Christmas!

Well, you haven't heard about our Christmas yet because we were on a super top-secret trip (well, top-secret to Matt's mom) to Virginia.  We left  home on Thursday night, drove through the night, and surprised Matt's mom by standing (probably somewhat creepily) at the foot of her bed when she woke up Friday morning.

And for the next four days we shopped and ate and cooked and were spoiled rotten and and saw old friends and put together Barbie townhouses (damn you, elevator!) and basically did experiments to see just how much food the ol' human body could consume without actually exploding.

Right now, after sitting in the car for most of the day yesterday with soaking wet, cold jeans and a dog who would only rest if he could also steal my pillow and blanket, I feel like this.

But I'm working to muster up the energy to ellipt, and the I will reward myself with a trip to Target, because I haven't been to my home Target in like 5 days and I miss my favorite cashier and I have gift cards to use and I think I'm in dire need of a pair of work pants that won't put a giant dent in my child's head.

So, what about you?  How was your Christmas?  What'd you do?  What'd you get?

Krampus!

So, I've mentioned before that my parents never taught my brother or me about Santa Claus.  They also didn't let us go trick-or-treating.  (But our sister, who is 15 years younger than me, both believed in Santa and got to go trick-or-treating.  It seems that by the time you're on your third kid you don't care if it frolics around with Satan.)  And while I'm very bitter about being denied the chance to go door-to-door seeking out candy, I'm kind of whatevs about the whole Santa thing.  I think I even enjoyed the power that came with being the only kid in the first grade who wasn't so silly as to believe in some bearded fat guy coming down a chimney.  Plus, even if my parents had tried to tell us about Santa, our belief would have been short-lived because I was the master at finding my presents hidden around the house.

Matt, on the other hand, believed in Santa [for an appropriate amount of time], and enjoyed the magic and wonder that accompanied the whole North Pole/fat man/elf/toys legend.

Now, as Matt and I have these weird moments where we realize that this time next year there will be a [likely mobile] little human in our home, we're faced with some big decisions.  Do I really have to make my beautiful tree kid-friendly?  What do we do when Mitch steals the baby's toys?  What do we do when the baby steals Mitch's toys?  Can a 9-month old eat marshmallows?  And, finally, Are we going to tell our kid about Santa?

Now, next year we're probably in the clear, but the year after that we have to know.  And I'm a little blah about telling the kid about Santa, but Matt thinks we probably should.  Actually, I should say that I was a little blah about telling the kid about Santa, until I learned about the best part of the Santa story that nobody ever told me.

Krampus.

Now, you're probably way more hip and knowledgeable than I am, and you've probably known about Krampus for decades, but I just found out about him. But if you're like me and didn't know, well, let me fill you in.  Krampus, according to the almighty Wikipedia, is a scary/evil mythical creature recognized in Alpine countries who accompanies Santa on his Christmas Eve journey around the world.  While Santa leaves gifts for the good children, Krampus kidnaps the bad children, puts them in his sack, and takes them back to his lair where he devours them for his Christmas supper.

Amazing!

Please please please can we tell our kid about Krampus?  It just makes the whole Santa story come alive for me!  Matt says it might be too scary (especially when I suggested that if our little spawn had been bad, then I could plant a burlap sack that was stamped "Property of Krampus" somewhere in the house) and Shecky said that it borders on child abuse.  But people, think of all of the fun possibilities!*

I tried to argue to Matt that there is no crime in Alpine countries**, and that it was probably because people believed in Krampus there.  He rebutted that, no, instead they have really high suicide rates.  Then he stopped, thought, and added, "Or maybe those weren't suicides.  Maybe Krampus just ate them all."

So, it's big grown-up decision-making time.  Do we tell our kid about Krampus or no?



*Like, "Oh, I used to have a brother named Darryl, but he got taken by the Krampus when he was six"  or "See this scar on my arm?  It's from where Krampus grabbed me when I was seven.  I narrowly escaped."


