Simpler Times

I think I blinked and suddenly it's December. Where did November go? Oh yeah, it was lost in the after-Halloween shuffle, evaporated in online holiday shopping and disappeared in a 2-week trial that I still have not recovered from. It's gone, and into December we must go.

As I was driving to work this morning, after driving my Birthday-girl to school (yep, as of today, I'm the mom of a 3-year old. YIKES!)... where was I? Oh yes, driving B to school, listening to the all-Christmas radio station (Thanksgiving to the 26th, gotta love it), I was reflecting on life before Hanukkah. Well, that's not fair, of course, because I still do Christmas with my family, and deciding to celebrate Hanukkah (i.e. converting to Judaism) wasn't really the change in the seasons for me. It was that whole becoming an adult thing that did in the holidays.

Life was so much simpler as a kid. The only responsibilities I had between Thanksgiving and Christmas were to write the perfect letter to that jolly man in red, and to pray (and pray and pray and pray) that the Barbie Dream House or Pink Corvette were under my tree on Christmas morning. I must have been doing something wrong, because the corvette and dream house never materialized under the tree, but you get the idea. As I got a little older, I had to worry about buying gifts for friends and family, but never anything that major. I remember a few years when we were little that my Grandma took my sisters and me to Ben Franklins, a little discount store in our hometown. I'll never know how she did it, but she let us wander around the store and pick out little gifts for each other and for mom and dad. I still remember the package of gumballs that Trix and I got each other, shaped like an actual gumball machine. We thought we were so cool.

I say that life was simpler then, and maybe it was. Then again, maybe it wasn't. After all, there were those years when Dad, for some inexplicable reason, refused to allow us to put up a Christmas tree. There was the year (I was in the 8th grade), when he refused to let us open our gifts Christmas morning. We went off to Grandma's house in old clothes (we loved wearing any new clothes that Santa brought us on Christmas day), and we had to wait until about 8:30 that night to open our gifts. Even then it was a fight to get him to let us, and then he sulked and pouted and refused to open his gifts. I know what you're going to ask, and no, I have no clue why he did that.

After dad passed, there were a few Christmases that were really good. We lived in town, and on Christmas Eve, Trix and I wandered down the street to Jess' house. There ended up being about 15 or 20 kids there, juniors and seniors (and a few little brothers and sisters), and we played board games and just hung out. (And I think one year we built a drum set.) No parents, just hanging out, with the snow softly falling outside. Then after midnight (or 1 or 2 a.m), we'd wander the block and a half home. By then Mom had gotten everything wrapped and put under the tree, and we'd peek through the stack to see if we could figure out any of our gifts, before we wandered upstairs and went to bed. Those were good Christmases.

Christmas in Rochester was pretty good too, if you don't count my begging to be paid early so that I could afford gas to drive home, or my bumming $20 off of Adam, the bouncer at one of the bars where I worked, again, to put gas in the car. I worked, alot, during those years, but even with Victoria's Secret and the 2 or 3 bars where I waited tables and tending bar, I couldn't make the ends meet. But I still managed to get gifts for friends and family, and one year, even had a holiday party with a bunch of friends, at this random apartment that I shared with a few other girls. Those were good times. Simpler times.

My first Christmas in LA was not good. I didn't have the money to fly home until January, and I was living with a very odd family. Aside from cooking their Thanksgiving dinner (because the mom had absolutely no clue how to stuff and cook a turkey), they were looking to me for Christmas dinner as well. And then my Grandma Norton passed away. I had to hoof it home quick and ended up getting there the day after Christmas. I think her funeral was on the 27th. Still weird. I don't think my mom likes Christmas much these days either.

I think it was at that point that Christmas started to get complicated. Not because of the holiday itself, but just because of life. The carefree existence started to slip away at some point, and here I sit, a parent, responsible now for someone else's joy and excitement at the holidays. Now I have a mortgage and property taxes and credit card bills. And I still have to put gas in the car, although I'm not driving 3 hours to get home in a car loaded full of presents. Now I try to get a plane ticket, but even that's not simple anymore. Now I have to buy 3 tickets instead of 1, and prices are much higher than they used to be.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go back to that time when I didn't have all of the worries that tend to drag along with the "holiday spirit." I can still picture the quiet darkness of West Jefferson Street, with the trees tall and silent lining the way, and the street lights shining down through the snow, falling softly onto the snowy street. I shiver thinking about the cold, and remember curling up on the couch in a blanket when I got home. My favorite time of the holidays was late at night on Christmas eve, with all of the lights in the house turned out, except for the tree, and the candles in the windows. I miss that time. The carefree attitude of those days is certainly gone, and my mom sold the house and there are no more candles in the windows.

