A Christmas for the ages

Our Christmas celebration at home

If you're like me, perhaps you're filled with a little bit of the post-Christmas blues today. It's hard not to be. I so love listening to songs of the season, watching favorite holiday movies, the wonder and awe that sometimes overtake me as I watch the twinkling Christmas lights. And I know all too well that three more months of winter await us (three months if we're lucky).

I'm lucky this year because while another Christmas is on the books, our dear family friend's visit continues through the end of next week. Carlos was our beloved exchange student from Spain. He stayed with us for the first time more than 21 years ago, and the connection with our family was instant. He came back to see us subsequent summers, but it had been 17 years since I'd seen him.

Carlos's return has been the best gift I could imagine. I'm delighted to report that he hasn't changed a bit. His deadpan humor remains intact. He amazes me with his memories of every major and minor detail of his past visits. He and I and my parents and brothers have shared laughter and joy reliving those halcyon summer days of long ago.

Me and Carlos, 17 years later

My dear friend's voice sounds miraculously, joyously just as it always did. Hearing it again and seeing his familiar face fills me with happiness. Carlos displays the uncanny ability to connect with my boys and nephews just as he did with my brothers when they were young.

It has been a special Christmas indeed. When we all gathered for my family's celebration on the day after Christmas, it was every bit as raucous as you'd expect for a gathering of 11 adults, seven kids and two dogs.

At the center of all the festivities is my mom. The end of the light-hearted movie Arthur Christmas always manages to make me cry, because it reminds me so much of my mom. Arthur has been named the successor to Santa because he has always worked to make everyone happy. My mom could be Santa. She works so unbelievably hard to make Christmas a special time for everyone. I think everyone in my family would agree that Mom overextends herself, but it's all for the love of her family, and protest though we may, we know she wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks, Mom.

Our celebration was a day of kids' joy and anticipation, a day of kids whining and bickering, a day of dogs barking and stealing food off people's plates (Tim and Emily - I love your dogs - it was all part of the glorious mix). I'll admit that at certain moments, I began to feel the stress and strain.

The chaos reached its apex at dinner time. Mostly thanks to seven hungry boys, the dining room was cacophonous as everyone waited for my mom and me to serve dinner. The meal was rushed, the kids had many requests and demands. These affairs never turn out as you envision - unhurried, peaceful, contemplative.

After the long-anticipated and quickly passing day was finished, I realized that in all its imperfection, I would not change a thing. These are the days we'll look back on as my kids' halcyon days - a time of togetherness, forging bonds with cousins, presents, food, fun.

I'll remember my boys, 11, 8 and 5, all still young enough to revel in the magic of Christmas. This is what I'll see in my mind's eye: Ben is so excited but trying to act the mature oldest cousin; Paul cites his stuffed animals as his favorite Christmas gifts; Gus is bursting with anticipation and trying so hard to wait to open the gifts. Someday when Christmases are much quieter, I know I'll look back on the Christmas of 2013 with longing. These are the days.

I am his quiet place, he is my wild

I was thinking, Gus and I would make a great pair of characters for a movie. We're the odd couple. She: straight-laced and uptight, quiet and mild. He: exuberant and loose, loud and wild. Watch as hijinks ensue!

This idea occurred to me as I sat fussing and fretting about how my youngest might do at his Christmas performance this afternoon. I couldn't help but flash back to last year's concert, which was a mixed bag to be sure. All of my worry was for naught, though. Gus helped put on a great show, spreading Christmas cheer and singing loud for all to hear, yet restraining himself from going over the top.

From very early on, Gus began dragging me out of my comfort zone. The summer when Gus was almost 2, we would go watch (or should I say "watch") Paul's park & rec t-ball games. It was as if he was saying to me, "You want to sit and peacefully take in my brother playing his game? Ha! Fat chance, lady." I spent the entirety of every game chasing my little hellion.

As he's gotten older, things haven't changed. I'm a quiet person. I like to sit back and observe my surroundings, and Gus likes to make a splash. When I go someplace with Gus, we are not blending.

At school drop-off, we don't get to stand there quietly, dutifully waiting for the doors to open. Gus is stomping in the snow, jockeying for position at the front of the line, trying to engage the other kids in play. Similarly, after school while waiting for Paul, Gus is spinning around, urging kids from his class into a snowball fight. I stuff my hands in my pockets, exchanged bemused or apologetic looks with other parents.

