Christmas Presence

The holidays surround me. No, the tree isn’t up. Holiday cards aren’t coming or going. No candles grace the table, neither Advent nor Hanukkah, although one season has begun and the other approaches in a few days.  Only older son’s efforts give physical evidence of the season, with lights hanging in most of the first floor, paper snowflakes filling the dining area, and paper chains wrapping the crown molding.  And I have been doing a bit of shopping, making my closet an off-limits place.

Physical manifestations or not, once December begins, I start to think. For years, I wondered just what I believed. Was Jesus the son of God? Was he a historical figure who led a movement of compassion and social justice? Was he an idealized conglomeration of social actors in his time? I don’t know. Jesus — divine, human, or mythological — has a powerful message that resonates today as well as it did two thousand years back. Belief aside, that message continues to impact the thoughts and actions of many. I suppose that’s worth a celebration.

With the theological questions put aside, this year I’ve found my thoughts drifting backwards through the last fifteen years. My older son’s first Christmas at seven months of age was a commercial delight. As the first grandchild on both sides, he was celebrated in full retail fashion. I can’t recall what his father and I bought him, but I remain amazed at the appallingly large pile of presents from grandparents for a child who didn’t care about anything more than paper to crinkle and lights to watch. What I do remember, thanks in part to video watched countless times, is that child a week later, pulling up on every piece of furniture, laughing while the Barenaked Ladies sang “If I Had a Million Dollars” while his father popped out from behind the ottoman. That first Christmas with him was love and promise incarnate. He was the best gift I’d ever received.

As my older grew, so did his appreciation of the holiday. The second year, it was all about the lights. “Ights, ights! Pitty ights!” came the cry from the backseat as we drove our toddler through the Hines Drive Light Show on a snowy December evening. His face beamed with excitement — all those lights, those pretty lights seemed to be in place just for him. For the first time, we started taking detours from trips after dark, seeking out the “pitty ights,” a habit persisting for years to come.

A year later, the lights still delighted, but presents had gained more attention, although one or two would still have done. That Christmas was the first that kept his father and I up late as we arranged and rearranged wooden train track on a board, carefully figuring how to make the most of the space. I’m not sure who was most excited as his Dad and I carried the display into the living room at the end of a long round of present opening. We all had a fine time for years to come, designing track and running trains. Gifts of tunnels and bridges with plenty of new engines were under the tree each season.

A year later, I was pregnant with my younger and feeling rather queasy as we travelled to Wisconsin to spend the season with my mother. The night of December 24th, the day after we arrived, my critically ill stepfather died, having smiled his last smile at my older and knowing that another grandchild was on the way, his fourth. It was a solemn season, with Christmas Day plans unchanged only because of my older’s presence. Again, he was our present, our life in the midst of death. Our family was a gift to my mother, who would from then on travel to Michigan for the season instead of staying home.

The next year, my younger joined us. Less outgoing than his (introverted) brother, he spend the jangly, crowded season’s celebrations in a sling or at my breast. Comfort often eluded him, and the busy gatherings that fill this time of year often still bring him stress mixed in with the pleasure. While little else from that holiday season comes to mind, I can still feel the weight of his body in that sling and the rocking and patting that was part of the ritual that kept him somewhat together. My older son enjoyed the noise and crowd while my younger and I often retreated into quieter spots.

The years blur after that. Children grew. Toys and books multiplied, an embarrassment of plastic, wood, and paper filled the living room on Christmas morning. Even after we left the Catholic and then the Episcopal church, the Advent candles remained, joined by Hanukkah candles and traditions when my mother converted to Judaism. Fatigued by the present deluge, we put the reigns on at home, following the adage, “Something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read.” Other traditions remained unchanged from my childhood — stockings first, coffee cake second, presents (taking turns) followed. A real tree replaced the artificial one, and one parent on Christmas morning replaced two. My mother continued to visit.

I’m not sure why Christmas past is so present this year. Perhaps once the tree is up and decorated, my mind will stay put in Christmas 2012. As the boys grow older, their excitement softens into enthusiasm. While this makes the waiting for Christmas morning easier, it reminds me that more changes are coming. Requests for gifts have changed, with my older’s list including a solid state drive, a mechanical keyboard, and a long list of computer related paraphernalia. His brother’s list remains more comforting — historical costumes and books still have a place among the tech accessories. I find myself missing pouring over train track adaptors and roundhouses.

My relationship with the holiday remains uneasy. It’s mine to celebrate by tradition alone, and I can’t shed the sense of a season stolen, now that my faith is gone. Perhaps that tradition is enough, as long as within it we continue to look beyond the lights, presents, and  coffee cake to the reminder that loving each other is humanity at its best.

May your holiday season be filled with love and peace.

Here’s the collection of past musings on the season, a chronicle of belief changed and the struggle the holidays presented.

• Holy Days (2009)
• It Takes a Year or Two (2009)
• ‘Tis the Season (2010)
• No Santa, Baby (2011)

 

 

Institutional Thoughts: Musings on Marriage

I’ve been contemplating marriage. Not actually getting married, mind you, since that’s just not on the radar. But since my divorce, I’ve thought about marriage: what it means, whether I’d enter one again, and why I feel so conflicted about it.

So why write about it now?  A good friend recently remarried. She’s utterly, completely in love. Both that love and the service were lovely to witness. Her wedding was the first I’ve attended since my separation (4.5 years ago) and divorce (3 years ago), and the months before it and the actual event brought me to wonder a bit more about marriage and whether I’d ever enter one again. I was surprised at how much my friend’s wedding caused my mind to tumble.

I was married fifteen years, spanning from the too-young twenty-five to a far-more-mature forty.  Some of those years were happy. Some were not.  I entered that marriage with the hope and confidence that typifies youth. When it finally ended, I walked away from the courtroom with sadness at what could not be and relief that what was had finally ended, I was also older and wiser and somewhat jaded. I left wondering about trust, lasting love, the fallibility of humans, the messes that result when our loving selves get lost to fear, and whether I could ever risk my heart again.

