Jacob, like pretty much any other public-school kindergartener I’ve ever heard of, has had a few bumps and potholes along the road, as he acclimates to his new routine.  The periodic skinned knee (or face) from a little too much velocity on the sidewalk, a tendency to get distracted when he’s in a crowd of 20 kids on the floor for story time, a habit of forgetting to collect all of his papers and shoes and little-boy detritus before heading home.  None of it is particularly problematic or even noteworthy; just the side effects of a brain struggling to make the leap from being home with Mom seven days a week to being out of the house eight hours a day, five days a week.

And, of course, there’s the occasional interpersonal conflict.  Jacob is not an instigator; he has always been my Zen guy, able to go with the flow and adjust to the whims of others without much protest.  If anything, he errs on the side of following along too much, with a true responsiveness to the moods and acts of others.  This is lovely when it means he is sensitive and caring about another’s well-being, and somewhat less so when it means he gets wrapped up in a pushy-shovey sort of thing over who gets the window seat on the bus.

It’s all part of his process of figuring out who he is and how he relates to others.  We’re encouraging him to think for himself and to remember that someone else’s bad behavior does not erase the standards for his own behavior.  And when that doesn’t work, we’re encouraging him to learn how to apologize.

So, it was without a tremendous amount of surprise when he came home, a while ago, and announced, “I accidentally hit Jared on the bus.  Because he hit me first.”  (“Accidentally” being Jacob’s code word for, “I know I shouldn’t have, but I did.”)  I decided that, since the incident was minimal enough that I didn’t hear a word about it from the bus driver, Jared’s mom, or anyone else over four feet tall, I would just let them work it out between themselves.

Sure enough, the next day, Jacob got off the bus with a smile, and informed me, “I sat with Jared again today.  We’re friends now.  We wrote it out.”  At school, if two students get into any sort of verbal or physical altercation, the teachers have them draw or write about the event and share their efforts before the kids talk about it.  I asked if a grown-up had made them “write it out” this time, and he said no, they had just decided to use the crayons and paper that they had in their backpacks and do it on the bus.

So, without any adult intervention, they resolved their issues and are, once again, fast friends.  Lovely.  Out of curiosity, I asked Jacob if he had the letter Jared wrote him, and it turns out that somehow Jacob ended up with both letters.

Jacob’s was first:

For those not fluent in Kindergarten Phonetic Writing, the caption reads: U BDAR B SRRY.  Go ahead, say it out loud.  I particularly like the graphical representation of fighting between them.

Jared’s response:

Buddies once again, sharing a seat on the bus.

Perhaps not quite the self-referential expression of responsibility that school authorities would prefer, but obviously it worked fine for the boys. (And, just to be clear, Jacob’s “you better be sorry” is, as he explained to me, meant in the sense that saying sorry is the right thing to do because Jared started it; not in a more threatening, “or else” sort of style.)

If only grownups could communicate so successfully.

This week, I’ve had the pleasure of spending my time in the eyes of several simultaneous hurricanes, feeling the pressure of sudden atmospheric shifts without actually breaking any window panes… a veritable herd of drama llamas has galloped by, ruffling my hair in their passing breeze without trampling me… the roller coaster of life has inflicted motion sickness on several friends and loved ones, while allowing me to sit on a bench and knit and watch from the sidelines.

It’s been… kind of fun, really.

I won’t go into detail here… partly because any one of the stories would be worth a thousand words all by itself, and I can think of at least four separate tales at the moment.  Partly because some of them are meant to be kept private, and even if I were to alter the names and details to protect the involved, I would feel uncomfortable posting it here.  Partly because I’m tired and lazy.  Partly because they each keep evolving so quickly that, by the time I have committed it to words, it would be a whole new story anyway.

But there has been love and marriage… sibling rivalry… academic progress… parenting dilemmas… financial woes… police involvement… domestic disputes… if it had all happened in one household, it would rival any Jerry Springer episode, but it is spread out over several addresses.  Just as well, I wouldn’t wish even two of these sagas, simultaneously, upon anyone.  Except maybe the downstairs neighbors, but that’s just the principle of the thing.

