Home for the Holidays

I drove my three kids south in the night while we sang along to the radio. At each stop the kids exercised the puppy, whined for candy, and taught me that that you can now rent movies at the McDonalds Red Box in Kansas and return them at a McDonalds Red Box 400 miles later in Oklahoma.

Oklahoma was colder than I expected. We spent our time indoors and had a perfectly normal Christmas. We watched movies and ate and opened gifts. My son got sick on Christmas Eve while we were at church. We spent waaaaay too much time driving around town trying to find National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation on DVD. And on Christmas morning we got up, loaded the van up again, and headed North.

Mary and Frank watched a movie on the DVD player, and Anna read _A Christmas Carol_ aloud to me. I dropped the kids at their Dad's, and came home to Bill. He was mysteriously simmering multiple pans and revealed that he was making seven seafood courses - a traditional Christmas Eve dinner, but I wasn't here on Christmas Eve and we like seafood on any day, so that's how we spent Christmas night.

My stepdaughters don't come until Monday night. Their gifts sit in a pile in my living room. The ham I plan to cook for them the night we celebrate their Christmas sits in the refrigerator.

I do not have Christmas traditions, I have realized, and that is ok. I spent my Christmas Day in a van driving children and a puppy through three states. But add in that my daughter read aloud to me as we watched the soil change from red to brown? That is now my favorite version of the story.

I cling to the Christmas Season, which despite retail attempts to tell you otherwise, are the twelve days AFTER Christmas. My kids will come home, my stepdaughters will arrive, and we will merge into New Year's Eve and a visit by my inlaws. My life does not fit into one day of Christmas, so I am grateful that the season lasts longer than that.

I try to conduct myself with the dignity of a Lollipop Indian Chief. Racist? Probably. But to me he suggests humor and flexibility. He remains proud, though there are lollipops sticking out of his headdress. He's not "from" Oklahoma either, but now it's his home.

God Bless us, Everyone!

Grandma Doris Dates

There is a fantastic "This American Life" episode that is recorded in the Toys R Us at midnight on Christmas Eve. The reporter interviews a dad who is there to buy "twin dolls" for his 4 year old. He and his wife had already purchased the child's toys, and it included a doll, but that night, on Christmas Eve, the child had repeatedly told him that Santa was bringing her "twin dolls" and so this dad found himself at the Toys R Us on Christmas Eve at midnight trying to make his daughter's Christmas Morning perfect. He had enough insight to recognize the insanity, and yet he bought the dolls anyway.

The father was of course trying to reach the parenting pincale - the Magical Christmas Memory. He was well meaning and even knew that he might be wrong, but he could not resist. He wanted her excited smile on Christmas morning (which would happen anyway), he wanted to see her prefer those twin dolls to all other dolls and insist for a year that they go everywhere with her, and he most especially wanted her to wistfully say when she was an adult, "Oh, dad, do you remember the Christmas I got the twin dolls?" On principle I don't like Christmas, and this is why, but there are Christmas traditions that are meaningful to me - walks in the cold (I like Christmas Eve walks and Christmas morning walks), Midnight Mass, buckeyes (those chocolate covered peanutbutter balls made by my Aunt Mary Jane who included "a bottle of wine" in the list of ingredients when she handed out the recipe - "The wine isn't in the Buckeyes, it's to drink while you make em!" she cackled.), and Grandma Doris Dates.

No one calls them Grandma Doris Dates except my mom and dad and sister, I think. "I found the Grandma Doris Dates," I told my mom on the phone as I talked about my weekend shopping. I put a couple in a cellophane bag for my sister's gift box and packed a whole box of them for my parents to share with us when we go see them next week. When I was a child, my Great Grandma Doris would give a box of Medjool Dates to each of her grandchildren; my aunts and uncles disdained them. My mom knew enough to snatch them up and we would end up with the extra boxes of dates. Once home we would stretch our stash out to last months. We would get the box out after dinner and have one or two a piece. We would line up the pits and put the papers in our mouths to make muppet mouths. We would mourn the last box and the last date and wonder aloud how long it was until the next Christmas. It was our family tradition that just happened.

My Grandma Doris died about 20 years ago and it is the dates that make me think of her fondly every year. She had no idea that she was creating that memory for me; she was just sending a nice gift to her grandkids. It could just have easily been a Russel Stovers chocolate box (but those are easier to find in Nebraska), but it was the kind of dates she had on a trip to California once and liked, and it was a treat for her.

