My favorite things: being a Christmas tumbleweed

I have multiple personalities when it comes to Christmas. I vacillate between behaving like an angel or a Grinch for weeks.

Tumbleweed Tree

Like a tumbleweed I'm blown back and forth from one side of Santa's wintry highway full of merrymaking and carol-singing in front of brightly festooned, enormous pine trees whose trunks are surrounded by shiny packages and the other side on which all the disillusioned elves hang out and drink their peppermint schnapps around a landfill of broken ornaments, tangled non-LED lights and noisy, worn out toys.

Makes you want to come to my house for Christmas, doesn't it?

But I would warn you off that inclination. Though my tree is up, it only has a few scattered ornaments on it that the kids have brought home just this past week. A lonely picture of Santa climbing a chimney does grace the wall in the living room, but not one of my collection of nutcrackers or snowmen has yet been paroled from storage.

And I've eaten pretty much every batch of Christmas cookies I've made thus far by myself; I need the fuel to keep going through all the mood confusion.

Plus I'm afraid I couldn't entertain you with my usual flair. I was unable to practice carols on my guitar for more than a week because I cut my middle finger on a wicked serrated knife my parents-in-law gave us in a set last year at Christmas. They said that sharp knives do less damage because you don't have to work at chopping stuff. It's only about the hundredth time that knife has quite easily sliced my appendage. I think I'll regift it.

Still....despite my decorating laziness, my scarred middle finger and my recurring desire to meet my husband under the mistletoe, not for a kiss but a boxing match, I've had some truly bright moments this Advent.

Just yesterday I was full of spirit...Christmas spirit! I listened to a beautiful recording of my friend Camille singing in a wintertime concert. My son's teacher gave me a delicious bag of chocolates. A bell ringer for the Salvation Army entertained shoppers with his rambunctious rendition of "The Twelve Days of Christmas". And I spent the whole wonderful day with my husband being scouts for Santa, flying across town from Walmart to Walmart, and every Walmart we entered was filled with helpful elves - all with gray hair and a great attitude despite their long, busy shifts accommodating anxious parents.

We also had a delectable lunch in a festive Mexican restaurant, new to us both, where we enjoyed, not schnapps, but margaritas.

Gosh, just remembering it all makes me feel like dragging some boxes out of storage, picking my guitar, and hanging up some mistletoe in order to smooch my man when he comes home.

Though the Grinch could sneak up and ransack my cheerful, hopeful mood at any moment, the energy, joy, excitement and love that I felt yesterday is what the Christmas spirit is about, my friends.

I'm grateful that, for now, this tumbleweed is sticking on the festive side of the road.

Comfort and Joy

This is the time of year when individuals in the arts and crafts community step forward with alacrity to sell their wares to those who are seeking unique gifts for dear ones and wanting to support something bigger than big business.

Today I took my daughters to the annual craft fair at our church, one we patronize every November, but before we entered the community hall with its Christmas carols and abundant tables laden with diverse offerings from knitters, wood workers, potters, tailors, and bakers, there was something I had to do.

I got in line for confession.

It went better than I had hoped. Afterwards I felt as if I received maybe too much mercy.

But Jesus met me in the confessional. What else did I expect?

Truly, my step was lighter when we walked across the courtyard to meet friends at the craft fair. Shortly after we entered that cheerful, open space with so much red and green, so many sparkles and lights, we were given free sugar cookies. I then chatted with my friend Kathy whom I had not see in far too long while my girls walked around with her daughter Ariel.

One of our priests works in wood, making bowls, crosses, lazy susans, and pens. I bought a multi-hued bowl to complement the one we got from him a year or two ago. And from an older gentleman who has been a fixture at the craft fair for years (supplying simple but sleek wooden toys that have a distinct Santa quality to them), I finally purchased a toy that my kids have long been fascinated with playing.

Arriving home, I had to kiss my husband goodbye. We've gone in different directions all day, but he needed to take my son to a late soccer game on the far side of town. My oldest daughter decided to go with and grab the now rare opportunity to watch her big brother play.

