Bittersweet Christmas

It is over.  Christmas this year has passed.  Most of this year's memories were wonderful, however, there was one thing that happened that was not.  And that is why I have called this a bittersweet Christmas.  There really is no other word to describe it.  I'll start with the sweet--for that is how my mind works anyway.  I love to remember the best of things--the wonderful sweet memories.  I feel that they last longer.  They make my heart happy.  And then I'll share with you the one thing that made me cry.  In fact, I cried several times.  In fact, I'm crying now.

We started our Christmas this year by driving from our home in Chicagoland to Ohio.  We were able to spend some quality time with our sons and their families.  We had wonderful food, we opened gifts, we laughed and shared stories and had an all around great time.  I love buying my kids and their kid's gifts and I use Christmas as a time to indulge them.  And me--I'll be honest, when I buy for them I am indulging myself also!  I like to buy things for them that they most likely wouldn't spend the money on themselves.  I like to spoil them a bit.  Just a bit.  I hated to leave them--I get so sad.

However, after a few days, we left Ohio and traveled on down to Virginia.  With our dog in the backseat and our luggage in the trunk--off we went.  We stayed for several days with our daughter and her family.  It was a little crazier of a time with this bunch.  Her 2 children are a little older--therefore a little louder--therefore a little more fun!  We once again ate great food, opened gifts and had a wonderful time.  We did a lot of shopping, some sightseeing, and some cooking.  We shared our Christmas dinner with some of their good friends, we watched lots of Christmas movies and made some really fun memories.  I hated to leave them, I get so sad.

But a few days later we had to leave Virginia and head back to Ohio for my youngest son's birthday.  It was nice to be able to spend the evening with him and his little family and take them all to dinner.  It was great to see both of our sons again and their families, and our son's in-laws who are also our friends.  Celebrating birthdays with our adult children is a real treat and it doesn't happen often since we all live in different states.

And then, it was time to go home--back to reality.  Back to laundry, cleaning, un-Christmasing the house, grocery shopping, doctor appointments--just life in general.  Back to normal.  The normalcy of life.

So, what happened while we were gone over Christmas?


Someone died.  On December 20th my friend's daughter died of cancer.  She was only 31 years old.  I've known her since she was 10 months old.  Her mother had been my closest friend for many years.  Her daughter left behind 2 beautiful little girls and a family of brokenhearted parents and sisters.  When I heard the news of her passing--I cried.  When I thought of them throughout the holidays--I cried.  I can't imagine losing a child.  I just can't.  And the thought of them going through their holidays without her--well, it just plain broke my heart.  I have been praying for them constantly.  I can't seem to stop.  There is nothing else I can do, except pray.  I am so far away and that bothers me too!  I'd love to be there to comfort her family.  But, I am here and they are way across the nation and there is nothing I can do.  I feel completely helpless.

So, you see--it's been a bittersweet Christmas for me this year.  And I have a feeling that it always will be.  For my friend has lost her daughter.  It is just too much for a parent to bear.  So, I will pray for her.
My friend.  And I will always remember this Christmas as being bittersweet.  For as I hugged all 3 of my children this year--she had one less to hug.  And that broke my heart.

my daughter's kitten

My Youngest Son

Today is my youngest son's, actually my youngest child's birthday.  It is hard for me to comprehend his age.  He is my baby, my last child.  Remember, I had wanted 6 originally but stopped trying after my 3rd was born.  It is only fitting that I explain why.  Why, after so much angst and heartache--why did I deliberately stop at three?

I'll tell you why--as honestly as I can without making this little story, this little tribute to my baby sound too mean.  Because that's not how I intend it to sound.  I just want there to be an explanation of sorts.

When my youngest son was 5 months old he threw a full-fledged temper tantrum.  Most people don't believe me, however, those that knew him (my son) as a baby might be believers.  They just might be.  The tantrum came about quite innocently.  He had a poopy diaper, I picked him up while he was playing contently with his toys and that's when all you know what broke loose.  As I laid him down on his diaper changer he proceeded to buck his little baby hips like a horse, he was trying to throw himself off that changer as hard as he could.  I had to hold him down with one arm while trying to change his diaper with the other--thank God they were the disposable type or he would have ended up safety pinned to said diaper.  When I was finished he stopped crying, and smiled at me--as if to say can I get down and play now?


