Santa remembered: Grief during the Holidays

Grieving, even as a Christian, is hard. The extreme sense of loss of a loved one can never be explained to anyone who hasn't walked behind a casket. The sorrow is ever present, and you never really get over it - it has been almost 4 years since my father's death and I still struggle. The holidays can make grief even more painful; making the season anything but joyous. For several years, I let my grief hang over my head like diseased mistletoe and I stuggled to overcome the pain. I didn't want to walk the memory halls of Christmas' past; I didn't want to remember. I put away anything that would make me remember - photos and letters - packed away. Yet, like a candle piercing through the darkest of nights, memories rushed upon me and there was nothing to do but open those doors that I had long left closed.  To my surprise,I found joy again, not like before; but there is was waiting to be opened, written by the hand of a long lost friend.

My father was born on Christmas Day, so it was fitting that his favorite holiday was Christmas. Every year he would begin the season, at Thanksgiving, by playing Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole's holiday albums. I remember coming down seeing him dancing in the living room, by himself mind you, and singing loudly. My father understood that Christmas time was a special time of year - it was a time of magic, fun, and reverence. He encouraged us to believe in the unbelievable- that there really was a Santa and that many years ago a Savior was born.

 I remember one Christmas sneaking down the stairs because I believed I had heard Santa. I peeked around the corner to see my father sitting by the fireside, Christmas tree lights illuminating his face, drinking hot chocolate. He then turned around and said, "Why don't you come here and wait on Santa with me." I jumped into his lap and snuggled deep; comforted by the thought that my father believed in Santa too. I never saw Santa that night, due to the fact that I fell asleep; but in the morning there was a letter addressed to me from Santa. It said, "Sorry I missed you little one. I kissed you on the cheek. Merry Christmas, Your Santa"

 From then on I never forgot to write Santa a letter, and every year he would write me back. The last letter I ever wrote and will ever receive was December 25th of 2010.  At the time, I took the words for granted, but now they hold more meaning, because in his own quiet way my Dad had given me a ageless Christmas present for the soul. These are the words he wrote...

Dear Ones,

                The Ringing in your hearts will never cease as long as there is believing - in love, in goodness, in gentleness, in kindness, in Christ. No light can ever go dim, nor ever cease, but only brighten with Christmas in our hearts. The lights and bells of Christmastime will always remind us to hold fast to these truths. My joy is knowing you have chosen well for all Christmas'.

Merry Christmas, Your Santa

 

Christmas in our hearts...such a simple and complex statement. How can I keep Christmas in my heart when I am grieving? By letting the holiday in. It is as simple as that. Much of my sadness had stemmed from NOT letting the season of goodness, gentleness, love, kindness, and Christ back into my life. My father will never be present physically for another Christmas...but in my choice to block out the season it was as if I was watching him die all over again. I was grieving not just for him, but for the loss of Christmas in my heart. My father had wanted me to remember...he somehow knew that someday I would need to remember.

I still desperately miss my father and there will always be tears - how can there not be when you love deeply? But I can now say, that Christmas is no longer dreaded by my heart. Instead I have found that every Christmas my joy grows. It brigthens the corners of my heart, restoring my faith, and it is there that I find my father once again. It is there that God grants me peace... 

Merry Christmas, Dad...thank you for teaching me

to believe.

Why is the bread squished?

"Hey Hun...why is the bread mangled and squished?"

My husband asked me this question a few weeks ago, after finding our brand new bread had an odd shape. My reply was, "our son kneaded it before we bought it." The confusion on his face illumined the fact that he really didn't understand why I had let my son "grope" the bread and how a mother has to use ninja skills to get out of the store with everything semi intact. Therefore, I began to open his mind to what a grocery shopping experience with an almost two year old is like.

I would like to state first, that my son is obedient, a good listener, and enjoys "helping" Mama in the store; unfortunately his idea of helping and mine are drastically different. Now I usually let my son sit in the main part of the cart ( I know...such a bad parent right? Get over it...). The reason for this is that he cannot sit still in that little seat built for the torture of all small humans. We have come to an understanding that when the cart is moving, he sits; and when it stops he can stand and help.

Let me be the first to say that I live by my own grocery store etiquette, I silently grumble when people break my own rules...but that is a different topic for a different time. So, when I shop I hold to the GOLDEN RULE of shopping with Tiffany: when in an aisle one must pull over to the side that you are wishing to peruse/pick an item from; NEVER stop dead center - this will cause a traffic jam. As a single person this worked nicely, however, with a toddler this can prove daunting; because as we all know there is never just one thing on a shelf. For a child who loves to help, loves food, and has a penchant for stacking random items - a grocery store shelf is Utopia.

