Two days before Christmas

It’s nothing I’m proud of, yet I’m not embarrassed.  I share this side of me because I’m human.  It’s probably pms.  Maybe the perfect storm.  Whatever it is, I got snippy yesterday.  Not that unusual for me late at night.  I get tired and irritable.  I’m an introvert to boot, and a whole day of being “on” and interacting pushes me to my limits come nightfall.  Especially at Christmastime.  And when we have guests.  Family.  But it was more than normal Caren being grumpy.  I felt a variety of emotions colliding and when Todd called me on it, I had to explain.

It must’ve been building throughout the day without me recognizing it.  But it surfaced when we got home after a beautiful evening of a horse-drawn carriage ride through lighted neighborhood streets.  So festive.  And freezing.  But warm huddled together under thick carriage blankets, singing carols we thought we knew all the words to.  Then a special treat, dinner out at one of our favorite Italian restaurants as a family, a Christmas tradition we didn’t anticipate making but did.  Several years back.  Just such a nice night.  I stopped by our mailbox to gather the days’ wares, and arrived home to a note and chocolates from a friend, along with two huge boxes on our doorstep.  Three packages in the mail with the usual day’s 7-8 Christmas cards sandwiched between.  Todd carried in a tower (I’m not kidding, probably 8 boxes in assorted sizes topping one another) of expensive chocolates sent from a California friend.  Not only that, but teachers at school had sent home handmade gifts and a gift card.  The librarian sent home a gift as well as a note saying she’d made a donation to Kahn Academy in my honor.  It was so much.  So overwhelming.  That’s just one day’s worth of goods.  We’ve had many others like it.  I know you’re wondering where this is all going, sounds heavenly really.  But it felt like too much to me.  I was suffocating in it all.  We are so incredibly comfortable and blessed.  I wonder why.  And I was frustrated that I was doing so little to move things forward this month, wondering why I haven’t been able to propel my family to serve more, to give more, to feel more.  I know I’ve written otherwise, and I really haven’t been that stressed or worried about it until this day.  Because it was so much all at once, a tipping point.  To me, to us, we don’t deserve this.  Granted, a few of the gifts were for my birthday.  The chocolate tower was to thank us for having our hunting friend a month or so back.  It’s Christmas.  Cards will come.  Neighbors and friends trade treats.  That’s just how great people are.  It just overwhelmed me.  You know how I get.

Couple that with two days of shopping.  Actually three, if you count Saturday.  We have enough.  More than enough.  But to keep looking for more, for whatever reason, wears on me.  I just want to be home relaxing with a cheesy movie or finding some way to serve.  I guess that was another part of it.  We tried to help two different families that morning, neither one worked out, a let-down and the start of my grumpiness because it caused confusion with our plans.  The season feels materialistic and worldly when all we do is buy and shop without stopping to give.  I felt ungrateful.  Humbled.  But in a bad way, I acted poorly.  My values sometimes conflict with reality, and I felt like I’ve failed my family by not providing more of what Christmas is really about this year.

I’m sad, also, that my kids are too old—all of a sudden this year for some reason—for all the kid traditions that have provided the framework of how we know Christmas is really here: crafting tissue snow flakes with bits littering the kitchen table, after-school sugar cookie festivities, anticipation as to what our elf will do next, cuddling for Christmas stories every night.  Even driving around to see the lights.  They’ve somehow moved on.  I am missing it.  It was here last year.  Now it’s gone.  I also feel like we’ve become a family of five instead of seven, the older two boys all but absent most of the time.  I feel like I’m hanging on to the last thread of our familiar family traditions.  I’m not looking for answers.  I’m just saying I kind of hate it.  I loved the old way.

There’s more, those are just some of the highlights.  I was snippy with a friend, how rude.  I know my mom is sad that my dad isn’t with us this year.  And I don’t know how to make it easier for her.  I’m wondering if my kids are learning anything important, if they’re getting any of it.  I don’t even know if I could pinpoint what the crux of my upset was.  Maybe just longing for more than what I’ve been able to provide.  The deeper part of Christmas.  I think I’m grieving what was, what I wish could be, and realizing I’m too human to really be all that I want me to be.  I know in my heart I’m not a failure.  I even know that on paper.  But I’ll admit in some ways this season I feel like I’m failing my family.  By not helping the kids see and know.  How to notice a need.  How to feel what it’s really about.  And yet I’m not one to wallow and give up.  I like a challenge.  A failure here and there to energize me.  To steer me.  To recognize where we can improve.

And so I’m always glad for a new day, another chance.  To love a little better.  To try again.  To be a sweeter example.  Because I know I have it in me.  It just doesn’t always show up.

And it’s been a good week in so many ways.   We have dinner together.  We talk about the prophecies of Christ’s birth most nights.  We gather together before we leave and as we get ready for bed.  We pray as a family and before each kid leaves for the day.  We’re not perfect.  Their attention span is short.  I have a lot of opinions and preferences and schedules to consider as we coordinate our days and meals and vehicles.  I’m not sure I’ve balanced the kids’ Christmas gifts, it gives me a headache to try to figure it out.  Like a math problem from high school.  I’m so far behind on thank you notes.  That I’ve been writing since October.  Every day I remember someone else I haven’t sent a Christmas letter to.  The house hasn’t been clean since I spent last Friday making it look like a Bed and Breakfast.  Especially when people come to visit spontaneously in the evening.  It’s not till after they leave that I notice what it must’ve looked like from their vantage point.  But it’s alive.  There are projects on every flat surface.  My kitchen counters are mostly full.  Most of the time.  Andrew’s knife sketches are scattered on the desk.  The oven’s on for hours with no one home and nothing in it.  His steel blades showing up in the most random spots.  My mom thrills with each new coupon and good deal she comes across at the mall, she has more stamina for shopping than anyone I’ve ever, ever met.  And she is so generous.  My sister and 16 year-old served me by vacuuming the cars and folding the laundry this afternoon.  My 13 year-old cleaned up the trash our dog scattered all over the kitchen.  My sister reminds me in small ways that simple service matters.  How putting away someone’s cart makes an impact.  My mom cleaned all the living room blinds for me.  And always seems to be doing the dishes.  All five kids are watching Home Alone 2 together, the first in their line-up of old holiday classics, a slumber party of sorts.  We’ve had the fireplace going, making it warm and cozy with our tiny lights against the darkened house.  We’ve made bread and granola, brownies and pretzels.  We’ve visited with friends and traveled back in time thanks to old Christmas favorites on Pandora.  We let our 13 year-old skip school to go shopping and to lunch with us.  I’ve squeezed in Christmas stories during breakfast and when I can get my 9 year-old to sit on the couch with me at night.  

