Christmas Wishes

I am where traditions come to die.

My mother, like her mother before her, hand-stitched beautiful, painstakingly created Halloween costumes every year.  We have been elaborate mermaids and He-Men, pirates and princesses.  Once, my brother Johnny was a giant, well-designed hot dog.

Me?  I buy some overpriced, pre-packaged costume the week or day before it is needed.

My mother bought us unique Christmas ornaments every year, envisioning that we would eventually take them all with us and put them on our own trees when we were grown.

While a few of mine have survived, and some have even made their way onto the tree, I’m ashamed to say that the vast majority of them probably now live in a box in the garage, the result of several moves to different apartments and houses through my early and late twenties.  I’ve not had it together enough as an adult to start a similar tradition for my own children, though they do each have a “Baby’s 1^st” ornament.  I can’t even claim credit for buying those—my oldest child’s was a gift from my sister-in-law, and my younger daughter, who happens to have two, received one because her father picked one out of the gift shop in the hospital, as she was born in December, and the other came from (you guessed it) my mother.

And speaking of Christmases and trees, ours comes out of a box.  Well, a series of boxes, and because it’s so old—a hand-me-down—the colored labels that tell us which hole to insert which branch are all peeling off, making putting this tree together a special treat.  I wonder if my father is ever rolling in his grave at the notion of his daughter putting up an artificial tree.  He’d probably roll his eyes even more at our inept struggle to put the long branches near the bottom and the shorter one near the top, in spite of my grumbling that the color coding system is broken. 

My father would never have found himself in a situation such as this.  He had to go find the biggest tree on the lot for his family, every single year—perhaps like his father before him?  One Christmas I swear our tree had to have been twelve feet tall (our house, the same one I grew up in, is not big by any standard, but we do have vaulted ceilings in the living room—and I vaguely remember this tallest of trees touching the highest peak of the ceiling, the uppermost part of it bowed beneath the peak of the house, not exactly allowing for artful placement of a star).

It's not that I don’t try.  I want to be one of those moms who makes cookies for Santa and reads about Jesus’ birth on Christmas Eve.  It’s just that I also happen to be the kind of person who thinks that Christmas Eve is a pretty good time to, you know, start wrapping presents.

I’ve been a procrastinator most of my adult life, I guess.  I don’t mean to be.  There are aspects of my time I manage particularly well—at work, for example, where if I didn’t get things done in a timely manner, I probably wouldn’t have a job.  I faithfully serve at church each week, offering a smile and a handshake to church members, visitors, strangers.  I’m always on time and ready to do what is asked of me.

But when it comes to momming, I’m never going to be room mom or hold office in the PTO.  I’m probably not even going to make it to story time at the library, even though I think that’s a great idea in theory.

I’m just not wired that way.

But here is what I can promise my children, each and every Christmas:

As long as I’m alive, there will never be a day that I won’t want to hug you.

I pray for you as often as I think of you.

They won’t always make it to the table for Santa, but my chocolate chip cookies will be the best you’ve ever tasted, and I will teach you how to make them.

I will teach you to be kind.  I will do my best to model selfless living, and show you what it looks like to treat others the way that Jesus would.

We will value laughter in our house.  I believe how often we laugh is a much more accurate measure of our wealth than the numbers on the bank statements.

You will grow up in a house where the number one rule is “God first.”  Our other rules include “Don’t let anyone win”—I did inherit my competitive nature from my father, I suppose—and “Do things that make sense.”

It goes without saying that we will love each other in this house.

I will not be the kind of mother who protects you from ever feeling a consequence.  I will not argue with your teachers over grades or make excuses for you if you are in the wrong.  Instead, I will love you through any sort of disappointment you face, whether it is one you created yourself because of your own choices, or one that you must face simply because of unfair circumstances.

I will be the first to admit that life is not always fair.  I will do my best to teach you how to let this realization make you better, not bitter.

I will teach you that being more selfish is never the answer.

I will teach you that sour cream and onion potato chips are clearly the most superb amongst all flavors, and if you refuse to learn this lesson, good.  That means there will be more for me.

