A Post in Pictures: Take Me to the Circus

I am a person who lives for the chance to feel like a child again. It's why I let my kids do things that my husband would never agree to. I ask myself alot, would I want to do that if I were a kid? A yes can find me repentant and blabbering explanation after they've hurt themselves or broken something.

Yesterday afternoon I was given the gift of feeling like a kid again, and my children got full license to revel in their childdom. And no one got hurt in our wild abandon, though the possibility seemed high. Matthew, my guy, gave the kids and me tickets to the circus.

Zoppe - An Italian Family Circus is in our town each year around the holidays. It has no smoke and mirrors, no big, expensive lights or special effects, no hordes of clowns outdoing each other with their crazy antics. There is only one clown, Nino, and he is hilarious. He is also the one who runs the circus, the descendant of the gentleman who started it in 1842.

It isn't your typical, big-ticket company with wild animals made to do outrageous tricks. I went to a circus like that when I was about 10 or so. I rode on a poor mangy elephant and felt embarrassed for its fellows as they stood in the ring, tutus on and front hoofs balanced on the elephant in front like a cha-cha line. When I got home my parents asked what my favorite part was, and I replied, "The ringmaster." They laughed themselves silly over their strange little girl. I didn't tell them I tried to get his autograph.

If I wanted Nino's autograph, I'm sure he would have given it, because the Zoppe Circus feels like a family circus. They perform in front of the tent for the waiting audience before the show even starts. Nino, sans make-up, introduces the performers, including his toddler son. Spectators are pulled from the crowd to dance with the acrobats. The gentleman most akin to a ringmaster plays the accordion to the tune of O Sole Mio. The members of the circus do it all, even selling souvenirs. And when you walk into the tent, it's a cozy crowd. Every seat is a good one, and if you do not shout and whoop and clap a thousand times during the show, you have missed the spirit of it all and abandoned the child within you.

Of course, getting to your seat is a feat that will make you feel like you're one of the troupe. The bleachers are basically boards latched together with bungee cords, and if you lack a balanced step you could topple into the lap of fellow spectators. I wanted to take a bow when I reached our top tier bleacher, but everyone else was too busy navigating their own path with buckets of popcorn clutched to their chests. Nevertheless, even the seating made one feel at home. There were no assigned seats, and each family could sprawl out as they wished. Our family shuffled around quite a bit as our littlest hopped from my lap to his papa's to those of his siblings. And because they are bleachers without any armrests or other dividers, you feel you are part of a larger family of pleasure-seekers and fall easily into conversation with kindred members of the audience, sharing the awe and the joy of the occasion.

In the beginning I was a little worried that my big 10-year-old son, Berto, would think he was too old for such entertainment. I shouldn't have been. He was gasping and giggling and shouting encouragements to Nino the clown along with his siblings. Even my husband was shouting and applauding. No one could be immune to the amazing feats of the female acrobats (my eldest daughter, Ana, whispered, "Aren't they beautiful?") as they spun, hung from one appendage high in the air. Berto particularly admired the courage of the men who rotated metal balls and fiery torches around their bodies as they kicked up their legs merrily in dance, and the gentleman who balanced a huge metal pole on his face as his children scrambled up it. And all the kids, my own and every other in the audience, loved Nino the Clown. He pulled children and adults from the audience to help him with his comedy, so simple and so magical in execution.

It was a gift of experience and a grand one that made me want to run away and join the circus. And I do believe I could do it. I just happened to notice that the female daredevils had voluptuous thighs like myself, only undoubtedly more muscular, and it made me proud to be a curvy woman when I saw their beautiful and breath-taking maneuvers, even as I exclaimed involuntarily at their daring, "Don't do it! Don't do it!"

As I leaned back into my Man's arms and saw his smile at my childish involvement (I, too, was yelling to Nino), I knew that the memory of this was something our family would cherish and recall at future Christmases.

We left the intimate tent, and the circus stars were lined up outside to see us off with a smile and a wave. I wished them Happy New Year. Nino gave hugs to kids and adults alike and posed for pictures. Ah, the family circus!

