'Tis the Season (To Re-Learn a Few Things)

Stories from Christmas Past (not much has changed). 

This year was going to be different. Most of my shopping was done in November, I was wrapping by day one of the advent calendar, and a summer snapshot had produced the perfect picture for the ceremonial card. 

Each year our family—me, my husband and our boys—travel around the holidays. The timing and order of visits varies, but we are always on the road. By now, I am used to the shopping and wrapping and laundry required for the journey, still it comes down to a lot of last minute. But not this year. 

This year I was ready, prepared. Four days before the car would be packed and ready to roll, I even decided to take both boys, with their festering colds, to the pediatrician for a precautionary visit. Just to be sure.  

“Everything looks good,” she’d said, checking all relevant ears and noses. “Just watch the congestion, you never can be sure of where a cold will settle.”

Five days later, on Christmas Eve morning, my youngest woke unable to open his eyes. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. What more could I have done to secure a stress-free holiday? Three hundred miles from home, we found our way to a friend of a friend’s doctor who this time diagnosed double ear infections and conjunctivitis.   

As I stood in line at the local pharmacy, trying to remind myself that in thirty years I would look back on this time with longing, I caught my reflection in a strangely placed mirror. I looked tired and unremarkable. Not at all what I had imagined when I bought the latest product for my new “piecey” haircut (as my stylist called it) or as I labored to pack five complete outfits for long lingering cups of coffee while catching up with relatives.   

Later that day my brother and sister and their spouses began to arrive. As we transported packages, caught up on the day and slowly made our way to the living room—glass of sparkly bubbles in hand—I started to remember what I seem to have to re-learn every year.  

Christmas can’t be captured in a card or even a superbly thoughtful gift. Christmas arrives in moments. Snuggling with the littlest family members, re-telling the stories of loved ones long gone, singing carols around the piano, watching my mom make the same oyster stew, that no one really likes, because that’s what her mom made at Christmastime. Basking in the warmth of connection.

And, if I’m lucky, each year getting a little closer to acceptance. Because the kids will probably get sick and my hair will most likely fall flat. And despite my grand desire to orchestrate the endless details, as though somehow this year will be different, the simple fact is: the season is bigger than all the efforts. That’s what makes it Christmas.

Wander On

A playgroup for creativity. That’s what a writer’s group is. 

When my oldest was six months old and we were very new to town, I joined a playgroup. The goals were clear-- meet other parents, socialize my kid, and ultimately figure out: am I doing this parenting thing right?

After a few meet-ups, I came to a comforting conclusion. No one has “the” answers but some people can inspire you to be and do your best, which is monumentally helpful when you find yourself alone in unchartered waters all day – every day.

Writing, like parenting, requires a stream of steady, purposeful acts of devotion. It’s the million little moments that no one sees or knows or cares about, except for you, that ultimately breathes life into your work.

Writing is also an act of solitude. Which is ironic because the whole purpose of writing is connection. Good writing screams: Do you hear me? Can you relate?! 

Which is where a good writer’s groups come in. I belong to two. One meets every other week in an inspired barn in the town where I live. The second meets once a month in our town’s library.

The monthly library crew writes for children. We are a funny bunch, equal part wit and determination. Participants come from all parts of Connecticut with varying interests, writing styles and goals. And we sit dutifully in a teal colored room with colonial (circa 1980) decor sharing what we’ve come up with, in the hopes of sparking creative minds much younger than our own.

Last month I read a fresh piece. A jam packed, barely edited, start of a story that’s been rattling around my brain for a long time. As I opened up my folder and began, my ego innards were asking,“Why did you choose this, you have so many pieces, why read this seed of a thing?”

But that’s sharing. Putting yourself out there. And just like the days of sipping coffee while swapping tales of toddler tantrums, the drive for connection is universal. We all want to know: “Am I heading in the right direction? Are my efforts worth something?”

In true form, my library group came through. With encouragement. Suggestion. Prodding. Afterwards members handed me scraps of paper. It’s customary in our group to provide a nugget of written, formal feedback. 

The next morning, coffee in hand, I glanced through the comments. Remnants of the night before, nudges for the new day. 

As I opened the final piece, a smile widened across my face. There were no polite suggestions about character development or plot or word usage.

The paper said simply:

Wander On

Just the inspiration I needed. 

And that’s exactly what I did, nestled in my cozy corner chair in the coffee shop where I write. Alone with all the other wanderers out there.

Miss Daisy

A few weeks ago we welcomed a ten pound, eight week old Labradoodle named Daisy into our home.

Rob and I have never had a dog before, ever. I wouldn’t exactly describe us as “pet people.” In fact, I’ve never ogled over doggy pictures on-line or craved the attention of a neighbor’s pup. It used to embarrass me, my absence of animal fondness. I figured I was missing the furry love gene.

Still we found ourselves excited as we prepared for our new arrival. I hoped it was like other monumental endeavors--owning a house, having kids--different when it was yours. (And besides the boys professed they’d do EVERYTHING. So we were set.)