Sure, I’ve pondered the what ifs. What if I’d waited until I was older? What if I’d not seen marriage as bridge to be crossed to the world of adulthood? What if I’d entered it more certain of myself and with some years living alone (and not college-dorm-room alone)? But during that wondering, I’ve never desired to turn back the clock. That marriage brought me my children, after all. Beyond that, it was during the worst parts of that marriage and the time that came after that I learned about me and how my head works. I learned how much strength I had and what I truly valued. I learned I could go through what was unthinkable (divorce) and come out, well, better.

So with those positive outcomes from my first marriage’s end, why the sour expression when thinking about ever entering it again? The trite answer would be along the lines of “once burned, twice shy,” but that really doesn’t touch the tender heart of the issue. It’s not because I don’t trust men or because I wonder about my ability to judge character and suitability. It’s not because I’m waiting for marriage equity — when all are free to marry then I would partake. And it’s not because I’m a commitment phobe or prefer to live alone. (Or at least as the only adult in the house, although that does have some advantages. The empty side of the bed holds plenty of books and my iPad.)

Some of it is a bit of cynicism. Marriage, Catholic marriage as sacrament with plenty of forethought and a bit of counseling, didn’t safe-guard my relationship with my then-husband. The words said that day, the paper signed, turned out to be just words and paper. Human frailty set us asunder, and an expensive legal system undid the paper end. Now, as the child of divorced parents, I wasn’t naive enough to think that words, a priest, and a signature would guarantee happily ever after, but I did think that the intention that went into those words and those signatures would persist through the hard times. But for a myriad of reasons, sometimes that isn’t so. And sometimes, it’s better that way.

But as my father says, all marriages end. Whether by divorce or death, this human construct consummates in separation. And, generally, a fair amount of sadness, at least. I’ve led a fairly easy life, void of death of those close to me and blissfully full of an abundance of friends, food, and good fortune. Those years before and during the end of my marriage were miserable, frightening, painfully sad ones. The sense of loss was only buffered by the presence of my children and the intervention of friends, and the hurt the former suffered created a pain in me I’d never known before and hope to never know again.

But back to marriage. Our culture holds high expectations for a spouse: lover, best friend, housemate, nurse, cook, cleaning crew, parenting partner, confidant, and more. It’s a tall order. Marriage is no longer simply a pairing based on logical arrangements and tangible benefits to a family. I’m not advocating the return to the purely utilitarian marriage, although there are days that my first criteria for a partner would be a willingness to clean the insect carcasses out of the porch light and a dedication to shower cleaning. I’m just wondering what the right balance of expectations looks like.

Truth be told, I’d like to partner again, even if that person didn’t clean bugs out of lights or scrub showers more often than I. My father often reminds me that we’re social animals, and the desire to pair extends beyond the biological end of procreation. (And there will be no more of that, mind you!)

Our culture seems to carry conflicting messages about partnering. On the one hand, it tells us that pairing is essential. Consider the number of articles on and off-line about how to find and keep a partner. Look at movies and TV, many which focus on partner acquisition even while hunting down the bad guy. Find someone who “completes” you, who is your soulmate, and all will be well. Being alone? That’s a situation to be fixed, preferably as soon as possible.

Countering that is what I’ll call the “whole people are happy alone” maxim. As a society, we also value independence and the individual over the group (politics and sports aside), whether that be the group at work or the group that is a committed couple. Saying one is lonely is viewed as weakness, with admonitions to know one’s self and be comfortable in being alone. I’d wholly agree that being comfortable in time alone is part of being a healthy human. Being able to sit with the self without restlessly searching to fill the void of other indicates a level of acceptance of one’s nature and being. But one can be quite comfortable being alone and yet feel still lonely. Heck, one can be inches from one’s spouse and still feel lonely. I’ve been to both those places.

So where does that leave me with the institution that is marriage. It’s not a magic-maker nor a guarantee. It’s not the answer to loneliness or lights filled with bugs.  It isn’t a protection against pain and hardship. It is in part a piece of paper that comes with legal protections and social acceptance (and it should be open to all, regardless of the gender pairing, but that’s another essay). At its best, it should be a commitment of love, friendship, and deep compassion.

Perhaps its the pain of ending part that has me stuck.  Perhaps it’s doubt that I could do a better job at my part, despite knowing myself better and seriously working on the parts of me that did nothing to help as my marriage unwound. Perhaps a bit of it is about trust, as much as I like to think it’s not. I just don’t know. That’s not much of a conclusion, but today it’s all I have. I’m open to thoughts about marriage, good or bad. Share away.

Jane Schaberg: Friend, Teacher, and Mentor of Mentors

Jane Schaberg died this week. I didn’t take one of her classes during my years at the University of Detroit. I haven’t read her books. And yet, her life left indelible marks on mine. She was, as my mother wrote in her email to me, my mom’s “friend, teacher, and mentor of mentors.” She was part of my mother’s life throughout most of mine, thus she shaped my life as well.

Jane was a professor of Religious Studies and Women’s Studies at the University of Detroit Mercy, where she was on faculty since 1977. My mother began course work at UDM soon after, attending classes of Jane’s. Jane’s liberal feminist interpretation of the Bible and often eyebrow-raising theology opened my mother to new ways to read and understand the scripture. Many people were instrumental in my mom’s passage through UDM as graduate student then instructor, from U  of M Near Eastern Studies doctorate student and recipient, then to Edgewood College, where she served as a professor until recent retirement. Jane, however, stood out.

