Christmas memories

Do you remember the week of Christmas movies NBC would show sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas? For me those were way more exciting than Frosty or Rudolph. The Sound of Music, Home Alone, Beethoven, and Dennis the Menace were my favorites. I loved when my dad would laugh out loud at the funny parts and I’d have to explain what was going on to my younger brothers. Then one year I got to watch Jurassic Park for the first time and forever think of it as a holiday movie now. (Roy says it’s my Diehard.) Best scary movie EVER…with absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.

One time in my 31 years of Christmases my brothers and I convinced my parents that we needed to stay home from all Christmas Eve service obligations. My mom didn’t take much arm pulling, but my dad, being the responsible patriarch and lay leader, required some pretty intense negotiations. Oh, how I remember that Christmas Eve. We enjoyed a simple meal together, my brothers and I read and acted out the Christmas story with our nativity set for our parents, and the house was lit only by twinkly window candles and the tree. I remember heading upstairs for bed and hearing Jessie Norman singing carols on PBS as my mom prepared to finish wrapping stocking stuffers. I felt all was right with the world.

I wish for another Christmas Eve like that every year.

The best Christmas morning surprise I ever received was when I was 8. We’ve been Aldi shoppers for a really long time, and you know how Aldi has the Aisle of Surprises? I love going down that aisle still, because you never know what kind of toys or kitchen stuff or home decor they’ll have on sale. When I was 8 we walked down the Mystery Aisle and they had a whole bunch of toys on display. Among these toys was a collection of dolls. They were about the size of American Girl dolls, but only $6 each. I felt, secretly, that I was probably too old for dolls, but there was one that had beautiful auburn hair named Tracy and I instantly loved her. I told my mom this and she responded, as I expected, “Well, save your money and you can buy her yourself.”

I didn’t have too many opportunities to save $6 as an 8 year old, but I did scrounge and when we went back a few weeks later they were completely out of Tracy dolls. There was a blonde doll, but I didn’t want her. I cried silent tears through the entire store, ashamed for crying and being so disappointed over a doll, but heartbroken nonetheless. I later reset my sights on a Cabbage Patch doll, but knew that nothing would replace Tracy’s perfect face and dark hair. She had loved me too, I could tell.

Fast forward to Christmas morning. This is probably a month or two later, which as you know is a small eternity for an 8 year old. Christmas was on a Sunday that year and we were up early to open gifts before heading to church (my dad being the patriarch and responsible lay leader that he was). There were a lot of wonderful gifts for all and the mood was joyous and festive. Just as we approached the conclusion my mom handed me one hidden, final box. I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe a Cabbage Patch doll, maybe something else entirely. (My parents often purchased us gifts that we didn’t ask for but ended up being the things we loved most.) I carefully unwrapped the paper and saw the most beautiful face looking up at me. I screamed and burst into tears. (A very dramatic reaction for me, if I do say so myself.) I loved that doll and carefully brought her with me to church, left her buckled in the car, and brought out my bestest church friend to peek through the window to see her, secretly still a little ashamed at loving a doll so much.

Tracy still resides in my bedroom closet in my parents’ house. If I ever have a little girl maybe I’ll fluff Tracy up and tell my daughter the story that still makes me cry a little on the inside.

What are your favorite Christmas memories?

Update

We’re there. The musical is over! Both performances were well attended and went off without a hitch. Friday night’s performance was the first time the orchestra made it through the entire 45 minute show without getting off the click at least once. A feat we duplicated only once, on Sunday night. There’s something about getting it right the two times it counts that makes me feel like an Olympic athlete (which, as many of you know, is my secret aspiration-gone-by). There may have been a little fist pumping from the podium… Now that Almost There isn’t consuming my thoughts and calendar, you’d think I’d be sleeping a little better at night and have a little more time during the day. But I’m still having nightmares about forgetting my score the day of a performance or my co-director reaming me out for being unprepared. ‘Tis the season for joy and jolly…

Date Night In December. Roy and I have been ships in the night this month. We feel it, our kids feel it, our house looks it. We decided to do what might be the easiest DNI in the whole book this month just so we had a chance to sit down and relax a bit. We made white pizza with pickled peppers and sausage, a really good salad with homemade croutons and sun-dried tomato dressing, and Roy made incredible caramel popcorn with roasted peanuts that we snacked on while watching a movie in bed. We hope to aim for a more elaborate dinner in January.

