Christmas Lessons

As the primary orchestrator of the holidays at our house, there’s always a moment on Christmas Eve as we’re putting the gifts out when I second guess my choices and worry if I’ve done enough, if I’ve done the right thing, if the packages under the tree convey love and thoughtfulness and not blind consumerism. Too much? Not enough? Wrong thing?

Almost as soon as the doubts surface, I sweep them away, telling myself that our family is so blessed by the love and comforts we share, there’s no excuse for having a disappointing holiday.

But this season was a little different. This year my kids wrote letters to Santa. Keep in mind they’re 9 and 11 years old, not the usual age for letters. It’s a practice I’ve never encouraged. Over the years, I’ve tried to convey a trust that good things will appear under the tree, that Christmas isn’t all about getting but giving, and that while it’s natural to get excited and anticipate presents, it’s better not to get wrapped up in the specifics of what will or won’t be there.

But this year, they left Santa lists—carefully put out with cookies on Christmas Eve. And as every parent knows, lists left for Santa have the potential to invite disappointment because for reasons that remain a mystery, not all wishes are granted, not all prayers answered, not all plans fulfilled.

At our house, Santa generally leaves a package or two for the kiddos near their stockings but the majority of gifts come from E and I. Now Mr. A received an item from his list from Santa as well as another gift. E-Grrrl had two packages from Santa, both having to do with fairies, but neither was something she’d asked Santa for. And this left her puzzled and a bit disconcerted. Why didn’t Santa get her the American Girl stuff she asked for? Sure E and I had gotten her two outfits for her American Girl dolls, but Santa hadn’t come through with the rest, and she just didn’t understand. She didn’t sulk or whine, but disappointment was in her face, and a shadow crossed Mr. A’s smile because Santa hadn’t delivered an air-soft rifle as hoped for, though he did come through with a racing game for A’s Game Boy.

And honestly, I had a pain in my chest and a lump in my throat when I saw it. I had to take deep breaths and grab a private moment because no matter what I tell myself (and them) about gratitude and appreciation and the importance of not becoming spoiled and of not measuring happiness in material things, for an instant I just wanted EVERYTHING to be there, every wish granted, every desire fulfilled and waiting under the tree. I didn’t want to be exploring the mystery of Santa or be teaching lessons on the meaning of Christmas.

And almost as quickly as that wave of pain washed over me, it broke and receded. The kids rounded up their opened packages, studied their bounty, settled in front of the fire with their toys, books, and gifts, ate their chocolate and told me in actions and words that they were having a great Christmas.

And me, I’m having a good Christmas too, knowing that together we're all  learning to savor what we have and expect the best from ourselves,  whether we're weathering small disappointments or life's bigger challenges.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

December 25, 2006

Greetings from Chez V

Journey of the Magi

As I mentioned yesterday, this is one of my favorite Christmas poems, written by T.S. Eliot. It's the story of faith--and doubt--and what we leave behind and journey toward. 

December 21, 2006

Sparkling

Cold, grey, foggy,  the damp slithering between the bricks and behind the buttons and zippers, the day still sparkles with small joys:

• My 11-year-old son hollering "Bye Mama!" and turning to blow me a kiss when I dropped him off at school. For a moment he isn't my sometimes sulky, ever-growing preadolescent, but My Best Boy Ever. And to think he mustered this much cheer AFTER getting a flu shot.
• While shopping in a small English-language bookstore for Christmas books for the kids, I discover The Oxford Book of Christmas Poems, a book for me.  It includes two of my favorite poems, Journey of the Magi by T.S. Eliot, and The Oxen by Thomas Hardy. Each time I flip through this book, I fall between the pages and dream between the lines. 
• At the library, discovering all the Christmas videos have not been checked out after all. Visualizing an evening tucked under the eaves and a fleece blanket, watching White Christmas.
• Pulling into the driveway, seeing the postman has left his bike leaning against my stone wall and is at the main door with a brown-paper parcel. A parcel!? Sent to my Belgian address?! (We get nearly all our mail through a special U.S. post office box). I retrieve it from him with a big smile and a Merry Christmas, and take it inside. Eagerly I unwrap it and discover a tin of cookies and a card from Martina. She and her friend Sylvie rescue cats in Brussels, and she is the source of our latest adoptee, Petey. I am deeply touched by her thoughtfulness and kindness, to give homemade cookies to a new aquaintance. I hold the tin to my chest and savor generosity of spirit.
• A hot cup of tea and I click over to Citizen of the Month where Neil is hosting a blogger holiday concert. I smile, I laugh, I comment too much, and when Qatherinn sings "A Christmas Song," I close my eyes and feel I've been transported to another realm entirely....