Jane’s teachings and theology followed my mother home, and I was raised with an understanding of Jesus as a historical being and taught when quite young to read the Bible with an eye to history and a mind wide open. As Jane wrote and published her first and likely most controversial book, The Illegitimacy of Jesus: A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives, my mother listened, learned, and thought. She also passed on Jane’s research and thoughts to the family, and before I finished high school (and just a few years after joining the Catholic church myself), I was steeped in the world of biblical exegesis and non-canonical gospels. I also understood that faith could stand the scrutiny of sacred texts.

Thanks to Jane’s work and teaching, my mother passed on another research-based understanding of Jesus’s infancy narrative, one where God takes Mary as a poor woman who has been wronged — raped– and intercedes. Jesus, whether as historical or divine, was so much more to me after that point, as was God. How much more of a statement is it to take what existed — what is sometimes dirty, messy, and even inhumane — and lift it up and make it holy. This resonated far better with me than a story of virgin birth. Further home exposure and a very small amount of formal study (in a class taught by my mother) brought me more understanding about the remarkable work of literature and history the Bible is. Study of the synoptic gospels and non-canonical gospels, such as the Gospel of Thomas, brought me deeper appreciation for the remarkable book that is the Bible.

Jane touched my life via my mother in less intellectual ways as well. Jane was a dear friend to my mother, welcoming her and other students, colleagues, and friends into her home. When I was young, that home was in an ailing neighborhood of apartments near the old Tiger Stadium.  On several occasions, we trekked to Jane’s house, which was often filled with other people from the University and other parts of Jane’s life. It was in that neighborhood that I first became aware of Jane’s compassion and dedication to the poor and marginalized. It was there that she befriended, supported, and began a lifetime of care for a few of the children in need in that area. She maintained that support and care for decades, never giving up and persisting as I’d imagine Jesus would have done. She lived the Gospels which she studied.

Jane remained a friend to my mother long after my mother left Michigan to teach at Edgewood College. Jane’s teaching and passion for learning and writing about the Bible as literature and history was firmly implanted into my mother’s own teaching, writing, and study. They continued to attend conferences together, and on many of her visits back to Michigan, my mother would visit Jane or meet her for lunch. Jane lived with breast cancer for decades, and for some of these visits, she was quite tired, ill, or in obvious pain. Occasionally, I’d visit along with my mother and Jane, but generally, I was the chauffeur, either taking my mom for the visit or taking them both to a local eatery. When I was in Jane’s presence, her wisdom, kindness, and compassion always impressed me. To be in her presence was a joy.

Over the past few years, I often wondered upon each visit if it would be the last. Time after time, year after year, Jane would rebound from a relapse, sometimes appearing stronger than she had in many of the previous visits, sometimes seeming more frail than the last visit. Her life seemed precarious, and yet she seemed to live so fully, continuing to write, publish, and teach. On April 17, 2012, she could rebound no more. Her wisdom and compassion live on through decades of students, colleagues, and friends.  And if I’m any indication, she’s reached a step beyond, touching those who know those students, colleagues, and friends. Jane has certainly shaped my life, including my appreciation of Jesus, and for that I’m thankful.

Peace, Jane Schaberg. Thank you for the gifts you’ve given to me, my mom, and the world.  In the words of my mother, you were “friend, teacher, and mentor of mentors.”

 

Pondering the Patriotic

Flags over Fort Sumter

My boys and I have been travelling. We’re just home from a short week down south, splitting our time between Charleston, SC, and Savannah, GA. My younger son wanted to visit somewhere historic while my older just wanted to get away from home.  After a good deal of spirited debate, we decided to head toward some warmth and sunshine (my request).

We had a fine time, exploring the cities, visiting museums, and seeing the Atlantic Ocean (it’s a bit too cold to do more than see it). I’m not surprised it turned out this way, but a good amount of our activities revolved around war.  In Charleston, we walked through the Battery and White Point Gardens on the southern point of the peninsula that is the city. Cannon after cannon. War memorial after war memorial. The boys were delighted, especially my younger. He’s my history buff, and nothing says history to him like artifacts from wars.

One of many cannons in Charleston's battery along the water

The next day, we visited The Charleston History Museum, spending an inordinate amount of time with the exhibits on armory, the Civil War (referred to as the War Between the States on most of the signage), and one of the current special exhibits, Blasted, all about projectiles and explosives from the Civil War. Sure, they had some other fine exhibits, such as one on seasonal fashion at the turn of the 20th century and another on botanical quilts, but these didn’t pull my guys in like the ones about war. Oh, my older tried, at least a bit, to look at the others.  It was, however, a losing battle.

Fort Sumter followed the museum and was enjoyed by all of us, but of course that was all about war as well. Sure, we went down to the shore and checked out the delights low tide reveals, but war won out.  It was all entirely fascinating, although this pacifist mom can’t help but punctuate these explorations with sidebars about the concept just war, military propaganda, and the incredible amount of death all this warring creates.  The boys are used to that and able to carry on those discussions with enough interest and integrity to allow me to sleep knowing that war is no game to either of them.

A shell through a wall at Fort Sumter

Our last stop on the history tour of Charleston was Patriots Point. Patriots Point hosts a mock-up of a Vietnam support base, a Medal of Honor Museum, and USS Yorktown, an aircraft carrier built after and carrying the name of one sunk in the Battle of Midway WWII and used subsequently in the Pacific toward the end of the same war.  A submarine and destroyer were closed for renovations. We all agreed the carrier and support base were fascinating to tour. We also all agreed that a future living on an aircraft carrier didn’t agree with any of us. Whew.

Patriots Point aircraft carrier, the USS Yorktown

It was the trip to Patriots Point that took my thinking from history and war to patriotism.  Patriotism, as defined by Merriam-Webster, is “a love for or devotion to one’s country.” Just what does it mean to be patriotic? If it means hoisting a flag on particular days on the calendar or sticking “God Bless America” to the bumper of my car, I fail the test. If it means holding my country as superior in all respects, I fail again. If it means I support massive defense spending and deployment of troops around the globe to protect US “interests,” I fail a third time.