Willem has complained, a number of times in the past few months, that he’s not home enough, that he doesn’t feel involved in what’s going on, that he doesn’t even know what’s going on half the time.  So I’ve done my best to keep him apprised, both of the mundane, daily stuff within our family and of the newsflashes happening around us.  He hit some sort of internal limit last night, and told me that if I were to just stop talking to so many people about these various events in their lives, I would stop hearing about it all… that I was bringing it upon myself, seeking out the drama, when I could avoid it.  Willem is a friendly guy and can be quite sociable, but he’s also more reserved than I am, less prone to getting wrapped up in relationships outside the home.

And he’s right, of course.  We are very, very fortunate in that none of these things are having a direct impact on our existence, here, and so I could choose to let the phone go to voice mail, stop reading my email, and generally plunk my head into the sand and ignore it all for a while.  Maybe even forever.

But what he doesn’t understand, I think, is that I don’t want to avoid it.  I have a number of close personal relationships, and keeping those alive and vital sometimes means hearing lots of details about other people’s drama, not to mention forming and sharing my own opinions about it all.  It requires a fairly high level of mental and emotional engagement on my part – a lot of psychic energy – not to mention a certain amount of diplomacy and communication skills, if the circumstances stretch across more than one party.  Life might be easier if I kept more of that energy to myself… but then it wouldn’t be quite my life anymore.  I like being engaged in these complicated, messy relationships… I like that people bring their troubles to me and trust me to listen to them and try to help, if I can… I like knowing what’s going on, even if there’s nothing I can do about it all.

This is me.  I get involved with people, sometimes very intensely, because it feels good to have that bond.  I give them my undivided attention, because sometimes that’s all I have to offer… and sometimes that’s enough.  I share my opinions, when I think they might be helpful or at least not harmful.  I talk a lot – just look at the average length of posts, here, and you can safely extrapolate that to me offline.

So, yes, absolutely, I could steer clear of the drama… but I hope I never do.

I have a new stepmother.

She and my dad both smiled so much today that I bet their jaw muscles are sore tomorrow. By evening, she had already changed her last name on Facebook… I’m not sure why that surprises me, but it does, in a good way. They had both spoken so casually of their decision to marry, and were so laid back about the selection of a date, so resistant to any sort of fanfare or planning, that I made the mistake of believing that they were thinking of the marriage itself in the same easygoing, “ehh, whatever” sort of way. It’s nice to be wrong.

My kids called her Grandma today. It’ll take a while before that becomes habit – she and my dad have been together for 3 years and the kids are used to calling her by her first name – but I can already tell it will happen. She’s great with them, always has age-appropriate and personality-relevant crafts at the house, makes cupcakes so good you would unhesitatingly break into “Bohemian Rhapsody” in public if the alternative was to go without, and genuinely seems to understand – and like – my children.

It was just enough of a crowd to move from the town clerk’s office to the meeting room next door: the happy couple, my new stepsister, the bride’s parents, a friend or two from work, myself and the kids. But not so much of a crowd that it felt the least bit formal or arranged. Just a casual thing. No invitations or expectations (indeed, they just chose the date on Thursday, and might have gone out and gotten hitched that morning if the weather hadn’t been so bad), no guilt for those who couldn’t attend. Just a very simple, basic, quick event. I parked in a 20-minute spot outside the courthouse, and was back in the car in plenty of time to avoid a ticket. I have to imagine that it was more challenging – certainly more complicated – to have served Thanksgiving dinner. And it’s hard to find fault with a wedding day that doesn’t feature stress and a billion details in starring roles.

