Ryan and Sammie go to a non-denomination school that is associated with a temple. Driving home from school last year, Ryan asked me what the Hebrew word for tree was. I looked at her in the rear view mirror and just told her that 'arbol' was the Spanish word for it. She looked at me quizzically, not unlike the look I gave her when she sang "Drano, drano, drano, I made it out of clay." This week, they are learning about the menorah and dreidel which prompted Ryan to ask me about Hanukkah as I was putting her to bed last night.
I tried to explain to her that Hanukkah is a holiday like Christmas. I told her that in fact, our next door neighbors, the Kaplans, celebrate Hanukkah because they are Jewish. She asked if we were Jewish and what Jewish was. I told her that we weren't Jewish and that it's a religion.
"What's regilin?" she asked. "I can't say it."
"It's a hard word. Religion. It's a way that people believe in God. The Whitmires (the neighbors two doors down) are Catholic and go to church and Catholics celebrate Christmas. The Kaplans are Jewish and they celebrate Hanukkah, " I tried to explain.
"Are we Catholic then?"
"No, we don't really practice any religion." I told her. We both stopped and listened to the snow melting. It sounded like a light rain falling. I knew what her follow up question was going to be so I was trying to think of an answer before it came.
"Why do we celebrate Christmas then?"
Because everyone else does? I didn't say that but if I were being honest, I guess that's the answer. Like many, we embrace the spirit of the holiday if not the genesis of it. I explained to Ryan that we celebrate so that we can get our family to together and have a nice meal and enjoy the holiday spirit. She went on to ask me about Kwanzaa (I'm not making this up) and I was able to tell her next to nothing about it other than it's another holiday some people celebrate this time of year. She didn't press it so I'm guessing they give it a cursory mention at school and not much else.
To my girls, the holidays are a time of music, cookies, presents and wonder. For example, Sammie and Ryan have fully embraced the magic of Hector, our Elf on the shelf. Each morning they race to find him and giggle if he's in a place they deem strange (such as hanging from the cords that pull the curtains up and down). This morning he was sitting on the second story window ledge over the stairs. When the neighborhood kids came over, Ryan pointed him out.
"Look, it's Hector. Don't touch him or you'll take his magic away," she warned.
Lauren and Christopher Whitmire, ages 8 and 5, stared in awe at the 7 inch elf sitting there, looking over the house. Felyssa Kaplan, age 6 1/2, started to tell everyone that he's not real, he's just plastic. When I realized where she was going, I started talking loudly so the other kids wouldn't hear and I over-ruled her with the 'sure he's real, he's in a different place each morning' argument. She looked at me defiantly but something in my look must have said "I'll hang you upside down from that same window ledge if you say anything more" because she slowly backed away. About 10 minutes later I heard her announce that she hates Christmas (she was anxiously awaiting sundown to celebrate the first day of Hanukkah) and that was about the time I sent everyone home.
I won't take it well if the magic of Santa and/or Hector is spoiled for my girls before their time, like maybe when they get their driver's license. Sammie is so full of wonder and curiosity over how Santa flies, when he will fly, what he will bring etc. If she sees a picture of Santa on TV or on a magazine or on a balloon at the market, she yells "Santa! Ho Ho Ho" and she wraps her arm around her chin like it's a beard and says "Look, I Santa" and we all laugh. Ryan keeps telling us new things she wants Santa to bring, which might be problematic since I'm pretty sure Santa has already gotten her a scooter. Both girls ran around from window to window last night, sure they saw Santa's sleigh in the sky and maybe even Rudolph's nose (to their credit, there was a tiny red light shining through the trees but I'm pretty sure it was holiday light of some sort and not Rudolph). When I explained that Santa wouldn't be coming for 3 more nights, Ryan argued that maybe he is flying around now getting last minute things done. Sammie is going to be disappointed on Christmas morning because I'm pretty sure she thinks Santa comes to stay.
It makes me very happy to know that the girls are equally excited to have Grandear, Grandpa, Alex and Greg come visit as they are about the pending giftapolouza that is Christmas morning. They have been counting down the days until they arrive for the past week ("two more big sleeps, right mom?") which I hope justifies our pagan celebration.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Simple Question, Long Answer
Jim asked me the other day about the title of my blog, 'Unchangeable Choices'. It comes from the simultaneously breathtaking and suffocating realization that once you have kids, you can't un-have them. You spend your life making choices and you can undo almost every one you make - you can sell your house and move, you can get a divorce, have a tattoo removed, switch your hair color or brand of shampoo. You can, and often do, sell your car, change jobs, switch party affiliations, country clubs or tennis racquets. But you can't "unchange" the choice of having kids. Even if you send them to grandma for the weekend, they're waiting for you when you return. Even if you leave them at the Safe Baby Drop Off at the fire station (which I threatened both my kids with when they wouldn't sleep at night), they're still out there somewhere.
