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01/04/2010
Christmas wrapup
It was a great Christmas. I say this, of course, at the remove of several days, when no one is crabby from too many presents and too little sleep, too much rich food and not nearly enough strangers raising my children. I say it on a day when those strangers have, in fact, resumed their tireless assault on the fragile bond I've managed, despite the odds, to forge with my get — I love that, my get — and with a break and an uninterrupted cup of coffee it's easy to think, O, what a magical time it was, the tiny faces wreathed with joy and wonder...
But actually it kind of was a magical time, even if the tiny faces were wreathed instead with gummy green discharge (Ben, bad cold, rheumy eyes) and pink Zithromax (Charlie, ear infection, up at 2 AM crying for five nights running). I stayed up far too late every evening wrapping presents, finishing a gift, baking, decorating, and basically doing my level best to make Christmas my warm and festive bitch. So the nights were awful, too short and fragmented, but the days were really great. Charlie and I baked, not so much as to jeopardize the global butter supply as I have in years past, but enough that he knew we'd done it, which seemed like the important part. Paul and I each took him on shopping trips where he chose gifts — green nail polish for a favorite cousin, a picture frame carefully studded with stickers for one of Paul's sisters, an important player in international finance and, one hopes, a lover of glittery pink hearts and princess crowns — and paid for them with his own coins. A desperate trudge through the mall scored us a sequined Santa hat, which Charlie wore with panache, and, at further urging, a smaller version for Ben. "Hat!" Ben said, patting his head for emphasis. "Hat!" he crowed, accosting everyone who happened to be wearing one. It's winter in New England. That's one snowy assload of "Hat!"
And then there was Christmas Day, and Charlie's ardent belief in Santa Claus. I know there are those who staunchly resist lying to their children, and therefore deplore the Santa myth. Me, I'm all about lying to my kids. No, I don't know where your battery-powered megaphone-shaped kidney-rattling voice changer is, and you step away from that hastily closed laundry room door right this minute, young man, for example. Or Ohhh, that's too bad. I guess the TiVo must have accidentally erased The Incredibly Very Brady Snowmen Who Stopped Grinching and Became Mixed-Up Reindeer, Charlie Brown. And I am especially all about lying to my kids about Santa, to the point where watching his entirely fictitious animated progress around the world on Christmas Eve made me cry like the newborn Christ child, hungry for a chug of Nestlé Good Start.
Sure, it was all kind of harried, but I think that's inevitable in a house with two little kids. Even that had its joy, for reasons both obvious and not. On the obvious side, this is exactly, but exactly, what I wanted. If the price of it is chaos and exhaustion, well, okay: Like Charlie with his bank at the drugstore I will proudly hand over those coins. Less obvious is the perspective it gives me on my own parents. I told my mother on the phone that I have a new appreciation for the effort she and my father always made. "Because," I finished, "it's hard." (My mother is too innately kind to have answered that with the "Duh" it deserved.) And because I'm now doing the same with my own kids, I also have an increasing appreciation — I learn more with time — for how much I was always loved.
But. It was wonderful, but. Or maybe and. It was wonderful, and it was hard. The day after Christmas Paul's side came to visit, a sister, a cousin, and their families. Talking to Paul's sister — the one, I can never forget, who informed me that I'd obviously had difficulty bonding with Charlie — about child-rearing always blows my what-the-effing mind. Now, her kids are mostly grown, and she is, I guess, of a different generation, and certainly of a different background, temperament, and edusocioecoreligiowhatnot. So I try to see her positions through that multifaceted lens, which is kind of like, whoo, fly-eye, cool. But when she said, a propos of I don't remember what, that she'd never felt her children were a burden, I found myself totally floored.
Really?
Never?