I don’t think any of that, however, is patriotism. For the past year, both my boys have been studying US history via live and online classes, readings, videos, and discussion. It’s impossible, if one is paying attention, not to marvel at our founders’ determination to make America a place of freedom. Yes, they bungled it at points (allowing slavery to continue after founding this land of freedom would top this list). No, the results weren’t perfect. But basically, the result was a system designed to adjust to a changing world and protect against tyranny. Sometimes that change is colossally slow, and rarely do we agree as a nation what “protection against tyranny” really means; an election year magnifies all our differences in these definitions.

Understanding where we’ve been and those that came before us is a step towards patriotism. Learning one’s history, warts and all, and appreciating the freedoms we have fosters a patriotism that reaches far beyond flag waving and anthem singing. One can be patriotic and recognize that, as a nation, we don’t have it all right. We can learn from nations far older than ours and even from nations that no longer exist.

I think patriotism with nationalism are often confused.  Nationalism, as defined by Merriam-Webster, is “loyalty and devotion to a nation; especially : a sense of national consciousness exalting one nation above all others and placing primary emphasis on promotion of its culture and interests as opposed to those of other nations or supranational groups.” A quick web search for “liberal patriotism” reveals that many conservatives are actually describing a feeling of nationalism when explaining why liberals aren’t patriotic.  When the definitions are scrambled, it’s no wonder liberals are tagged as not patriotic. Nationalism places a human creation over humans, and by that I can’t abide.  I’m not nationalistic. I’m for human beings, wherever they’re from, whatever flag waves over their human-created boundaries.

But perhaps I can claim patriotism. Not the kind that’s noisy or warmongering. Not the sort that invokes the divine to protect one set of humans over another. Just the kind that learns from the past, hopes for the future, and works in the present to keep this nation one of true freedom to live, love, and grow.

Peace.

Shutters on the Shed

Nope, ours aren't that reliable.

My father and stepmother live on an acre or so of land perched on top of a hill in rural Western Pennsylvania. Their home, a split entry ranch with enough room to house visiting children and accompanying grandchildren, sits at the center of their property.  Their backyard includes another set of rooms, with a deck leading to a comfortably furnished patio, followed by an expansive hallway of shady lawn leading to a fire pit.  Beyond the pit sits the shed.

Last summer, they had the house and shed painted. Painting is, of course, more than painting.  Shutters must first be removed, the surfaces cleaned, repairs made, paint finally applied, and finally shutters returned.  We’d arrived long after the project was complete, the point when one basks in the results but finds all the small things that didn’t quite turn out as hoped.  The house and shed did look attractive, and I couldn’t tell you now what the small problems were, except for one.

After the project, one of my parents asked the other about the location of the shutters for the shed.  It seemed they had not returned to their windows at the end the project. For some time, they searched for the shutters, large enough items that losing them was improbable yet that seemed to be what had happened.  The shutters were missing.

I don’t recall how long they looked or who asked the crucial question, but at some point someone asked, “Did the shed ever have shutters?”

Thought preceded the answer.  No.  It hadn’t.  The house had had shutters (and still did), but the shed had not. Pulling the shutters off from the house, seeing it shutterless for some time, then returning them to the windows emphasized their presence on the house.  It also suggested their absence on the shed, creating a memory of shutters where none had been before. My parents had lived there 25 years at this point and are certainly of sound mind. My father is a retired Biology professor; my stepmother, a retired therapist. They are well-read, intelligent people. And yet, their minds convinced them that shed had worn shutters when it clearly had not.

I have plenty of my own shutters.  There’s the simple stuff I think happened but didn’t:  the cumin I’m sure I bought at the store yet never appears on my shelf and the garden clippers I returned to the garage that I later find next to the bush I was trimming. These generally affect only me, unless I happen to hound a child about the whereabouts of the tool I misplaced.  Generally, the only consequence is that I end up annoyed with myself or cooking a different dinner than planned.

Memory is wily and not to be taken too seriously. This is hard to remember at exactly the times remembering it is most important. I find myself clinging to memories as if they were tangible, verifiable facts. While the nature of memory makes it hard to be sure when I’ve done someone wrong thanks to incorrect memories paired with a stubborn disposition, I’m sure my version of the story has been wrong plenty of times.

Many arguments with my then-husband circled around what we each held as truth.  “You said that, I remember!” one of us would fling.  “No!” the other would retort, “I never said anything of the sort!” What would have happened if each of us could have softened and considered that our memories may have failed us?  I doubt it would have saved our marriage, but it could have made some of it better.

Repetition aids learning.  Repeating a scenario from memory strengthens (and shapes) the learning of that version of a memory. Thus in the mind of the teller, the fish that got away gets bigger and the wrongs of another become more heinous (reconsolidation). When I wander over memories of my childhood, my marriage, even conversations I had in the past week, I wonder what is real and what is a mental mash-up of reality and distortion.

This could be deeply disturbing insight on the human mind, but I prefer to think of is as an opportunity to let go a bit of the tight grip I often hold on my version of reality. I can’t see a downside to allowing some doubt to enter my mind when I hear myself say aloud, “I remember.”  When I reflect on the malleability of memory, I’m more likely to pause before engaging in a battle of the “I said, you said” variety or even quibble with my kids about who left the front door open.  That can only serve to open me up to more possibilities than my (highly flawed) version of reality and lessen conflict with others. Not a bad way to spin quirk of our human nature.  Want a bit more peace? Take a lesson from the shutters on the shed.

For a bit more on memory:

• Memory: I Don’t Think It Means What You Think It Means. An Interview with Dan Simons
• 4 Things Most People Get Wrong About Memory

Hairy Tale

A before shot. It doesn't look much different now, aside from being a bit more even across the back.