Today, this grey day, everything is illuminated.

December 20, 2006

A boy and his Game Boy

I admit it—we’re not a family that’s plugged in to electronic entertainment. E and I were married for 20 years before we got a TV, and that one was inherited from his mom. We bought our first new TV last March and according to our children, we are the ONLY people in the school who have just one TV that’s hooked up to a DVD player.

We’ve never had cable, satellite, TiVo. No iPod, no Nintendo, no PlayStation. The kids are only allowed to watch television on weekends.

I’m mean, I know.

E and I kind of fell into the “simple life” early in our marriage when we didn’t have money to buy a TV and got used to life without one. Later when the kids came along, we resisted all the voices telling us our life would be easier if we just got a TV and let the kids watch educational shows. I’m sure they were right in many respects—life would have been easier. My kids were (and are) curious, creative, and prone to experimentation and living with their mad genius is not always pretty. When they were preschoolers, I lovingly referred to them as my domestic terrorists because they were always coming up with crazy schemes and activities, but the positive side is that they’ve grown into kids who like to play outside, explore the natural world, take care of pets and plants, build all sorts of things out of odds and ends, do art, and read books. They’re very creative and confident, and they’re good problem solvers.

As they’ve grown and their social circle and interactions have expanded, they’ve discovered a new world of electronics through their friends. My daughter got a Pixel Chick for her birthday, avidly played with it for about two weeks and then set it aside. She likes to occasionally play games on the computer, but will go for two or more weeks without interest.

My 11-year-old son, on the other hand, would play computer games all day if we let him. We limit him to an hour a day on weekends, and even then nearly every computer turn leaves him agitated and cranky. He gets fully absorbed in the game, frustrated, and can’t set it aside either mentally or physically. This is why we didn’t ever plan to get him a Game Boy. He has a tendency to be obsessive and persistent, and we didn’t want him to fall into the world of portable gaming for fear he’d never re-emerge into the real world.

But he received a lot of checks on his birthday in September—enough that he was able to buy a Game Boy Advance on his own. While we weren’t fully supportive of this purchase, we didn’t want to forbid it. We figured gaming in and of itself isn’t bad in moderation and that he needed to learn how to set limits on his own. Plus, we couldn’t deny he loved playing, and that if you’re an 11-year-old boy, being Game Boy literate is fairly important socially.

So the Game Boy made it into the house three months ago, and my son immediately began working on ways to acquire games, mostly by buying or trading for used ones among his social circle. In one clever trade, he made a friend a birch wood bow, arrows, and a quiver in return for several games. He has bought some games outright at consignment shops or from friends who are bored with them. A neighborhood boy has given him some for free. He’s not allowed to have explicitly violent games.

He takes his Game Boy everywhere. He plays it on the bus, in the car, and after school. Occasionally we insist he put it away, but other than that the only restrictions on use is no Game Boy until his schoolwork is completed and no Game Boy right before bed. Mostly we let him set his own limits—but we both think he plays it too much and that it distracts him from finding more constructive and active things to do. We keep hoping the novelty will wear off and eventually he’ll lose interest on his own.  We try to make sure he has other interesting things to do--good books to read, Scout projects to work on--but that strategy doesn't always work.

How do the rest of you handle Game Boys? Do you set limits on usage? Do you just accept it as a cool toy and not worry about how much they play? Did your kids lose interest after a while? I’m curious, wondering if I’m the only parent concerned about gaming becoming a negative thing.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

December 19, 2006

Maybe, it's not the most wonderful time of the year

What’s worse than the stomach bugs laying people low? The holiday malaise that so many can’t seem to escape. Most stomach viruses last a little more than a day, but for many the holiday blues seem to hang on and on. It’s the time of year when all our hopes and disappointments are magnified, when sad and happy memories both bring tears. It may well be the most melancholy time of the year.

