When we woke up, it was snowing. Not a driving, windswept blizzard, nor a paltry dry dusting, but lazy, heavy flakes that seemed to gather girth as they fell from the sky and covered the ground. Perfect packing snow. On this morning, with no where to rush to, no sense of imperative on my part, it was easy to cram Sophia into last years snowpants, next year’s snowboots, a hat and even mittens. I can’t explain why it can feel oppressive to dress a child to go out into the snow. It’s like making preparations to go exercise—always more onerous in one’s imagination than in reality. Or maybe it’s the having to do everything in double…as it is with all activities of daily living—brush her teeth, brush my teeth, give her a bath, take a shower, bundle her up, bundle me up.
It had been a full year since Sophia had played in the snow and already time has buried the memories of building a snowman in miniature at Grandpa Ben’s house or flying down the hill behind Grandma Judi’s house. She stepped outside and tilted her head towards the sky, opening her mouth wide she exclaimed, “I’m eating the snow!” She quickly moved from flakes to handfuls, her mouth glutted with white chunks turning transparent as they melted in her mouth. A lover of all things cold—ice cubes, popsicles, frozen fruit, ice cream, she was eating her way through our yard. I decided to let her. How many pounds of dirt is it that we eat each year? Let her consume it all in one sitting, if this is how she wants to take in her first remember-able snowfall.
I packed a fistful of snow together and rolled it around the yard. The snow came up in sheets, as if I was rolling up a rug. I had to keep turning the growing mound to keep it from looking like a jelly roll, bits of leaves and grass dividing each spiraled layer. “Look!” I said to Sophie, “I’m making a snowman!” And it was the first snowman I could remember making since I had left home for adulthood. Sophia glanced up from her frozen feast with brief interest. “Come on,” I begged, “help me!” The snow was so heavy and the ball so large that she could only push it a few inches. “Too hard!” she told me. I felt the micro-tears forming in my biceps as I took over, erasing the yard of snow.
A five-year-old neighbor, Travis, came over to join us carrying a carrot and box of raisins in one hand, and an umbrella in the other. “It’s my force field,” he said, by way of explanation. He, too, spent a few minutes of his time helping me roll the second snowball across the yard before abandoning the task in favor of stockpiling snowballs. As I worked on my snowman and Sophie sat in the driveway now (as I had cleared much of the yard) moving on to dessert, Travis updated me on his progress, “I have four!” “Now I have seven!” Growing worried, I took a break to generate my own small pile of artillery. Travis shot me a taunting smile, and I held up a snowball threatening, “Throw it!” he ordered me, crouched down on the ground and hopeful I would hit him. I threw my snowball and it landed just short of his feet, “Missed me! Missed me!” he cried gleefully, “And now I’ve got ANOTHER snowball,” he announced, scooping up the broken snow at his feet. “Eight!” Sophie then started packing her own and I took a couple shots at her, too, before completing the snowman’s head. I could barely lift it and it landed at a precarious angle on top. Not pretty, but done. Travis thrust the carrot into the middle of the snowman’s face, quickly returning to his snowballs, while Sophie begged to have an umbrella like Travis’. Okay, okay, I said going into the house and fetching her a force field. I wanted to be finished with the snowman, but they wanted to be doing. It was a difference, I noticed. Their engagement in process, mine in product. As I shoveled the walk, they moved to snow angels, and as I cleared the driveway, I dumped shovelfuls on top of Sophie, burying her. Soon Travis had to head home for lunch…we never did have that snowball fight. Sophie and I headed into our house for Snow Princess decorations—jeweled flip flops, a plastic lei, a feathery tiara and a magic wand. Sophie set the flip flops at the Snow Princess’s feet while I decorated the parts out-of-reach. Once we were finished, Sophia threw her arms around her and declared, “she’s my best friend!” I realized that we had been out for about two hours. I had forgotten to go to the gym, forgotten to thrown on the wash and was nowhere but here, in my denuded front yard with Sophia and the Snow Princess.
We headed inside to warm up with a bath and hot chocolate. Later we peeked out at the Princess. She was still there. And the snowballs remained on my porch, growing smaller as the afternoon sun rose higher. This is who I want to be.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Guilt List
The following is a book-inspired blog contribution to the online bookclub, From Left to Write. I received the book from the publisher free-of-charge, however I was not compensated to write this entry. You can read what others had to say in reaction to the book here.
M.F. Chapman’s Take the Cake: A Working Mom’s Guide to Grabbing a Slice of the Life You’ll Love is a quick read that offers practical suggestions for moms to achieve a more “balanced” life. Chapman eschews the “mommy wars” and avoids any discussion of staying and working at home v. working outside the home, which allows this book to be relevant for all moms.
Now, I’m not a big fan of the word “balance.” I think it’s one of these “pie-in-the-sky” ideals that goes along with being “guilt-free” and “perfect.” I prefer terms like “less-harried,” reduced-guilt,” (except when it’s applied to food) and “increasingly comfortable with imperfection.” But as my mom always says, if you can take away one thing (from a book, a training, a talk, etc.) it hasn’t been a waste of time. And Chapman had more than one strategy in her book for improving one’s quality of life. I could easily have addressed her chapter on television watching, “unplug,” playing outside, “fresh air,” or nutrition, “eat well,” but those are all things that I feel fairly good about. I thought it would be more meaningful if I mined what is, perhaps, my greatest struggle as a parent:
GUILT.
The Guilt List
Chapman recommends that you: 1. Brainstorm all the different aspects of guilt you feel in relation to your child, spouse, friends, work and most importantly, self (I will focus on “child” here—otherwise this could reach novel proportions.); 2. Determine which truly have negative consequences and delete any that are “moderate or inconsequential when thinking about the big picture.” 3. Examine the remaining items and determine whether you can live with the guilt because the item is in service of something larger or you can’t live with the guilt and what you are going to do to change it.
So here goes…my guilt list (in no particular order):
1. Letting Sophia lounge in bed a little longer while I try to grab a couple extra minutes of sleep. Particularly since she has to go to the bathroom when she wakes up.
2. Not wanting to pretend with, read to, or complete a puzzle when I do fetch her from the crib. Particularly pre-caffeine.
3. Getting impatient with her as she dances around the room and I need her to get dressed so we will be on time for whatever comes next that day.
That’s three pangs of guilt before breakfast.
4. When we are out and about I feel guilty about underutilizing our post-diluvium basement playground. When we are in I feel guilty about not taking her somewhere fabulously stimulating and engaging that day.
