After hearing all the hype over the group "All Enlisted" and its "Wear Pants to Church" event scheduled for this past Sunday, I wondered if I would be able to refrain from commenting. Before I decided, though, the tragedy in Connecticut occurred. At that point, nothing seemed very important other than those beautiful children and their heroic teachers, not to mention their devastated, grieving parents. I think I felt even more empathy for them than I might have otherwise, had it not been only two days since I received the terrifying phone call to tell me my Seth had been hit by a car. The outcomes were very different. My son, though frightened and sore, was released from the hospital emergency room that day, virtually unscathed. The victims at Sandy Hook Elementary School will not come home at all. I am so very sorry. My heart aches for their parents, and I can only pray that the healing power of the atonement will surround them and that the love of our Father in Heaven will be sufficient to provide strength at this horrible time.
Sunday came and went. I don't know much about what happened regarding the "Wear Pants" business, but today I decided to make a few comments rather than skirting (pun intended) around the issue. First, I'm baffled as to how a pair of pants could make someone feel equal, if she doesn't already. Maybe I'm missing something? I guess I've always felt privileged to have so many clothing options (and seriously, no one loves clothes more than I do). I can wear dresses, skirts, pants, capris, leggings with long shirts, etc. Men have only one choice: pants. We ladies most certainly have the better deal.
As for church, my church does not have a dress code for Sunday meetings. End of story. People are welcome at my church always, and they are not told what they may and may not wear. If I wanted to wear pants to church, I would, and I wouldn't need a special Sunday to do it. In my ward in Washington, two of the sisters wore pants every week. If anyone cared, I never heard about it. They were welcomed and accepted just like everyone else. I personally, choose to wear a dress or skirt. I like to dress in my "Sunday best"; for me, it demonstrates a sense of respect for the Lord, especially when I partake of the Sacrament. And my best clothes happen to be skirts or dresses. I'm not a "dress pants" kind of girl, so my pant wardrobe consists mostly of jeans. For me, jeans would not show the kind of respect I desire. But that's just me. It's not a rule. If I wanted to wear jeans to church, I could.
The question is, if I did wear jeans to church, would people judge me? I don't know. My guess is that some probably would? Because here's the thing. In my church, we are a group of very imperfect humans, and like all imperfect humans, we tend to judge one another. It's not right. It's not what we're taught. But it happens. I suspect I've been judged by various people in my church over a number of my choices, choices that appear unorthodox or strange, choices people sometimes don't understand. At one time or another, I've likely been judged for my choice to use my own last name, the one I was born with, rather than someone else's. I've probably been judged a time or two because of my openly liberal political beliefs, most recently my unyielding support for President Obama. I've probably even been judged here and there because I am not willing to assume the role of "grandmother" in any context.
But even if I'm sometimes the target of human judgment, and even if some of that judgment comes from those in my church, I try hard not to be too offended. I keep in mind two important things: (1) These choices are part of who I am, and I am fully comfortable with them, and (2) I'm quite human myself, and though I hate to admit it, I've done my fair share of judging. Guilty I am! As for the pants business, I can't imagine how pants could have anything to do with equality. I just can't. But please don't tell me I'm not equal in my own church. Believe me, I would not associate myself with a church in which I was not considered 100% equal with every other human being, whether male or female. And I don't need a pair of pants to prove it.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Fight or Flight: Love, Fear, Anger, and Profound Gratitude
As I sit here this evening, my body is still in fight or flight mode. Though exhausted, I have yet to decompress, after a day filled with a myriad of emotions. Just a couple days ago, I wrote this post about our 12-year-old son, Seth. It never occurred to me I'd be writing about him again so soon.
At 7:50 this morning, I sent him off to school with the typical "Did you brush your teeth?" and "I love you; have a good day!" I slipped back into bed to relax a bit and must have unintentionally drifted to sleep when I was awakened suddenly by my phone. "Is this Seth Erichsen's mom?" Yes. "Seth was hit by a car on his way to school. He is breathing, but that is all I know." Still in pajamas, I grabbed my big Montana winter coat that goes clear to the ground and raced out the door. Seth's school is very near our house; it would take longer to get the car out of the garage than to simply run. So run I did! I remember the cold air forced into my lungs as I ran and ran, and then the dream-like feeling as I approached the school and saw the fire trucks and ambulance, the paramedics, and the people gathered all around. How many times have I driven by such a situation? So many times. But this time it was my child. It was terrifying.
I ran straight through the crowd to Seth and was overcome by the flood of instant relief as I found him conscious, crying, but able to talk to me. A prayer of thanks in my heart, I held his hand and reassured him that all would be well, that the paramedics were taking good care of him, and that Heavenly Father was watching over him. They told me I could ride in the ambulance next to him. As I buckled myself in, I flashed back to my only other ambulance ride with Shulamith nearly 25 years ago. How grateful I am to these amazing professionals. Not only did they do exceptional work caring for Seth's physical needs, but they were so kind to both of us. The hospital is not far, but the trip seemed endless. All the way there, one medic continuously reassured me as he took Seth's vitals and watched for any signs of concussion. The other one talked to Seth about all sorts of things to keep his mind off what was happening: Christmas, video games, school.