And thus began the next 3 decades in dealing with my youngest son.  Contrary to popular belief, he was not that easy to raise.  Oh, we had our good moments too--when he was sleeping.  He looked like such an angel.  But, when he woke up--everybody woke up and the day began with a bang.  He tried from the get-go to rule the house.  From being bossy to his siblings to thinking he could pull the wool over my eyes.  He fooled his dad most of the time, but he never fooled me.  I can remember telling him many times--only one of us is going to win this fight, and I guarantee you, it won't be you.  He'd just stare up at me with those big brown baby eyes and say--uh ha.  He was determined to win.  But, he never did.  Not with me anyway.

I don't want to make it sound all bad while raising this little one.  It wasn't, not at all.  He was pure free entertainment for our family.  His favorite line was--you love me best because I'm the cutest and the funniest, uh mommy?  And then he'd bat his eyes.  What do you say to that?  Yes, he was a cutie all right, he was smart and funny and oh so cute.  He has my coloring (brown eyes, darker skin), but he has his dad's looks.  In fact, we call him mini-me after his dad.  They look, stand, and even gesture alike.  It's bizarre, to say the least.  He has movie star good looks and a beautiful smile.

While raising him, his dad and I had a secret saying--he's either going to be a missionary or a mercenary when he grows up.  We prayed for the former.  We prayed hard.  I never let up on him.  I never gave up.  I disciplined and loved and nurtured him very consistently, no matter the immediate results.  And it paid off.  This son of mine, of ours, is a real treasure.  He is the one who had to learn the hard way, his way, but once the lesson was learned he had it down pat.  He learned how to trust and obey God, he learned how to be a good husband, and also a good father.  I have no worries now.  Now.  I did way back then.  That's why I prayed so much!   But now?  I see that our hard work, our praying, our consistency paid off.  The Bible says--train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.  I trusted in that.  I believed in what the Bible said.  And the results are--a wonderful son, whom I love very much, whom I am so proud of and who serves a mighty God.  He might not be a missionary by trade, but he sure is one is his heart of hearts.

So why did I stop at 3 kids?  I guess you would have had to have been there.

Happy birthday to my baby boy, my youngest son, my greatest accomplishment.  I hope that he can see me smiling and shedding a tear or two as I write this blog.  Your mom loves you so very much.

my son with his son

What's It Like

It was an innocent question asked by a new friend.  She wanted to know.  What's it like?  You know, what's it like to be a grandma?  As I sat there pondering her question all sorts of answers came to mind.  I couldn't decide where to start first.  So, I did what made sense to me--I started at the beginning.

I became a grandmother 10 years ago when my daughter gave birth to a tiny little baby boy.  Now, I don't know how it is for most grandmothers, but I do know how it was for me.  We flew to California from Ohio when he was just a few days old and the very minute that baby boy was laid in my arms--well, that baby became my baby.  He nestled in all snugly like and I swear he looked right at me as if to say hello grandma!  


What's it like?  The best way to describe it is this way--it felt as though I had given birth once again, as if that little baby boy was mine, all mine.  However, out of the goodness of my heart, I was going to let my daughter and son-in-law have this little baby to raise.  I'm not kidding, that's exactly how I felt.  Because when I held that baby, he felt just like how my own little babies felt when I held them.  Tiny and beautiful--he was my first grandson.   He'll always be very special to me--my little one.

I wondered at the time if the reason he was so special to me and if the reason it felt like he was my own child was that he was my daughter's.  Would I feel the same way when my sons started their families?  Guess what?  The answer is yes.  Yes, they do feel as if they are mine too!  It's the strangest, yet most natural feeling.  The emotional ties are there as strong as ever.  There is an overprotective mama bear type of feeling that is projected--you hurt my kid (or grandkid) I'll rip off your arm--yes, that type of feeling overtakes grandmas too.  I know--it's strange but true.  Maybe that's why it's a no-brainer when sometimes something horrible happens and the grandmother is called upon to raise the grandchild.  Who else would do it?  Why--the grandmother of course!  She's the GRANDmother.

Perhaps I am not doing a very good job in explaining these emotions that I feel for my 5 grandchildren.  Perhaps I am alone in this crazy type of bond.  However, I seriously doubt it.  I'm willing to bet that most ALL grandmothers feel the same way I do.

So, that's what it's like.  As I finished explaining to her the joys of grandparenting I looked over and there were tears in her eyes.  She then said--I can't wait!   And you know what?  Neither could I.  It's the best thing in life that God has blessed me with thus far!

What's it like?  It's awesome.  It's wonderful.  It's amazing.  They look like your children, act like them, even smell like them.  They talk like them, walk like them, and as they grow older each year, they just become more and more like their parents.  It's like getting to watch your children grow up all over again.  And grandkids are fun.  No one ever tells you that.  They are cute and funny and full of life.

What's it like?  It's like Christmas every day.  

