Deconstructing Christmas

I am what you might call a Holiday Whore (Wholiday Whore? Holiday Hore?).

As the end of September starts rolling around, my fingers get itchy for pumpkin carving... and pumpkin lattes, pumpkin pie, decorating with pumpkins, visiting pumpkin patches, etc. And while Thanksgiving is wonderful and has it's special place in my heart, the second the dishes are cleared from turkey dinner, I'm ready to rush out and buy a (2ft tall) Christmas tree, and crank up the carols. The baking, the shopping, the wrapping, the family chaos-- all of it-- warms my heart and puts a smile on my chocolate smeared face.


And yet, it seems that sometime around Christmas morning, that chocolaty smile turns tear-stained as I crash & burn into a pile of presents and family obligations.

I am beginning to realize that not everyone does Christmas the way that our family does Christmas. To many of my friends, Christmas looks like lounging around in sweats after the orgy of presents, and having Grandma over for honey baked ham later that night. For me, Christmas has always meant running relays across Southern California: cookie decorating contests, a giant party with 100 of my closest Guatemalan relatives, church at 10pm, presents with the in-laws, breakfast with Dad, dinner with Mom, and all the while a house full of out-of-state relatives strewn on every piece of furniture.

Now, let me re-iterate: I am CRAZY about Christmas. I love decorating cookies. I love buying presents. I love Christmas breakfast... and Christmas dinner... and Christmas Eve dinner... and Christmas Eve breakfast... but I also can't deny that somewhere in the mess of all that Christmas revelry, I have a complete melt down. And poor Chris usually ends up sitting on the floor next to me, trying to help pull it together so I can make it to the next family celebration (and the next, and the next).

But this year, as I was nursing Nolan to sleep in a forced moment of quiet reflection, I started to wonder how much of Christmas was simply celebrating Christmas, and how much was celebrating the coming of my Messiah. What is the relationship between a gingerbread man, or a Christmas tree, or the sweater I bought for my Mom and Jesus' birth? I don't mean that in a critical or judgmental way-- I really wanted to know.

When I got married, I questioned every tradition. What is the meaning behind a veil, or throwing the bouquet, or a wedding cake (wait, scratch that last one. You never need a reason for cake)? The traditions I liked, I kept-- and those that didn't seem to mean much to me, I tossed out.

Now, I realize that with Christmas, no man is an island. If I were to decide to boycott Christmas in order to practice spirituality, it would affect the rest of my family's Christmas celebrations, since each of them involve spending time together as a family. I don't want to be the pious humbug praying in the other room while everyone else decorates cookies or opens presents. And I also don't want to tell my extended family (most of whom are not "religious") that they have to change their traditions.

So what's a girl to do? Stay in San Francisco to celebrate my own way? Not when we have a conference in San Diego every year right after Christmas. Or is there some way to still be a part of the festivities, but scale back a bit?

The great thing about traditions is not necessarily the tradition itself, but the why behind it. I have started wondering if I asked myself "Why?" with every Christmas tradition, perhaps it would help me sort through the ones that were worth keeping, and the ones that simply brought clutter.

I would love, as well, to make my own family traditions of talking through why we are celebrating the way we do: "We are getting a Christmas tree right now because..." (I actually had to look that one up! It's a pretty great tradition that I've never really thought about!), or "We are opening presents right now because...", or "I am eating my weight in cookies right now because..."

I had thought that reclaiming Christmas might take a total overhaul, or that I might have to fast from Christmas for a few years just to purge all the excess from my system and start from scratch. But as I think through it, I wonder if Christmas just needs a little deconstructing-- examining each of the individual building blocks to decide what fits & what is just adding weight (literally & figuratively).

I realize this sounds like a simple Jesus is the Reason for the Season pin, or any number of Made for TV Holiday Specials where everyone discovers "the real meaning of Christmas". I also realize that by mid-January, no one wants to hear another speech on what Christmas is all about. But I have noticed that all the commercials about New Year's resolutions & hitting the gym come from a bloated feeling of regret that we feel not only in the fit of our jeans, but somewhere in our souls.

So maybe I'll leave a little post-it note with my Christmas decorations to remind myself next year that it's time to deconstruct the Holidays.