At the hospital, we received the same wonderful care from the ER nurses as they examined Seth. The physician was equally caring as she used ultrasonography to check his internal organs. Can I just say that ultrasounds are not nearly as fun when you don't see a baby in there, but we were happy enough to hear her say everything looked perfectly normal. She showed Seth his kidneys, his bladder, and I can't remember what else. All was well on the inside. He also suffered no broken bones or any other injuries, beyond some nasty road rash on his elbow and hip. I've seen worse, though, when Eli falls off his long board.
He was discharged within an hour, but not before we had a visit from the police officer who was covering the accident. After receiving such gracious and loving care from absolutely everyone we encountered up to that point, I was shocked by the behavior of this officer. He walked into the room and did not so much as ask Seth how he was feeling or if he was okay. Yes, it was obvious Seth was not in any imminent danger, but still, he's a child and he was just hit by a car! The man didn't even say hello to Seth. Instead, he informed us that he had interviewed a witness, and then looking at Seth for the first time, he announced, "You are at fault in this accident. Even though you were in the crosswalk, a truck was blocking the view of the person who hit you, so she couldn't see you. You need to be more careful when you cross the street."
Seth, who was just starting to feel calm after this ordeal, crumbled to tears and asked us if we were mad at him. No! No! Of course we were not mad at him. But I was mad. Let me tell you that. I have had precious few interactions with police officers, but every one I've had has been negative, and this one was the worst. This man walked into my little boy's hospital room and told him it was his fault he was hit by a car while in the crosswalk in front of his school. This mama bear was seething inside, and big sister was no happier. It's a good thing the guy left when he did or he might have had TWO angry mamas after him. And he may not have lived to tell about it.
I'm trying not to dwell on that. Because it's not worth it. More importantly is the gratitude I feel that my baby is alive and well. It could have been so different. He played video games most of the day (thank you, Matt!) and then insisted on going to his Young Men's activity tonight. It was hard to let him out of my sight. He might be feeling fine, but Mom is still in hyper-protective mode. Fight or flight, remember? "Flight" gave me the ability to run fast and unceasingly from home to school this morning. "Fight" made me nearly attack a police officer in a hospital. Motherhood is certainly not for wimps.
He is asleep now. I just went in for the third or fourth time to check on him. How many more times will I do that before the night is over? I don't know. But I think I'll go again now...
At 7:50 this morning, I sent him off to school with the typical "Did you brush your teeth?" and "I love you; have a good day!" I slipped back into bed to relax a bit and must have unintentionally drifted to sleep when I was awakened suddenly by my phone. "Is this Seth Erichsen's mom?" Yes. "Seth was hit by a car on his way to school. He is breathing, but that is all I know." Still in pajamas, I grabbed my big Montana winter coat that goes clear to the ground and raced out the door. Seth's school is very near our house; it would take longer to get the car out of the garage than to simply run. So run I did! I remember the cold air forced into my lungs as I ran and ran, and then the dream-like feeling as I approached the school and saw the fire trucks and ambulance, the paramedics, and the people gathered all around. How many times have I driven by such a situation? So many times. But this time it was my child. It was terrifying.
I ran straight through the crowd to Seth and was overcome by the flood of instant relief as I found him conscious, crying, but able to talk to me. A prayer of thanks in my heart, I held his hand and reassured him that all would be well, that the paramedics were taking good care of him, and that Heavenly Father was watching over him. They told me I could ride in the ambulance next to him. As I buckled myself in, I flashed back to my only other ambulance ride with Shulamith nearly 25 years ago. How grateful I am to these amazing professionals. Not only did they do exceptional work caring for Seth's physical needs, but they were so kind to both of us. The hospital is not far, but the trip seemed endless. All the way there, one medic continuously reassured me as he took Seth's vitals and watched for any signs of concussion. The other one talked to Seth about all sorts of things to keep his mind off what was happening: Christmas, video games, school.
At the hospital, we received the same wonderful care from the ER nurses as they examined Seth. The physician was equally caring as she used ultrasonography to check his internal organs. Can I just say that ultrasounds are not nearly as fun when you don't see a baby in there, but we were happy enough to hear her say everything looked perfectly normal. She showed Seth his kidneys, his bladder, and I can't remember what else. All was well on the inside. He also suffered no broken bones or any other injuries, beyond some nasty road rash on his elbow and hip. I've seen worse, though, when Eli falls off his long board.