Little Ones

I sit here listening to you
squealing with joy
as you play with your toys

I sit here watching you
as you look up at your daddy
as you watch your mommy

I sit here listening to you
as you talk to your brother
or aunts or grandmas

I sit here watching you
as you nibble on candies
and cute little cookies

And I sit here
listening to your little voice
watching your little hands
as they flutter about

I remember the days of your
daddy and mommy
so long ago as I would
listen and watch and pray

My little ones
my grandbabies
you will never grow up
in grandma's eyes

As I sit here watching you
watching you play
my heart swells with joy
oh joy of my heart

I Can Hear You

I didn't know just how hearing impaired I had become.  I had my first hearing test around 8 or 9 years ago. I was told then that I had significant hearing loss in both ears and that I needed hearing aids.  I was more than a little surprised.  I thought I was way too young and they were way too expensive.  I heard just fine, thank you very much.  I left the hearing center never to return.  I wasn't about to plop down that kind of money just to have improved hearing--not at that stage of my life anyway.  Besides we had kids in college and didn't have the extra money.

A couple of years later, at the urging of my doctor, I made an appointment with a specialist and found out that I had scar tissue on my eardrums from chronic ear infections as a child.  With each ear infection, my eardrum would perforate and drain, thereby causing scarring.  He told me that the scarring could be surgically removed, however--surgery leaves a scar.  Therefore the procedure would be somewhat redundant.  In other words, he wouldn't be able to recommend the surgery.  Once again I was told to get hearing aids.  Once again I ignored him.

Over the next several years I didn't really notice my lack of hearing--other than annoying family members teasing me about the television being too loud.  However, as each year ticked by and the volume on the TV went up--I will admit, it was beginning to bother me just a little bit too.  I think the straw that broke the camel's back happened just a few weeks ago.  I started going to a Bible study with a neighbor of mine. At the end of our time together our group of ladies would pray.  Once everyone's head was bowed I could not hear what they were saying.  I'd look up trying to catch a word here and there, I'd strain real hard--but nope, I just plain couldn't hear them.  It became frustrating for me.  Also, one evening while visiting our son for Thanksgiving we watched a movie.  Again, I could not hear it.  They kept raising the volume and asking me if I could hear the TV and I kept saying no.  It was becoming ridiculous.  I had to do something.


I called and set up an appointment with an Audiologist and went in--and 2 hours later found out that I had only 50% of my hearing in both ears.  Yay!  I was going to get 2 hearing aids!  Please read the last sentence with much sarcasm!  They Fed-Exed the hearing aids in the very next day, and last night I received them.  I was with the Audiologist for about 2 1/2 hours as we tweaked those hearing aids--turning the volume up and down, and all around.  Everything is done wirelessly on a laptop.  Is this better, is the hollow, is this tinny?  And finally, we had results.

How do I describe hearing clearly for the first time in many years?  I guess it would be like getting glasses for the first time--if your eyesight was really poor.  It was like that for me last night.  As I walked out into the public for the first time with those hearing aids I realized--we live in a very noisy world--a very loud society.  I could hear small things--paper rustling, shoes on pavement, people laughing--but everything was magnified.  And the strangest part was hearing what was going on behind me.  A couple of times I was afraid as it had been so long since I had heard things without looking directly at the situation or person.

At one point last night after we returned home--I heard something.  What is that?  My husband smiled at me--that's the hoot owl I've been telling you about.  It brought tears to my eyes--we have hoot owls.  It was a beautiful sound--who, who.  We snuck outside in the dark and there way up high in the tree there was not one but 2 huge owls.  And I could hear them!

It also seems that I had become a master lip reader. It astonished me that I could now hear a person speak without looking at them.  They could be looking down and I could hear them.  I could turn away from them and I could hear them.  And don't even get me started on the TV at home!  I had to turn the volume down several notches and even then could not believe how I could actually hear it.  It was akin to witnessing a miracle for me.  I can hear again.  What's so strange to me is that I didn't realize it had gotten so bad--I really didn't know.

I am up early this morning--I woke up at 5:00, wide-eyed and excited.  My first thought was--I have hearing aids.  I rushed to get up and put them in my ears.  And then, I considered taking them right back out again.  You see--the coffee maker is really loud.  I mean really loud.  How does anyone sleep through the racket of that machine?  It actually hurt my ears, I had to walk around the corner.  I can hear everything--if I listen close enough I bet I could hear my own hair growing!  This is crazy!  I have a feeling it's going to be a long day of me holding the little remote control adjusting the volume up and down all day long.  Maybe it's a good thing that we (as in the hearing impaired) take them out at night when we sleep--we need the quiet, the dullness of sound, the softness of the night to lull us to sleep.