I will teach you the true meaning of Christmas—all about love, grace, forgiveness, faith, and joy.  Each of these, which are the secret to living a life well-lived regardless of the season, are demonstrated through Jesus' birth, and I will make sure to explain as best I can how I know this to be true.  Some years, there will be many presents under our tree.  Other years, they might not be abundant.  I will try to teach you how to experience joy, no matter what is wrapped up and waiting for you Christmas morning.

My greatest joys in life are being your mother, being your father’s wife, and being a daughter of God.  I will try to show you how to love your parents and grandparents by loving my own mother and grandmother.  It is one of my greatest regrets that you never got to watch me love your grandfather, and that even if you had been old enough to experience that time, I might have shown him more obviously how much I loved him, so that neither you nor he could have doubted it.

I will love my husband and try to put his needs above my wants, as I believe he does the same for me.  I pray you find this kind of love, and when you find it, you don’t give up on it.  I will do everything in my power to show you how a real marriage is a partnership, that love is a feeling but also a choice.  That you must choose love day after day.

So, my dear children, choose love.  Whether you grow up to be the bake sale queen or the scattered artist, the mom who does all organic or baby yoga or still has a girls’ night complete with wine or all or none of the above—love your kids as best you can, in the way that is natural to you.  Listen to all of the people God has put in your path to guide you, but at the end of the day, make your decisions about how to live your life for an audience of one—what do you think is best in this situation, and what would God say about it?

Above all, choose love. 

PS--As I write this, there's a freaking squirrel in the fireplace.  Your father tried to force it to evacuate Chevy Chase style, enlisting one of you--the elder--to "SHOO it, SHOO it."  I'm not sure exactly how that worked out, but due to the scratching I can still hear directly behind me in the chimney in back of the recliner, I'm thinking:  Wildly Unsuccessfully.  There's always been a little bit of National Lampoon in our family--Chevy Chase was one of my dad's favorites.  Don't be ashamed of the everyday crazy.  Embrace it.

An Ode to Childhood Summers on the Delaware Coast

I know.  I haven't been writing.

I have nothing to say in my defense.

Except that I just found this story I wrote for my non-fiction class in college, and I kind of fell in love again.

I'm not sharing the whole thing, because I want to be selfish.  And maybe because my boss has inspired me to enter a short story contest (through which she herself got published this year!  Yay!), and the theme for next year's entries just happens to be The Beach.

I wrote what you're about to read in March of 2004.  It has three parts--the one I'm sharing is essentially an ode to childhood.  The second part considers the longing to return to said childhood.  The third shows an actual attempt to do just that.  And I'm thinking of adding a fourth section, because my whole view on childhood has really been enhanced by, um, having a child.

But for now, here's the first section.  I hope you enjoy.

I know I enjoyed writing it.

Waves

I.                    Crest—The portion of a wave displaced above the still water line; the highest point of the wave.

We used to call it “Washing Machine.”

Washing Machine—our very technical term for what happened when the angry gray waves tore our tiny bodies off our fluorescent purple and orange Moorey Boogie boards; slamming us beneath a crashing current, boards flailing about above us, snapping our skinny arms back by the sea-soaked black leashes, sand invading every possible crevice as we tumbled into human pretzel shapes tossed about by the immense power of exploding murky swells, and we came up sputtering and choking, blinking in the bright sun and staggering to our feet above the frothy white aftermath which fizzled around our ankles.

Washing Machine.

And we would gasp for air, and tilt our heads to the side, banging the fists not restrained by the body board leashes against our skulls, in an effort to pound the sand out of our ears.

“Did you see that?” I’d scream to my brothers and best friend Courtney, charging back into the waves.  The taste of salt was overpowering, and I loved it in a way I wouldn’t come to understand until much later in life.  I would gallantly battle to throw my small body past the roaring breaking point, fighting my way back to my fellow adventurers, still rubbing my eyes, or tugging at my bathing suit, or briefly examining and then dismissing the scarlet scraping above my things and knees inflicted by my contact with the furious ocean floor during the last Washing Machine.

Ah, to have millions of grains of sand coat the top of my scalp, clinging to my clumped wet hair, and to not care!  To have the sticky residue of salt water paint my entire sun-bronzed body, and to not want a shower!  To be thrown violently time and time again from the slippery beast that was my Moorey Boogie board, and worry not once about twisting an ankle, or breaking what would become, later in life, my waitressing wrist.