**Which is probably not true at all.

Christmas to Me

Oh man, I'm kind of disappointed with myself because here I am, almost two weeks after Thanksgiving, and the only Christmas decoration I have up in my house is a strand of lights that I draped over a curtain rod to make it feel like the tree is here.  I did manage to get the Christmas stuff down from the attic, but it's just sitting here in boxes.  There's no tree smell in our house because we don't have our tree yet, and the rooms are woefully devoid of my garish and gaudy Christmas decor.

The mantle last year.  Or the year before that.  Who knows?

And because I've been so busy/lazy (Matt says that the only difference between my awake self and my asleep self is whether the ipod in my hand is illuminated), I haven't even managed to muster up the excitement about Christmas that I usually have.  Shoot.  But I'm working on it.  And I've decided to start here, with an essay that is sure to ignite in me some excitement for Christmas.

I didn't even know that this essay existed until a couple of months ago when I was teaching To Kill a Mockingbird to my ninth graders and one of my coworkers loaned me a new documentary about Harper Lee and the book,  Hey, Boo: Harper Lee and To Kill a Mockingbird.  If you're a big fan of the book (and, for real though, why wouldn't you be?), I'd really recommend putting this documentary on your Netflix queue*.  It was engaging enough to keep 37 ninth graders awake at 8:00 in the morning, and it had this really interesting little story in it, which Lee wrote about in "Christmas to Me."  So now I'll turn things over to ol' Harpy (she loves it when you call her that), even though I'm a little loath to put my words right next to hers.  Enjoy.

Christmas to Me: an essay by Harper Lee


Several years ago, I was living in New York and working for an airline, so I never got home to Alabama for Christmas—if, indeed, I got the day off. To a displaced Southerner, Christmas in New York can be rather a melancholy occasion, not because the scene is strange to one far from home, but because it is familiar: New York shoppers evince the same singleness of purpose as slow moving Southerners; Salvation Army bands and Christmas carols are alike the world over: at that time of year, New York streets shine wet with the same gentle farmer’s rain that soaks Alabama’s winter fields.


I missed Christmas away from home, I thought. What I really missed was a memory, an old memory of people long since gone, of my grandparents’ house bursting with cousins, smilax, and holly. I missed the sound of hunting boots, the sudden open-door gusts of chilly air that cut through the aroma of pine needles and oyster dressing. I missed my brother’s night-before-Christmas mask of rectitude and my father’s bumblebee bass humming “Joy to the World.”


In New York, I usually spent the day, or what was left of it, with my closest friends in Manhattan. They were a young family in periodically well-to-do circumstances. Periodically, because the head of the household employed the precarious craft of writing for their living. He was brilliant and lively; his one defect of character was an inordinate love of puns. He possessed a trait curious not only in a writer but in a young man with dependents; there was about him a quality of fearless optimism—not of the wishing-makes-it-so variety, but that of seeing an attainable goal and daring to take risks in its pursuit. His audacity sometimes left his friends breathless—who in his circumstances would venture to buy a townhouse in Manhattan? His shrewd generalship made the undertaking successful: while most young people are content to dream of such things, he made his dream a reality for his family and satisfied his tribal longing for his own ground beneath his feet. He had come to New York from the Southwest and, in a manner characteristic of all natives thereof, had found the most beautiful girl in the east and married her.


To this ethereal, utterly feminine creature were born two strapping sons, who, as they grew, discovered that their fragile mother packed a wallop that was second to nobody’s. Her capacity to love was enormous, and she spent hours in her kitchen, producing dark, viscous delights for her family and friends.


They were a handsome pair, healthy in mind and body, happy in their extremely active lives. Common interests as well as love drew me to them: and endless flow of reading material circulated amongst us; we took pleasure in the same theatre, films, music: we laughed at the same things, and we laughed so much in those days.


Our Christmases together were simple. We limited our gifts to pennies and wits and all-out competition. Who would come up with the most outrageous for the least? The real Christmas was for the children, an idea I found totally compatible, for I had long ago ceased to speculate on the meaning of Christmas as anything other than a day for children. Christmas to me was only a memory of old loves and empty rooms, something I buried with the past that underwent a vague, aching resurrection every year.