Of course, in some ways Gus challenges me in good ways and in some ways, well, it's just difficult. G naturally nudges me to be more social because he's so social. My parents and I took him to McDonald's for ice cream after his show yesterday. He immediately befriended the other boy in the play land. His grandmother and my parents and I exchanged laughs and smiles taking in their natural rapport.

When Gus's teacher reports to me about days he's struggled at school, it forces me into a place I hadn't envisioned for myself. These conversations are never pleasant (though the last two weeks have been going really well!). With exposure comes acceptance, though. I'm gradually learning that every setback is not a crisis. And I'd better learn to start handling them with grace and perspective or I'll be a basket case by 12th grade. I'm getting there.

Sometimes I question whether I can accurately judge Gus's character. I'm so far the opposite of him, so guarded with my emotions that I think I often see some of his actions and antics as a bigger deal than they are. Whereas lots of people around me seem to genuinely enjoy my son, sometimes I'm too busy watching him with my eyes half-covered, worrying what he might do next.

Gus's and my movie would end with the realization that we both have something to offer each other. I come to learn the value in loosening up and enjoying life more. Gus learns the benefits of once in a while settling down and enjoying quiet and reflection. Between you and me, I wouldn't want Gus to go too far in my direction. I think he's got the better way. I reflect too damn much if you ask me, and I'm far too sensitive.

You Are my I Love You by Maryann Cusimano Love and Satomi Ichikawa is my favorite children's book. It so perfectly captures the essence of a relationship between parent and child. I defy you to get through it without a shedding a tear or all-out sobbing. It's beginning line captures me and Gus exactly: "I am your parent; you are my child. I am your quiet place; you are my wild."

Being Gus's mom is better, and sometimes more challenging, than I ever could have imagined. He's opened me to new worlds and charted new courses for me, and he will always be my "I love you."

It's his birthday, but he's my gift

It's occurred to me that when I write, it's often about Ben or Gus. Ben is my oldest, and I'm continually experiencing issues with him for the first time. And Gus? Well, that's easy - he tends to challenge me, and consequently I spend a lot of time worrying and thinking about him.

"Paul is the quintessential middle kid, isn't he?" my sister-in-law, Emily, observed recently. We were at my nephew's birthday party at the pizza place/arcade, and Paul was trying to guide Gus about the correct party etiquette. "Eat your pizza first, and then we can play some games." Emily was right, Paul is the perfect middle child.

Yesterday, I went to school to watch Paul conduct a science experiment for his class. I hadn't realized he was supposed to bring his own materials, so he couldn't do the experiment that day. Instead, Gus and I stayed for the last part of Paul's day. I watched with joy as Paul encouraged Gus to come sit on the floor with him. He sat there with his arm around his brother the whole time.

It can't be easy to be Paul. He's stuck between Ben, an academic standout and an always-voracious athletic competitor, and Gus, who by his very nature often takes the spotlight through either positive or negative behaviors.

By contrast, Paul is quieter and more contemplative. My middle boy isn't much for sports. He'd rather create with his box of markers and paper or maybe engage in some kind of imaginative play with his younger brother.

When he was younger, Paul was the boy who cried - sobbed - when I left him anywhere. These days, he's become more outgoing, but at the same time, he still likes to stick close to Mom. To my delight, Paul has amassed a group of buddies, and he's a good and loyal friend.

All of this isn't to say that Paul is an angel. Boy, can he make himself heard when he's angry. That comes with being a middle too, I suppose.

On this, the eve of his 8th birthday, I've been reflecting on all that is special about my sweet boy. Paul loves animals. Sea turtles were his first object of affection, but there have been many others since then.

This summer, we had a house finch nesting in our hanging basket. One day, I went to water it while the boys were playing outside. I was unaware that the baby birds were sitting in their nest, and they did not enjoy being sprayed with the cold water. The babies flew down and landed in our lawn (don't worry - all were fine). Paul watched the whole scene with wonder and amazement - and promptly fell in love with birds. I think we checked out every bird book in the library.

Paul has been the impetus behind some of our best adventures of the past year. Whereas I might have just spent yet another day at home, my boy urged us to go to the nature center. We had the best time taking a walk and spotting animals, including a teeny-tiny frog.

This fall, Paul's love of birds led us to a special raptors event at the Audubon center in Milwaukee. I'll never forget the look on Paul's face as he got a close-up look at owls, hawks and eagles.

