Some of you may know I am a bit of a chocolate snob. I never even knew I actually liked chocolate until I lived in Europe and realized I liked real chocolate; what I didn’t like was wax.
So imagine my surprise last year when I accidentally fell in love with a confection made in America. Our neighbor brought meus a box of Haviland Thin Mints for Christmas. Initially I turned my nose up at them. Surely if it wasn’t imported it wasn’t worth my time. But then I thought I ought to try just one. You know, to make sure they would be OK for the kids.
Oh baby. Before I realized it at least half the box was gone. Remember that scene in the movie Chocolat in which Comte Paul de Reynaud goes on a binge in the window display? Child’s play. I couldn’t get them in my mouth fast enough.
Thankfully the better part of me prevailed. The kids got a few crumbs. And all was well.
Until this year. Maceys is selling them for a mere 99 cents a box. I bought five on Saturday–for the neighbors–convinced the price would go up this week and I would be spared further temptation. But no, still 99 cents. Tonight I managed to resist buying more even though it’s becoming clear Maceys is going to need my help unloading their inventory before the expiration date. But about 30 minutes ago I was hit with the most intense craving. I needed a Haviland Thin Mint and I needed it right then now.
But guess what. I can’t find them. I just ransacked the entire house. They are no where to be found. I’m sure angels from on high are protecting me from certain indiscretion. Of course that only intensifies my craving, so I figured maybe I could write about them and forget about it.
Not working.
People: There is something terribly wrong here. I’ve got a Lindor bar in the cupboard and I’m desperately seeking something made by NECCO?
Maybe I hid them in the laundry room…
Epilogue: So I finally found them. And guess what. Are they good? Yeah. Are they that good? No. I don’t know what it was about the first time. Maybe it was the mood I was in. But this time I only ate three.
The other day I realized my youngest son had been packing around snowpants for the last two weeks straight in hopes that he should need them. That caused me to reflect on my appreciation for optimism.
What thing would you put into your backpack to express your own optimism, if it could be anything?”
That, my friend, is an excellent question. (I’m not telling yours, because it’s yours to tell–although I will admit it is the perfect choice.)
Off the top of my head I’m going to say I would pack say one of my favorite unfinished quilt projects–so unfinished it’s only just begun (and it involves an awful lot of hand-work). Optimism indeed.
And the rest of you? What would you pack to express your optimism?
Sue over at Navel Gazing at its Finest is sponsoring a contest in which we are to write about a favorite Christmas or holiday tradition. I couldn’t resist the lure of gift cards to two of my favorite places, so here goes:
For the love of Luke
Most of our holiday traditions seem to revolve around food (which, with a little forethought, I could have wisely avoided). This makes me feel a little shallow, but in this I am definitely not alone in the world.
In recent years I have evolved at least enough to know that the Christmas Eve clam chowder can be take-out, not homemade. The Christmas cut-out cookies can be made days ahead and we can just freeze a few for Santa, who will never know the difference. And as long as everyone gets at least one thing they think they really can’t live without then it is still Christmas.
Desperately searching my memory for a tradition that has some significance beyond the mere culinary, I suddenly knew what I wanted to write about. “But it’s such a simple thing. Doesn’t everyone do this?” I thought.
And then I knew why I wanted to write about it this year…
In spite of the Christmas-wish-list-bearing child in me, I always loved that moment when we seemed to move beyond the commercial and the culinary and get to the heart of what Christmas is all about. Each year, on Christmas Eve, my parents would gather us all around and we would take turns reading various passages from Luke 2–a.k.a. the real Christmas story. This narration has always been a moment of truth amidst the usual hectic holiday mayhem and since reading it was one of my favorite rituals I always knew it would be a tradition I would carry on with my own children.
Only my husband and I inadvertently took the story a step further. We named our eldest child Luke. So as soon as our Luke learned to read it only seemed natural to make it a tradition to gather the family around to hear St. Luke’s account of the first Christmas from the lips of our very own Luke.