I hear complaints from people who have too many parties to go to and the loneliness of those who have too few. The sadness of those who are separated from family members over the holidays and the resentment of those who can’t escape family obligations over the holidays. There’s guilt circulating among those who know expensive presents can’t mend broken relationships and guilt infecting those who can’t afford to express their love in a gift. There are thoughtful people debating how to establish meaningful traditions and those who would love to ditch their traditions and just spend a long weekend in their pajamas.

In December, women everywhere join the Sacred Sisterhood of Perpetual Obligations. They are hollow-eyed--exhausted by shopping, card-writing, decorating, socializing, and baking. Overtired kids who have seen too many Santas, spent too much time at the mall, and been run into the ground by holiday parties and play practices. There are the men telling their partner to relax and not understanding why that comment is met with such looks of disgust and despair.  At times it seems the snap in the air has more to do with the prevailing attitudes than with brisk weather.  And all this is compounded by the December viruses, the uninvited holiday guests.

And yet, there are those moments when holiday cheer breaks through the gloom—when decorations make us smile and brighten a dark night, when the sales clerk smiles and you smile back because you know you’ve found the perfect gift for someone, when we find time to curl up and watch a movie or read a book to a pajama-clad child, when the mail brings a note from an old friend, when you look around the table and count your blessings in the faces there, when the choir sings and our eyes close and our hearts soar heavenward, when the curtain rises and the music starts and you’re drawn by the magic on the stage, when you see a candle flicker to life and find it possible to believe in miracles.

These are the moments I wish for you, wherever you are, however you celebrate. Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, a joyful Kwanza celebration.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com.

December 17, 2006

Is a Christmas tree a religious symbol?

Earlier this week I read about the airport in Seattle, Washington, removing its Christmas trees for fear of being sued by a group (or groups) who felt it was an inappropriate display of religious symbols in a government-owned facility. Give me a break.

In my mind, nativity scenes, crosses, menorahs, and the star of David are religious symbols that don't belong in government offices, but Christmas trees and wreaths have become secular symbols of the winter holiday season. People can spout off about their pagan history and how the symbolism of eternal life was hijacked by Christians later on but I don't think most people consider any of that when they view a Christmas tree today.

Christmas has a dual identity. It is celebrated as a religious holiday by Christians and as a secular holiday by those with no particular religious beliefs who want to party, gather with friends and family, exchange gifts, and share warm fuzzies. The December holiday season is simply a cultural landmark on the calendar of Western Civilization. A Christmas tree is just part of the festive winter decor. 

Think about it--many shopping districts have trees draped in lights year round, stores sell wreaths for every season, and people decorate for Halloween and spring (is an egg or a bunny a religious symbol? I don't think so).

To me, Christmas trees, colored lights, and candles in the window are simply beautiful items that brighten the darkest month of the year.

What do you think? Is a Christmas tree a religious symbol? Does it bother you to see them in hospitals, airports, public offices? I'd especially be interested in hearing the opinion of non-Christians.

December 15, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

Christmas drives into town

Today is the day my husband E has been dreaming about since September.

Today he picks up our new car.

Now getting a new car is always exciting, but for us it’s an especially big deal because we haven’t bought a new car in, hmmmm, I think 13 years. Yeah, 13 years.

Our last two cars were purchased second-hand from E’s mom. They were fine, serviceable, low-mileage, four-door sedans. The last one even had bells and whistles we probably never would have splurged on if we’d bought a new car, so in our modest household, it was practically a luxury vehicle. But, at the risk of sounding petty, they weren’t OUR cars. We didn’t bond with them in that strange metaphysical way that people bond with the cars they pick out—you know, giving them names, assigning them personalities, seeing them as an extension of the family. (What? You don't know what I'm talking about? Y'all are lying...right?)

After a summer of wrestling with trying to get our American-made car serviced here in Belgium, E started thinking of buying a European car. Soon he was in touch with some dealers, bringing home car brochures, and Googling endlessly in the evenings. Before long he had his heart set on a mid-size Volvo wagon, and he began poring over options and features with all the anal retentiveness you’d expect from a middle-aged engineer.