Then again, there's nothing quite so fun as watching B get all excited. I still listen to Christmas music and this morning, she was trying to sing along with "Do You Hear What I hear," too darn cute. It's hard sometimes to look back, and to see all the different versions of "holidays" that I've had. I long to return to some of those times, seemingly so much simpler than what I have now. But I wouldn't trade B for anything, and I know that she will love this time of year as much as I do. My job now, I guess, is to give her those times, so that she can look back in 20 or 30 years and remember them fondly. I hope that she won't have any holidays (or any other times) that she looks back on and wonders about, like I do. I guess that's my responsibility now. Not so much the bills and the presents and the wrapping, but the memories.

And yes, she does want the Dora bike and the princess vanity set and the Aurora that she saw at Mickey and Minnie's house that is as big as she is. But we'll get to that.

Boys and Girls

As I sit here eating my not-good-for-me-at-all lunch (of cheeseburger, onion rings and chocolate shake), and as I think back to my struggle last night between going to the gym versus sitting on my butt with a pint of icecream, I couldn't help but laugh about the conversation that Brooklyn and I had on our way to school this morning.

She told me that one of the boys called her a "poopy head" yesterday. And she was giggling about it. Oh, the wonder of boys and girls and what happens when they play together. Someday, she'll learn that when boys avoid her, it's not a good thing. Someday she will learn that when they say you are bothering them, that means that you are, and for some reason, they want their space. Someday, she will learn that when they run screaming in the opposite direction, you really don't want to chase them, lest you run up against a restraining order. Someday.

But for now, she is innocent, and has no clue what it means to be called a poopy head. This same boy was upset last week when his mom and I happened to be talking on our way out, the 4 of us walking together. He his behind her and said that we (Brooklyn and I) were "bothering" him because we were all walking together as we were talking. I had to laugh because just a few minutes later, he was shouting to B from the car (they were parked next to us), as we were getting ready to drive away. Ah, the fickleness of men's attentions.

I love that Brooklyn doesn't see gender, and that she sees everyone as her friend because she plays with them or they share a book. (That's not to say that it isn't hard to watch the boys reject her when they don't want to play with a girl.) But I hope that her open view of the world remains open, and innocent, at least for now. We can wait at least 2 or 3 years before they start breaking her heart and daddy has to start beating guys up, right?

Playing Dress Up

Our little Cinderella is making quite the scene. She loves to dress up and play "princess" so of course we had to buy her the Cinderella costume (complete with tiara and shoes) when we saw them a Wal-Mart. (I know, I'm a bad mom for not sewing them by hand, but it was cheaper in time and money to buy them, and I'd rather spend the time dancing with her.)

The giggle is infectious and some days it is difficult to get her to focus on anything else besides the crown or the shoes. Sometimes the first words out of her mouth when I pick her up from school are "when we get home, I'm going to play dress up."

Too darn cute. But you be the judge.

Does this dress make me look fat?

ARGH!
Seriously. When is it ever appropriate to ask someone when they are due? Is it o.k. when they already have a child running around at their heels? Is it o.k. when they are 6 months pregnant and shopping at Babies R Us for a stroller? Is it o.k. when they are laying on the table in the OR, pushing and gripping their husband around the neck, screaming at him for putting them there? Is it ever o.k.? Somehow, I don't think so. Having never before been on the receiving end of that question, I never considered it. Until Wednesday.

We got to the temple early, Rob and B and I, to help Dad get set up for services. Our Temple holds High Holidays services at the local VA Chapel, where we share space and have our regular services. Sometimes the Veterans who hang out at the VA come to our services, especially at High Holidays. A woman came early and was hanging out watching everyone set everything up. She made comments about Brooklyn and about us and about Dad and about alot of things. Harmless comments that we answered, and responded to, making conversation.