I’ve done what I can.  I’m so limited.  In my energy and other resources.  And because this is just real life.  I know we can do more.  I feel it.  But I also feel like there is still time.  Like I’ve said before, it doesn’t all have to get done in December.  But maybe it’s because I want to show my gratitude so much, that I feel so much love at this time of year that it swells in me, propels me to want to do more and be more and to care more.  About what really matters.  And yet I’m so human and still have to think about what we’re going to eat and to ascertain if we’ve spoiled our kids or if we’ve gone the other way in our gift-giving.  I never really know.  So as I think about yesterday, I accept what I felt.  I acknowledge my frustrations.  But I’m ok.  Because I’m just so grateful for another beautiful day to enjoy the season, whatever season it happens to be, to learn from yesterday, and to embrace today.

Christmas Eves

As far back as I can remember we’d don our church dresses that early evening in anticipation of our night in the mountains.  My mom would come home from her job at the bank, I have no idea what time it was.  (Why is it that adults run their lives by clocks and kids absolutely don’t?)  Our family always ran on late.  But we made our way in our station wagon east of town, past the San Diego city limits, and out on the roads with less traffic, toward the mountains of Alpine and Descanso around dusk.  For little bodies it seemed like a trek, but it was probably only a half hour drive.  We knew it was finally Christmas when we pulled into our friends’ gravel driveway, way out in the country, smoke swirling from their chimney.  The wife worked with my mom and they’d been friends forever I think.  Mary Lou and Cecil.  He was a big soft mountain man with loads of whiskers and a gentle manner.  She was petite, Japanese descent, so warm.  How we loved these friends! They welcomed us into the quaintest of homes (to me and my two younger sisters at least, who hailed from an apartment right off a major thoroughfare back in the city).  It was like stepping into another world.  Wood burning fireplace, tiny cozy cabin-like abode, plush but oldish carpet.  Not much bigger than our upstairs living area really.  Candles burning tiny lights added to the coziness.  She’d make us a beautiful dinner.  I think I didn’t like some of it, being a kid and all.  Sometimes it was fish.  But I know it was a treat.  Especially for my mom.  I loved her tiny bathroom.  Carpeted, soft, just touching the area where the table was (dining room seems too large a word), with small lights.  An adventure to a private even cozier spot.  We’d have to leave again into the dark night to attend their Methodist church in the mountains.  Such a small and warm respite from the dark expanse and stars peeking in on us that made three little girls feel so vulnerable.  Being so high above the regular earth here in the mountains.  I loved this part of the night and the beautiful, familiar carols we’d sing standing up.  There was some talking.  I’m certain it had to do with Christmas and Jesus, but I never really paid attention to it.  It was gratefully interspersed with standing up parts where we would sing all the carols I loved.  I knew eventually the candle part would come.  Not that there weren’t already candles in every window, but this was our chance to participate, to carry our very own lights with little paper drip holders.  It was a nerve-wracking test of maturity, being able to hold it alone without burning myself.  I was always a bit apprehensive, walking down the side of the church and out to the garden area in a line, very conscientious of my little flickering light especially once the night air tickled it.  But this was also the cold part.  Back then we didn’t have boots.  We hailed from San Diego, there was no need.  So we shivered in our thin church dresses, mildly useful coats and long socks with bare knees, knocking together in church shoes.  But it was relatively short-lived, another reverent carol, probably Silent Night, that seems right.  And suddenly it was time to surrender our light sticks.  A relief alongside a pang of regret.  For that part of the night was over.  We made our way down the dark (I’d never experienced such dark as I did year after year in those mountains) back to the cozy country house.  We’d have dessert, a birthday cake for both Jesus and me, she always said.  We’d exchange our small gifts, and the adults would talk while we girls became sleepy.  Again, I have no idea what time we left for home, but it was late to us.  We were fortunate to be able to lie straight out in the back of our station wagon, in the days before rules.  We loved gazing at the stars contrasted with the dark vastness out the back windows.  It was incomprehensible for our finite minds.  Who are we kidding? Still is.

My mom and dad had been spending Christmas Eve with these friends even before we were on the scene.  In fact, one year they’d been visiting into the night together when my mom started having labor pains.  Cecil seemed a little more anxious than usual to get them on their way, helping my mom with her coat, most likely nervous about playing EMT.  I was born at 4 the next morning (in the hospital) and placed in a stocking.  That I still have.  Lucky for Cecil.

Sadly, Mary Lou passed away when I was a teenager.  I remember being 16 or 17 and still going to their house, but all of a sudden we were without our Christmas Eve.  And it really never has been quite as magical in all the years since.  We started dressing up and going out for a really nice dinner as a family, and it was always pretty and festive.  But not nearly as perfect.  We’d go home and change and then go down to the beach and walk around Hotel Del Coronado and the shore.  We’d come home and continue to open one gift on Christmas Eve, just as we had done with Mary Lou and Cecil.  A beautiful way to spend the evening but we couldn’t help but miss our friends and our time with them.  We continued that tradition for as long as I was home until I got married.

Eventually we started spending Christmases on our own.  I think mostly because we were in vet school after a couple of years, way out in Illinois.  So we didn’t make it back to San Diego for all those years.  Our first year there we had a month off so we ventured up to Minnesota with our four month-old Andrew and I got to see Todd’s family’s traditions first-hand.

