A Kick in the Mommy Gut

I'm a shrew ...

Every school has their own method of discipline, of teaching children how to listen and obey and follow direction. Aidan's teacher employs a a particular method involving colored sticks, and the taking away of said sticks when a child doesn't listen, or obey, or follow direction appropriately. One stick taken away is a warning ... but if you lose all three sticks, you face a consequence, such as staying in from the playground at recess.

But to counter this measure, there is also a system of reward, for if you keep all of your sticks you get a stamp on your hand. How kids love those stamps ... and how indeed my son thrives on that mark on his little hand. It's the first thing he shows me when he gets off the bus, smiling wide.

Every once in the proverbial blue moon Aidan gets a stick taken away -- he gets too involved being silly with his table-mate that he doesn't pay attention to the teacher; he talks to a friend when he should be quiet; etc. It's very rare, but it does happen. He's only six, after all.

Today when he came off the bus he looked a little dejected. The first thing he said to me, as he held out his clean, stamp-less hands for my viewing, was: "Mommy, I think you're going to be very disappointed."

I asked him what happened and he said, "See? I didn't get a stamp."

"Well, that's OK," I said, "but tell me what happened."

He looked upset. He said that his teacher called his name but he couldn't hear her over the voices of the other kids. He didn't get a stick taken away, but he also didn't get a stamp. He felt really bad, he said; he just couldn't hear her.

"Well," I said, "that's all right. It really wasn't your fault. Did you tell the teacher that you couldn't hear her?"

And here's what he said:

"No, I didn't tell her that. But I did tell her that I was really nervous."

"Why?" I asked.

"I told her that I was nervous because my Mommy was going to be really mad at me."

OH!

Boy, I felt rotten. I got down on his level. His eyes were actually wet with unshed tears. I asked him if that was what he really thought, that I get mad when he doesn't get a stamp. I quickly searched my memory bank, wondering if in some low, fallen moment I might have yelled or said something harsh or made him feel like failure of some sort, not "good enough." I couldn't think of a single moment (at least not for such a petty misdemeanor). The poor kid!

I told him that I never get mad about that, but that if he does lose a stick I want to talk to him about it and to encourage him to try to listen, or pay attention, or whatever the issue du jour had been. And those "conversations" usually last about 5 seconds because he knows what he did. But under no circumstances am I angry for any of this.

I looked into his big brown eyes. His little lip quivered and he suddenly threw his arms around me. He had been nervous. About me.

What a kick ...
What a lesson.

Star of Wonder, Star of Night ...

Maybe ... but not in our corner of the NJ sky.

Over the weekend, local newspapers brought forth the story of a space extravaganza, hearkening all Northern New Jerseyans outdoors to view something that won't occur for another 50 years: a visible pairing of Venus and Jupiter, dancing around the moon. "December 1st is the night," the papers declared -- how cool is that?

So on December 1st, the night of all starry nights, we finished our dinner and prepared for our star gazing adventure. We bundled up the kids, leashed the dogs, grabbed a few bags (you can guess what they're for), and made our way out into the nippy evening. Aidan was beyond excited, the little scientist in him jumping for celestial joy. We walked down to the corner, made the turn ...

... and saw a blanket of steely gray clouds.

Man! What a bummer!

We kept walking, hoping (in an exercise of body as well as futility) that the wind would part the cloudy curtain, displaying the shining event going on behind the scenes. No such luck. The clouds thickened, roiled, stubbornly refusing to reveal the splendor behind them. Selfish, if you ask me.

Well, at least we have something to look forward to 50 years from now ...

A Little Bit O' Christmas Tacky

Almost everyone, I'm sure, has some kind of "family" thing among their Christmas finery -- an heirloom of priceless value, a small trinket one had as a child, an ornament passed through the family. Great sentimentality accompanies this festive season, and bright memories are linked to tangible items, whether big or small, valuable or cheap, tasteful or ... well, not.

We have a piece within our own house that is held in high esteem. When Don's grandmother was on her deathbed about ten years ago or so, we were living in Virginia at the time, Don working hard as a student in seminary. We got the call, quickly packed our bags, and zipped up I-95. After the funeral, the entire family descended upon her home and, like civilized birds of prey (the word "vulture" sounded a bit harsh) ransacked the already-ransacked-looking house, divvying up the goods. Don was extremely close to his grandmother, and he didn't want much -- just a few items, but ones that were important to him. His family also graciously let him roam throughout the basement, picking up little odds and ends that we could use in our small apartment.

One thing Don unearthed opened up the heavens for him, a shaft of beaming light descended upon it, the chorus of "aaaahhhhh's" echoed about the room. It was a piece of Christmas art ... and I use that word loosely ... and at first, when I bolted to his words of "Oh, Sue, come quick!" I thought it was some kind of a joke. There was Don, tears replaced by a wide smile, eyes bright with joy, holding ... This Thing ... in his hands.

You're kidding, right?!




He was not -- not in the least. For him, this was Memory Personified, a bright spot of his youth, recalling beautiful moments from his childhood with his grandparents. For many of Don's young years, his mother got involved with the Jehovah's Witnesses, roping her young son in the bargain. For Little Donnie, that meant no holiday or birthday celebrations -- quite a blow. But his grandparents decorated their home, celebrating Christmas to the hilt, and Little Donnie remembered it all. This ... Thing ... had a mate, and despite his best efforts at digging and hunting, he couldn't find it. He was more than satisfied with one.