I came to this realization a few weeks after Ryan was born, when my life was turned upside down. I liken the first six weeks with a new born to boot camp with this 8lb creature playing the role of the boot camp drill master. She breaks you down by waking at odd hours all night. She strips you of your identity, not by shaving your head, but by requiring all of your energy goes towards taking care of her - no showers, no exercise, no phone calls (at least none that don't end up with you crying about sleep deprivation or wondering if it's okay to have two margaritas even though you're breast feeding). She molds you into a creature she will eventually call mom. You spend the next six weeks rebuilding yourself into something with which you both can live.
I remember around this time wanting to not have kids for just a weekend. I wanted more than a weekend alone though, I wanted a weekend of freedom where they didn't exist, even in my head. I just wanted to exhale and remember the feeling of only having myself to take care of. Where I could read the paper without wondering when someone would wake up, plan to go out for dinner about two minutes before I left the house, sleep without wondering when I would have to be up or how many times and take a shower when I felt like it rather than when my baby was otherwise occupied. Just a weekend. But you can't do it.
I'm glad it's an unchangeable choice, however, because if it weren't I may have missed out on my girls removing all the Christmas cards from the Christmas card holder and replacing them with their home made, construction paper ones. Or on Sammie asking me over and over how Hector, our Elf on the Shelf, flies to see Santa every night. "But how?" she asks. "With magic." I say. "Oh.........but how?". Or on Ryan singing Frosty the Snowman ("with his eyes made out of gold") at bedtime.
Both kids have been sick for the past two days and Jim's out of town. I was joking with some friends that I'm running out of wine and chicken soup except it's not a joke. I drugged the girls with Tylenol and took them to the mall to see Santa and do some shopping today. I needed out of the house and away from balls of used tissue. The whole drive there Ryan was practicing how to say "I love you" in sign language. You have to put your middle finger and fourth finger down while keeping the other three straight up. It's not easy when you have the dexterity of a 4 year old. When we got home and it was nap time, Sammie kept waving her fingers at me in a strange, almost pained sort of way. I didn't know what she was doing but finally she bent her fingers with her thumb sticking out, kind of like a arthritic hitchhiker would, and said "Mommy, I love you."
I came to this realization a few weeks after Ryan was born, when my life was turned upside down. I liken the first six weeks with a new born to boot camp with this 8lb creature playing the role of the boot camp drill master. She breaks you down by waking at odd hours all night. She strips you of your identity, not by shaving your head, but by requiring all of your energy goes towards taking care of her - no showers, no exercise, no phone calls (at least none that don't end up with you crying about sleep deprivation or wondering if it's okay to have two margaritas even though you're breast feeding). She molds you into a creature she will eventually call mom. You spend the next six weeks rebuilding yourself into something with which you both can live.
I remember around this time wanting to not have kids for just a weekend. I wanted more than a weekend alone though, I wanted a weekend of freedom where they didn't exist, even in my head. I just wanted to exhale and remember the feeling of only having myself to take care of. Where I could read the paper without wondering when someone would wake up, plan to go out for dinner about two minutes before I left the house, sleep without wondering when I would have to be up or how many times and take a shower when I felt like it rather than when my baby was otherwise occupied. Just a weekend. But you can't do it.
I'm glad it's an unchangeable choice, however, because if it weren't I may have missed out on my girls removing all the Christmas cards from the Christmas card holder and replacing them with their home made, construction paper ones. Or on Sammie asking me over and over how Hector, our Elf on the Shelf, flies to see Santa every night. "But how?" she asks. "With magic." I say. "Oh.........but how?". Or on Ryan singing Frosty the Snowman ("with his eyes made out of gold") at bedtime.
Both kids have been sick for the past two days and Jim's out of town. I was joking with some friends that I'm running out of wine and chicken soup except it's not a joke. I drugged the girls with Tylenol and took them to the mall to see Santa and do some shopping today. I needed out of the house and away from balls of used tissue. The whole drive there Ryan was practicing how to say "I love you" in sign language. You have to put your middle finger and fourth finger down while keeping the other three straight up. It's not easy when you have the dexterity of a 4 year old. When we got home and it was nap time, Sammie kept waving her fingers at me in a strange, almost pained sort of way. I didn't know what she was doing but finally she bent her fingers with her thumb sticking out, kind of like a arthritic hitchhiker would, and said "Mommy, I love you."