Honesty. If I’m being candid, I’m weary. I’m physically weary—chasing two active boys around and putting out their scuffles, keeping Owen out of the breakable Christmas nativity scene, eating James’ gingerbread house, and pulling ornaments off the Christmas tree. I feel as if my attempts to do Christmassy things are only bringing out the controlling, frustrating parts of my personality, which is not good for anybody. (Don’t overlap your cookie cutter cuts, James. You’re holding the cutter upside down again. Don’t put two green ornaments right next to each other. Don’t eat the raw cookie dough Owen. Don’t Don’t Don’t.) I’m reasonably certain I’m not usually so nit-picky, and I think the stress of the month is aggravating it. I’m emotionally exhausted from feeling as if I’m constantly inconveniencing people. Inconveniencing my coworkers when I’m flying in last minute from dropping my kids off.  Inconveniencing my kids by having them spend so much time with babysitters in various locations. The late bedtimes and having to wake them up after they are already asleep to drive babysitters home. Students who deserve a more-prepared accompanist. A husband who deserves a wife who packs his meals ahead of time and spends a little more time thinking about what he needs in the midst of his chaotic concert schedule.

James has started talking in the third person again. Owen bit me this morning. I need a nap. Roy needs a nap and a day without sitting in a car for at least 3 hours.

We kind of see the light at the end of the tunnel. We know, on paper, that the week before Christmas will be home-centered and restful. We know that reuniting with dear family and friends over the holidays will be restorative and joyous. But feeling things is hard right now.

For those of you who are feeling the stress of this month similarly, my heart goes out to you. Take some time to rest if you can. A fifteen minute nap can be miraculous. So can a good piece of chocolate, a brisk walk, or contemplative classical guitar Christmas music. Find somebody whom you trust values you for who you are (not for what you do) and share a cup of coffee.

And know that it will be OK. There is grace and tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it.

The One when I was a Human Metronome

I’m not sure I can adequately describe how frantic the past three weeks have been. Thanks to those readers who have contributed in sending encouraging texts, helped out with childcare, and/or attended some of the numerous performances Roy and I have had this holiday season. We’re already saying “never again” as far as the number of commitments we’ve gotten dragged into. (Some willingly, some kicking and screaming the entire way.)

This week, in particular, has been nuts. And, as a musician, a complete study in contrasts. For one thing, I haven’t touched my flute, which is my primary area of formal training. Instead, by day I am a collaborative pianist for a college trumpet studio. By night I am a director and conductor of a large-scale (dare I say) Christmas musical extravaganza. Let me attempt to describe the schizophrenic nature of this…

I’ve been accompanying trumpet students for a long time. Piano parts for trumpet repertoire are, largely, stupid. It’s either orchestral reductions of Baroque harpsichord parts where everyone knows when you mess up, or complex, rhythmic 20^th century sonatas that take weeks to put together with the soloist. Over the years I have learned most of the repertoire and know every single pitfall in the counting of Hindemith, Stevens, Kennan, Arutunian, etc, etc, etc.

So this week I’ve been catching. And catching. And catching. Hours and hours of lessons putting together music for juries. (Not a single Baroque piece…) I’m not sure I can adequately describe the rapid-fire adjustments that have to happen to smoothly anticipate and catch the hundreds of missed entrances I’ve corrected this week. It’s mentally exhausting, but at least it’s familiar. And there’s an inner satisfaction of knowing how hard I am saving these kids’ butts.

By night I am working with a twenty piece orchestra and fifty member choir of solid musicians. Many of them are professionals, all are more than capable of counting and coming in correctly. It’s a chance to finally forget about rhythm and focus on making beautiful music.

Except.

This darn musical is on a click track. I could write a separate entry on the atrocious click track for this production and how the voiceover reads like the guy was drunk based on the incorrect cues, meters, and wildly unstable click. I could tell you how hard we pushed the publisher to fix it…in 72 hours, knowing it would never happen. And how somebody in Nashville got bawled out and they actually redid the ENTIRE musical for us in time for our dress rehearsal. And how I cried tears of relief. But I won’t. ;)

Instead, by night I smash in my in-ears and turn the beautiful orchestra and choir almost entirely down in my mix and blast The Click until I fear for my eardrums. We play. And the clarinet soloist wants to add some rubato and stretch a lovely melody. I automatically start to ebb with her until I hear The Click. It’s like an electric shock goes off in my brain. “Do Not Follow. Do Not Adjust.”

The orchestra wants to push the tempo. The Click is my master. “Do Not Follow. Shut Your Eyes and Just Keep Conducting.” The choir wants to drag. Once more The Click smacks me upside the head. “Idiot. I am in control. You Shall Not Adjust.”