Ever since that day, This Thing has held a place of great prominence in all of our many homes. I have come to love it too, not out of any sentimentality or artistic flair, but because of its delightful tackiness and role as conversation piece. On Friday, when I opened one of the Christmas bins, there it was, laying gently on the very top so as not to be squished. I took down my print of Visscher's View of London and replaced it with This Thing ... yes, above the beloved TV! And there it hangs, in all its tacky, glowing glory. When Don came home from work that evening, his eyes fell upon it ... and he smiled that big, beautiful smile.

A little bit o' Christmas tacky is a good thing, really. So what's in your home this holiday season? A valuable family Christmas heirloom passed down through the generations? A similar piece of tacky remembrance? Share your story, and enjoy its place in your home!

Holly Jolly Acquisitions

Woo-hoo! Three more happy albums to add to my Christmas CD collection! That little shelf above my sink is getting a little crowded, but that's a good thing.

Thanks to the aforementioned local thrift store, Don snagged two oldies for mere pennies apiece:



And a special thanks to Jacie who aids and abets my addiction with glee, handing me my very first Sara Groves album! Jacie's a (shameless) self-professed SG junkie herself, and she will do anything to fill the ranks of devotees. I must confess I am indeed a happy target! A good holiday effort by Ms. Groves, although I think she guzzled a little too much eggnog when writing that questionable mariachi version of O Holy Night, with a thousand too many Glorias ... As Aidan put it during our first go-round, "Mommy, how many times is that lady going to sing Gloria? I just don't like it ..."


Come on, festive friends ... send your recommendations my way. There's always room on the shelf ...

Lights ... Camera ... Time for some Cheer!

It's official: Thanksgiving's over and the lights are on!

Need some more justification, you say, for this pre-December activity? Oh, I got that a-plenty ... Weather, my friends! Put twinkly lights up when the forecast is comfortable! So that is why our house is festive before the calendar flipped to its final month.

Yes, it was comfortably seasonal as I began the task of bedecking the halls yesterday morning -- just a sweatshirt sufficed and my fingers retained their feeling through the entire endeavor. In a flash, my fall stuff came down and was laid to rest in its plastic bin in the basement. In its stead came the garland and lights, snowmen and bows ... The kids had a ball helping me uncover the wintry goods and, as always, their cheer is contagious.

Today we finished the task, as my dad lent his helping hands, as well as his own greenery. He provides the wreath, the candles, and a multitude of extension cords. It really does look pretty -- just enough to catch your eye, but nowhere near being gaudy.

We treat our front porch kind of like an extension of our apartment. Remember, our last house was huge and beautifully Victorian, a 3-story gigantic structure which I decorated to the hilt. Now try to fit all of those decorations into my snug 2-bedroom apartment ... yes, I need that front porch. It's a cute little off-shoot, and it's become the kids' Christmasy area, complete with their own little tree (pictured below). When Aidan had reached the walking-grabbing-destroying-eating phase,we decided to forgo the full-sized real deal for a year or two, settling instead for a 3-foot imposter which we've kept ever since. This has become known as "Aidan's Tree" and it's his to decorate. Now it makes a wonderful addition to the front porch, for all the neighborhood to see.


Oh, and something else occurred today to make my spirits happy and bright. A few days ago we made a rare family trip to our local (and really quite incredible) thrift store, where I purchased two J.Crew sweaters for $4 ... and where Capitalist Don spied a deal. A Beatles box set was selling for an apparently low, low price and he wanted to get it to re-sell. Ummm ... sorry, dear. It smacks of gambling and I am just too thrifty for that. But it will sell! he insisted. Yes, but what if it doesn't? I countered. Sorry ...

He's like the proverbial dog with his meaty bone ... He countered my counter: what if I use my paypal account? he asked. I know it will double, and we'll use the profit for our family ... Oh -- well, in that case, there's no loss to me so ... go for it.

He did. Within one hour today he made over 100%. Cool!

Yes, it's official ... the season is here. While I write, a string of white lights drape across our front window in a simple fashion, Aidan's Tree twinkles through the window, decorations are strewn about the apartment, the kids are watching Charlie Brown's Christmas ... what is about this time of year that makes one feel so warm inside?

It's a beautiful feeling.
'Tis the season.

Tidings of an Unsettling Sort

OK ... when will people in the medical field learn NOT to send letters to anxious parents, stuffed full of tongue-twisty jargon designed to instill doubt and fear? Or send the letter with a whopping caveat: "Your daughter is fine, she has x, y, and z and ignore all that other stuff ..."

I got Grace's evaluation from her physical therapist today, an enormously heavy tome full of the aforementioned tongue-twisty jargon. I expected to read that her right foot is weak, her muscle tone is low, and so on. And I got all of that ... plus a whole lot more. Apparently the therapist identified several other "problems" with my precious girl that no one has ever mentioned before ... and, of course, all of that came without the desired caveat. No explanation, lots o' Latin-inspired descriptions -- all of which is leaving me questioning and concerned.

All I wanted to read about was her little clubfoot. Now it looks like her journey might be taking a detour. Time to email Dr. Wonder ...

Cheers

It's the Irish in her ...