Afterward, we went out to a simple lunch, now only seven in the group. I was seated next to the mother of the bride, and we had a very pleasant chat. I hadn’t thought it through before, but when I made the sudden connection – and offhand comment – that she is now, suddenly, a great-grandmother to my kids, she grinned and nodded and got a little teary. They’re people who have always been polite to us, but a bit distant, and I’m sure that won’t just instantly evaporate (nor should it!) but it was nice to see today that they’re ready and willing to make the effort to form some sort of family bond.

My wedding, with 120 guests, seating chart, handmade centerpieces, beaded gown, coordinated wedding party outfits, and astonishing quantities of alcohol, was perfect. It was just how we planned it, Willem and I smiled all day long, and even the little glitches or awkward moments are things I wouldn’t change, because true perfection is just boring. But I could see, today, at a very different event that somehow led to the same end result, that it could have been perfect if it was a quick courthouse ceremony or a high Catholic mass or a barefoot beach gathering. You always know that it’s not about the trappings, it’s about what’s underneath… but it doesn’t hurt to get the occasional reminder.

‘Tis the season, and all that… I don’t do very much Christmas shopping, I think. It feels like plenty to me, and Willem’s constant grumblings gentle murmurings about the robustness of our bank account reinforce that there’s certainly no reason to try to increase the spending. But compared to years past – when we’ve tried to buy at least a small something-or-other for every child in the family, no matter how rarely we see them, or when we’ve had in-laws for whom we had to try and purchase something despite the knowledge that I am genetically incapable of coming up with any ideas that would appeal to that particular group – my shopping list is practically svelte.

It was with a profound mix of pride and surprise, then, that Willem came home last week with news that was going to significantly increase our Christmas buying this year. Someone from work had sent out an email looking for faculty willing to “host” families who are currently staying at a homeless shelter in Boston; not physically, there are no planned meetings or interactions, but to put together a package for a family that wouldn’t be able to do so on its own. Willem signed us up on the same day, and came home with a short description of the interests and wishes of a mother and her three daughters, ages 14, 6 and 2.

It’s a big deal to me, on several levels, that he chose to do this. It proves what I already knew: for all his worries about money, Willem does have a clear perspective on the fact that we’re actually quite well off, bigger-picture, and we have enough to be able to look outside our own walls. And, more importantly, his heart is open and giving, even without an audience… there’s just always something a little cooler when you catch someone doing the right thing without expecting acknowledgment or reward.

It has also been a really good learning opportunity for the kids, because it’s one thing to cart in cans of vegetables or boxes of pasta to put into some big, anonymous bin at school, and it’s something else entirely to envision a specific family, with kids their age, and put a more personal spin on the concepts of needs and wants, fairness, stability, home, and so on. I think it had a particular impact on Emily that the kids all asked for shoes and hats and mittens, not Bakugans and books and dolls, because that’s what they want most… that the mother asked for blankets and towels, because kitchen gadgets or home decorations would be useless to her at the moment.

The only real challenge here is trying to imagine what these total strangers would like. Standing in IKEA on Thursday, I was faced with 15 color choices for towels… I ended up with a strong turquoise blue, on the theory that it’s pretty and very non-institutional, not the white-so-you-can-bleach-it stuff you see in hospitals and motels. And blankets, what size? What color? How many? I won’t even try to guess, on shoes; we’ll stop by Payless tonight and get a gift card instead. I was willing to go out on a limb, knitting-wise, and have thrown together a hat for each family member… I figured, off-white and charcoal gray, with a bit of metallic sparkle in spots, was a safe bet.

But those are just details. The bigger picture consists of the more obvious stuff: the gratitude I have that we’re in a position to participate in something like this. And, too, there’s the vicarious pride and awe at the bravery of this single mother and her daughters. It’s one thing to hit a point in your life where you need to move into a shelter with your kids… that’s about need, and desperation, and life throwing too much all at once. But can you imagine the bravery it must take for this woman to sign herself and her kids up, to list their clothing sizes and wishes, to admit that they need extra help? I’ve had to ask for help before, to make sure we had enough food on the table, but I’ve never been in that position for so long, without extended family or other support, to have to really think about what would be under the tree on Christmas morning. I know that if I were to try and express it directly to her, I would come across as condescending or smug, when I’m honestly just humbled by the whole scene.