He was discharged within an hour, but not before we had a visit from the police officer who was covering the accident. After receiving such gracious and loving care from absolutely everyone we encountered up to that point, I was shocked by the behavior of this officer. He walked into the room and did not so much as ask Seth how he was feeling or if he was okay. Yes, it was obvious Seth was not in any imminent danger, but still, he's a child and he was just hit by a car! The man didn't even say hello to Seth. Instead, he informed us that he had interviewed a witness, and then looking at Seth for the first time, he announced, "You are at fault in this accident. Even though you were in the crosswalk, a truck was blocking the view of the person who hit you, so she couldn't see you. You need to be more careful when you cross the street."
Seth, who was just starting to feel calm after this ordeal, crumbled to tears and asked us if we were mad at him. No! No! Of course we were not mad at him. But I was mad. Let me tell you that. I have had precious few interactions with police officers, but every one I've had has been negative, and this one was the worst. This man walked into my little boy's hospital room and told him it was his fault he was hit by a car while in the crosswalk in front of his school. This mama bear was seething inside, and big sister was no happier. It's a good thing the guy left when he did or he might have had TWO angry mamas after him. And he may not have lived to tell about it.
I'm trying not to dwell on that. Because it's not worth it. More importantly is the gratitude I feel that my baby is alive and well. It could have been so different. He played video games most of the day (thank you, Matt!) and then insisted on going to his Young Men's activity tonight. It was hard to let him out of my sight. He might be feeling fine, but Mom is still in hyper-protective mode. Fight or flight, remember? "Flight" gave me the ability to run fast and unceasingly from home to school this morning. "Fight" made me nearly attack a police officer in a hospital. Motherhood is certainly not for wimps.
He is asleep now. I just went in for the third or fourth time to check on him. How many more times will I do that before the night is over? I don't know. But I think I'll go again now...
Monday, December 10, 2012
Planners Are a Waste of Time and Space
...and other gems of knowledge courtesy of one 12-year-old boy.
Sometimes I forget he is only 12, a child, in every sense of the word. He was born into a world of teenagers. His two oldest siblings were 15 and 14 when he was born. Just about the time they left the teen world, the next two were 15 and 13. He always thought that he, too, should be a teenager. Their lives looked so glamorous and free. They could have jobs and driver's licenses. They could go wherever they wanted and buy fast food all the time. They always had cool friends around and cool stuff to do. He felt it was an unfortunate quirk of nature that he was sent to earth so much later than all of them.
Now he has just six months to wait before he, too, can finally join the teen world. Ironically, just three months before his birthday, his last sibling will turn 20. He will be a teenager, yes, but he will be the only one. At 12, he is perfectly delightful. I love it when he does something to remind me that he is still a kid, such as recently when he brought home his first quarter report card from 7th grade. Excitedly, I looked at his grades: 7 A's and 1 F. Yep, you read that right. He got solid A's, without so much as an A-, in every class but one. Which class was that? Homeroom. Indeed, they give a grade in homeroom (either an A or an F), and he failed it. How does one pass homeroom? By filling out a planner with all one's assignments and due dates.
Mom: Seth, why didn't you fill out your planner, so you could pass homeroom and get all A's?
Seth (With the disdain that only a 12-year-old can muster): Planners are a waste of time and space.
He proceeded to explain that he ALWAYS knows what his assignments are in every class and how long he has to complete them and when they are due. He has never missed an assignment. Therefore, wasting time writing them down in a little booklet is the stupidest idea anyone has ever dreamed up.
Next came the discussion about how sometimes in life we have to do things that seem stupid, even a waste of time, etc. because they are required, and sometimes we have to simply follow procedures so that we can achieve the result we want, and blah, blah, blah. I gave it my best. I really did. But remember all those teenagers he grew up with, the ones he worships, the ones he idolizes, the ones he has wanted to emulate his entire life? Well, one of them is now 21 and lives right here in this house. His initials are "Isaiah Erichsen." He chimed right in and informed my impressionable pre-teen that grades in middle school mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of life, so there is no reason to waste time filling out a worthless planner.
Game over. I lose. Whatever.
Have I mentioned that I love this 12-year-old? He is so much fun. A couple nights ago, Gerald and I convinced him go to with us to Temple Square to see the lights. We conveniently "forgot" to mention that we would be watching some choirs perform Christmas music at the visitors' center. Ha! I'm afraid poor Matt was the recipient of the desperate text messages during these performances, complaining about how he might die of boredom. As we left Temple Square and passed by the Tabernacle, he exclaimed "Oh no! Tell me we're not going in there. That is the hottest place in the universe." He was remembering his last visit to Temple Square. I won't retell that tale, but you can read about it here if you wish.
And with one quick photo amidst the falling snow, we were off...
Blessed we are indeed to have a 12-year-old, so that we may be enlightened with the knowledge that planners are a waste of time and space.