As I am selecting the item that I wish to purchase, my son has discovered a myriad of items that he believes we need in our cart. As I turn back to my cart, I now realize that my son has stocked our cart with 20 cans of tomato paste...apparently he has a craving for Italian food..noted. His face is beaming, and he says "help", so I cannot get mad. I thank him for being so helpful, and then have him help me restock the shelf. As I am putting the last can on the shelf, he spies the canned green beans. Yelling "geen bees" he lifts his tiny arms up, as I quickly put the cart in motion. Narrowly avoiding having to restock another shelf. This little maneuver happens time and again, which makes the quick trip to the grocer much longer than it should be. My least favorite aisle is the produce...that is a nightmare...because this is my son's paradise! So many things that are ready to be eaten...and I will stop there cause I really do not need to say more.

The other thing that occurs is while my cart is in motion, there are limitless things inside the cart that are now ripe for squishing, biting, and licking...yes I said licking. I hear my son say "Mmmmmm" and I look down to see him "hugging" the bread and making smacking noises. Or rattling the crackers, shaking the cereal, and squeezing the marshmallows. Nothing is off limits, and yet when I say, "be gentle or put that down" he does listen and usually leaves the offended item alone. By the time I reach the register my items do not look like they did prior, but they are ours, we maimed them and therefore we claimed them. I let my son help me unload the cart, because the joy that this brings him is immeasurable...and I want him to WANT to help. Our grocery items are further assaulted at this point, but I couldn't care less...they still will cook and taste the same.

Finally, we return home. As I place the squished bread on the shelf, I am reminded that things like this are only temporary. I won't have to eat squished bread for the rest of my life...but I know that someday I will wish for the days of squished bread, broken crackers, and rattled cereal. I tell my husband this very thing, as I explain why certain items look the way they do...and we both smile.

Every trip to the grocery store, I am reminded of one particular moment and the words of an elderly woman after she watched my son and I dance the grocery store waltz. "You have one good helper there, and honey, squished bread has always been a favorite of mine." Winking as she walked away. Quiet affirmation and wisdom from an old warrior. Looking down at my son's smiling face, I know that squished bread is my favorite as well...

The Life and Times of a Christmas Angel...

I have always enjoyed watching and being apart of Christmas pageants. I love all the drama, the glitz, the overacting, and the beautiful choir melodies. I grew up being apart of a Christmas pageant every year, and these pageants went on for about 2 weeks. As a kid is was a fun way to spend time with family, because we ALL took part; but I do remember one Christmas when I didn't feel so ecstatic about being in the holiday pageant. It was the year that I was cast, in the most coveted part of every nativity scene, as the Christmas Angel. Now I do not recall ever being asked if I wanted to be the Christmas Angel, but apparently the length of my hair, the color, and the ability to rat it out to enormous widths and heights was what earned me the part. The director told me that I would be soaring above Mary, Joseph, and the Baby. That I would be holding a golden star, and that around my feet would be clouds. I would also be the first child to walk out towards the stage, holding my star...I would be the leader and the crowning point of the nativity. Sounds heavenly, right? Little did I know what all this actually meant.



At first, I was excited. It was fun practicing with my fellow "Nativiters," but then the dress rehearsals came and that is where the excitement faded. I began to loathe being the Christmas Angel. I remember trying on my costume for the first time, and my six year old self knew immediately that somehow some sadistic human being crafted it. The airy clouds that I imagined were instead a cage of chicken wire ( about 20lbs) that hung from white suspenders; cotton batting surrounded the cage which added to the weight. Then came the wings...enormous, heavy, with frilly itchy white garland sewn to them...and they were also attached to the suspenders. Then came the lovely star! The star was attached to a thick wooden rod - much like a jousting stick. The star itself was dangling at the end- heavily sturdy. The actual white linen dress I had been wearing for the "mock" rehearsals, which I naively thought was my costume, was the only comfortable thing about my whole get up. I was hot, itchy, and felt like I was carrying a 50lb sack of potatoes around my midsection. My mother was not happy about the weight, but there was nothing to do about it, we were a week away from the performance. Added to all of this was my hair...pin curled and then ratted out ( which is not a comfortable process). I looked like I had been electrocuted. I was one miffed angel. Why oh why could I not have been cast as Mary? I mean all she had to wear was a smock and a scarf! Oh Mary...Mary did you know how I coveted your costume?