One of my favorite aspects of motherhood is all that my kids have taught me. Through Paul, my love of nature and the world around me has grown. Because of him, I now pay attention to the red-tailed hawk that is perched on the telephone pole.

Whether Paul is asking me to devise an art project or begging me to take a walk to a nearby field to see if we can spot a sandhill crane, he makes me a better, richer person. What a gift he is.

This is going to hurt

A few weeks ago after he endured four vaccinations with little more than a grimace and a whimper of pain, I decided to try to cheer up Ben with some stories of pain tolerance, or lack thereof, from my younger days. My kids are so much braver than I ever was.

I had Ben in hysterics telling him about getting my first cavity filled. I locked myself in the family station wagon and refused to get out. I won that battle. My mom had to reschedule the appointment. 

Then there was the time that I decided to nuzzle noses with my pet hamster. It didn't enjoy the nuzzling and instead sunk its teeth into my nose. My mom took me for a tetanus shot. She had to drag me into the office literally screaming, and it took a small cadre of nurses to hold me down and inject me. 

If only I'd known when I was young what a small deal fillings and shots are, in terms of the pains life throws at you. I would've crossed that worry right off my list.

Parenting will break your heart in a thousand different ways. I never know day to day what's going to come way, but I've been doing this long enough to know that most days will test me in some way.

This week brought its trials right on schedule. On Sunday night, Ben said, "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I had this problem in gym class."

It turns out that before we had left for vacation, he couldn't get his gym lock to work, so he left his locker without a lock on it. Another kid, thinking he was helping, stuck a lock on Ben's locker, but it wasn't Ben's lock. Ben returned to school and couldn't get into his gym locker.

When Ben went to his teacher with the problem, the teacher responded sarcastically and basically refused to help. I suppose I can see where the teacher was going with his response - maybe trying to instill natural consequences or something, but it left Ben frustrated and confused. I emailed the teacher to try to get the situation resolved, but I heard nothing.

By Tuesday morning, the day of his next gym class, Ben was crying tears of worry and frustration. I was indignant at the stupidity of the situation with the teacher (just help the kid figure it out!), and he was starting his day upset.

Of course, the situation just blew over, as they so often do. The teacher, though he never responded to me, clearly got my message and removed the lock for Ben. He came out of school that day happy as ever.

It all got me thinking, though, of hard it is to grow up. I know Ben's school tries to ease the sixth-graders into becoming middle-schoolers, but clearly the expectations have risen. I can imagine the panic Ben felt trying to get into his locker, simultaneously trying to ensure he'd make it to class on time.

On top of that, I know that on his journey to manhood, my oldest must be facing fears and frustrations that I can never understand. I can see that Ben is trying very hard to shed some of his youthfulness, but he's still very much just a boy.

With Gus, I've been experiencing a different kind of pain. Each day when I pick him up from school, I tense up waiting for the teacher's report. Most days, she says nothing, and some she notes that he's had a good day. Every once in a while, though, I get a bad report, and yesterday was one of those days.

It never gets any easier, hearing the details of Gus's transgressions. Inevitably, I weirdly feel like I'm the one who's behaved badly and should hang my head in shame. I understand that Gus's behavior can be maddening, but I want his teacher to look for the good in him each day as well as noting what's going wrong. When I feel like that's not happening, it's really hard.

It's a daily battle with my youngest. Sometimes I get complacent when things have gone well for a while, but I need to keep sticking to what's worked in the past. Today I will tremulously hope that a firm reminder of expectations will once again get Gus back on track.

I recently read the excellent Counting by 7s by Holly Goldberg Sloan (great book to read with a little older kids, by the way). In my favorite passage, the young protagonist, Willow, tells about a time that she took care of a wild green-rumped parrot she had found and named Fallen. "When Fallen was finally strong enough to fly, I reintroduced him back to his flock. It was incredibly rewarding. But it was also heartbreaking. It has been my experience that rewarding and heartbreaking often go hand in hand."

As it is with green-rumped parrots, so it is with little boys. Only exponentially more so.

Falling under the spell

Our big trip started with a most unwelcome bang, but against all odds, it ended with a week's worth of great, unforgettable times and sweet memories.

My family's long-standing vacation curse of sick kids refused to die, even with so much at stake. I don't know why I didn't anticipate this. "Everyone stay healthy!" Mark and I called out in the weeks leading up to our trip. But I guess, pessimistic though I am, even I didn't believe that fate could deal us such a cruel hand.