Unexpecting: The Eve of Battle

I've never been very good with pain. Not that I've had to deal with a whole lot of it in my lifetime-- I've never really broken a bone, had major surgery, stitches, or lost any extremities.

I do have a memory of soaking in the bath tub for hours, anticipating the pain of pulling off what must have been 30 band aids lining my little 6yr old leg. Our first grade class had been out in the school yard playing kick ball, and one of the monstrous, mature 2nd graders tripped me into the gravel, scraping up my legs into what my little mind believed was a deforming injury. The school nurse picked gravel out of my gaping wound with her 6inch long pink finger nails, and fixed me up with every band aid in the box.

After a shameful amount of time, my parents finally convinced me that I had to remove those band aids-- even if it pulled off some of my leg hairs & hurt worse than the original injury. I sat in that tub soaking, with tears in my eyes, sick with fear over the impending pain. From what I hear, I was still crying "Don't do it, I'm not ready!" long after the band aids had been removed.

Like I said, I'm not so good with pain-- or the anticipation of it.

Throughout my pregnancy, I've wondered what it would be like to sit & wait for labor to come on, knowing that at any moment, I will experience the worse pain of my entire life. I envisioned those band aids waiting to be ripped off. Even more than that, though, the image that came to my mind was from Lord of the Rings. There's a scene when all the men are preparing for an epic battle (one of many), knowing that their odds are hopeless, that they are outnumbered, and that most of them will die. They sharpen their swords, put on their armor, and wait all night for the orcs to come.

I wondered if the coming of my due date would feel like that. I wondered if I could start the epidural a few days before I go into labor, just to make sure. I wondered how someone like me could actually make it through an ordeal like child birth. From what I hear, it kind of hurts.

Surprisingly, though, as I sit here on my due date, I feel no fear. I don't know what has gotten into me, but I am actually hoping for contractions to start (I know, I know-- once they do, I will change my mind... but there's no turning back then). I'm not under any delusion that it will be easy, quick, or painless. I'm pretty sure it will be the hardest thing I've ever done. I suppose the same hormones that have made me cranky, nauseated, irrational, sleepless, etc. are also injecting in me some insane courage, strength or carelessness that my cautious self has never known.

This afternoon, once we realized that we were not making a trip to the hospital, Chris & I took the pup down to the beach, where it was strangely warm, sunny & beautiful. We walked for miles, watching the dog ooze joy while splashing in the waves, and took a deep breath. After a while, we sat in the heated sand and prayed together-- prayed for our delivery, for our little boy, for God to be a part of all of this. As we prayed, two dolphins jumped out of the water, higher than I've ever seen in the wild. It was so beautiful, it was almost cliche. I felt full, content, refreshed-- anything but the fear & anticipation I thought I would have.

I can't explain the sudden calm & confidence as I stare down something as intense as child birth, but I'll take it, nonetheless.

Unexpecting: First Sight

I can remember the first time I laid eyes on Chris. I saw him from across the crowded ball room-- sparks flew, heart beats quickened, and thought to myself, "I've got to meet Ryan's friend."

Sadly, within about 30 seconds, I decided that he was a twelve year old, trapped in a college student's body, and was embarrassed that I had even been attracted to him. Oh, and the crowded ball room was also an ugly conference room in an outdated hotel, filled with loud, hyperactive college students. Not quite your Cinderella moment. It wasn't until two years later that I lay awake in my bed, realizing that I was in love with Chris Kernaghan, and it would be another three years after that until I actually married him.

Sometimes Love at First Sight takes a long time to develop.

Now, I'm told that I am about to experience a love like I have never known before. They say that all the pain, exhaustion, and trauma of labor (yikes!) simply evaporates the moment that little bundle of joy hits your arms. It's difficult to imagine.

When I first saw those two pink little lines on the home pregnancy test, I didn't feel much-- except for maybe a slight "Oh God, what did I just get myself into?". I assumed that in nine months of pregnancy, I would develop a love, excitement & bond with the little critter growing inside of me. But, although there have been moments of connection & tenderness, for the most part, I would still say that it all feels pretty surreal.