When the service started, Rob was reading, and she began to ask (quite loudly) what page we were on. She was having trouble keeping up, and that's o.k. But this gets better.

Wait... let me put this in context... I weight 160 pounds... on a bad day! After services were over, Brooklyn and I headed to the bathroom (for what seemed like the 10th time.) This woman was coming out of the stall as we were heading in. She asked me something about Brooklyn, and then said "when are you due?" I stopped, and said "excuse me?" She replied, "When are you having your baby?" WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Please, tell me I do not look fat in that outfit. Tell me that you did not just shatter my opinion of myself on a day when I thought I might have an extra pound showing. Tell me that you did not just make me feel bad about the fact that the zipper was just a little more difficult to pull all of the way up that morning. And tell me, please, tell me that I do NOT look pregnant!

On her defense, the shirt has an empire waist. Oh wait, there is no defense. You seriously cannot ask that. Seriously.

On that note, I have to go write about the little Cinderella that was dancing around my living room earlier today, complete with tiarra and little slippers.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today I am 34. What is that in dog years? A few things rumbling through my vacant mind today. For one, where does it say that I can't plan my own birthday party? As kids, we wait to see what mom and dad put together, and then get upset or disappointed when things don't go our way. (It's easy for the 1st and 2nd party, the kids really don't know what is going on.) So where does it say that even as adults, someone else has to plan our party. I decided that I wanted to go to a winery this weekend, for a special event they are having. I put the word out, I bought the tickets, I made the hotel reservations and a group of 12 or 13 of us are going. Rob wanted to do something for me tonight, so we are having people over to watch the Dodger game (although they already clinched their division.) He didn't want me to go pick up my own cake (a DQ ice cream cake- YUM!) because he felt bad. But where is it written that I can't pick up (or even bake) my own cake. Right. It's not. So I have what I want, when I want it, because it's my b-day.

On to the rest of life- "I'm not really this stupid, I promise." Have you ever had one of those moments when someone asks you a question, and you are standing there and you can feel your mind turning, but your mouth doesn't move? You can see the other person looking at you, waiting for a response, but you just can't talk. It's the weirdest thing! I've had alot of those moments lately. I keep thinking someone is going to accuse me of being a moron. I'm not, really. It's just that sometimes my mind gets going so fast, and I catch myself having the entire conversation in my head, that a few seconds go by before I realize I haven't said anything. It's usually at that point that I trip over my tongue too, which makes for great party fun.

"Am I a bad mom?" We were at Disneyland on Saturday and I broke down and bought B a very adorable Tinkerbell costume complete with wings. I had to stop and wonder, if that makes me a bad mom. I made her Dorothy costume for her first Halloween, and then her pirate costume last year. So is it o.k. to take a year off? I'm not slacking, really. I'm making albums for GG's 85th party, and a video for that too (if I can figure out the freakin' program!). So it's not like I'm not doing anything else. I just hope that it's o.k., that she's not traumatized by not having me make her costume this year.

"Hiding gifts." Gone are the days of hiding things in plain sight. This kid is way too smart for me. Up until now, whenever we bought her things, we would just leave them in the boxes, but out in plain sight. Her world was bounded by what she could see and she didn't really care about what was on the counters or table. Gone are those days, just gone. We picked up a doctor kit somewhere for her, and it's been sitting on the kitchen counter. The other day, she looked up and said "mommy, what is that doctor thing up there?" I had to lie and say it was "nothing." I'm not sure how she knew what it was, although there was a small picture of what was inside, so maybe it was that. (Or at 2 and a half, she was reading the word "doctor" on the side of the box, which may have happened.) But we now have to actively hide gifts, which is going to be fun with a birthday and Hanukkah coming up. Fun, indeed.

On that note, I'm going to pack up for the day and head out to get B and then get my cake. Then I'm going to go home, turn on an Ariel movie and watch B play. That's a good way to end a rather random and crazy day.

This time I had the books!