So, quick, then, you readers, you creative types, quick… I need gift ideas. What would a 14-year-old girl want, since she left her “hobbies and activities” section blank on the form? I’m leaning toward a journal/sketchpad and a nice set of markers or pencils, but if there’s something that teenage girls are more into these days, please clue me in. For the 2-year-old, should I err on the side of more wrapped things, to prolong the fun of opening presents, or fewer-but-more-costly items? Is the 6-year-old too big for a stuffed animal? Help!!

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As an update… thanks so much for the ideas, they were definitely helpful as I wandered up and down the aisles.

I think we’re good… hope so, because I really don’t want to go back out in the rain tonight.

For the 2-year-old, a neat set of “finger crayons” (think finger puppets), a microphone that lets her amplify her singing (the form said she likes “musical toys” and I didn’t know if she was 25 months old or 35 months, so some of the more instrument things might be too young) and also blows bubbles, very karaoke. And a handknit hat.

For the 6-year-old, a box of bicolored markers and stencils, and a little backpack with a design from the new Disney movie coming out this month. And a handknit hat.

For the 14-year-old, a shoulder bag which is kind of on the border between “grown-up” (plaid pattern, over-the-shoulder model) and “kid-like” (black and magenta colors), an unlined sketch pad and some glitter ink pens, pencils and metallic Sharpies. And… yeah, a handknit hat, though I’ll be up late tonight to get that one done!

For mom, a set of flannel PJ’s and a pair of very warm Thinsulate gloves… nothing handknit because there’s just not time. And 2 blankets, 6 towels from IKEA, per her request.

I’m pleased with it all, and once they’re done goofing off, er, I mean, eating dinner, I’ll have my kids go through their “guy bins” and pick out a stuffed animal or doll for each of the kids.

And then I’ll actually be quite grateful that the deadline came up so suddenly, because it means I have to wrap it all and send it off, instead of second-guessing myself…

I’m a smart woman. I don’t have all of the answers to every question, but usually, if I put my mind to it, I can come up with a reasonable guess. It’s rare for me to be completely baffled, even by things that initially appear mysterious or confusing.

But right now? I am thoroughly, completely, utterly bemused. Clueless. Flummoxed. I simply cannot come up with even a rough approximation, much less an acceptable explanation. Perhaps you’re smarter…

Here’s what I know. Early Tuesday morning, I got the kids up to school and drove the hour-plus to the house in New Hampshire, with plans to meet the plumber and the furnace guy for various winterization efforts. They arrived on time, did their work as planned, and left without incident, which is an excellent thing because I was thoroughly distracted by the mystery in the front yard.

What mystery, you ask? Why, this one:

That right there? That’s a snowman. A very well-built, solid, big snowman, measuring approximately six feet tall, with the smallest of his component snowballs reaching about two feet in diameter. He was vertical at one point, judging by the sand stuck to the exposed bottom edge, though he has fallen over – there were no tire marks, handprints or other indications that he was deliberately pushed – and thus his head is a bit cracked in places.

This is not the result of a random, passing impulse. This would have taken considerable time and effort, and it is a well-done creation.

There was no note, sign, or other form of signature to offer any hint as to the artist.

Weird, right?

But wait, there’s more!

There’s only about three inches of snow in the yard, with similarly scant accumulation in the rest of the neighborhood. There are many tracks all over the front yard – all a bit larger than my own footprint, which is a women’s size 11 – but when you make a very large (or even only moderately-sized) snowman, you roll the balls around the yard to collect more snow, and this leaves telltale paths, often all the way down to bare earth as the snowballs grow. There wasn’t a single such track on the lawn, or on any of the adjoining properties.