Part I

My younger son (ten years old)  has agreed to get a haircut.  A real haircut.  By someone other than Mom. While most kids hit the barber or salon well before their child’s second decade, this cut will be the first outside our home.

Why now? His hair is hitting his shoulders, and he wants it longer.  That’s fine.  I pick my battles, and hair length, schoolwork in pyjamas, and brown rice everyday for lunch aren’t grounds for fighting.  As long as he keeps it clean (no problem) and brushed (a bit more hazardous ground), I’m fine with his blond tresses cascading down his back. But I don’t know how to cut this thick, long stuff.  I was fine when it was just below his ears, but somehow this long stuff seems to go everywhere under my scissors.  I end up hacking away, taking far more than he wants taken, and still leaving his head looking like he just removed it from a blender. Thus the need for professional intervention.

He’s a bit nervous.  I’ve reassured him that, since she’s in our hire, she’ll follow his directions.  For months (years?) he objected out of fear that any hair care professional would just take the whole of his hair off, leaving only an inch or so to protect him from the world.  He wants long hair for a few reasons:  he likes to feel it swish around him when he shakes his head, and he likes to hide behind it.  Plus, it’s just comfortable.  I agree on in part — I don’t hide behind mine, but I do like that swish.

So in few hours, we’ll head down the street to a local salon to see my stylist.  She’s been informed about his anxiety and sensory issues, and she seems quite sensitive to his concerns.  He’s cautiously optimistic, although I’d not be surprised if his courage waned as we approach the cutting hour.  We’ll see how it goes.

Part II

That was uneventful.  My younger approached the chair with his usual nonchalance.  He cooperated fully, from the water spritzing to the end-of-cut dust-off.  His hair is still long and shaggy, but just not quite so shaggy.  It’s easier to brush, which pleases him, since I insist on that daily ablution.  His facial tic of the season was in full force:  a wide, open mouth not unlike what a very large sandwich would require.  It’s been around for the past week or so, whether stressed at the moment or not, so it’s not much of an indicator of his internal milieu.  He took the trip in stride, and he’s willing to do it again.

And So What?

So why is a non-story worth a blog post?  Because a year and a half ago, this visit never would have been possible.  I’d only hesitantly suggested the expedition within the last six months, only to be shot down immediately for the first five.  Just giving him a hair cut at home was traumatic for the whole house until the past few years.  I managed with a video to distract him and a snack, both items that complicate the process almost as much as help it.  (Hint:  A snack in a baggie helps to keep the hair out of the food.)  Asking a child to look down so you can properly assess the length in the back is just more torturous if it means you miss a moment of the Vandals, the Franks, or Saxons raiding or pillaging some unsuspecting village.

Sometimes it takes a non event like a haircut to remind me of the gains he’s made in the last year. It’s like watching your kids grow:  when you see them all the time, the growth is only apparent when they need a new pair of shoes or pants.  When we’re so close, we must measure our children’s growth by what they’ve cast aside and what new they put on.  The same holds for emotional growth. Day-to-day nearly constant contact makes it hard to see that serious change has occurred.  It often takes being with a family member or friend who sees my children less often to point out what has been so close I couldn’t see it — attainment of skills that just weren’t there at the last visit.

Over the last six months to a year, we’ve done many things I couldn’t previously imagine happily doing with my Aspie son.  We’ve been to late and loud parties, summer camp as a family, and the opera.  We’ve hosted parties for more than a single other family without meltdowns.  And now, he’s had a haircut outside of the home.  That’s a big deal for him.  That’s worth a non-story blog post.

What Do I Want for My Children?

What do I want for my children?  I think that question plagues every parent at least occasionally during child-rearing .  It certainly crosses my mind at least several dozen times a day.  Perhaps homeschooling makes that count a bit higher than average, but I doubt that number would be much different if their education wasn’t also on my plate.

So just what do I want for my children?  My standard answer is as follows:  I want my boys to be productive, contributing members of the world.  I want them to be moderately happy.  I want them to be tolerated by others of their species.  A bit low-reaching — even incomplete?  Nope.  That’s my list.  And it allows me plenty of room to love them unconditionally, correct them when they’re out of line, and teach them algebra and research paper writing.

But what about college?  Marriage and families?  Church membership?  Voting Democratic?

That all sounds fine to me, but those may not be their paths to happiness, productivity, and social acceptability.  Take happiness.  An Ivy League education won’t seal the deal for happiness any more than learning a trade or working on a ranch in Colorado.  Either way, you’re stuck with yourself, and unhappiness with yourself knows no economic, educational, or political boundaries.  Happiness won’t be found by gaining wealth, amassing friends on Facebook (really), or collecting every new electronic gizmo that comes along.  Sing it with me.  Happiness comes from within.  Misery comes from the same place.  What I want for my kids is an appropriate amount of the former, stemming from a good amount of self-knowledge tempered with love of that self, the others around them, and this universe we share.

Productivity is relative.  As an at-home, only occasionally-working-for-pay, homeschooling mom, I keep my self sane by reminding myself that all productivity isn’t tied to a paycheck or an office with a door.  Okay, I’d like to also see them in their own homes some day, although a communal farm or Buddhist monastery would fly, too.  I’d include financially independent, but who am I to say what sort of partnership them may form someday, what domestic agreements they’ll make?  It’s more than a hope for them economically.  It’s a hope for their hearts and souls.  I hope that the way they live in this world contributes goodness to it, either through their career choices or their general way of being on this planet.   I want them to add to the repair end — tikkun olam — more than the breaking end.