5. Checking my email/hit count/FB on my iPhone (when I could be interacting with Sophia).
6. Setting Sophia up with a pile of books while taking a shower (when I could have taken one during her nap, but was too busy responding to emails, writing, etc.)
7. Not involving Sophia more in my household chores (cooking, laundry, cleaning, etc.) and letting her fend for herself while I do them.
8. Not giving Sophia a sibling.
9. Making a phone call or simply receiving one when Sophia is around.
10. Missing a “bath day” (because, as it is, I only wash her ever other day)
11. Playing with Sophia too much (not letting her have enough independent time).
12. Not playing with Sophia enough (see #8 not giving Sophia a sibling).
I detect a theme here. Okay, so my list is mostly about attention and active engagement and the constant question that plagues me: Am I giving her “enough” of me? I am fairly certain that this would be true whether I was working 16 or 60 hours/week (though I’d definitely be feeling it more if I was working full time). It never feels like enough.
Of course the minute I start doing playing with Sophia out of guilt and not genuine enthusiasm, it becomes inauthentic, to which I’m pretty sure all kids are fairly attune. In fact, I would venture to say that it is far better to let her play by herself (which she does enjoy) than to have me doing it out of guilt (and either neglecting my own needs, which breeds resentment, or neglecting our household needs, which creates a whole other host of problems) just to assuage my guilt. The right amount is probably whenever the spirit moves me (which it often does; I like to play), and not when it doesn’t. But I tend to ignore all evidence in support of this (that Sophie happily reads while I’m taking a shower, that Sophie is not deprived—she has plenty of opportunities to play with other children through playdates, school, outings, that Sophie is becoming increasingly independent and creative on her own) and only listen to this nagging inner voice that constantly berates me for not doing more.
To return to Chapman’s task: The fact of the matter is not one of these things would have a negative consequence…well, maybe if Sophie wet the bed that would kind of suck. But I don’t think Sophia is going to be sitting in therapy one day talking about the fact that her mother never paid any attention to her. In fact, what could happen instead is that she finds herself talking about how I didn’t give her enough space, how I wouldn’t give her opportunities to be bored and create…or worse…how I poisoned our relationship with leaked resentment that stemmed from my perceived need to constantly attend to her.
I know I need to chill out, back off, and deal with the anxiety that pops up as a result. I wish making dramatic changes in one’s psychology was as simple as making a list, but alas, it’s not. I take some comfort in knowing that awareness is an important first step in the right direction.
M.F. Chapman’s Take the Cake: A Working Mom’s Guide to Grabbing a Slice of the Life You’ll Love is a quick read that offers practical suggestions for moms to achieve a more “balanced” life. Chapman eschews the “mommy wars” and avoids any discussion of staying and working at home v. working outside the home, which allows this book to be relevant for all moms.
Now, I’m not a big fan of the word “balance.” I think it’s one of these “pie-in-the-sky” ideals that goes along with being “guilt-free” and “perfect.” I prefer terms like “less-harried,” reduced-guilt,” (except when it’s applied to food) and “increasingly comfortable with imperfection.” But as my mom always says, if you can take away one thing (from a book, a training, a talk, etc.) it hasn’t been a waste of time. And Chapman had more than one strategy in her book for improving one’s quality of life. I could easily have addressed her chapter on television watching, “unplug,” playing outside, “fresh air,” or nutrition, “eat well,” but those are all things that I feel fairly good about. I thought it would be more meaningful if I mined what is, perhaps, my greatest struggle as a parent:
GUILT.
The Guilt List
Chapman recommends that you: 1. Brainstorm all the different aspects of guilt you feel in relation to your child, spouse, friends, work and most importantly, self (I will focus on “child” here—otherwise this could reach novel proportions.); 2. Determine which truly have negative consequences and delete any that are “moderate or inconsequential when thinking about the big picture.” 3. Examine the remaining items and determine whether you can live with the guilt because the item is in service of something larger or you can’t live with the guilt and what you are going to do to change it.
So here goes…my guilt list (in no particular order):
1. Letting Sophia lounge in bed a little longer while I try to grab a couple extra minutes of sleep. Particularly since she has to go to the bathroom when she wakes up.
2. Not wanting to pretend with, read to, or complete a puzzle when I do fetch her from the crib. Particularly pre-caffeine.
3. Getting impatient with her as she dances around the room and I need her to get dressed so we will be on time for whatever comes next that day.
That’s three pangs of guilt before breakfast.
4. When we are out and about I feel guilty about underutilizing our post-diluvium basement playground. When we are in I feel guilty about not taking her somewhere fabulously stimulating and engaging that day.
5. Checking my email/hit count/FB on my iPhone (when I could be interacting with Sophia).
6. Setting Sophia up with a pile of books while taking a shower (when I could have taken one during her nap, but was too busy responding to emails, writing, etc.)
7. Not involving Sophia more in my household chores (cooking, laundry, cleaning, etc.) and letting her fend for herself while I do them.
8. Not giving Sophia a sibling.
9. Making a phone call or simply receiving one when Sophia is around.
10. Missing a “bath day” (because, as it is, I only wash her ever other day)
11. Playing with Sophia too much (not letting her have enough independent time).
12. Not playing with Sophia enough (see #8 not giving Sophia a sibling).
I detect a theme here. Okay, so my list is mostly about attention and active engagement and the constant question that plagues me: Am I giving her “enough” of me? I am fairly certain that this would be true whether I was working 16 or 60 hours/week (though I’d definitely be feeling it more if I was working full time). It never feels like enough.
Of course the minute I start doing playing with Sophia out of guilt and not genuine enthusiasm, it becomes inauthentic, to which I’m pretty sure all kids are fairly attune. In fact, I would venture to say that it is far better to let her play by herself (which she does enjoy) than to have me doing it out of guilt (and either neglecting my own needs, which breeds resentment, or neglecting our household needs, which creates a whole other host of problems) just to assuage my guilt. The right amount is probably whenever the spirit moves me (which it often does; I like to play), and not when it doesn’t. But I tend to ignore all evidence in support of this (that Sophie happily reads while I’m taking a shower, that Sophie is not deprived—she has plenty of opportunities to play with other children through playdates, school, outings, that Sophie is becoming increasingly independent and creative on her own) and only listen to this nagging inner voice that constantly berates me for not doing more.
