Hubris at a Baptism

No surprises.  I saw this coming 8 years away, but when it finally arrived I made a bad call. 

Baptism

Family was joining us from various states.  Food was being prepared.  The building was reserved.  The jumpsuit was on hand.  We had practiced.  A towel had been embroidered with my son's name!  I can't believe I was so ridiculous and there is nothing I can do to retrieve what I missed.

Here's the deal.  One afternoon, I decided I was done with so much hair.  My husband walked in to find our 11 year old cutting one thick (I flatter myself) braid off at the nape of my neck.  Her older sisters have each had a swipe and I think it builds confidence to cut hair.  My Hero volunteered to shape it into an A-line bob for me.  Imagine the haircutting scene from Bourne Identity except with Jason shooing away bouncy children who are trying to step in the hair.  I've sworn not to show any actually photos.  Too sexy.  

It was My Hero's first time cutting my hair and he did a bang-up job.  After taking some selfies and checking it out in the mirror, I thought it might be cool to have someone finesse it a teensy bit.  Maybe blend the layers vertically.  My artistically gifted sister would be at the baptism, so I asked her to meet me an hour early for some tress touch up.  She agreed.  I was late.

Let's just say, our friends and family were greeted with the cries of one of the world's most adorable babies who really wanted to be with her attentive mother instead of waiting in the hall.  All my fault.  My sweet, patient sister.  She appeared calm throughout.  I'm sorry that I pulled her into my crazy haircut scheme even though she did an beautiful job out of the love in her tender heart.  

Let's also just say that everyone was in their seats 5 minutes before the service.  Apparently, that is the difference between D.C. and NYC where you get a 15 minute grace period.  At any rate, I was conducting the meeting (which I had planned 6 weeks out incorporating songs and speakers of my boy's choosing, but which I hurriedly wrote from memory on a piece of scrap paper).  I was also giving a talk.  Basically, I walked in 5 minutes late, went straight to the front of the room to start the meeting and everyone there knew full well I had just walked out of a mobile salon.  Silly.

Awesome friend.  Awesome haircut.  Occasionally lame mom.

I completely missed taking it slow.  I didn't personally greet our friends as they arrived.  I didn't get that calm feeling of preparation despite having otherwise earned it.  I didn't get to give my boy a hug or whisper any private words of love and encouragement.  I didn't exchange warm pleased glances with my husband.  I didn't get to watch my boy interact with his cousins and friends in his little white jumpsuit as he awaited the biggest moment yet in his young life.  I didn't get to be in any pictures with aforementioned jumpsuit.  In fact, only a couple of hurried blurry pictures were taken at all.  I've said before that special times need space.  My son had a fabulous time and he may not remember that day when he's an adult (especially without pictures).  The water was colder than he expected.  He felt good about his choice.  He exited the water into the dressing room and sang, "I'm baptized now!"  But I would have remembered and I can't remember what I didn't experience.  Sad face.

Some cousins

I'll get another chance to do things right.  There will be other special occasions to celebrate.  This is my reminder not to over schedule.  Special times need space. 

On the plus side, we had ukelele duets, three kinds of meat and five kinds of dessert, and a five year old streaker during dinner.  Also, my six year old showcased her fine motor skills by sneaking into the restroom, getting into my Ikea event bag, unzipping the hair clippers, and snipping herself, what I call with affection, the quarter mullet.  Occasionally lame, but generally awesome.

"Mullet Maven"

P.S. I'm sorry if my British punctuation outside the marks bothers you.  It makes me feel fancy.

Young Womanhood Recognition Award

I'm in the Eagle Scout Award (ESA) invitation demographic.  My only boy is 8, but the oldest of my four daughters is 16.  Attending an ESA ceremony lifts my soul.  I've seen the ambition, determination, goodness, and sacrifice of these youth.  I've participated in some of their projects.  My son is impressed.  He can't wait to become an "evil scout."  (Just kidding.  I cleared that up right away.)  I am impressed.  Their efforts should be celebrated and their examples should inspire us.  I want that level of recognition for young women when they complete the Personal Progress requirements for a Young Womanhood Recognition Award (YWRA).  I'm not saying these two awards are equivalents.  I'm saying I want to encourage these values and these goals, so…

When my daughter was ready to receive her YWRA, I threw a celebration and invited everyone!

This was the first such award in nearly 10 years for our ward, so we had no traditions.  This post is 3 months late, but I was searching for something like this when planning our event and couldn't find anything.

I would like young women to feel the significance and value of their accomplishments in completing all the requirements for a YWRA*.   

So many people volunteered to help out or bring food.  I never even made a request.  People were excited to join in.

I would like our girls to have an opportunity to teach, impress, and inspire us all.  

Pinterest will not be featuring my handiwork anytime soon, but these were fun.

I want to show them that what they have achieved is worth celebrating.  I want to hold them up as examples, especially to our 8-11 year old girls.  

Karina made that garland by tracing actual leaves, cutting them from cardboard, and adding veins with white chalk.  Pinterest may be featuring her soon.  She is creative.

I want our congregations and communities aware of all the good these amazing girls are up to.  

Amazing community!  Out of town family, neighbors, and how many males do you count?

While completing the "program" is not the main point and many wonderful girls choose not to, those who do should be feted.  It's a big deal.