Mostly I was an observer during the car-shopping phase, though after E took me for a test drive in the Volvo model he was considering, I noted that it didn’t have cup holders. Cup holders! That feature was invented in the land of long highways, big commutes, fast food restaurants, and 24-hour stores selling takeaway coffee and Slurpees. Cup holders are not standard equipment in Europe where eating and drinking in the car is unthinkable. If a European is going to have a cup of coffee, he’ll be drinking it from a dainty cup WITH a saucer and sitting at a table with a napkin in his laps. By God, only hyperactive, barbaric American road hogs eat and drink in their vehicles as if eating is an afterthought, a necessary evil to be wedged in between appointments and cell phone calls.

But I digress.

As I was saying, my only contribution to the whole car-buying process was telling E to make sure the car had a place for me to stash a water bottle. In the end, E ordered all sorts of options and accessories, including a special lumbar support pillow for my back and pocket organizers for the kids' stuff. See why I married him? What a guy!

But I get another perq as well. Regular readers know we are a one car family here in Belgie, and that for the past two years, I've  used public transit to get around. Every few months you can count on a post detailing some horrible experience involving walking in blowing rain, getting splashed by passing cars, missing bus or Metro connections, and spending an hour or two getting to a place that’s a 15 minute drive from house.

Depending on the bus schedule, I’m always either very early or a bit late for my appointments. I spend obscene amounts standing around—waiting, waiting, and waiting. I have built my entire wardrobe around public transit, from my dozen jackets and coats suited to every permutation of Belgian weather to my many pairs of comfortable and boring shoes, designed to traverse miles of cobblestones and urban sidewalks, often at an accelerated clip. (Must. Make. The. Bus. Or. I. Will. Have. To. Wait. An. Hour!). Even my handbags are required to be lightweight, waterproof, and have an easy-access pocket for my bus or Metro pass Plus I have a selection of backpacks, tote bags, and rolling duffles to help me when I go shopping and have to schlep my purchases home.

But now I’m a free woman. Since there isn’t much of a market for our American model car here, we’ve decided to just keep it. Yes, the annual taxes on it exceed the value of the car itself, but now I won’t have to go out in driving rain or bitter cold. I won’t have to grapple with back pain because I dared to buy milk and canned goods at the store, forgetting how heavy those bags would become as I walked home. I will be able to make quick trips to the grocery store on my own and buy whatever we need. I’m dizzy with freedom.

But don’t expect long posts about places I’m exploring on my own in Belgium. It’s a land of narrow winding roads, unmarked streets, traffic circles, five-way intersections, random parking, and the confusing and dreaded rule of priority right (where all cars entering the road from the right side have priority over the cars already on the main road).  Belgium has one of the highest (if not the highest) traffic fatality rates in Europe. Driving is a free for all. The otherwise low-key Belgians like to create their own lanes, play chicken, and drive drunk. No, I won’t be venturing out onto the highways or wandering far from home, but at least I’ll have the option of staying warm, dry, and wearing high-heeled boots while I’m out running errands in my village this winter. Merry Christmas to Me!

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com.

Cookie exchange dropout

It’s the Christmas season and I’ve been asked at least three times to bake cookies for worthy causes—The teachers! The kids! The party!

And each time I get asked, I either ignore the request or smile politely and offer to donate bakery cookies. At this point in my life, the only person I’d willfully bake cookies for is God himself, and only if the heavens open and I get the request directly from on High.

I don’t know when I turned into a cranky, non-baking bitch, but I’ve left my cookie sheets and cooling racks behind me.

Before I had kids, I made holiday cookies and occasionally baked molasses, ranger, oatmeal, or chocolate chip cookies during the year. When my son was an infant, I remember baking cookies for E’s office mates and packaging them in pretty bags. There were a few times during the preschool years where I willingly trashed my kitchen in the name of holiday tradition, trying not to lose my cool as I guided my kids through the rigors of rolling out dough and using cookie cutters of various shapes.

Following that, there was a brief interlude when I swore off cutout cookies and pledged only to make drop cookies but even the drop cookies dropped off my menu after a while. When my circle of friends hosted cookie exchanges, I was the only one to say “No thanks,” though one year, desperate to join the fun, I made chocolate covered pretzels.

My philosophy about the holidays in recent years is that if you wait long enough, some Martha Stewart wannabe in your circle will give you a home-baked handout. If not, enjoy the cookies at the holiday parties but don’t expect me to bake any at home.