Sometimes I forget he is only 12, a child, in every sense of the word. He was born into a world of teenagers. His two oldest siblings were 15 and 14 when he was born. Just about the time they left the teen world, the next two were 15 and 13. He always thought that he, too, should be a teenager. Their lives looked so glamorous and free. They could have jobs and driver's licenses. They could go wherever they wanted and buy fast food all the time. They always had cool friends around and cool stuff to do. He felt it was an unfortunate quirk of nature that he was sent to earth so much later than all of them.
Now he has just six months to wait before he, too, can finally join the teen world. Ironically, just three months before his birthday, his last sibling will turn 20. He will be a teenager, yes, but he will be the only one. At 12, he is perfectly delightful. I love it when he does something to remind me that he is still a kid, such as recently when he brought home his first quarter report card from 7th grade. Excitedly, I looked at his grades: 7 A's and 1 F. Yep, you read that right. He got solid A's, without so much as an A-, in every class but one. Which class was that? Homeroom. Indeed, they give a grade in homeroom (either an A or an F), and he failed it. How does one pass homeroom? By filling out a planner with all one's assignments and due dates.
Mom: Seth, why didn't you fill out your planner, so you could pass homeroom and get all A's?
Seth (With the disdain that only a 12-year-old can muster): Planners are a waste of time and space.
He proceeded to explain that he ALWAYS knows what his assignments are in every class and how long he has to complete them and when they are due. He has never missed an assignment. Therefore, wasting time writing them down in a little booklet is the stupidest idea anyone has ever dreamed up.
Next came the discussion about how sometimes in life we have to do things that seem stupid, even a waste of time, etc. because they are required, and sometimes we have to simply follow procedures so that we can achieve the result we want, and blah, blah, blah. I gave it my best. I really did. But remember all those teenagers he grew up with, the ones he worships, the ones he idolizes, the ones he has wanted to emulate his entire life? Well, one of them is now 21 and lives right here in this house. His initials are "Isaiah Erichsen." He chimed right in and informed my impressionable pre-teen that grades in middle school mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of life, so there is no reason to waste time filling out a worthless planner.
Game over. I lose. Whatever.
Have I mentioned that I love this 12-year-old? He is so much fun. A couple nights ago, Gerald and I convinced him go to with us to Temple Square to see the lights. We conveniently "forgot" to mention that we would be watching some choirs perform Christmas music at the visitors' center. Ha! I'm afraid poor Matt was the recipient of the desperate text messages during these performances, complaining about how he might die of boredom. As we left Temple Square and passed by the Tabernacle, he exclaimed "Oh no! Tell me we're not going in there. That is the hottest place in the universe." He was remembering his last visit to Temple Square. I won't retell that tale, but you can read about it here if you wish.
And with one quick photo amidst the falling snow, we were off...
Friday, December 7, 2012
Girls' Night In
Do you have to go out in order to have a fun evening? Absolutely not. All you need are some chicken tacos, Diet Cokes, and three fun girls, especially when one of them is a nail artist. Now I know what you're thinking. Nail artist? Nope, that can't possibly be you or Shulamith. You'd be right. However, Isaiah's friend, Naomi, is just that. She creates beautiful works of art, not only with nails, but with make-up as well. She kindly agreed to come spend the evening with us, and she brought her "tool" kit filled with all sorts of fun nail paraphernalia. She has a rainbow of colors from which to choose, glitter, tiny jewels, flowers, butterflies, and more. How would we ever decide? I can't even pick a simple color when I go for a pedicure; Shulamith or Lindsey have to choose for me.
We looked through many pictures online, and with help from Naomi, I finally settled on a lovely, deep purple with a coat of lighter blue over the top, followed by a light pink glitter. Then she put some extra fun on my ring fingers: a flower and three jewels. Pretty! Here we are in the process of creating this masterpiece:
Next it was Shulamith's turn. She chose a zigzag pattern of lime green and gold polish, with jewels on the ring fingers as well. So fun. Here's Naomi working her magic on Shulamith's nails:
And here is the finished product:
We talked. We laughed. We talked some more. We waited for our nails to be completely dry. We don't want to ruin these works of art. We told Naomi stories about Isaiah (ha!) and showed her pictures of when he was little. We ate tacos and drank Diet Coke. It was good.
We looked through many pictures online, and with help from Naomi, I finally settled on a lovely, deep purple with a coat of lighter blue over the top, followed by a light pink glitter. Then she put some extra fun on my ring fingers: a flower and three jewels. Pretty! Here we are in the process of creating this masterpiece:
And here is the finished product:
We talked. We laughed. We talked some more. We waited for our nails to be completely dry. We don't want to ruin these works of art. We told Naomi stories about Isaiah (ha!) and showed her pictures of when he was little. We ate tacos and drank Diet Coke. It was good.
Girls' Night In. Sometimes it's exactly what you need.
Monday, December 3, 2012
A Warm Fleece Blanket, My Rocking Chair, and "Vampire Diaries"
...or NOT.