Over the years this account of the Savior’s birth has come to have special meaning for him and for us as we have become accustomed to hearing his voice as he reads it. I can almost picture the young beginning reader Luke stumble through words such as “Nazareth” “accomplished” and “multitude” and see the progression over the last dozen or so years to now legal-adult Luke who will read it with tenderness and conviction as his love of the Savior is expressed in his voice and his spirit.
Who will read it while he is gone? I have no idea. But I’m sure I will be more keenly aware of his absence when we step away from the worldliness for a moment and gather to read on Christmas Eve. I know Luke’s leaving to serve is a good thing, but I’m already having a hard time (read: when I think about too deeply I feel like someone has unceremoniously kicked me in the gut) preparing myself for the inevitable empty chair at my table. I will miss his presence more than I can imagine, but it will be especially hard at Christmas.
All the more reason to make sure I savor the moment when it comes around this year.
Me: L~ will you please help me make the sour cream lemon pie?
L~: No.
Me: But I don’t feel well. I need your help. This is a lot of work. If everyone helped me with one thing it would be a lot easier.
L~: Grandma didn’t feel well and she cooked the whole Thanksgiving dinner.
Me:(knowing full well that really wasn’t true–everyone brought a couple of dishes to Thanksgiving dinner, which is how it should be) But we all helped her.
L~: Yeah, you did. And you got sick. Cooking makes people sick. That’s why I’m not going to learn how to cook.
Me: (for the record I’m not sick, I’m just getting a cold and I’m very tired today) How will you eat?
L~: My husband will cook.
Me: What if your husband doesn’t know how to cook?
You know how sometimes when your family is over and you set two tables and put some of everything on both so people at both tables can eat? Consider yourselves at the big table:
Today we are at my in-laws’ house where I am particularly thankful for the following:
a fiery furnace (no not that one. my FIL likes to keep it stoked up to about 80 degrees in the hogan–yes, my in-laws’ family room is a real hogan). it can be a little too much with a crowd, but when it’s below freezing outside the fire is sooooo very warm and cozy
aside from some meal preparation and dishes, having absolutely nothing to do. I cannot tell you the last time I enjoyed a few moments of doing nothing
lots of cousins the same ages as my kids, which are not so abundant on my side of the family
a moon dog (if you’ll excuse me, I must go look at it right this very minute) wow! it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen!
the new bed and new blinds on the window in the room I have slept in ever since I started coming to visit this house–clear back in ’83 (if you knew how mushy and broken the old bed was you would appreciate this luxury right along with me, I know you would)
the loaves and the fishes phenomenon. this probably deserves its very own post, but you just have to understand that my family and my husband’s family are almost polar opposite in many ways. I can’t describe either without appearing critical of both and that is not my intention here, but let’s just say I will not cease to be amazed at how at any given meal one dish with a serving size of 8-10 people will miraculously feed 25-30 or more. it happens every time. I think it must have something to do with the praying, and all I can say is I hope these same people are praying over me and mine very single day
that no one shot out their eyes or anyone else’s–or any other body parts today–when they went out shooting (see, they must be praying over us already)
that even when my kids get seemingly mixed messages from either family or from their mother and their father they are learning wisdom in making up their own minds (their choices may not always be what I would have them choose, but I respect them for trying to choose wisely)
the words “I’m sorry.” I have worked hard to tell my kids this when I am wrong or out of line and it is a blessing to hear those words sincerely said back to me (occasionally not even under duress)
that my MIL had me pass around three kernels of corn before dinner so everyone could say three things for which they are thankful. some of the responses included deodorant, gravy, somebody’s big truck and a bed. my husband did add me to his list after I reminded him to and my three were faith family and laughter
faith
family
laughter
(and now I would add friends)
Amen.
So if you had been sitting at our table, what would have been your three?
Are you ready? Pies baked (or ordered). Turkey thawed. Corn husked. OK.
Because I don’t own a blendtec and we’ve been invited to the in-laws for Thanksgiving dinner, I’m off the hook until Sunday, on which day I have a sick but compelling need to cook from scratch all the traditional Thanksgiving dishes I loved as a child (as well as some I was too immature to like then, but which I now love). All in the name of leftovers.