Maybe we define "burden" differently, but I feel the weight of it every day. A heavy weight, difficult to carry, says Wikipedia, although, you know, Wikipedia. Our kids are difficult to carry, and I'm not just saying that because I still have a faint blue bruise at my throat from Ben's, shall we say, spirited opposition to being shepherded upstairs for an urgent diaper change. It's certainly one I shouldered intentionally. I pick it up most days with joy, some days — the bad days, the tired or sick or I-don't-know-what's-gotten-into-you-but-we're-gonna-get-it-out days — with slightly dampened enthusiasm, but all days with willingness. Charlie and Ben are everything I'd hoped for, and although I'm tired or exasperated or bored or grossed out for at least some tiny portion of every single day, I pick them up with gratitude. Still doesn't mean they're not heavy.
So I'm looking around the house, which is still in Christmas disarray, and thinking about everything there is to do. Removing and storing the decorations. Getting rid of the tree. Removing the pine needles from places no pine needles should be. Putting away the presents, returning some, hiding some in a place Charlie will never, ever look. (I am thinking about labeling a cabinet BOOSTER SHOTS, RED CABBAGE, AND FINGERNAIL CLIPPERS, NOW WITH EXTRA PINCH.) All the heavy work of cramming Christmas back into its cage, with a whip and a chair if need be. It's the other stuff that makes it feel lighter, the experiments with the new science kit, dancing to the musical giraffe, being paged by walkie-talkie from 20 feet away. "Calling Mama. Come in, Mama." "Mama here, over." "[Long pause.] Do you have anything you want to talk about, Mama? Over!"
As it happens, I do. I want to talk about how there got to be pine needles in my bathtub drain, and which house had the prettiest lights, and how kickass awesome it is that Santa brought Silly Putty even though Paul and I wouldn't replace Charlie's old wad once I had to comb it out of his hair with olive oil, I mean, how did he know?! And how Ben wriggles with happiness when he sees us getting our coats, not because we're going anywhere but because they have hoods, therefore "Hat!" I'm feeling good, despite the fatigue and the cabin fever and the much-too-muchness of it all. It was a light and heavy, heavy but light, heavy, light, and really fine Christmas here. Even if I am perhaps indecently glad that today's back to preschool as usual. Even if I did eat some things I shouldn't have.
Good holidays for you? Did you eat any plush roast chickens, or rubber dinosaurs bigger than your head?
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" (I am thinking about labeling a cabinet BOOSTER SHOTS, RED CABBAGE, AND FINGERNAIL CLIPPERS, NOW WITH EXTRA PINCH.) "
hahahahaha
" Did you eat any plush roast chickens, or rubber dinosaurs bigger than your head?"
eeehehehehe
OMG the plush chicken is awesome. The festive cooties less so (we had them here, too). But despite all of my grinching we baked cookies and had ourselves a happy holiday too. Now thank goodness that's over for another year and SCHOOL IS BACK IN! WHOOO!
OMG. My mother-in-law bought a voice changer megaphone toy for my son (not that exact model). Ours has a setting that my husband likes to use while he says, "It rubs the lotion on its skin!"
I think those people who have to make wholesale declarations about their own parenting -- i.e. "My children were NEVER a burden" -- are of the "Methinks she doth protest too much" ilk.
And I do mean ilk.
My sister once told me she never regretted having her kids and I wondered if she was some kind of android.
So my 8 year old now not only doesn't believe in Santa Claus, but is deeply embarrassed and somewhat resentful that he ever did. I was warned this could happen with an Aspie, but it's still pretty sad.
" (I am thinking about labeling a cabinet BOOSTER SHOTS, RED CABBAGE, AND FINGERNAIL CLIPPERS, NOW WITH EXTRA PINCH.) "
is the funniest thing I ever read.
Ah, those people who claim / imply / declare that their children were never a burden, or that they absolutely every-second-of-the-day love being parents, or that they never find parenting to be difficult. Those people are lying, either because denial is their only coping mechanism for dealing with the fact hat parenting is indeed a frustrating difficult burden that has moments of absolute suckery, or because they are insecure about their own parenting and need to bring others down.
Ahh, lady. You always put perfect words around those feelings I'm too fogged and limited to articulate.