On the way home our children used "Awesome!" obsessively to describe the experience, and if that's any indication, I think we have fair chance of returning next year. Until then I'll work on my juggling, bare-back riding, tight-rope walking, hanging myself upside down to spin by one ankle, and building my thigh muscles, so that maybe, just maybe, I can fulfill a time-honored childhood dream of yesteryear and run away with the circus. If I can train my kids and get my Man to wear tights and grow out his thick mane to a respectable artist's length, we can all go together.

Now wouldn't that be grand?

Short, mostly unedited - Christmas

I will have to watch It's a Wonderful Life tonight, because somehow I missed my 2am appointment with it on Christmas Eve while mending festive stockings, appointing gifts, or cleaning the house so Santa won't fall on his face while navigating last year's toys or the packages our family didn't ship out.

I went to bed at midnight after watching The Nativity Story with my husband. It made me wonder afresh why men are not jealous of the unique ability of women to carry a child. Feeling a baby move inside you is a marvelous thing...until they're bouncing around in your belly as you're trying to fall asleep at the end of a busy day. Still, it really doesn't get old even as the bags swell beneath your eyes.

And boy, do I have bags under my eyes right now! Our children woke up multiple times last night at 2, 3, 4 am wondering if it was time to see their gifts from Santa. They held conferences in the hall, had disagreements, made potty pilgrimages and rattled the baby gate. They did everything but call out, "Santa, are you there yet? Can we come out now?" I'm surprised St. Nick left them anything at all. I'm more surprised that he didn't take pity on their poor, weary parents and chuck a few hefty ones at their heads to make them nod off.

We finally escorted them out at 6:20. There was the usual elation over what was asked for and given, but also the scrambling for the few things that Santa had not granted. For this parent, there was my annual regret of not granting a particular wish for one of the kids. This year it was my eldest girl Ana's desire for a karaoke machine. She got the camera she asked for, but a dress was too small, and she passed over it and a book by her favorite author to dig beneath the tree for the stereo. It never fails, this worry of mine, but I also know that occasional disappointment related to material desires is certainly good for children.

And there was the pile of presents from grandparents, uncles, and aunts to open. Where I will find the room for all the new toys, I honestly don't know. I suppose one must pass on such thoughts Christmas morning. As I carefully wrote lists for my kids of the gifts and the givers, I did sometimes purse my lips at the big, fancy playthings, but there is no doubt that our family's generosity helped to make the kids' Christmas merry. I only regretted we did not get our gifts to extended family shipped.

Oh, there were plenty of regrets this year. I did not bake what I planned, didn't mail our presents, have yet to send cards to people whom we think about always at this time of year, never strummed carols at my guitar. And, yes, I did not write the many holiday tales I wished to tell here, a big regret. But it was a merry Christmas. My husband got me lovely things. He himself got a hammer that doubles as a bottle opener from my folks, a winning and ingenious combination. Our children had a bazillion new things to occupy them all day. And my holiday bird turned out beautifully browned and moist for our big meal. Not too shabby, even if the gravy was thin.

One of my favorite things this Christmas, a transporting thing, was a recordable storybook for my son Danny of The Night Before Christmas, read by my dad. Even my eldest son stood over it a few times and enjoyed turning the pages as his Paca narrated the classic tale. I felt like my child self again as I listened and heard my dad conclude:

Merry Christmas! And, remember: Paca and Grandmama love you all very, very much. Good night.

That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.



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Traveler's Tale

This story did not occur around the holidays, but it may as well be a Christmas morality tale. It is a reminder to be kind, because your kindness will last longer than you know, far beyond those few moments you invest in showing compassion for others.

A young couple waited in the airport terminal with their two-month-old son. It was an evening flight, and their baby was fussy. The tall, very lean father with a newly cultivated mustache spoke calming words to his wife as she bounced their child in her arms and made shushing noises, her long hair swaying and occasionally getting caught in the baby's fist. The babe was tired and wanted a nurse, but they would board at any moment and the new mother was uncomfortable with nursing in public. She hoped to nurse him beneath his blanket as the plane took off, helping to pop his ears during the pressure changes.

