'Twas days from Thanksgiving, and nothing was done
My job needed effort, my kids wanted fun.
The deadlines at work kept me stuck in my chair.
Leaving no time to shop or plan with care.
A large crowd was coming to eat on that day.
The nieces and nephews and in-laws would stay.
A ball game they'd watch on my flat screen TV
Eating my pie and cheering with glee.
The thought of the crowds, wanting nice food and fun
While projects at work kept me under the gun
Had me wondering why in the world I would host.
When all I want is to sleep in the most.
My work must come first, I cried and implored.
I have to do well ne'er my job be off-shored.
My sisters assured me they'd come to my aid
Leaving all doubt behind that I wouldn't get paid.
"Rally the children to help with the cleaning
Surely they can't spend the day just IMing!"
My husband, so wise, had me in fits of laughter.
Just wait, I told him, to see what comes after.
The house will be cluttered, the carpet a mess
Our only recourse will be a change of address.
Leave the kids to their fun, I'll come up with a way
To get my work done before the big day.
With one day to go, it all seemed so tragic.
My office was dull and devoid of all magic.
My phone, it did ring, and I answered the call.
Wondering how in the world I would manage it all.
When a voice so familiar spoke in my ear
"How's it going?" Sis asked. "The big day is near."
Don't fear, I calmed her, the store has the bird.
They said they would thaw it. They gave me their word.
As I drove home that night, the bird in the trunk
I thought of the lonely, the hungry, the sunk.
Did I have it all wrong? Could I be so mistaken?
It's not about food, or when I'll awaken.
It's not about cleaning or even the baking.
It's how we give thanks for what we are taking.
I made up my mind to be the best host
Spending time with the ones that I love the most.
As we sat at the table, I took in the sight
Of my family around me and safe on that night.
After saying our grace, we counted each blessing
Then helped ourselves to spoonfuls of dressing.
Happy Thanksgiving to all and to all a good bite!
~ Christmas Curmudgeon ~
With every moment of our waking hours typically scheduled to the "nth" degree, plate spinners, by definition, have little tolerance for activities that are seemingly without purpose. As such, I hope you'll indulge my scrutiny of one such time-draining Christmas tradition—standing in line to see Santa.
While decorating the tree, sending cards, and baking cookies, in comparison, are worthwhile pursuits because you have something to show for your time and effort, I'd like to argue that prowling parking lots in inclement weather to get a space within a mile of a busy shopping center just so I can queue up to snap a shot of my child sitting on Santa's lap, holds little merit.
I speak from experience.
When our oldest was a year and a half and his little brother was just two months old, we were persuaded to take part in this ritual by my husband's best friend who had landed a gig as one of the Santas down at Marshall Field's on State Street. So, on an unseasonably bitter Saturday in December, we packed up the buggy and the boys and made our way downtown. Thankfully, as was their way, that grand old store pulled out all the stops to get everyone in the holiday spirit.
We cheerfully plodded forward, becoming mesmerized by all of the twinkling displays and the delightful holiday music—so much so that we were oblivious to the fact that we were about to plop a little boy and a baby, both of whom had very ripe diapers, into Santa's lap. The boys didn't care, but we were mortified, especially when we learned that my husband's friend's shift had ended fifteen minutes earlier.
When I was little, we didn't go to the store to see Santa. He came to us, riding down our street in a station wagon that looked suspiciously like ours with an old red police light affixed to the dashboard. On Christmas Eve, right after dinner, my sister and I huddled excitedly on the curb with our best friends from across the street. Even with snow whirling around us in the dark, we could see him coming down the block.
We'd leap up, shrieking our greetings. When they slowly passed by, we'd see the big guy, looking suspiciously like our friends' Dad, sitting on the tailgate, laughing and tossing candy out to us. I can still hear the snow crunch under the weight of the car's chain-wrapped tires as we scurried after it looking for candy canes and chocolate coins.
No, I didn't actually sit on his lap and recite my wish list, but I figured that if he saw that I wasn't knocking my sister over trying to get the most candy, I'd still land a spot on his "nice" list. My Mom, in the meantime, got to relax in the warmth of our kitchen, enjoying coffee with the rest of the mothers on our block.
At least, I think it was coffee.
~ Contemplate Christmas Greetings ~
Maybe it's the flurry of leaves blowing from the tree in my backyard. Perhaps it's the premature appearance of peppermint ice cream in the grocery store's freezer section. Or it could be because the stores are already phasing out all things creepy and replacing them with all things yuletide-y. Personally, I think it's because radio stations are poised to play Christmas carols 24/7 just hours after we finish trick-or-treating.
Whatever the case, the proactive plate spinner in me is ready to pull out my candy cane pen and draft our first annual family Christmas letter. For the past eighteen years, I've gotten by with the standard photo card. Granted, the more boys we've added, getting that group shot has become more of a challenge. I can only hope the recipients have appreciated the measure to which I have gone to get one with them all smiling in it—even if it is through gritted teeth.
But, this year will be different.