However, I am excited beyond words.  I have these little hearing aids in time for the holidays.  I can wear them as I get together with my kids and grandkids and I'll be able to fully participate in conversations.  I'll be able to hear the movies being played on the TV.   And what else will I be able to hear?  Maybe my grandchildren's little laughs--how do they really sound?  I can't wait to find out--because now I can hear you!

Daddy-o

It's funny the things that come to my mind at Christmas time--all the many relationships with friends and family.  All the memories--with one of those memories being a horrible dream that I had many years ago.

This story is very hard for me to share and very hard to explain, but I'll give it my best shot.  My relationship with my father was and still is complex.  We aren't close, we don't have that bond that a lot of my friends have with their fathers.  And yet...there is something.  There is a love there, but also a longing for something more.  However, without getting deeper into this story than I want to right now, I'm just going to write about an incident.  An important occurrence that played a part in my understanding of him.

It all began with a nightmare.  I was in my late 20's, I was married and already had my 3 children.  We were all asleep when suddenly I woke up sobbing.  My husband was on a business trip, so there I lay all alone in bed, crying, thinking, and wondering what if.

After getting up the next morning I had to make a decision--what to do about the nightmare I had.  Should I make a call, should I confront, or should I ignore it, should I shove it way back, deep inside and let it continue to build?  At the time, I wasn't really big into confrontation, not yet anyway.  I did not have my degree in psychology, I did not have life experience and I did not at that stage in my life have the guts to confront.  So, lacking the tools, the courage, and the wisdom—what was I supposed to do now?  That's what was on my mind as I took my daughter to school and my put 2 little sons down for their morning naps.   I agonized for a couple of hours.  And then I made the call.  I called my dad.

What should I say? How should I start? Should I be kind, understanding, angry, what?  My heart was beating hard and fast, my mouth was dry, I could feel the emotions welling within me as the phone began to ring on the other end.

Hello?  And then I began.  Dad?  I need to tell you something.  I could barely get out the words—I need to tell you that I love you very much.  There was complete silence on the other end of the line.  As I sat there sobbing, I choked out the words—Dad?  Are you there?  And then I heard him—very softly at first, a little whimpering sound—it seems he was crying too.  He then said to me the words that I had longed to hear for almost 30 years.  He said—I love you too.

I then told him about the nightmare that I had, about how I was standing in front of a coffin and when I looked down inside that coffin, it was him lying there.  And I realized that I had never told him that I loved him.  I didn't want him to die without ever hearing those words from me, so I had to call.

We could have ended the conversation right then and there as far as I was concerned, it was all I really ever wanted to hear.  Just an I love you--I just wanted to know that he loved me.   However, he had a lot more to say.  For the first time that I could ever remember he began to talk to me.  He told me story after story about his childhood, his struggles with poverty and of being the oldest of 6 children.  About joining the military at an absurdly young age, about leaving home and never feeling loved or being told that he was loved either.

I asked him why then--didn't he do it differently with his children? Why didn't he take what he had learned and change the future—tell his daughters that he loved them, that they were special, that they had a future. Why wasn't he a real dad, a loving dad, a doting father?  Why?  I wanted to find out, I had to know.  And he told me.  He just didn't know how.  No other explanation.  He just didn't know how.  He was sorry, he told me.  He was so sorry.

So, I had to forgive him, right?  I had to.  I realized then that I had what I wanted from the phone call.  I had a verbal I love you from my father.  Whether he ever said it again or not, I had gotten it.  And I think I knew even all those years ago, that it was going to have to last me for a lifetime.  I've never heard it since, but that's OK.  I heard it then.  An I love you from my dad.

Forgiving him wasn't an option for me.  I am a Christian, I believe in forgiveness.  He didn't necessarily deserve it or earn it, but I was told to forgive him.  And so I did.  He said he was sorry, what more could he do?  I loved him, accepted him and forgave him all in that moment.  I try hard not to dwell on what I didn't get from my father while growing up.  And now I focus on what I get from other people that God has brought into my life.  

I keep my eyes on God.  And I am thankful.  I do not feel sorry for myself in any way.  I feel that I have been blessed beyond measure--so how could I or why would I go through life feeling sad about my childhood?   I'll be honest though--I do have my moments.  I'll be watching a movie about father/daughter relationships and I'll wish--for just a moment that I had that.  But, then reality kicks in and I tell myself--hey, your dad said he loved you, what more can you ask for?  So, I shake it off, I hold my head high, and I thank God for the awesome life He's given me.

