Thanksgiving - honored, not forgotten

I keep hearing people say that Thanksgiving is the "forgotten holiday." I think that in reality, Thanksgiving is the last man standing. Most of our holidays have been mercilessly ravaged by retail and marketing to the point that many people aren't sure why we celebrate them anymore. Poor Christmas got the worst of it. We have Christmas in July bazaars. Decorations hit the shelves in August and find their way onto rooves and lawns sometime just after Halloween. Christmas music haunts our shopping malls for at least 2 full months before Christmas day. And don't even get me started on the millions - make that billions - of Christmas events in December proper.

It seems like all of our holidays are becoming more and more like Christmas. I won't say the entire month of October is all about Halloween, but it's getting there. We carve pumpkins weeks in advance, pick out Halloween costumes in September, and start going to Halloween festivals as soon as humanly possible. Easter is headed in that direction as well. How many crosses do you see in the seasonal section at Target? Zip. But chocolate bunnies, Easter baskets in the shape of Power Rangers, and Peeps? Katie borrow the door. For Heaven's sake. We even have a creepy Easter bunny at the mall that terrifies children infinitely worse than jolly ol' Saint Nick.

But Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving stands alone. It needs no Hallmark commercials, no Wal-Mart catalogs reminding you that it's coming, no constant barraging to remind you to be thankful. It needs no countdown, no reminder that you only have X number of days to grocery shop for your feast, no giant festival in Time Square with a giant lit-up pumpkin to drop onto our heads to announce that Thanksgiving has arrived again. Perhaps that is because we do not celebrate Thanksgiving, we honor it. We quietly and gracefully give thanks in our own special ways. We change our Facebook statuses to tell others why we are thankful. We do turkey crafts after naptime and pick Indian names to put on our head bands. We have feasts with our friends and our co-workers. We follow our own traditions of turkey and dressing, even if your dressing is really, really weird.

I love my family's Thanksgiving traditions and to be honest (even if it is a bit embarrassing), I start looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner in April. It is a given that grace will be said, an entire can of cranberry sauce will likely be thrown into the trash, and the green bean casserole will be the first thing to go. I know that my mother will ask me, "What do you have to have for it to be Thanksgiving?" My answer never changes - candied yams. It's absolute law that you do not trim the tree or string a single Christmas light until the day after Thanksgiving. If you do not listen to John Denver and the Muppets while trimming said tree, well. . . that's grounds for dismal from the family. It is absolute law that you, under no circumstances, are ever to participate in Black Friday.

So hold your head high, Thanksgiving. You have stood the test of time. You do not need anything more than the meaning of your own name to carry on a true American tradition. You are truly a day to be honored and remembered - quietly, respectfully, and cheerfully.

So watch out, Mr. Turkey. You're going down. We've got some traditions to tend to.

Fall and Christmas

I love fall. I love Christmas. But I think I love fall more than christmas and I finally figured out why.

Christmas? It's like your Great Aunt Midge. She calls in August to tell you she's coming for the holidays. You groan and squint your eyes, sick with worry about everything you have to do before she comes. Oh holy night. Clean everything, down to the fresh-air return grate on the a/c. Your menu must be planned, practiced, and perfect. And that door jamb that's got scuffs on it? Might as well drag out the paint and rollers - that must be tidied before she arrives. Don't forget the lawn. Pristine, down to the glitter-embossed reindeer. Leaves raked. Driveway blown. Perfect. And don't even get me started on the gifts... What do you give her? How much should you spend? You know she's going to judge you when she opens it. Your gift selection says everything about you, you know. Stress, stress, stress. Money, money, money... I'm exhausted just thinking about it! And if that's not enough, she pollutes your life with reminders for 4 months before she finally shows up on your doorstep, white gloves and all. Songs, commercials, texts, and emails. Everywhere you look, you see her beady eyes inspecting every preparation you make for her impending arrival. When she finally gets here and the inspection is over, you really are so glad she came. You enjoy her visit for three days and then you're just as glad to see her go.

But fall? Oh fall. Fall is my cousin Kelly who lives in California. She writes movie scripts and goes camping for vacation. She joined the Peace Corp, but now she's just a Calofornia granola cruncher who grows sprouts in her window sill and once made her own pants from wheat she harvested with her bare hands. I haven't seen her since ... Huh. I can't remember the last time I saw her, but one day I open my front door to go check the mail and there she is, standing on my doorstep with her arms open wide. Oh what a reunion! We hug and laugh and cry and the kids are giddy with delight. Aunt Kelly always convinces me to let them stay up late watching rated R movies and they somehow always manage to get chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast when she's here (even if they are vegan...). I can't recall what day she got here, but I never want to see her go. We reminisce and drink pumpkin lattes and run outside until our throats are raw with the chill air. We play in the leaves and fly kites and make s'mores and laugh and laugh and laugh. One morning, I wake up to find a little note announcing her departure and a package she left for the kids. Frost is on the ground and I can smell winter on the air.