We bought the puppy books, found a vet, and listened to lots of advice from family and friends, veterans of the puppy universe.

Then we dove in. To potty training, endless chewing, strange playing behaviors, tummy rubs, licks, (lots of licks!), and even puppy class. 

We’re six weeks in and my now twenty pound ball of fuzz occupies way more of my day and heart than I ever could have imagined. Daisy is making lots of progress with the sit, come, stay, appropriate potty behavior routine. 

And I’d say we’ve made progress too. In fact, in the last few weeks, she’s taught me a thing or two.

The grass isn’t always greener in someone else’s yard. I’ve spent more time in my back yard in the last 6 weeks than in the 6 years we’ve lived in our house. No exaggeration! I’ve gotten to intimately know each patch of grass. “Go potty. Go potty.” Our chosen command. (You need one according to the puppy book). 

And you know what? I like my backyard. I don’t know what took me so long to discover how awesome it is.

Life is simple. A good day requires some pee, poop, a couple of good meals (not necessarily in that order), lots of sleep, a walk or two and an end-of-day belly rub. What more is there? Life is good.

What’s the hurry?! Ten years ago my life was full of pauses. Naptime. Diaper change time. Feeding time. Burping time. Tummy time. In the last few years, not so much. It’s mostly been go, go, go! But now it is impossible to hurry out the door, to zoom past Daisy. 

The tail wags. The head cocks. She talks in her puppy way. “Where you going?” “When will you be back?” “Want to play?” 

And so I do, whenever I can. Because unlike 10 years ago...I now know. How fast it all goes. 

Ceremonial Sauce

At the end of summer, just as the nights turn crisp and mums multiply, I make my ceremonial sauce. Forty juicy tomatoes that’s what it takes. Trial and error has gone into that number. It’s enough to make sauce for two meals with some left over for the freezer. After all, these are not just any tomatoes. They are tomatoes from the garden. 

This morning as I poured over the past prime plants, picking the late blooming tomatoes, I felt the familiar struggle of the changing season. In the garden, in me. My practice plot has come to mean much more to me than the produce it provides. I've learned a lot, over the past few summers, in the garden.

Space. Plants, like people, need space. When they are crowded they either get power hungry or topple from the weight of others around them.

Balance. (Yes I’m talking to you summer of 2013!) Plants try to acclimate to extreme conditions, but at the end of the day a little sun and a little rain produces the best yield. Too much of either and everything drowns or cracks. Especially tomatoes.

Timing. Never water in high heat. The water bakes the plants and makes everything droopy. It’s the same as trying to reason with a tantrum throwing toddler in a grocery store. Let the intensity subside, and things will work out just fine.

Imperfections. Get rid of weeds before they’ve fully taken root. If you wait too long, it can be difficult to tell which is the plant and which is the weed. After a certain point, it’s better to have some weeds growing side by side with the plants than to kill the vegetables trying to destroy the interloper. And sometimes, it turns out, the plants and weeds grow just fine, together.

Freedom. Let plants roam. I try to plan out the flow of the garden so that the rambling summer squash vines don’t invade the more controlled eggplants and tomatoes but in the end, the plants do what they want. I gently nudge them and tie them together on sticks and cages. Plants like people need direction, support. But don’t give them too much instruction. They’ll find the warmth they need, after they figure out which path is best for them.

Share.  There is nothing like the taste of juicy homegrown tomatoes or the tangy punch of garden leeks except the glory of sharing something you’ve grown with a friend.  

Letting Go. There is no perfection in the garden. I love getting my fingers dirty, tending the baby plants, sowing the growing fruit. But it isn’t orderly or pretty. I am usually a sweaty, buggy mess after I’ve spent time in the garden. And despite my best efforts in May to pristinely plant seeds in perfect rows, by July the garden is a twisty, twirly magical mass of green, ready to burst with the season’s bounty. 

Then just a few short weeks later, the vines wither, the fruit is picked, and even the weeds grow weary. Summer ends. 

And that’s when I make my ceremonial sauce--to remember--summer in the garden.

(Not) Ready

“I made my lunch!” Will says, as I walk into the kitchen.

You what? I examine the perfectly made peanut butter and banana sandwich. “Want me to cut it in half?” I ask. “Sure,” he says, throwing me a mom bone.

“Just one!” John says, as I start snapping pictures before they take off on first day adventures.

Just one? Just one! He didn’t care how many I took last year...

I usually relish in this time of year. In throwing on the obligatory sweater as the first cool breeze blows. In keeping careful watch for dots of crimson on the trees. And hints of holiday in the magazines and flyers gracing our mailbox. 

But not this year. I want more summer. 

I’m not complaining exactly. We had a good, no great, summer. 

We hosted a family reunion, visited family and friends at lakes and the ocean, welcomed new little cousins...and even our very own dog Daisy.

But for some reason, I’m just not ready. 

For long, lingering, sunny days to turn short, cool, reflective.

For swirling schedules filled with scholarly expectations and practices and rehearsals and...

I watch the boys take off down the walkway, then cross the road (after looking twice just like I taught them). By themselves. Never looking back. 