Around the young couple were gathered other travelers, mostly business men and women with compact luggage on wheels. These professional people were antsy in their own way, anxious to get home or on to the next place of business, looking at e-mails and schedules on their phones. The young couple with their colicky baby was out of place, and the noise of the child was making other passengers fidget in a new way - increasing impatience to get on the plane to their assigned seats, fervently hoping they would not be the unlucky ones seated next to the family.

A stocky man with sleek gray hair and an immaculate white dress shirt took particular notice of the infant as he paced with his jacket thrown across his shoulders. Every new wail or whimper from the babe brought a fresh look of irritation. The mother noted the man looking at her child with distaste, but she was truly embarrassed when her son's cries increased, and the stocky man gave a loud grunt of disgust, threw a last dirty look and moved to the opposite side of the terminal.

What did he expect her to do? Her son was just a little baby.

It was a relief when boarding began, and the young couple could find their seats. The mother wanted to nurse her son immediately, and her husband wanted her to have the window seat. When they got to their row, however, there was already a dark-haired young man in slacks and a leather jacket reclining in his rightful seat by the window, head back and eyes closed as he adjusted for best comfort.

"Excuse me," said the husband, "but do you mind if my wife sits there? She needs to nurse our baby, and it's more private."

The young man's eyes flew open. "Oh, sure. Of course."

He edged out, and the mother slid all the way in and began to adjust the blanket over her and her son. Her baby badly wanted a nurse but had become so frustrated that he wasn't latching on properly. Her husband bent over them to offer more protection from curious gazes as the child kicked and fussed beneath the blanket. The mother was near tears as she tried to pacify her child. The father felt he needed to say something to this man who had forfeited his seat only to be accosted by an infant's shrill wails.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This is our first time flying with him. Hopefully, we'll get him calmed down soon. I know this isn't pleasant for you."

The gentleman shifted in his seat. "Listen," he said, turning his kind, handsome face toward the couple. "If that's the most I have to worry about in life, I'm good."

The husband smiled a million-watt smile. "Well, thank you,"

Gratitude did not tumble from the mother's lips, shocked as she was by this response after the other man's stark unkindness, but it expanded her heart. Her stress fell. The baby felt his mother relax, and he too calmed down presently and settled into his nurse. He slept at last as the plane navigated the black sky.

*************************************

The couple had three more children. The mother would experience many more displays of irritation or kindness from strangers, often in the same 10 minutes, while out with her children in stores, airports, or at school. There would always be those who tightened their lips, lifted their noses and gave a wide berth as she passed with her rambunctious brood, but others would come with a smile, a wistful look of "I remember those days", and easy conversation to distract the toddler from crying about candy or the older ones from sword-fighting with wrapping paper.

The woman and her husband often recalled that early sympathy and understanding from an unlikely source on an evening flight many years before, and to their fellow parents they told the tale of a young businessman who gave up his seat by the window and put things in pitch-perfect perspective on a stressful day.

In Memory Of Sandy Hook's Children

I couldn't believe what showed up on my computer screen yesterday morning when I turned it on. Not again and not in the same week, the same year, the same decade as so many other terrible tragedies.  No more. Never again. And NEVER children. Dear God, help us! please

My husband got angrier as he read the story at his work, so many little lives that we can imagine, because of our own four children. I cried on the phone with him. My children and I prayed the rosary. We have never prayed it before, but something had to be done to offer up our thoughts, our sorrow and our love for those little kids, their teachers, their parents, and the first responders who should never have to see what they saw Friday morning.

I stand with all of you in shock and sadness, shedding tears and praying for change. My love to you, and our love to all those children of Sandy Hook Elementary, their devastated families and friends.

The Champions

There's no crying in baseball!

We all know that quotable nugget from the movie A League of Their Own, and it can be applied to many situations, but what about football? There should absolutely, positively never be tears in such a sport as football.