Yes, when I went to bed last night, all I could think about was waking to three hours of lovely "down time" with a warm fleece blanket, my rocking chair, and "Vampire Diaries." It has been a long and tedious few weeks, with essays flowing in, in groups of 25ish, one group after the other, relentlessly, and never ending. Four composition classes are really too many to tackle in one semester, especially as a part-time instructor. It would be one thing to teach four if a couple of them were less writing intensive, such as a reading class or business communications or technical writing or rhetoric. But four freshman composition classes? Shoot me now! Anyway, I somehow managed to reach a point yesterday where I had nothing more to grade. It was around 4:30, and Shulamith and I were headed out at 6:00 to eat a super delicious free dinner in honor of "Friends & Family Weekend" at Matt's new place of employment, Longhorn Steak House. I knew that when I arrived at school today, I'd be greeted by yet another stack of essays, but in that moment, I hardly knew how to handle myself, with not one single essay hanging over my head.
Dinner was superb. Seriously scrumptious. From the baked macaroni & cheese appetizer; to the fresh garden salad with blue cheese dressing; to the tender fillet Mignon, cooked perfectly to just medium rare; to the loaded baked potato; to the "Chocolate Stampede" dessert (six layers of different kinds of chocolate!), the entire meal was wonderful. They pretty much had to roll us out of there, and I came home and fell lifeless into bed. But lifeless or not, in my mind was the quiet three hours I would have the following morning before my afternoon classes. Visions of fleece blankets, rocking chairs, and "Vampire Diaries" danced through my head all through the night, and I awoke at 8:00 am, ready. I gathered my blanket. I placed myself comfortably in my rocking chair with the foot rest lifted. I picked up the remote control and began to access Netflix,...
And what do you think happened? At that very moment, a text came in from my personal trainer (aka Shulamith Webster) announcing that we we'd be leaving for the gym in 15 minutes. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!? Now granted, our gym attendance has been a bit sporadic lately. There are so many variables that need to align just right in order for us to go. Most of them center around Swen, who needs to be well fed and happy before his mommy can leave him. And then we need someone to leave him with. If both of us are going, that leaves his daddy. But Daddy works and goes to school, so yeah, it's difficult to make it happen. We did well during the summer before Matt and I went back to school, and we even had one really great week last month when we went five days (yay, us!). But that quickly fell apart the following week when Matt began this new job, which required five 8-hour days of training.
I guess Shulamith decided we would hop back on the wagon today, but did it have to be first thing in the morning so as to upset my glorious plan? Hmmm. All I can say is I hope it was worth it. We better have burned off every single calorie from that Chocolate Stampede.
A warm fleece blanket, my rocking chair, and "Vampire Diaries." Forever just a dream.
Yes, when I went to bed last night, all I could think about was waking to three hours of lovely "down time" with a warm fleece blanket, my rocking chair, and "Vampire Diaries." It has been a long and tedious few weeks, with essays flowing in, in groups of 25ish, one group after the other, relentlessly, and never ending. Four composition classes are really too many to tackle in one semester, especially as a part-time instructor. It would be one thing to teach four if a couple of them were less writing intensive, such as a reading class or business communications or technical writing or rhetoric. But four freshman composition classes? Shoot me now! Anyway, I somehow managed to reach a point yesterday where I had nothing more to grade. It was around 4:30, and Shulamith and I were headed out at 6:00 to eat a super delicious free dinner in honor of "Friends & Family Weekend" at Matt's new place of employment, Longhorn Steak House. I knew that when I arrived at school today, I'd be greeted by yet another stack of essays, but in that moment, I hardly knew how to handle myself, with not one single essay hanging over my head.
Dinner was superb. Seriously scrumptious. From the baked macaroni & cheese appetizer; to the fresh garden salad with blue cheese dressing; to the tender fillet Mignon, cooked perfectly to just medium rare; to the loaded baked potato; to the "Chocolate Stampede" dessert (six layers of different kinds of chocolate!), the entire meal was wonderful. They pretty much had to roll us out of there, and I came home and fell lifeless into bed. But lifeless or not, in my mind was the quiet three hours I would have the following morning before my afternoon classes. Visions of fleece blankets, rocking chairs, and "Vampire Diaries" danced through my head all through the night, and I awoke at 8:00 am, ready. I gathered my blanket. I placed myself comfortably in my rocking chair with the foot rest lifted. I picked up the remote control and began to access Netflix,...
And what do you think happened? At that very moment, a text came in from my personal trainer (aka Shulamith Webster) announcing that we we'd be leaving for the gym in 15 minutes. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!? Now granted, our gym attendance has been a bit sporadic lately. There are so many variables that need to align just right in order for us to go. Most of them center around Swen, who needs to be well fed and happy before his mommy can leave him. And then we need someone to leave him with. If both of us are going, that leaves his daddy. But Daddy works and goes to school, so yeah, it's difficult to make it happen. We did well during the summer before Matt and I went back to school, and we even had one really great week last month when we went five days (yay, us!). But that quickly fell apart the following week when Matt began this new job, which required five 8-hour days of training.