When I dropped Paul off at school on the day before our trip, he and Gus and I happily chirped about Disney World eve. However, when I picked him up, I immediately saw something was wrong. Paul looked green, and then he uttered those most frightening pre-vacation words: "I feel weird."

I took Paul's temperature when we got home, and he was at 99.9. I maniacally, foolishly hoped that it would turn out to be nothing major. My hopes were dashed when less than two hours later, his temp had spiked to 103.


A gag, pun intended, thank God.

In desperation, Mark took Paul to FastCare, all of us praying that there would be some simple, easily remedied explanation. Paul came home with a diagnosis of possible sinus infection and a prescription for antibiotics. He had been sick with cough and cold symptoms for a couple weeks. I was slightly heartened.

Paul downed his dose of amoxicillin ... and promptly threw up about half an hour later. We went to bed, still holding on to hope. When our boy vomited at 1:30 a.m. and again at 3, my optimism evaporated.

I managed little sleep that night, my mind churning with how we'd get through this. How would we get a vomiting boy through two flights? Airlines are not exactly amenable to working with passengers to change flights when situations arise. Could we postpone somehow? Drive to Florida instead? What if we all got sick?

The day of our trip dawned, and Paul looked moderately better. Mark and I watched him closely and bombarded him with queries about how he was feeling. Miraculously, by the time we needed to leave for our flight, our guy looked remarkably stable.

After all the initial adversity, the rest of our trip was cloaked with good fortune. The flights went seamlessly, arriving early even. The boys were champion flyers.

One of my other small worries was me. I'm a rather tense person, to put it mildly, and I often have a really hard time sitting back and relaxing, going with the flow. Furthermore, I'm a homebody. I tend to miss my home after a day or two, even if I'm someplace really nice. As much as I thrive on spending time with my family, I cherish times of solitude, too.

Yes I'd always wanted to visit Disney World, but I remained skeptical about how much I'd be into the whole scene. "Do you think it'll be really ... theme park-ish?" I asked Mark nervously, picturing myself spending an entire week at Six Flags Great America.

My fears evaporated when I actually saw the Magic Kingdom. Nearly everything about our experience was a pleasant surprise and exceeded my expectations. With very few exceptions, the people - "cast members" - treated us amazing well, and everything at every property is impeccably maintained.

The parks were incredible, especially the beautiful Animal Kingdom, probably my personal favorite. But one of the best parts of the trip for me was taking in all that's different about Florida. We relished watching tiny lizards scurry past, observing different kinds of trees and foliage, becoming acquainted with white ibises, which apparently as common to Florida as seagulls are to us. Then of course there are the stunning sunsets set against palm tree backdrops.

I have cherished memories from each and every person in my family. For me, I'll never forget seeing the palace for the first time. I'll remember the huge smiles Mark and I shared watching the boys' reactions, Ben chattering happily about all our new experiences, Paul crowing about how much fun he'd had designing a car at Epcot's Test Track, Gus's look of wonder taking in The Lion King show, fighting Darth Maul, and falling asleep clutching his new Stitch stuffed animal.

My dad amazed me with his unwavering willingness to try anything. Ask him to go on any ride, and he was game. Similarly, my mom dazzled me with her nerve. Midway through our trip, she told me she'd decided she would try anything I would try. If I'd ride a rollercoaster, she would. That's a pretty low bar, since I'm gutless.

We did get my mom on one rollercoaster. When I asked Ben, who was my mom's seatmate, what Grandma was like on Big Thunder Mountain, he said, "She kept her eyes closed and just kept shaking her head no."

Yes, our time was beset with minor annoyances. Plenty of days, Gus would be asking to "go home" by 11 a.m., though he always rallied. "He's touching me!" was the complaint we were sure to hear many times a day. What is it with that?

Overall, though, things couldn't have gone much better. The weather was perfect - not too hot and not too cold. The day we left was cooler and rainy, and that felt significant somehow: wonderful times, now time to go home.

I guess you can count me as one of the many who has fallen for Disney World's charms.

Always swim

Much to my shame, I've become one of those adults who avoids swimming at all costs. My younger self would be so disappointed in grown-up Jess. She loved to splash in the water at any reasonable temperature.

There's something magnetic about swimming when you're a kid. What kid doesn't love to swim? In the summer, I shook down my mom to take me to the public pool; in the winter I begged to be taken to an indoor pool.

I've become one of those lame adults who's always too cold to go in the water, and worse, one who hates to get her hair wet. When forced, I tentatively wade in, standing on my tippy toes to keep as much of my body out as possible. Rarely do I ever submerge.