Unless you're me. Sometimes football is just so beautiful, I can't choke back my tears.

This past weekend I finally got football fever for the first time in a long time, and it wasn't because of the Arizona Cardinals who stink this year, or the Miami Dolphins (I rarely get to see their games), or those ancient teams the Chicago Bears and Detroit Lions. It was because of a team called the Blue Bombers, and they don't even play tackle.

My son Berto's flag football team had their last game of the year on Saturday. I had yet to see one of his games due to conflict with my youngest son's naptime. And truthfully, though silently, I balked at going on Saturday, because there were Christmas boxes piled in our home, my husband's work party to attend early that evening, and plenty of housework to do in preparation for the babysitter. But I knew I had to go. There had been several disappointing games for my son's team; he had struggled his first couple times as quarterback, a position he's passionate about, but he really wanted me to come see him play.

So I put a cap on my unshowered head, rounded up my younger children, and headed out with my honor as a mother. After all, you should be there for your kid if you can.

And what a sight to see beneath that unblemished Arizona sky! With the thrill I got and the investment I felt in watching the game unfold, I couldn't believe I had never come before, and to heck with naptime! There were plenty of eight to ten-year-olds on that field running their cleats off, but as I bounced my way from the playground, where my youngest three played, to the field, my eyes were on my son. I felt pride at simple things: the authoritative way Berto shouted "Hike!" and the fact that as quarterback he had the ball hiked to him in different form than his teammates to better facilitate his passes. I saw him throw a beautiful long pass. Sure, it wasn't caught by the receiver, but it had a lovely, smooth arc. And when I witnessed one of his two touchdown passes as QB and cheered as he ran one into the end zone as RB, my eyes misted over and my chest locked up in emotion as I shouted and applauded.

There's no crying in baseball or football...if you're playing the game. But if you're the proud mama? All's fair in love and score.

Consequences

I am saddened by the death of Jerry Brown. I am discouraged that his death is the result of poor decisions made by his close friend who now faces manslaughter charges.

In talking about this tragedy, former Indianapolis Colts coach Tony Dungy spoke about the need to discuss life choices with players, and with one's own children. He related how he had met a young man years earlier who had gone to prison for nine years on vehicular homicide charges. This man told Coach Dungy that those nine years were nothing compared to waking up every morning knowing that he had been responsible for the death of three people. Coach had to have him speak to the team - an ultimate lesson from horrible experience.

When I learned of Brown's death, I spoke to my ten-year-old son. These moments are not ones to let slip by without having a discussion, a preventative good that can come from something so senseless.

"Can you imagine carrying around that guilt for the rest of your life?" I said to my son. "Knowing that you had killed someone by your stupid decisions?"

My husband also pointed out that now the man responsible, Josh Brent, would go to prison for his mistake.

This is not a new topic, though we speak of different lives being affected. After our car accident this fall, I asked my husband to speak to our two eldest, who had not been in the van, about the motorcyclist who hit us and the circumstances that led up to his death. The conversation was a lengthy one, but my children will not forget it. They know the impact.

He had been in a minor accident just minutes before ours and had fled that scene before he made the decision to run the red light at the intersection where I was preparing to turn left. When his motorcycle hit the front of our van at such a high speed, he and his bike were thrown. He was not wearing a helmet.

It devastates me that he died. It devastates me that I was involved in an accident that ended a life when I wish to do harm to no one. And, as I recently told my closest friends, I feel that I now have a responsibility to mourn that man all my life, though my sorrow must be far less than what his family and friends feel.

Lives are forever altered by split-second decisions which is why we must give our children the tools to be circumspect in the face of temptation. Sometimes, no matter how badly we wish it for someone, there are no second (or third or fourth) chances. I do not see a motorcycle now without thinking about a bulky black bike lying on the pavement. Certainly I will never gaze at some tough motorcyclist wearing no helmet without righteous anger that the state of Arizona has no law requiring him to wear one. And when, as happened just this week, traffic becomes congested at an odd time and someone mentions that it's because of a bad motorcycle accident, I will be reminded and grieve all over again for the man who hit me and for all the people affected by a fresh tragedy.