We spent maybe a week with all six brothers and sisters, two spouses, and two babies joining us.  A frigid Christmas Eve, sixty below with the wind-chill.  Blankets on windows and doorways.  Mom has a way of making everything feel like home.  She made stollen (a flaky Christmas bread) and hot chocolate.  A beautiful and tasty dinner.  We acted out the Nativity with robes and lampshades.  We played games late into the night.  A warm gathering with his brothers and sisters and parents, every part of it epitomizing a homey Christmas, letting me in to another part of Todd's heart and past.

We’ve evolved over the years, taking bits and pieces from each family and creating our own traditions, as I assume most every family does.  To be honest, I wish I had the energy and creativity and that “mommy-ness” that so many women have, that desire and ability to make things magical and clever and themed.  Alas.  I just figure my kids can be that kind of mom or dad to their own kids someday, I’m just not into making myself crazy, I have so little residual energy at this time of year.

Usually we don’t put any gifts out during the month.  I hate the visual.  The kids assessing things.  But I’ve run out of room in the closet.  I can’t be bothered tucking them throughout the house this year, so I just started putting them out.  And the kids have mostly not paid any attention to them.  But in years past we’ve had to search for the boxes of presents and lay it all out.  It might look extravagant to some, but I have to remember there are ten of us, plus birthday gifts.

Stockings are hands-down the part I like least.  Actually, that’s not true.  I love the idea and the little gifts that fit inside.  I just like to know that things are kind of balanced.  The kids told me this year how much they liked finding little boxes of cereal in them.  Usually there are oranges, sometimes nuts.  Candy of course.  Play dough and bubbles when they were smaller.  Juggling balls.  Packs of gum.  Nail polish, lip stuff.  Five kids.  It’s tough for the Little Man to make sure it all comes out ok.

But we’ve never really promoted Santa.  Sure, we read the books and once in awhile the kids will leave out cookies and milk, maybe reindeer food from school once in awhile.  But we always responded with a “What do you think?” when questions came up.  We never saw any presents specifically from him.  Stockings were a surprise, but I’m not sure even now what any of the kids think or ever thought about it all.  See, such a matter-of-fact mom.  Zapping the fun out of even the most traditional traditions.

I decided many years ago to follow Todd’s mom’s idea and do a big, nice dinner on Christmas Eve rather than on Christmas Day like my mom.  We always hosted the family dinner growing up, which necessitated my mom cooking all day.  It only ever made me grouchy, I just wanted to relax on Christmas.  Anyway, we’re not fancy and definitely not original.  I try to make it beautiful and love lots of candles, a nice tablecloth, pretty napkins, our good plates and goblets, boughs and pinecones.  Like our Sunday dinners, but not over-the-top.  We have ham and potatoes, a cranberry salad, homemade rolls, you know the fare.  Dessert’s always been tricky.  I think traditional Scottish trifle sounds just about right, taking a page from my heritage.  But turns out no one but my mom and I like it.  So I go back and forth, never quite figuring out a good dessert.  I’d also like gingerbread and lemon sauce with whipped cream, which is what we used to have on New Year’s growing up.  These days I think it’s mostly sugar cookies and ice cream and whatever treats have drifted out way during the week.  Which to me is heavenly.  I’m doing a bundt cake I love this year.

Then the kids open new pajamas from Aunt Cheri.  Isn’t she so nice?  We exchange the $5 gifts we have shopped for.  (Around Thanksgiving everyone who will be here at Christmas gets a name of someone else and then we take a Monday night in December to shop as a family for each other, Todd going off in one direction with a few and me taking a couple more to a different part of the store, we love it!)  So the gifts are interesting.  The men get nuts or beef jerky or fishing lures, man stuff.  The girls might get earrings or lip gloss, chocolates or other candy.  Until just a few years ago Todd’s family carried on a decades-old tradition of exchanging homemade ornaments with each other.  So we would make seven stars for one family, six for another, etc.  For all six siblings.  I kind of love that tradition.  But I hate crafting.  So it’s nice to not do that any more.  But I miss it too.  We started adding another part last year. I wanted all of us to think of a handmade gift to give to someone else or some kind of service they would do that was more than just ordinary life stuff.  Todd made me a cutting board last year.  I hate to even use it, it’s so beautiful.  So he made me two other rough-cut ones that are easier for me to add my cuts to, and I keep the beautiful one hanging on a square nail.  Mitchell made a hedgehog chia pet out of clay for Avery.  Avery gave her hair to Locks of Love.  Bronwyn made ornaments for a friend.  Todd made bookshelves for me.  Callum  helped his dad make a charging station in the garage.  Just simple projects and acts of service here and there.  That might be my favorite gift.  After the gifts we of course read from the Bible about our Savior’s birth.  We watch a short video about Christmas or the Nativity, something spiritual and beautiful about His birth or the Spirit of Christmas.  I’ve sometimes shown them Mr. Krueger’s Christmas.  Or The Gift (when a boy during the Depression did his dad’s chores for him Christmas morning).  Or a musical video by The Piano Guys, etc.  Then we have treats and watch a fun movie as a family before the kids start fading.

Nothing fancy.  I told you that.  We don’t go out or even dress up.  We don’t have a set time we do dinner.  We’ve never acted out the Nativity.  Or sung any hymns.  I don’t know that it’s anything to write about.  We don’t do anything really thought-out or extra special.  I’m not into things that cause me stress or that are silly or that I have to remember every year.  We are a really basic family.  No frills.  Down-to-earth, old-fashioned.  But I think that’s what our Christmas Eves then and now reflect.   Just a night to be together, to celebrate family and the love we are so abundantly blessed with.  To bask in the blessing of knowing our Savior and to extend that love in small and simple commemoration.

Ready for Christmas

It’s the “So what’s your major”  and “Where are you from” kind of stuff I got as a college freshman.  It’s the seasonal small talk we run to after we’ve covered the weird weather.  Mostly among women.  Come to think of it, I can’t imagine a man ever reaching for such a cliche.  I mused to my 13 year-old daughter on our way to their program last night, What is everyone talking about, do you suppose, when they ask me if I’m ready for Christmas?  I bulleted some ideas and she just said, “Yeah, all of that.”  I just wonder if anyone ever says yes.  Is it some kind of badge of honor to be more behind than everyone else?  And what kind of checklists are we making anyway that set us up for failure?

