week, so I wasn't expecting anything but to share the love of the day with her. Tears were almost spilling by the time we left though. She had precious cards for the boys, and an envelope of cash for us to spend on things of our choosing. But what did me in were the family heirlooms that she gave us. When we walked in she pressed a story Bible into my hands that was given to her as a child. Her mother read it to her, she read in to my husband and his brothers, and I sat on the couch with Winston and read him the Christmas story. That alone was already too much, but then she pulled out the turkey platter, beautifully hand painted, that had belong to her mother and offered it to me. She even said, under her breath, that she was glad it was going to me and not the other DIL. My heart was jumping up and down at being favored, but I kept my trap shut. A cookie plate, that in her words, "Is so pretty it just needs cookies on it!", was also given to us. I was without words. Tears held back as I went to pull Wednesday off the stairs he was trying to climb. I hugged her tight when we left, and getting into the car, I could still smell her lotion on my skin where we had touched. She is a good lady, and I love her dearly.



There are other memories I've left out. We made cookies for Santa, read The Night Before Christmas, all the regular Chistmasy things. But the ones I've recalled here are thes I want my mind to remember as well as my heart. It was a most special Christmas.


P.S. To see the pictures, follow the link to the post at OpenSalon! Thanks my lovelies... http://open.salon.com/content.php?cid=69584

For Him

Happy Birthday, my Husband. You don't like gifts, my dahling, so this will be short.

Three takes on love that apply to us...

Ayelet Waldman: She got a tremendous amount of heat for writing, and then speaking about, how she loved her husband more than her children. They are 2 different kinds of love, and while I would throw my body in front of a cars for the boys, I would and will endure almost anything if it means we will still be us in the end. I am ridiculously in love with you, and I always have been.

Twilight: hehehehe, see? I can fit it in anywhere. What do they say? "You are the love of my existence." "You are my life now." Those both fit our story pretty well, I believe.

Me: I love you always and always, backwards and forwards, no matter what.

Happy Birthday, Baby...

(the add video option isn't working so I'm linking to them)

She's My Baby- Mazzy Star

Here Comes Your Man

Going back one more time

I don't go to church anymore because I still know too much. My father was my pastor until I left for college, and I'm overly aware of the behind the scenes drama and business required to run a church. Daddy is probably the greatest reverend I've ever known, though there is a strong bias. A life-long Democrat, excellent writer and public speaker, and gentle boundary pusher, he will always be a hard act to follow.

So I left all of that behind. Not just the physical act of going to services on Sunday, but most of the memories as well. But despite my best efforts, some of my good bits came from the time I served as resident preacher's spawn. I can't forget anymore, and shockingly, I'm beginning to want to remember. It must be the season, and the bravery of you people here at OpenSalon, for I've never had any desire to write about this before.

Christmas was always especially trying in our household. A minister plays so many roles in a church, and during Advent, those roles are intensified. But my entire family was busy alongside my Dad during those times. I want those stories to be passed to my kids. Unable to facilitate worship induced experiences outside of our own little home rituals, I want to remember enough of what I have learned to pull us all through.

I was a member of the Bell Choir, the Youth Choir, the Youth Group, a soloist, and usually a reader during Advent as a younger myself. Wednesday night was bell practice, and by the time I was in high school I was playing most of the upper octave alone. Sometimes eight bells in spastic coordination. It was exhilarating, and I loved the challenge. Christmas music was always enjoyable to learn and perform, especially with a director who pushed you and pulled out the complicated pieces. The youth choir always did a few songs when we had enough members, and I sang a solo because it made my parents happy. I can't remember the last one I sang, which is saddening, but I didn't really like the song anyway. My favorite piece was always "Breath of Heaven".

For a couple of years in high school the entire youth group did a Christmas play. Legendary for getting laryngitis during December, one year I lost my voice right before the play. I only had a small role, and it was mostly just funny facial expressions made at the right time. My one actual line that year was, "And then, the alien spoke!", and I barely croaked it out, with lost of laughter to follow.

After four consecutive Christmas Eve services, and the build up of weekly celebrations throughout Advent, we would all go back to the house. We never had a Christmas Eve meal, because once home we were weary and finally done. We did always read the Christmas story together around the tree, and from the time I could put a few letters together into words, that was my job. I took it very seriously, and it brings tears to my eyes to remember that little girl reading such a very big story, and understanding more than a little girl should.

My husband and I joined a church after we were married. I tried so hard to redefine my role with a new congregation. It was something I wanted badly, and we had discussed it at length. But sitting in the pew I could only think, "He should have proof read his sermon one more time before this morning. I wonder if he even wrote it before this morning!". "Can't they find a liturgist who can actually read?". "Alright, next comes a hymn, not a good fit with the readings for today". It was exhausting. I wanted to start fresh, be anonymous, and relearn what it meant to be a church member. However, when pushed to join the choir and bell choir I did it. Only 2 bells this time though, I had lost my touch. I was the youngest member of the choir, whose dedicated director was too shy to stand up for herself. When she left, we quit going. Relieved we had a validated reason to end my failed experiment, we've never gone back to another church since.

