Ruth Witte

Part I: Letting Go

Living in a small town and lacking the anonymity I desire, I send my friend Rita for the pregnancy test. Damn. The instructions clearly state to wait until morning’s first pee. A long restless night filled with dread ensues.

Okay. Why do they have to make these damn packages so hard to get open? Hold the tip in the urine stream, wait three minutes: one bar not pregnant, two bars pregnant. Shit, it’s only been about thirty seconds but I decide to peek anyway.

Oh God no, please no, it said it would take three minutes. Wait a minute. The directions say to hold the tip down and I was holding it up. It must be wrong…

But I am pregnant. Again.

I walk through my life in a daze. When I look in the mirror, I see a pale and despondent woman with dark circles and greasy hair looking back. My body moves about like a sack of wet sand. I have all I can do managing the two little children I have. How will I ever deal with further compounding the situation? My desperation sweeps me away as I long to flee from this life.

***********

While visiting friends, I lay on the dock, feeling the growing lump within pressing against the hot pungent and splintering wood, as I will the energy of the sun to nurture and love my unborn child in a way that I feel unprepared to do.

After confiding my misgivings to a dear friend, I worry about his admonitions regarding the emotional havoc wreaked upon the fetus of an unwanted child of his acquaintance, and the grown child’s struggles with chemical addiction and criminal behavior…

Four days later I go for an ultrasound. I don’t know when I had my last period; I always know when I last bled. My mother used to mark the calendar with a big R on the day I was due, for the entire world to see. But for years it has been my secret- only I know when to expect the red tide. Always.

Except this once.

At least they are not checking for twins as they had the two previous pregnancies. After the first rush at the possibility of twins, I had known the second was a false alarm as well. This time the ultrasound is performed to “check dates”.

Preparation for an ultrasound requires drinking water way beyond the capacity of the human bladder, creating extreme discomfort as the pressure becomes so great as to crush the other organs.

My sole thought and focus become not to embarrass myself by creating a lake in the middle of the waiting room. Of course, this is the day they are running behind. “Oh, you can pee, just not more than the three ounces it takes to fill this cup.” Right. I know better than to open the floodgates and use this opportunity for Kegels- or rather one long continuous kegel, as I will the technician to come for me.

Finally, as I lay on the frigid table, the tech squeezes the warm sticky goo onto my belly, chuckling as she sets the transducer onto my abdomen. As I look over my shoulder to view the screen, I gasp at the sight of two separate entities floating before my eyes, thinking in that split second, “at least it won’t be a ten-pounder” (the first two children being 8, then 9 pounds), and “we need a new washer and dryer!”

“Oh my God, that’s TWINS, isn’t it? Are those twins?!? How did that happen?” (There is no history of twins in the family- but later a doctor friend says “sit down and I’ll explain it to you!”)

Wow, twins! That puts a new light on things. Preparations must be made. Call the contractor. Knockdown the kitchen wall. Rethink nursery school, after having made the decision that our children are already getting the experience they need to start kindergarten. Shoot, we’ll probably home school them anyway. Hm. Better rethink that too.

The tech asks, as though speaking in slow motion into a barrel, “Shall we call your husband for a look, he’s in the building.” My better half is a doctor in the family practice next door and has been called into the hospital for an emergency. “No, I’ll tell him… On second thought…”

He bounces in with a grin on his face. “Is there a baby in there?” He looks at the monitor, his face draining of color, chin dropping to the floor. “Wait a minute, that’s not …”, he murmurs in disbelief amid gales of laughter.

By the time I go for blood work a few moments later, everyone in the hospital is abuzz with the news. When he wanders, dazed, back to the office, his nurse asks him about the delay at the hospital. “Twins…” “You delivered twins?!” “No… we’re going to have twins…” he replies in a dreamy monotone.

**********

I delight in breaking the news to friends and family.

“Hey, Dad-you’ll never guess what.”

“You’re going to have twins, heh heh…”

“Yeah!”

“What?! You’re going to have twins?? You’re joking right?”

My neighbor looks at the photo trying like the dickens to yank those two images into one, for surely she is seeing double. Her husband jams his fist into his mouth, bug-eyed.

My sister, upon picking me up at the airport almost slams into the car in front of us at the tollbooth as she and her daughter in their disbelief whip their heads around to confirm that this is a joke.

I have been suddenly plucked from the lower depths of depression as in the coming months I am showered with attention, and preparations are made.

We make plans for having the kitchen remodeled so that the house we purchased with two children in mind will seem more accommodating. We shop for another crib, purchase bunk beds, move Phillip in with his brother Henry. The days fly by and suddenly the holidays are upon us.
Then, the day after Thanksgiving, in my 32^ndweek, after an interminable day of shopping, my exhaustion keeps me in the car while my husband goes back to look for Henry’s jacket. As I wait, world a-shine with city lights on wet pavement, the thought crosses my mind that this is exactly the way I felt the night before my firstborn arrived after a day of climbing on the rocky shore of Maine.

Upon arrival home, I make a beeline for the bathroom and gasp in horror at my bloody underwear. A panicked trip to the maternity ward ensues. Bustling medical professionals hook me up to monitors, I.V., ID bracelet, all talking at once, asking numerous questions to which I am unable to respond, my fear rendering me speechless.