For, you see, The Click is attached to The Video, displayed for all to see. And if I fail to serve The Click, The Video won’t match the words or the choreographed movements to the music we’re creating in real time. The 45 minute production saps me of energy in a way I’ve never experienced before. Cueing musicians, giving the choir every entrance, word, and cutoff. Praying the others on The Click (piano, keyboard, drum set) are feeling equally as subservient as I so we stay together. All the while attempting to convey joy and Christmas cheer on my face so we don’t look like a bunch of kids taking a calculus final.

I collapse into bed this week unable to keep my eyes open, but my rapid-fire brain won’t shut up for at least another hour. My final thoughts each night have been the imagined dings of text messages from my fellow director or The Click.

I wake up the next morning and ebb and flow and jump and hang back a few more dozen times at the next trumpet lesson.

Coffee coffee coffee…

We're back!

Absence makes the heart grow fonder…

Our family was reunited yesterday after spending most of a week in separate states. Last Thursday I, insanely, drove 6 hours to my parents’ house, dropped the boys off, drove another 90 minutes to the airport, and caught two flights to Charlotte, NC. Roy stayed in NY until Monday morning, when he caught two flights to Charlotte, even as I was on the opposite flights back to pick up the boys. From all accounts it sounds as if they had a marvelous time with Grandma, Grandpa, and Uncle Tim in Pennsylvania. And they had welcome-back-Mommy gifts.

Gift 1: A beaded necklace from James. Bright, fluorescent beads strung haphazardly on a fat green cord. He proudly presented it to me, assuring me he had made it himself and it was for me to “wear to Hochstein.” I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful in my whole life.

Gift 2: A foam door sign that hooks on the knob. James also made this with Grandma, informing her that it needed to have my age as a part of the sign. Grandma asked him how old he thought I was. “Well…I don’t know for sure, but she’s really old.” Great.

Gift 3: Owen greeted me with hugs and snuggles, refusing to be set down for an hour or so after my arrival. Due to my 5AM wakeup that morning we ended up on the couch watching a Curious George together. I got up a couple of times and each time I returned Owen would look up at me, grin, and pat the couch next to him emphatically, “H’re Mahmmy. Sit h’re.”

Gift 4: Both boys, after hugs and happiness, seemed to let the exhaustion of the new routine and environment wash over them in relief and melted down for the rest of Monday, even as I was attempting to get some photos taken with our favorite PA photographer. Owen ended up doing OK, but was in a different outfit than planned because the jeans would NOT do. “All DONE Mahmmy! All DOOOONNNNE!!!!!” And James just never stopped crying. He ended up falling asleep at 6PM and slept for 13 hours straight.

So that was kind of a bust.

But the next morning we headed back to NY, where their preferred activity is to snuggle with me on the couch and read books. Roy rejoined us last night in time for supper, and our joy is complete.

Compare and contrast

James at 23 months: Conducts Firebird with rapt concentration as he hits the beats and sways dramatically to the music. Once it’s over he pauses, turns to me, and states unblinkingly, “Do aDAIN.”

Owen at 23 months: Takes the cushion off of the chair, turning it into his own personal trampoline, bouncing with a ridiculous smile on his face, left hand clutching his prized green ball, as Short Ride in a Fast Machine plays in the background. Once it’s over he keeps jumping, shouting, “Moe! MOE! I wan’ MOE!!!!”

James at 23 months: Tries putting his feet on the pedals of his trike once, then quickly gives up and makes his parents push him around for the next year.

Owen at 23 months: Tries putting his feet on the pedals of his trike once, and persists to the exclusion of any help. Pushes his parents’ hands away so he can keep practicing, unless he tips over and gets stuck under the wheels. Whenever he manages to get somewhere (usually when aimed downhill) he shouts “yaaaaayyyyy!!!!”

James at 23 months: Sits and listens to books for, literally, hours if you’d let him. Wants to read the original Curious George books and knows and says his letters and colors.

Owen at 23 months: Will “sit” for a book or two, but usually only if they involve pop-ups or animal sounds. Gets bored with any kind of real story book unless it’s less than two minutes long or Elephant and Piggie. If you show him letters he invariably responds “Eeeeee!!!!” and if you ask him what color it’s “Geeeeen!!!!” Always with exclamation points.

James at 23 months: Will give an obligatory hug at bedtime, but rarely initiates physical affection for humans. Needs a ginky, George, and Steven to go to sleep.

