Muppets!

12/24

The family has come and gone, the dinner has been eaten. The kitchen is more-or-less clean, the living room cluttered with the first round of gifts. It's twenty-four minutes to Christmas-- and I have nothing much to do. No train track to snake around the bottom of the tree, no plastic bits to assemble and sticker, no doll house to arrange. No milk to drink or cookies to crumble-- no Santa, finally, for the very first time. (The girl is six months past eleven.) I wonder if she forgot, or if, until now, she truly did choose to believe. It's possible, as is anything. Apparently she was lately recounting a story of how she had once awoken to the sound of hooves over her head, and when her fellow sixth graders responded that "it was [her] parents," her firm rejoinder was that her parents would never get on the roof (no kidding), so therefore her memory must have been real. Oh goodness. Score another one for her campaign to be thought of as weird. Or just herself, which she so firmly is. To think I was so anxious for her to let go, for her to stop playing the extended bonus rounds of the Santa game. Don't know what I was thinking.

Merry Christmas

Here's hoping your halls are already decked and you don't wind up at a Chinese restaurant on Christmas.

checking in

This is my Christmas bonus: a beep from deep in my purse. I fish out my phone and read the text that's waiting: "Hi. Merry Christmas." I smile. He has followed through again; I expected or at least hoped for some word, but, life happens, especially in their world. One never knows. When I reply, he asks for my e-mail to tell me what's happening. I am pleased. I try to be patient. I check my address for typos, just in case. I realize he didn't promise to write immediately, and I go back to my day. I'll hear from him eventually, I'm sure.

Although we have since been through college applications and registrations and essays together, I haven't seem this boy--this young man--since he graduated in what must have been '05, a high school generation ago. I should have him come in and speak to my current crop, to tell them about life in the world. He knows better than I.

In the meanwhile, I hope he doesn't have much of an update to give me; I hope life is drama-free. I hold out little hope that it's been easy; I'm curious, but not too concerned. Someone who can work 60 hours each week and pass 12 hours of college classes at the same time can do about anything, it seems to me. I hope, somehow, that he is. I check my in box again, just to see. Of all the kids I've known, he's the one who has most stood up to circumstances, who has refused to be defeated, who has taken his life in his hands. I hope my image is still reality; I hope nothing has changed.

Credit Where Credit's Due

Overheard from the family room:

Daughter's friend: unintelligible query regarding the origin of the Wii

Daughter: "I don't know; Mom and Dad got it."

Damn straight!

the call

It's not that the holiday phone call is exactly a relic, here in these days of unlimited long distance, free nights and weekends, but you notice that that AT&T, whatever AT&T is these days, no longer advertises a family gathered 'round a phone waiting for it to ring. It's an outdated image now that everyone has her own phone in her own pocket to constantly contact whomever she chooses. But even if the ability to make a connection may no longer be a novelty, or a selling point for the service, to get an unexpected call is still is a holiday bonus, or at least it is to me.

Holidays are built on obligation, a thought that's trite because it's true. Too many gifts must be purchased, too many visits must be made. If we only did what we wanted to do, we'd be a lot less busy. Being terrible, or perhaps just young, I spent much of my life fervently wishing that my grandmother had been born on any day other than January 1, such a burden it seemed to drag myself out of bed and to her birthday celebration. A few years back, we buried her on New Year's Day: the date at least seemed fitting. I do start each year with thoughts of her, but come Tuesday I can't say I'll miss going to her party. I'm sure she would not approve of her lackadaisical granddaughter, but if she were there, I would be, too. Just slightly less than enthusiastically.

It's good to do what we should, mostly worth it in the end, but how much sweeter than the fruits of obligation are the joys that come from, "I didn't have to, but I did." Back on Christmas morning, my phone rang earlier than it ever does without an in-law on the line, and it was a boy calling because he chose to, not because anyone made him, and I'd call that a gift.

"Ms. P?"

"Rafael?"

"It's Fernando!"