After donning this white contraption I was made privy to my angelic route to the manger. I was to walk down the auditorium aisle (roughly a block), up to the stage, climb on top of a wooden box, and hold my angelic self and star for a 20 minute choir song. The director soon realized that I was incapable of climbing atop my box...my cloud wouldn't let me. So I was lifted onto the box and gripped the jousting star for the life of me. At one point the weight of the star began to get the best of me, slowly it began to dip... I remember the director saying, "Tiffany...don't let it jiggle or drop cause you will hurt Mary and Joseph. Can you hold it a little higher sweetie?" Hurt MARY AND JOSEPH? Hold it a little higher? Lady, if I could get down off of this box I would hurt you...grumble.

The two weeks of pageant dawned on us all. Each night I was uncurled, ratted, spritzed, painted, and donned with the cloud of doom. I was not very jolly after all this had taken place. To my credit though, I smiled every night and every night I heard Oooo's and Ahh's when we appeared. The sweet nativity was a hit and I was glorious...

I am sure that many people came to know the true meaning of Christmas that year. I am sure that our simple nativity reminded all that many years ago our Savior was born, but this angel was so happy when the performance was over. Taking my costume off for the final time, I looked my Mother square in the eyes and said, "Mama, I don't EVER want to be the angel again. Next time I want to be Mary."

The next year I wasn't Mary...I was, however, a dancing bear, which suited me just fine.

Parents: The Human Kleenex

I love being a Mama. It is a decision I will never regret. I live for the smiles, laughter, sweet kisses, warm hugs, and every other special moment that comes in between. Yet, there are a few things that no book on parenting or any well meaning advice can prepare you for. This week I have encountered one of those "things," I have discovered that when a child is sick that one or both of the parents take on the visage of a human Kleenex. I had my suspicions early on about this when I was a teacher, but these suspicions have become confirmed fact now that I have my own child.

This week I have been sneezed on, coughed on, snotted on, drooled on, and cried on.  Countless shirts and pants have been besieged upon by the Mucous Army. I feel like a walking Tide commercial. My hair has not even escaped the onslaught of snot. Nothing screams louder, "I have a sick child", than finding a glob of snot in your hair. I feel like slimer has come to live in my house, and unfortunately this small slimer needs some TLC, so I can't use my proton blaster. My only line of defense is saline dipped wipes, a dish towel, a snot sucker, and copious amounts of hand sanitizer. I am amazed at the amount of mucous that a 24 pound toddler can make! I mean where is it coming from?! Is he made out of it? Does he have a super duper snot bug?!

My starring role as the human Kleenex will either make me fall prey to this wonderful virus, or I will come out with pumped up, COSMIC antibodies. The thing is, if I get sick, who takes care of Mama?  I cannot get sick...so come on phenomenal cosmic antibodies!

Although, I have to admit that even during this incredibly real parenting moment, there is always a silver lining. It is the moment when my son wraps his arms around my neck and says "Lub, Lub Mah ma". It is at this very moment that I forget I have been slimed once again, all I feel is loved. I guess that's what loving a child is all about, you forget all the bad stuff, and revel in the sweet fleeting moments. And at the end of the day, all of that snotty slime washes away; but what doesn't wash away is the knowledge that my son loves and needs me.

The BullyProof Classroom: An interview

Last night I had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Jim Burns over at the BullyProof classroom. I enjoyed conversing with him, and hope to do so again. He has so many wonderful ideas and my greatest desire is that our conversation last night gave hope to someone and changed a life. Here are some of the highlights from last night.

• Be your child's first responder!
• Bullying has nothing to do with you, it has everything to do with what is going on in the bully's heart.
• Be honest with your children about your own experiences with bullying.
• Bullyproof your child's heart by giving them undeniable truths.
• The very things that make you different, make you amazingly special.
• The reason that healing for the victims of bullying is rarely addressed is due to the fact that it takes too much time. Punishing the bully is easier and quicker - but often ineffective.
• All of us are Survivors of bullying.

 Listen in to hear more of our discussion. Here is the interview...hope you enjoy it!

The BullyProof Classroom

Cardigans: A love story...