I wish I was spending Christmas this year with my parents.  My dad is 80 years old now.  How many more years will I get with my folks?  I wonder.  It scares me a little.  Maybe I should hurry up and buy those plane tickets!  I need to go visit my daddy-o!

My father

Me and My Mama

I have always had an outstanding relationship with my mom.  It's unique in the sense that we've never had horrible issues like other mothers and daughters have had.  We've never argued much or had too many disagreements.  Even as a teenager I maintained a great relationship with her.  She was after all my go-to person for all of my many emotional needs.

My mother, on the other hand, wasn't so fortunate.  Her relationship with her mother wasn't so great.  It's really her story to tell.  However, I did know from a very early age that they did not really get along all that well.  Let's just say that she confided in me a lot from the time I was pretty young.  And, I wasn't blind or deaf--I could see for myself the way my grandmother treated her.  My grandmother wasn't the easiest person to get along with.  I always felt sorry for my mom--having a mother like that, it had to have been pure misery.

Life for me as the daughter in our relationship was pretty awesome.  My mom treated me with respect, she treated me as though I had half a brain, and as I went through childhood, she trained me.  She taught me how to clean, cook, do laundry, grocery shop, she helped me with my homework, and she did her best to make our chaotic little life as normal as possible.  That, in and of itself took a lot of work on her part.  As a family we moved around a lot--different jobs, cities, schools, friends, churches--it was hard on all of us.  However, my mom and I had each other.

What a great friend she turned out to be.  When I was growing up I wasn't aware of the fact that we had a unique relationship.  I thought everyone had a mom like mine.  It wasn't until I hit high school that I realized that there were some pretty awful moms out there.  My friends would come over to our house crying their eyes out and end up talking to my mom.  She wasn't just there for me but she was there for them also.  I was really proud to have her for my mom--even as a teenager.  She'd sit and listen to my friends and I as we went on and on about boys--about how they had broken our hearts or had ignored us.  She'd drive us by their houses, and giggle with us, she'd take us out for sodas and we'd talk to her about who we thought was cute, or who the new guy was in school.  Not once do I ever remember her criticizing us or making fun of us.  She never called our mad crushes puppy love or made any other demeaning comments.  She was great to talk to.  She was forever the taxi driver--taking us to the mall, the movies, football games and even periodically helping us cut school and driving us to the lake for the day.  She was cool.  Yes, that's what she was.  Cool.  And, my mom was a great dresser, she was pretty, young and hip.  I admired her.  And so did my friends.

Now before you get the wrong impression, let me clarify something.  My mom was strict.  Oh yes, she was.  She, however, laid the groundwork early.  And that was key.  When I was little I knew that what she said--she meant.  Her no was no and her yes was yes.  One of her favorite sayings, when I was little, was when I say jump, you ask how high.  And I knew that when she laid down a boundary line--I wasn't to cross it.  We grew to have a mutual respect for each other.  She explained her reasons for her yes, no or maybe so answers.  I liked that.  Sometimes the explanations came from her own life experiences, sometimes (most times) they were Biblical explanations.  She used the Bible regularly to teach me things.  She believed (as do I) that the answers to life and what we should or should not do lay within those pages.  As each issue came up, she would sit me down and run through what the Bible said, and what the consequences were if those teachings were ignored.  And then--she'd leave it up to me!

Having to go through the teenage years weighing the consequences for my actions wasn't easy.  Sometimes I wished that that heavy load had been taken out of my hands.  I wished that she'd just plain say no, you cannot go, cannot do or cannot see that.  But, she didn't.  We would talk about the pros and cons and she'd make me make my own decisions.  Well, guess what I'd do?  I'd make the right choice.  Almost always.  Mainly because I didn't want to disappoint her or my God.  It was a heavy burden to be sure, but one I took seriously.  I thoughtfully and prayerfully weighed each circumstance that came up--drinking, drugs, sex--I'd have to decide for myself if it was worth it.  Oh, the agony.  Maybe that's why she did it that way.  If I had to agonize over it, maybe--just maybe I'd do the right thing.  It worked.  As a teenager, I was pretty dinged dang good!

Yes, life for me growing up with a mother like mine was great.  She thoughtfully listened to me without immediately giving her opinion.  She prayed for me.  She went from being the mom to being the friend flawlessly.  She disciplined and loved equally.  She was the great mediator between my dad and myself.  She was always there for me.  And, I guess that's the bottom line.  She was always there.  And she still is to this day.  We moved away 12 years ago, and now I only get to see here once or maybe twice per year.  However, we talk on the phone weekly--best friends, who share the past, the present and the future.