One Christmas, though, was different. I was lucky. I had the whole day off, and I spent Christmas Eve with them. When morning came, I awoke to a small hand kneading my face. “Dup,” was all its owner had time to say. I got downstairs just in time to see the little boys’ faces as they beheld the pocket rockets and space equipment Santa Claus had left them. At first, their fingers went almost timidly over their toys. When their inspection had been completed, the two boys dragged everything into the center of the living room.


Bedlam prevailed until they discovered there was more. As their father began distributing gifts, I grinned to myself, wondering how my exceptionally wily unearthments this year would be received. His was a print of a portrait of Sydney Smith I’d found for thirty-five cents; hers was the complete works of Margot Asquith, the result of a year’s patient search. The children were in agonies of indecision over which package to open next, and as I waited, I noticed that while a small stack of present mounted beside their mother’s chair, I had received not a single one. My disappointment was growing steadily, but I tried not to show it.


They took their time. Finally she said, “We haven’t forgotten you. Look on the tree.”


There was an envelope on the tree, addressed to me. I opened it and read: “You have one year off from your job to write whatever you please. Merry Christmas.”


“What does this mean?” I asked.


“What it says,” I was told.


They assured me that it was not some sort of joke. They’d had a good year, they said. They’d saved some money and thought it was high time they did something about me.


“What do you mean, do something about me?”


To tell the truth—if I really wanted to know—they thought I had a great talent, and—


“What makes you think that?”


It was plain to anyone who knew me, they said, if anyone would stop to look. They wanted to show their faith in me the best way they knew how. Whether I ever sold a line was immaterial. They wanted to give me a full, fair chance to learn my craft, free from the harassments of a regular job. Would I accept their gift? There were no strings at all. Please accept, with their love.


It took some time to find my voice. When I did, I asked if they were out of their minds. What made them think anything would come of this? They didn’t have that kind of money to throw away. A year was a long time. What if the children came down with something horrible? As objection crowded upon objection, each was overruled. “We’re all young,” they said. “We can cope with whatever happens. If disaster strikes, you can always find a job of some kind. Okay, consider it a loan, then, if you wish. We just want you to accept. Just permit us to believe in you. You must.”


“It’s a fantastic gamble,” I murmured. “It’s such a great risk.”


My friend looked around his living room, at his boys, half buried under a pile of bright Christmas wrapping paper. His eyes sparkled as they met his wife’s, and they exchanged a glance of what seemed to me insufferable smugness. Then he looked at me and said softly; “No, honey. It’s not a risk. It’s a sure thing.”


Outside, snow was falling, an odd event for a New York Christmas. I went to the window, stunned by the day’s miracle. Christmas trees blurred softly across the street, and firelight made the children’s shadows dance on the wall beside me. A full, fair chance for a new life. Not given me by an act of generosity, but by an act of love. Our faith in you was really all I had heard them say. I would do my best not to fail them. Snow still fell on the pavement below. Brownstone roofs gradually whitened. Lights in distant skyscrapers shone with yellow symbols of a road’s lonely end, and as I stood at the window, looking at the lights and the snow, the ache of an old memory left me forever.


This essay was originally published in McCall’s in December 1961.


*Oh, hey, there's a word I can play to use up all of those damned U's I have in Words with Friends!

Hey There!

Pssssht.  Last week was hard.  After a full week off for Thanksgiving, I returned to the harsh reality that, well, work is hard.  And kids are annoying right before Christmas.  And accreditation years at school are their own personal hell.  It was one of those weeks where I had to groan and pout and peel myself out of bed each morning, and where the only thing I wanted to do when I got home was take a coma nap.  So that's what happened.  There were coma naps and that was about it.

But this weekend brought with it returned motivation, a can-do attitude, and enough energy for me to become, (as Cassie always puts it and I always want to steal, but then I don't want to steal because then I'm a big fat stealer) "a whirling dervish of productivity."  And then I was feeling back on top of the world.  While the Christmas tasks aren't even close to being done, the miserable school tasks are well on their way--or at least enough on their way that I don't have to worry about them when I exit my classroom.