This weekend I took on the dreaded task of switching out my summer clothes for winter. As I surveyed the growing pile of clothing I realized that 1) I am a bit of a clothing hoarder...you can find a range of sizes in my closet that would rival any department store; 2) I am a cardigan junkie. I don't just own 2 or 3 cardigans, no I have a cardigan in every color...10 to be exact ( sadly, that number is growing after a recent trip to Target). At some point I may need an intervention...but I blissfully grin as I think of all the outfits I can and will create with my troupe of plaid, argyle, and solid colored cardigans. Move over grandma...I am taking over your fashion statement.

 Now I don't recall when my penchant for cardigans began, but somehow over the years they have slowly taken over half of my wardrobe. I recall as a child being required to wear the "infamous" holiday cardigans that were popular in the late 80's and early 90's. I know you know what I am talking about, the ones with holiday scenes carefully embroidered all over the front and back. This first step into the cardigan world almost ruined it for me, because as a teen I probably wouldn't have been caught dead in one. Yet, as wisdom increased so did my love for the cardigan. See it is not just a "button up" sweater reserved only for the geriatric or fashion comatose; it is instead the gateway to any glorious look for church, work, or play! I mean these babies are versatile - from preppy to foxy in a minute.
They also are a fluctuating waistlines best friend. Like I stated previously, I have a wide range of sizes in my closet, and I cannot bring myself to get rid of them. Look, judge if you want, but it took me forever to find the perfect clothing for certain "size" moments in my life and I spent some money. I don't own a money tree...so what is the next best thing for clothing that is a tad big or tight? A cardigan! I can slap one over a piece of clothing that by itself would be a bit comical, as far as fit goes, and instead of looking like frump a dump I now look put together. Cardigans are the equivalent of fashion camouflage, they cover all my fashion blunders!

So here's to you, you beautiful cardigan! You will always find a home in my closet and spot in my heart. But I will have to say that I may need an accountability partner the next time I visit target...


I love me some cardighans!

Not the brightest crayon...

The Cozy Coupe...a child's first car wreck waiting to happen. I have long wondered why we strap our kids into highchairs, car seats, and other devices to keep them safe, and yet we buy them a toy car with no braking mechanism and let them go. I have seen my son run over himself countless times in that crazy car, and he was sitting in it! I mean I understand that he is operating it like Fred Flintstone, but how in the world does he slip in between the seat and the steering wheel? Thankfully, our car is parked inside our house...why you ask? Well, if my son is anything like me, he should never be allowed outside in a cozy coupe - ever.

I was about 6 at the time when I had my first joy ride in the cozy coupe. I was at my neighbors house and we unfortunately were not being supervised - which is where it all started. Now, my neighbor lived on a steep hill and the garage was at the top of this wonderful incline; it was steep and we had been warned of it's perils. Most of the day we avoided the tempting hill.  My little friend and I had been enjoying our time of patty cake, tea party, and dollies when we decided we had had enough of the prim and proper. So we rolled out the red car of death.

It began innocently enough. My friend's cat had just had kittens, so we put them in the "trunk" of the car, and scooted  them around in the safety of the garage. After about 5 minutes of this, our inner evil Knievel's rared their heads, the hill was calling to me. I told my friend I wanted to take the kitties for a ride down the hill, and she facilitated the event by giving me a push. In seconds I was peering down the slope, kittens meowing in the back, and saying ,"1...2...3...Push!"

I don't recall when I realized that this was not my brightest idea, but it was somewhere between me watching kittens fly out of the back and seeing the ditch at the end of the drive. "Brake! BRAKE!" screamed through my brain. Kittens meowing loudly, and then nothing but dirt and grass. The ride was all of 30 seconds, but in that 30 seconds I saw all my six years flash before my eyes. "Am I dead?" I wondered. Slowly I opened my tightly clenched eyes to see that I was upside down in the coupe, in a ditch, with a small ticked off kitten peering into my face. Nervous laughter mixed with tears erupted.

Prior to the crash, as I zipped down the hill, my friend's mother happened to walk out and see the unfolding tragedy. Hollering loudly she sprinted after me. She told my mother later, that if she hadn't been so scared she would have laughed at the sight. There I was, hair whipping out the side of the car, kittens scattering like confetti, roaring down the hill, across the street, and crashing into a ditch. "It was like something out of a movie," she said.

So here I am today, with a son, and a cozy coupe. I think it is best for all (human and feline) that it stay indoors...cause I have heard that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.