What a wonderful thing, to be young and in love with the ocean.

**After submitting this piece to my professor, Dr. Vince Puma's comments included the most inspiring compliment I've ever received from a teacher.  He wrote, "I expect to see your name in print someday."

It's taking me longer than I hoped, Dr. Puma...

But I am still trying.

Never Underestimate the Power of Stupid

In the name of love (or pride, or a desire to not lose, or any other number of things), people can do some pretty stupid stuff. 

Case in point:  Yesterday, my family and I were spending some quality time at Martinak State Park, a lovely wooded area resting on the Choptank River, where Rashieme and I plan on getting married this summer.  This quiet state park features trees and shade and sunshine and trails and, to my daughter's delight, several playgrounds.  We were checking out each one as we had spent the day with Shieme's mom and were now just a few hours away from a meeting with a local restaurant owner, whose establishment we were checking out as a possible venue for a reception location.  Knowing we were having this meeting, I had opted to wear a sundress and cloth slip-on flats.

Being that I was dressed up, I opted out of Rashieme and Kaliah's game of tag at the first playground, which began with hysterical laughter and blissful joy and then eventually ended in tears because, much like her mommy, Kaliah does not like to lose.  We ventured on to the second playground which featured a tall spiral slide that looked promising, but unfortunately was not all that slippery, and Kaliah slid down with a dismal look on her face that made it clear that she'd rather be practicing fractions.  So off we went to the third location, where we discovered a completely in-tact piece of playground equipment that featured several different entrances/exits:  slides, monkey-bar style extensions, a rock climbing wall, etc.

Kaliah immediately came up with the idea of an obstacle course.  She explained that we would have to each take a turn using each of the "exits" and whoever could successful exit all avenues of the equipment the fastest would be declared the winner.  I certainly wasn't dressed for it, but what can I say?  One should never underestimate the power of stupid.  I'd like to claim that I did it out of my love for my child and desire to bond with her and spend quality time making memories.

But the truth is, I probably just wanted to win.

For those of you who don't know me, I am stupid competitive.

So her daddy yelled go, and off we went.  On the very first small slide, I struggled to keep my skirt covering everything it should cover, then scrambled back to the steps of the main entrance to navigate the next exit.  Despite my shaky start, Kaliah and I were neck and neck.  My long legs worked to my advantage, as did my height, when it came to jumping from certain points instead of climbing down.

We were maybe two minutes in, both running out of breath, both laughing and scampering about, and I was down to one remaining obstacle.  But first I had to re-enter the equipment.  Seeing that my daughter was already on the main entrance, (the steps), and deciding to go around her and cut in front of her, I opted to climb a short slide instead of race around, putting myself behind her.  As I jumped on the slide and began striding upwards, I immediately realized the error of my ways, as my cloth shoes had absolutely no traction and I began slipping back down, like a surfer skimming a wave.  I tried to stop the momentum, but somehow my legs got tangled up and I went sailing over backwards, falling with a resounding thud, as I crashed down on my legs, back, and shoulder, head clunking down into the stupid wood shavings that always line these kinds of play ground.

"Alright, you're done," Daddy the referee announced, shaking his head as he strode over to help me up.  Meanwhile Kaliah was shrieking in amazement and I was laughing so hard I was almost crying.  Rashieme pulled me to my feet, and both of them went to work brushing the wood chips from my sweater, dress, and hair.

"We've got a meeting in an hour.  'What happened to her?' 'Playground accident?'" Rashieme demanded, rolling his eyes.

"But I was doing so good," I protested.  "I think I was winning."

Clearly, I wasn't.  Not after the Cloth-Shoe-Sliding-Board-Fall.

Lesson Learned:  When you're trying to beat the pants off your kid at some outdoor activity, wear sneakers.

And maybe a helmet.

And something other than a dress with granny panties underneath.

For the record, Rashieme and Kaliah went next.  With the aid of sneakers and pants (as opposed to a skirt), Rashieme beat her by a landslide.  He didn't even need the helmet.

New, Raw and Uncut: A True Tale of Everyday Crazy

This is going to sound like fiction...

Warning:  This story contains an image of my father in a pink bath towel.  Don't worry, it is rated PG-13.  No full nudity occurs.