I am sad now about something very particular. But I cannot imagine the sadness Josh Brent will carry, because he chose to drive impaired.

Holiday Cheer with The Tumbling Tumbleweed

That last post was something, wasn't it? Bitter and something that rhymes with witchy.

Huh.

Well, let's cheer things up around here. Bring out the laughing elves, mix a batch of fudge, call the Rockettes and see if they're free. Or bring out the 25-foot tumbleweed tree:

Yes, that is just the spirit, a holiday tradition in this town since 1957. South westerners are pretty inventive, and they love to flock indigenous plant life, piled high in a wire frame, with fake snow and fire retardant on a bright and warm December day.

Sure, it's traditional for city squares to have an enormous coniferous tree decked out in full Christmas regalia. A few years ago Arizona even sent one of its own evergreens to Washington D.C. for the national tree on a tractor-trailer, but who needs an eighteen-foot, stately pine when you can have this lighthouse of cheer in your downtown.                  

It may not be the most elegant tree, but it's one of the most creative. When it goes up, it feels like home sweet home on the range.

Don't look - my hair's invisible

The queen of the unnoticeable haircut, that's me.

I'm not good about going and doing pretty things for myself, probably because in my mind it still qualifies as an errand, and I hate errands. But I have known for quite some time that I needed a haircut, especially since the whole greasy, stringy, hospital hair fiasco.

But guess what? I like long hair; I like long, straight hair on me. Oh, yes, it's boring, unadventurous, and, no, I don't blow-dry it or style it or put any kind of texturizing, root-lifting, or shine-inducing product in it 99% of the time. My hair is stick-straight and unstyled but healthy. I have never dyed any part of it in my 33 years.

Some of you are sad for me. I feel it.

Worse in your minds, I'm sure, will be my confession that I make my husband trim my hair, since it is so straight and long. Yet, the time had come to pay a professional a princely sum to chop off the split ends and shape it nicely, and so I did.

But I quoted the wrong number. I said four to five inches, and the stylist heard six to seven. It didn't look like much when I held my locks up between my fingers. Maybe it's because my normally shiny hair looked so dull and dirt-brown in that salon mirror. Maybe I was feeling daring, because I had just refused highlights when every woman I know had advised me to try them. While leaping off the bandwagon of high-maintenance coloring, I tripped down the stairs of shorter-than-I-wanted discontent while getting chatty with my hairdresser.

When I got home my husband acknowledged that it was shorter than he would have liked, but he said it looked like it was professionally cut.

No one else noticed. Not one person today looked at me twice, speculating on that fresh look, that change. I took off at least five inches, people! My hair is layered to frame my face, and dammit! It's shorter by half!

I'm the Queen of the Unnoticeable Haircut, and I've known it for years. Each major haircut there are no compliments, no exclamations of, "Did you cut your hair? I like it!" My hair could grow to my feet and then a mad man could cut it off while racing through a public park with a pair of scissors. As he loped away cackling, my friends would all rush to my side and exclaim, "Hillary, are you alright?! What did he do to you?" I would point to my hair desperately, and they would all stare back with blank, uncomprehending faces until I told them to never mind.

I should have gotten those highlights.

I should have gotten my brows plucked, too.



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Knee-highs and Flannel

"Are those my pajama bottoms? Yay! Throw them to me!" I exclaimed.

Matthew was folding laundry when I spotted my faded flannels with little snowflakes on them. I couldn't help but be excited. I'm used to being warm in the Arizona desert, and the nights have gotten brisk lately - about 65 degrees. I thought all my leg cozies were dirty, so I was more than happy to trade my shorts for the pjs.

"What...these sexy things?" asked my Man sarcastically, pitching them to my chair.

This is how honesty happens: a woman betrays her love for her flannel pjs, and the man in her life says what he really thinks before he can help it.

"What's wrong with my flannel pjs? You don't like them, do you?" Then I added accusingly, as if he were insulting my best friend, "You've never liked them, have you?"