Since I'm relatively new to this exercise, all I have to fall back on are memories of my busy Mom tackling the task just a week or two before the big day. She'd station herself at the head of the kitchen table, typewriter at the ready, her overstuffed address book on one side and a box of cards on the other. I remember my Dad getting a nifty little plastic postage stamp dispenser, along with an address stamp and an ink pad so, when Mom was ready, my siblings and I could form an assembly line to help her fold, stuff, address, and stamp the cards. Just like Santa's elves. Despite the stress my harried working Mom must've felt at the time, we looked forward to this family tradition as much as putting up the tree.
I don't recall ever reading any of the letters she typed, but I'm sure they contained the same glowing accounts of our accomplishments as the ones we'd receive from relatives and friends. They'd always start with a phrase like, "Greetings from (insert name of tropical locale) where we vacationed this summer!" Or, "Hey-Ho, Neighbors—Yule never believe what's been happening with the (insert last name of over achievers down the street)!"
The letters would then go on to regale us with stories about how their child landed a spot on Bozo's Circus or was one of the first in line at the brand new Disney amusement park in Orlando, Florida.
Ho, ho, ho…
Staring at the blank screen on my laptop, writer's block settles over me like a foot of wet snow. Let's see. We weren't able to squeeze in a family vacation this year. Not unless you include the time we managed to get all five kids in the car to go see a movie. Sweat starts to bead on my forehead and I discover my candy can pen doesn't taste like peppermint at all.
I type, "Greetings from suburbia where we survived the year!" and call it a day.
~ A Holiday Survival Guide ~
When I sink into the couch after shelving the last of the Thanksgiving di
nner dishes, the last thing I want to see is my husband thumbing through the "Black Friday" ads or my sons pulling out the Christmas decorations. Having added Thanksgiving prep to my usual plate-spinning routine for the past couple of weeks now, I know I need a breather, a break between the major holidays. But, like my time-starved mother before me, I know that taking a reprieve is a luxury I just cannot afford.
So, how can working parents successfully downshift from the season of gorging to the season of giving? For me, it's simple—eat, pray, crochet.
Proper nutrition is key. While the caffeine-and-refined-sugar diet has seen me through many a holiday season, this may not work for everyone. Counting calories, however, is an easy way to prevent a waistline expansion that will have you pining for a health club membership a month from now. If you choose wisely, there's no need to feel deprived. For instance, six ounces of eggnog is 300 calories. So is an eight-ounce hunk of broiled, skinless chicken breast. You decide.
And remember, slogging through crowded store aisles with children in tow does hold some calorie-burning potential, especially when pushing a stroller and lugging large packages.
Feeding your soul is equally important. Again, it's all about choices. Some people pray that they make it to the store in time to get that must-have item on their Christmas shopping list. Others pray that they receive that must-have item on their list. The wise ones, though, have figured out that the only way to fill their soul is to meet the needs of others.
Check it out. The next time you barrel into the grocery store, instead of passing the guy ringing a bell, drop some cash in his bucket. Or, on your way to work, instead of ignoring that guy sitting on the street with his head down while he's holding out a battered cup, drop some change in it or, better yet, hand him a sandwich. You may just find that having that latest flashing gadget isn't so important after all.
Last, but not least, crochet. It's my hobby of choice. Like my two-needled knitting counterparts, when stressed, I crave the mind-calming, thought-gathering charm that can only be found in the familiar rhythm of knotting yarn into something soft, beautiful, and useful. That's a double-bonus for this plate-spinning multitasker. On a Christmas morning that capped the most trying time of my career, I handed out enough handmade scarves and afghans to make Santa himself blush.
While I'm cognizant of the fact that not all working parents crochet or knit, I do recommend that you indulge in a hobby of your liking—photography or restoring classic cars. If it results in a potential gift, all the better.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a thousand things to do…
~ The Power of Peppermint ~
Any plate spinner worth their weight in peppermint bark will tell you that it's all about maintaining balance—a constant challenge, especially during the holidays. Such is the case in my house.
As sure as candy canes have stripes, I know that my children's level of excitement over the upcoming holidays will peak on the last day of school before winter break. Conversely, I know that the slow crescendo of holiday-prep stress that I'm trying to fend off will likely peak on their first official day home on winter break.
For them, the countdown to Christmas is measured by daily doses of chocolate plundered from their Advent calendars. For me, it's measured by activities that I am not able to tick off of my to-do list. Ho, ho, hum. And, as they look forward to weeks of unscheduled, unencumbered free time, I am starting to feel the balance between work and family life get a little off kilter. Holiday stuff—things like stuffing stockings, wrapping gifts, and decking the halls, are being pushed to the back burner.
With one camp focused on leisure and the other focused on labor, I fear a veritable train wreck is imminent. I'm picturing restless children scouring the house, not to clean it, but to find presents. Or perhaps, they'll devour the packaged cookies I bought for the big guy in the red suit and I'll have to make more. From scratch. Worse yet, what if they simply spend the entire time watching TV, playing video games and, well, taking a break on their break?