To return to Chapman’s task: The fact of the matter is not one of these things would have a negative consequence…well, maybe if Sophie wet the bed that would kind of suck. But I don’t think Sophia is going to be sitting in therapy one day talking about the fact that her mother never paid any attention to her. In fact, what could happen instead is that she finds herself talking about how I didn’t give her enough space, how I wouldn’t give her opportunities to be bored and create…or worse…how I poisoned our relationship with leaked resentment that stemmed from my perceived need to constantly attend to her.
I know I need to chill out, back off, and deal with the anxiety that pops up as a result. I wish making dramatic changes in one’s psychology was as simple as making a list, but alas, it’s not. I take some comfort in knowing that awareness is an important first step in the right direction.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Other People's Kids
Other People’s Kids
You’re on the playground and another child throws sand in your kid’s eyes. His/her mother is across the playground changing her second child’s diaper. Do you:
a. Reprimand the child, “No throwing sand!” and/or instruct the child, “You need to keep your shovel low….”
b. Talk to your own child about the other child’s behavior, “That was naughty. He shouldn’t have thrown sand in your eyes. We never throw sand.”
c. Find the parent, “Your son just threw sand in my child’s eyes…”
d. Tend to your own child and say nothing. Maybe praise your own kid for not throwing sand.
e. Do something else: ____________________________________________________
Maybe it’s the psychologist in me. Maybe it’s personality-driven, but I often find myself in a position where I am tempted to modify the behavior of someone else’s child—not because I think I know better or I believe the parents of these children are lacking in skill. In fact, I typically get the urge when I witness a child doing something parents generally wouldn’t want their child doing i.e., posing a danger to himself or other, but the parent is out of sight/earshot. I feel a strong duty to communally parent. I do think it takes more than Kevin and me to raise Sophia. I want other parents looking out for and helping my child become a kind and considerate human being. Therefore, I feel the imperative to do the same.
But…and here’s a big but…I realize that not everyone feels the same way that I do about this. And even if I did the exact same thing that they would in that situation…it makes them uncomfortable that I’m the one doing it. So what to do, what to do? Every child is different. Every situation is different. I try to evaluate the kid and the situation as quickly as possible, which requires making some informed assumptions about his/her motivation for the behavior, and make my move. I have shot withering looks, but not said anything. I have gently suggested an alternative behavior. I have quietly scolded. I have redirected. I have modeled a new and improved way to act. I have done nothing, but felt remiss.
But you never know when another parent is going to take you to the mat on this. Or simply express discomfort.
Even with friends. Good friends. People you have known a long time, extending your parenting to their children can be complicated. I can think of at least one occasion on which a parent was annoyed with me—not for reprimanding the child in question, but for trying to help him down from a height so that he wouldn’t hurt himself. The parent felt that he should experience the consequence of his actions. I didn’t agree. Not in this case. I kind of believe that if you can prevent pain and suffering…you should do it.
I understand others may think I’m being over-protective. And they may be right.
My friend Nan and I have a deal. We have each explicitly given the other permission to discipline our kid(s). Meaning if I, hypothetically, catch one of her boys throwing rocks in the other’s general direction (be it intentional or not) I am allowed to redirect, reprimand, and/or remove said rocks. And, by the same token, if my daughter rips something from her daughter’s grasp, Nancy is allowed to rip it right back out of her hot little hands (and redirect, reprimand, etc.) It is such a relief to have this agreement. I don’t have to worry about stepping on her toes or holding my tongue. Granted, Nancy and I have VERY similar parenting styles and generally “correct” our children for the same offenses in the same way. I imagine if Nancy took out the wooden spoon each time Sophia had a property rights issue I might feel differently. But how we parent has always been part of our conversation. And because we struggle together with these questions, we have a deep understanding of the frame of expectations we have for our kids.
But it’s not a conversation I’ve had with every parent of every child I know. Sometimes, it’s less explicit—more intuitive.
The other night, when over at a neighbor’s house and I caught myself saying, “no,” to her son, I checked in with his mom.
“I realize that we’ve never had this discussion, but is it okay if I say no to your kids?” I asked, albeit a little late, but fairly certain of her response. I have watched, with gratitude (and only mild embarrassment that I wasn’t doing it myself), when she has encouraged Sophia to couch her demands with a “please” and “thank you.” My neighbor’s children are, hands down, the most polite kids I have ever encountered, and it’s all due to her consistent encouragement that they mind their manners. Something I could work on.
“Of course!” she called from the other room.
“I thought so. But I wanted to be sure….” And it felt good to be sure.
But one mother told me about a similar conversation she had with a friend didn’t go quite as well. “You know, you can discipline my kids if you see them misbehaving,” she offered to her friend.
The friend was appalled, “Oh no. I just couldn’t!” She insisted.
“And she wouldn’t—even though I gave her permission,” the mother was surprised by her friend’s reaction.
“You know what that probably means,” I said, “she doesn’t want you disciplining her kids.”
“Oh!” The mother acknowledged that this was very likely the case. And though she could respect that, she didn’t think she’d be getting together with her much in the future.
At least she knows where she stands.
You’re on the playground and another child throws sand in your kid’s eyes. His/her mother is across the playground changing her second child’s diaper. Do you:
a. Reprimand the child, “No throwing sand!” and/or instruct the child, “You need to keep your shovel low….”
b. Talk to your own child about the other child’s behavior, “That was naughty. He shouldn’t have thrown sand in your eyes. We never throw sand.”
c. Find the parent, “Your son just threw sand in my child’s eyes…”
d. Tend to your own child and say nothing. Maybe praise your own kid for not throwing sand.
e. Do something else: ____________________________________________________
Maybe it’s the psychologist in me. Maybe it’s personality-driven, but I often find myself in a position where I am tempted to modify the behavior of someone else’s child—not because I think I know better or I believe the parents of these children are lacking in skill. In fact, I typically get the urge when I witness a child doing something parents generally wouldn’t want their child doing i.e., posing a danger to himself or other, but the parent is out of sight/earshot. I feel a strong duty to communally parent. I do think it takes more than Kevin and me to raise Sophia. I want other parents looking out for and helping my child become a kind and considerate human being. Therefore, I feel the imperative to do the same.