Rule Number One:  Don’t Wake Mom

(Unless the House is on Fire)

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the time I nearly burned down the house.  I was ten years old.  The incident involved a cinnamon flavored pop-tart, an aging toaster, and my sleep-deprived mother. 

            Mom had trained us never to wake her.  She worked the night shift at a nursing home, see, and came home around seven in the morning.  Rule number one growing up in our house was always Don’t Wake Mom.  Not only did she stumble home red-eyed and exhausted from an evening of taking care of the elderly, but on the rare occasions I found need to wake her, it was a terrifying experience.  She would always stare vacantly at us for a moment or two before something in her eyes would change and she would gasp, grab a hold of our arms, or sometimes even give a little shriek.  Not how you want to start your mama’s day, trust me.

            So as I stared at the thick cloud of black smoke puffing up from the malfunctioning toaster, I actually froze, considering:  Do I wake mom up for this?

            I’m sure that with the entire home in jeopardy, some of you are wondering why I would have even paused.  All I can say in my defense is that I was pretty sure she might kill me.  After all, I had actually set the house on fire.  All I had wanted was a cinnamon pop tart, and I’d realized something was wrong when the minute and a half needed to toast the thing had passed, with no springing sound of the pop tart ejecting.  Clearly, the toaster was eating my pop tart for me.  Was this worth waking mom for?  Yes.  Was I going to get out of this without getting in trouble?  Hard to say.

            I tiptoed to her bedroom, wanting to break the news to her as gently as possible.  I lightly pushed on the bedroom door, taking a deep breath.

            “Mom,” I called in a hushed whisper.  “Mom…”

            Nothing.  I hesitated.  “Mom,” I managed in a slightly louder voice.  “Mom… the toaster is smoking a little bit,” I was downplaying the amount of smoke, hoping that by giving her a less dramatic version of what was happening, I might lessen my punishment.

            Mom stirred under her covers but didn’t open her eyes or respond.  I frowned, hovering in the doorway.  This was not good.

            Quickly, I ran lightly down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of the kitchen.  My mouth dropped as I took in the scene in front of me.  The heavy black smoke poured upwards, the pop tart a smoldering black mass of goo bubbling over the toaster.  Orange flames shot up and licked the bottom of our cabinets.

            I raced back down the hallway, flying into Mom’s bedroom and grabbing her by the shoulder.

            “Mom,” I began urgently, “Mom… the toaster’s smoking a lot!”

            She mumbled something unintelligible, attempting to roll back over.

            “Mom!”  I screamed, panic taking over.  “Mom, the toaster is on FIRE!”

            At this, with one fluid motion, she shot out of bed, threw back the covers and went sprinting down the hallway.  As I followed behind, I heard, “OH MY GOD!”

            She raced back by me as I cowered in the living room, entranced by the toaster fire blazing away in the next room. 

            What happened after that has been burned into my memory, a hilarious image that will stay with me all of my life:

            “JOHN!” I heard my mother’s panicked squawk, followed by a muffled, urgent conversation hidden from my ears as it was covered by the bathroom door banging open and the hissing sound of my father’s interrupted shower.

            The next thing I knew, my father came exploding down the hallway, a tiny pink bath towel wrapped around his waist, barely (but thankfully, completely) covering everything one hoped would be covered.  Legs pumping like an NFL player’s, he rounded the corner, skidded across the kitchen to the toaster, and as I watched fascinated, he grasped the toaster and its cord out of the wall with one hand, hurling it into the sink and jerking on the faucet to extinguish the flames, all the while using his other hand to continue to keep his towel wrapped around his waist.

            And just that quick, it was over.

            I learned a lot that day (besides the obvious—that you always wake up an adult if the house is on fire).  I learned that I could depend on my family.  I learned that honesty is always the best policy, that I could tell my mother anything.  She was angry and amused that I was afraid to wake her, given the situation.  She also decided that other than a mild chastising, no other punishment was in order, considering the trauma I had just experienced in nearly burning down the house.  But what I realized from that day forth is that no matter what, my mother would be there for me.

            And thankfully, in every other subsequent mess I ever got myself into, the solution never again included my nearly naked father in a pink bath towel.

I am From...

A good one for #ThrowbackThursday...