My line about tolerance by others is only a bit tongue in cheek.  With one child who is somewhat naturally oblivious to the habits of the humans in the world (but perfectly clear on cat social protocol), this is a serious challenge.  What passes as cute at ten (and far less does pass than it did at six) looks quirky at fifteen.  Nothing wrong with quirky — quirky works for all in this house.  But soon, ignoring the ways of the Earth’s most complicated species can make for a lonely life.  My younger’s Asperger’s makes learning the ways of the social human a fairly large, life-long project rather than a life-and-learn affair.  It takes loads of cues and commentary on what others might be thinking in a social situation.  His Asperger’s is going to stay with him, along with his green-grey eyes and love for complexity.  I’d not wish any of those to change.   Even for my neurotypical older son, getting along with others without being a sheep is a skill to learn and takes time to hone.   I’d like them to have friends as they go through life, so social awareness is part of the curriculum.

Ah, if it was that easy.  Have three simple goals.  Love my children.  Live our lives.  It’s not.  I’m pretty good at rationalizing most of the other stuff I do so it fits those goals, however.  Education tops my priority list.  Not for the sake of a particular diploma but as a path to choices.  My kids have (shifting) ideas about what they’d like to do when they’re older.  Neither mentions fast food counter work or anything requiring physical labor as goals, so we stay the course that offers the most options later on: we plan for college.  Not the stress-filled, do-it-all, kind of way to plan for college.  Not the lackadaisical, do-what-you-want way either.  We take the middle way, stressing strong reading, writing, and studying skills and enough science and math to open the doors in that direction should that be desired.

I wish just the social piece was easier.  I am not always sure when what I’m asking my younger son is for him and when it is for me.  Not the parts about not scratching certain regions in public or considering the feelings of other before making random comments that sound hilarious in his head.  I’m good with all of those, and those lessons are good for him.  Inhibiting shirt chewing (I often do) or insisting on eye contact (I try not to) are more questionable corrections.   Between the Asperger’s and, well, the being a boy thing both guys have going on, much of my girl-based social information seems suspect if not just irrelevant.  I’m best when I stick to the standards:  listen to others, chew with your mouth shut, and shower daily.

Even with the answer in place, I still ask myself — many times a day — what I want for my children.  It’s a reminder of what I hold important.  It’s a tug back to what’s truly important in their lives now and what is likely to be important later.  It holds me to those snarky, modest goals that aren’t really that modest after all.

 

Happy or Right?

My children have been raised on folk music.  Not just folk music, for that would be an unbalanced musical diet.  Classical, pop, show tunes, alternative, chant, and occasional rock music make their way into our home, but much of their listening diet is folk music, mostly newer folk with some classics.  It’s what I was raised on.  While I went through a time (okay, about 20 years) where I avoided the music of my early years, eventually I returned to folk music.  Perhaps it was the arrival of my first child.  My mother danced me around the room to The 59th Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy), and once my older son was born, it just seems the right kind of music with which to dance a fussy baby.

Only my younger embraces the folk genre as I have.  Folk on acoustic guitar has generally straightforward music with often arresting words.  We both love lots of words, and perhaps that’s the draw.  My older one may be less annoyed by it than I think.  It’s hard to sort out what is rejected because the child is fourteen and what is truly not liked.  Both have attended folk concerts, but it’s my younger who looks forward to the events.

Seventy two percent of my iPod music is classified as folk or other near-folk genre.  It’s wordy stuff, some full of protest, some full of love and angst.  Since my iPod lives hooked up to the car stereo system, it’s also what we all hear on our drive time when public radio isn’t what’s playing.  My older counters this with his own iPod, wired to his ears.  My younger makes requests.

Folk music starts conversations.  Bus boycotts, evolution, world religions, politics, and Middle Eastern peace are all topics covered on my iPod.  Plenty of love songs and more love lost songs play as well, although my boys don’t find these terribly interesting yet.  So when the iPod shuffled to David Roth’s “Be Kind to Yourself” a few days back, I made a conversation-starting comment.

To put some context on this conversation, here’s a snippet of lyrics:

It’s easier said than done, I know
I’m the first to admit I take it slow
I just have a hard time letting go
Letting go of the critic inside me

Sometimes I prefer to stand and fight
Then you remind me “Take it light,
Would you rather be happy or be right?
Would you rather be happy or right?”

I have a strong inner critic.  I have a strong outer critic as well, as does my younger son.  Sensing a teaching moment for him and a reinforcing moment for me I charged forward. “That last line challenges me.  The one about rather being happy or right,” I said to my younger. “Does it challenge you?”

“No,” comes his blunt reply.

“Which one would you rather be?” I ask, pretending I don’t know the answer.  “Happy or right?”

“Right!” he answers.

“And what about you?” I ask my older. “Would you rather be happy or right?”

Just as definitively comes his answer: “Happy.”

That sums us up.  My younger and I struggle mightily with our desire to be heard, to be right.  Being wrong scares the both of us.  It chinks the armor that gets us through the day, so identified with our minds are we.  As I’ve grown, I’ve been able to generally temper this desire to be right  — to be recognized as being right — when the cost of that act may be at too high a price for the situation or relationship.  But under stress, I too often revert to wanting to be right, even when I’m wrong.  Right in the face of evidence I’m wrong, even.  It’s ugly.

My younger is no different.  At six, he fought for twenty minutes over a math problem.  He’d blundered in a calculation, saying 7 +4 =12.  (It doesn’t.)  Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary (counting marks on the board and blocks on the floor, checking on two calculators), he insisted he was right. He knew way too much math to really not know, but he’s a tenacious child and held on for the duration.

At six, it’s excusable.  With his Asperger’s and accompanying tendency to lock in and fail to switch gears when needed, it’s understandable.  At 38 and fairly neurotypical, my twenty-minute counter-argument was not.  Two people, locked into being right over all else.  Talk about ugly.  No one was happy, especially not my older son, then 10, who continues to crave harmony above truth, sometimes to his detriment.