"Oh! Fernando! Hello!" Those brothers don't even sound so much alike, maybe just a little. It's just that the older had always been the one to call, given that the younger had still been in my class until June. Not unlike some relatives, they mostly call with a want or a need--I knew without contact that they weren't in school this semester: I'd seen no papers to proofread--but not unlike some relatives, this holiday call was to catch up. Feliz Navidad, Merry Christmas, how are you, how's the family, did you know that we moved? have you heard from Gustavo? Did you know Oscar's girlfriend is only 14? I'll talk to him about that. Please do.

I heard about the amateur boxing, was asked for an opinion and promised a visit. It was like a call I've never gotten from the nephew I never had, although I have five. Not to slight those kids, they're mostly just young and local, with no reason to call Aunt Allison, but if they grow up to be anything like Rafael and Fernando, I'll be thrilled. In a way, they're the best boys I know.

Oh, they're not perfect, these brothers with tempers and a taste for tequila. They're regular guys, not saints. They work hard and save more money than I ever have, but that doesn't really set them apart. Instead I admire their attitude and wonder at its origin. While they understand the world, they refuse to let it discourage them. Is it in the genes, this immunity to cynicism and doubt, or did their parents impart something--something I need--before they sent them North to an uncle with a wish and a prayer for a better life? They were so young. And are still young now, 19 and maybe 21 or 22. And yet they consistently do the right or responsible thing, perhaps not having the luxury of playing around.

They live independently in a mobile home they've purchased, drive cars they own outright, answer to no one but their bosses day-to-day. They are a model of responsible youth when they could be out doing who knows what, thousands of miles from home, but they are better than that, those boys, determined to succeed in a world actively working against them. I wonder, under the same circumstances, if I'd do half as well. That's why I'm just glad to have a part, whatever my current role is: former teacher, helpful friend. And that's why it means something to me that when Fernando went to midnight mass and ran into someone who had my phone number, he somehow went home with it and called me early the next morning, just to say hello. He didn't have to, but he did.

child's play

Given the sounds that are drifting up from the family room, I think someone's playing my game. I can pick out "foul ball" and now some muffled crowd noise--was that perhaps a home run? Good luck breaking my record, though, buddy. This activity may as well have been designed expressly for me: a version of baseball in which I don't have to field, get to bat for everyone on my team, and throw the ball by swinging? If I'm not an automatic all-star, I'll be the world's most contented player. And if not for my aching shoulder, a souvenir from this sudden activity, I'd be the queen of Wii monopoly, too, not that my daughter, the game's rightful owner, even knows.

Today, for example, she was out on a break week field trip with her uncle, and I bet she'd laugh right out loud to know that meant batting practice for her mother. When she and her friend got back from their outing they may have been video-gamed out--an afternoon at Dave & Buster's might do that--but I still was amused, and I admit, somehow pleased, that they spent more than an hour this afternoon in front of a dollhouse. A wooden dollhouse, even, that does not plug in or light up or make a sound, the crown jewel of my daughter's fourth Christmas, six years ago.

Long since crowded out of her bedroom by piles of other stuff, the dollhouse sits downstairs on the computer room floor, and for a year I've been thinking about boxing it up. Almost did yesterday, when I thought we were getting a dog. But today when I hear, "I'm hungry," and then "I'm sick," floating up the stairs, I almost shout down, "What's wrong with you? Are you okay? Didn't you just eat?" when I realize they're pretending.

But of course the novelty eventually wore off, and they adjourned upstairs to my daughter's room. Between the two of them they own two cellphones, an iPod, a PSP, the Wii, other game consoles of various descriptions, probably every Webkinz yet manufactured, fourteen thousand dozen Littlest Pets, every Warriors book, every other thing every 10 nearly 11 year old would want--except High School Musical, here by the girls verboten--so you know, they had other things to do. Like play paper dolls! I am not even kidding, couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. The cardboard evidence still covers her carpet.

So to those who fear that a video game in the house is the beginning of the end, I have no fear for my child's brain, no qualms about the state of her imagination. A toy is just a toy, as far as she's concerned, and the best thing to have in the house is a friend. Now the grown-ups, on the other hand, well. That might be a different story. They're not always so well-balanced. But what, I ask you, is a tidy laundry room compared to an out-of-the-park home run?