The first snow of the year occurred this past Sunday, two days before I visited. To our knowledge, no one – including the Realtor – has been at the house since then. The doors were locked, with no sign that anyone had been inside since Willem visited last week. There was no snow on top of the snowman. It’s an extremely quiet neighborhood, with fairly attentive neighbors who would let us know if they saw something disturbing going on at the house.

I am befuddled.

I cannot hazard a guess as to the nature of the act. It could be a benevolent gesture, a holiday-spirit kind of thing, but then why not claim credit? Or it could be a bizarre prank (which, if so, earns it high praise as Best Prank Ever, because it is not harmful or embarrassing, is easy to clean up, was completely unexpected, and has utterly scrambled my brain), but why target an empty house that was once inhabited by a family without terribly extensive community ties?

And where did they get the snow? Where did they build it? How did they transport and deliver it? Who built it, and was it the act of a single person or a group?

I don’t know who, I don’t know how, I don’t know when, I don’t know where. And I certainly don’t know why.

My mother claims it’s a Christmas miracle, but I’m not quite ready to contact the church about it… L suggested adolescent prank, though we don’t know a single Rochester-area adolescent and it just doesn’t have the feel of a teenage prank… Jenny suggested that I go get a bottle of beer to arrange next to the fallen-down figure, sort of like a Public Service Announcement about the dangers of drinking… I’m starting to suspect a strange, zombie-like, self-creating, mobile snow civilization, and can’t decide whether to find that alarming or to hire it to keep an eye on the house while it’s in the neighborhood.

I’m flabbergasted. Truly.

How about you? Ideas? Guesses? Thoughts? Anything?

The plan was, yesterday, for Jenny and I to pack up our kids and head to Nantucket for the day.  They do something there called the Christmas Stroll, wherein they essentially reopen the island for the weekend… Santa for the kids, carollers, wassail in the shops, historic sites opened for a few days, stores open with ridiculous discounts on last summer’s merchandise, and so on.  Very quaint and New Englandy, I haven’t gone in over a decade but have wanted to for the past several years.  Jenny is one of those moms who manages to get her kids to all of the museums, fairs, and so on, thereby making the rest of us look like uncultured slobs, but for once I had stumbled upon a Quaint New England activity that she hadn’t done yet.

Then I spent Friday night at the elementary school Movie Night, at which I only know there was a movie because the flyers said so.  Anyone who says children are naturally good, sweet, pleasant creatures has never seen/heard a gym full of these beasts hopped up on hot cocoa.  Saturday started off with some Emily-flavored angst, got better when I was able to dump the kids on Willem to go out for a massage and lunch with J., and wrapped up with a holiday party at friend L.’s house… so it was mostly good, but really busy, and I knew there was just no way I could drag my pregnant, fatigued self through the 12+ hours it would take to get to Nantucket and back on Sunday.

Instead, Jenny brought her kids here for several hours.  Which, the bigger point really was just to let the kids play and piece together an adult conversation in between referreeing, so all in all, given the sudden shift from 60 degrees and sunny to several inches of snow and ice, I think we had a better day than we might otherwise have had.

The kids always get along beautifully, mine are 9 and 5, hers 8 and 4, so they just create this big, eight-legged creature of noise and exuberance.  But, like any kids do, they eventually get tired, and tired of each other.  The actual conversations began sounding something like this:

GIRL: [WHISPERS SOMETHING TO OTHER GIRL]
BOY: Hey, she’s telling secrets, but not to me! That’s not fair!
GIRL: Maybe I’ll tell you later.
BOY: But it’s NOT FAIR! Mom…
GIRL: No, wait, I’ll tell you… later…
BOY: No, now! Mom…

Which, good on them for using their words instead of, say, a blunt object, to work out their issues. And I do have a certain respect for the hope-springs-eternal attitude, because to my knowledge, neither Jenny nor I have intervened due to a child’s tattling once, ever, in a decade of parenting, and yet somehow they still think it’s worth trying. But later on, Willem and I were talking about how much cooler it would be if they kids had the higher-level functioning and communication skills to be able to say what they were actually thinking:

GIRL: [SOTTO VOCCE] I’m going to make something up and pretend to tell secrets, just to draw your attention away from my brother and make you focus on ME again.
BOY: I am overtired and overstimulated, and it takes no provocation at all to bring me right to the brink of tantrum!
GIRL: Good. I’ll continue to string you along, because my inherent narcissism causes me to prefer your angst to overall peace.
BOY: But that’s not in my own personal interest! It’s not how I planned for the day to go! I feel thwarted!
GIRL: I am going to continue to ignore your wishes in service of my own impulses, because I’m tired and didn’t eat enough at lunchtime.
BOY: I need an adult to feel at least as miserable as I do, to validate my frustration! Mom…

I dunno, maybe it loses something in the retelling, but the image still amuses me, a day later.

Sometime shortly after the holidays last year, an online friend – one of those people with whom I’ve spoken for hours and shared all manner of angst and joy, as we recovered from miscarriages and later had healthy babies around the same times, but have never actually shared a room with – asked if I would be willing to knit Christmas stockings for her family. She had lost the one her grandmother had made for her, and now she wanted something to use for her own children.

Sure, I said. No problem. You buy the yarn, I’ll do the knitting, you’ll have new stockings by Christmas 2009.

Months went by, things got hectic, life happened… and suddenly it was October. I dug up the old emails describing what she wanted, she got my new address to be able to ship the yarn I suggested, and by late October, I had cast on for the first stocking.

I wasn’t able to find a pattern that precisely worked, so I decided I’d wing it. No problem, I’ve designed knitwear before. I’ve used charts for colorwork and have knit any number of socks without following a pattern, I can turn a heel and decrease for a toe all on my own. Piece of cake. Right?

Well… mostly. It wasn’t hard at any point, but it was certainly a lot slower-moving than I had expected. That first stocking took a month, with several false starts and do-overs and the occasional muttered curse. I started eyeing the calendar and worrying a little. Four stockings, three months… the math wasn’t quite working out.

Happily, though, the learning curve was steep. The second stocking took just over two weeks to knit, and the third took about a week. The fourth, I cast on around 1:00 on a Sunday afternoon and was done with the knitting by noon the next day – and I did do things like eat, interact with the kids, sleep, in the same time period.

Being done with the knitting doesn’t mean done altogether, of course; I needed to take a trip to the fabric store for something to line them, because colorwork creates loops on the inside, just waiting to snag onto gifts or little fingers, and knitted fabric, all by itself, will stretch and sag under the weight of Christmas goodies. And so there was sewing, and detail work, and such… but still, by December 5, I had four completed stockings, all set to head to Louisiana.

I really hope they approximate her vision for them, and that she never, ever loses her precious Christmas decorations to a hurricane-initiated flood. Because on the one hand, the learning curve would suggest that, with practice, I’ll be able to churn these puppies out in 20 minutes flat… and on the other hand, completing the same project four times in a row is quite enough on its own, without doubling it all again.

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For those interested, I could type up a pattern… let me know. I couldn’t find exactly what I wanted among the pre-existing patterns, so these are entirely out of my head, motifs and lettering and stockings, oh my. I haven’t decided if it’s worth writing up or if the market is already effectively flooded…

Remember my passive-aggressive neighbors? They’ve got the downstairs apartment, we’re upstairs, and that’s it; two units in the house. We had a salvo of mildly unpleasant emails several weeks ago, made more awkward because I specifically requested that we sit down and talk this out face-to-face instead of trading emails, and their response was immediate, deafening silence.

