My Favorite Things: The Nutcracker and other traditions

Ballerinas are some of the most beautiful people in the world. Never did I wish to be one, but my admiration for their art and the sacrifices they make to pursue it is high.

This past Sunday I took my beautiful oldest daughter, Analisa, to a performance of The Nutcracker by Ballet Etudes. The theater was lovely and intimate, the costumes bright and extravagant, and the dancers - some very young children - performed the classic tale in exquisite detail.

I even took pleasure in people watching, noting how many families and couples were attired in their holiday best. The little girls were especially elegant in their fancy coats, sparkling dresses and shiny heeled shoes. You know what kind of crowd you're in when you exclaim to a four or five-year-old girl, "Just look at your beautiful coat!", and she replies, "It's a cape."

Now I understand why families and friends make this part of their celebration every year. It was our first time, and I wish I had started taking Ana earlier, but I hope it will become a tradition until one day I am taking my grandchildren, too.

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This December, my friends, I have chosen a theme for my writing; my favorite things about the holidays. Going to see The Nutcracker is certainly now one of them, and here are a few more:

- eating pie for breakfast Thanksgiving morning, watching the parade and Miracle on 34th Street, and having a second Thanksgiving on Saturday at my friend Geraldine's house

- playing Christmas carols for my kids on my guitar

- taking a Christmas Eve hike

This technically isn't a tradition yet, but I told my friend Holly it should be. A couple years ago we said goodbye to the stressful preparations for the big day and let nature help us get in the spirit as we admired Arizona's natural winter adornment, ate chocolate-dipped shortbread and enjoyed the cool weather and company of good friends.

- watching The Nativity Story each Christmas Eve night

My dad introduced us to this film, and I am forever grateful. This is the best telling of the nativity story ever - better even than Linus' recitation in A Charlie Brown Christmas - just an all around great movie, perfect in its moments of subtlety and faith. And the Three Wise Men are absolutely lovable.





What are your favorite things? I would love for you to share them here. May you have a blessed Advent and a Merry Christmas!

Introducing Ana, Writer

This is the time of year when I wish the world would just slow down a little. I love it but I dread it, this holiday season. I so badly want to ring every single ounce of enjoyment out of it in the company of family and friends, but I also feel like a loser in the organization/task-setting/gift-choosing department. And how I wish I could get out old-fashioned Christmas cards to all my childhood friends, abundant relatives, and closest family!

Around November every year some strange things begin to happen. My car radio starts playing nothing but Christmas carols, usually sung by choirs (my appreciation for choirs and chorales can purely be attributed to my lovely sisters and their high school music careers); my fingers itch to play the wine-colored guitar I have not touched in months; and I begin to badly miss my relatives in Idaho. That last is likely due to the fact that I spent Thanksgiving time with them a couple years ago, and that created memories that beckon me to little Idaho towns every fall. I wish it were easier to go home.

Well.

I wanted to share a piece of writing from the mind and heart of my 10-year-old daughter. Her teacher sent me an email a little while back extolling the insight Ana has in this short post she wrote for the class blog. My daughter does indeed have a huge heart. In the years since God brought her into our lives (less than an hour after we arrived at hospital!) I have heard many teachers, friends and relatives speak about her compassionate nature and her loving, open heart. I worry for her, because she is so sweet and giving, but I know God will guide her on the path.

Here is the piece her teacher sent to me:

What age would you choose to be if you could stay one age forever? What would you answer if somebody asked you this question? I believe that in most circumstances, I would simply answer " ten." If all the ages in the world were orbiting around me, I would hastily run towards the number ten until I caught it. The simple joy of being any age in life is maybe one that we do not posses however, because at any age there is more to learn in life, more for us to ponder at. The age twenty allows you to drive and the age fifty allows you to know almost all the answers to questions, but what would I give to just settle down with the age I am? To me life is right where it should be. There's nothing so good as now, the present, a gift of life.

I woul d choose ten because everything is still new to me and for other reasons and feelings. Maybe some day I will get tired of being ten forever, but sometimes life goes it's own way. In a few years, everything might change, and by then I might want to be twenty-three! My world might be someday just a little wisp of a dream. I at least want to live life right now to it's fullest so that I will always have memories. So for right now, let's make things happen!