Almost as soon as they left, I made a big batch of brownies that I have been contemplating for weeks, inspired by all the seasonal goodies at church, Meanwhile Danny and Ella, my youngest two, had a grand time playing with the new toy from the fair that involved a sturdy wood frame, plastic spoon, tiny ball, net and some careful aim. Later, they watched Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer; it was just that kind of cozy, looking-forward-to-Christmas day.

Because of my wonderful mood, of such a kind that I have not enjoyed in some time, I made popcorn for my little ones without hesitation when they asked. My absolute childhood favorite, Frosty the Snowman, was then on pause.

Really, the day couldn't have gotten much better.

But it did.

I asked my kids if they wanted me to play "Jolly Old St. Nicholas" on the guitar for them, and they responded with enthusiasm. To my surprise, my instrument was actually in tune. I warmed up with "Angels We Have Heard on High", and then I played some of their favorites and my own personal favorite that my dad played often, "Joy to the World". Because they asked sweetly, I even let them strum my lovely guitar.

But first I admired its shiny, wine-colored surface, pretty details, and, yes, even the smell of its strings. I remembered the day my husband surprised me with the beautiful instrument, and my cup, already full of whispers and hints of the most wonderful and generous time of year, overflowed with joy and thanksgiving.

The weather has finally cooled. God is merciful. I have a guitar.

And Christmas, my friends, is just around the corner.

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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Flu and Fudge

This morning I had a fit of uncontrollable laughter like I usually get when I've stayed up late, sleep-deprived and watched the dumb commercials on TV (I'm an easy target, especially for beer commercials.) And...at last...I knew we'd beaten this dang flu bug our family has been passing around all week.

My kids were cracking me up, and because I was being so noisy I decided to call down the hall to see if Matthew was awake.

"mattheew...."I called in a little whisper (I didn't want to wake him up if he wasn't awake, you know). "I'll try again a little louder," I said aside to the kids. "Matthew!"

"I'm sleeping," he called back, and I just thought that was hilarious, so while I was giggling into my baby's hair he added, "Take it easy on the cough medicine, Woman!"

I hadn't had any, of course. I was simply reveling in the fact that this nasty flu bug was defeated after a whole long week of waging battle with Ibuprofren and tissues and sponge baths and Gatorade, water, multiple bathroom visits...and the thing that always works for me-a general bad temper and anger with the universe.

Of course, I couldn't rail with my usual ferocity; I never got above 101. My policy is the higher my temperature, the more I can complain and stomp, huff and puff, so every time I glanced at the thermometer and it said a weak 101, an involuntary, "Dang!" escaped my lips.

Now 102....well, that would have been something to work with. "Leave me alone," I could have said when everyone rebeled at my orneriness. "Look at this thermometer, people; it don't lie. Read it and weep!"

But back to this morning (oh, is it too late? Too bad!).

The kids and I started exchanging knock-knock jokes, and there's nothing that Matthew hates more, because the kids don't understand a punchline, but they still expect a laugh, and they don't care if it's fake as all get out. It gets exhausting for a parent.

For instance, Ana's went like this: "Knock-knock!"

"Who's there?"

"Jingle Lock"

"Jingle Lock who?"

"Jingle Lock...don't forget to take off your sock!"

It's not funny, but you laugh because you want them to have good self-esteem.

Ella's went like this:

"Knock-knock!"

"Who's there?"

"Papa!" (Oh, this was bound to be good)

"Papa who?"

"Papa-lapa...poo-poo!"

"Matthew, did you hear that?" I called down the hall, laughing it up.

"I'm sleeping!" he shouted back, and I laughed some more.

Mine? Well, mine are hilarious, and I giggled my head off, because I'm the best audience I could ever have.

"Knock-knock?

"Who's there?"

"Snow!"

"Snow who?"

"Snow-body!"

"Get it?" I said to the kids. "It's like nobody-only with snow! Or it could be Snow Buddy-haha!"

Unfortunately, after our joke-telling spree was done, the kids started begging for TV or video games. It wasn't yet 8am, but after five crummy days of electronic media-overload with maybe a half-hour break here or a potty vist there, they'd become spoiled and no doubt were getting used to their brains feeling comfortably mushy.