Yes, I admire my mom, I think I have the best mom in the world.  I think she deserves a medal for all her hard work--in marriage, in raising 2 daughters, and in life.  My mom is my hero.  She inspired me to be who I am today.  She encouraged me.  And I love her so much.  Me and my mama.

Thank you, mom!  I love you!

my mom

What I Love About Him

I love that he loves God
I love that he wants to go to church
I love that he loves his children
I love that he is a wonderful grandfather
I love that he loves hanging out with friends
I love that he calls or texts me throughout the day
I love that he reaches for my hand as we walk
I love that he shops with me
I love that he acts goofy
I love that he tells silly jokes
I love that he cries during sad movies
I love that he always wakes up happy
I love that he loves to go out to eat
I love that he loves to travel
I love that he is a good listener
I love that he is a good talker
I love that he encourages me
I love that he still finds me attractive
I love that he cares about his appearance
I love that he is adventurous
I love that he loves music
I love that he loves foreign films
I love that he is always willing to help others
I love that he is technical
I love that he is brilliant
I love that he is my best friend
I love that I can tell him anything
I love that he always makes sure I am safe
I love that he helps me decorate for Christmas
I love that he helps me clean the house
I love that he loves to throw parties
I love that he makes funny sounds when he sleeps
I love that he helps me with projects
I love that I could go on about how much I love him for pages upon pages

I love that he has called me "Babe" for almost 40 years

And I love that when he reads this he'll cry

my husband

Christmas Eve With The In-Laws

The first Christmas Eve that I ever truly participated in was when I was 17 years old.  My family celebrated on Christmas morning, and I honestly do not have Christmas Eve memories prior to the one mentioned.  So, as I was saying, my first memorable Christmas Eve I was 17 and I had been invited to my boyfriend's house.  It seems that they opened their gifts at night--which I thought was totally strange, but hey, it was his family, not mine.  Wrong.  Fast forward 2 Christmases and guess who was married to the boyfriend?

That first Christmas Eve though will always be special to me.  When I arrived that evening their house was all decorated.  It was done up a little differently than mine.  My family basically put up a tree and called it done.  His, however--did a little more.  They had lights on the outside of the house, a wreath on the front door and an artificial tree in the front window with some very old style ornaments--they had these little spinners that were really kind of fun.  On the sideboard in the living room they had the 3 wise men made from syrup bottles--I'm not making this up, they were a gift to my boyfriend's mother from one of her church friends.  In the family room hung a bell that had a little pull chain, when pulled it played a Christmas song.  There was also a nativity on the mantel and a fire going in the fireplace.  My folks never built fires, my dad didn't want the inside of the fireplace to get dirty--again, I'm not making this up.

To begin our festivities that evening at the boyfriend's house we started out with food--lots of food.  Their Christmas Eve began with a huge buffet of all types of hors d' houve style goodies.  There was everything from sliced meats and cheeses, to chicken wings and little sausages, to salads and cookies.  If you could imagine any little snack food it was probably on that table.  We grazed for about an hour or so until the excitement of gift opening time got the better of us.

We all filed into the living room and there underneath the tree were lots of gifts.  We were a rather small bunch--there was my boyfriend's grandmother, his mom and dad, his sister, and us--just 6.  One by one the presents were handed out, but mine was saved for last.  All eyes were on me as my boyfriend handed me my gift--it was a medium sized cute little brown teddy bear--I loved it.  What I didn't happen to see though was the ring sewed to the little paw of the bear.  Finally, he waved that little bear paw practically in my face and then I saw it.  It was a beautiful little ring that said Love on it with a little diamond in the O.  I could feel my eyes tear up.  It was the best gift ever.  That was a magical night for me, one filled with sweet memories and a declaration of love.

Those Christmas Eve's spanned almost 3 decades.  Every year, no matter where we lived we'd make the drive to grandma and grandpa's house.  We'd pull up with our 3 children and there was their house with lights on the outside and a wreath on the front door.  We'd eat our little munchies and open gifts in front of the same artificial Christmas tree, with the same little spinner ornaments.  Our kids would take turns pulling the chain on the musical bell, and we'd all have a wonderful time.

My in-laws have now passed away.  We no longer have those Christmas Eve gatherings--things have changed.  Now with our family being spread out across the countr, we have to struggle to find time to get together for Christmas, sometimes everyone comes to our house, and sometimes we go to theirs.  It's different every year.  And has been for the last few years.  I don't mind it so much.  Ok, really I do.  But, I am dealing with it.