Owen at 23 months: Hugs. Hugs for Mommy, hugs for Daddy, hugs for ALL of the babies. Hugs to the greeters at church and the nursery workers. No wonder this kid gets sick more than his older brother. Requires nothing but his own two fingers and an earlobe to sleep.

Here’s a really horrible thing. I know I’ve read a couple of books between A Prayer for Owen Meany and Water for Elephants. But I can’t remember, and I apparently can’t look it up on my online library account. Sniff. If I can come up with one or more I’ll be sure to insert. Roy and I have been doing a lot of crosswords at night…but STILL. I know I’m missing a couple…

Book 57: A Prayer for Owen Meany. The longest read of 2016 so far. A curious tale about a modern-day Messiah veiled in humor, irony, and tragedy. I laughed at times and other times I kept on keeping on. Owen Meany is quite the literary character, I will say that. This is one of those books that I guess I’m glad I finished, but would probably be much more interesting as a book-club read, where there could be discussion and analysis following.

Book 58: Boy Erased: A memoir of a young man, raised in a Missionary Baptist home, who comes out to his family and is sent to “ex gay therapy.” I could probably write an entire blog about this book if I wanted to be controversial, but suffice it to say, he did not have a good experience and ended up choosing to embrace the homosexual lifestyle. Knowing this before I even turned the first page I assumed the critiques of the Christian community would be scathing, and they were. But even if you read past the obvious anger and mistrust of the author towards Christianity, it would appear that this young man was, indeed, abused, misled, and unloved by those who were claiming “healing through Christ.” Disturbing at a number of levels.

Book 59: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. The most delightful read of 2016 thus far. I passed it onto Roy immediately and highly recommend, particularly if you love historical fiction that involves letter-writing, British humor, and whimsy. (IE, all of the people who read this blog.)

P.S.

I've just started a new book comprised of written correspondence that always ends with a PS. So in the spirit of that...

In re-reading my last post I think I sound like a bit of a wimp. Reading, a nap, an early bedtime?! So for clarification: fourth day in a row without Roy. And what is Monday to the rest of the world is Saturday to me. I work Wednesday-Sunday. So I'm just reminding myself that it was OK to be tired. And not justifying it to any form of readership in the least...

Good night!

Fourth Day Without Daddy

7:15 AM: “Mahmmy! Mah-mmy!” It looks and feels like it’s gotta be 5:30. But no. Time to start another day! Two more days without Roy. Three down, two to go. You can do this! “Good morning Owen!” “Mahmmy!!!” Let’s go get James up!

James, curled up in a ball, “Hi Mommy. I’m a little wet. Guess I just need’a splash off in the tub. NO PENISES!”

A quick feel around his bed proves that “little wet” was a grave understatement. James, and his bed, are positively soaked through.

So much for the pep talk.

8:00 AM: I decided to make pancakes for the boys. They love them and it means I’ll have lots of leftovers for tomorrow. This recipe is the BOMB for letting me justify pancakes for the family. Out of a double batch James eats 4, Owen eats 3, and I have 2 with an egg. (Does anybody else make a fried egg and chop it all up/mix with their pancakes? Drizzle a little syrup and it’s SO good.

8:20AM: The boys, adequately fed, disappear. FOR AN HOUR. This is miraculous and amazing. I do the dishes and settle in on the couch with A Prayer for Owen Meany, my gigantic task of a read. I’m so close to finishing!

9:20AM: Is it possible that the boys are still upstairs and I am still on the couch reading? Still not finished the book, but maybe later today… Coffee makes its first appearance.

9:30AM: I start thinking about the kitchen. This happens when I have had coffee and am left to my own devices for too long. I realize I have every ingredient on hand to make the butternut squash gratin from a DNI last fall. I can make it now and just pop it in the oven 20 minutes before suppertime. Heck yes.

9:45AM: Owen finds his way into the kitchen, sees that I’m hard at work, and immediately drags in a chair so he can “help”. (Owen helping is really just Owen dropping dishes into the sink or Owen trying to grab sharp knives.) I attempt to keep him safely busy with menial tasks, but ultimately have to provide some boundaries. And then re-provide. And RE-provide. And then when I pick him up off the chair because he’s too content to ignore me he shouts “NO!” and sinks his sharp little fangs into my pants. Monday Corner #1.