When we visited Chicago last Christmas, the boys naturally gravitated toward the hotel pool. I donned my suit and stayed in for as long as I could possibly hack it, which was maybe about 20 minutes. "You look absolutely miserable, Jess!" my cousin noted. I was. I made a beeline for the sauna.

Many times, I bow out. I give Mark by best puppy dog eyes, knowing that he will valiantly step in and swim with the boys since Gus is the only one who still needs assistance. 

Even though it's in the 80s here in Orlando, I'm still not warm enough to want to take a dip. On Thursday evening after visiting Magic Kingdom, I passed on getting into the water, letting Mark and my mom go in with the boys. Yes, my mom could handle it, but I could not. They had a splash fight while I sat in a lounge chair and chatted with my dad.

It's bothered me a little bit ever since. In making the choice to skip swimming, I'm giving up special times with my boys, doubtlessly having our sons think of me as the boring parent.

Today when the opportunity presented itself I decided to go for it. I put on my suit and tiptoed into the water. I hemmed and hawed, and it took me a good five minutes or more, but finally I plunged into the water. 

I showed the boys my handstand, challenged them to races, turned somersaults, gave Gus and Paul rides on my back, tossed a ball back and forth with Ben. I had a grand time, emerging smelling like chlorine, my skin tight, my hair dry as straw, my eyes bloodshot. It was worth it. So worth it.

Here's my advice to you. Always swim. You won't regret it. Except maybe that first cold minute.

The future can wait; time to enjoy now

If you want to peer into my psyche, look no further than my night stand. Along with whatever current piece of fiction I'm reading, twin stacks of books sit waiting to be opened. My book titles read like a table of contents to my worries and thoughts.

A book on raising gifted children sits atop Getting to Calm: Cool-Headed Strategies for Parenting Tweens + Teens (Ben), and then there's a copy of Parenting Children with ADHD: 10 Lessons That Medicine Cannot Teach for my not-suffering-from-ADHD-but-still-sometimes-hyper Gus. I don't have anything about progressing normally kids like Paul, but I probably should add something soon. And those are just my parenting books. My self-help books live there, too.

Relegated to the basement or perhaps a new home courtesy of Goodwill are volumes on pregnancy, morning sickness, bringing up babies, getting babies to sleep, scream-free parenting (is it sad that I gave up on that idea?), and surviving stay-at-home mommy-hood. Trust me, that's just to name a few.

Whenever something is bothering me or worrying me, I buy a book about it, and it makes me feel better just knowing that I have information at my fingertips. The odd thing is I often don't even finish the books, and, sadly, sometimes I don't even crack them open. The truth is, when I have precious free time, I'd rather get lost in reading for pleasure than for learning.

I listened to a radio program yesterday about super powers. It asked people whether they'd prefer to have the power of flight or invisibility. Forget those. I'd like to be able to acquire knowledge and wisdom effortlessly. Try though I may, I still haven't been able to implement my super-duper plan for absorbing my bedside library via osmosis.

Right now, I need a book for stay-at-home moms who are losing their identity as their kids quickly grow up. My beginning of the school year funk lingers. Gus is still home half days, so my daytime nest isn't completely empty yet, but I know it will be soon. My what-comes-next angst has been eating away at me. I've thought about it, worried about it, obsessed about it, and, yes, blogged about it.

Just as I was about to be taken down by a tsunami of uncertainty and self doubt, I had an epiphany thanks to someone else's blog. Writer Jennifer Benjamin penned a piece entitled What's so Bad About "Just Being a Mommy"? It was exactly what I needed.

"Recently, a woman with a grown daughter said to me that she would pay $1 million to have just one day with her toddler again. Just for one day," writes Benjamin. "That time for me is right now. If I’m spending these precious minutes worrying about what I’m doing with my life, then I’m just going to miss out on theirs. Besides, they are my life, aren’t they?"

Epiphanies can be a dime a dozen for me, probably thanks to all those darn books, but I hope this one sticks, because I really need it. Right now is still my time to raise my boys. I need to stop freaking out about what job I might get next year and focus instead on painting a picture with Gus or enjoy our time together constructing Angry Birds towers out of Jenga blocks.

I'm at an age when it's high time I realize that if I keep my eyes locked on the future, very soon I'll be mourning what was left not fully appreciated in the past. And that would be a travesty worthy of a book.