My younger son defends his position without shame:  Being right makes him happy.  I’m far more sheepish about this truth about myself, knowing the key to happiness involves far less dependence on being right.  And I believe that.  I’m more happy when I can let more slide.  When I allow for humanity to be human, myself included, I’m more peaceful than when my inner critic comes out and “rights” all over the place.  It’s a process, a slow, sometimes painful process for me and those close to me.  But I’m generally moving toward the happy camp.

My younger remains set in the “right” camp.  I see signs of growth in him, too, however.  He’s starting to apologize when he’s wronged someone, a hard task when admitting you are wrong is akin to having your skin removed. While he’ll still  verbally spar about a myriad of details he sees as right when challenged by another, this small change brings me hope.  Knowing this is so hard for him, this allowing himself to be wrong and having others know it. In turn, I work harder to let “right” go in favor of compassion and peace.  For compassion and peace tend to bring happiness.  And that’s really what I’d rather have.

Gelt Getting

We’d lit the candles while my mother said the prayers.  We had finished our chicken noodle soup, challah, and salad, cleaned away the dishes, and brought out a few small gifts that would conclude our annual Hanukkah celebration with my Jewish mom.  This was the fourth night of the Festival of Lights, but as it was our first night with my mom, it was our one and only Hanukkah night this year.  The day before Christmas Eve, we carved out some time for this ritual.  On the 24th, my boys would open presents with their father and his side of the family.  Tonight, however, we had together.

“Hey, look what I got!” said my younger son, giddy with Hanukkah excitement.  “Guilt!”

“Gelt,” I corrected him, choking on my sip of wine.  “Gelt is the foil-wrapped chocolate coins we have at Hanukkah.  Guilt is something else entirely.”  He proceeded to repeat his verbal faux pas for the remainder of the evening, although seemingly for reaction each time.  “Gelt,” I reminded him each time.  Thirty minutes later, we bundled into the car and headed for their father’s house for, as they call it, Christmas Eve Eve.  I said a quick goodbye, envious of the easy excitement of the young. I headed home, which was conspicuously quiet and calm.  Time to spend a peaceful evening with my mom and — hopefully– sleep with more ease than I had for the last few weeks.

Sleep has been an elusive companion lately.  While falling asleep is occasionally a problem, staying asleep from five onward plagues me far too often.  As an eight-hour-a-night person, this drop to five or six night after night makes for an out-of-sorts string of days.  Knowing (or at least hoping) it’s the stress of the holidays helps.  While I don’t go all out for the season, I do enough to create a fair amount of extra work.  I try not to worry about what isn’t done, but concerns nag at me, and they seem to like to do this most several hours before the sun comes out.  Guilt walks closely behind — or perhaps ahead — of my worries.

Ah, gelt would be such an improvement.

Because I haven’t dictionary-delved and dissected for a while, lets turn to the online Merriam-Webster for a definition of guilt:

1:  the fact of having committed a breach of conduct especially violating law and involving a penalty; broadly :guilty conduct

2a: the state of one who has committed an offense especially consciously

  b: feelings of culpability especially for imagined offenses or from a sense of inadequacy : self-reproach

3: a feeling of culpability for offenses

Guilt has its place.   Definition 2a, the state of one who has committed on offense especially consciously, is the prick of discomfort that can keep us from a Lord of the Flies existence.   Guilt about wronging another can lead to efforts to repair those wrongs.  Many might prefer to ditch the word guilt, replacing it with self-awareness, but I prefer the bite of good-old guilt.  Guilt can drive us to do the right thing when we really don’t want to.  A bit of guilt can lead one on to a heart-felt confession and determination to do better next time.

But definition 2b, feelings of culpability especially for imagined offenses or from a sense of inadequacy, is a different beast entirely.  I’m a pro at imagining offenses, either ones I imagine I already committed or ones that I might commit if I say or do the wrong thing.  Or if I don’t say or do the right thing.  Either way, like worry, guilt (2b) is useless and damaging.  This season, I’ve done my share of both, and I paid with my ministrations to those futile emotions with my sleep.  Do I make the cookies my mother loves, or let myself off the hook this year? Did I get the gifts for the boys even?  Did I overdo it for them?  Did I miss a cue during that conversation with so-and-so?  Did I stay too long when I visited?  I’m getting it all wrong!

Yeah, that stuff is the useless guilt and worry that folks say to discard.

If it was only that easy.  I’m convinced some of that tendency toward worry and guilt is imprinted on my DNA.  I can’t place that load on my Catholicism, which wasn’t the faith of my most formative years and was not practice in a place that paired the faith with guilt.  There is a fair amount of tendency to ruminate and feel guilt (2b) on my father’s side of the family, with a lessening of intensity as those genes are diluted by passing generations.  I’m able to talk myself through most of my worry and guilt, but I’ve yet to reach the point where I don’t feel them come on, unbidden and unwanted.  Like the neighbor’s cat that frequents our back door, guilt and worry return spontaneously, since at times they are fed. (Yeah, sometimes we feed the neighbor’s cat. I don’t feel guilty about that.  Much.)

So as the end of the year approaches, I continue to work on letting guilt (2b) and worry go.  With the more preparation-heavy holidays past, they are less likely to keep me awake. The pair is likely to continue coming, however unbidden.  After 42 years, that seems unlikely.  I can continue to acknowledge them then let them go.  All feelings pass, and these are no different.  As for what I pass onto my sons, that remains to be seen.  I’m hoping it’s gelt.  That’s the good stuff.

No Santa, Baby

Spoiler Alert:  Santa’s not real.

My only picture of my boys with Santa. Okay, it’s their dad dressed as Santa, ready to head out and delight/scare (several did cry)neighborhood kids.