I’ll admit it, I’m in my sweats.  Glorious comfort clothing.  Perfect for an entire day at home.  My Christmas gift to myself.  I texted five different girlfriends to see if we could get together today to either walk or just visit.  I toyed with the idea of having another luncheon.  I planned on going to the temple.  For some reason, this is where I am.  Happily, happily in the middle of a Bed and Breakfast transformation!  I’ve got laundry going, bread is cooling beside the sugar cookies, homemade potpourri’s on the stove, the tunes are swinging me, the dishwasher’s humming along, and the dog just barely woke up.  The house is basically thrashed.  And I LOVE it!  Because our house makes the best before and after—noticeable to even the kids.  I know.

So am I ready for Christmas?  I’m so literal, I never know what exactly people are referencing, which is why I probed Avery.  Like for Christmas morning?  Christmas dinner?  Generally?  Is this just to get the conversation going so we can compare woes?  But I think about it.

Shopping… I guess I have a short list.  We dropped off Todd’s parents’ gifts in July.  (But I forgot her birthday gift for her July birthday.  Lovely.)  Todd’s siblings decided on private donations to an organization we love, perfect.  We got my married sister and her family a family gift, delivered way back.  That leaves buying for my husband, the kids, then my mom and sister who join us tonight.  (I will whole-heartedly admit that stockings—along with Easter baskets—tickle me till the very day—they are possibly the hardest parts of these entire spiritual holidays, nice.) That’s the whole list.  You know me by now, I don’t do neighbor gifts.  Or friend gifts.  I occasionally will make/buy something for the ladies I visit each month, but really, what would happen if I didn’t?  We’d still be friends.  I did something tiny for the teachers back at Thanksgiving.  I’m just not able to do more.  It would drive me nuts.  I’m not Wonder Woman, not even her side-kick.  I’m just running on 24 hours a day like you.  Minus 8-9.5 because I need so much sleep.

I got a great idea from another friend years ago.  She and her family members each get to choose one family to do something for—plates of cookies or stuffed santa underwear (probably one of my favorite neighbor gifts ever)—and they deliver treats (that means 6 total) for family night.  Perfect!  So we’ve followed suit.  Random, very random.  Sometimes it’s a new family, maybe someone we just like, or maybe someone we think could use a little something.  Not everyone.  Not even close.  Anyway, that’s the extent of my gift-giving.

I’m still sitting beside a box of the rest of my Christmas letters that need to be addressed and mailed.  I don’t know why I hate that task so much.  It’s up there with thank you notes.  And I know you think I’m lying or at least kidding.  I’m not.  It’s so tedious to write the same type of thing on 150+ letters and try to sound personal.  I hate fake.  So I want to convey my love to each personally, but it’s tricky to make it sound as genuine as I feel after doing it so many times and ways.  So I skip several days and do a couple.  And I’m avoiding the Scottish ones because they require a trip to the post office for over-seas stamps.  You know I hate errands.  But I love the actual recap of the year, composing our family letter, that’s fun for me, a chore for most.

I guess people might be really asking am I ready for the company and the meals.  That’s legit.  Ummm… the short answer is how can I be until the day they’re coming?  Everyone is still sleeping in beds that will become the company’s beds until that morning.  There is no point mopping a floor or vacuuming or even cleaning the oven until the day of.  And there is really no one I’ve ever had who truly constitutes company.  It’s always been family and friends who come to visit.  It would be so hard to be friends with people who are uptight and stiff and who care about that kind of stuff.  But you know I’ll be honest with you.  I’d love to have it look like I have it all together.  Because a house looks so nice when everything is done all at the same time.  But how honest or realistic is that?  And how long can it last?  And who really cares?  It’s not.  Until the kids come home.  No one.  So yes, I try to do what I can to earn a Bed and Breakfast designation on my door, I clean and make beds.  I actually love this part.  I’ve told you before I kind of always wanted to be a hotel maid.  It’s fun to make things nice for visitors.  It doesn’t last though. 

Am I ready for the meals?  I just don’t get what the big deal is about Thanksgiving and Easter and Christmas dinners.  Does no one cook anymore?  We eat everyday.  I guess I just see holidays as Sunday dinners with a set menu that doesn’t change much from year to year.  So no, that kind of stuff doesn’t stress me out too much.  It’s probably more stressful all the other days guests are here because we do a lot of shopping and watch a lot of movies and before long everyone’s wondering where dinner is.  So I feel like I  have to be out and about as well as on the couch while at the same time snapping my fingers hoping dinner will appear.  But they like homemade food, and I like to treat them.  Since I am not Super Woman either, I will admit I get a little edgy sometimes.  But I’m getting better.  As far as food shopping, I kind of hate that any time of the year.  At least, like I said, I know what we’re supposed to be having, so that’s nice.  And my sister actually loves errands.  But I wonder if that’s what people are asking when they ask if I’m ready for Christmas.

I don’t know what else I should be doing and getting ready for.  I have a pretty easy life.  Of course I have all the normal stuff we all have at this time of year, concerts, school and church responsibilities, decorating, making fun treats and crafts for/with the kids, keeping track of The Elf, updating the gift spread-sheet, gifts for Todd’s co-workers, cookies, craft supplies, and basket contributions to remember, 3-4 parties this Saturday, etc.  But that’s to be expected.  I have a couple of girlfriends who are crazy busy.  But they are in charge of huge fund-raisers and organizations.  They are amazing, the real Wonder Women of the world.  I can’t imagine how they are making it all happen, they just blow me away.  I feel like I’m just stupefied, watching it all happen with my mouth agape, realizing they’ve got it done before it even occurs to me to ask if I can help.  I have so much to learn.

Am I ready for Christmas?  It seems like a better question should be, Are you feeling it?  Aren’t you loving it?  Isn’t this fun?  Don’t you just love Christmas?!  Isn’t this the best time of year?!  