Short and Sweet: The Big Bro

My son Berto made me proud on Saturday. I saw the love of God shining through him several times in his interactions with his younger siblings.

I will tell you that, as oldest siblings are quite likely to do, he often is hard on his younger sisters and brother, telling Ana to speak up, for heavens sake, and then telling all the younger kids to shush up in turns. He tries to parent them, scolding and sometimes boldly remarking that I don't discipline them enough. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms when Ella's teacher praises her for being so caring and responsible, murmuring that she should see how Ella Boo behaves at home. He barks at all of them to stop singing, dancing or watching him play video games. He tells Daniel to stop acting like a baby.

But then there are the moments when I catch him being the ultimate big brother. I pass by the recliner where he is letting Boo snuggle up to him to watch weekend TV. I see him playing football with four-year-old Danny and letting him win. I hear him advise Ana kindly and wisely about school issues.

And on Saturday tears came to my eyes watching my oldest boy's big heart manifest itself in little ways.

Ana and Berto play for their Papa's soccer team. During this past game a boy from the opposing team and Ana collided with each other. Ana bounced to her feet right away, so that she could help the other player up. He ignored her proffered hand, but Berto walked behind his sister and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a momentary thing, but it expressed a good deal: Hey, teammate, glad you're okay; Don't worry about it; Come on, let's kick this game into gear!

We went to our good friend Kim's Halloween party that evening. Danny Sam is shy sometimes. He doesn't even want to stay for bubbles after library story time every week, because he would have to mingle too much, I think. At Kim's party he was too nervous to jump into the games. Berto, instead of running off with his friends to get started, encouraged his little brother to join the mummy wrap.

"C'mon, Daniel," he said, kneeling down and speaking cheerfully but gently. "You can wrap me up! You want to?"
No matter how many times he tried to persuade Danny, he couldn't get him to go. Daniel hugged the porch railing. I told Berto not to worry about it, and Danny called after him uncertainly, "Maybe later, okay Berto?"

When it got dark the huge piñata was hung for the children to admire, covet, and beat the carp out of it. Kim's husband Deane is an expert piñata manipulator. The children were blindfolded and got three swings a piece, but though a couple dozen superheroes, princesses and monsters took a crack at it, it didn't break. There were many swings that didn't connect to the bouncing, colorful ball. However, every time it hemorrhaged some candy, kids rushed in at their own peril while their compatriots were still batting. It was heck for us parents to keep swatting them back to a safe distance. We knew that once it shattered, those little pirates would pile on that grass, shoving each other out of the way, with wild abandon.

So it was no surprise that Danny was too afraid to get in on the candy-snatching mayhem when it showered out, despite the fact that parents were throwing extra treats into the mix from outside the commotion. He came up to Matthew and me, crying and holding out his treat bag.

"Danny, what's wrong?"

"I didn't get any candy," my little red-eyed fellar said, slumping into me.

"That's okay," I assured him as I held him close. "You brother and sisters will share with you!"

His little face was still droopy and dejected. Ella came up and gave him a piece. Two more older friends dropped treats into his hand. Then big bro showed up, the pop star kneeling once more by his little firefighter dude. I watched them as Daniel told Berto that he didn't get any of the candy. Berto listened carefully, said some soothing words, and then surreptitiously threw some candy behind Daniel's back.

"Look, Daniel!" he exclaimed. "There's some!" As Danny scooped it up eagerly, Berto cheered, "And you grabbed it all by yourself!"

That's when my eyes welled up. I looked up at Matthew. His eyes looked moist, too.

"He's such a good big brother," I said, leaning against my man.

We both gazed on our oldest with pride.

Breastfeeding

Yes, now we get down to business. This honest post, I feel, has been coming for a while, but if the subject makes you nervous, you are no doubt staring at my blog like two men once stared at me in a restaurant as I fumbled with my shirt, a blanket and a baby, their expressions clearly crying foul: She's not going to do that right by us - surely not? Is she? Over breakfast? Where do we look? What do we do? Please, no. Nooooooo!