But…and here’s a big but…I realize that not everyone feels the same way that I do about this. And even if I did the exact same thing that they would in that situation…it makes them uncomfortable that I’m the one doing it. So what to do, what to do? Every child is different. Every situation is different. I try to evaluate the kid and the situation as quickly as possible, which requires making some informed assumptions about his/her motivation for the behavior, and make my move. I have shot withering looks, but not said anything. I have gently suggested an alternative behavior. I have quietly scolded. I have redirected. I have modeled a new and improved way to act. I have done nothing, but felt remiss.
But you never know when another parent is going to take you to the mat on this. Or simply express discomfort.
Even with friends. Good friends. People you have known a long time, extending your parenting to their children can be complicated. I can think of at least one occasion on which a parent was annoyed with me—not for reprimanding the child in question, but for trying to help him down from a height so that he wouldn’t hurt himself. The parent felt that he should experience the consequence of his actions. I didn’t agree. Not in this case. I kind of believe that if you can prevent pain and suffering…you should do it.
I understand others may think I’m being over-protective. And they may be right.
My friend Nan and I have a deal. We have each explicitly given the other permission to discipline our kid(s). Meaning if I, hypothetically, catch one of her boys throwing rocks in the other’s general direction (be it intentional or not) I am allowed to redirect, reprimand, and/or remove said rocks. And, by the same token, if my daughter rips something from her daughter’s grasp, Nancy is allowed to rip it right back out of her hot little hands (and redirect, reprimand, etc.) It is such a relief to have this agreement. I don’t have to worry about stepping on her toes or holding my tongue. Granted, Nancy and I have VERY similar parenting styles and generally “correct” our children for the same offenses in the same way. I imagine if Nancy took out the wooden spoon each time Sophia had a property rights issue I might feel differently. But how we parent has always been part of our conversation. And because we struggle together with these questions, we have a deep understanding of the frame of expectations we have for our kids.
But it’s not a conversation I’ve had with every parent of every child I know. Sometimes, it’s less explicit—more intuitive.
The other night, when over at a neighbor’s house and I caught myself saying, “no,” to her son, I checked in with his mom.
“I realize that we’ve never had this discussion, but is it okay if I say no to your kids?” I asked, albeit a little late, but fairly certain of her response. I have watched, with gratitude (and only mild embarrassment that I wasn’t doing it myself), when she has encouraged Sophia to couch her demands with a “please” and “thank you.” My neighbor’s children are, hands down, the most polite kids I have ever encountered, and it’s all due to her consistent encouragement that they mind their manners. Something I could work on.
“Of course!” she called from the other room.
“I thought so. But I wanted to be sure….” And it felt good to be sure.
But one mother told me about a similar conversation she had with a friend didn’t go quite as well. “You know, you can discipline my kids if you see them misbehaving,” she offered to her friend.
The friend was appalled, “Oh no. I just couldn’t!” She insisted.
“And she wouldn’t—even though I gave her permission,” the mother was surprised by her friend’s reaction.
“You know what that probably means,” I said, “she doesn’t want you disciplining her kids.”
“Oh!” The mother acknowledged that this was very likely the case. And though she could respect that, she didn’t think she’d be getting together with her much in the future.
At least she knows where she stands.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Seize the Present
In my observation, children in the midst of unwrapping Christmas presents bear a close resemblance to piranha during a feeding frenzy. They make staccato, carnivorous tears at the paper, sending bits of it flying in every direction. And once they have picked one present clean, the move onto the next in the pile until they have all been devoured in a manner of minutes.
It makes me sick.
Yet, I believe that this is a natural, instinctive behavior of a child beset with a feast after months of famine. Gifts are to be inhaled, consumed with great appetite and pleasure.
This is not my way.
I am a hoarder. The kind of person who would prefer to have chocolate melting in my hand than dissolving in my mouth. (Which calls to mind a memory of being in Latvia, where Western sweets were scarce. When my companions and I finally came upon some chocolates, a few of them immediately tore into our lucky find. I squirreled mine away for a more desperate moment of need. A rock-bottom, depleted-soul craving-for-chocolate kind of moment. I knew it would come and when it did I was ready. One of my companions was incredulous—why was I not seizing the moment, consuming it like the rest of them?
We lived in two completely different worlds.
I do not mean to say that the others were not grateful. They were…and there was something lovely about their shared enjoyment of the chocolates. Their estatic exclamations, faces bright with joy. I actually felt very much on the outside of things. Still I could not bring myself to join them, because I could not bear the absence of the chocolate I knew would follow.)
Holidays are the same way for me. Unwrapped presents mean the magical period of giving and getting is over. I could hold a wrapped gift in my hand for an eternity and be satisfied with my anticipatory pleasure. Like a meal not yet eaten, whole and beautifully laid out as opposed to the aftermath of a dinner consumed: plates littered with orts and crumbled napkins. I believe the reality is never quite as good as the fantasy.
So, of course, it pains me that Sophie is not an aberrant creature like myself. She wants the immediate gratification that every child her age wants. She rips one open and asks, unabashedly, “where is my next present?”
“Slow down,” was my refrain, as the Christmas morning passed with breakneck speed. “Let’s take a break,” I’d suggest, my words falling on deaf ears, all the others eager to reveal the secrets laid beneath the tree. “Say ‘thank you’ to grandpa. He gave you that game.’” was my last-ditch effort to restore some degree of decorum and gratitude to what looked simply like greed and a lack of appreciation.
To my adult eyes it doesn’t seem like she is appreciating each individual gift. And it is true, in the absence of my interruptions, she wouldn’t note who it came from, thank the giver, watch with excitement as others took pleasure in their own gifts. In other words, she would not adopt my grown-up, learned, behaviors of restraint and propriety.
I realize I can judge this way of being as somehow less…right than mine. But if I take an honest look at both Sophia and me…she is the one who is happy…and I am the one who is anxiously trying to transform the moment into an ideal in my head.
In retrospect, I can see that there was sheer joy in the act of unwrapping. That the feeding frenzy isn’t unchecked materialism at all…it is a joy of discovery, of continuous surprise, a literal relishing of the present.
Oh. I get it.
I unwrap this gift and stare at it, savoring the surprise.
It makes me sick.
Yet, I believe that this is a natural, instinctive behavior of a child beset with a feast after months of famine. Gifts are to be inhaled, consumed with great appetite and pleasure.
This is not my way.
I am a hoarder. The kind of person who would prefer to have chocolate melting in my hand than dissolving in my mouth. (Which calls to mind a memory of being in Latvia, where Western sweets were scarce. When my companions and I finally came upon some chocolates, a few of them immediately tore into our lucky find. I squirreled mine away for a more desperate moment of need. A rock-bottom, depleted-soul craving-for-chocolate kind of moment. I knew it would come and when it did I was ready. One of my companions was incredulous—why was I not seizing the moment, consuming it like the rest of them?