Those 3 decades with my in-laws though--those Christmas Eves with them--well, I am so very thankful for those memories.  They represent a stable time in my life.  A happiness that can only be attributed to them.  I miss those wonderful Christmas Eves and I miss them.  I wonder if I ever even thanked them.  

3 Kid Christmas

Christmas for me really began when I had my kids.  That's when the real fun started.  Once they were at that age where they would wake up early on Christmas morning--bright eyed and bushy tailed, they would come running full speed into our bedroom yelling it's Christmas!  Well, that's when I began having the Christmas adrenaline rushes.  Truly--I think once awake I was more excited than they were.  Just watching them tear into their gifts, screaming with enthusiasm made the long lines and aching back worth it.  It really did.  Let me explain.

I would start my Christmas shopping in January--no kidding.  I shopped all year long.  As I would go about my days and weeks, I would pick up little items for this person or that person, I would stash them away, usually in a closet with a lock.  I would intently listen to my children as they played or watched television commercials and as they would exclaim over each new product I would make a mental note.  It would eventually make its way onto my secret Christmas list and while they were in school I'd begin my shopping.  I'd patiently wait for the items to go on sale and then I'd pounce.  I was and still am good at pouncing.  And I still to this day listen intently as we all get together for various family functions.

I've always been the type to want to buy the perfect gift, something that maybe they wouldn't buy for themselves--something a little extravagant.  So, I start early--so what?  I enjoy it, it's a huge part of my personality. When my kids were little, it became a pastime for me, a hobby of sorts.  After they started school I worked part time for a major retailer and wow did I have fun.  Little did that store know--I would have paid them to let me work there!  I had that much fun.  I was able to purchase all their school clothing and most of their gifts throughout the year at huge savings.  Not only did I only buy items on sale, I received an employee discount.  What in life could be better than an employee discount?  That job had my name written all over it.

Our Christmas mornings were awesome.  We'd get up early, have our traditional cinnamon rolls and hot cocoa (coffee for the parents of course) and then one by one each taking turns we'd open our presents.  We'd make it last--a long time.  Each gift getting its due.  After all, I'd put in so much effort.  I think secretly--ok maybe not so secretly--I wanted credit.  Lots of credit.  Planning, thought, love, attention, purchasing, hiding, wrapping--a lot went into each and every item.  And it was worth it too.  Most times.  Every once in a while though, I'd get it wrong--wrong color or size or even every so often a--oh mom, I don't like these anymore, that was last year.  And while it stung for a moment I did not let it detour me for next year.  I got over it quickly.

It's a little different now.  Our kids are all grown and now we have grandkids.  Our little family has grown to 11, and I still get those Christmas adrenaline rushes.  I still listen and plan and conspire and shop and wrap and get so much more excited than any other family member.  And I wait--patiently for each and every gift to be opened.  I watch the little faces of my grandchildren as they open their gifts from grandma and grandpa.  I over buy and over shop and over love and I don't care what anyone thinks.  Christmas morning isn't always on Christmas now--sometimes we have to have Christmas on a different day depending on whose family we are with and that's OK.  I am good at pretending for the sake of Christmas.  I can close my eyes and reopen them to Christmas mornings long ago when there were only 3 of them.  I can see them opening their gifts in front of our California Christmas tree with the sun shining in the background, a fire burning in the fireplace even though sometimes it would be so warm we'd have to open a window.  I can still see the brightness in their eyes and hear the exclamations and squeals of delight.  Yes, I hear and see it all over again year after year through the sights and sounds of my grandchildren.  Only now, right behind them are the eyes of my children with the same looks on their faces as I used to have on mine.  We are all watching the little ones--their little hearts touching ours.

You see, I've discovered something--my 3 kid Christmas is so much better now.  It's an 11 kid Christmas, or better yet--a 13 kid Christmas--with me being the biggest kid of all.  I don't think anything could ruin my Christmas mornings because I have my memories--memories of our 3 kid Christmases.  And I am so thankful for that and for all future Christmas mornings (or evenings) together.  No matter the time of day or actual date--when we're all together Christmas begins.

One Christmas

Was it the best Christmas ever?  Or was it one of the worst years ever?  That's my dilemma as I write this.  It's important to me that I am honest in my telling of tales, that I always tell the truth and that I am transparent.  However, sometimes things are better left unsaid--at least for now.  So, which part of this story shall I tell?  The good or the bad?  The happy or the sad?  And how do I share it without being disrespectful and hurtful?  How do I tell the tale?

I think that it is apparent in my writings thus far that as a child I have moved around a lot.  I went to many schools, I lived in several cities.  It's hard for me to talk about the emotional toll it took on me, especially at this time of year.  I have harbored some deep rooted emotions.  But there was one year that stands out to me.  One year that although it holds some bad memories--Christmas time was a good memory.  At least from this child's vantage point.