I ate... pretty much all the pies, actually, and enjoyed myself; thank you for asking! And drank plenty, including some of my 3 year old Rhubarb Nasty, which has aged a tiny little better since last year, judging by the fact that I didn't choke on contact.
I think my MIL has more eyes than that fly, btw.
I'm sad for people who make my-kids-were-never-a-burden type of proclamations. I could likely be just like that if I didn't spend as much time as I do online and read the blogs of so many wonderful amazing moms (like you!) who can be so clearly awesome and yet make it okay to admit that it is hard and kids can be a burden and sometimes they want to sell their kids on eBay (but not really). You (and other bloggers) help make it okay to admit that things are hard and it doesn't mean that you don't love your kids or that you're a failure. I think a lot of people I know offline (esp from earlier generations) don't want to admit those feelings because they don't want to be shamed or have people think they don't/didn't love their kids.
At least for me, you (and other bloggers) help make it feel okay to fall and be angry and have bad days. I'm still in the trying-to-get-knocked-up phase of motherhood, but I expect to hang onto that support and that feeling when I (hopefully get to) the next phase.
Now I think about it: our tiny 25-delicious-lbs-of-joy forms his stumbling, carrying parents into a close impression of dying beasts of burden on a regular basis.
And Hubby will be delighted with my donkey comparison for, oh, no reason at all.
That bit about how you define burden? Yes. EXACTLY.
Oh yes. I am with you on all points. All of them. I even said the same thing to my own mother. Henry got walkie-talkies too. And my littlest is also obsessed with hats. Parallel universes, I tell you.
I wish I enjoyed it more. But I am just so TIRED. Even if this is all I ever wanted. So, so tired.
Damn. You write some good posts, and this is one of your best. One of my closest friends writes a fantastic design blog, and today she posted a bunch of thank you cards and urged her readers to thank those people who have made an impact on their lives, so thank you. I love your blog. Happy new year to you and yours, Santa lovers and "Hat!" exclaimers alike.
Parenting is most definitely a heavy burden, especially at Christmas. Christmas is like regular life on steroids. Wonderful and awful, too much and not enough, joyous and disappointing. How perfectly you put it all into words.
Our "HAT" this year was "tree!" Do you have any idea how many Christmas trees there are? Because I do.
Congratulations! You made the list at Babble for Top 50 Mommy Bloggers!
http://babble.com/babble-50/mommy-bloggers/
My son is now two weeks shy of 4, so this was the first year he really "got" Christmas. He checked his "socking" every day, from December 6 to Christmas Morning, hopeful beyond reason that today, THIS day, was Christmas and Santa filled his "socking" with toys and brought him his coveted electric guitar. When the day wasn't Christmas, and the "socking" remained pitifully empty, the light would leave his pretty blue eyes and he'd slump on his chair. "Is it Christmastime YET?" he'd demand.
When the big day finally arrived, it was met with maniacal crazed giggles, running in circles, with "I LOVE MY GUITAR/TRAIN/HUNGRY HUNGRY HIPPOS/CHOCOLATES!" and "ALL RIGHT!"s galore.
We were exhausted, but it was totally worth it just to see his face when he realized that morning his stocking had something in it.
Children ARE a burden sometimes. But it's the fact that you love them regardless that makes it all worth it in the end. That and week-long trips to see grandma and grandpa.
The holiday was made more wonderful by my tattoo, but that wasn't exactly ON the child. Which probably makes me a BETTER mother. I should gloat, because that's probably the only thing I have left to gloat about.
TAKE THAT, WORLD. I DID NOT TATTOO MY CHILD THIS YEAR.
(notice that I said THIS year)
Maybe it's something about the connotation of the word. You are right, given the definition, I can't argue with it. But I still would rather not use it.
Essentially, I don't think we disagree. Parenthood is hard. Brutally hard some days. It's hard at multiple scales, as some scientists would say: from the smallest details, like picking up all the toys day after day after OH MY GOD day to the really big stuff like, am a good mother? Should I be working more, at home more? Do I smile and laugh enough around my kids, give them enough of my attention? Hard as in, I am so very exhausted right now.