We lived in two completely different worlds.
I do not mean to say that the others were not grateful. They were…and there was something lovely about their shared enjoyment of the chocolates. Their estatic exclamations, faces bright with joy. I actually felt very much on the outside of things. Still I could not bring myself to join them, because I could not bear the absence of the chocolate I knew would follow.)
Holidays are the same way for me. Unwrapped presents mean the magical period of giving and getting is over. I could hold a wrapped gift in my hand for an eternity and be satisfied with my anticipatory pleasure. Like a meal not yet eaten, whole and beautifully laid out as opposed to the aftermath of a dinner consumed: plates littered with orts and crumbled napkins. I believe the reality is never quite as good as the fantasy.
So, of course, it pains me that Sophie is not an aberrant creature like myself. She wants the immediate gratification that every child her age wants. She rips one open and asks, unabashedly, “where is my next present?”
“Slow down,” was my refrain, as the Christmas morning passed with breakneck speed. “Let’s take a break,” I’d suggest, my words falling on deaf ears, all the others eager to reveal the secrets laid beneath the tree. “Say ‘thank you’ to grandpa. He gave you that game.’” was my last-ditch effort to restore some degree of decorum and gratitude to what looked simply like greed and a lack of appreciation.
To my adult eyes it doesn’t seem like she is appreciating each individual gift. And it is true, in the absence of my interruptions, she wouldn’t note who it came from, thank the giver, watch with excitement as others took pleasure in their own gifts. In other words, she would not adopt my grown-up, learned, behaviors of restraint and propriety.
I realize I can judge this way of being as somehow less…right than mine. But if I take an honest look at both Sophia and me…she is the one who is happy…and I am the one who is anxiously trying to transform the moment into an ideal in my head.
In retrospect, I can see that there was sheer joy in the act of unwrapping. That the feeding frenzy isn’t unchecked materialism at all…it is a joy of discovery, of continuous surprise, a literal relishing of the present.
Oh. I get it.
I unwrap this gift and stare at it, savoring the surprise.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Worth the Fight
Kevin has Sophie in what might look to the rest of the world like a chest lock, as I try to wrestle her pants onto her body.
“I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THE ZOO.”
She is writhing and kicking, fighting us with everything she has. She bends over and bites the pants.
“No, Sophie. Biting is bad,” says Kevin.
Sophie’s eyes gleam and she cranes her neck to bite me. I whip my forearm away, just in the nick of time.
“YOU DON’T BITE,” I say in my loud, firm, angry teacher voice.
“I want to bite you!” I’ve got one leg in, but she’s trying to work it off with her other leg. Kevin has both her arms pinned to prevent her from slapping, biting or scratching me.
“We are going to the zoo and that’s THAT!” I say.
How did it come to this? We need to rewind this moment to about five minutes ago.
Sophie is curled up on the couch with her father, who is now reading the 17th Dick and Jane story in the Complete Dick and Jane Reader.
“Sally goes down. Down. Down. Down. Funny Sally. Sally is down.” Or something like that, utterly devoid of content, written for the sole purpose of drilling sight words, ignorant of the importance of phonics as a critical component of early literacy programs. Though, the pictures are charming. I particularly like the ones of Father, who resembles Don Draper.
“Are we going to the holiday light display at the zoo or not?” My mother asks.
“How cold is it?” I ask back. Anything below freezing and the answer is no. Mom pops outside in her blue velour track suit and a few seconds later announces, “It’s 40 degrees and no wind. If we don’t go tonight, we’re not going to get an opportunity like this again. I’m going.” She’s lying through her teeth. I eye Sophie’s tights.
“Okay. But I don’t want Sophie walking around in just a pair of tights. She’s going to have to wear a pair of pants over them.”
“NO! I WILL NOT!” Sophie protests. “No pants over my tights. It will be very comfortable.” I know that she means uncomfortable, as she makes this mistake virtually every time I dress her.
“No pants, no zoo.” I tell her.
“Then no zoo,” Sophie shoots back, challenging me.
The gloves are off.
“Well, Grandpa and I are going, whether you’re going or not.” My mother adds to the pot.
“I want to go too,” it comes out a little like a whine.
Kevin points out, his lids at half mast, “You three should go. When you come back and tell her all about it, she’ll learn from the consequences of her actions. The toddler should not make decisions for the family.”
My mother makes a crack about Sophie being raised by two psychologists.
I offer my evaluation: “She’s just being stubborn. If we get her there, she’ll have a great time. I vote we break her will.”
I go to the bedroom and re-appear with Sophie’s hot pink leggings.
“I SAID NO PANTS!”
And now we’re back where we started. We wrestle the pants on. Next the shoes, which are slightly too large, and she easily kicks across the room as soon as we jam her feet into them.
“Forget the shoes,” I say. “We’ll put them on in the car.” We force her into a pint-size cherry red down jacket. Sophie is crying real tears and snot is running into her mouth. Her hair is matting with sweat from her effort.
“Get me a tissue,” Kevin instructs, as he lifts Sophie up, who is all limbs and teeth and nails. I am back in a flash with the tissues, opening the front door, then the car door, clearing a path for Kevin and the whirling dervish in his arms.
Grandma and grandpa follow in disbelief.
Kevin straps her to her chair. “I NEED SNAKEY-PIE!” Sophia moans…she is showing signs of weakening. Grandma returns to the house for Snakey-pie. Kevin dabs her cheeks and Sophie fights him anew.
“I don’t want to go to the zoo! I don’t want to see the holiday lights!”
With snakey-pie in her arms and her thumb in her mouth, she relaxes. It’s quiet in the car for a few beats.
“I am going to knock down ALL the holiday lights!” Sophie says with conviction. Her last stand. We smirk in the darkness.
By the time we reach the zoo, Sophie is pointing out the decorations she sees on the way. Once we park, she compliantly dons her hat, scarf and mittens. As we push her through the entrance, she gasps with joy. Before long she is exclaiming over luminous images of zoo animals, begging to ride the carousel, staring in wonder at the wolf who glows strangely white in the light of a waxing moon. We run into her friends Reid and Mitchell. Sophie grasps Reid’s hand and the two of them walk through animal exhibits, transformed by this electrified night. Many of the few animals that are visible are asleep. An exception is the great python in the reptile house, his head lifted from the thick ropes of his body. Sophie puts her face to the glass and he touches her lips with the tines of his forked tongue.