I let it slide for a while, and honestly would have ignored it completely, except the apparent agreement with the landlord is that the man who lives downstairs, Officer C, is responsible for snow removal on the walkways and driveway, and if the town declares a snow emergency I need to move my minivan off the street. It hasn’t snowed yet – indeed, yesterday and today it was in the 60s, but who says global warming is anything but a myth?? – but chances are it will, and soon. So on Monday, I wrote an email, directed to Officer C but copied to the landlord (whom I had left out of our prior discussion):

Good afternoon,

I hope you all had a good Thanksgiving. I’m writing to clarify the winter parking situation – we’re lucky to have gotten to (almost) December without any snow, but I’m sure that will change soon enough. I need to know the specifics about what to do if a snow emergency is declared in Salem: by what time do I need to move, specifically where should I move the minivan, should I plan to move it again after a certain time, and so on? I want to make sure I know as much as possible about the expectations before the weather turns colder.

Thanks,
Kate

I followed it up with another note, just to the landlord, with a quick summary of what had transpired before – “I don’t need you to take any action on any of this, I just wanted to let you know what’s going on since it seems to be harder to resolve than I had expected.”

Nothing happened for a few days, except the family downstairs continues to be loud (I notice them more now, and I wonder if that’s because I have been sensitized to their presence via irritation, or whether they’re deliberately amping it up, passive-aggressive style). The daughter runs everywhere, and sounds distressingly elephant-like when she does, and the father’s voice is nothing short of booming – including when he snores. Fine, people make noise, it’s an old house, this is the evil of apartment living, we’ll cope and try hard not to visit the real estate listings until the other house has disappeared off my list of problems.

And then, this morning, I awaken to this note, the sum total of the email:

It’s common sense…… But in short, we need to fix the first problem before we address another.

Gah. Glad I brought this to the landlord’s attention before it got more overtly whiny. I wrote back:

OK… I think I’m going to need more input to understand what’s going on, then. Would you prefer to continue communicating via email, or is there a time when we could get together and talk?

And settled in for another, extended wait. I’ve since heard back from the landloard, and this has brought me an inordinate amount of glee. Maybe I’m just reading too far into it, but it sounds to me like she’s not entirely sympathetic to whatever story he has brought to her…

Kate,

Sorry I haven’t had a chance to reply on your last email, thanks for passing that along.

C also emailed me. I am encouraging him to have a face to face discussion. My impression is that he is frustrated about the non-snow parking plan. Also, I believe he is misinterpreting the intent on your previous emails, although I am not sure why, another reason to discuss in person rather than email.

Thank you for your patience and persistence!

So, we’ll see. We’re home the next several weekends, and we only have one car, so if the minivan is here, that means we’re all here as well. I’m happy to leave the ball in his court, either to invite us downstairs or to make the effort of climbing all 14 steps to come to our place. I’ll bide my time by researching the best breed of goat to offer in a ritualistic, real-estate-selling sacrifice.

Hey, lookit that… Christmas is in, like, 3 weeks.  How did that happen?

At least this year, the gift-shopping process shouldn’t be too painful.  We’re getting bunk beds for the kids – they know about it already and think it’s a fine idea, and haven’t seemed to realize that it’s because we’ll need the extra space in the house once the baby is born.  I don’t typically buy other people much in the way of souvenirs of vacations they don’t go on, but they had some cool medieval knights and dragons figurines (a current obsession of Emily’s, which Jacob has happily joined) in Ste. Chapelle, and so from me, they’re all set.  We’re doing Christmas at my mother’s, which means she’ll deal with the stocking-stuffers, and I’m sure Willem will pick up a few Dad-gifts as well.  And more important, they’ve started thinking about what they want to make/give/do for other people.  So, kids, check.

As for Willem… well, despite rumors to the contrary, he actually does read this blog regularly, which means I won’t write just yet about what I got.  Suffice it to say, my friend Jenny ordered it because I was afraid that the charge on our account would be too obvious if I paid for it directly, and I am beyond excited.  (OK, fine… it’s certainly a gift I’ll be benefiting from, too, just by sheer excitement value, but his name will go on the tag…)

The bigger challenge, for me, is coming up with an answer when people ask what I would like.  I’ve learned that if someone asks, it’s because they actually want an answer – not like when you’re 10 and everyone asks what you want for Christmas just to play into the commercialism and hype.  And most years, I’m able to create a list, like last year’s sewing bag and kitchen gadgets.  But this year, I’m stumped.  I really, truly don’t want more yarn, because I have an enormous pile of stuff just waiting to be dealt with already, and by and large I have whatever else I need or want at the moment.  And I know I should be asking for baby stuff, because the entire sum total  of baby items in the house right now could fit in one medium-sized moving box with room to spare.  But that’s not really for me, is it?  I don’t know.

