Lessons From The Old Year

This year I learned that I really am a good cook . . . when I focus. I never used to buy into the idea that food could be made “with love”; that’s not an ingredient, it’s an emotion. But cooking with love includes cooking intentionally, not just throwing things into a pot or a pan and calling it dinner. I learned that even when I had only three or four ingredients to put toward a meal, they only tasted good when I focused my attention on the end result – tasted and planned and revised and served in a nice dish, as if my own family was “company.” I learned to treat my family like welcome guests at the table, not as recipients of a motherly chore.

This year I learned that letting go is hard, and necessary. I came across the term “helicopter parent,” and spent a lot of time trying to figure out what altitude was acceptable. A third of the time, I listened to myself nag the Boy about homework each and every time I got a homework alert; I graphed and charted missing assignments and spent sleepless nights over failing grades and what that would mean for his chances of becoming a productive adult. Another third of the time, I left lists of things to do on the table and walked away – hands off: he’d do the assignments or not, because I wasn’t going to relive ninth grade. I was more like a “satellite parent,” tracking, collecting data, but not interfering. I didn’t get any more sleep that way. And finally, the rest of the time, I pored over stacks of How to Parent a Teenager (Who Has ADHD, By the Way) books, trying to find some strategy, some operational plan to get through these high school years. And what those books told me was that high school sucks, that some teens are more difficult than others, and that there is no plan. There’s just your kid, who is unique. I learned that The Serenity Prayer applies to parenting.

I learned that sometimes the way God gets you to move to the next step, even the next level, is to allow things to get so intolerable, so excruciatingly dreadful, that all you can do is go. It’s like being kicked out of an airplane by a big Heavenly boot and hoping desperately that your parachute will open. I’ve learned that that first step is a doozy.

I learned that my daughter does not like dresses – and I’m okay with that. I learned that my middle son has a talent for cooking. I learned that my oldest, my most difficult child at the moment, has a knack for dealing with the elderly and making them feel special.

This year I learned that two boats tethered together may drift apart, but will never separate completely. No matter how busy, stressed, or distracted Rev and I get, his hand is still there when I reach out with mine.

Important lessons, all of them, some learned the hard way. Let’s hope they stick for 2012.

Making Christmas Special

I was eight or nine years old the first time my mother went Christmas shopping for someone else’s kids.

I remember my mother saying that her best friend, Mrs. A, had called. Mrs. A knew a family whose house had caught on fire. The father was out of work, and the kids had nothing for Christmas. Would my mother be willing to buy a gift for each of the four kids, something small, so that they would at least have something to open on Christmas morning?

Sure, said my mom.

So, about a week before the holiday, we piled into the car and drove to the “good” mall. This was the mall a couple towns over – more special than the one up the street from our house. The “normal” mall had a Mammoth Mart, which later became a Caldor, and then something else after that. Mammoth Mart (yes, its logo was an elephant) was slightly more upscale than Woolworth’s, but not quite on the level of a Zayre’s. Mammoth Mart was where we bought our heavy-soled leather shoes, scratchy wool turtlenecks, and fake fur winter coats for school each September.

But the “good” mall had a Bradlees. (None of these stores exist anymore.) Bradlees was the “Tar-jay” of its day, with clothes, housewares, books, toys, and shoes. Bradlees was where you could sometimes get brand named stuff, when that idea was still in its infancy, last season’s fashions at bargain basement prices. Bradlees was where we did our Christmas shopping (well, Mom and Dad did; we kids bought gifts at the discount store up the street, where five dollars went a long way), just because Christmas was special.

So off to Bradlees we went, shopping for four children whom we knew by age and gender, but not name.

If I recall correctly, there was a baby, and three older kids, a boy and two girls between the ages of four and ten. My mom gave us the run of the store, and we chose toys we’d like to have and put them in the basket. Not being well-off, we understood the value of a dollar; we picked out reasonably priced dolls and clothes to go on them, board games, stuff like that. My mom carefully selected an outfit for each child. We understood that. We got new clothes three times a year: summer, the beginning of the school year, and Christmas, and tried not to grow. The rest of the time, my mother made our clothes (pants, skirts, dresses – we looked good). Mom and Dad saved up for Christmas (remember Christmas clubs at the local bank?) and with 20/20 hindsight, I know that the money to fund three kids’ Christmas expectations probably came out of overtime hours and skipped lunches. If we gazed wistfully at the half-filled carriage, it was only because we figured we might get a little less that year. Dividing that pie by seven instead of three might make for some pretty thin slices. But we were game, because the alternative, that kids would wake up with nothing under the tree – or not even a tree – was too awful to contemplate.