I guess Shulamith decided we would hop back on the wagon today, but did it have to be first thing in the morning so as to upset my glorious plan? Hmmm. All I can say is I hope it was worth it. We better have burned off every single calorie from that Chocolate Stampede.
A warm fleece blanket, my rocking chair, and "Vampire Diaries." Forever just a dream.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Changing Traditions
Does that sound like an oxymoron? Isn't one of the characteristics of a tradition that it doesn't change but is the same year after year? Like most families, we have many memorable traditions connected with the holiday season, too many to list here, but there are a few I was thinking about as we decked the halls and trimmed the tree on Wednesday:
Ahh, the mousie calendar! It's a fabric calendar that counts down the days in December until Christmas. On top is a picture of Santa and his wife sipping cocoa by the fire, and underneath are little pockets, numbered 1 - 25, into which fits a little mouse, to be moved from pocket to pocket each day in December until Christmas. Gerald's mom gave us this calendar when Luke and Shulamith were little. It was an instant hit, but it also triggered some pretty intense fighting between the two kids over who would move the mouse each day. In time, Isaiah and Eli took over the fighting, but while I remember tears and tantrums with them, I don't remember the teeth marks that (literally) were part of Luke and Shulamith's battles over this mouse. For the past several years, as with so many things, Seth has had free reign with the mousie calendar, with no competition whatsoever. Until....
Enter Mathew to the family. Not only does he fight Seth for Halloween candy and Easter eggs, he is right in the middle of the drama of this mousie calendar. He doesn't fight for the right to move the mouse; instead, he steals the mouse and hides it all over the house, leaving Seth frantic to find it. Like so many aspects of Christmas at our house, this calendar is sacred! The mouse must be moved each day. I'm pretty sure Christmas would not come if it wasn't. Desperate to find the mouse last night, Seth exclaimed, "Matt keeps hiding the mouse! What are we going to do about this?" to which Shulamith replied, "Sorry, honey, but I don't think he will ever grow up." Perhaps not, but thanks to Mathew, the tradition of constant fighting over the mousie calendar continues. Not gonna lie; it makes me a happy mom.
Adding to my happiness is the code for this year's gifts. That's right, a code. You see, I take Christmas very seriously. Every gift must be a total surprise; no one may know ahead of time what he or she is getting. That can be challenging in a family with five nosy and resourceful kids, so several years ago, I started coding their presents. Rather than writing their names on the tags, I enter a code that only I know and that I don't reveal until Christmas morning. One year I did continents; each kid had a different one, so their gift tags said such things as "To: Bolivia" or "To: Quebec." Another year I did simple numbers; Luke was 5, Shulamith was 4, Isaiah was 3, Eli was 2, and Seth was 1. If the 4-digit number contained a 5, the gift was Luke's. If it contained a 4, it was Shulamith's. Etc. This year, I found a great idea on Pinterest. I bought different wrapping paper for each kid's gifts. They're all similar, shades of black and white with red accent (so fun!), but slightly different. I won't need to use tags at all, as long as I remember whose wrapping paper is whose. I can't even tell you how excited I get over my coded gifts. It must be just about the best tradition ever.
And tonight began another of my most favorite traditions, watching all the well-loved Christmas shows with Seth. My favorites are the ones that go back to my own childhood: "A Charlie Brown Christmas," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," "Frosty the Snowman," "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." A few more recent ones have also made the list of "must watch," including tonight's "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." Seth and I love these shows, and more than that, we love watching together. It's a special tradition just between the two of us.
Yes, traditions are supposed to stay the same. That's what makes them traditions. However, one tradition that seems to be changing has to do with Black Friday. Shulamith and I have gone every year since she was maybe five? I can't be sure how old she was the first time we went, but it was somewhere around then. We have 20 years of memories wrapped around this day, and all of them include going to bed extra early on Thanksgiving after scouring the ads from the giant newspaper and plotting our strategy, and then waking before dawn; creeping quietly out of the house wearing sweats, boots, and heavy jackets; leaving everyone else home sound asleep. Among other wonders, this morning always includes hot chocolate from Starbuck's and (when we lived in Billings) cinnamon rolls from Cinnabon. This year we had to settle for mini-cinnabons from Burger King.
How could this tradition ever change? How's that possible? Well, here's the problem. In very recent years, stores have decided to open for Black Friday shopping, not at 5:00 am Friday, but the night before at midnight, or even earlier. Black Friday shopping has become an overnight event, rather than an early-morning one. I know you are thinking to yourselves, "NO! TELL ME IT ISN'T TRUE." I wish I could. I wish I could. But sadly, I speak the truth. The door buster slashed prices now begin on Thanksgiving Eve, not early the next morning as in the past. This year, we didn't even consider going at night. We could not drag Baby Swen all over town in the middle of the night, and since he is such a lucky baby that his mommy still breastfeeds exclusively, where she goes, he goes.