“He gave you a kiss,” I tell Sophie. “I got a snake kiss!” Sophie exclaims. And she puts her face down for another.
“I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THE ZOO.”
She is writhing and kicking, fighting us with everything she has. She bends over and bites the pants.
“No, Sophie. Biting is bad,” says Kevin.
Sophie’s eyes gleam and she cranes her neck to bite me. I whip my forearm away, just in the nick of time.
“YOU DON’T BITE,” I say in my loud, firm, angry teacher voice.
“I want to bite you!” I’ve got one leg in, but she’s trying to work it off with her other leg. Kevin has both her arms pinned to prevent her from slapping, biting or scratching me.
“We are going to the zoo and that’s THAT!” I say.
How did it come to this? We need to rewind this moment to about five minutes ago.
Sophie is curled up on the couch with her father, who is now reading the 17th Dick and Jane story in the Complete Dick and Jane Reader.
“Sally goes down. Down. Down. Down. Funny Sally. Sally is down.” Or something like that, utterly devoid of content, written for the sole purpose of drilling sight words, ignorant of the importance of phonics as a critical component of early literacy programs. Though, the pictures are charming. I particularly like the ones of Father, who resembles Don Draper.
“Are we going to the holiday light display at the zoo or not?” My mother asks.
“How cold is it?” I ask back. Anything below freezing and the answer is no. Mom pops outside in her blue velour track suit and a few seconds later announces, “It’s 40 degrees and no wind. If we don’t go tonight, we’re not going to get an opportunity like this again. I’m going.” She’s lying through her teeth. I eye Sophie’s tights.
“Okay. But I don’t want Sophie walking around in just a pair of tights. She’s going to have to wear a pair of pants over them.”
“NO! I WILL NOT!” Sophie protests. “No pants over my tights. It will be very comfortable.” I know that she means uncomfortable, as she makes this mistake virtually every time I dress her.
“No pants, no zoo.” I tell her.
“Then no zoo,” Sophie shoots back, challenging me.
The gloves are off.
“Well, Grandpa and I are going, whether you’re going or not.” My mother adds to the pot.
“I want to go too,” it comes out a little like a whine.
Kevin points out, his lids at half mast, “You three should go. When you come back and tell her all about it, she’ll learn from the consequences of her actions. The toddler should not make decisions for the family.”
My mother makes a crack about Sophie being raised by two psychologists.
I offer my evaluation: “She’s just being stubborn. If we get her there, she’ll have a great time. I vote we break her will.”
I go to the bedroom and re-appear with Sophie’s hot pink leggings.
“I SAID NO PANTS!”
And now we’re back where we started. We wrestle the pants on. Next the shoes, which are slightly too large, and she easily kicks across the room as soon as we jam her feet into them.
“Forget the shoes,” I say. “We’ll put them on in the car.” We force her into a pint-size cherry red down jacket. Sophie is crying real tears and snot is running into her mouth. Her hair is matting with sweat from her effort.
“Get me a tissue,” Kevin instructs, as he lifts Sophie up, who is all limbs and teeth and nails. I am back in a flash with the tissues, opening the front door, then the car door, clearing a path for Kevin and the whirling dervish in his arms.
Grandma and grandpa follow in disbelief.
Kevin straps her to her chair. “I NEED SNAKEY-PIE!” Sophia moans…she is showing signs of weakening. Grandma returns to the house for Snakey-pie. Kevin dabs her cheeks and Sophie fights him anew.
“I don’t want to go to the zoo! I don’t want to see the holiday lights!”
With snakey-pie in her arms and her thumb in her mouth, she relaxes. It’s quiet in the car for a few beats.
“I am going to knock down ALL the holiday lights!” Sophie says with conviction. Her last stand. We smirk in the darkness.
By the time we reach the zoo, Sophie is pointing out the decorations she sees on the way. Once we park, she compliantly dons her hat, scarf and mittens. As we push her through the entrance, she gasps with joy. Before long she is exclaiming over luminous images of zoo animals, begging to ride the carousel, staring in wonder at the wolf who glows strangely white in the light of a waxing moon. We run into her friends Reid and Mitchell. Sophie grasps Reid’s hand and the two of them walk through animal exhibits, transformed by this electrified night. Many of the few animals that are visible are asleep. An exception is the great python in the reptile house, his head lifted from the thick ropes of his body. Sophie puts her face to the glass and he touches her lips with the tines of his forked tongue.
“He gave you a kiss,” I tell Sophie. “I got a snake kiss!” Sophie exclaims. And she puts her face down for another.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Mommy, Please Drink Responsibly
We are on the road, headed to nursery school, when we pass a Corona (La cervesa mas fina) truck. Sophie gets all excited and stutters to get the words out: “Mommy! Look! Is just like what’s on your drink at home!”
And though I don’t often crack open a beer, she’s right. Kevin just came home with a case of Corona Light the other night. Guilty as charged.
After hours, at nursery school, when Sophia gets the run of the place and the toys she’s had to share all day become exclusively hers, she usually plants herself in the housekeeping corner. Often, I’m recruited as a playmate. Sophie hands me a blue bottle of pop, “Mommy, this is your vino.” I blush in front of my mother’s teetotaling teachers. “Sometimes we have wine with dinner,” I stammer by way of explanation.
And then, when I make a pit stop at the Wine Legend to pick up some adult beverages for a party, Sophie looks around the room replete with bottles of alcohol of every shape and size and says, loud enough for all to hear, “MY DADDY LOVES VINO!”
A few passers-by chuckle to themselves.
Sophia is well-aware of our drinking. I have mixed feelings about this. My parents were never drinkers, so I don’t have a positive (or negative) model of how to go about doing this. She has not, and it is my intention that she never will, seen us drunk. Nor will she ever witness me taking a drink and then stepping into a car. (Nor will I do it.) But I have to wonder what is the impact of seeing me engage in social drinking? What messages is she taking away about alcohol?
Is there such a thing as modeling responsible drinking?
Kevin and I have talked about this. We are aligned on this issue…when something becomes taboo, it is that much more desirable. Think prohibition. Think abstinence-only sex education. We don’t want to hide our drinking, as if it is something shameful. But we also don’t want her seeing us come home and have a drink to “unwind.” Even in jest, I don’t want her to hear the words, “what a day, I need a drink.” I don’t want her to perceive drinking as a solution.