Labor has started and unless they are able to forestall it, the babies are in great jeopardy. Friends flock to my bedside, so very well-intentioned, and so very unwelcome, in my mind. I desperately need to stay focused on willing those babies to stay put. As the medication that is being administered to halt the labor sets in, I feel myself slipping off the deep end. I’m jittery, tearful, getting a bit paranoid, having hot flashes, unable to sleep at all, and completely miserable.

The following evening it is decided that I will be transferred to a hospital more capable of dealing with preemies. Those well-wishers are still streaming in to lend support, as I am tearfully loaded onto the stretcher, worried sick about what the attendants must think of this huge whale they need to be lifting into the ambulance. As I am being transported through the corridor, a crazy woman in a room we pass is screaming obscenities, adding to the sense of surreality.

As I speed (both literally and figuratively, for the medication has that effect) through the minutes in the ambulance, tubes swinging, vitals watched closely, I am reminded of hellish bygone days when trips to the hospital in this fashion were commonplace.

No time is wasted getting me admitted into the metropolitan hospital. Amid the commotion, I hear the doctor speak of difficulties resulting from under-developed lungs, blah, blah, blah.

Sleeplessness and virtual starvation have taken their toll as food is withheld in case of the necessity for anesthesia. I am at my wit’s end as the medication given me to stop the labor wreaks havoc through its side effects.

I hear myself whining that I am hungry and have had nothing to eat since the previous day’s lunch. The inconsiderate resident attending me refuses to allow me sustenance and then has the gall in the same breath to offer my husband pizza that has just been delivered to the nurse’s station. I feel the sparks fly from my eyes as through clenched teeth I admonish that thoughtless twerp not to be so unbelievably insensitive- “Don’t you ever dare do that again! At least have the decency to be more discrete when you are being such an insensitive JERK!”

I have so desperately missed the boys, having abandoned them with no notice, and am suffering pangs of guilt and breach of loyalty as I give the second two my full attention. I spend my days weighing outcomes. If the babies come now, they’ll be attached to tubes, monitors, breathing machines for god knows how long, but at least I can travel back and forth and continue to be a mother to the two sons I have.

On the other hand, if it is necessary for me to remain here for several weeks, the babies will get off to a better start which would be better in the long run. But I may not see the boys for days at a time and what will happen if they see it as abandonment and being replaced.

But if this…. that. And if that…thus… Round and round until my already-fragile psyche feels ready to spin out of this orbit.

My husband brings the boys for a visit, but EEEWWW- the crusty goo of the worst pinkeye I have ever seen repels me. I can’t get pinkeye! What if the babies are born today? If they contaminate me, then I will not be able to provide the mother nurturance the babies will require. If I reject my sons because they are less than sterile in the face of tiny newborn fragility, will I be choosing my next born over my first two? And what kind of choice is that? If I reject these two, the others will have a better start, but won’t I undo all that I have worked so hard to achieve in the way of providing a sense of absolute security? And if I welcome them with open arms as I so long to do because I have yearned for their presence; aren’t I putting the others in jeopardy?

The boys come and go with their father in their slimy oblivion, with stories of eating in the cafeteria, Phil’s huge encrusted pink-brown eyes bobbing above the bulky blue and teal jacket, pacifier glued to his face with green snot, Henry in his blue and gray jacket and overalls, towhead, silly jabber and efforts to do bodily damage to his little brother under the guise of affection. Can’t their father see that they should not be here in this condition? What is wrong with him? He is a doctor for crying out loud!

They leave and I watch them climb over snow banks, plowing through every slushy puddle they encounter, and weep bitterly over my circumstances. Why is it that once again Daddy gets to have all the fun, bringing his sons on this adventure to the cafeteria, and oh, by the way, we should go say hello to Mama while we’re here…

Round and round and round I go, weighing all the possibilities, willing this or that to happen with all of my mind and soul, only to come to the sudden realization that all of my projections are completely pointless. I have absolutely no say in the matter and whatever happens, is going to happen regardless of bargaining and pleading and wishful thinking.

And within minutes, the contractions stop.

– RDW 1-30-07

Gearing Up for Sobriety

She’s an alcoholic. This is dreadfully humiliating since she once professed to be a substance abuse counselor. She’d gone into the field with the intent of fixing her alcoholically dysfunctional family of origin, curing her mother and brother of their alcoholism, looking for the answers and tools necessary to get her own unstable psyche on track.

During her training as an alcohol counselor, she learned that it takes a child under the age of five,only five weeks to become addicted to alcohol; under the age of 15, five months; an adult, five years.

She knew herself to be at risk, potentially alcoholic given the fact that she came from a strong line of drunks. Even then she ditched the initial three daily beer bottles in the barn at the back of her apartment until she could dispose of them properly.

But still, there was plenty of time. Given that this had only been going on intermittently for 2 ½ years; she was safe for another 2 ½ according to what she’d wanted to believe. After all, her “situational” bout of alcoholic drinking was purely “temporary”, until she got back on her feet after being abandoned by the love of her life.- Right?

Years passed, and she got married, relocated, had children.