I'm so happy right now.  Happy that we have 1 1/2 episodes of Boardwalk Empire to catch up on, that my Christmas cards are ordered (and that I didn't have to pay anything for them because I won a $100 Shutterfly credit earlier this year!), happy that maybe--just maybe!--Newt Gingrich will be the Republican nominee, and happy that there's a big bowl of peppermint marshmallows just waiting for me to go ellipt so that I can eat them up without feeling guilty.  I'm happy that I get to read one of my faves, The Great Gatsby, with my juniors twice every day, and I'm happy that after nine more school days I won't have to see those same juniors for a while.  I'm happy that we're getting our tree this week and that I get to make my house into a really busy, super tacky, a little bit white-trash winter wonderland.  And I'm happy that I get to share this fun Christmas season with the cutest dog ever and the best husband ever and an active little fetus who's been going all Michael Flatley* on my insides today.

Here's what it's been looking like around here.

 Mitch needed to help load the refrigerator with beer.

 And tell Matt a very funny secret.

 This is how far I am with Christmas decorating.

 Cupcakes for a baby shower!  You probably forgot that I'm basically a professional baker.

 Pup was feeling a little down this weekend, which was probably more upsetting to Matt and me than it was to him.

 Talking to Shecky on speakerphone during ellipting.  It's kind of awesome.

 Peppermint creamy goodness.

 Human child has some work to do if he's going to be cuter than his brother.

 This totes could have been our Christmas card photo--you know, if Mitch didn't look like he had rabies and I didn't look like a ghost.  Oh well.

Soul. Mates.  

Happy week to you!  May it be full of marshmallows and Nucky Thompson.  And dogs.  Always dogs.

*His legs flail about as though independent of his body!

Merry, Merry.

[source]

I want it to be Christmas.

I want the cookies, and the time off, and the coats and hats, and the music.  Oh, the music!

And, judge away my friends, but this little ditty* will be playing as I deck our, uh, house with, uh, lots of sparkly ADD-type Christmas decor.

I've started my shopping, and I've been pinning away fun decorations, and I've already picked out our Christmas card.

Anyway, Shorty**, guess it's time for bed.  How else will I have visions of sugar-plums and homemade peppermint marshmallows?


*I still haven't felt the baby kick, and it's making me mad.  So, now, since I know he can hear, I'm trying all sorts of things to get him moving.  (Lazy fetus!)  So far, here are some things that have not worked: me yelling at students, the season four finale of Brothers & Sisters, Christopher Walken reading "The Raven," Mitch barking at a bone, threats to name it Shorty.  And now let's add Justin Bieber's Christmas music to that list.  Does nothing rile this child?

*Or do you prefer to go by Dirty?

Savannah Family Christmas

Cassie just wrote a post about the origins of our Savannah family, so if you're not sure who these people are or how this little family of vagabonds came to be, check it out. 

It was seeming like we weren't going to get to have our Savannah Family Christmas this year, so when Cassie called last week and asked it we would be up for an impromptu celebration, we were thrilled.  It was just one of those perfect visits, full of great food and laughter and just the right amount of chaos.

I just love these people. 

 Cassie got superhero capes for Iris and Opal.

 And then Iris decided that she would turn hers into a fabulous gown.

Mmmmmmm. . . 

 Big, crazy, delicious Mexican feast.

Big crazy happy family.

WAFFLE CONES!

We had a wonderful, peaceful, gluttonous Christmas.  We slept until 12:30, opened presents (more on those later), ate lunch, chatted on the phone, went to see True Grit (seriously awesome movie--completely perfect--and this comes from the girl who hates westerns), and came home and ate an absurd amount of food.  It was one of those days that reminded me of just how much I love my simple, uncomplicated little life.

Oh yeah, and I GOT A WAFFLE CONE MAKER!  (Because I have the best mother-in-law this side of the Mississippi.) 

 Tonight I just made vanilla, but I'm thinking that there will be more flavors in the future: lemon to go with sorbet, chocolate, chocolate-dipped, chocolate-dipped with sprinkles, cinnamon and nutmeg. . .  Um. . .can I make a strawberry waffle cone?  I swear I'm not high.