I’ve told you before, it took me awhile to wrap myself into the Christmas Spirit this year for some reason.  Maybe because Thanksgiving was so late, maybe because it was so warm for a December in Montana, possibly because I don’t have the Hallmark channel.  I couldn’t put my finger on it.  But I do love this time of year, it’s my favorite.  I love everything about it (except driving on ice).  I love sitting by the fire with my family.   Shopping (during off-hours).  And with my family to find our perfect Christmas Eve $5 gift for each other.  Wrapping gifts. The smells of it all.  Remembering the decorations from last year.  Wondering what our little elf will think of next.  Cuddling with Todd in flannel sheets, talking late into the night.  Reading old-fashioned Christmas stories with the kids.  The tiny glow of each little light bulb on the front porch and above the cabinets and on the tree.  With all the other lights in the house off.  Getting little treats and unique creations from friends who have more energy than me.  Seeing your pictures waiting for me in the mailbox.  Having my mom and sister with me.  The yummy foods we indulge in once a year.  The feelings of peace and well-being.  Of wanting to do more and serve better.  Praying to know how.

Some of the best memories have been last year eating cinnamon rolls while Todd read us A Rifle for Christmas* one night by the fire.  Last Sunday afternoon when we knew someone was bringing us dinner but knowing we had an hour to spare.  We lounged in our church clothes by the fire and I read story after story to the family, no pictures, just words.  This past Wednesday night while the rest of the family was gone, Bronwyn and I did one Christmas word-search after another in her new book, side by side.  Making cookies and ornaments.  Shopping late Monday night and sharing popcorns and slushies in the food court as a family.  Listening to beautiful concerts and talented performers, watching my children and my friends’ children looking and doing their best.  What’s not to love about this wonderful life?

Because if we’re not enjoying the season along the way, what are we getting ready for?  And waiting for?  Do any of us really want it to only be about the hour of opening presents?  Or a fancy but stressful dinner that only gives you heartburn and a headache?  That’s a dumb way to spend a month if you ask me.

I know we only have a few days left.  I wonder what would happen if some of the list didn’t get done.  If you didn’t do neighbor/firemen/teacher gifts.  What if you just surprised them on Valentine’s Day?  What if you had them over for dinner on a cold, gray January evening instead?  Who’s to say we need to even send cards or make everything from scratch?  What we really crave is connection.  There are other ways to show we care. I think it’s less about the stuff on our lists and more about the people in our homes and in our lives.  I guess I’m just getting older and have less energy and interest in things that don’t really matter.  I just don’t have it in me.  But what I love are things that give me energy, that do matter, that strengthen relationships, that help us feel closer to one another.  And our Savior.

I wish I had the perfect list.  The way to do Christmas and get it right.  Just look at me and you know I don’t.  I’m not there.  But I’m also not in my closet crying this year.  Or even last year.  I’m learning.  So who knows if I’m ready for Christmas or not.  It will come regardless.  And it will go.  What really matters is what we felt during this season, who we were able to connect with, what we were able to do to serve in small ways, and especially what we are going to do with the Spirit of Christmas.  The rest of the year.

* A Rifle for Christmas

A favorite anecdote regarding the joy of the Christmas season.

Janet Lee, wife of the late Rex E. Lee, former president of Brigham Young University, remembers an occasion when Sister [Marjorie Pay] Hinckley's optimistic outlook changed her own perspective: 

"Several years ago, during the Christmas season, President and Sister Hinckley came to BYU for a musical event. Before the program, there was a buffet dinner, and at one point while the men were away from our table, the women began to talk about the frustrations of getting ready for Christmas. Our conversation focused on the fact that everything about the season was becoming a burden for women. We bear the responsibility of selecting gifts, organizing social events, preparing everyone's favorite food, and making certain that family, guests, and even the less fortunate have a merry Christmas. We felt overwhelmed if not resentful. Sister Hinckley listened patiently, and then without the slightest edge of criticism in her voice said, "I love Christmas. It is the most joyful of all seasons. I love seeing the eyes of little children light up on Christmas morning. I love giving gifts. I love being with my family. We just need to simplify and remember what we are celebrating." After she had spoken, something magical happened. Our attitudes shifted, and we began to talk about the birth of our Savior and the spirit of giving. In the years that have passed since those words were spoken, a burden has been lifted for me during the holidays. As I shop, prepare food, and join with friends and family to celebrate the birth of our Savior, her words nurture and calm me. "I love Christmas," I hear her say, and I let her teach me to relax and enjoy the season."

(Virginia H. Pearce, _Glimpses into the Life and Heart of Marjorie Pay Hinckley_ [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1999].)

Just over five weeks out

I’m beginning to realize that Todd was right, that my plastic surgeon must’ve been exaggerating when he said I’d feel like skiing after three weeks.  He obviously doesn’t know I will probably never feel like skiing.  Surgery doesn’t have anything to do with it.  So I guess that’s where my vision was, expecting myself to be myself by week three, to resume most of my normal life’s activities.  And maybe a bit extra what with the holidays and all.   So I went back to school, mopped, shelved, cleaned the bathrooms, swept, cooked, exercised, hosted gatherings here and there, had Thanksgiving company for a week, just regular life.  Only I’ve hated not feeling like regular.  

I hate that I’ve been able to do various activities, merely teasing myself that my body could handle them.  Because I’ve been sore the next day or two.  It’s just hard because there are no real guidelines.  And I told my navigator that.  Make a list for the next patient.  Taking it easy means all sorts of things, depending on who you are.  For some that means taking it down a notch and maybe walking rather than running your usual ten miles.  But for those who are used to lounging on the couch for the past three weeks, maybe it’s time to get up and make your own toast.  I haven’t known how to judge if the pain is normal or not because every day I’d seemingly add a new activity.  Was it that I pushed myself or is it just normal to feel tight and prickly, like a case of shingles or a bad sunburn?  Into week four.  I never got a hand-out on that.

So I’m still not sure I know.  I know I’ve been able to walk miles at a time from very early on without a problem.  My legs work fine.  I spent a good chunk of Saturday shopping after leaving the hospital on Thursday.  And it’s felt good to be with Todd on early Sunday mornings, to walk amid the Christmas decorations at the mall with various friends during the recent weeks.  It’s nice to feel a bit proactive, to combat all the sedentary days.  And treats of the season.