During a visit to her parents’ house over the holidays, her mother discovered her stash in the closet. After agonizing for days over this turn of events, the elder woman confronted her daughter with her discovery of empties buried in her suitcase and dirty laundry- rather ironic given all the times that the shoe had been on the other foot. (What was her mother doing searching her belongings anyway??)

The younger woman fled with her two young children to visit a friend in another part of the state, and then spent her remaining time in New England in a motel so as not to face her mother.

The older woman was convinced that her daughter had left to resume her drinking (wouldn’t she have done the same?). But she was wrong. Discovery was what the young mother had needed to stop drinking- for someone else to know so she could be held accountable. Her eldest was approaching the age she was when she became aware of her mother’s “drinking problem”.

She confessed to her friend and later, her sister. In passing she mentioned to her husband that she had the “potential” to become alcoholic.

“So stop drinking.”

And she did. For three weeks.

She had learned that one of the “tests” in determining whether or not one is alcoholic (designed more to break through the denial of the “problem drinker” she later suspected) is to go 30 days without a drink, or 90 days having no more than one drink a day.

She had clearly failed. She took her drinking into the closet; she no longer drank in public. Ever.

At her mother’s death bed three years later, not wishing for her to die with that boulder around her neck (it was her faulty gene passed on after all) she assured the dying woman that she had taken care of the problem. “I know,” her mother beamed. She had noticed that her daughter no longer drank at family gatherings. Little did she know… She was her mother’s daughter after all… she knew the signs, She had them all.

Following her mother’s death, she nearly went off the deep end because she was convinced that her mother now knew everything from her cosmic perch.

Three years later…

She came home for a moment from a neighborhood gathering, for some brilliant and well planned excuse, to fortify her alcohol level with the wine hidden behind the furnace, or in the root cellar, or her closet. She remembered the times that she had chalked up her husband’s discovery of hidden bottles to her mother’s previous visits. (Couldn’t do that anymore; she had to remember to bury the bottles in the garbage on pick up day.)

By now she was plotting to ensure that she had a constant supply. But she didn’t want everyone in her small town to know, so she alternated between liquor stores. She learned the liquor shop keepers’ schedules so as to make her purchases seem more spread out.

She invented reasons to go to the city: She needed some supplies from the craft store – and while she was at it she’d just slip into the liquor store next door.

When she went out with friends, she’d leave the restaurant to go to the package store next door under the guise of going to the ATM two doors down for cash.

She stopped on the way home from appointments in another town to “get wine for a friend who is unable to get a certain kind in the local store”, or because “Joan asked me to get it for her”.

She was constantly on the lookout for options, and excuses to go to new locations. She’d even gotten a purse large enough to accommodate two 1.5 liter bottles without splitting it out.

When she arrived home with her stash replenished, she was giddy with relief and anticipation.

At the airport, during layovers she sampled wine from each bar within the allotted time frame. She even tried once to smuggle a bottle onto the plane, but security made her get rid of it- “oh, no problem” as she nonchalantly deposited three liters of wine into the nearest garbage receptacle, cursing under her breath.

She dampened her husband’s suspicions by claiming that the alcohol he thought he smelled was the breath freshener she used; or that she was slurring because she was so exhausted and could scarcely keep her eyes open.

She stayed home when her children would go skiing, or hiking, or camping, or bowling with their father.

Over the last two or three years she was spending as much as $60 a week, asking friends to pick up wine for a “romantic dinner”. She threw up a quart of wine that graced the toilet in it’s original form, and went back to the closet for a replacement slug.

In the mornings over those last three months, as she stood at the bathroom mirror gazing into her mother’s eyes, she sensed her spirit presence day after day, as Mother seemed to nudge her left shoulder and breathe encouragement- Come on Girl, it’s time to pull yourself together. Girl, you can do this, it’s time…

But she couldn’t do it. She’d try. She would resolve to put an end to this hell. And she couldn’t make it beyond a day or two.

Finally she realized that the only way she could do this was to let her husband (who had been in denial all those years) know that she was in trouble. But she didn’t know how to tell him.

So she hid her bottles where he would be certain to find them- in the cabinet with the cat food. He fed the cats every day; he couldn’t miss it.

After several days of dread filled walking on egg shells, she chickened out and moved the bottles.

Several days later, the dreaded confrontation happened as her husband angrily told her of his discovery. He was furious!

He insisted that she see an alcohol counselor; she told him she would if it became necessary. She was after all, a former substance abuse counselor- she knew the drill. Besides, seeking outside help would be so humiliating!

It became necessary.

Elizabeth Kubler Ross writes, “It is only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth- and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up- that we will begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it was the only one we had.”

And so, she embarked on the long and difficult and blessed journey to recovery.

RDW 7-28-07

The Old Man and the Little Girl

As I understand it, her mother’s father died a painful death of esophageal cancer when she was two. Being a sensitive child, she felt for his pain and tried to soothe him with the white blanket which brought her so much comfort, patting him gently and singing softly as she covered his lap. Of course, she was too young to understand about death, and was bewildered by his absence when he passed on to the next world.

Her eldest sister, eight years older than she, doted on her, relieving her mother by taking her little sister in the stroller for a walk about the neighborhood. Occasionally they made the expedition to the center of town where she released the little girl to run about the common and watch the trains arrive and depart from the elevated station across the street. On one such adventure the sweet little blond spied an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife, sitting on a park bench, and mistook him for her beloved grandfather. Climbing into his lap, she threw her arms joyfully around his neck.