I grew up without a Santa Claus.  Sure, I visited Santa at the mall for many years as a child.  And the presents in our stockings?  They were always addressed from Santa, in handwriting that was undeniably either belonging to one of my parents or to me.  On Christmas Eve, however, filling the stocking with a few of the basics was my job.  The orange or apple (for me — I didn’t like oranges) went in the toe.  Chocolate or nuts in their shells followed.  During filling, I’d pose for the annual “laying (her) finger aside of (her) nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney (she) goes” picture, head tilted, finger places, sack across my shoulder.  I’d leave cookies out for Santa and head to bed, too excited to sleep past five or six the following morning.

I’d awake knowing a present (always a book) was hidden, wrapped in my room.  Designed to keep me occupied and contained until the more reasonable hour of seven or eight, the book was the first sign that Christmas had begun.  Upon descending the stairs (with my parents at the appointed hour), I’d nearly burst with excitement at the sight of the overflowing stockings and the gifts under the tree.  The routine was stockings first, followed by sour cream  coffee cake for breakfast, eaten in the living room while we opened presents to a crackling fire and Christmas music.

But Santa?  He was just a story, a part of a poem, a guy at the mall dressed up to pass out candy canes.  I never recall believing in a Santa who came down the chimney and brought presents.  My parents confirm that they’d never taught me to believe, meaning I never had to unbelieve.  As an older child, I had friends whose siblings believed, and I was amused at the ends to which their parents would go to convince these younger ones that Santa was real.  For one family I knew, Santa wrapped in comics.  For another, only stocking gifts were from St. Nick.  Others wove more elaborate tales and ruses to extend the time which their children would believe in Santa.

I don’t recall any ugly confrontations, but it’s possible that in my youth I ruined Santa for a friend or two before I understood that the old man was meant to delight and that other kids really enjoyed it.  I certainly never gave the secret away once I understood that Santa was important to some families.  When my first son entered the age of Santa reason (the Christmas he was two and a half), his father and I were Santa-neutral.  We neither encouraged nor discouraged belief, and given that sitting on a stranger’s lap at the mall was one of the last things our older would have chosen to do, this wasn’t a tricky tightrope to walk.  His paternal grandparents, on the other hand, were full of Santa sentiments.  “What do you want Santa to bring you?  Did you see Santa?  Be good!  Santa is watching.”  He was their first grandchild — the only until our second child came along two years later — so all the kid-Christmas energy went toward him.  Being the rather distracted child he was (and is), he seemed to let it go by.

By three and a half, he was aware to the Santa story.  His paternal grandparents kept up the Santa talk, at least until my sensitive, anxious older son broke down.  Santa scared the crap out of him.  We assured him there was a cap on our chimney, showing him from outside.  We worked the logic end of the equation.  We told him we were Santa (and other intruder) safe.  Even his grandparents said Santa could deliver his presents to the mall, for his parents to pick up.  When the anxiety reached its peak, we told him point-blank — Santa isn’t real.  He’s just a story.  He’s supposed to be a fun story.  My older son was inconsolable.

How did he manage to continue to believe in the face of his parents’ honesty on the subject?  I’m not sure, except that all the other regular adults in his life, from daycare to parents of friends, talked the Santa talk.  We were in the minority and, I guess, not terribly convincing.  The fear continued the next holiday season, and we repeated our reassurance.  For a child with a scientific mind and high ability to reason, he was tenacious in his fearful belief.  Somewhere in the next year, about the time he lost his first tooth, he left Santa behind.  (No tooth fairy, either.  Way too scary to have a stranger in your room at night.  He left teeth on the kitchen counter and was wise to the deliverer of the dollar bill.)

Our matter-of-factness et al bit us in the rear in the start of second grade, ironically the semester that was to be my older’s last in school before coming home.  I received a call from his teacher during the day in late fall.  She notified me that my older had outed Santa in his class of first and second graders.  Not maliciously.  Not condescendingly.  Just honestly.  And then he promptly outed the tooth fairy.  Somehow, he left the Easter Bunny alone, although his teacher may have pulled him aside before more revelations were made. Interestingly, she said no damage was done.  The kids simply didn’t believe him.

He was flummoxed as to what he’d done wrong, and we assured him telling the truth was, generally, the right thing to do.  We did manage to convince him that believing in Santa was important to many children and their families.  To honor that, we asked him not to give the truth away.  We were met with incredulity: “A stranger coming into your house at night!?  What’s to like?!” We went through a list of his friends who believed and asked for his help in withholding his information about Santa (and the other characters) until we let him know that they already knew the truth.  This was hard for me, who values honesty above warm, fuzzy feelings about guys in my chimney.  But I think it was the right thing to do.  Every year, we’d review the list of friends and remind him to hold his tongue.  He did a fine job, as far as I know.

His younger brother never had much Santa exposure, what with having a brother who thought the idea was akin to being stalked by zombies and not having daycare to preach the Santa message.  Still, his dad and I maintained a Santa neutrality, not teaching Santa but not debunking him every time a family member or friend invoke the guy’s name. By four or five, he asked.  After asking him what he thought (“Just tell me mom.”) and saying that we were all Santa to each other (“Mom!  Just tell me!”), I told him the truth. This confirmed his thoughts, and he was quick add that he was sure the tooth fairy and Easter Bunny were also lies (his word).  As I had with his brother years earlier, I told him not to tell so as not to ruin the fun for those who believed.  As a child who longs to enlighten the world about all that he finds true, this silence is hard for him, but I don’t think he’s slipped yet.  At least, I haven’t received any phone calls from parents or seen friends of his in tears in December.

So next Saturday night, I’ll fill stockings after the boys have put in an apple or orange into each.  Come morning, my younger will likely wake me early while his teenage brother snoozes longer.  We’ll stay upstairs until 8, or at least 7:30, in an attempt to let their grandmother sleep a bit longer.  Then we’ll open the stocking that we filled together, eat sour cream coffee cake, and open the presents under the tree, gas fireplace on and Christmas music playing.  And we won’t ruin Santa for anyone.