Sleeping is getting better.  I’ve been on my back the whole time.  Except the past week or so I’ve been trying out my sides for a few minutes at a time, which hurts still.  My torso is tender and so it’s an effort to turn over to get to my side and then the pressure of being there hurts.  So I don’t last long.  But I do eventually try the other side just to even things out.  Sometimes I wiggle a bit and lie on my wingtips just to take the pressure off my back. The first two weeks I rested propped up a bit on the couch.  Still getting up early-ish (5:30-6) mostly because I’m excited to get going again and also because by that time I’m so sore and stiff I just want to be upright.  This is still my most painful time of day.  Stiffly, I remember.  The tight band around my back is slowly easing. I wonder if I will always greet that feeling from now on.  And yet, looking back to even last week I feel a little softer, like the sharpness really is fading.

Sitting seems formal, but it kind of hurts to lean back against my incisions.  Some arrangements are better than others.  Prickly church chairs hurt more through thin blouses than my van seat with a puffy coat.  So sometimes I sit up real straight and look a little rigid.  It has felt better to sit up straight because it stretches out my tight back muscles.  So I look like some prissy girl who’s trying to fake good posture.  It’s nothing like that, but it looks like it.  It’s getting better.  I still can’t turn around that great.  I feel like a girl with a neck brace when I try to back out of our driveway.  In parking lots I look for spots I can pull all the way through in.  But you know how easy that is to find at this time of year.  I’ve been driving for the past three weeks, the truck steering wheel is a little stiff sometimes, but it’s been totally fine.

I haven’t napped much.  Of course the first week or two I would rest for an hour or so a day.  But it hurt so much to lie down, and getting up was worse.  By the third week I’d all but given them up.  I’d just try to go to bed an hour or so earlier.  I’ve tried to rest on the couch occasionally, but inevitably the kids get home before I really get to sleep.  I’m glad to give my body a little time-out even for a few minutes though.  It makes me feel like I’m taking care of myself.  But then again, I think a nap is good for everybody.  Recovering from surgery or simply a busy morning.  Like kindergarten in olden days, a little rest time is good medicine.

I’ve felt strong emotionally, completely thanks to your prayers.  I’ve occasionally cried unexpectedly though.  For a moment or two.  Because it’s frustrating to not be able to do my whole regular life.  Because even recently I’ve just hurt so much.  Just the other day I was having to deal with the triangle of insurance, doctor, and lab offices, wondering if I was the one messing everything up, and after going in circles I just started crying out of nowhere when I hung up with one gal.  This really isn’t too different from real life, I think we all have exasperating moments, times when we wonder what we’re doing, it might just overwhelm us all at once.  I get it.  I just did some cleaning to clear myself for a moment before I started calling again.  It’s no one’s fault.  I do my best to be kind to the person on the other end.  Because I know most things can be worked out if we just communicate rationally and as friends.  I think your prayers are what help me stay calm.

In some ways my family notices.  Like they’re careful when they hug me.  Occasionally I’ll ask one of them to help me with my coat sleeve or to lift a heavy box from a high shelf.  But mostly they see me doing my stuff and assume I’m the same as always.  I think they forget I’ve ever even been in the hospital.  Five weeks ago was last month.  Old news.

This would be easier to talk about if it were bone cancer maybe.  The word breast changes things.  Because they’re such a hyped-up part of society.  I walk a thin and wobbly tightrope, wanting to be frank but respectful, to be real but not inappropriate.  I’m sorry if I get it wrong.

I don’t even know how I’ve looked on the outside, I’ve just been more intent on what’s sore and what will make things hurt more or less.  Except that I’ve had to be a little careful because my t-shirts haven’t always been this tight.  My plastic surgeon doesn’t believe that I will want to remain the conservative, well-covered, middle-aged mom I am.  He and Todd laugh.  I just think it’s a mess and hope the swelling will eventually subside so I can put my arms down by my sides more naturally (the part under my arms has been so tender), it’s getting so I can.  I’m also glad it’s winter and can get away with sweatshirts and other comfy fashion statements.  I honestly think I look the basically the same as always on the outside.  Maybe my dark eye circles are more pronounced, who knows.  I do know my grays are longer than I like them.  Waiting to hear about chemo, I didn’t want to waste money on coloring when I’d most likely lose the whole color job.  You know I hate wastefulness.

This is the technical part, so close your eyes if you’re squeamish or prudish.  I meet with my plastic surgeon next week.  It’s been a month since I was in, when the last of my four drains was finally removed.  He tells me the incision lines on my back will fade.  They look the same as always to me: dried blood crusted under some kind of super glue.  Long, nasty, ugly.  Thankfully that part of me never shows.   Even in a swim suit.  Are you kidding?  He will eventually (3-6 months out?) create nipples from the skin he grafted from my back.  That I can't feel.  And then I’ll get my first tattoos.  3-D even.  Too bad that’s never been on my bucket list.  I figure if I can’t come out of the hospital with a baby, this is something I’ve always thought about, so I might as well be excited and grateful for it, but you know me and you know I’m just regular, so it’s nothing noticeable.  I’m sad for changing, to be honest.  But there is no point grieving (for long) what I can’t get back.  A quote I read today that I’m hanging onto: “Is there a more useless emotion than regret?”  Not that I have regrets exactly.  Just admitting that change can be hard.  We all know that.

I still feel that this has been a minor hiccup in my season.  So manageable and small in the grand scheme of things.  Five weeks of some sore muscles and a few incisions.  Really, does it even count? Looking back, I have felt much more acute pain.  And much longer stretches of pain.  Heart pains.  I feel what I think some survivors of 9/11 may have felt, a bit of guilt.  Over having such a small, treatable case.  Hardly qualifies in my book.  Every test has come back best case scenario.  It’s like winning every single game.