Unlike Christmas, fall arrives with no pomp, no preamble, no preparation. You're stuck standing in your closet when the cool air arrives, at a loss for which jeans actually fit. You hail a silent "suh-weet!" when you drive through the local bagel shop and notice that pumpkin has returned to the menu. Fall is simple and unadorned. And as much as you rejoice at its arrival, there's no countdown and no long list of to-dos to complete before she plops herself on your front porch and stays for a spell. And as much as you lament her departure, there's always the memories you made and the promise of more fun to come.

So welcome, fall. We sure are glad to see you. Won't you stay for dinner?

A blog is worth a thousand pictures

I like to think of my blog as a verbal photo. It's just a snapshot of the parts of my life worth remembering. The funny moments. The sweet things my kiddo says. Revelations I have in the middle of the night. Even a place to vent, whine, or complain. But it's certainly *not* a real representation of our lives. Not even close.

Recently, I've been struggling. Daniel hasn't been sleeping well which, of course, means I haven't been sleeping well. I start my mornings off angry with him. He's been a good sleeper his entire life and is suddenly getting out of bed 3-4 times a night "to go potty." I wake up grumpy, but I'm soon revitalized by funny faces, a cooing baby, and my two cups of coffee. We usually head to the Y, and after a quick workout, I spend 10-15 minutes in prayer. I beg God - beeeeg God - to make me the mother He wants me to be. I beg for patience. I beg for Him to let me see my kids the way He sees them (by "kids" and "them," I mean Daniel - Lia doesn't do anything. . . yet). I tell Him that I *know* these strong-willed characteristics that Daniel displays are going to serve him well one day and may even serve Him well one day. Right now? They're pushing me to the brink.

I usually come out of the chapel feeling refreshed and ready to face the world (and anything Daniel can dish out at me). My mediation usually carries me through lunch and even into the early afternoon. But around "nap" time, something gives. While Daniel should be napping, he's in his room doing anything but. Knocking on the walls (which, of course, keeps Lia from sleeping), gagging himself on his blanket (to the point of vomiting in his bed), even tearing pages out of his Bible (which, incidentally, nearly sent me over the edge). I lose my patience. I yell. I threaten. I deliver. I feel guilty. And I don't know how to fix it.

***Just an fyi to anyone reading this, I think if I get this down on paper, I'll find a solution. I guess this is the written equivalent of thinking out loud.***

Maybe if I spent Daniel's "quiet" time on my knees the afternoons would go better. But I'm just so darned tired (because he's keeping me up at night) that I inevitably drift off while Lia naps. At least I'm rested, but I don't have the grace I need to carry me through the hardest hours of my day. Where do I find it? Perhaps with the cooler temps, we'll try an after-nap walk. Maybe if I can get out in the world and take a few deep breaths, the hardest part of the day will seem a little easier to face.

In the meantime, I'll just keep praying, keep breathing, and keep remembering that he'll only be little for a little while. One day, I'll wake up and he'll be grown. I'll long for these days, when my baby needed me and I ruled the roost. I hope that I look back on these days with fondness (not frustration) and maybe my blog will be worth a thousand pictures, even if it's a snippet of my frustration that's frozen in time.

Jesus and a plunger

We slept at my house last night - for the first time in over a month, nobody woke up in hysterics, nobody woke me up to go potty, and (even more miraculously) nobody woke me up to eat. I felt amazing and decided to show my appreciation for my answered prayer by belting out a few hymns. One of my favorites (especially since Grandma died) is Victory in Jesus. For those of us not raised in the Baptist church, it goes like this:

O victory in Jesus,
My Savior, forever.
He sought me and bought me
With His redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him,
And all my love is due Him,
He plunged me to victory,
Beneath the cleansing flood.

Leave it to Daniel to put an even bigger smile on my face. He says to me (completely earnestly - the way only a child can), "Why does Jesus need a plunger?" I rolled. I laughed so hard *both* my babies laughed with me.