By the same token, I don’t want her to think that a drink is necessary to have fun. I want it to be peripheral, not central to celebrations. And 'tis the season for such things.
So what to do? How do we establish such a balance? Research says, talk about it. Eat dinner together. Know who your child is with and, perhaps more importantly, let them know that you know who they are with. All useful (if not commonsensical) findings, and, with the exception of the family dinner, beyond her. Thing is, she doesn’t yet know that the drink has an effect on us. She doesn’t know that we drink it for the effect. And if this is the case, is there a conversation to be had? Maybe not at the present time. But, I know I need to remain vigilant. That I need to be alert to her evolving cognizance, because any day, she might be curious as to why these are adult-only beverages. When it happens, I’ll need to be responsive to her questions and accountable for my actions. And the thing that bothers me most is that I’m not quite sure what I’d say.
And though I don’t often crack open a beer, she’s right. Kevin just came home with a case of Corona Light the other night. Guilty as charged.
After hours, at nursery school, when Sophia gets the run of the place and the toys she’s had to share all day become exclusively hers, she usually plants herself in the housekeeping corner. Often, I’m recruited as a playmate. Sophie hands me a blue bottle of pop, “Mommy, this is your vino.” I blush in front of my mother’s teetotaling teachers. “Sometimes we have wine with dinner,” I stammer by way of explanation.
And then, when I make a pit stop at the Wine Legend to pick up some adult beverages for a party, Sophie looks around the room replete with bottles of alcohol of every shape and size and says, loud enough for all to hear, “MY DADDY LOVES VINO!”
A few passers-by chuckle to themselves.
Sophia is well-aware of our drinking. I have mixed feelings about this. My parents were never drinkers, so I don’t have a positive (or negative) model of how to go about doing this. She has not, and it is my intention that she never will, seen us drunk. Nor will she ever witness me taking a drink and then stepping into a car. (Nor will I do it.) But I have to wonder what is the impact of seeing me engage in social drinking? What messages is she taking away about alcohol?
Is there such a thing as modeling responsible drinking?
Kevin and I have talked about this. We are aligned on this issue…when something becomes taboo, it is that much more desirable. Think prohibition. Think abstinence-only sex education. We don’t want to hide our drinking, as if it is something shameful. But we also don’t want her seeing us come home and have a drink to “unwind.” Even in jest, I don’t want her to hear the words, “what a day, I need a drink.” I don’t want her to perceive drinking as a solution.
By the same token, I don’t want her to think that a drink is necessary to have fun. I want it to be peripheral, not central to celebrations. And 'tis the season for such things.
So what to do? How do we establish such a balance? Research says, talk about it. Eat dinner together. Know who your child is with and, perhaps more importantly, let them know that you know who they are with. All useful (if not commonsensical) findings, and, with the exception of the family dinner, beyond her. Thing is, she doesn’t yet know that the drink has an effect on us. She doesn’t know that we drink it for the effect. And if this is the case, is there a conversation to be had? Maybe not at the present time. But, I know I need to remain vigilant. That I need to be alert to her evolving cognizance, because any day, she might be curious as to why these are adult-only beverages. When it happens, I’ll need to be responsive to her questions and accountable for my actions. And the thing that bothers me most is that I’m not quite sure what I’d say.
Monday, December 6, 2010
On the Second Day of Hanukkah...
On the second day of Hanukkah, Sophie and I were making our weekly pilgrimage to nursery school. Sophie held her brand-new plush menorah with removable candles in her hot little hands and was singing to herself, “Hanukkah is my fav-or-ite holiday….” Silently, I thought, “until December 25th rolls around.”
The night before we had a small holiday dinner at my mother’s house. It was the first year that Sophie “got it.” She knew we were celebrating, she knew it was somehow related to the fact that we’re Jewish, she knew it meant we’d be eating latkes with people we loved, lighting the candles on menorah, and opening gifts. She wrapped some books from her room in tissue paper, handed it to me and told me, “this is a gift for the Macabees,” which my mother has repeated to anyone who will listen.
As she unwrapped her menorah, her face lit up and she cried, “ooohhhh,” and immediately began inserting the candles. “Remember,” she reminded me, “there are EIGHT days.” “Yes, I remember,” I told her, wondering if she was just charmed by the numbers or if the subtext was that she is expecting eight gifts over the course of the holiday. That night, she begged to sleep with the menorah. I convinced her that it would be nice to put it in the window for everyone passing by to see that we are celebrating Hanukkah. “It’s our holiday decoration,” I told her.
Just a few days earlier we had been driving through our town. I was pointing out the colored lights illuminating many of the homes near ours. Much like the town I grew up in, it’s very Christian and hence, well-decorated. When we were young and out for a drive in December, my sister and I used to make a game of counting the holiday lights on our side of the car…seeing who had the most on the way to our destination. I was hopeful that I could engage Sophie in a more basic form of the game.
It was quiet in the backseat. Then Sophia asked, “Mommy? Can we have holiday decorations?” She said holiday decorations because that was the phrase I used. I have been consciously avoiding the word Christmas. Its not that I’m hiding Christmas from her. We will be celebrating it this year when we go out to visit Kevin’s father in Illinois. I just wanted her to have a clear sense of her own religious culture and traditions before the very-hard-to-compete-with Christmas took the foreground.
I know Hanukkah is not a major Jewish holiday, as much as it is a way for Jewish kids to not feel left out, or worse, seduced away from their own religion by the very sexy Santa Claus. And that is precisely how I am employing it now.
“Let me talk to Daddy about that,” I stalled. Perhaps we could do a garish electric menorah. Or maybe she would be satisfied by the more colonial-looking single-candle in each window.
I was pleased that, at my mothers, the toy menorah sufficed.
“I am going to show my menorah to all my friends,” Sophie said, “we can count the candles. Remember: there are eight.”
“I remember.”
“Can we listen to some music?” I cringed at the thought of listening, once again, to our Music Together albums.
I got an idea, “How about some holiday music? Holiday songs will be playing on the radio now.” I turned on Lite-FM and sure enough, Sarah McLaughlin was singing, “and so this is Christmas….” Sophie’s eyes lit up at the mention of Christmas. It was NOT my imagination. She smiled, listening to the music.