I was 9 that year.  My father had made good money in his business, everyone seemed happy--the money flowed freely.  And by that I mean--we made a haul at Christmas.  The house that we lived in that year was one that was designed by my father.  It was a 4 bedroom, 2 1/2 bath large California ranch style home.  It was in a great neighborhood, with good schools and nice kids.  Interesting side note--while I was at this particular elementary school for 4th grade my future husband was attending there that year in the 5th grade.  We still laugh about that one--who knew that many years later...

I remember that Christmas morning, my sisters and I (yes, my oldest sister, my half sister, was living with us that year) came out of our bedrooms and there in the family room were more presents than I had ever seen in my short life.  We had 2 loveseats that flanked the huge fireplace and from the end of one sofa cascading across the hearth and over onto the other sofa were piles of gifts.  And they were ours--just ours.
We tore into those presents like they were scraps of food for a starving dog!  I remember what I got too--most of it anyway.  The headliners were--a Barbie Dream House, a transistor radio, and a Chatty Cathy Doll.  What a day!  I also remember my mother's embarrassed face as my father went outside and proceeded to unload the trunk of his car with gifts for her.  She cried, I do remember that.  He had bought her so many presents that even at 9 years of age--it had an impact on me.  I guess he was making up for lost time!

Yes, it was a Christmas to remember. Many of our extended family members came over that afternoon for dinner.  We ate our food, snacked on our snacks, ate our pies and then we played with our numerous toys, all in front of a huge beautifully decorated 9 foot Christmas tree.  Yes, I remember that year.  That one day made an impression on me.  It was wonderful.

I guess for me as a child at Christmas time, it wasn't just all about the gifts.  Yes, that was a huge part of it.  However, for me, it was more about the feeling of warmth and safety.  I liked being surrounded by family.  Everyone was there, everyone was smiling, everyone seemed happy.  At that moment in time, on that particular day--I felt safe.  It was as it should have been.  It was Christmas Day.  And maybe, just maybe,  I knew that I had to savor that day because it was going to have to last me for many years to come.

I was an intuitive little kid. I know that now--all these years later.  I knew then to stop and to look around.  To take mental pictures and hold on to them for the future--my future.  I guess I knew that I would need them.  Because sometimes you can symbolically take a good picture and lay it over a bad picture and then everything doesn't seem so inadequate or sad.  I realized after I had become an adult that I had overcome, that I had grown up, that I had survived.  And, that I could make my own Christmas memories--my future memories.  Those memories could become whatever I wanted them to be.  It was my future after all.  Because it isn't really about the gifts now is it?  You see, I would have traded all those gifts all those many years ago for something else.  But, that's another story for a later time.

For now--Merry Christmas--go make some memories.  And remember, memories are never, ever forgotten.

Waiting For It

I don't know how most people feel about Christmas, but I do know how I feel about it.  It's absolutely hands down my favorite holiday.  It means much more to me than I even let on.  And I let on a lot.  I am sure that most everyone who knows me well thinks that I am somewhat of a Christmas nut--a freak, a kook.  I usually over decorate, over bake and over eat.  I play too much music and am in just too good of a mood throughout the entire season. I can't help it, I love--plain love this time of year.

My love for Christmas has grown exponentially with each passing year.  Until now.  Now I am a little worried.  No, not worried, just maybe a little perplexed.  You see, it hasn't hit me yet and it's December 3rd already.  Don't get me wrong, outwardly no one would be able to tell.  I've hidden it well--this vacancy in my heart.  At least I think I have.

I'm a little stymied.  When is it going to happen?  I keep asking myself this question.  When will I have that thing happen?  That que or trigger that clicks on in my brain that says pow--it's here!  Christmas is here!  I'm still waiting.  Will it come when I'm at the Christmas Market?  Or at a mall that has been all decorated? Or will it come when I'm sitting at home wrapping gifts, or listening to music?  Will I be in my car one evening driving around looking at lights or will I be at church singing about the birth of Jesus?  I don't know.  Because each and every year of my life it has happened at different times and places.  The adrenaline rush that I feel--that rolls through me in a minutes time, that feeling of joy and anticipation that is so overwhelming--when will it happen this year?  It's late and that worries me.

So, I will wait patiently.  I'll wait for the thrill, and I'll continue to participate in the season, I'll shop and wrap and bake and look and sing and wait.  I hope and pray that it comes soon though.  But what if this year it doesn't come?  I think that's what I am afraid of.  When will I get my rush?