Some days I wonder if I did the right thing to be a parent. Some days it's hard to see past my son being a right little jerk, or the baby waking up every two hours. At the same time "burden" has these connotations of regret and dislike (not contained in the dictionary; just in my head) that bother me. I could totally replace burden with "pains in the ass" or "little hoser" though--often have.
Anyway, maybe that's why she said that. Although, given her prior record... maybe not.
Though the details are different, the sentiment you describe in this post is EXACTLY how I feel and how my holidays were.
And "made me cry like the newborn Christ child, hungry for a chug of Nestlé Good Start" made me almost hurt myself laughing so hard!
Thank you for honesty and humour. I hope you and your family have a wonderful new year.
That fake chicken is the funniest fucking thing I've ever seen! Especially because the "wings" look more like doughnuts.
If you'll forgive me the ridiculousness of quoting from a television show:
"If you love someone, you open yourself up to suffering. That is the sad truth. Maybe they'll break your heart, or you'll break their heart and you'll never be able to look at yourself the same way. Those are the risks. That's the burden. Like wings, they have weight. We feel that weight on our backs, but they are a burden that lifts us. Burdens that allow us to fly."
That's what I always think of when I think of burdens. The quote is from 'Bones' and not in reference to having children, but I found it totally relatable.
I can't believe that once again, you put into words the indescribable. You rock. This is exactly how I feel about Christmas, about the day-to-day-ness of being a mom. And how wonderful and brave you are to say it all out loud to the internets! I'm betting that's your SIL's issue--she doesn't know how to say "damn, this mothering thing is hard!" And so she says something ass-hatted (heh, "Hat!") that makes her feel less like she's doing it wrong. You're doing it right--the mom thing and the writing. Happy new year to you and yours!
Ah yes. If the responsibility for the future happiness, security, and non-serial-killerness of a HUMAN BEING does not qualify for "burden" status, then... then... well, I just don't know what. Hmph.
Well said, as always. Glad it was light and heavy and all that hatted goodness.
That fake chicken is the funniest fucking thing I've ever seen! Especially because the "wings" look more like doughnuts.
So. . . I'm the only who thinks they look like vulvas?
Okay, then.
I will stick up a little bit for Paul's sister in a hypothetical sense. Perhaps she just defines burden differently, as you say. I don't have kids but I cared for my mother during her three years with cancer prior to her death. It was hard - incredibly hard - but I didn't feel it was a burden. Perhaps because I knew the alternative was NOT caring for her because she had died, or because I felt like I was simply returning the caretaking favor.
Or maybe because I so often assured her she wasn't a burden, and thus deluded myself into defining the word as Paul's sister does. Indeed, a look at the dictionary definition suggests that's what I was doing. But maybe she was doing the same thing, because I can't imagine a world in which she never once thought "This shit is hard."
Oh dear word the people who say stupid things like they LOVE EVERY MINUTE WITH THEIR CHILD. They remind of the conservatives who are homophobic anti-divorce holy rollers. Who are later quoted as having a "wide stance."
To be fair, my own mom insists these days that she can't remember a single moment when I wasn't an utterly delightful child, which I know full well is utter bullshit. But hey, there's something to be sad for Mom Memory. I would love to never remember this day with my son, for example.
And this post is the reason I continue to check the blogs of my favourite mom-bloggers far too often in a day. You articulate my feelings better than I ever could. I love my children beyond all reason, but some days, egad(!) they are a heavy load - the illnesses, the neediness, the behaviours, the horrible weight of guilt I feel after listening to the umpteenth mother tell me how they ONLY feed their kids organic, vegan, sugar-free, blahbity blah blah family bed yada yada never want to leave their children for a second yakity yak daycare is evil...
Thank you for being a voice of sanity in the parenting universe!
And your point about appreciating your parents so much more now...my god, yes. I'm taken aback sometimes by how much my parents loved us, how hard they worked, how much they sacrificed, how generous they were with their time (and still are) and how kind they were to support me even when I was a stupid, know-it-all ass to them.