Next was the theme to the Charlie Brown Christmas special. I thought about how much I loved those Charlie Brown specials. How could I deny her the things that I loved and enjoyed? Hadn’t I come to my sense of religion and culture, despite the visits from Santa, the Christmas specials, even the faux 4-ft tree we perched atop dad’s stereo speakers each year? “I bet I could learn to play this,” I told Sophia, pretending to play the cords with one hand as I steered with the other.
“NO! I’m going to play it on my piano at Grandma’s,” she told me.
And then Santa Clause is Coming to Town came on. Sophia looked concerned as Sinatra sang about Santa seeing you while you were sleeping. “Where is Santa?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you when the song is over,” I replied, stalling again.
Do I tell her that Santa is not real? That he’s a character like the ones she reads about in books? Or do I give her the whole schpiel, how he lives up at the North Pole and that we’ll see his helpers everywhere for the next month, trying to get a read on what all the consumers…I mean kids…want for Christmas this year?
The song ended.
“Santa Claus is a little like Cat in the Hat,” I began. “He’s a character that you can read about and think about, and we’ll start to see images of him everywhere.” Just then, we passed a flag with Santa on it on the side of the road—“See? There’s a picture of him right there!” “You’re Jewish, so you celebrate holidays like Hanukkah, and Passover, and Rosh Hashannah…there are people who are Christian, and they celebrate Christmas. Daddy grew up Christian and celebrated Christmas. Now we get to share holidays. We’re Jews and we can share Hanukkah with daddy. He’s Christian and he can share Christmas with us.” That felt right. I didn’t really solve the Santa issue, but the idea of sharing holidays is the foundation. Then Santa becomes okay for me. It’s about appreciating difference in the context of feeling the primacy of her Jewish identity.
Yes, I know this is heavy for a three-year-old. But I tend to aim high, and hope that some kernel of what I say lodges in her brain.
“Oh!” said Sophie. “Hey look! There’s Santa again!”
The night before we had a small holiday dinner at my mother’s house. It was the first year that Sophie “got it.” She knew we were celebrating, she knew it was somehow related to the fact that we’re Jewish, she knew it meant we’d be eating latkes with people we loved, lighting the candles on menorah, and opening gifts. She wrapped some books from her room in tissue paper, handed it to me and told me, “this is a gift for the Macabees,” which my mother has repeated to anyone who will listen.
As she unwrapped her menorah, her face lit up and she cried, “ooohhhh,” and immediately began inserting the candles. “Remember,” she reminded me, “there are EIGHT days.” “Yes, I remember,” I told her, wondering if she was just charmed by the numbers or if the subtext was that she is expecting eight gifts over the course of the holiday. That night, she begged to sleep with the menorah. I convinced her that it would be nice to put it in the window for everyone passing by to see that we are celebrating Hanukkah. “It’s our holiday decoration,” I told her.
Just a few days earlier we had been driving through our town. I was pointing out the colored lights illuminating many of the homes near ours. Much like the town I grew up in, it’s very Christian and hence, well-decorated. When we were young and out for a drive in December, my sister and I used to make a game of counting the holiday lights on our side of the car…seeing who had the most on the way to our destination. I was hopeful that I could engage Sophie in a more basic form of the game.
It was quiet in the backseat. Then Sophia asked, “Mommy? Can we have holiday decorations?” She said holiday decorations because that was the phrase I used. I have been consciously avoiding the word Christmas. Its not that I’m hiding Christmas from her. We will be celebrating it this year when we go out to visit Kevin’s father in Illinois. I just wanted her to have a clear sense of her own religious culture and traditions before the very-hard-to-compete-with Christmas took the foreground.
I know Hanukkah is not a major Jewish holiday, as much as it is a way for Jewish kids to not feel left out, or worse, seduced away from their own religion by the very sexy Santa Claus. And that is precisely how I am employing it now.
“Let me talk to Daddy about that,” I stalled. Perhaps we could do a garish electric menorah. Or maybe she would be satisfied by the more colonial-looking single-candle in each window.
I was pleased that, at my mothers, the toy menorah sufficed.
“I am going to show my menorah to all my friends,” Sophie said, “we can count the candles. Remember: there are eight.”
“I remember.”
“Can we listen to some music?” I cringed at the thought of listening, once again, to our Music Together albums.
I got an idea, “How about some holiday music? Holiday songs will be playing on the radio now.” I turned on Lite-FM and sure enough, Sarah McLaughlin was singing, “and so this is Christmas….” Sophie’s eyes lit up at the mention of Christmas. It was NOT my imagination. She smiled, listening to the music.
Next was the theme to the Charlie Brown Christmas special. I thought about how much I loved those Charlie Brown specials. How could I deny her the things that I loved and enjoyed? Hadn’t I come to my sense of religion and culture, despite the visits from Santa, the Christmas specials, even the faux 4-ft tree we perched atop dad’s stereo speakers each year? “I bet I could learn to play this,” I told Sophia, pretending to play the cords with one hand as I steered with the other.
“NO! I’m going to play it on my piano at Grandma’s,” she told me.
And then Santa Clause is Coming to Town came on. Sophia looked concerned as Sinatra sang about Santa seeing you while you were sleeping. “Where is Santa?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you when the song is over,” I replied, stalling again.
Do I tell her that Santa is not real? That he’s a character like the ones she reads about in books? Or do I give her the whole schpiel, how he lives up at the North Pole and that we’ll see his helpers everywhere for the next month, trying to get a read on what all the consumers…I mean kids…want for Christmas this year?
The song ended.
“Santa Claus is a little like Cat in the Hat,” I began. “He’s a character that you can read about and think about, and we’ll start to see images of him everywhere.” Just then, we passed a flag with Santa on it on the side of the road—“See? There’s a picture of him right there!” “You’re Jewish, so you celebrate holidays like Hanukkah, and Passover, and Rosh Hashannah…there are people who are Christian, and they celebrate Christmas. Daddy grew up Christian and celebrated Christmas. Now we get to share holidays. We’re Jews and we can share Hanukkah with daddy. He’s Christian and he can share Christmas with us.” That felt right. I didn’t really solve the Santa issue, but the idea of sharing holidays is the foundation. Then Santa becomes okay for me. It’s about appreciating difference in the context of feeling the primacy of her Jewish identity.
Yes, I know this is heavy for a three-year-old. But I tend to aim high, and hope that some kernel of what I say lodges in her brain.
“Oh!” said Sophie. “Hey look! There’s Santa again!”
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