"We ain't doing it!" I said flatly. Then I put on my Michael Buble Christmas CD to reinforce that we all have choices to make for our own entertainment diversity.

Then I made myself some tea and went to test the fudge.

A cruel side effect of this flu has been that the fudge had lost its luster. And here I had been thinking it might even have a mystical medicinal quality, because for almost the whole week, surrounded by my ill babies, I had no symptoms to speak of. Wading through the germ-hole that was our home where tissues peppered the living room floor like some evil flu-feeding albino fungus, I was clear-headed and "normal". Privately, I told myself, It's the fudge-it's gotta be! So I kept eating; it was my duty to save everyone from the bear I become while ill.

But then Thursday night I felt chilled. It was the cold breath of flu laughing in my face. But look....it's Sunday, and I'm nearly victorious, except for the constant need to blow my nose. That fudge helped me fight it for sure! Still...I'm achy, and my energy has fallen since this morning...

"I'm just going to tell myself I'm well," I said to Matthew.

"Good! I don't want to hear any belly-aching," he replied.

"No belly-aching!" I cried. "Who said that? That's how you know I'm alive!"

My belly-aching hasn't been so bad, though. My kiddos were worse off than me, and my baby son has caused me a good deal of concern with his scary temps, hoarse little cry (so cute and heart-breaking at the same time), and his sensitive pink nose that so dreaded another swipe of the tissue. I was on 24-7 Danny Sam watch. Meanwhile, "The General" (that's my wonderful husband)  monitored our older three at all hours of the night-dosing medicine, offering cups of water and giving lukewarm showers when needed.

I got them all day, because Matthew preferred to go into work sick than be home with four sick kids. Crazy! But it wasn't so bad, except Ella's constant whining for, "Tissoo!" which sounded too much like "Bless you!"
I always thought someone else had sneezed, so I'd considerately add my own, "Yes, bless you!" That's when she would practically scream, "TISSOO!" and we'd all tell her, "They're right there! On the table. Go get them! You're a big girl." And then would begin a few rounds of Ella shouting, "I can't!" with snooters dribbling down her face and a box of tissues two feet away while Berto and I yelled back, "You can! Go get them!" until angelic Ana grabbed a tissue and silently but gently handed it to Ella.

Berto summed up Ella's sick persona well when talking to his dad on the phone after lunch one day.

"Ella?" he said. "She's still behaving like the Queen of England!"

Yep.

Thank goodness, most of that's behind us now, and nothing to look forward to but Christmas...and all the stuff we should have done last week to prepare for it.

But who cares? I had my fudge this morning. After force-feeding it to myself for two days to no good result, today it was good, baby. Everything is right in the world!

I'll tell you a little secret, though-it was meant for my brothers-in-law, but I honestly didn't think they'd want a tub full of fudge with a disclaimer tag that read: We wish you a Merry Christmas....and a flu-full New Year!



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The Three Bears and a Box Full of Toys

Before we lived on that beautiful ninety-eight acres outside Charlotte, Tennessee, before we had a large forest in which to wander and a creek to swim in and a field to run in, our family lived in a little town called Kingston Springs outside Nashville-an easy location from which Dad could pursue his music in Music City.

And every time we drove home to our little house there on its quiet, pretty suburban street, we passed the Three Bears' house.

Yes, I do mean that house-the one that Goldilocks trespassed so rudely in. It sat on a hill very near our home, and a winding drive led to the log house that was, obviously, quite big. I was very proud because my dad had been payed to paint the inside of it and knew the Three Bears. However, I was put out, too, because I desperately wanted to meet the Three Bears, and Dad would not take me.

"Daddy, let's turn; let's go see them now!" I said each time we passed the house. "Pleeease!"

"I would, Hoo-doo," Dad replied. "But, uh...they're gone," or, "they're on vacation," or "oh, today wouldn't be a good day, honey. Papa Bear told me their relatives are visiting from Canada. We don't want to interrupt their visit, do we?"

Each time it was a new excuse, but I knew without a doubt that the Three Bears did live there, and I couldn't understand why Dad wouldn't take me to meet them. I wanted to talk to them-I mean its the Three Bears-so badly.