I’m mean, I know.

And I feel guilty too. Guilty that my kids are living a cookie-free existence at home, that I have failed the June Cleaver litmus test, that I will forever be remembered as a selfish writer who typed all day but never creamed sugar and butter, tossed in eggs and vanilla, stirred in the dry ingredients, and turned the kitchen into a big sweet-smelling Happy Place for a few hours. It’s just that the mixing, the dropping, the endless baking and cooling and cleanup takes me to a Big Flour-Covered Unhappy Place.

But I miss my mom’s cookies, especially the big chewy molasses ones. This year I may break down and bake some cookies on Christmas Eve day and give my kids a happy holiday memory.

“Remember that time mom made cookies?”

There’s more than one way to become a legend in your own time. Bake cookies every year, and it’s expected and taken for granted. Bake once in a blue moon, and you become a Goddess.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

December 13, 2006

It's all about the dishes...

Last week E and I went to a private sale of Polish pottery . It was held in the house basement of a woman with a connection to Eastern Europe. Polish pottery is popular with the expat crowd, and while most people I know buy it here in Belgium, a few go all the way to Poland to get the biggest selection. The pottery is heavy cream-colored stoneware decorated in cobalt blue and forest green patterns, sometimes touched with brown. It’s colorful, durable, and a European tradition.

I resisted its charms for a long time. When my sugar bowl broke, I bought one made in Poland. When I realized my honkin American dinner plates were too big for my European dishwasher, I picked up a few Polish pottery plates, each a different pattern. Then an indigo serving bowl decorated with white swirls found its way onto the table.

At a market in Germany, I bought a pottery sugar spoon and two coasters that I use as teabag caddies. Arriving home with my modest purchase, E said, “I like Polish pottery. You should get some more.” Last week I went to the sale with the intention of buying a round covered casserole dish and ended up with that plus some more plates and mugs picked out by E and the kiddos. No surprise.

The truth is that we’re all into ceramics and pottery. My kids have Hadley  place settings featuring animals and blue and white Spode Victorian cups that they love. E-Grrrl likes to look at china patterns and visit kitchen shops. She was so taken with some unique pieces we saw in Rome that I bought her a small dish by a well-known local artist. Mr. A took pottery classes at a studio when we lived in Virginia, and I use the simple trays and dishes he made.

My interest in pottery was piqued early when my older sister was dating a potter. During college, he sold his wares at arts and crafts shows in New York, and I tagged along from time to time. After my sister married him, he landed a job as a potter in a restored historic village in New England and opened his own shop. He did traditional salt-glaze stoneware, and one summer when I was a teen, I worked in the pottery and began my own collection.

From the beginning, I’ve liked stoneware, pieces with heft and a rustic spirit. I have a huge collection of salt-glaze, but along the way, I’ve picked up different style pieces from a number of potters in Oklahoma, Virginia, and Delaware. I seem to be attracted to dusky blues and indigos, ash glazes, and anything with a beautiful shape. I’m suckered in not just by one-of-a-kind artistic pieces but also by mass produced, everyday stuff. My favorite bowls in the world came from Wal-Mart. They look like Fiestaware in pastel colors. They cost $1 each, and I bought at least a dozen. They’re the ideal size, shape, and weight and I never seem to have enough of them!

As for fine china, it took me a long time to appreciate it. I didn’t register for it when E and I got married, but ten years later I used a windfall I received to buy Noritake Brookhollow, which I loved because it was old-fashioned but not stuffy. I was entranced with the swirl of wildflowers around the rim. The cups were so perfectly proportioned, and the teapot? To die for! Later, I started collecting Mikasa Holly Ribbons , and E began buying it for me when he traveled to places with Mikasa outlets. My everyday pattern is Mikasa’s Garden Harvest,  which I picked out 15 years ago and still love. The bowls and mugs won’t win any awards for shape and style but the place settings are so me.

To me, the allure of dishes and pottery is that it’s art that you use, that becomes integral to your life. It doesn’t just sit on the wall, waiting to be admired—it’s part of every day, every meal, every gathering of friends, every special occasion.

Are there any other pottery and dish fiends out there? What’s your favorite pattern or style?

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com.

December 12, 2006