In the days that followed, the little girl and her sister would often see him on their jaunts downtown and they grew to become friends. Finally, one day at church, the girls’ parents met the grandfatherly soul they had heard so much about, and from that day forward he joined the family for Sunday dinner and the afternoon. When it was time for the children to go to bed, he would say goodbye and go back to his lonely existence until the following week.

As the years passed, he became the young girl’s special friend, and she the grandchild that he would never have. They saw each other several times a week as she grew old enough to venture downtown on her own, and he continued to join the family on Sundays. After dinner the old man and the little child would walk hand in hand downtown. They would go to Brigham’s ice cream parlor where he would enjoy a vanilla shake as he watched her eat her ice cream, and then lovingly clean up the sticky mess before resuming their walk. They visited the other shops in town, picking up candies and trinkets along the way.

As time passed, the man joined her family for holidays and other special events as well. To her delight she discovered that he was able to reliably predict the weather a week in advance. He was an avid fan of the Boston Red Sox, and drew her interest to follow the televised games on Sunday afternoons . When she was in fourth grade, she was assigned a research paper on the state’s capitol. Given that he had grown up in Boston, he dictated the whole thing, incorporating his life experience of the city, relieving her of the research that had been the intention of the assignment.

In the summer he sent the girl letters and postcards through General Delivery in the town closest to the family’s current vacation spot. Upon their return, he would greet her with his favorite song, Hello Dolly. Once, upon returning from a two week camping trip, the family was devastated learn of their elderly friend’s admission to the hospital. The girl accompanied her mother to the hospital for visiting hours, but broken-hearted, she remained in the lobby due to the age restrictions placed on visitors. After he became well enough to return home, he occasionally stopped by the house to pick his young friend up for one of the church suppers being held in the area, for that was often where he found his evening meal. Then one day he took the girl, her three sisters, and their caregiver, to the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Boston, and it was with great alarm that the older woman reported that their friend was a danger behind the wheel.

As she grew older the girl became aware of the fact that she had him wrapped right around her little finger. All she had to do was gaze longingly at an object that drew her fancy and the following week it became hers: the beautiful orange and white gold fish, the adorable pink Easter bunny, the Kodak Instamatic camera in the drugstore. For her eleventh birthday, he presented her with a beautiful garnet ring.

As they each became older, he well into his eighties and she approaching puberty, their relationship began to change. Their Sunday afternoon walk became a game of hide and seek, the girl running ahead, hiding in a doorway or alley, heart thumping in suspense as he approached, peering into nooks and crannies along the block. It was terrifying.

He came to require a nap in the afternoon and sulked if the budding young woman wanted to spend time with girls her own age. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she lay on her bed while he napped on her sister’s bed in the room they shared. As soon as his breathing deepened she would sneak away to her friend’s house and guiltily, fearfully stay away until it was time for supper, coming home to find him watching TV or reading the paper, clearly upset by her abandonment. As it came time for him to leave, rather than accepting a kiss on the cheek as he had always done, he wanted a kiss on the lips. “Oh, that was just a peck,” he would chide as she brushed his lips with her own, and in her confusion and disgust, she felt obligated accommodate him. As he left he would place into her hand three Cadbury Chocolate bars.

One afternoon, because her friends were going to the movies and she was required to stay at home to “entertain her guest”, filled with resentment, she reluctantly walked with him deep into the cemetery as they had done on occasion over the years. They sat on a park bench and he pulled her to him, kissing her wetly on the lips as she attempted to pull away. She was deeply humiliated when a couple walking by looked on intently, and even more so when the cruiser pulled up, the officer telling them to get into the car, he was taking them home.

The next day, the child was sent to spend several weeks with friends in another state. Upon the girl’s return home, her mother informed her that their friend would no longer be spending Sundays with them, as she had forbidden him to see her daughters. She was at once relieved, angry with her mother for having hurt his feelings, and deeply ashamed that she had somehow caused each of these people whom she loved dearly further humiliation.

As the weeks and months passed, the girl became intensely fearful of running into the man on the street during one of her trips to the center of town. When she did catch sight of him, she turned to flee in terror, dizzy, her eyesight dimming as she felt the blood rush out of her head, heart pounding in her throat.

That fall, she was admitted to the local hospital for exploratory surgery, resulting in an appendectomy. While recovering from the operation, she looked up to see the white haired man in his damp wool coat looming in the doorway, a large armful of pink gladiolas in sharp contrast to his black coat. He started to sing Hello Dolly, as he had so many times before. Despite the familiar panic sensation, she had the wherewithal to ask him to go to the coffee shop to get a strawberry frappe, and then pretended to be asleep when he came back. The next morning before dawn, the flowers having been placed in a glass vase on the counter across the room, inexplicably crashed to the floor, shattering the vase and ruining the flowers.

The following spring, he attended a concert in which she was a choral and orchestral participant. With a frightful gasp, she looked up to see him sitting in the second row. She left the stage for the bathroom, refusing to come out until the auditorium had been cleared. Slipping out the side door she peered around the corner of the building to see him waiting out front, the familiar panic seizing her as she rushed to hide in the back seat of family car.