My 12 DON'Ts of Christmas

Home again after the annual Christmas gift opening marathon with my wife’s family, I feel the need to get some things off my chest. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but it seems to me when you tell people who live an hour away that the party starts at 4 p.m. that it should, in fact, start about then.

Now I realize people have complicated lives and their world doesn’t revolve around mine, but is it really too much to expect people to stick to the plan? And when it’s the same person who keeps everyone else waiting year after year, it gets downright irritating -- at least to an outsider.

Maybe I’m just grumpy after waking – more accurately, being awakened – 11 hours prior to the scheduled festivities. And perhaps I should be more understanding of the sister-in-law whose brood includes three bastard children separated in age by nearly 20 years. After all, each of those children has a father with a family too. Add to the mix the flavor-of-the-year fiancée and I should really lighten up. It’s Christmas after all, and family comes first.

At least it should; and that’s my whole point. My in-laws – her flesh and blood – are the only common denominator in the 20 years I’ve known Deb, yet they’re always all-too willing to accommodate her habitual tardiness as she dashes through the woods for Christmas with Thing I, Thing II and Thing III. When do they get to come first?

But this is just the tip of the iceberg that is my observations of Christmas 2007. I give you my 12 DON’Ts of Christmas:

1—See above.

2—DON’T make early arrivers unload and park down by the football field only to allow the tardy to park in the driveway. It’s just bad form.

3—DON’T invite people into your home in the winter and expect them to take off their shoes. (This doesn’t apply to my in-laws, but I thought it was worth mentioning anyway.)

4—DON’T insist on a Christmas tree that’s larger than your space can accommodate. The only thing that’s grown more than the guest list at the wife’s family Christmas is the TV. Consequently, the tree was relegated to the entryway, behind the French doors, not even in the same room!

5—Speaking of big screen TVs, for which I have great fondness, I don’t mind if you don’t want it on during gift opening. In fact, if the NBA is all you’ve got to offer, I’d just as soon not watch. But DON’T, please baby Jesus don’t, play one of those Yule log DVDs. It generates neither warmth nor fuzzies.

6—One more about big screen TVs (and another that doesn’t apply to my in-laws), DON’T subject everyone in attendance to a slide show of photos from a wedding half the room recently attended. If you must, at least reorient vertical pictures so they don’t appear horizontally on screen and add some music or something other than an unrehearsed commentary by Mom and Grandma. “She sure seems to be having a good time in the bathroom” is just something you shouldn’t hear at a family Christmas gathering.

7—If someone gets me something that you also got me and you find out about in time to make a change; DON’T expect me to exchange it. That’s on you.

8—If you can’t do better than a gift card, especially to a place I wouldn’t even spend my own money (McDonald’s comes to mind), DON’T bother.

9—DON’T give lottery tickets, ever.

10—DON’T leave goodies within the reach of small children and expect others to monitor their consumption.

11—All son-in-laws, fiancées and boyfriends are not created equal. DON’T treat them that way. Seniority ought to count for something.

12—DON’T fake it. This applies to trees, religion and, most of all, food. For example, don’t ask me to bring a relish tray just so I don’t come empty-handed while you whip up a batch of “homemade” soup from Sam’s Club. I can do better, and so can you.

Lucky

I knew it was the first dangerous question, but sometimes playing it safe is just no way to play, let alone live. And what the heck: it's Christmas, so I just went ahead and asked.

"What kind of dog is it?"

I was over in the outlaw corner, passing the holiday time with my sister-in-law's husband, listening to the story of the dog he and his son had brought home out of the rain last Sunday.

"The vet said it was part lab and part Staffordshire Terrier," and he pauses, almost apologizes for the dog when he explains, "apparently that's what a pit bull officially is called." And he goes on to tell me about the dog that has not once barked, will come and sit and stay, and yet has no tags or chip or record with Animal Control nor any response to the Found Dog signs that they've posted all around.

"She's a really sweet dog," he continues, "but we'll have to take her to the Humane Society if no one claims her."

You see where this is going, right?

So far, we've only gone to visit, making a 60 mile round-trip detour at the end of a very long day. We're officially thinking it over. Figuring out where we could put the crate. Regretting taking down the backyard fence. Preparing for the inevitable. I mean, she is a very sweet dog. And she's already got a name.