I had this image of Jesus, Bible in his hands, sitting on the pot. It had never occurred to me exactly what the Bible means when it says "fully man and fully God." In an instant, I got it. Vulnerable to all of the inconveniences of daily life - down to a backed up toilet (or an overflowing hole in the ground, as the case may be). As many wonderful memories as I associate with this hymn, I now have one more - Jesus plodding through the house, grumbling about the plumbing, going to unplug the potty. Victorious, indeed.

Explaining Heaven

God and Heaven and Jesus are heavy topics to discuss with a three-year-old. We've been reading Daniel's Bible almost nightly since he was about 4 months old. We've read it through several times. We pray every night at bedtime. We go to church as often as we can. I try really, really hard to make Christianity a part of our every day lives -in my words, my actions, and my reactions. I'm not always successful, but I try. Sometimes, I think I might be succeeding.

On Easter, we went to my parents' house to swim. We were splashing around in the pool, talking about much of nothing. My dad asked Daniel about Easter. "Why do we celebrate Easter?" Daniel looked at him funny (we still struggle with the concept of celebration). I rephrased it for him, "Daniel? What did Jesus do on Easter?" Without a breath's hesitation, he looked at my dad and said, "He took away all my sins. All the bad things." Tears sprung to my eyes. I can only imagine how God felt to hear such sweet words.

A few weeks ago, Daniel and I had the following conversation:

Daniel: Where is Daddy?
Me: Daddy's at work.

Daniel: Where is YOUR daddy?
Me: Buddy? Buddy's asleep.

Daniel: Where is HIS daddy?
Me: He's in Heaven.

Daniel: Is he God?
Me: No, sweetie. He's with God.

Daniel: Is he Jesus?

Me: Nope, but he's with Jesus, too.

Daniel (extended thoughtful pause): So is he Goliath? Or is he Moses?

Conversations like these will stick with me for the rest of my life. I, of course, went on to explain that there are more people in Heaven than just God, Jesus, Goliath (who, if I remember the Philistines correctly, probably is NOT in Heaven), and Moses. When he asks things like this, I know he's listening, even if he doesn't quite get it.

My favorite Heaven discussion to date happened just this Thursday. We were driving to the Y for a quick workout when Daniel piped up from a rare, pensive silence in the back seat. "How do you get to Heaven?" See, we've talked lots about how to get to where our family members are. You take a plane to Phoenix or to Qatar (Nana and PopPop, respectively), you drive to Buddy and Gram's, you drive aaaaaaaaall day to get to Denton (Uncle Jon and Aunt Kristin), you drive part of the day to get to Giddings (Granny and PopPop), etc., etc., etc. I guess he just wondered how to get to God. I launched into a pretty moderate explanation about Salvation. You have to tell God thank you for Jesus and thank you for taking away my sins (I'm still too chicken to explain death. . . ). You have to tell God that you love Him and you want Him to be with you always. I started to add a few other details, but noting the look on Daniel's face, I stopped. "Daniel? Is everything ok?" Daniel responded in a very non-Daniel small voice, "I want Him to hold me. I want Him to hug me." The only words that would come were, "Me, too, baby. Me, too."

Later that day, Daniel, Lia, and I curled up in Brother's bed for a nap. We all snoozed for awhile, but I woke up long before the kids did. As I lay there between my babies, it occurred to me that I was probably as close to hugging God as I would ever come on this planet. Hearing them breathe. Smelling Lia's newborn smell and Daniel's I'm-three-and-I-play-hard-outside-all-day smell lingering together (call me crazy, but with a better name, Scentsy might could make some money on that one). Feeling their tiny, warm bodies curled up against mine. I couldn't help but think that this was God's way of hugging me before my time. I closed my eyes and took in the sensation. And I thanked God for hugging me, for making it possible for me to even consider such a thing.

The destiny of hairy balls

Yes, you read that right. Keep reading. If I do a good enough job of telling this story, your abs and your sides will ache.

A few days ago, I was bathing Daniel. He's suddenly become very interested in all things below the belt. Normal, of course, but I'm just not quite ready to have some of these talks. The boy is just three. Anywho, I'm bathing Daniel and he asks, "What do my balls do?" I was taken a little off guard, and like I said, I'm not ready to have that conversation yet. So I said, "Nothing. Yet. But when you grow up, they'll do something." In an effort to keep things simple, I tend to give him the shortest, most innocuous answer possible. Of course that usually leads to more questions, but I don't want to back myself into a corner if he's not ready to have "that" talk. Much to my dismay, he pressed on. "What will they do when I grow up?" Still unwilling to have that talk, I balked and dodged and spit out the only thing that came to mind. "They'll get hairy." He left it at that.