This year I did all of my shopping at small local stores. I appreciated the service and the selection and pace of the stores (no crowds or hysteria) and most especailly I appreciated the relatively easy parking. (I have actually been known to drive to the mall and then leave because I could not deal with the parking lot.) But, the dates came from Trader Joe's and to get to Trader Joe's I had to go to the Mall. That is a different holiday shopping story. Bill drove.

"Where are we going to park?" I wondered aloud as I looked at the ridiculous number of cars circling the lot looking for a spot.

"We're just going to drive to the front row. No one ever thinks to just go there," Bill said.

And in that instant I was reminded of my dad who has a similar philosophy. And sure enough, there was a spot in the front row. And once inside Trader Joe's the first thing I found was Grandma Doris Dates. It was the Christmas Miracle. And the Christmas Memory.

If this were a Hallmark Christmas Special, Grandma Doris would be looking down from Heaven and making sure that I got front row parking to the store that had The Dates. But yeah, I don't believe in stuff like that. I do think that my dad and my husband are right about just going for the front row parking against all odds, and I think that Grandma Doris had great taste in dried fruit and I feel a bit triumphant that I get to share some dates with my parents and my sister who appreciate them the same way I do.

I would send you a medjool date, but you wouldn't appreciate it as much as my sister Kate. I will send you my good will and my sincere wish that you find the magical Christmas Memory that is important to you.

How Did the Team Do?

(The title is a joke between me and my Dad. My Dad loves me, and when I was in high school he thought I was the best basketball forward/actress/debater to exist, like, ever. (Your Dad probably thought that about you, didn't he? I hope he did.))

I drove Anna to school this morning since she had too much stuff to take on the bus. She has a speech tournament this afternoon and evening. On the way to high school Anna practiced her Humorous Interpretation introduction and I had her do it a couple of times and warned her to slow it down. I observed that I thought she meant "monotonous" rather than "monotone." I suppressed the question, "Did your coach hear your intro? Is that what passes for an intro these days?" and I felt a bit like one of those hysterical football dads who replay their high school football star days through their son's glory. Coaching a speech intro is sort of like throwing a football in the yard. And if I had more testosterone and a greater need to fulfill myself through my child's life then I would storm into the speech coach's office and demand to know why my kid was being allowed to go into competition with a lousy introduction. (I know my kid though and respect the coach a lot and I want to make it clear that I totally put this on my kid who does stuff at the last second and hasn't even practiced her intro for her coach.)

"Slow it down and you'll come home with a trophy," I said.

"Eh," she shrugged.

"Are you a winner? Cause I didn't raise you to be a loser! So get out there and break into finals or I'll break your leg!" I said.

"Mom, you're crazy," she said.

"Well, yeah. Have a great time! Call me when you need a ride home after the tournament."

She flashed a smile at me that is making me smile just thinking about it as I type this. She got her suit and visual aid out of the trunk and started toward the school - a beautiful and confident girl.

I win.

The Ministry of Embarrassing Laughs

Last night I took Mary and Frank to Spamalot. We didn't have tickets or anything, I just walked in an hour before the show and scooped up some amazing seats just by asking. The kids and I had dinner at Panera and then walked to the show in the bitter cold. Ah. (Seriously, going to the theater in the summer just doesn't seem right some how.)

So my original blog title was going to be "Broadway in Nebraska." We had primo seats in the section where the season ticket holders sit. These are the folks that come to (nearly) every show, even when they aren't familiar with the show. Many of those in our section had never seen Monty Python before (no, really). The couple behind us were a bit surprised by the first half.

"Well that was different," said the husband.

"It's not South Pacific," the wife noted in a disappointed voice.

And then the second half started and Patsy sang "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" with an umbrella tap dance just like in "Singin' in the Rain," and I started laughing and laughing. And apparently it wasn't as funny to everyone else, because I was the only one laughing. And then I could not stop. Everytime I thought I had it under control something else would happen, like the men's chorus came out and joined him with twirling umbrellas and I started laughing again.

Mercifully the scene changed and I was no longer the only person laughing. That scene was really was the only point where other people weren't joining me laughing.

At home after the show I let the dog out, and by the time I got back to the kitchen, Mary and Frank were already telling the story of their mom's embarassing laugh to Bill.

"There was this one part where no one was laughing except for Mom," Frank explained.

"Yeah, it really wasn't that funny, but she just kept laughing and laughing," Mary added.

"And then she stops for a minute and you think she's done and then she starts laughing again," Bill said.

"Yes!" Mary and Frank said.

"And everyone was looking at us!" Mary said.

"Since your mom was laughing so hard," Bill added.

"And she laughs so loud and so weird," Frank said.

"I've been there," Bill said.

They all bonded over my embarassing laugh. Sigh.

"Just remember that the last laugh is on you!"