Merry Christmas!

I thought we were done with Santa Claus. She is, after all, half past ten, and the only conversation about the procurement of gifts this December was about how difficult Wiis were to find in the stores. In the stores. Where, to the best of my knowledge, elves don't shop. But, along bedtime--or way past, once the family cleared out and that photo was snapped to document how grown she's getting, she went searching in the cabinet for the designated plate and cup and laid out a sugary repast, "but at least it's fat free milk!"

I thought surely it was just ritual; we don't have many, but we cling to those that we have. I was wrong.

In the middle of the night or the crack of the morning--I don't know how early, it was pitch black, and I don't function if there's no school--she shocked us with "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" and we put her off with her stocking and tried for more sleep. But then too soon enough she got her thrill and I got my wake up call:

"Santa brought me a Wii!"

"Oh, no, he didn't," I just about said. "Surely you don't believe that! Besides, your mother wants some credit!"

Status Report

T minus four hours and counting, maybe three, give or take. Many rooms of my home are more or less clean, and the guest who has never been here before has been instructed not to open any door she encounters that is temptingly closed. Have I mentioned that I really like my brother's new girlfriend? I have wrapped some presents, though not all that will be exchanged even tonight. I have baked my favorite molasses cookies, and my daughter's favorites and more, but not enough to distribute to everyone who usually gets them, and if the butter keeps on softening for the others I'd like to eat it'll be a puddle on the counter. I have the ingredients for dinner, though I haven't touched them as of yet, and to top it off I've conceded the preparation of the meat. I guess you could say Martha Stewart has nothing on me, at least not this year. Oh, well. Somehow we'll survive it.

making time

That's twice so far that I've done it, scribbled out a Christmas card and included best wishes for 2088. It just flows right off my pen, though, to be honest, I'm not sure my handwriting would be much worse were I to make it to that year and the anniversary of my birth number one hundred nineteen. Perhaps no one will notice, or rather, decipher, that I've skipped eighty years ahead.

For someone determined to make the last week of December last indefinitely--there's no school now, understand--my subconscious seems eager to see this year go. I've put '08 (but no eighty) on the few checks that I write, given my next birthday, five months out, as my age, and now I'm spotting us all nearly a century. Talk about livin' in the future! Good grief.

2007 has been a year like none other, but I have no urgent need to be done with it. Maybe I just want to see what comes next. Or maybe I'm just trying to increase the odds that these cards and the rest of my preparations are complete before the designated holiday. Two days seems iffy for all that's not done around here, but a few months? or a few decades? I could do that.

happy freaking holidays

If you ever come across the Potential Emergency Gifts for Overachieving 15 year-old Chinese Band Geeks Who May or May Not Celebrate Christmas department at Target and find it stocked with anything appropriate for a teacher to give, let me know, okay?

Having accidentally procrastinated more of my Christmas shopping than I'm willing to calculate--I had a plan (see how well that works?); mother nature had snow--tonight was the first night I spent any time at all retracing my steps in any kind of emporium, looking at things I already knew weren't right, looking long enough to forget why I was there racing the closing- time clock in the first place. If I had any energy or a few more hours before my alarm (oh for a 36 hour day), I'd go make a run for some satisfaction and the express lane, but instead I play the "what can I make with these three ingredients" game. Iron Chef has a party edition, apparently, and so does my class.

It's not my idea; I disavow it, in fact. Those that have been through it before can recite my disclaimer: "Ms. P says that it always goes wrong." But they were dead set and determined to do a Secret Santa and they finally wrestled out of me a ringing endorsement: "All right. I guess I can't stop you." The preparations have been all-consuming and infinitely detailed; if only they were getting a grade.

Proving, perhaps, that people will rise or fall to meet every expectation, all of my dire predictions have come to fruition. The secrets were revealed nearly as soon as the names were drawn in a frenzy of "What if I don't like who I got?" that led to an endless amount of gossip and name-swapping. Cold stares from the big desk: ahem. Spirit of Christmas? They have bitched about how much money is sufficient to spend, about when to have the party, about what we should eat.

"Ms. P., some people are trying to get off cheap."