And I realize it doesn’t matter that I’m not ready. They are.

T-Day

I pace back and forth “working” in the dining room. The only room in my house with a clear view of the mailbox. Today is the day. Teacher Assignment Day.

The phone rings. A reminder that someone else’s mail has already arrived. My boys, for whom the paper in the envelope holds the names of their teachers for this year, are nowhere to be found. They are on their annual summer getaway with their grandparents. They are not losing any sleep or rearranging their day, or even giving a second thought to who their teacher is this year.

Next week, they will be home and surrounded by friends who will ask the obligatory “Who do you have?” They’ll be happy or a little sad as they piece together their new school family. But that’s it, just another day, just another year.

So why do I care so much?

I answer the phone. “Not yet. Call you as soon as I get it.” It is my almost first grader’s best friend’s mother.

I come from a family of teachers. Both of my sisters are teachers. My parents were teachers. My grandparents were teachers. Growing up I spent weekends and vacations and pretty much every waking minute with teachers.

I have ultimate respect for the profession: for the tireless, non-stop energy and stamina it takes to shape 20 plus little minds each year. I have so much respect for the profession that I didn’t go into it. I know it’s a calling and I didn’t have it.

I also know that teachers come in all shapes, sizes and stages of life. Some are tall, some are short, some are cheery, some rarely crack a smile. They have good years and bad years. They fall in love, give birth, care for dying parents, get divorced, mourn loved ones and get sick. They are energized by the newest reading techniques and overwhelmed by endless testing. They have, do and feel it all. Because — they are human.

As a daughter and sister, I know that good teachers hold their own through it all. But as a parent, I fight the urge to crave the perfect teacher. After all, I only have two kids with one childhood. I want the best education’s got. I want the trifecta: teachers who love their jobs, get my kids and teach them things too.

My father reminded me last summer, right around this time, that “It’s good for kids to experience all kinds of personalities, to get them ready for the world.” I nodded in obedient agreement and then thought, “Ready for the world? Just let it be a good year.”

But I do want them to be ready for the world, to experience the smile of the new teacher excited by the warm glow of learning. And the mastery of the “seen it all, done it all” type who knows how to crack the “I can’t do it” code. But most of all, I want the only other person who spends seven hours a day with them to look into their eyes and see potential.

After the paper with their teacher assignment arrives, I will try to smile and be happy with whatever name it reveals. I will try not to launch through my mental database and into discovery mode seeking out parents who’ve gone this way before. I will try not to care too deeply about the sober ratings of pool parents. Or, passing parents at the grocery store who provide a vague, “You’ll like her.”

I wonder if the teachers are lighting up the phone lines on this day? “Oh no! Not her.” Or, “Fantastic! I was hoping I’d get a group of energetic boys this year.” More likely they’re swapping not so cryptic reviews of the parents, because I’d imagine, some (throat clear) are easier than others.

I hope that I am one of the good parents, the ones with whom the teachers want to work.

I also hope that someday I will care a little less and trust a little more.

And I hope my son gets Mrs. … wait … hold that thought. Moment of truth, the mailman is finally here!

This piece ran in the Hartford Courant, August 27, 2011.

Dizzney

Where can you pay thousands of dollars to wait in lines that stretch for miles in the hot blazing sun for the opportunity to get pummeled by buckets of water or risk losing your over-priced lunch in gravity defying poses? 

Disney of course!

We took our second family voyage to Disney World last week. It was a blast. Watching our boys, 10 and 8, zoom from park to park, ride to ride, declaring whatever they’d just experienced, “The best ride ever!”

Three years ago when we visited, for the first time, we were still in the hunker down years. Logistics reigned. 

“Where is the nearest bathroom?”

 “Don’t walk too far ahead!” 

“Quick get the sunscreen!”

It's a Small Small (Tired) World

But this time was different. There was the distinct feeling that they were leading us. Willing their parents, grandparents, and aunt enough energy to make it around the next bend. Challenging us to go beyond the comforts of gravity and dry clothes to catch the next adrenaline rush. For the boys, there was a “not enough time” feeling in the air.  

While we, the adult contingency, rode every wave right along side our young comrades counting down the minutes until we could plant ourselves firmly in a chair or perhaps enjoy an end-of-day adult beverage.

On day five of our vacation, Rob and I had our dreams come true when the grandparents offered to take our little Disney junkies for the day, while we languished by the pool. Aaaahhh.

It didn’t matter that the dark clouds hovered by mid-morning or that torrential rain set in around noon. We lingered, under cover, looking out over the resort infinity pool, doing absolutely nothing and loving every minute. 

By the next morning we were refreshed and ready. To turn the corner on our final day of amusement park adventures. 

It’s true what they say: Youth is wasted on the young. 

Except at Disney. Disney is made for the young. And I don’t mean the young at heart. I mean the true blue young. 

But for those of us no longer in that category, it’s still magic to go back. To a place where mice never age and parades spontaneously erupt under a castle lit sky. 

To make little dreams come true.