The thought that in a few days time, I will experience an insane "First Sight" kind of love seems hard to fathom. It took me years to fall in love with Chris, and I'm told that, within a blink of an eye, my entire life & identity with change-- that somewhere inside of me is a capacity to love something like I've never loved anything before. Where is that, I wonder? Where does it come from, and how does something so intense spring up in an instance?

As my discomfort increases and I tick off the days until my due date (which I'm told is only a time line for disappointment, when you crawl your way right past it), I have to remind myself that I'm not waiting to be un-pregnant-- I'm actually going to have a child. It still makes my head spin.

I tried so hard to keep my feet on the ground when, after my years of waiting, I finally snagged that guy I saw from across the crowded "ballroom". Sadly, I have to admit that I was a ridiculous mess. I was smitten, twitterpated. It was disgusting. It was wonderful. And so I apologize in advance for the obsessive Romeo & Juliet fog that I am about to enter. From what I hear, that's just the way is goes with Love at First Sight.

Mallow Nirvana

Some of the greatest merits of making homemade cookies are as follows: eating the cookie dough out of the bowl, the smell & anticipation while the cookies are baking, and that first bite of an [almost too hot to handle] mushy, gooey cookie straight out of the oven. Plus, everything just tastes better when you've made it yourself.

Now, I have to say that I'm pretty passionate about my chocolate chip cookies-- they're tough to beat. That's not to say that I'm not willing to branch out and take some risks in the cookie making department (I know, I live life on the edge). However, sometimes I surprise even myself.

My new favorite-- you might even call it a bit of an obsession, as I have made them twice in the last few days, and am contemplating making them again-- is a cookie that: 1) You can't eat the dough, 2) You can't smell baking in the oven, 3) You can't eat hot, and 4) Doesn't even involve butter. I know, you're less than intrigued, aren't you??

These mysterious new gems that have found a soft spot in my heart are meringues called Nighty Night Cookies-- something that my mom used to make, and for some strange reason, I used to turn my nose up at.

You preheat the oven, whip up the batter just before bed, throw them in & turn off the heat. When you wake up in the morning, it's tough not to eat a dozen cookies for breakfast. They are like marshmallows that have died & gone to heaven-- glorified & perfected little soft, crumbly vanilla pillows, flecked with chocolate & nuts (if you want-- and trust me, you do). They are light, amazingly delicious, simple and addictive. In fact, I think I'm going to stop writing about them, and go eat one-- there's only 4 left, and I don't want to give Chris the satisfaction.

Oh, and here's the recipe:
-2 egg whites
-a pinch of salt or cream or tartar
-2/3 cup sugar (I like to use just a little less)
-1tsp vanilla
-2/3 cup chocolate chips
-2/3 cup chopped nuts (walnuts, pecans)

Preheat oven to 400. Spray/grease a baking sheet (2 if you want to double the recipe-- which you do). Beat egg whites on low in a clean mixing bowl until foamy. Add a pinch of salt/cream of tartar. Beat on medium until soft peaks form. Keep beating, adding sugar, one Tbs at a time (about 20 seconds in between each addition), until stiff & glossy. Add vanilla & beat about 20 more seconds. Gently fold in chocolate chips & nuts. Drop batter in Tbs sized mounds on baking sheets (with about 1 inch in between). Throw them in the oven & turn off the heat, leaving the cookies overnight, or for at least 6hrs. Don't peak or open that oven door!!
Enjoy!

Unexpecting

I admit that I wandered into pregnancy rather blind. While it's true that I have had plenty of friends & loved ones close by who have experienced this maternal bliss themselves, I supposed I simply wasn't paying attention to what they really went through. Either that, or there are certain unspoken aspects to pregnancy that people just don't talk about.

I'm actually going with Door #2 on this one.

Maybe I didn't ask, but at the same time, no one told me about some of the crazy idiosyncrasies of being pregnant.

And so, I am here to bring them to light. I'm not really sure why. Does anyone really want to know all the ridiculous things they will experience when they are pregnant? Doubtful. But there are definitely some things that would have been helpful to know ahead of time, without reading the entire fear-inducing "What to Expect When You're Expecting" from cover to cover.

So, rather than what TO expect, I thought I would share just a bit about what I didn't expect in little installments throughout the summer.

Here's the first-- enjoy...

Unexpecting: Feathers

Although each of these symptoms were somewhat familiar with me beforehand, it's the combination that has got me wondering.