"Bring what you want and don't worry about it," I reply sending subliminal messages about some people not having the money, as if 90% of the room's not on free lunch.

"Ms. P., what if someone forgets to bring something that day?"

"Well, then, in the SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS, and oh, HUMAN DECENCY," I say, as I hold the top of my head on before it blows right off, "WE. WILL. LET. THEM. EAT and NOT EVEN MENTION IT. Would you listen to yourselves for a minute? Yes, parties are expensive, and you all are going to have way too much food anyway, but being equal is not how it works or what it should be about. Now stop talking about it before I lose it entirely."

The bitterness, the recrimination, the annual rehashing of the same old fight every December--I guess it could mean we're just another dysfunctional family, or maybe there's something about teenagers who are mostly from cultures who are far more We than Me (and oh does that affect so much of what they do) angling to make sure they get something good in what must seem to be--because it is--a very material occasion: their own American Christmas.

A holiday, and a spirit, which I hope my actions model from a different point of view (if they're still being petty we'll see how well I bite my tongue). Here in the wee hours, I didn't manage to really bake, but I've got fudge cooling and chocolate-drizzled pretzels that I'll dump into a tin. Being so outnumbered, I can't afford gifts (the Target expedition was for a girl, late to the party, who missed the name-drawing; I didn't want her to be the only one with something she never wanted), but I've got new pens and mechanical pencils for all of them since they've walked away with mine. It's a bit of a joke and definitely a gesture, but as far as I can tell a lesson in appreciating gestures is exactly what they need.

a gift

"What's this?"

"You need."

And I look into the Christmas bag, lean my head back and laugh because I'm touched and embarrassed and surprised. It's too perfect, and I can feel that I'm blushing a little thanks to those fair-skinned Danish ancestors of mine.

"I did need it! Everyone will be so happy!" and I thank him and swallow the you shouldn't haves as he heads out the door and on to his class.

This semester my pencil sharpener, once the glory of my desk--kids would make special trips just to use it, once upon a time--has been notoriously terrible, and my young Brazilian friend, my newest student, has brought me a new one along with a supply of pencils (we've been down to the cheap ones even the mooches are loathe to use). What a sweet kid, what a gesture, what a start to a Monday. It's almost as good as tamales.

And at least I didn't step on his moment by apologizing for the stupid sharpener that I never got around to replacing--there's no money in the budget, district or personal--or protesting against the gift giving or otherwise showing too much discomfort with being on the receiving end. He wasn't rectifying my personal failure; he was just trying to be nice, or, you know, get his pencils sharpened. One or the other or both.

Such gift-giving is a rarity in the high school, and while my impulse is to say I prefer that, I'd never part with the Mayan calendar plate and miniature Mexican cocina that decorate my kitchen wall at home. When this sharpener goes, I suppose I'll replace it--eventually, when the protests get loud enough, and no one can write a legible word--but I won't ever forget where it came from.

Obrigado, Rafa. Feliz Natal.

Fight or Flight?

It’s a character flaw, I suppose, that my instinctual reaction to danger is to get the heck out of Dodge. You’ll never catch me standing ground against Mother Nature. When disaster strikes, I’m outta here.

I have nothing but respect and admiration for Hurricane Katrina survivors – and all those poor victims – who, by choice or circumstance, chose to ride the storm out. But those mislabeled folks who fled for higher ground are my soul mates. I guess that’s what Tom Petty meant by, “you don’t have to live like a refugee.”

Anyway, this “fight or flight” conundrum took hold of me around noon, when I learned the college – administrative offices at least; final exams would go on as scheduled at the predominately residential institution of uncommon sense – was shutting down in the midst of an ice storm. The dean of the faculty, bless her heart, vowed to man her post in her office in a locked administrative building until the threat had passed – or four o’clock, whichever came first.

After a quick lunch at the cafeteria – you never know where your next meal is going to come from, right? – I polled the local hotel market for available rooms and alternative energy sources, just as I had when a similar storm hit last February. I should have taken notes.