"They're alright. I get why you like them - they're warm - but why don't you go and get something nice to sleep in for my Christmas gift this year?" Smile, wink-wink.

Ah, this was bad! He was giving up the hope of snazzy electronics, polo shirts and dangerous tools to bribe me into buying more attractive sleepwear! It was enough to make me re-evaluate the appeal factor of knee-high socks and old soccer shorts, another bedtime ensemble of mine in which I'm certain I look absolutely adorable.

It's unfair. I'm sure men in arctic climates are happy with less...or more. When their lovely, hardy wives pull off their insulating layers of down, seal blubber and deer skin at the end of the day, I'm sure those men feel the heat at that first peek of long johns underneath. It's only because I live somewhere that doesn't know the true heart of "winter" that I am expected to dress to impress even while I sleep.

Okay, I'll be fair. It's important to care about what your spouse thinks. My Man grew his moustache ten years ago, because I like facial hair on men. I'm wearing a sexy, red dress to his company Christmas party this year, despite some reservations, because he loves it on me. And one of the first things I did when we married was to dig out all his long jean shorts and ask that he give them away, asap. When he told me he hates Capri pants on a woman, I stopped wearing them.

Because I absolutely want to be appealing to the love of my life, just as he does for me.

But I love my flannel pjs and knee-high socks like I could never love a pair of Capris. It's just possible that if I give them up, I'll end up growing out my leg hair for warmth each winter.

So there's the rub - the bristly, cold rub. Sure, I'll find and wear a chemise (Elizabeth Taylor, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof) to our winter bed IF I can wear knee-high socks, flannel bottoms or woolly legs beneath it.

Who's the sex kitten? Uh, the woman with hairy legs in that satin negligee. Yeah, baby!

Short, Mostly Unedited: Grapevine

I stood today in Michael's, looking at all the wreaths made of foam and plastic and wondering where the grapevine had gone.

That old friend Nostalgia, popping up suddenly as he so often does this time of year, leaned his elbow on my shoulder, playfully pouted and whispered in my ear. I had to have a grapevine wreath, and I told my husband just that.

We were on a mission to construct our first, very own Advent wreath, and as Advent begins tomorrow, perhaps we were a little behind in the planning. Fake wreaths, too, are expensive. The more artificial but real-looking fruit and flowers are added, the higher the price tag. Add in the candle holders and purple and pink Advent candles and well...

I had suggested I could strip eucalyptus leaves off supple young branches from our trees and make a wreath out of those, but my man Matthew detests the smell of eucalyptus and couldn't stand the thought of any part of that tree invading his home.

The briar and grapevine wreaths my parents used to roll for a living in Tennessee, during my childhood, would have been free - at least for me, their daughter. I could have asked my dad to roll a thick, beautiful, curly-cued 16-inch wreath, and then my mom, so much more gifted with her hands than I, would have wrapped it for me in ribbon and bows, burgundy velvet or bright red/green plaid. It would have been beautiful; it would have knocked Nostalgia's pants off. I would have kept it forever.

But I'm left to roam with my children through Michael's, and when my son says he doesn't like the grapevine look, I tell him that his Paca and Grandmama used to roll up that vine; they used to make those things. Then I choke up as I say to my husband, "I want it to be grapevine."

So we buy a plastic evergreen wreath with fake poinsettia leaves, real pine cones, and red, beady berries, but it has a grapevine base. We find a silver candelabra and taper candles to make it officially an Advent wreath.

For some reason when we purchase the wreath, with its vine jutting out wildly beneath its festive trappings, I think of the enormous briar one my dad made and hung over our porch out in the boonies of Tennessee at Christmas. He lit it up with strands of light. I remember it being all shades of green - vibrant green, thorny briar, neon green lights. Our neighbors on the other side of the creek said they could see it from across dusty Spann Road, the only ones who could see it, but for them it was a beacon of cheer.

Tomorrow when I light that first candle of Advent, I hope my store-bought wreath becomes that beacon of cheer for all who gather at my table.


Peace on Earth and goodwill toward men.