Yes, I'm going to do it, and, hopefully, not as clumsily or nervously as I tried to over that greasy breakfast. I'm going to talk about breastfeeding at long last because of THIS POST by Alison Lee from Writing, Wishing. I think her article is very insightful, and I agree with much of it. Nursing is a very convenient way to comfort, nourish and connect with your child.

As a new mother I held a strange belief that babies should be nursed to a year and no further. That was the magic number. Ha! I learned, as any parent eventually does, that when it comes to raising children, there is no magic number and there is no yellow brick road of enlightenment. With my firstborn, my son Berto, I did indeed wean close to a year - but because I was already expecting my first daughter.

His last nurse was a quick good-bye at 13 months. He nursed, then popped off to stare at my breast with a confused, reproving expression. He got back on, realized quickly nothing was forthcoming, gave the breast a last puzzled look, and turned his back on it permanently. The spigot was broken; there was no more milk or what little milk there was tasted funny. He was over it and not heartbroken at all.

Then came my little girl into this world, my little bronze-skinned angel. She loved her nurses, but she never got all plump and rolly-polly like other infants. When I ran to the church nursery after her baptism to feed my very cranky and hungry daughter, I felt I was being judged by my relatives for continuing to nurse a one-year-old. My sister-in-law's words - "Once a baby starts walking and talking, that's when you have to cut them off!" - were playing in my head.

I had already stared cutting out feedings at about nine or 10 months, scheduling one every week or two to remove from the offerings. But my mother, after all the crowds of relatives had dispersed home, was sitting with our Ana, and she said very wisely, "Hillary, she's not ready to be weaned. I wouldn't wean her just yet if I were you."

Ana was nestled against her grandmother's side and was making tiny, self-comforting sucking motions with her mouth.

"But I already started....I can't go back now," I protested.

I wish I had listened to my mom. I caused my Ana and myself such heartache, because I didn't. I stubbornly persisted in weaning, and I don't know what I was doing wrong, but there was something. My breasts would still get engorged with milk between the feedings. And then at night, I would stand outside my daughter's door as my husband tried to comfort her to sleep without breasts, and my heart would bleed until sometimes I couldn't stand it and gave in, incurring my husband's wrath for wasting his efforts as I rushed to pick her up.

I would do it all differently now. I would listen to my wise mother. Ana's last nurse still haunts me - and, yes, I mean that. I want to cry just thinking about it. Technically, she was already weaned, but my breasts were so swollen one day when I came out of the shower that I drew her onto my lap just to gain relief from the pressure. The little look on her face was so surprised, so relieved, and so grateful. She nursed eagerly that last time at 14 months, but it shouldn't have been her last feeding.

For months after Ana was weaned, she made self-consoling sucking motions with her mouth whenever she sat by me or even another woman. She lost weight, because she still hadn't transitioned completely to solid foods - something which is completely my fault and makes me angry with myself and remorseful when I remember it. Sometimes she would only take cow's milk for breakfast, and when we showed up to her 15 month appointment with the pediatrician, the nurse practitioner was very concerned about her weight, and so I felt I was an absolutely horrible mother for not ensuring my daughter was getting all she needed.

Ana was sad and not eating properly. And I was sad, depressed.

Somehow in weaning Ana, I think I must have caused an imbalance in my hormones, because I went through a period of serious depression where I felt quite bad about myself as a mother, wife, person. This was acerbated by the fact that I realized my breasts were utterly altered by nursing. I was a full two sizes smaller (less than an A, I was considering buying training bras) and droopy after just two little ones, so my body-image suffered badly, vain creature that I am! Not only that, but my body chemistry seemed completely haywire as well. Only later did I discover that post-partum depression can sometimes occur after weaning your nursing infant. It certainly explains the emotional upheaval I experienced.

But regardless of miniscule breasts and post-partum depression, my biggest regret by far was not nursing my daughter longer for HER emotional and physical well-being. One day, years later when my daughter had entered elementary school, I cried to one of my dearest friends about Ana's experience of weaning and about the fact that I didn't just continue to nurse her until she was closer to two. I felt I had cheated her and could never make it right. That may seem silly to some that I could still have raw emotions about the traumatic weaning of my daughter so long after, but I suspect many mothers have their own memories, their own regrets that make them equally emotional when they recall them.