That was the last time she saw him, for after that she rarely left her own neighborhood.

Eight years later, the girl having moved with her family to another state, was walking up the hill to the post office, when a sob caught her throat and she burst into tears for no reason. The next day she received a call from the man’s cousin informing her of his death at the precise moment she had broken down the previous day. He died a peaceful death: looking at family pictures, they began to slip out of his hand onto the floor, and he was gone. He had left one third of his estate to her, his cousin explained in bewilderment.

She attended his funeral with her older brother and sister. The officiating minister, who had not known the man, said that his favorite song had been God Bless America. But the girl knew better. – RDW 6-19-07

Tooth Fairy

I lost my first tooth the summer before I started kindergarten, while spending two weeks with my cousins. The moment every child eagerly awaits arrived as I bit into the first ear of corn I ever rolled in a stick of butter, as taught by my uncouth cousins. As my teeth grazed along the cob I felt the grinding tear that initiates the first wiggle.

There should be a name for the dance that is universal among children upon making the thrilling discovery that you have just been added to the list of pending visits by the tooth fairy. I imagined a huge pearly mound of teeth to be used for the little bracelets given newborns as a welcome to this world. I felt pride that one of my very own teeth would soon grace a tiny baby’s wrist. I could imagine the tooth fairy’s golden waves of hair shimmering in the breeze, as she was delighted by the discovery of the especially lovely pearl that was my tooth.

During my visit, I became obsessed with that tooth. I accompanied my elder cousin Roger on his paper route, chasing down the ice cream truck and feeling the jolt as the blue Popsicle I savored made contact with a nerve. As we played in one of the numerous forts around the property, I pinched my tongue on the rough edge of tooth at gum level. I wiggled and prodded that tooth as I watched in horror the tiny “robots” attacking the old lady on the Twilight Zone, tasting the first salty sour gush of blood. I was sure that it was the tooth fairy responsible for making it pour rain on our side of the street even as the sun shined in the front yard on the other side. When we went to the penny candy store, my aunt suggested that rather than something hard or chewy, I get the wax “bottles” filled with sweet liquid goo. I shadowed my cousins in their mischievous shenanigans as we trespassed in Mr. Spinney’s cornfield only to be chased away in the manner of Peter Rabbit by Mr. MacGreggor, my tooth swinging by that last thread of flesh, refusing to let go. My uncle suggested tying tooth to string to doorknob and slamming the door in order to yank the thing out once and for all.

As I lay awake in the middle of the night, flinging it around inside my mouth with my tongue, the tooth let go. I placed it under my pillow certain that the tooth fairy would at last make an appearance. Hardly able to sleep the rest of the night, my tongue incessantly poked around in the slimy, metallic-tasting hole that remained.

To my great dismay, when I checked under the pillow the next morning, there lay the tooth, and I was none the richer. Upon entering the kitchen close to tears, I was greeted with the news that my mother had been in a car accident and I would be leaving that morning as soon as we could get ready. I cried. Not for my mother. Not for the fact that I had to go home early. I cried because the tooth fairy had not seen fit to collect my tooth and leave the long anticipated coin.

A short while later, as we were preparing to leave, my aunt came rushing down the stairs to show me the quarter that she had found on the floor while making the bed. It took a fair number of years to figure out why that was the only time I ever got a quarter instead of a dime! – RDW (11-2-07)

The Santa Dilemma

One of the many quandaries a parent is faced with, is whether or not to bring Santa Claus into the holiday tradition. There are many reasons for not wanting to do so:

Most people view Santa as exclusive to the Christian religion.

It is believed that Santa Claus has nothing to do with the true meaning of Christmas, or that he is incompatible with the Christian values they hold.
Santa is the embodiment of the commercialism and materialistic values so prevalent in our society.
It is perceived as the Biggest Lie ever told children by their parents (right up there with the assurance that going to the dentist is “fun”)

Having grown up with Santa, I will always treasure the sense of magic and wonder bestowed upon me as a child. There is nothing that compares with childhood recollections of the Santa experience.

Discovering the truth when the time comes, can be painful. Yet those who want to perpetuate the notion of the bearded man in red for as long as possible, are willing to go to certain lengths in order to maintain the deception.

My children were raised with a very strong Santa presence.

We told the kids that they could ask Santa for one thing (“a purple koosh ball”, “a nutcracker”, “cow bell”, “just a candy cane- I have lots of toys already…”).

They would write letters to leave with cookies and milk (and carrots!) on the mantle, and come down in the morning to find crumbs and carrot top on the letter Santa had left for them. Of course, the handwriting was disguised.

We were involved in a Project Christmas of sorts, and as the wrapping was being done by several people at our home one year, the preschoolers were enlisted as “Santa’s elves”.

Several years later, we saw Santa on the street right after he had run out of candy canes; my youngest and I decided to be “elves” and replenish his supply. The eldest, on the verge of disbelief, was shocked when Santa told the boys that he remembered the time when their big brother was one of his elves.

When I was a little girl, my older brother and sister wanted me to remain oblivious to the facts for another year, and together schemed to awaken me to the sounds of reindeer hooves and sleigh bells. To this day I am able to vividly recall that magical moment. Hence the perpetuation of my deceitful actions.