Therefore, we did our normal, tried and true, routine of early morning shopping. It was still wonderful, yes, but a couple of things felt very different, most significantly, the absolute lack of crowds. Apparently, by the time we were out, most everyone else had already shopped the night away and was home sleeping. Secondly, all the major door buster sales were gone. All that was left were signs indicating what tremendous deals we missed out on. Sad. We actually missed only one item that we really, really wanted, and we got much shopping accomplished, but next year, I'm afraid we might need to switch up our routine and join the crowds of midnight shoppers. Changing traditions. Hmmm.
For the past three years, we have moved our family's Thanksgiving celebration to a different day or time to better accommodate others' schedules. This year we had it on Saturday, the day following Black Friday. I'm just gonna say that this was sort of tough. One of the best things about Black Friday shopping is coming home to a long, warm nap followed by delicious leftovers. Instead, this year, we shopped from 6:00 am to 4:00 pm, and came home to much work to do in preparation for the following day. I made two chocolate chip cookie pies and both bran and blueberry muffins. But when I started to put together the egg casserole for our Thanksgiving breakfast, utter exhaustion began to set in, and I found myself nearly having a meltdown because I bought uncooked rather than cooked sausage by mistake. Shulamith, who is the very best problem solver I know, placed Baby Swen in my arms and told me to sit down and snuggle him. She then took over, cooked the sausage, and assembled the casserole. We could finally go to bed. Next year, I'm calling dibs for our family's dinner and celebration on the actual Thanksgiving day. Just sayin'.
It all turned out great, though. Yes, we totally messed up the gravy, and the no-fail canned whipped cream came out runny and gross, but we had three of our kids here, plus bonus son Mathew, Baby Swen, and Isaiah's friend Naomi. Ruined gravy and gross whipped cream didn't matter at all. There was love all around and laughter and joy. We have much to be thankful for.
Ahh, the mousie calendar! It's a fabric calendar that counts down the days in December until Christmas. On top is a picture of Santa and his wife sipping cocoa by the fire, and underneath are little pockets, numbered 1 - 25, into which fits a little mouse, to be moved from pocket to pocket each day in December until Christmas. Gerald's mom gave us this calendar when Luke and Shulamith were little. It was an instant hit, but it also triggered some pretty intense fighting between the two kids over who would move the mouse each day. In time, Isaiah and Eli took over the fighting, but while I remember tears and tantrums with them, I don't remember the teeth marks that (literally) were part of Luke and Shulamith's battles over this mouse. For the past several years, as with so many things, Seth has had free reign with the mousie calendar, with no competition whatsoever. Until....
Enter Mathew to the family. Not only does he fight Seth for Halloween candy and Easter eggs, he is right in the middle of the drama of this mousie calendar. He doesn't fight for the right to move the mouse; instead, he steals the mouse and hides it all over the house, leaving Seth frantic to find it. Like so many aspects of Christmas at our house, this calendar is sacred! The mouse must be moved each day. I'm pretty sure Christmas would not come if it wasn't. Desperate to find the mouse last night, Seth exclaimed, "Matt keeps hiding the mouse! What are we going to do about this?" to which Shulamith replied, "Sorry, honey, but I don't think he will ever grow up." Perhaps not, but thanks to Mathew, the tradition of constant fighting over the mousie calendar continues. Not gonna lie; it makes me a happy mom.
Adding to my happiness is the code for this year's gifts. That's right, a code. You see, I take Christmas very seriously. Every gift must be a total surprise; no one may know ahead of time what he or she is getting. That can be challenging in a family with five nosy and resourceful kids, so several years ago, I started coding their presents. Rather than writing their names on the tags, I enter a code that only I know and that I don't reveal until Christmas morning. One year I did continents; each kid had a different one, so their gift tags said such things as "To: Bolivia" or "To: Quebec." Another year I did simple numbers; Luke was 5, Shulamith was 4, Isaiah was 3, Eli was 2, and Seth was 1. If the 4-digit number contained a 5, the gift was Luke's. If it contained a 4, it was Shulamith's. Etc. This year, I found a great idea on Pinterest. I bought different wrapping paper for each kid's gifts. They're all similar, shades of black and white with red accent (so fun!), but slightly different. I won't need to use tags at all, as long as I remember whose wrapping paper is whose. I can't even tell you how excited I get over my coded gifts. It must be just about the best tradition ever.
And tonight began another of my most favorite traditions, watching all the well-loved Christmas shows with Seth. My favorites are the ones that go back to my own childhood: "A Charlie Brown Christmas," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," "Frosty the Snowman," "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." A few more recent ones have also made the list of "must watch," including tonight's "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." Seth and I love these shows, and more than that, we love watching together. It's a special tradition just between the two of us.