Friday, December 5, 2008
Why I'm Tired
It is before 6:00am and I am sitting in the dark outside my bedroom door. Ryan woke up at 5:20am and stumbled into our room. She saw Jim getting ready to go workout and in her half-awake, mostly asleep state, she got angry at him.
"What are you doing up? Why are you up?" she asked as she made her way into the bathroom.
"I"m getting ready to go exercise honey, come on, let's go back to bed," he comforted her. He tried to pick her up to take her back to her room but she shrugged him off, still confused.
"It's too late to exercise. You need to go to bed." she insisted. "Where is mommy?"
"I'm here honey, in bed."
She turned around and came over rubbing her eyes and crawled up into our bed. "Why is daddy up?" she asked, more calmly this time.
"He's going to workout. Here, lay down with me, sweetheart." I pulled back the blankets and made room for her next to me.
Mistake number one. I know she never goes to sleep when she's in bed with me. She lays on her side with her hands folded under her head and stares at me. She prefers I do the same. She smiles, I smile. She blows me a kiss, I blow her a kiss. I tell her no talking or she has to go to her room. She nods and says "I love you mommy." She closes her eyes. I do the same. After a few minutes, my hip is aching and I have an itch on my chin I desperately want to scratch but what if she is asleep or in that pre-sleep, post-awake state where you know you're about to fall asleep? I don't dare move. I lay there hoping that one or both of us can fall asleep. She's been quiet for a few minutes but I don't hear that rhythmic breathing that comes with sleep. Another minute passes, and another. I risk moving ever so slightly. Mistake number two.
"Mommy, do I have school today?" she asks.
"Yes," I sigh. "I'm going downstairs now. You need to sleep some more." Of course this doesn't work. She insists she come down with me and I insist not. We compromise (i.e., I fold) and I end up bringing my computer upstairs. I'm supposed to be in the room with her, working on the couch, but it is quiet in there and I'm hoping for an early Christmas miracle that maybe she has fallen asleep in the time it took me to make a pot of coffee. Hence, I'm sitting outside my bedroom door in the dark before 6:00am. At least I have a cup of coffee. And I'm under no illusions that this will be the last time I sit in the dark on a computer hoping my children are sleeping.
"What are you doing up? Why are you up?" she asked as she made her way into the bathroom.
"I"m getting ready to go exercise honey, come on, let's go back to bed," he comforted her. He tried to pick her up to take her back to her room but she shrugged him off, still confused.
"It's too late to exercise. You need to go to bed." she insisted. "Where is mommy?"
"I'm here honey, in bed."
She turned around and came over rubbing her eyes and crawled up into our bed. "Why is daddy up?" she asked, more calmly this time.
"He's going to workout. Here, lay down with me, sweetheart." I pulled back the blankets and made room for her next to me.
Mistake number one. I know she never goes to sleep when she's in bed with me. She lays on her side with her hands folded under her head and stares at me. She prefers I do the same. She smiles, I smile. She blows me a kiss, I blow her a kiss. I tell her no talking or she has to go to her room. She nods and says "I love you mommy." She closes her eyes. I do the same. After a few minutes, my hip is aching and I have an itch on my chin I desperately want to scratch but what if she is asleep or in that pre-sleep, post-awake state where you know you're about to fall asleep? I don't dare move. I lay there hoping that one or both of us can fall asleep. She's been quiet for a few minutes but I don't hear that rhythmic breathing that comes with sleep. Another minute passes, and another. I risk moving ever so slightly. Mistake number two.
"Mommy, do I have school today?" she asks.
"Yes," I sigh. "I'm going downstairs now. You need to sleep some more." Of course this doesn't work. She insists she come down with me and I insist not. We compromise (i.e., I fold) and I end up bringing my computer upstairs. I'm supposed to be in the room with her, working on the couch, but it is quiet in there and I'm hoping for an early Christmas miracle that maybe she has fallen asleep in the time it took me to make a pot of coffee. Hence, I'm sitting outside my bedroom door in the dark before 6:00am. At least I have a cup of coffee. And I'm under no illusions that this will be the last time I sit in the dark on a computer hoping my children are sleeping.
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