We will somehow have to reach a compromise between my need to be activity-bound and their desire to be unbound. Granted, the give and take required from both sides poses its own challenges.
For instance, state driving laws notwithstanding, I know that sending my driver-permitted, but unlicensed son to the mall to get last-minute gifts is just not an option. On the other hand, squeezing a few additional minutes out of my day to focus on having fun would be a possibility, I suppose, if we lived in a world where things like daily showers and sleep were not essential for maintaining a moderate level of civility.
So much for compromise.
I begin to wonder if praying for a blizzard might hold some merit. What with all of the shoveling, sledding, snowball fights, snowman building, and snow angel-making, several inches of snow would keep them occupied for hours, if not days. A native of Chicago's suburbs, I know the odds are in my favor for a white Christmas. With so much still to do, though, I grapple for a back-up plan.
About to draft a lengthy to-do list to keep my boys otherwise occupied during their break, I reach for my trusty candy cane pen, sticking the end in my mouth as I contemplate what still needs to be done. The burst of peppermint takes me by surprise. Clearly someone had swapped my pen for the real thing. Hearing giggles come from the other room, I get up to confront the culprits and thank them for restoring my holiday spirit.
~ You Had Me at "Ho!"~
Dear Santa,
Since my kids are drafting their letters to you, I thought I'd take this opportunity to drop you a line.
Don't worry. This isn't another self-promoting letter intended to garner lots of presents in exchange for good behavior. I just want you to know that, as the manager of a to-do list that would make a grown plate spinner cry, you're nothing short of a multitasking super hero.
I'm a huge fan.
Granted, like any other big celebrity, you have a support staff, albeit height-challenged and pointy-eared, but still—I am humbled by your ability to travel the globe, shimmying into all sorts of domiciles to deliver packages in the course of one fleeting night.
I can't imagine the miles you must have racked up on that sleigh of yours over the years. In comparison, how can I complain about having to race back to one of my boys' schools in my tired old Buick just to deliver a forgotten lunch or buzz to the grocery store twice in one day to replenish my pantry?
Still, I suppose it helps that you only deliver to the folks on your "nice" list. Personally, I have found the whole concept of children having to secure a spot on this coveted list a highly valuable parenting tool. So, thanks for that.
I'd like to commend you on your outfit as well. I've never had my colors done, but red definitely works for you. It brings out the glow in your cheeks and adds to the sparkle in your eyes. And, as an alumnus of the parochial school system, I can certainly appreciate the time savings inherent in wearing a uniform.
As to the multitude of men who try to emulate you, just remember—imitation is the highest form of flattery. Some may bear an uncanny resemblance, but nothing foils a fake Santa faster than a crying baby.
Nonetheless, despite my best efforts, I want you to know that I couldn't pull off this holiday without you. I may trim the tree, mail the cards, troll shopping center parking lots, make all manner of Christmas cookies, and put little foil-wrapped chocolate versions of you in my kids' stockings, but you're the one that brings a certain magical stress-free excitement to the season—no matter how old I get.
I just need to work on the stress-free part. By the time Christmas eve rolls around, I check where you are on the NORAD website, then rather gruffly order my kids to bed, warning them that you won't stop by unless they're sleeping.
How you maintain that jolly disposition, I'll never know. I suppose that megadose of sugar you ingest during your travels helps. Whatever the reason, you're truly an inspiration. It's a wonder working parents aren't lining up in droves for a chance to sit on your lap in shopping mall
s across the country, asking for your autograph.
But enough gushing.
The bottom line is, you complete me. Just don't tell Mrs. Claus, ok? I wouldn't want to make the "naughty" list.
Signed,
The Plate Spinner
~ A Cautionary Carol ~
My Mom is no ghost, but as Christmas approaches, the sheer volume of homemade cookies and gifts that she used to produce when she was in her plate-spinning prime haunts me. Even Martha Stewart couldn't hold her spatula.
All this while working full-time and raising five kids—without a microwave. Those are some mighty big pumps to fill.
With a few minutes to spare between one son's piano lesson and another son's dental appointment, I popped in recently for a quick visit. A familiar scent greeted me at the door. Turns out, she was spending the day making her traditional, labor-intensive date nut bread. It wouldn't be Christmas without it.
Guilt started wrapping around me like a heavy chain. I didn't dare tell her about how I came this close to leaving out store-bought cookies for Santa the year before.
Instead, I announced that one of my boys signed me up to make treats for a class party the next day.
"Like I don't have enough to do," I fumed.
She noted my stress. "You'd better slow down or you're going to miss it."
"Miss what?" I mumbled, shoving a hunk of the warm bread in my mouth.
"Christmas."
I smirked at her. "You say that like it's a bad thing. I'm actually looking forward to it being over."
I ignored her gasp, grabbed the date nut bread she had set aside for me, kissed her good-bye and headed out the door.
That night, I was visited by three bad dreams. Either that, or I was paying the price for not sharing that loaf of date nut bread with my kids.
The Plate Spinner Chronicles Page 7