10:15AM: James is bored and annoying Owen, who is bored and annoying James. I am wrapping up my casserole and have promised outside time once I’m done. Just before I sprinkle the gratin with homemade shallot crumbs I hear a yelp and cries. Owen has bitten James on the arm hard enough that skin is gone and I can see each individual tooth mark. Monday Corner #2.

10:20AM: Owen tells James that he’s sorry. I encourage James to respond, “it’s OK Owen.” James looks at me and whispers, “But it’s NOT OK.” Which is completely correct.

10:30AM: Shoes are on, contacts are in, dump trucks are located. We head outside. It was damp this morning and I warn James that he may not want to bring his menagerie of plush friends outside unless he is fine with them getting a little wet. He ignores me and heads outside. 3 minutes later he is shrieking and wailing because the butt of Jack the stuffed dog got wet. Owen is content to push his dump truck around. I convince James that his dog will live, metaphorically speaking, and, no, I’m not packing us all up to go put him in the dryer. He can wait until we are ready to come inside.

11:00AM: The boys have settled down. I FINISH OWEN MEANY! I am so excited that I tell James this happy news. I show him the 627 dense pages of small font that I persisted in completing. “Now I can finally take this book back to the library James!” He looks at me incredulously, puzzled. “So you’re only going to read it ONE TIME???”

James, who rereads everything until it is completely committed to memory, is not impressed.

11:45AM: We head inside for lunch. I make PB&J for the boys (SB&J for Owen) and warm up curried chicken and apple soup for me. Attempting to replicate the amazing Wegmans soup—this is not as bright or sweet, but it is very good just the same.

12:10PM: We sit down to lunch. James is ravenous, despite eating half a batch of pancakes this morning. Owen eats his peas and smashes the bread.

12:35PM Owen is making his pooping face at the table, but it turns out he is just listening uber-intently to “Let It Go” from his kitchen chair. (Thanks to niece Abby for introducing him. Idina, you’ve captured another soul.) Still, it’s nice to listen to something other than “Life Is A Highway”.

James is complaining about not wanting to go alone to check on the state of his dumb DAMP dog “Jack” (Thanks to niece Abby for introducing him.) in the dryer. I’ve assured him I’ll go as soon as the washer is done, but "that’s not soon enough!"

I’m pretty sure that somewhere between 12:35-1PM Owen ended up in the corner again. At least once.

1PM: Owen goes behind bars down for a nap. James and I do kindergarten. He has learned to love school and I love it too, most of the time. But my patience is thinned from exhaustion and his focus has been thinned by the biting. We agree to some space at 1:30 and he retreats to his bedroom with an armload of books to memorize.

1:45PM: I fall asleep.

2:45PM: Owen is awake. James is too, obviously. I get awake so I can get them up and put on their shoes to rescue the two kids we pick up from school on Monday afternoons.

3:15-4:15PM: Teach lessons while Elmo babysits the kids. I feel badly about this, but my options are few.

4:15PM: Go back outside until dinner time. We go to the playground, which is overrun with YMCA after-school kids. They are loud and busy. James the kindergartener hates it. Owen the not-quite 2 year old loves it, until a 4^th grade girl screams at him for touching a small bouquet of flowers she left on a park bench. She really let him have it, apparently doing a better job of teaching him a lesson than anything I’ve used to keep him from biting. Owen buries his head in my shoulder, sobbing, as she berates him repeatedly for “should have knowing better.” I, to my credit, refrain from chewing the 4^th grader’s head off and feeding it to crocodiles.

5PM: James has had enough extroverting for the week and we head home for supper. Owen happily eats as much squash gratin as I do and James pukes it up twice onto his plate. I suppose that’s what you call a mixed bag.

6PM: Our Jesus Storybook Bible is about Jonah and the Big Fish. This leads to a LOT of questions about large-fish anatomy. It’s been a long time since that I dissected that sturgeon in biology. I wasn’t much help, but you know what was? You’re right: YOUTUBE. I just had to make sure we didn’t end up watching graphic shark-attack footage. (Easier said than done, you bloodthirsty culture!) Shark videos led to watching the second half of The Jungle Book, which is a great movie. Tigers, elephants, and man cubs, oh my!

7:30PM: BEDTIME! James and I make a pact for the following day: he will be a better listener and I will be more patient. We shake like real men to seal the deal.

8PM: I do the dishes, mock-straighten the livingroom, and collapse into bed. Day one of Daddy’s trip gone, one more to go.

I have lots of books to update on the blog, but I am too tired to type them out. Like I’ve been too tired to type up the October DNI. Let’s get Roy home and I’ll see what I can do about getting everything up to date.