When asked by my children, I told them that I believed in Santa, for one of the perks of having kids is seeing the world once again through the eyes of a child, and the magic had indeed returned. I recounted the time I was a little girl and woke up in the middle of the night because I heard Santa on the roof!

A year or two later, I confessed I wasn’t really sure about the actual Santa Claus, but that I think Santa Claus is that feeling we have when we come down the stairs to lit tree and stockings on Christmas morning and are so excited to give each other the gifts we have for them.

As children become older, eventually the need to know the truth becomes stronger than the desire to believe, and we are faced with the ultimate “yes” or “no” question: “Are you Santa Claus?” “No, I’m your mother.” “Do you fill our stockings and write from Santa on the presents?” “Well…”

My son was rather devastated by the truth, yet insisted on letting the others maintain their delusion, and became an active participant in making that happen. The others never asked. We learned later that they had discovered the packaging to their gifts in the attic.

As for myself, I was in third grade when I recognized my mother’s handwriting. I don’t remember feeling particularly lied to, but I was disappointed; and Christmas lost that magical glow. Was it worth it? Absolutely.- RDW (12-9-10)

Basking in the Glow of Family Traditions

As we enter into December, we move into high gear for another holiday season, and all that comes along with it: the joy, the stress, the commercialism, the exhaustion, the magic, the rush… As the month whizzes along, we tend to get swept away with the tide, and then heave a giant sigh of relief as it passes.

Family traditions are what the most cherished childhood memories are made of. Take the time to sit down with your beloved to make a calendar of the holiday activities dearest to your family’s heart. Discuss your priorities so that you are able to simplify as much as possible, the days ahead.

Create two lists: Things you thinkyou have to do, and things you want to do. The idea of this exercise is to take some of the pressure off. For example, do you truly hate the office Christmas party? If so, why take the time from your family to put yourself through that? Are you sending cards because you want to, or do you feel obligated to? Can it wait until the beginning of the year, or even Valentines Day? I used to start at the beginning of my address book one year and at the end the next.

By whittling down your to do list, you allow more time for the things that are meaningful to you and yours. The following ideas are simple, fun, and inexpensive.

Make Christmas cookies. Don’t have time? Use the ready made cookie dough found in the dairy case.
Make a gingerbread house. Graham crackers and canned frosting make an easy shortcut!
Help your child make cranberry relish, fudge, or other gifts from the kitchen.
Rather than hosting an elaborate party, gather a group of friends to go Christmas caroling and invite them in for cookies and wassail-a traditional hot spiced fruit punch.
Go to a tree farm or ask a friend with land for permission to have a winter woodland adventure, perhaps even to cut your own tree.
Start a collection of ornaments for each child, letting him/her pick out or make a new one each year. This creates a store of wonderful memories to be taken into their adult lives.
Take an “ooh and aahh ride” to check out the Christmas light displays around the village.
Pick out a few select holiday videos and avoid those commercials!

Make a collage with old holiday greeting cards; or weave place mats with construction paper, decorate with stickers, and cover with clear contact paper.
Make your own wrapping paper using post consumer newsprint or fabric, and gift tags using old greeting cards.

Make something special for your child. Keep it simple: a drawstring bag, a travel pillow, a painted tee shirt, a bird house, a card… Gifts made by you especially for them are the ones they remember.

Children enjoy the opportunity to get creative, and love making special presents for those most dear to them. When kids have made gifts that they feel excited about, they experience on a heartfelt level that it is more blessed to give than to receive.

If you can bring yourself to leave the TV off, not only will you have created more time for yourselves, you will cut down on the whining for this or that without the constant exposure to commercials.

Even if you do not participate in the religious aspect of the Holiday, share with your child the Story of Christmas. It is a basic element in the culture of our society. Coincidental with the Christmas holiday season is the Jewish celebration of Chanukah, or Hanukkah, as well as Ramadan, an Islamic celebration. There are many good stories and books about these important holidays. Don’t forget the valuable resource we have in the Public Library.

When things start becoming too frantic in your house, take a little break for a read with your children. The investment of your time will pay off and they will return the time you need to complete your task!

Above all, keep in mind that Time is the greatest gift you can give your family.

To this day, our grown sons insist upon watching A Charlie Brown Christmas and the old Grinch cartoon once they have returned home for the holidays. As we decorate the tree, they pick out the ornaments they have each received over the years, and reminisce about growing up together. We still gather in the kitchen to make my great grandmother’s cookies, and drink wassail with childhood friends.

Each Christmas morning they sit cramped in the stairwell, until we are all ready and the annual photo shoot documents their anticipation- not of what they will receive, but reaction to gifts they have chosen for each other. And in my mind, there is a time lapse vision of my childhood, and those of my parents and grandparents, as well as future generations, for I’m certain that the boys will take these traditions into their new lives.

Here’s wishing you and yours a blessed Holiday Season filled with love and warm memories.- RDW (11-19-09)

Christmas mourning and memories

My mother loved the holidays. She took great pleasure in creating a festive household: elaborately decorating our home with tasteful centerpieces and garlands, candles everywhere aglow from sundown to bedtime; house redolent with the mouth-watering aromas of Christmas cookies and wassail as we strung popcorn and cranberries to strains of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Boston Pops drifting through the house. She loved having various friends and neighbors in; preparing for family to arrive and planning gourmet Christmas dinners to lavish upon her beloved.