I do not know, to this day, what my parents sacrificed to pay for this extra shopping trip. I do know that we had no disappointment on Christmas morning – if we did receive less than we otherwise would have, none of us noticed.

After the shopping trip, we settled down in the living room and wrapped every one of those gifts. I think we marked them with tags that indicated who they were for: “baby,” “five year old girl,” etc. Each package got a bow. We left the “from” space empty, so that the parents could write whatever they wanted. Maybe the presents would be from Santa that year. It was up to them. When we were done, my mom called Mrs. A and told her she could come pick up the gifts.

As long as I live, I will never forget the look of utter shock on Mrs. A’s face when she walked in the front door and saw the pile of festive gifts in the foyer. There were probably three gifts for each kid: toys and clothing. Mrs. A said to my mom, “I thought there’d just be a big green garbage bag.”

My mom said, “That’s not Christmas.”

Mrs. A had to make a couple of trips to collect all the gifts. Later, she called up to say how thrilled the mother and father of those children were, and how grateful. She started to tell my mom who they were, and my mother interrupted her. “No, no, no,” she said. “I don’t want to know their names, and I don’t want you to tell them who I am.” Her reason? “I don’t want to be walking down the street someday and meet them and have everybody feel all embarrassed about this. Just let it be anonymous.” As far as I know, Mrs. A honored that request.

There are many family traditions that I’ve let fall by the wayside. Giving anonymous gifts to needy children is the one I will always keep. I remember looking at my mother that day and seeing the face of God. It was probably the first time I really wanted to be her – not be like her, but be her – when I grew up. I often think about that family, destitute and defeated in the midst of a beautiful holiday season. I imagine that one of those children, maybe the oldest, knew the situation they were in and had resigned himself or herself that there wouldn’t be a real Christmas that year. And then I imagine the joy and wonder on that kid’s face as he or she opened a gift picked out by a stranger and was reminded that there still was magic in the world.

The Lover, The Dreamer, and Me

Been awhile.

I’m finding myself in a very nostalgic mood lately. No doubt it’s partly due to seeing The Muppets last weekend. I dreaded being dragged by Scooby and Doodle to this film, convinced that, like all of the remakes, re-boots and sequels I’ve seen lately, it wouldn’t ever live up to my childhood memories of the show.

It did – completely.

There were lovely little tributes to the old-time celebs who guest-hosted The Muppet Show back in the day, some of whom are gone now, like Bob Hope. The three levels of the movie (basic “good vs. bad” kid movie; meta statement of the Muppets in pop culture; nostalgic trip down memory lane) all worked wonderfully together. The movie hit the sweet spot between fun kid movie for little ones who may or may not know anything about the Muppets and lovely nostalgia for those of us who remember the show.

In Muppet-world, all you really needed to do was to be yourself, and even though disaster threatened every time you raised the curtain and lit the lights, you all pulled together and made the show a success. It happened every week.

I wanted to be Kermit the Frog, appearing on stage enthusiastically for every performance, getting the chickens to march in a parade, wincing at untimely explosions and unfunny jokes, but never doubting that this was what he was meant to do.

When was the last time I threw myself that wholeheartedly into something I loved doing?

I felt tears welling up when Kermit and the gang launched into “The Rainbow Connection,” that cautiously hopeful, poignant anthem – and I didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed. Mainly because it was dark, but more importantly because I could hear strains of the song wafting softly around me, sung in many grow up voices from all over the theatre. (The guy next to me had a lovely baritone.)

I think many of us needed to be reminded that we could still find that beautiful connection. Someday hasn’t come yet, has it?

Go ahead, I dare you not to sing along.

The Rainbow Connection (1979)

You’re welcome.