This morning, we were watching Kung Fu Panda. Po said something about the Sword of Destiny. Daniel did was Daniel does. "What's 'destiny?'" At that exact moment, Lia pooped and Doug came into the living room. I offered Doug the choice - change the diaper or explain "destiny." He chose destiny. So off I go, wipes in hand, to change Lia. "Well, Daniel. Destiny is easy. When you grow up, it's what you were meant to do." I was impressed. Simple explanation for a very abstract idea. Daniel completely blew it out of the water. "Daddy? Do you have balls?" I swallowed a laugh and almost gave myself a hernia in the process. Doug stammered for a moment, entirely dumbfounded, but came clean with, "Yes, Daniel. I have balls." I was hoping to God Daniel would leave it at that, but he went there. "Are your balls hairy?" At this particular point, I nearly died. I know you aren't supposed to laugh when they say things like that, but I just couldn't help it. I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And poor Doug. All he could come up with was, "Let's talk about something else."

Because I'm with the child all day every day, I got it. I completely understood the leap from "destiny" to "hairy balls." No one else on the planet could have possibly seen the connection, but clearly, Daniel associates "growing up" with "hairy balls." I can see the shock and horror on his kindergarten teacher's face now. "So, class. What do you think you'll do when you grow up?" Daniel will shoot his hand into the air and wait patiently to be called on. When it's his turn, he'll matter-of-fact say, "I'm going to have hairy balls." We will spend our afternoon being shuffled back and forth between the counselor's office and the principal's office and I'll be labeled as a terrible mother.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm doing a decent job of explaining the "hard things." I've avoided death like the plague. We have several family members in same-sex relationships. I've tried my darnedest to explain why sometimes we have aunts and uncles and sometimes we have aunts and aunts. I'm not sure whether my explanations are sufficient or just plain confusing. I wonder if I'm setting him up to be tolerant or judgmental. Sometimes I wonder if he's listening to anything I'm saying. This morning he answered that question. He's listening. And even though he might not "get it," he's putting it all together.

A messy day

When Seth Rogan gets around to making Knocked Up II: The first years, I have two scenes written for him. Warning: The main topic of this post is "poop." Those who have not yet had children may want to avoid reading any further.

It was a lovely Friday morning. The kids actually slept past 7:00 and we had plans to see old friends for lunch. I made my way into the kitchen to get breakfast going. Lia was kicked back in the nap nanny, Daniel was arguing with me about how many blackberries he was going to eat, and i was *just* about to pour my coffee. I looked over at Lia and noticed a yellowish line growing around her midsection. Yup. Poop. I'd been waiting on it for three days and I knew we were due, but man. I carted her off to her room to clean her up and quickly decided that wipes were no match for this load. I got her as clean as I thought she needed to be prior to a bath and headed back to the kitchen sink. En route, I got hosed. Big time. Here we are, not even 7:30, and we've both had a complete wardrobe change AND a bath. What a start to the day.

The rest of the day went well. I ventured out to the old office to catch up with my former coworkers. We chatted it up and Lia graciously filled another diaper for me. This one was not catastrophic and was easily changed in the back of the car before we headed home. Once we got to Buddy's house, little miss was hungry again. As soon as I finished feeding her, she started rumbling again. As I was sitting in my mom's La-Z-Boy, I jumped up in a hurry to avoid any permanent damage. As I did so, Mount Saint Lia erupted. Big time.

Thank God my parents have tile floors. Too bad dogs don't come with a standard tile option. My parents' cairn terrier darted past me as Lia let loose. You guessed it. Darby was covered in baby poop. She ran through a puddle of it, thrashing about wildly. She was all but chasing her tail in a fruitless effort to figure out WHAT was on her back. She was ushered out the back door while we attempted to get the mess under control. My dad was busy cleaning up the floors, I was busy bathing Lia (and trying unsuccessfully to avoid yet another full wardrobe change), Darby was busy scratching at the back door, and Daniel was running around in circles screaming about the non-existent poop on his hands. By the time everybody was bathed, changed, and poop-free, I was laughing hysterically. I could absolutely see Kathrine Heigl and Seth Rogan playing me and my dad. I could totally hear the soundtrack playing in the background. Given a little more time to actually script the scene, I'm willing to bet that somebody in Hollywood would pay money for such a script. For now, it's just a typical afternoon in the life of a mama.