In 1996 Mom lost her battle with cancer 10 days before her birthday, and 2 ½ weeks before Christmas. Until the time of her death, each holiday celebration had been an extension of former joys, as I tried to recreate for my children the magic I experienced as a youngster.

Tradition creates a bridge from the past to the present. Upon the loss of a crucial element of the past, that bridge seems to collapse, leaving us to wonder how on earth we can carry on.

But life goes on, and carry on we must, particularly if there are children involved.

When we are in mourning, the pain becomes unbearable. As much as we wish to escape the anguish, it is necessary to face it before we can move beyond it. When the feelings come, let them. It is not necessary to put up a front; let people know if you’re having a tough day. Don’t hide your feelings from children in an effort to be strong for them or to protect them. You’ll only be teaching them to deny their own feelings.

It is best not to isolate yourself too much. You may not feel much like celebrating, but accepting a few invitations to spend time with close friends or family can provide great comfort.

Some of us are inclined to turn to drink. Alcohol is a depressant, so drinking serves only to worsen the heartache, not to mention all the other complications created by substance abuse.

Families can spend so many years following the same patterns and routines that we forget these traditions were made by others, suitable to their experience. Customs created under different circumstances may no longer be appropriate for the newly bereaved and it becomes necessary to make changes in the routine.

Change and adjustment are essential for those in mourning. The early stages of grief require new practices. Even customs “set in stone” need to be modified. We need to remember to include other grieving members of the family, especially children, in the decisions regarding family customs.
Incorporate the memory of your dearly departed into the holidays: Share your favorite stories over dinner. Make a toast or light a candle in remembrance. Making a contribution to a favorite charity, donating a book to the library or making a plan to plant a tree in their memory is of great solace. This in itself may become part of your revised holiday tradition. Traditions bind families and societies tightly to one another. But altering our traditions to suit our current state of affairs makes sense. Each moment, each stage of life, demands its own customs and its own rituals. For while family tradition serves to build a bridge from the past to the present, an adaptation of custom is necessary to take us into the future.

Since my mother had been the cornerstone of what the holidays meant to me, it just seemed too excruciatingly painful to carry on, and every year the season’s celebration became a chore. Decorations remained in the attic, cookies unbaked.

Several years after she died, the idea of honoring my mother by celebrating her birthday was presented. Dinner on that date, consisting of her favorite holiday fare has since become part of our amended family tradition. Last year my sister mailed a package with instructions to open it on Mom’s birthday. It contained a beautiful old photo of her taken during the holidays, along with a cd of her favorite jazz band. It was as if my mother was in the room with us. -RDW (11-30-09)

Babysitting Basics

One of the hazards of winter is going stir crazy trapped in a house full of kids. If you don’t have a sitter, the time to get one is now! Good sitters are few and far between, but if you can find a responsible 7th or 8th grader, usually they are not so involved with extra-curricular activities and homework that they are never available. If you’re really lucky, you’ll have him or her around for a few years!

There are a few things that you will want to clarify with the person you are entrusting your children to:

Check references! Referral from someone you trust is ideal.

These things need to be negotiated prior to the first job:

What are her (or his!) rates? Often, teens don’t have enough experience or assertiveness training to quote a fee for their services. You should have an idea what others are paying per hour, per child. For example, you may pay $5 per hour for the first child and $2 for each additional child. Check the rates in your community.
Does s/he have a driver’s license? A car? Will you be needing to pick your sitter up or do they have another way get to your house. The employer usually bears responsibility for getting the sitter home after dark. Do you want to allow your child to ride with others? Are the required car seats available? Is there someone available for transport in the unlikely event of emergency.
Are you looking for someone who is available evenings? weekends?

Invite him/her over to meet the children and to discuss routines, bedtime rituals, discipline, playmates, outings, and activities

Discuss special needs your kids have regarding diet, health problems, allergies, fears, etc.

Show where phones, emergency phone numbers, first aid kit, flashlights, smoke alarms, thermostat, and message board are located.

Schedule a practice session: stay in the background, observe how s/he interacts with your children. Explain things s/he does well, point out what needs to be done differently.

Make clear your rules for her, preferably in writing: regarding homework, TV (e.g., only PBS, no other TV unless kids are asleep), computer use, snacks, no company, no texting while the kids are awake, no smoking in the house or around kids, no spanking, tidy up after self and children, and any other guidelines you deem appropriate.