What everyone else said. And? My brother and sister in law got my daughter (almost exactly the same age as Charlie) that megaphone thing. I'm already plotting my revenge. Although it does sound pretty hilarious when she cracks herself up and starts giggling through it.
I LOVE that dinosaur! I am 23 years old, and in graduate school working towards my PhD, and my entire Christmas list this year consisted of "those little pellet things that you put in the water and then they are dinosaurs" (that is the entirety of the email I sent my dad after a month of his asking what I would like for the holidays). I got about six packages of them; it was amazing. But none of them is nearly as cool as your MASSIVE dinosaur! I know what I'm asking Santa for next year ...
Thank you for saying it, for admitting it, the burden thing. I have to admit I was a tad bit worried at the beginning of the post with all of the happy loving Christmas stuff. I think the burden is living a little bit big in my mind right now. Thank you for reminding me about the upside.
OMG My sister gave one of my twins that *beeping* *beeping* megaphone for Christmas and I want to KILL her. GAR! That TOY is a burden.
I feel like my twins are quite often a burden. If you define a burden as an obligation that you didn't necessarily choose, but must carry. Their damn TWIN ness, for lack of a better word, is a burden. Individually they are awesome, and I would choose them any day, but together the strain is sometimes much more than the sum of the parts, if that makes any sense. I didn't choose to be infertile, and without infertility it is unlikely that I would have twin boys, and having twins licks donkey ass. At least having MY twins does. This is where I have to say "But having them made all the shots and the horrible twin pregnancy worth it...blah blah blah" All true. Sadly, I have been brainwashed and held against my will. Send vodka.
HAHA, I love that chicken.
I tried to be 'that' parent - the one that tells her children the truth. I'm not anymore. I played up Santa as a fun part of the tradition of Christmas, but not necessarily a real person who comes down our chimneys. Then . . . winter rolls around the year my oldest starts kindergarten and one day he comes home and I'm a big fat liar because Santa is real and some of his friends have seen him. He's in 4th grade now and he still tells his younger brothers not to pay any attention to what mom says about Christmas because she obviously has no idea what she's talking about!
At our house Santa brings all sorts of "what was he thinking?" presents -- things too loud or messy or dangerous for Mama & Daddy to buy. (This year's prize: a cap grenade.) It's lots of fun.
Best. Post. Ever.
This Christmas was pretty okay at our house. Mine are 14 months old, so we downplayed it as much as possible. We made sure to have pretty decorations and a few presents.
Never the less, the family keyed it up. My family showered the kids with pretty cool stuff, and then we traveled to Louisiana to see the husband's family and they showered them in their turn.
The highlight? Hearing my prim and proper Southern Lady step-mother-in-law utter a word I wasn't even aware that she knew when my son crawled onto the fireplace for the hundredth time ("surely he can't climb that high?! oh my! you little sh*t!") while my daughter quietly snuck around behind the commotion he created to destroy as much property in as little time as possible. We tried to warn them that twin toddlers are not the same thing as two toddlers, but I think it's the kind of thing you have to experience.
I love my kids. Most days I still feel at least a moment or two of that sense of wonder I felt in the hormone soaked first days of their life at the incredible luck, joy, and gratefulness towards a benevolent universe that I ended up with not just one child, but two. That doesn't keep the moments from happening where I tell them they need a hug because they're obviously out of sorts and mommy is very angry at their behavior so a hug is best for everyone all around.
I heart you. How honest. And true.
I actually had a girlfriend say to me that she missed her daughter terribly when she was put down for nap. When my eyes stopped rolling, I realized that it's actually okay to need a break from the never-ending 24/7 parenting.
All worth it, of course -- but if my older son throws one more Bakugan battle brawler at me I may need to take a hostage.
Happy New Year!
Kid got an unbreakable fever a week *before* the two week childcare-free holiday zone, so I had near a month of quality time at home with the totlet.