So I have these odd recurring dreams. Every once in awhile I'm either back in high school or college, and I'm either late for class and can't find the room, or it's coming to the end of the semester and I'm realizing that I haven't been to class all semester. I start to freak out and sweat, wondering why I haven't been to class, and how I'm going to tell the teacher. I can't remember if I bought the book for the class and then can't figure out why I didn't buy the book, or why I signed up for a class I never went too. I wonder if I can still drop the class without getting a "W" (or worse, an "F") and my dream becomes fitful, and I toss and turn.

The other night, I had the dream again. I was back at my old high school, wandering the halls trying to find my next class. This time, I knew where the room was, but when I got there, the previous class had not let out yet. Friends were milling around in the halls waiting. I sat down with a friend to wait, and while talking to that friend, realized I didn't have the right book or notebook (another twist on this dream, sometimes I don't have any notes or notebooks to take notes). I got up to go to my locker before class started. It was then that I started wandering the halls again, trying to find my locker. I knew I was in the right general area, and I had a combination running through my head (which, coincidentally, I think is the combination from my high school locker). At one point, I passed my sister and asked her where my locker was, but she wasn't feeling too helpful, and told me that she couldn't help because she had to get to class. I walked around the giant square that was our hallway system (complete with a shopping center in the middle, where the senior court was supposed to be), starting to freak out, both because I thought I was going to be late for class and because I didn't have my books.

My therapist and I talked about this. Because it is a recurring dream, she thought it was interesting. I think she said it had something to do with having unfinished business in many parts of my life, feeling like I have to go back and finish things or do something over. I think she might be right, but then again, who knows. I do know that I constantly have a zillion projects to do all at once and there are never enough hours to get them all done.

In any event, as I was wandering the hall (and tossing and turning in bed), and fretting about class, my arms suddenly got tired and the stack of books I was carrying suddenly got heavier. I flipped up the notebook and the newspaper I was carrying and ... Oh MY GOSH! There were my books! I've never had them before. And yet, there they were. It was right about then that I woke up, just as I was headed back to class, books and notebooks in hand.

So I have no clue what it meant, I have no clue why this time I had the books. But I look at it as progress. This time. Maybe next time, I will have even read for class. Because I'm pretty sure I'll have this dream again. I'm pretty sure that even though I had the books, it won't be the last time I dream of school. oy.

Pre-School Pimps

Yup, I said it. We are turning our preschoolers out onto the streets, asking them to pimp.... Wrapping paper. WHAT??? Yes, wrapping paper.

When I dropped Brooklyn off at school on Monday, there in her folder along with her book of shapes and her latest marker masterpiece was the dreaded envelope with catalog and order form. Wrapping paper.

It doesn't matter that the school gets 50% of the profit (but they neglect to tell you how much "profit" the company makes on each roll of paper). It doesn't matter that they have Hanukkah paper (always important when the children hawking the wares go to school at a Jewish Preschool). What matters is that even at age 2, we are asking our children to go and beg for money. Nice.

And what makes it all the more comical, is that the 2 year olds don't even know they are selling it. Yes, it's cute to put the catalog in their hands and push them up to Grandma and coach them through their sales pitch. But at this point, why bother? Everyone knows who is really selling the wares. Mom and Dad.

I cut out the middle man. I sent an email to friends (most of whom already have children in school and who have likely already been hit up for the very same paper, chocolate and magazines) and family, and just told them what we were selling. I took the catalog to the office and let the ladies pass it around. I didn't pimp out my child. She has no clue she is selling anything, or that the school will see any money. She will likely not see any of the "Prizes" that she will "earn" for selling. Mommy will pass around the order form and mommy will collect the money and mommy will distribute the wares when the orders come in.

Maybe they should change the prizes. Instead of the cheap chotckes for the kids, the prizes should be trips to the day spa for the mommys who are really pushing the stuff. That would certainly motivate some sales, don't you think? Move over Tupperware, we're selling wrapping paper to win the trip to Burke Williams. Now that is certainly something worth selling for. The heck with the MP3 player.

Ah well, so it begins. I'm sure this is only the first of many catalogs and sales pitches that we will endure. Having sold cheese and sausage (for band) and M&Ms and Gummi Bears (for Track) and Magazines (in 5th and 6th grade), I've got experience. At some point, I'm sure I will put the catalog in B's hand and send her door to door. But for now, I'll just write the check myself and buy all of the Hanukkah paper they offer. After all, it's for the kids.