Chicks' Night Out

I went out to dinner with friends this evening (standing monthly get-together), so I am sneaking my Advent book in under the wire -- which is hilariously ironic, considering that I bragged to one of those very friends that I had been listing Advent books for two whole days without a gap!

Whatever. I had a great time tonight -- thanks, ladies!

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Today's Advent book is The Cricket on the Hearth, by Charles Dickens.  This novella is one of Dickens's five Christmas stories (the most famous, of course, being A Christmas Carol). I always liked this one, which centers on a poor toymaker and his blind daughter.  The plot is very Dickensian -- so you should keep that in mind; you will encounter lots of conniving trickery and misunderstanding on the way to forgiveness and redemption. Of course the miser sees the error of his ways at Christmas time, and true love conquers all -- except for the blind girl. The Victorians wouldn't have stood for that.

This would be a great story to be read aloud (the best way to read any Dickens); I don't know if it will hold the interest of very young children, but the rest of the family will love it.

Small pleasures: Merry Christmas Wreath!

Well, so I have become one of those people. I have hung a Merry Christmas wreath on my car.

I know, right?

I first saw this phenomenon when I was working at Lafayette College in the 1980s. A student that I worked with and loved, the perky R.A. Sarah, had a wreath on her sporty little car, and I both loved and hated her for it, because I'm that kind of person.

I mean, it wasn't that I hated wreaths or Christmas or Sarah or cars -- and I loved the idea of a Merry Christmas wreath tied to the front of my own fun little red car. But I could never gather the wherewithal and motivation to get up off my ass to do something about it.  It never occurred to me to ask Sarah where she got her wreath or how she had attached it to her car -- or maybe even just to ask her to help me do it (translated = do it for me).

Over the years, my lazy ways hardened into a kind of Grinchiness that mocked the festive cars sporting their tidings of the season. Well, maybe I wasn't displaying full-on Grinch symptoms, but a definite crankiness crept into my attitude. I think part of it has been that whenever I saw a car with a wreath, I thought, "Dang it! Another year and I haven't gotten my wreath act together."

Well, not this year! I got me a wreath, and I got me some florist's wire, and I figured it out, maybe. I have no idea how long my handiwork will last. But as long as it does, my car will be fa-la-la-la-la-ing all over town!

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Here's a sweet little book that evokes memories of old-fashioned Christmas anticipation. Christmas in the Country, written by Cynthia Rylant, describes the winters of her childhood, when she and her grandparents prepared for Christmas as the snow gathered in their mountain home.  The decorations, the shared cocoa by the fire, the baking -- all are described in loving detail. It's a great reminder that some of the joy of the Advent season lies in the waiting, and in the preparation itself.

An Ode (or Whatever) to Pinterest

          O Pinterest! Dost thou know that I
          Covet those pins that catch'st mine eye?
          Verily, 'tis true that every pin
          Causes mine heart to leap with chagrin.
          I say chagrin -- for I cannot muster
          The moxie to create my own feather duster
          Or re-tile my kitchen with hand-painted ceramic
          Or bake a souffle (the thought makes me panic).
          [And yes -- I know that those words don't rhyme.
          Get off my back, Pinterest; I don't have time
          To hone my craft and polish my meter.]
          But I adore Constant Pinner and do long to greet her.
          She takes perfect photos; she wears perfect clothes;
          She know just what polish I should put on my toes.

                    Her house, her garden, her baby, her life
                    Are perfection. And if a teen gives her some wee bit of strife
                    I never will know.
                    Dog puke on the carpet? A burnt apple crisp?
                    A babe who says, "Fuck!" in an adorable lisp?
                    I never will know.

          But I say to Constant Pinner, "Bring it on, bitch!"
          I do love her photos! They give me an itch
          To craft, to re-finish, to weed, e'en to blog!
          And what are these pins after all, in this slog
          We call daily life, but a chance to dream
          And to vow to ourselves, though mad it doth seem,
          That we too might make curtains, or jelly, or quilts;
          That we might even make some DIY stilts.
          It could happen! Especially if my ways I mend . . .
          Oh, who am I kidding? So here I must end.

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Well, so here we are, approaching the season of Christmas once again.  I have found some terrific books for the Advent calendar again this year; I look forward to sharing them with you! The link will take you in most cases to Amazon, which will not benefit me in any way.

On this first day of December, here is a fun and fabulous book -- especially for a family with a fancy girl of their own! Fancy Nancy: Splendiferous Christmas is adorable and sparkly and fun to read. The illustrations are part of the fun, as Nancy prepares for a fancy Christmas, complete with decorations and a tree and gifts that she will prepare her very own self. When things go awry, trust Nancy to find a way to make Christmas festively fancy!

Role Model

Well, November is here, and as usual it has brought out my melancholy side.  I miss my mom with sharper focus in November, the month of both her birth and her death. But this November in particular, I've been thinking a lot about my fabulous mother-in-law, whose birthday was also in November. I wish you could have known her as well as I did.

She was an excellent grandmother, a breast cancer survivor, a fiercely independent widowed single woman, a terrific friend, the best mother-in-law, and an adventurous soul who was up for anything.

She tap danced. She swam. She shepherded tourists around the Smithsonian as a docent at the National Postal Museum. She read The Washington Post from front to back every single day. She hated to drive, but had the Washington, D.C. bus and subway schedules memorized; she used them as she attended theater productions and baseball games and art exhibits throughout the city. She looked forward to and excelled at the competitive sport of bargain-hunting.