My "I Am From" Poem.

Composed on my last birthday.

Originally shared as a note on Facebook, 8/30/13.


Inspired by readings from Ms. Kim Patrick's Young Writers' Open Mic, and dedicated to all the people who have made me into who I am...

I am from golden days spent wiggling toes in sun baked sand, and the taste of salt that lingers after reluctantly saying farewell to the sparkling waves, dragging boogie boards and plastic buckets the half mile trek away from the beckoning Atlantic.
I am from Daddy's big laugh as he thrust me high above his head to do Super Girl, flashes of pine trees whirling by above us.
I am from "If I wanted to build my house in a field, I would have built it in a field!" accompanied by a satisfied nod when Mommom complained to him about those pines.
I am from the comfort of cherry flavored tobacco, snuggled up in my Poppop's generous lap--the warmest, safest place to lay one's head at Mommom's house.
I am from "Welcome to the Family of the People Who Love the Lord" sung by warbling, honest voices in the tiny Baptist church on Rt. 54, and the tears that stung as a teenager as I tried to form those words, not understanding why I cried.
I am from "If you want to be baptized, you have to be nicer to your brother."
I am from elaborate hand-stitched Halloween costumes and my mother's smiles, crispy bacon and hot scrapple on a Saturday morning, cartoons blaring in the background from one of the three lonely channels the satellite provided.
I am from Friday nights under the lights and round-off, toe touch, cheer!  Green and Gold and the swelling victorious instruments blasting out "Da-da-da-da-da, hey!" beneath starry October skies.
I am from the love of my life staring at me in a high school chorus class, tossing my music on the floor or playfully touching my side, my shoulder.... tingles that brought back smiles hours and years later.
I am from dreams of getting off the Eastern Shore, palm trees of North Florida swaying under cloudless blue skies and college life with my best friend, who went 800 miles away with me after forming a playground friendship by the sliding boards in second grade.  I am from going back to where you came from, and so is she.
I am from a bustling, vibrant, welcoming church, filled with thousands of people who love Jesus and each other.  A church that grows and changes and laughs, while staying true to the scriptures.
I am from "Thank You," as my love's beautiful brown eyes fall on me in the hospital bed, our little Rose cradled contently in his arms.
I am from "She won't look like this when we see her again," and his hand on my shoulder as we hold our youngest in the oh-so-soft blanket--the only thing I will ever buy for her.
I am from never look back, or they'll see you as weak, and the thudding of sneakers on pavement as my eyes search for the finish line.
I am from rejection after rejection, sprinkled with glimmers of hope from agents who praise my writing ability, gently admitting my novel is not quite right for them.
I am from all eyes on me at open mics, and laughter and tears and comments that urge me to sit down and begin typing again.
I am from Dr. Puma's barely legible "I expect to see your name in print some day" scrawled across the bottom of my final memoir turned in for Non-fiction class.
I am from believing.

In Memory of My Father...

Work Hard, Play Hard

            Once, my father broke his ankle.  He didn’t just break it though—he so completely obliterated the bones, that the doctor who ended up examining him in the hospital demanded to know if he had broken it sky diving.  Being a construction worker, he was out of work for several months thereafter, so not only was he suffering from a broken ankle, but I also believe he was living in fear that my mother might kill him.

            My mother and father did love each other, but their marriage was always a strained one, and a few years after the ankle episode, they finally ended up getting a divorce.  Mom certainly wasn’t angry that dad had injured himself, and while I know that his being out of work changed her life completely for that trying time period, that wasn’t really the reason she was so frustrated, I don’t think.

            She was at her wits end because my father had broken his ankle rollerblading.

            My father believed in working hard, but he believed in playing harder.  He loved skating, and had stopped at nothing to make sure my brothers and I were the best equipped kids in the state to succeed in roller hockey, our sport of choice.  Every few years, he lavished us with expensive, top-of-the-line inline skates.  We traveled at least thirty minutes first once and then twice a week for practice; he provided us with pads, helmets, hockey sticks, and, more often than we actually asked for it, one-on-one training time with him.  (Once, a stray slap shot of my father’s hit me so hard in the leg while I was standing by watching him work with my brother that I had to be carried into the house, sobbing).  Most middle schoolers I knew spent their Saturdays sleeping in, but my brothers and I were up at 7:30, being herded into our station wagon, dragging our hockey bags and sticks behind us as we climbed in for the trip to the skating rink.