Today is his first day back at childcare and I'm in need of some sort of anchor to keep me at my desk as TEH BURDEN! SHE IS LIFTED.
If I can love my out-of-the-house job and occasionally complain about how hard it is, why can't I love my kid and complain occasionally about the job of raising him?
Great post. As usual, you've nailed it.
I love reading your blog! I had a quick thought the other day about how I might need to have my 20 month old see a psychiatrist. He is a fast talker (cursing included) and already knows and can identify his shapes. My thought was not really about his intellect however, but I was thinking I would get a head start on the therapy he may need later. You know, just in case I am failing at this mommy business.
I just wanted to unlurk to tell you how much I love your blog. As a fellow "infertile", reading it has helped me process some things of my own. And it always makes me laugh. Thanks.
I'm just now being forgiven by a neighbor for once asking if they have boarding school for two year olds. Of COURSE the little suckers are a burden. Not all the time, but enough that you don't have to think twice about that concept...
My daughter (now in kindergarten) has never believed in Santa. (We're Jewish/Christian lite and only put slight effort into Santa.) But after a year in a class where everybody believes, she's been considering it. And her final thoughts were "Santa must be real because he brought me Bendaroos. Mama would never do that because she said they're crap!"
OKAY, after reading Julie's blog since about May 2007 this is the ONE that just had to make me post a reply ~ you are TOO much lady. I think comparing your holiday household w/ mine (toddler turning 2 on 01/18) drove me over the edge. Thanks Julie for being the constant entertainment (and sage advice/wisdom/wisenheimer remarkist) that keeps me clicking and clucking and chuckling through the weeks..... ps I voted for you on that 'best in vitro blog mommy' (or whatever it was) contest... Again, thanks Julie. I look forward to each post from you. (And wish I could make as mean a quilt as you! {envy rears its ugly head}.)
Happy holidays Julie. May you continue to be so-blessedly burdened in 2010 and may hats be aplenty.
a post worth waiting for.
God I love you. Yes, yes, yes.
Also, besides mama and dada, my son's second and third words (after "uh-oh") were "hot" and "hat" (or was it "hat" and "hot?"), which first of all, yes, charming (he went with "hot" in the summertime in the south, which is pretty much as useful as "hat" in the wintertime in the northeast, I'm thinking), and second, so frustrating, because he'd be pointing out someone wearing a "hat" and we'd think he was telling us it was "hot." Or vice versa. Thank goodness he wasn't aware of any hot hats. And thank you for bringing back some very fond memories.
Awesome.
Great one! I hope it's not too much of (another) burden for me to thank you for helping to keep me sane through this whole infertility/parenthood business...
I don't know about this whole "burden" issue. I think it may be a matter of semantics. I would also say that my children have never been a burden, and I mean that. I would, however, never claim that they are never troublesome and I 100% agree that raising children is sometimes hard/not fun.
Just 1 hour ago, I discovered that my 18 month old bundle-of-joy removed her diaper, while she was supposed to be sleeping...there is no nice way to put this, but she then soiled herself, the bed, the sheets, her stuffed animals (including the new teddybear, she just got from her great-grandparents for christmas) and everything else within reach, including her hair...I looked into her room, attracted by the smell, and found her sleeping while literaly covered in shit.
During the cleaning process, I still didn't consider her a "burden", but it was not an experience I want to repeat... ever. I think that for me a burden is something that you want to avoid, and for all the trouble she brings, I would still chose her (shit-covered if necessary) to a life without her.
I do plan to hold this event against her at some later point in her life.
I understand that your definition of a "burden" is different than mine, as it appears that feelings for our children are similar (endless love and occasional exasparation)
Trine
I agree about the whole burden aspect and I also agree about realizing how much I was loved. I'm a relatively new mom and so is one of my girlfriends. I commented to her about "isn't it amazing to realize how much our parents loved us?" and she said, well maybe yours. About broke my heart. So good job on the loving your kids no matter what. And thanks for the posts - so many I have nodded my head 'yep' while reading.