First of all, I have started waddling. Now, I have seen enough pregnant women to know that The Waddle was inevitable. Earlier in my pregnancy, I realized that The Waddle came partly from the inability to keep a pair of pants around my waist (the reason being that I no longer have a waist). I discovered that if I walked with a bit of a swagger, my pants wouldn't slide off quite as easily. Now, it's the stiffness in my back & thighs that has me looking like John Wayne, fresh off the saddle.

Second, I have duck feet. It was about a month ago that I went with my mom for a pedicure, and noticed that my outstretched extremities would be classified more as cankles than ankles, and that my feet were much, much puffier than normal. The problem has gotten worse since then, and recently, it seems that no matter what I do, I look like Fred Flinstone. When you put together the fat feet and the waddle, that's when things start to get interesting.

Third, I am nesting. I've heard this term before, and assumed it meant that women just get a little more homey-- organizing & decorating, and the like. But it's more than that. In the last few days, I've baked pies, made cookies (twice... each), tackled homemade ice cream, organized a closet, made dinner for two other families (who recently had babies), and have tried countless new recipes. Messes are starting to make me crazy. I want to preen-- um, I mean clean-- everything. Nesting...

Fourth, ever since our trip down to Southern California, where we stayed at the in-laws, I have been dreaming about floating in their pool. It was glorious. I felt weightless. I could lay on my stomach. I could swim around and actually exercise without the nagging reminder that I am twenty pounds heavier than normal. Now, when I lay awake at night, I fantasize about floating. I close my eyes, feel the sun on my back, and remember that weightlessness.

Now, put all of those observations together: waddling, paddle feet, nesting, and floating-- and I'm starting to wonder. Come to think of it, I would love to migrate somewhere a little warmer, as well. I suppose if I start sprouting feathers, I should call my doctor.

Windmills and Giants

Fight or Flight. There is a philosophy that an animal, when faced with a potentially dangerous situation, will either turn and fight, or turn and run. I actually tend to fall under a third category that some might call the "Deer in Headlights" syndrome... or possibly the "Pull the covers over my head" response.

There have literally been times when I have been woken up in the middle of the night by gunshots or fights, and have laid paralyzed in bed, not willing to move, believing that if I just stay right there under the covers, everything will be okay. It doesn't work in horror movies, so I don't know why I would try it out in real life, but it seems that that is my natural response.

While gunshots in the middle of the night are startling and scary, I have to admit that there are few things in the world that scare me more than Failure. I suppose we could spend some time psycho-analyzing me, sticking on labels like post-it notes saying "Fear of Abandonment" and other official sounding terms, but we can save that for another night.

When faced with a Fear-- especially a potential failure, or when a past failure has been exposed to harsh sunlight-- I tend to freeze up. I want to crawl in bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend it doesn't exist. I notice that tendency especially when it comes to finances, and as I mentioned in my last post (about a hundred years ago-- my apologies) avoidance always seems like the best policy... which is exactly how I ended up in the mess I'm in.

As I mentioned before, the issue of my credit score came up in buying a house. Now, a Fighter would attack that credit score with everything he had, and change his situation. A... Flighter(?) would run away from the whole situation and claim that he didn't want the house in the first place. But me, I just stare at that number, and it feels like a failure the size of a house is staring back at me. I squirm under the discomfort of that gaze, but am stuck with my feet cemented to the ground.

An image came to mind as I looked at that credit score, with eyes the size of saucers. I thought of Don Quixote charging full-force into a windmill, believing all the while that it was a giant. And I wondered if maybe, just maybe, all the mountains of failure that I had always been afraid to face might actually turn out to be mole hills. I thought of other times that I had the courage-- or confidence, or rashness-- to take a swing at those giants, and how usually they really were nothing but windmills.

In this particular story, I sat down with the lender, talked through each of the failures, written out in black & white, and found a way to contest them. The final score is still yet to be seen, but there was something so very satisfying in taking a swing at that giant, only to find that it didn't fight back. In fact, the whole process was a lot easier than I thought it would be-- it was just that initial step, and bringing my fears & failures into the light that was the scariest.

It feels good. And in the end, whether my fears were founded or not, Don Quixote makes a much better story than some little girl hiding under the covers.