I did learn from that experience, at least. With my next two babies, I had no pre-conceived timetable. My Ella and my Danny Sam both nursed until they were around two years old, and I don't regret it. It was a blessing for them and for myself not to struggle with expectations but to just go with the flow.

In the end my advice to my daughters someday or to any new mothers now would be to listen to your needs and those of you children when nursing your little ones. It is a compromise, a balance of their well-being and yours. Reject pre-conceived ideas of your own and ignore the interfering opinions of others - especially if they have no children themselves. Nursing is not simply about nutrition. It is about the essential bonding between mother and child. I used to have people accuse my baby of using me as a pacifier. Well, and so what? I was made to comfort my child in a unique and very effective way. I do not believe you can spoil a child with love, attention, by holding them too much or nursing them too often and on demand. On the contrary, too many toys and a lack of discipline are how we spoil our children. I think the more love you show, the more attention you give, the more you hold them and the longer you nurse them, the happier, more confident and healthier they will likely be. Every family's story is different, and I understand nursing is not possible for everyone. But do your best with what you've got, and don't plan ahead too rigidly. The life of a parent is full of surprises.

And, sadly, some regret.

My tender moment of pride and guilt

We took our girls shopping for fancy clothes to wear for spring school pictures a couple nights ago.

I, their personal shopper for an hour, ferried clothes to them. You would think we never take those little ladies shopping. Regularly as I draped a new wardrobe change over the dressing room door, my daughter Analisa gushed to her little sister Ella, "Oooh, Booey, look at this!"

They were so noisy in their exuberance that Matthew had to retreat to a safe, manly distance after attempting several times to quiet their loud, happy exclamations over bright-colored dresses and shirts. And, of course, Booey wanted Ana to try on matching outfits.

Ana tried on an absolutely splendid dress in her perfect shade: an indigo top with a flowery-patterned skirt. Our tall, slender girl loved it, and her Papa and I loved it, but the length would not do, at least an inch too short on her long legs. When she tried a larger size, however, it gaped badly under the arms and about the chest.

Yet Ana did find one outfit she adored which fit wonderfully: a tie-dye jumpsuit. When she tried it on, I'm pretty certain her papa staggered back a few steps to adjust his eyes because of the explosion of color against her tan skin, but I loved it almost as much as she did. I remember what it was like to be a little girl in love with color. My parents regularly bought me multi-hued canvas sneakers in elementary, and I wore a pair of bright green pants in junior high and a chartreuse turtleneck in high school despite some unkind feedback from others.

Booey's dress, the one that she flipped head over heels for right when we entered the store, was a riot of flowers and fuchsia, orange, indigo and green. Because Ana could not have the dress she wanted, I brought her one to match Ella's which made them both happy as they paraded out together.

They both knew exactly what they were going to wear for picture day, were ecstatic, so it should have gone smoothly.

Well, blame me for obsessing over details; I excel at it!

After I helped Booey with her signature pigtails that morning, getting the part at back just so-so, Ana asked me if she could wear her hair down today.

"Yes, I guess so...."

Then it struck me that in all her sports pictures, her long hair hangs straight and unadorned behind her back. No, I thought, let's do something special, put a flower in her hair, make it a tropical day. But she said no to braided pigtails, so I suggested a side ponytail over which we could pin a big white flower in her shiny locks.

She was skeptical, but I swooped it around, the silky strands trying to escape my fingers as I labored to smooth out all the bumps. When it was finally done, she tilted her head this way and that in the mirror, but didn't grin and flirt with her reflection as Booey does when her pigtails have just the right bounce and curl. When I asked if Ana liked it a little later, she replied, "Yeah...I like it."

I love and admire my sweet and sensitive daughter, but if she doesn't like something, you're probably not going to hear it from her lips - at least not in the words; you have to read the face and the tone and try not to get irritated if you feel she's not being straight with you to spare your feelings.