When I grew up a little I knew. You figure stuff out somewhere between three and ten. Life puts the kobash on your flighty imagination that makes bricks out of children's bedtime stories. And Dad saved me from a huge disappointment.

Though I never met the Three Bears or got their autograph, I really liked our little house there in Kingston. Not nearly so well as that little square of a place off Spann Road, of course, but so far as a suburban situation could go, the Kingston Springs house was very pleasant. And my very best friend, a little boy, lived over the back fence. I went to play there often in his dirt yard with its shed full of toys. We'd play for hours-for years it felt like.

Then there's Christmas. It's that time of year, after all, and so I reel out the old slideshow of images from my mind and become a tiny child again.

The first Christmas I remember is a silent film: the lights are very low in the living room or are off completely, but the tree is glowing through the dark from the other side of the room. Mom and Dad are holding hands on the couch to my left. I'm sitting on the floor looking toward the colored lights of the tree, and my three siblings are each on the floor in front of me with their new toys in their hands.

I am fascinated by what they have-far more than by my own gifts. (Well, except for Vinca's; I don't remember what she got any more than I remember what my own gifts were that year-no doubt, her present was too mature for my taste.) Nate has a huge Transformer-like action figure he is playing with, and Annie is creating iridescent art with her Lite-Brite. Our dog Rueben is sprawled on the floor, head cocked to the side with a long rubber shark in his mouth, gnawing on its tail as the wicked toothy grin at its head dribbles dog slobber. Yes, I am even enthralled by his Christmas gift.

That is all I remember, as if I were in a sleepy little trance produced by the lights of the tree and the screen of the Lite-Brite. It's the feeling I had that Christmas as a toddler that I call back to mind-warmth and joy and family.

The second Christmas memory has little to do with actual Christmas day. It occurred a few days before the big morning when Vinca instigated a present raid.

A well-to-do family lived down the street from us. I remember their son; he was an enormous brat, but I believe both my sisters had a crush on him. Anyway, that family gave my parents a box of little-used toys to distribute among us kids on Christmas morning. Mom and Dad stuffed the box in their room and forbade us to step one foot inside the door.

I'm not sure where Mom and Dad went on the crucial afternoon in question. They were close by; I think they were talking to the landlord or a neighbor on the sidewalk in front of the house, but they were gone for awhile.

"Alright, let's go," said Vinca, standing tall and speaking with authority.

She led the way down the hall and stopped just outside a closed bedroom door-Mom and Dad's bedroom door. My little heart pitter-pattered. Toys!

"We have to be quiet," said Vinca. "And we have to listen for Mom and Dad, okay?" Three quick nods. "Alright. C'mon."

She opened the door, and I saw the box. Oh, my gosh! The thing was taller than I was! What glorious discoveries would we make?

I must have stood on a chair, because I remember peering down into a great, disorganized heap of toys. After pushing some things around, I grabbed a potato head and began assembling his face merrily on the floor.

I don't think we were quiet at all-not as we should have been. Toys were dumped haphazardly on the floor in the quest for something that would absolutely blow the searcher's mind with its awesomeness. But then...

One of us must have heard them. There was panic. Stealth was no longer a priority as we all began to throw toys hairum-scarum back into the box. We had finished this adrenaline-fueled process when Mom and Dad came down the hall. Their bedroom door was closed, and we were all standing around as casual as we could be, no doubt with hands stuck in our pockets and whistling collectively off-key. But they knew. All they had to do was look in the box to garner the evidence.

What did they do to us? Sorry, I don't know-must have blocked it out. We kept the toys, but their Christmas morning surprise was ruined.

Still, if I'm really honest here...it was all Vinca's fault! No, no-just kidding. If I'm honest, I'm forced to admit that sneaking into our parents' bedroom to play with a huge box full of toys was a near equivalent to the joy of Christmas morning surprises. And, of course, we had the added exhiliration of knowing we were up to no good. So maybe-just maybe-my little Ella Belle is right: adventure and fun can't always be had while behaving.

Of course, that's not a Christmas lesson of which St. Nicholas would approve.