In the meantime I’m trying not to wonder why I was not asked to bring pies this year. My food assignment is the usual no-fail fare assigned to one whose cooking may not always be trusted: relish tray and fruit salad. I’m working really hard at being relieved and not even slightly crushed or offended. (It’s really OK, as I’ll be making a bunch on Saturday for Sunday. Do I need to bake pies twice in one week? Heavens NO!)
So here’s wishing you all a festive holiday. May the turkey be at least 170 degrees, the stuffing be moist, the piecrusts be flakey and the family be more fun than dysfunctional.
I hate parenting advice. No–not for the reason you may think. It’s not because I don’t want to be a better mother, but it’s because with my oldest already 18 and on the verge of leaving home I’m afraid it’s a little too late.
It’s not like I need to hear “You’re doing it wrong.” at this point in my parenting career.
So today when I came across an article promising “an exciting new theory many experts believe may solve many of [my] children’s ills” I approached it with some trepidation.
What if I have indeed been doing it all wrong?
But guess what? I had the best “Well, duh!” moment ever! Finally something I managed to get pretty right.
I’m a big proponent of play. Free, unadulterated unstructured play. Outside play? Even better!
I learned early on that “if they’re not dirty, they’re not having fun.” And I believe it. I cannot even count the number of hours my kids spent in our sandbox at our old house, in the garden, in the trees, even running a bit wild on Grandpa’s farm.
I believe in make believe–having had a healthy dose of it myself as a child. Some of my favorite things to do were these:
–playing spaceship on an old and entirely rusty swingset at my dad’s childhood home
–concocting “salads” and potions out of a variety of weeds and other living things at the neighbor’s house up the street
–using cowpies (not the fresh ones if we could help it) for bases whilst playing baseball in the pasture at home and at Grandpa’s house
–reinacting scenes from our favorite Western movies up on the hill and over the creek, (also) at Grandpa’s house
Oh the list goes on.
So hey. In a day when what’s tried and true yesterday becomes the taboo of today it can be a bit confusing figuring out what a parent should do. I’m pretty OK with the fact that I’m not a helicopter parent. Nor am I an alpha mom. (Still a little regretful of the fact I was never a good library mom–post forthcoming.) But I did/do let my kids play outside. In nature. (Truth be told, in their younger years I even caught them a time or two playing au naturel.)
And it appears to be good for them. (Like I said, “Well, duh!”)
I think I did it. If not, you may click here to view. (The video doesn’t do it justice, but it’s worth giving it a listen.)
You can’t see him, but my oldest son is on the very top row kind of in the middle. This was at their Vivaldi concert with MVHS last month. There really aren’t words to describe being a parent and watching your child be a part of something so amazing and moving. These are high school kids but they really get this song.
Today I went to the local junior high to pick up my daughter and her friends after school. Only by the time I got there all the buses were gone and my daughter and friends were nowhere to be seen.
What I did see, however, was a high concentration of kids of another culture ganging up between the back of the school and the tennis court, surrounding what was quickly becoming a pretty rough fight. At first I thought it might be a couple of kids just blowing off steam, but it only got more intense. This was no girly girl slap fest, but right and left hooks were flying fast and hard as well as a few kicks, shoves into the wall and such. There was some serious smashmouth being done. I looked about for a responsible adult, but where is one of those when you need one? It looked like I was all the poor kid getting pummeled to death had.
Without even thinking I got out of my car and marched right into the middle of it. Granted I was bigger than a lot of them, but I was also grossly outnumbered–maybe two dozen to one.
Lucky for me I must have had some intensity in my long stride, because as soon as they saw me heading straight for them they all scattered. (Of course having my cell phone up to my ear didn’t hurt either–they thought I was calling the cops.)
When I got back in my car I realized how rash I had been, but I really don’t know what else I could have done. I cannot sit back and watch someone getting the snot knocked out of them. I just can’t. I know I couldn’t have driven away either. I guess I got lucky this time. But I’m not naive enough to think things couldn’t have turned out worse.