I removed the ponytail and told her to try a soft headband with the flower. Then just the flower. Neither looked right, so I asked her what she liked best.

"The side ponytail," she answered.

So I sighed and attempted to brush that hair back into shape, but my son couldn't find the holder when I asked him to fetch it, so I barked, "Alright, Ana, come on. Let's go!" And I held onto that ponytail as we marched down the hall.

That's when my son got mad. His face was stern as he spoke up, "I don't think that felt good. I bet it hurt."

"What? Me pulling Ana down the hall while hanging onto her ponytail?"

He nodded, arms folded. I made some silly joke, and Ana asserted that she was pulling me, but Berto still stared at me with accusatory eyes.

That righteous flame only intensified when I couldn't get the ponytail back into submission and gave up in full-fledged irritation, saw that we would now be tardy for school, and realized I had still to pack the fruit for my kids' lunches. I then vocalized my feelings, because I don't know how to keep anything bottled up - ever.

Yes, I vocalized loudly all the way to school - not yelling, mind you - just obnoxiously expressing my feelings and stating the obvious about being late and Ana's hair hanging straight as usual, same as every other picture.

"You should have let me fix her hair," said Berto. "I would have spiked it all up like mine into..."

"You mean you would have cut it off?" I interrupted. "That would have been something different at least!"

I glanced in the rearview. "I'm joking, Ana! I'm just joking."

No response, face turned toward the window.

"Ana, I'm just joking. Are you okay?"

"Yeah...I'm fine."

I sighed and turned and saw Berto's grim, blazing eyes of truth and judgment on me.

"Mama's just stressed," I began my defense speech. "I should have just let you wear you hair down, Ana. Your hair is beautiful as it is, unadorned, but I got stuck on the flower. And I thought it looked like a Hawaii girl."

"Hawaiian girls wear their hair down. All the Hula dancers have their hair down," interjected Berto.

 "I meant the flower to go with the outfit," I replied. "Look, I should have just let it go. We didn't have time to mess around anyway, and it's not just about what I want. It should be about looking natural....what you want, too. And now we're running late."

At school I tried to wish my kids goodbye with false cheer waxed over my guilt for ruining a perfectly good picture day when my kids - for once - actually get a chance to wear their own special clothes instead of school uniforms.

"What, Berto?" I asked, hoping to wipe that look from his eyes as he left his seat.

"You're going to make her cry," he said and stepped out.

Booey bounced out in her dress, eager to go, and then Ana came from the backseat and, sure enough, her eyes were moist.

"I'm sorry, Ana," I said. "Just enjoy your day. Mama was wrong. Your hair looks beautiful as it is."

"I know," she answered gently as she backed away. "I just don't like stressing you out. And then I get stressed out."

"No, it's mama...I love you!" I called desperately.

I had to pull forward with my guilt to make room for the other stressed-out parents in cars behind. On the way home, I noticed I had forgotten to give Booey her money for the photographers, and I felt relieved. I went home and finally combed my own hair, turned around, and entered the school office. The front office lady called Ana from her class for me, thereby preventing me from barging into her classroom with showy emotion.

I hugged my eldest girl and stroked her long hair and asked if anyone had complimented her on her outfit. Then I told her to enjoy her day in her colorful, unique clothes and let it go and think of being in Hawaii; she would be beautiful as always. I hugged her long and sent her on her way.

At lunch I told my husband about how Berto - the boy I had just lectured the previous afternoon for discouraging Ana, so often hurting her feelings, and not giving her enough credit and support - had stood up to his tyrannical mama for his sweet Ana's sake in order to protect her sensitive soul from their mother's selfish, compulsiveness, controlling nature.

"I was proud. It was a tender moment," I said. "And it would have felt good if I hadn't felt so guilty about it."

Matthew laughed.

In the evening Ana came to me and thanked me for coming to see her at school.

"Did it help?" I asked

"Yes," she said brightly and smiled.

I hugged her tight. That's all I wanted, the chance to make it better.

Ana and Beatrix

Last weekend I watched the movie Miss Potter with my beautiful daughter Ana, a treat for us that would have been more delightful if my toddler son had not fought with my preschool daughter and gabbed during the whole of it.