More than this, after her retirement from the U.S. Foreign Service and a career during which she and her husband raised three children -- while stationed in places like Cambodia, Libya, Bangladesh -- she traveled the world all over again. She took cruises throughout Europe, Northern Africa, and Canada. She rode a zip line over the Costa Rican rain forest. She went on a safari in Tanzania -- sleeping in the most glamorous tents I've ever seen. 

And then she was diagnosed with a brain tumor, almost two years ago. She was told she had a "glioblastoma multiforme." Your Google search will give you all the bad news about this kind of tumor. And you've probably been hearing about this particularly shitty brand of cancer in the news recently. 

I want to say so many things. But mostly:

First -- my religion (which was my mother-in-law's  religion too) teaches me that God's ways are not our ways. This is sometimes (but not always) comforting when I consider the ways cancer attacks us. I watched it take control of my own mother, and then of my dear mother-in-law. And to tell you the truth, both times it took control of my life, too. 

But second, this sucky disease gave me a great and good gift, too. My beloved mother-in-law's illness allowed me to take care of her. It allowed me to be with her at her most vulnerable, and it let me take the most intimate care of her. Ultimately, this brave woman let me and her other children be with her as she approached that ultimate journey -- her greatest adventure yet! It's funny -- nineteen years ago, when my own mother went through a similar ordeal with similar grace, my friend Susan said to me, "her suffering is a gift." Which totally pissed me off. Who would want this kind of present?! It certainly has never been on my Christmas wish list. But she was right (as she usually is). I am grateful that I was able to love them in this particular way, in addition to all the other kinds of love I had and have for both of them.

This is a thing I've come to embrace partly because of my religious beliefs -- but I think that my non-religious friends might have experienced a similar gift. I consider myself devout, but I don't think this thankfulness really has to do entirely with faith. It also has to do with our deepest connections to those we love. And, while I have the deepest sympathy for those who think that this is not a death they should have to experience, I look to both of my cherished mothers as my examples and role models. There are many ways to die with dignity.

Finally, as is often my way, I would recommend a book -- for anyone whose family has gone through something like this, or is in the middle of it right now. Shrinkage, by Bryan Bishop, is a wonderful memoir of his (so far) successful battle against an inoperable brain tumor. I first learned of his story through his fiercely wonderful wife's blog, and have cheered him on ever since. He writes with honesty, grit, and humor, and anyone fighting cancer will find inspiration and hope in his story.

Rock the Baby

OK, so I went to Nordstrom today, and on my way to the escalator I walked past this contraption, which completely mesmerized me.  It's a baby rocking machine, and it comes with a speed control and an MP3 connection, so the mommy can play soothing music or white noise or French lessons.  The Nordstrom folks had a white noise recording playing; you can hear it above the jibber-jabber of passers-by if you turn up the volume on the short little video.

My first thought as I gazed at this very pricy baby accessory was: I have lived too long, if I live in a world in which we cannot rock our own babies any more.  But then I thought, now wait.  I used an un-motorized "bouncy seat" with each of my three urchins when they were younger; does that make me a bad mommy, or a good mommy -- or a bad mommy who at least had a chance to rinse a dish or two before she picked up the kid again -- so maybe I was a bad mommy with clean dishes?

This baby rocking machine had me re-thinking all of my life choices.

So then I got to thinking some more. This contraption is kind of like when I put the inconsolable infant sunny girl, strapped into her carseat, on top of the [empty] laundry dryer and turned it on.  The dryer hummed and vibrated, and the sunny girl was temporarily soothed, and I lay down on the cement in front of the dryer, in case the baby sunny girl vibrated off of it.  I figured she would fall on me, which would make me a great mommy -- or at least a martyr, which is the same thing.

It's also kind of like when the infant tall boy would not shut up could not be soothed, so I loaded him and me into my little two-seater Honda CR-X (God, I loved that car), and off we went into the night.  I drove completely around the I-495 beltway that circles Washington, D.C.  That's sixty-four miles. Y'all, I did that more than once, and at the time it felt like a great solution: the tall boy slept in his carseat, I listened to a combination of oldies and talk radio, and no babies were thrown out of any windows.  A win for everyone.

The mommy gig is a tough one; you all know this.  And any help an infant's mom can get as she juggles her baby, her toddler(s), her groceries, her hormones, her laundry,  her intertwined love and angst, and her latte is help she should welcome.  Once, when I was trying very hard to pay for groceries and the newborn girl in charge had had it (she has been in charge since Day One -- believe it), a lovely woman said to me -- as I struggled to gently bouncy-bounce my screaming, hungry infant and find my checkbook and appear as if I was fine with the milk leaking from both of my breasts -- "I don't want to offend you, but would it help if I held your baby?" People, I could have kissed her.  Maybe I did; that whole post-natal era is a bit of a blur.

So my conclusion? Rock your babies the best way you can.  You are a great mom. You were a great mom.  You will be a great mom.  Being a mamma -- especially a new mamma -- is hard as shit. We deserve all the help we can get.  And in the middle of that "what am I doing?" moment, don't let anyone (including a snobby Nordstrom shopper) make you feel bad.

We're not rocket scientists. We're better -- we make rocket scientists.