Yes, traditions are supposed to stay the same. That's what makes them traditions. However, one tradition that seems to be changing has to do with Black Friday. Shulamith and I have gone every year since she was maybe five? I can't be sure how old she was the first time we went, but it was somewhere around then. We have 20 years of memories wrapped around this day, and all of them include going to bed extra early on Thanksgiving after scouring the ads from the giant newspaper and plotting our strategy, and then waking before dawn; creeping quietly out of the house wearing sweats, boots, and heavy jackets; leaving everyone else home sound asleep. Among other wonders, this morning always includes hot chocolate from Starbuck's and (when we lived in Billings) cinnamon rolls from Cinnabon. This year we had to settle for mini-cinnabons from Burger King.
How could this tradition ever change? How's that possible? Well, here's the problem. In very recent years, stores have decided to open for Black Friday shopping, not at 5:00 am Friday, but the night before at midnight, or even earlier. Black Friday shopping has become an overnight event, rather than an early-morning one. I know you are thinking to yourselves, "NO! TELL ME IT ISN'T TRUE." I wish I could. I wish I could. But sadly, I speak the truth. The door buster slashed prices now begin on Thanksgiving Eve, not early the next morning as in the past. This year, we didn't even consider going at night. We could not drag Baby Swen all over town in the middle of the night, and since he is such a lucky baby that his mommy still breastfeeds exclusively, where she goes, he goes.
Therefore, we did our normal, tried and true, routine of early morning shopping. It was still wonderful, yes, but a couple of things felt very different, most significantly, the absolute lack of crowds. Apparently, by the time we were out, most everyone else had already shopped the night away and was home sleeping. Secondly, all the major door buster sales were gone. All that was left were signs indicating what tremendous deals we missed out on. Sad. We actually missed only one item that we really, really wanted, and we got much shopping accomplished, but next year, I'm afraid we might need to switch up our routine and join the crowds of midnight shoppers. Changing traditions. Hmmm.
For the past three years, we have moved our family's Thanksgiving celebration to a different day or time to better accommodate others' schedules. This year we had it on Saturday, the day following Black Friday. I'm just gonna say that this was sort of tough. One of the best things about Black Friday shopping is coming home to a long, warm nap followed by delicious leftovers. Instead, this year, we shopped from 6:00 am to 4:00 pm, and came home to much work to do in preparation for the following day. I made two chocolate chip cookie pies and both bran and blueberry muffins. But when I started to put together the egg casserole for our Thanksgiving breakfast, utter exhaustion began to set in, and I found myself nearly having a meltdown because I bought uncooked rather than cooked sausage by mistake. Shulamith, who is the very best problem solver I know, placed Baby Swen in my arms and told me to sit down and snuggle him. She then took over, cooked the sausage, and assembled the casserole. We could finally go to bed. Next year, I'm calling dibs for our family's dinner and celebration on the actual Thanksgiving day. Just sayin'.
It all turned out great, though. Yes, we totally messed up the gravy, and the no-fail canned whipped cream came out runny and gross, but we had three of our kids here, plus bonus son Mathew, Baby Swen, and Isaiah's friend Naomi. Ruined gravy and gross whipped cream didn't matter at all. There was love all around and laughter and joy. We have much to be thankful for.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Decking the Halls and Trimming the Tree
We had planned to decorate this Saturday, which is our usual routine, but this year we are waiting until Saturday to have our Thanksgiving dinner and celebration, so that would have been too much to do in one day. Then yesterday, we saw not one, but two Christmas trees already in windows in our neighborhood, and that finalized our decision. Shulamith said, "I want our Christmas trees up! Let's do it tomorrow." And so we did. We knew it would feel different without Eli; we Websters LOVE Christmas, and he is always right in the center of decorating. But Seth rose to the occasion and spearheaded the way. First, he brought up all the boxes from storage. Then he set up the entire tree for us:
He awoke happy, enough so that he allowed Seth to entertain him just long enough for Shulamith and me to string the lights.
The rest was fairly easy; the lights are always the hardest part. We had fun reminiscing as we unwrapped each ornament, many filled with memories of days passed. Seth was shocked by the earliest ones: "1988?" he gasped, as though it were the dinosaur ages. I guess when you are born in the year 2000, 1988 sounds like a pretty long time ago. Shulamith vented her yearly frustration because her "Baby's First Christmas" ornament doesn't include a photo like Luke's does, and she also reminded me of how I threw away all her school-made ornaments. Yep, I did. Bad mom. Very bad. We listened to Neal Diamond sing "O Holy Night" in the background.We "oohed and ahhed" over the Christmas spirit we were creating piece by piece in our home. We smiled over all the Santa photos from past Christmases as we set them on the coffee table. Seth reached high to put the angel on top of the tree. I arranged my Willow Tree nativity.
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