I need these moments with my oldest girl. She once came to me in the hectic morning hour before school and tried to tell me something that was important to her. I broke some cardinal rules; I interrupted her to tell her what she wanted to say, then when I got that wrong, I told her to just hurry up and tell me what she needed. She went away sad, and I was left in the misery of my momentary bad parenting. I coaxed her back and sat her on my lap, and then she broke my heart with, "Sometimes I feel like you don't have time for me." I'd like to say I never let that happen again, but she came to me again on a later school morning while I was scolding her little brother; I told her it was not the time to try to communicate with Mama.

Please don't judge too harshly. I feel pulled between a lot of people and a lot of tasks. Everybody wants a piece of me. It leaves me wondering, though, Will my Ana confide in me at all once I need her to share the concerns and secrets of a teenager? Or will I, God help me, have trained her not to seek me out because of my daily stress and time constraints? I am trying to rectify my mistakes by spending more time with my sweet girl, speaking with her when there are no distractions.

Ana is a quiet, even-keeled child. She does not have the temperament of her older brother. I spend a great deal of time in discourse with Berto, ironing out all manner of perceived ills or just catching up with conversation that he begins with complete confidence that you will want to join in (and you do - he is quite the conversationalist). Then there is the fact that Ana's little sister and brother are greedy with my time and love. If Ana sits by me, they come and scramble up onto my lap. They fight over me, jealous for my attention (a side effect of attachment parenting). I break up my lap - one leg per each child - but where does this leave my gangly eight-year-old when her younger siblings have each staked their claim? Trying to hang on at the side, to Mama's arm or hand, anything.

My toddler son routinely exclaims, "My mama! My mama!"

To which I respond with the line I have recited time and again, "Mama is Berto's mama and Ana's mama and Ella's mama and Danny's mama."

I often hear Ana lament, "Please can I just sit with Mama by myself?"

She got to do that as we enjoyed the movie based on Beatrix Potter's life, and I staunchly defended her right to that time. Recently, I have carved out time for her to sit with me in the evening, too, as I read to her from Potter's children's books, borrowed from the library.

I thought none of my kids who would enjoy those tales. I tried to get them as birthday books for Ana when she was younger, but my husband glanced over them and basically said, "Meh." So how pleased I was when Ana approached me at the library with, "I know these are kind of babyish, but do you think I could get them?"

"Of course!" I replied. "And they're not babyish. I read them when I was your age."

Truly, my Ana and I are very similar. We are loving, open-hearted people, goofy to the nth degree, fascinated by history, animal lovers, and true fans of Beatrix Potter's stories. What joy to sit and read them with her before bed and chuckle at Potter's humor in The Tale of Timmy Tiptoes and to see those wonderful drawings again in Miss Tiggy-Winkle!

As a child I had several of Potter's "bunny books". My parents bought me a set of four, and they were among some of my most prized possessions. My mother used to read them to me each afternoon as I sat on her lap while my brother and sisters were at school, and I cherished that time with her. Once I could read to myself, I did so gladly, but the time spent in my mother's arms and on her lap with favorite stories is what I most remember.

But I was the baby of the family. Ana is not; it is harder for us to find that time.

Today I encouraged Ana to get more of Beatrix Potter's tales from the library. I want to make these memories with her, because I do have time, I will make time, for my eldest girl. Right now, she gets me all to herself after Ella and Daniel are put to bed.  Then I get to reflect that Ana and I are like each other in many ways, but dare I flatter us by saying we are like Beatrix? She was an animal and nature lover. Miss Potter is also still an excellent role model for young girls everywhere; she was smart, independent, highly educated, trail-blazing in her conservation efforts. In revisiting her work I am reminded why I loved her so as a child, why I can admire her all the more, knowing her personal story, as a woman. I hope Potter's life will help teach my Ana to be bold, to be genuine, to invest in her own natural talents even if she must go against the current. For now, however, I'll just settle for Beatrix Potter teaching me how to make time for my precious and talented daughter in sharing something that brings us both pleasure.