Speaking of tests, finally got the results of genetic testing, a panel of 17 genes tested.   All negative.  Which is weird since my sister and grandma both had mastectomies at 34.  My genetic counselor chalked it up to a bit of bad luck.  I was elated!  They’d also come across some “abnormal proliferation” in the right breast during the surgery that originally didn’t show anything unusual, but that came back benign.  Margins are clear, only one node had to be taken, and that was negative as well.  Onctotype test showed low chance of reoccurrence, but I will be on tamoxifen for 5-10 years.  I just found out tonight that I don’t even have to do chemo—something I’d planned for and emotionally prepared for from the onset.  Walking out of the clinic into the dark night with Todd’s hand in mine I finally let the tears out.  He thought I was happy.  It wasn’t that.  Of course I was absolutely relieved.  Of course.  But it was more than that.  It’s just not fair that it’s so easy for me when so many people around me are dealing with hard cancer.  I cried all the way home.  Guilty may be a useful word.  I don’t know for what.  So grateful.  But not sure why not me.  I thought I heard in my mind, “This isn’t your trial.”

I hardly feel like a “warrior sister” when I haven’t even seen a battle.  I feel so overwhelmingly grateful.  Just not worthy of being classified as a “survivor” when I haven’t even faced death.  I feel the same as I did getting my master’s.  Like not even attending graduation (which I didn’t). Because my program felt so chintzy compared with those receiving advanced engineering or organizational behavior degrees.  Here I am again reliving those same feelings.  I think I’ll put this experience in a box with my degrees, tucked away.  And yet, no matter how big or small the trial, we all learn some things along the way.  So I’m grateful for all the education I’ve been getting.  But that’s for another day.

Today I was admittedly edgy, not sure what the balance of the next few months would look like.  I had a headache, I was nervous, I'm not usually like that.  But I was.  All the way downtown in the dimming evening light.  I calmed myself by reminding myself we would just do what needed to be done.  If this was what it was all about, then we would move forward.  I prayed more specifically that I’d be able to have a good attitude.  That whatever needed to happen would happen.  That we and the doctor would be able to make good decisions about the future.  Like a kid praying.  I don’t know how to do it fancy.  But I also know He would rather have my raw emotion than to wait until I get it right.

I am still having trouble knowing what to pray for.  To be honest, I’ve gotten frustrated with Him and the slowness of the healing process and have asked that I can just serve without being sore the next day.  I should’ve been praying to know what I can and can’t do.  I know He would’ve told me.  But I never thought about that.  Because the only words I can get out are how grateful I am.  Overwhelmingly grateful.  To be trusted with this.  To have it be so easy.  Is that a blessing?  An easy trial.  Is it even a trial?  I haven’t talked to Him about that.  I don’t think He sees this the way I do.  I’m just so grateful for the many ways He’s shown me He’s near, that He loves us, that He will always be close.  And so while I’m not sure what exactly the point of all this has been, that’s something I’m grateful to know intently.  I’d do it all again for the reminder.

Cutting it short

This is really—I mean really—nothing to base even a paragraph on, let alone an entire post.  But you know I’m all about taking liberties with just about anything I happen to notice.  It’s just that Avery and I were talking about her still-newish chin-length bob last night.  It’s been a couple of weeks since she got the requisite ten inches cut off.  We went in for a trim with the idea of doing more in the back of her mind.  A classmate has been dealing with cancer, so several of the boys have shaved their heads to show support; she wanted to do something small as well.  But she has always loved her long hair, just loved it.  Although her hair has three opposing cowlicks, so it’s always been a challenge for her, she has loved the versatility of lengthy locks.  I’ve seen some sheen in her eyes as we’ve talked about her hair on and off over the past several days, and she cried when she first got it done.  It’s been a little weird for her to get used to and she’s definitely growing it out.  But I think it’s so good.  A small sacrifice.  I pointed out that as hard as it is to face another day without her tresses, think how her friend must feel going to school with first her bob, then thinning hair and then no hair.  It hardly compares, but I think it’s a valuable lesson.  Not only because it heightens our awareness of how others may feel, but I think it’s important to learn to ignore what we can’t change and move on.  I like taking a challenge and using creativity to make the best of it.  And I love seeing her try out different styles: curly, beach waves, up in a tiny tight pony, half up, straight and sleek, in a hat, it’s all so cute and she’s making the most of her new look, while still looking to the future of longer locks, she’s embracing the moment and enjoying where she is.  A good lesson for me.

I know it’s hard to believe since I have and have mostly always had short hair, but I love long hair on girls and women.  I think women should keep their hair long for as long as possible.  It’s just so feminine and romantic and beautiful and versatile.  And maybe old-fashioned.  I can only surmise that my fanciful fascination for long hair stems from a life of coveting from behind boy haircuts.  I never, ever had long hair as a child.  Even as a little girl.  It was always short and straight.  Practical, easy, ugly.  Not even a cute cut like lots of my friends these days have, just plain.  So I vowed early on (it wasn’t even a thought really, it was just an automatic) that I’d never, ever make my girls cut their hair.  I would leave their hair completely up to them.  And it’s been just great, I’ve loved seeing them grow up making their hair do all sorts of flips and curls and up-dos and buns.  So carefree, relaxed, youthful, I just love it!

And I’ve wanted that for myself.  I love the dark, straight tresses of several of my friends.  Beautiful heads of hair.  I tried it in high school.  But I had those bangs that have for whatever reason have made a come-back. The kind that went back to the middle of our heads.  Yikes.  It was a mess.  Straight or curly, it was a nightmare all the way around.  But I kept thinking that if it just grew long enough it would eventually turn out like the other girls.  Add it to the long list of ways I’ve been wrong in my life.  I can’t tell you how liberating it was—and so me!— to finally get it cut into a reasonably short bob the last month of my senior year.  Not perfect by any stretch, but more me than long hair on me was.  I felt light and free, I could tell I was on to something.

So over the years that’s basically where it’s stayed.  Most people, I’ve noticed, have a style that suits them even if they change it up a bit, but they basically play pretty close to home.  My mom, for instance, asks me every other trip if I like her new hairstyle.  I’m dumbfounded because I can’t ever really see a difference.  The only main difference I noticed was when it went from black to gray several years back.  I can’t see anything new year to year, it’s the same basic wedge cut I’ve always known and loved her in.  I have friends who are also like that, there hair never really changes much.  That’s me and my brown bob: curled under a bit with fluffy bangs back in the 90s, on and off with bangs through the years, an occasional long or short burst, to now just a basic sleek, boring a-line bob.  Unobtrusive, under the radar, right where I like to live.  When I die and see myself again in heaven I plan to live out my days there with my classic bob.