And, bee-tee-dub, there's only one thing that's more exciting than homemade waffle cones--and that's. . .MINI WAFFLE CONES!

As you can tell, I'm goofy excited about this gift, and I can't wait to have people over for dinner to have a medly of mini cones.  New Year's, perhaps?

Merry Christmas!

We all know that the best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.

But this Christmas it's been a little different for me, partly because I have a singing voice that sounds a little bit like a dying cat, and partly because, well, my Christmas has been more about other people--in a totally awesome way.

I'm not writing this to be all "look how great we are" or anything, but this Christmas--the last couple of weeks in particular--have been more dedicated to serving and helping others than they have been to taking daily trips to Target and Gap.  And even though I'm a little worn out and don't have as many new sweaters as I usually do this time of year, I can't remember a time I felt better about Christmas, about human compassion and generosity and camaraderie.*

Tomorrow will be about sleeping in, and opening a few gifts that are under the tree, and eating, and snugglin', and going to the movies. 

May your Christmas be as lovely!

XOXO

*And then every little good deed would make me feel so good that I was beginning to think that I was only doing them for that good feeling and not to help other people.  This is a dilemma that my friend Phoebe dealt with one time.

Christmas Card Model Dog

Here's the Christmas card that we ended up sending out.  There's a good chance you have it up on your mantle right now.  If you don't, I'd suggest printing the picture and putting it on the mantle.  I've been told that it brings good luck.  And that it'll make your whole house smell like bacon.  (Okay, so that first part was a lie.)  Oh, and, by the way, if we don't send you birthday or anniversary cards or anything like that, just remember that we covered it with the "happy everything" card back in December.

Anyway, I was pretty happy with the card, except that Mitch looked like some sort of ghost dog with rabies.  The funny thing about that was that during our little Christmas card photo shoot (thanks, Photographer Cassie!), Mitch was basically acting like a model dog.

Well, maybe not at first. . .

But then it was like he was an old Christmas card photo takin' pro.*

 Seriously, look at him.

Are you kidding me with this one? 

I really do think he's in a contest with himself to be the cutest dog on the planet.

*Which, clearly, Matt and I are not.**

**Also, it's true that Matt and I, in our very non-model way, dressed for completely different types of weather and/or parts of the earth.  It was like 65 degrees and raining, and I'd woken up that morning with poison ivy on my face.  Plus, I love winter garb.

My Sister, the Film Critic.

I actually shared this story a really long time ago, and if we're friends in real life I've probably told it to you on more than one occasion--because I just love it that much.

When Chloe was little--like 6 or so--I was home for Christmas and I took her to the movies to see Elf.  At Thanksgiving, Chloe had gone to see the critically acclaimed film, The Haunted Mansion.  When we were driving back from the movie, Chloe was pretty quiet, thinking pretty hard, and then she busted out with this:

"You know, Sissy, sometimes you think a movie is scary or funny, but really it's about love--or Christmas spirit."

The next year on Christmas Eve I was talking to her on the phone and asked her what she was doing.  She explained, in a really bored sort of way:

 "Well, I was out putting food out for Santa's reindeer, but then I thought I saw the Grim Reaper, so I came inside."

[source--because you can buy this Grim Reaper Christmas ornament]

Hope your Christmas week is just dandy.  I'm off to the post office to finish off the last of my Christmas tasks.  Horray!

Christmas around the House

Here's what Christmas is looking like around our house.  (a.k.a., "Get ready to see way more pictures than you want to.")

Oh, and I left some stuff out because I posted about it last year here and here.

 Homemade wreaths.  More wire hangers!

 Treat bags ready to go to school.

 Cute dogs running in circles around cute husbands wearing man slippers.

Frank Sinatra ornament that plays our wedding first dance song, "Fly Me to the Moon."

More marshmallow making.  I'm obsessed.

Not my best Christmas tree work, but I was too lazy to go to the store to get more lights

 after almost half of the strands were suddenly broken.

What's Christmas looking like in your neck of the woods?