With all of the other schools in town shut down for the day, my kids were at home and/or a neighbor’s house, neither of which had power. The steady morning rain had the potential to cause widespread damage, which I witnessed first-hand while driving from work to the movie rental store. Sewers overflowing, tree limbs scattered about or leaning menacingly over the road, ice-covered power lines hanging dangerously low… and here I am driving past the grocery store to rent movies I could only hope to watch if power was restored. Fittingly, “Superbad” was out.

Our power was restored shortly after I got home, sparing me the dilemma of opening the garage door manually. Though I typically opt to wait until it’s over before clearing the walks, early removal was the key to success this day. Then, after a previously scheduled telephone interview didn’t pan out and the predicted confounding snowfall didn’t materialize, we ventured out to get the family Christmas tree.

Schedules and circumstance had prevented us from completing this important tradition yet and our windows of opportunity were few. So, as neighbors and fellow residents were chopping ice and sawing trees, we went from store to store seeking out our holiday bush. Isn’t it ironic?

I’d be a poor prospect for a bomb shelter salesman. It’s not that I throw caution to the wind so much as I find the whole idea of emergency preparedness to be as overblown as the local news. Knock on wood, rub a rabbit’s foot and wish upon a star, I’ve never had to endure a prolonged power outage like my blog partner did just about a year ago. And I never would.

I’d be out of town before finishing the first of that three-day supply of water and non-perishable food the emergency management folks recommend you keep on hand. Theoretically, of course, since I maintain no such emergency supply kit. The only three-day supply I know of is a trip to the grocery store. And the only response I know to danger is flight… and, it occurs to me after rereading this post, denial.

holiday news of the weird (or at least unlikely)

I can just feel it, can't you?

Somewhere the fact that the a Branson Board of Aldermen has a proposed a resolution expressing its support for celebrating Christmas, or rather "Ozark Mountain Christmas" --though shouldn't that holiday be spelled with a K?--is morphing into an e-mail to be forwarded by people who forward such things, people who favor CAPITALS and color and exclamations! and baby Jesus for sure. That's my bet, anyway, that some two-fingered typist will make this into a law to protect Christmas and not the bottom line, and thus either a sign of Armageddon or Missouri as the promised land.

Apparently there's some concern that Branson may not have enough Christmas decorations to appease the post-Thanksgiving pilgrims. Now, I've never been there and I'm not going, no matter how many time-shares my in-laws buy (current total: two), but I find that fairly hilarious. Not enough Christmas in Branson, when I can't get through the grocery store here in the suburban prairie without being assaulted with mandatory festivity? I just find that hard to believe. But, if it's true, well, all is not lost on the holiday slogan front. There's another one out there. A classic. The original, in fact: peace on earth. Heck, if that could possibly describe Branson, the hillbilly Vegas outlet mall wonderland, I might even come!

a memory in the making

This may be the year that I'm forced to admit that Charlie Brown had the right idea, that spindly and fresh beats substantial and metal, and that pre-lit is not the be-all and end-all of holiday decor. Then again, that may just be the gas fumes talking.

I'm so not kidding.

Our tree really is pretty; I'll be sad when it's worn out or the lights all go dark, but, this year, it also seems to have absorbed ever droplet of the fumes released from the gas can ill-advisedly stashed in the garage (never fear, the sliding door and living room windows are open). I'm not sure I'd have noticed if I hadn't spent the last hour underneath as I wrestled with the lights and the screws in the stand, but, hoo boy. And baby Jesus, I do confess. I've been a hoosier* all along.

At first I was doing well despite my reluctant participation: I'd located those useless screws without fuss or delay, though they never made it into the box, and I'd lugged the thousand pounds of tree up two flights of stairs without incident or stroke-- all to please the girl and carry on my own stupid tradition. I hadn't even cursed! Of course, I put the wrong piece in the base first, but, that's just the way we do it. Every single year.

Then things started getting memorable. I don't mean to oversell--this is more the Year the Tree Smelled Like the Lawnmower than The Year Mom Passed Out In The Floor at least, so far. If I have anything to do with it, the garage will be reorganized, but that's all that may be up to me. No matter what, I'm sure this evening's goings on will become yet another Christmas story, an extra-classy remember-when. And who knows, at some point, we'll probably even decorate the tree.

* in my world, a Hoosier is not a person from Indiana, or at least not primarily. It's even in the dictionary (definition number two).