So, what do I want for Christmas this year?  Aside from a sweatshirt from one of my alma maters (almas mater?), which I’ve already let Willem claim.  What’s cool in gifts this year?  Anything easy and relatively inexpensive that people are asking for?  Or do I just stick to the hard-line, “no gifts for me,” anti-commercialism tack,  which would be fine with me but then feels as though I’m imposing my own priorities on other people, something I’d really rather not do, as a rule.

When did this  all get so complicated?

…but a gift is still a gift.

It was recently suggested to me that, by posting such as I did the other day, I am effectively preventing any possibility for eventual reconciliation with my mother-in-law and her ilk.  The specific phrase used was “airing dirty laundry in public.”  And that does have validity; I absolutely have made a choice to share my experiences, my perspective, which happens to include my anger and hurt, in a public place.  True, I’ve not included names, so I’m not exposing them to random discovery by their friends or workmates, but there’s also no anonymity.  I only have one – OK, two, but the other one has been out of touch for a long time and doesn’t factor in at the moment – mother-in-law, and so it doesn’t take a math genius to put one and one together should you happen to read my blog and then happen to attend a gathering at which she is present.

I have two responses for this.  One is that this has always been my spot to air my views.  I have never pretended to be unbiased, never pretended that what is shared here is actual, objective truth.  It is my truth, at least at the moment of writing, and I have shared all manner of facets of my personality and history here.  As such, I document the things that happen to me – at least, some of them, the things that are on my mind when I sit in front of the computer.  That includes the things that upset or irritate me, whether you’re a family member or an employee at the RMV.  There have been times when I have opted not to share things, things that I deem too personal or sensitive or likely to blow over such that I won’t want a permanent record on the Innernets… that’s all my choice, and I stand by it.  I have lost at least one semi-friend, and a handful of cliquish false friends, over time, because of my words here, and while I regret any hurt feelings I cause, I stand by my choices.

Which leads into my other response, which is, maybe I am wrong to have this public forum.  Maybe I’m not sharing personal experiences but instead am airing other people’s, and my own, dirty laundry, for all the world to see.  In a world of fluid ethics and flexible morals, one thing I know is that there is no such thing as one, true, objective, right way to behave.  There are justifications for, and against, my actions.  But what matters, to me, is that I stand by my choices and actions here.  I stand by my words – not in the sense of, “Because they’re all right!” but in the sense of, “Yes, those are my words, and I take full responsibility for their impact.”  No one but me carries the blame – or commendation – for the words I write, and I have never pretended that I didn’t really mean it, that those weren’t really my words, that I’ve been wronged and misunderstood.

So, for what it’s worth, here I be.

And the possibility that I might be damning any potential reconciliation by typing here?  Well, on the one hand, this is the only means I have to air my views, as previous efforts to call or email have been rebuffed.  So it’s here, or nothing at all; I’ll almost always choose action over inaction.  And on the other hand, OK.  I can live with the possibility that I’m being so unfair with my posts that I’ll never be spoken to, ever again.  I still come out ahead in that equation, because I still have the love and communication of my husband and children.

By the way, did you notice the gift I offered in the last post?  There was a reason for those words, a reason for the timing as well as the content.  Did you see the paragraphs in which I enclosed an Easter egg of sorts?  (If not, toss me a line; I won’t elucidate here because there is such thing as being too blatant… if the intended recipient can’t recognize it as a gift, I won’t draw a map… but I’m happy to clarify for others, should your curiosity be piqued.)  I understand that the packaging will not be to the intended’s taste, but the underlying gift remains.