            So one fateful Saturday, he had taken one of my brothers to one of his favorite finds for some informal, one-on-one scrimmaging.  They’d traveled a good thirty to forty minutes away to skate upon several unused tennis courts in a sprawling residential development, since the wooded coastal area we lived in wasn’t exactly crowded with paved streets or parks suitable for roller hockey.  The way Johnny had described it later, he and Dad had been racing for the puck, each determined not to let the other beat him as they flew toward the short wooden wall where the puck had bounced.  They were going so fast they were unable to stop in time, both of them smashing into the wall.  When my father’s lanky, six-foot-two frame had collided with the wood, he’d instantly dropped to the ground.  He had shattered several bones in his ankle upon impact.

            Dad was slowed down for a bit in the weeks and months that followed.  Though he did eventually skate again, he never even walked quite the same after the accident (though, don’t get me wrong, he continued to remain physically active right up until the day he passed away).  But his rollerblading incident occurred well into his fifties, and as this was before the time of cell phones, he had to drive himself home, using his left foot to work the gas and brake pedals, at which point he then had Mom take him to the hospital.  The doctors had been amazed that he’d been able to function enough through the pain to make that forty minute commute without losing consciousness.

            He continued to drive with his left foot all throughout the time his right foot was encased in a cast, and, surprisingly, eventually began driving with both feet, something I have yet to see another human being do.

            We were back at practice less than two weeks later, missing only the single hockey practice that took place the day of his surgery. The following Saturday, Dad simply tossed his crutches into the back of the station wagon and we were on our way, him driving us all the way with his left foot, intently watching us practice from the sidelines, calling instructions at my brothers and I:  “Shoot it!  Stay with him!  Defense!”

            The coach had warily watched my father hobbling in, and before scrimmage, he’d blown the whistle, barking, “Anybody that hits Mr. Meister with the puck owes me twenty laps!”

             I understand that this was an incredibly difficult time for my mother.  With Dad out of work, all the sudden she was working as hard as she could to feed herself and four other mouths, having never been the sole provider before.  Dad had injured himself playing a game rather than working on a job, and apparently, all his insurance would cover in the way of accidents was work place liabilities.  Since rollerblading into a wall could hardly be related to dry wall or metal studding, we were also faced with staggering medical bills from dad’s surgeries and treatments.  All because he was too stubborn to let his thirteen year old son beat him to the puck!

            Still, regardless of how Mom was feeling, I learned some things from my Dad based on this experience.

1)       Never give up.  Even if your dignity takes a hit later, at least you’ll know that, in the moment, you did everything you could in that instant to be the best you that you could be.

2)      Accept no limitations.  After the accident, I think most men my father’s age would have called it quits on sporting endeavors.  Not my dad.  He continued to jog, bike, and even skate, after the doctor cleared him to do so.  For that, I will forever admire him.

3)      Don’t forget what’s really important in life.  My dad changed his life by playing a game with his son.  At great cost to him—financially, physically, and emotionally—he endured suffering and ribbing from friends for years to come because of his intensely competitive nature, which had led to the accident in the first place.  But I believe, more than his desire to win that game with my brother, was the desire to show him what’s most important in life:  Try your best.  Give everything one hundred percent.  Find something that you love, and don’t lose your passion, no matter what anybody else says.  And above all, find a way to connect with your children.  Family is what matters most.  Years later, it’s not the lack of Christmas presents under the tree that they’ll recall, or the fancy vacation destinations you couldn’t afford.  That’s not what’s remembered; not at all… it’s the everyday moments and smiles.  The time spent together.  The hockey games you played with your kids, the times you chased them through the house and threw them onto the couch, the trips to the beach, when you were the only adult willing to brave the freezing Atlantic because your kids begged you to… that’s what they’ll remember.

I love you, Dad, and I sure do miss you.  I hope they have roller hockey in heaven.  If so, I’ll see you on the court.  I’ll be playing defense like I always did, so don’t go easy on me.  I don’t think we have to worry about breaking our bones in the afterlife, so I’ll be ready for your A game.