For A while I entertained the idea of trying a completely different denomination. But the semantics of United Methodism are too far ingrained, I cannot let them go. So my secret wish this Christmas is endlessly complicated and so simple at the same time. To walk alone through the doors of a Methodist church on Christmas Eve is my only desire. While my husband and children wait at home, I want the time and space to remember everything I've tried to forget. Recalling every song, every prayer, when to breath, when to stand. I long to try it one more time. I need for a stranger to bend their candle to mine while the lights are dimmed, and to stand under the protection of darkness and sing Silent Night.

After I learned to drive I would sometimes find myself in the church parking lot without realizing how I got there. If my mind wandered I didn't go home, I went to church. Another singular opportunity is all I need, just a place for my memories to go home. I know I won't be able to go back again any time soon, if ever. But then maybe the reveries I've forced out can come back to me in a way that doesn't hurt, but bolsters the mother and wife and child of God I long to be.

http://www.hopepublishing.com/img/misc/Handbell_Banner.jpg

Divine Winter

We had simultaneous brain settling so that we could take a nap together yesterday. Not realizing my husband had come into the room, I startled when I heard his breathing. Sleeping next to our firstborn, I smelled his smell and listened as his breath mixed with our babies' and was deep into sleep within seconds. When the baby and I finally extracted ourselves from the rocking chair it was already almost dark outside. I scooped up my little one and he hugged me tight around my neck. The pressure of the cold air outside, along with the smell of the heater, Wednesday's soft face, swirled together and I finally smelled Winter. I've been waiting since it turned colder for my own personal season to change.
It's always been this way. The right mix of temperature and smell must come together to move my mind forward into a new time of year. As a small girl, I knew winter was coming soon when my Mom would pull out her heavy blue-jean jacket. As soon as she'd get home from school I'd take it from her and curl up in it on the couch. Familiar smells, that I can almost conjure to this day, would surround me and I felt so safe. Big Red gum and Lady Stetson perfume. Always the denim smelled that way.
I wear perfume now because of her, especially when autumn moves out of the way for winter to come. My boys call it "foofoo", the word I used when I was little too. The best time to put it on is early in the morning before I wake up the boys. Winston never fails to say, "Mommy you smell so good! You smell like foofoo!". Sometimes I rub his little forearm along mine so he can take part of me with him to school; a backwards memory in the making from my own childhood ones.

There have been several incarnations of my Mom's "signature scent". And if, for some reason, I was held responsible in the future for remembering what exactly perfume smelled like, it would be "Red", or "Divine", or "Happy". I got a bottle of "Divine" for Christmas when I was a sophomore in high school. I keep some in the tackle box that serves as my spill over jewelry holder, and it's required of me to wear it this time of year. Memories of sweaters, and touring plantations with my husband (specifically Oak Alley and Nottaway) fill my head.
As silly as it seems, I want my boys to remember the way I smell, as I do my own mother. When they're too big to be with me everyday, and when they eventually leave for their own lives, I want that piece of me to go with them. And when they smell winter, and turn to whoever fills their time and heart, they can say, "My Mama wore "Purple Orchids" everyday, but in the winter she smelled "Divine".
Keep me close my babies. Your baby breath will fall away and your sweet feet will turn stinky, but we can save your little boy memories in a bottle. I promise use a little bit every day.

Home

I promised this place a post and here we are. I'm not promising good writing, however. This is the one place where there isn't the pressure to be clever or funny or smart. Thank goodness.

I'm getting sick, I do believe. Cramps, the sneaky kind, came this morning. The sore throat started in the night and now my ears feel full and hot. Blech. I asked my husband to take care of me; sometimes I just need that. He is, thank goodness.

I talked to my Mom when they got back home after being here for Thanksgiving. After going through a long story about how her brother's family isn't sending gifts outside of their immediate family, and saying that my brother told her we wanted a simple Christmas, she wanted to know what that meant. "Are you having money trouble?", she asked. I wanted to say, "uhhh, no, but like, the WHOLE WORLD is?" But I didn't. I tried to be gentle about it. My parents tend to go overboard at Christmas and it makes me and my brother nervous.

I just want to be with them when we go visit, without coming home with a carload of stuff we don't need. I don't want to seem ungrateful for all of the toys my kids got last year but an entire minivan full of toys is entirely too many for 2 children.

They took my poor brother to the Mall the day after Thanksgiving and he all but had a panic attack. My sweet, thrift store shopping baby brother, forced into Black Friday MADNESS. Geez, Louize rentals (our name for our parents).

I'm giving books this year. It's what I always used to do, before I let the pressure of keeping up with my parents get to me. Books, hand painted canvas bags to hold them, and I think some small little photo albums of each person with the boys. Good gifts, that aren't expensive, but still meaningful. Right?

We're doing a generally good Christmas for the boys here at home. But tonight we start Advent time. Last year was our first cycle and Winston LOVED it. We have a book, with doors you open everyday, and books that focus on the real Christmas story. Lots of fun Santa-y books fill out our story times too, but I really tried hard to find good Nativity-related stories to read to them.

I'm thinking of doing a post everyday of Advent. They could be stories from past Christmas's, or links to songs, or whatever my brain spits out. It would, if nothing else, help me remember next year what we did every night, and keep a memory of it for the boys.

Tonight we're hanging up the advent calendar, made of Christmas socks. We're read Olivia Helps With Christmas, and find the website we used last year. I'll link to it tomorrow.

Thanks for being an open space for me. To just talk as I do and love me still.