Note: The Red Cross offers a six hour baby-sitting course that covers multiple aspects of baby-sitting including responsibility, leadership, safety, handling, and first aid in emergency situations. They may be able to refer a teen who has completed the training, or you may want to encourage your novice sitter to attend a session. For more information, contact your local Red Cross chapter.- RDW 3-3-09

Putting the heart in gift giving

Year after year the desire to give my children their world on a silver platter must be reconciled with my reluctance to become an over-active participant in the snowballing commercialism of the holiday season. In looking back at what my kids most treasured, it was the simple things: the blocks, a stuffed animal, puzzles, their own personal stash of art supplies, new pajamas, and books- not to mention all the cool boxes and bows and wrapping paper!! They did not watch commercial TV so their desires came from the heart. Once, as we walked downtown the day after Thanksgiving to see Santa arrive at his little house on Main Street, I wondered what one thing they would ask for: “a purple Koosh ball”;“a cow bell”; “a candy cane- I have lots of toys already”

As you shop for your kids, keep this in mind. So many of the toys out there promote violence, stifle creativity, and lead to intense frustration when they break within three days. How often have we spent a fortune on something that could not be lived without, only to have it forgotten and stashed in a closet after the novelty has worn off. With the economy in its current state, what better time to introduce (perhaps again) the simple pleasures?

a tote or drawstring bag with fabric paint or markers, in which to carry their “stuff”
a special book accompanied by audio tape of you narrating the story

a dress up suitcase full of clothes, hats, jewelry, ties, vests, boas, face paint, costumes…
a creative art kit consisting of a wide variety of art supplies

a memory game made of snapshots (double prints) of your child
a bucket of ingredients, including recipes for play dough, bubbles, finger paint, etc.

a tool box full of safe miscellaneous tools, measuring devices, child-sized apron, and a whole supply of wood pieces

a coupon book made by you with special coupons highlighting special activities, privileges, fun foods, etc.

a gardening kit made up of gardening tools, various seeds, flower pots, soil, gloves, and a watering can in a sturdy basket

a jewelry or treasure box kit that you put together consisting of a plain wooden box to decorate, and a variety of decorative items like gemstones, glitter, lace, sparkles, beads, etc. (and don’t forget the tacky glue!)

Children need to understand that the holidays are not all about what’s in it for them.

Participate in Project Christmas. Choose a tag from one of the Christmas Trees found in grocery and department stores and banks. Help your child select an appropriate gift; or help with the packing and/or delivery of boxes

Make a donation to the Food Pantry through the school, your church, Tops…
As a family, choose a charity to send a contribution to.
Don’t forget the Salvation Army Santas: They are out there ringing for contributions no matter what the weather! The Salvation Army often enlists families to participate in their b
ell ringing campaign.

Invite a lonely neighbor to share a holiday dinner.

While you are making plans to create a magical season for the children, remember to put the emphasis on giving. Don’t forget those people who truly need your help.- RDW (1998, revised 2009)

Getting a Jump Start on the Holidays

It has occurred to me that my most enjoyable holiday season was the one where I had actually planned ahead and incorporated holiday preparations into our normal day to day activities from early on. Try it. It is so rewarding!

It is apple season, so stock up on apples this fall. Picking apples is a very fun family activity. Can’t work it in to your busy schedule? Farm markets seem quite charming to young children, and even the grocery store has good apples now. Visit a cider press and see how cider is made; it freezes easily and can be used throughout the winter as needed. Apple sauce is easy to make and can be frozen as well, to be served with a pork roast or in a holiday confection. And while you are immersed in apples, why not get a few friends together to make lots of apple pies for the freezer. Take an unbaked pie out as needed, pop it in the oven and- voila- fresh baked home made apple pie! Allowing children to see where these staples come from provides an opportunity to learn about process and the work involved before these commodities reach the shelves; to their knowledge these things come from “the store”.
On a rainy afternoon make your favorite cut out cookies for the freezer to decorate later. This will afford the extra time necessary for child involvement, without the added tension of limited time and an overwhelming holiday to do list. And remember this: some cookie recipes are better without decorations!
Have a Girls Night Out with your friends to cook and freeze for the holidays: soups, casseroles, baked goods, dishes to pass. This will allow a night for friendship and hilarity or heart to heart, when ordinarily we are reluctant to indulge ourselves because there is simply too much to do.
Go on a fall nature walk with the kids. Collect dried milk weed pods, teazles, acorns, chestnuts and pine cones, etc for making angels, wreathes, and other ornaments. There are numerous children’s nature craft books filled with ideas and methods for making gifts and decorations.
Rotate with other moms (or dads!) to do gift projects with the kids. If three parents take turns, each will have a couple of hours to do whatever needs to be done, be that wrapping or spending some quiet time to oneself. Perhaps more importantly, having the kids involved in such a hands on way in their gifting to others, the focus becomes more on the excitement involved with giving rather than the commercial aspects of receiving.
If you are like me, you start collecting gifts months ahead of time as you find the perfect remembrance for those dear to you. Wrap gifts as you get them, or have them wrapped (eg, lots of places have free wrapping sponsored by various organizations- make a small donation, save lots of time and money on wrap). Make sure to keep a well-hidden list, lest your mind is a sieve like mine!

Start writing those holiday greeting cards to long lost friends. Writing letters in longhand is such good therapy, and doesn’t take too long if you do one or two at a time. Most people would rather receive a personal, handwritten letter from a long lost friend or relative than to receive another something that they have no use for. Then squirrel the cards away where you will find them, for mailing the day after Thanksgiving!

We want so badly to create family traditions and to provide the magical experience we like to remember. All too often the holidays are upon us, and we try to achieve a set of unrealistic self-imposed expectations that makes us and everyone around us miserable. By jump starting preparation, we are able to actually relax and enjoy the season in a way we would not have thought possible.

RDW (9-24-09)