I did cut it pretty short when we lived in Illinois and I have to say I loved it.  Cuts were pricey and frequent, but I did love it.  Tousled, kind of soft spiky, a bit messy.  But I missed the feel of smooth tresses and the wind blowing in my hair.  My short cut required more “product,” and you all know I’m not really into a lot of extras. Of anything.  I’m not sure how long I would’ve kept it short, but we moved here and I couldn’t find anyone who could duplicate the cut I loved.  In fact, I had some nasty experiences and hate the pictures of Avery’s birth because of such a bad hair cut the day before.  We’ve all had them.  Usually they end up in pictures for some reason.  So I grew it out, sad to see the short hair I loved in pictures fading into lengthier bits.  But happy to be able to run my fingers through my hair again.

And then as I turned 30 I aspired to try long hair just one more time to see what would happen. Because I was feeling my age and noted that if I was ever going to have long hair again in my life this was my last chance. Dumb.  Dumber than before.  Because I should’ve known that a few years’ time wouldn’t make things any better.  Only worse because now my hair was like that old-lady texture: wiry, with an occasional gray, certainly not black or luscious and smooth.  I look like a witch with long hair.  I’m not being mean.  Just saying it like it is.  I’m ok with that.  Because I know now that I will never, ever grow my hair out again.

One style I totally love (besides the long straight look) is long layers that flip all sorts of ways ending at the shoulder—especially if they have that long thick hair that glistens like Vidal Sassoon commercials from maybe the 90s.  I have seen it several times and just long to look good in it.  Alas, I’ve tried it.  It just looks so much better on them.  And so that is why my hair looks the same in every other picture since the 90s—shortish, darkish bob-ish.  I don’t know that it’s my best.  I just know that everything else I’ve tried is worse.  So we’re here by default.  And because I just can’t be bothered with it.

I was thinking about the long and short of things just this past week.  Because I normally live with short, clear nails.  Easy to type with, out of the way, low-maintenance, just unobtrusive.  But I’ve been busy and haven’t gotten around to dealing with regular stuff like that (company and all), so I just let them go.  And as they grew I was transported back in time to sixth grade when my mom and I would paint our nails late at night at the kitchen table.  Talons.  Oval-like, like a lot of women in those days.  But I remember the distress of one breaking.  Then two.  What was the tipping point when you’d just have to call it and cut them all?  I never could decide if it was two or three.  But now that I’m older and have a less stressful life (is that it?), they just grew and grew.  Effortlessly.  They were perfectly shaped for over a week.  I put an opaque coat of polish on and they were good to go.  For days.  I was enamored by how easily and symmetrically they grew.  But they were sort of a pain.  When I’d come to type.  Or get cream out of my jar.  I’d constantly be scrubbing them.  So I finally just did it, they’re back to short and sensible.  Easy and me.  It’s just nice to be back to what I know and love.  Maybe it’s like my hair, not the best look, not the latest style, no sort of statement whatsoever, just kind of low-maintenance there.  But I’m happy.  Really fine with things.  I love being back in business, just able to go about my life unencumbered by dumb things like hair and nails.  This is so where I live.

I just figure by this age I know myself.  I’m not that interested in fashion or what the latest styles are.  Not really.  I just know what I like, what works for me and my lifestyle, and I’m good with it.  Not that I’m impressed by that, it’s just that I’m a bit lazy and uncomfortable mixing things up (what with the number of bad experiences I’ve had and all).  Avery and most of my friends are so great at this though.  They’re constantly changing hair and nail colors—a lot of times their polish matches their outfits!!  (Outfit?? I’m a jeans and t-shirt person, maybe for church I’ll put something that matches—and I’m talking clothes, not nail polish—but not for regular life.)  I love the creativity they have, their courage and zeal for shopping and looking nice.  I admire their energy and confidence.  I have one friend who lets her hairdresser do whatever she wants with her hair, she figures it’s just hair, it will grow back.  I love her philosophy and playfulness.  And I love it when my sister Cheri walks down our airport stairs because she’s always sporting a new hairstyle.  Sometimes curly and long, sometimes short and sleek, occasionally wavy, once bald, and once short tight gray curls.  Hair and nails are just something that most girls like to play around with, and I love watching the show.  As long as I don’t have to be a contestant.

So I guess the lesson for me this week is to know thyself.  Be true to you.  If you’re a playful kind of person and like the change, have fun with it.  Switch up your hair, paint your nails funky colors, wear trendy clothes.  If you’re happy where you are, leave things alone.  Some people embrace the changing trends and get excited about mixing things up.  For some people, that’s just stressful.  (For others, we just know eventually they’ll see that baggy neon looks good on no one and that fluffy bangs will always and forever be a mistake.)  Even more than knowing ourselves and what we’re comfortable with, I’m learning to embrace changes that we didn’t anticipate or have control over or that maybe we instigated but are regretful about later.  Like Avery’s hair cut.  There’s not a thing in the world she can do to naturally have ten inches by morning.  Might as well have fun with it and learn some things about styling and accessories in the meantime.  And plenty of young men go gray or bald before they think they’re ready.  I love it when they shave their heads and embrace it rather than wrapping their lone strand around and around the top like a turban.  Cheri didn’t wish for baldness or short, gray grandma curls in her 30s but she used the experience to showcase who she was inside.  And she has the most beautiful eyes and smile in the world.  That we could see better than ever before.

I just think it’s been a good week for Avery to see herself in a different frame, to see she can still be herself while she’s growing out her hair.  I’m even grateful for her tears.  Because I know it was a sacrifice for her.  I’m thankful she can empathize in even such a tiny way what someone else is struggling with.  Nails and tresses grow (unless you’re a bald man, but then it just looks distinguished).  Clothes come in and out of style.  And back again.  What always matters is that you know yourself, that you are true to who you are.  Whatever that looks like.