Personal Progress is a marvelous program.  It has motivated my daughters to pursue excellence rather than procrastinate.  One of Karina's first value projects (10+ required hours) was to write and record an original song expressing her faith.  It was a lot of work and tech trouble-shooting as she wrote, recorded (all vocals and instruments), and then mixed that first song.  Since then she has gone on to write more than 20 original songs, record, perform, enter competitions, make some videos, and start a Youtube channel.  It may become her professional pursuit.  It is certainly an avenue for reflection and sharing.  Here is a song she wrote as a birthday gift to me about some special vacation time our family was blessed to share in Cape Cod.  She shared this at her YWRA to illustrate individual growth inspired by goals set for the Personal Progress program.

FYI the details (because I couldn't find any templates for this event when I googled it):

The program included:  Opening hymn,  opening prayer, congregational recitation of the YW theme led by youth president, brief explanation of the Personal Progress program by YW counselor, Bishop brief remarks and presentation of the award because he is a personal friend -counselor could do this, YW president brief remarks on the young woman's growth through the program, musical presentation (this girl is very musical),  and a video montage of her growth in the past 4 years (3 min.), brief remarks by the young woman about her personal growth and most meaningful projects, closing hymn, prayer, refreshments in the gym cultural hall.  = 45 min.

Very much like an ESA ceremony, the parents were responsible for sending out invitations, arranging refreshments, creating a program, and inviting speakers.  Ward leadership volunteered to reserve the rooms, and agreed to speak when asked.  The presentation lasted about 45 minutes.  It was inspiring to see the young women and their parents as well as siblings, friends, extended family, neighbors, and even young men gathering to celebrate and recognize the achievements of a young woman.  This format could easily accommodate multiple young women, but this was the first YWRA in more than 10 years in our ward.  Some other girls are getting close!

*The YW auxiliary generally sponsors 2 annual celebrations.  One to start the year and welcome new girls.  One to recognize accomplishments achieved that year.  In my experience, these events are for family and usually just parents (not siblings) because a dinner is often provided and the budget must be considered.  Occasionally, I've heard of congregations being included in these recognition events.  That's great.  Unlike an ESA, it isn't generally open to extended family, school mates, teachers, friends, neighbors.  Why?

Best Chocolate Fudge Cake  I've ever tasted.

I Don't Want to Be More Awesome

Happy New Year!!!  

Me, Karina, Alison, Erik (My Hero)

I set goals and intentions whenever I feel like it.  I know.  I'm a maverick.  This year we happen to be making big changes in January.  We are switching locations and lifestyles.  We are temporarily swapping out a small apartment on an island for an even smaller floating home (read:  boat)  in the Caribbean.*  A dramatic shake-up is not required to make changes or set new intentions, but I'm hoping to capitalize on this opportunity to reconsider some of my personal patterns and move forward deliberately.  These quotes/post links are compass points for the direction I hope to travel in the next decade.

"I don't want to be more awesome.  I just want to be."

or

"Just because I could do something, doesn't mean I should."

*more on that later

No Crankypants for Christmas

Dear Self,

Even though you read several blog posts about chilling out for Christmas, you were a Crankypants all season (except for a handful of choice moments...that almost all happened at church).  This is unacceptable.  Here are a few ideas to consider that will put the sparkle in your smile next year.

It looks like this

1.  It's not about you.  It's actually about Jesus Christ.  Remember that whole Grace thing?
     Best.  Gift.  Forever.  Meditate on that a little every day...all year long, even.
2.  Plan on it.  Christmas happens every year.  It's not a surprise.
3.  Pick 2-4 traditions you can commit to.  Adjust any tradition that adds more pressure than joy.
4.  Find out what the kids wish for around Halloween.
5.  Finish shopping by Thanksgiving (or some reasonable deadline).  Remember the year you did that?
     Remember how it was the best Christmas ever because you knew you were ready?  Remember how
     you could focus on the Savior and serving others?  Remember how much you enjoyed every
     concert, party, and all those quiet evenings peacefully watching a Youtube fire crackle because you
     knew you were ready?  Do that again.  It does help to coordinate with a friend and have dinner out together as
      a reward for your noble efforts.
6.  Be clear and direct about any expectations or support you would like from your husband.  He loves
     you.  He desires your happiness.  He cannot read your mind (which is a good thing because sometimes you 
      want to keep your thoughts to yourself, right?).  
7.  Get a grip!  Christmas is not out to crush you.  Take responsibility for your attitude.
8.  Create a Pinterest board for items you would actually like to receive for Christmas.  Seriously, not
     even your beloved soul-mate could guess some of the odd things you wish for.  Rumor has it, the
     kids would love some hints as well.  I know it's not your style.  Just consider it.
9.  Grace for you!  Grace for everyone!  See item 1.

P.S.  In the future, avoid planning and executing an international move during the holidays.  

        Special times need space.

Live Nativity

Maybe you've seen those t-shirt of the Nativity with a speech bubble which says, "It's a girl!"  That's not my personal belief, but 14 years ago our daughter, Alison, portrayed the holy infant.  She's got range.  Karina, our oldest child, was a shepherdess.  

Bethlehem was created by a professional scenic designer and onlookers stopped on the city streets to peer through glass at the scene.  Half the time, they saw an empty manger and no Mary because public breastfeeding wasn't quite the rage in 1999 that it is today, so we hit the semi-private stairwell for hungry time.

 It was a warm and wonderful experience, the highlight of our first Christmas in New York City.  We loved being together, wearing loose comfortable clothing, and focusing on that tiny new family as a family.  The vision was that a live nativity featuring a precious real infant would inspire reflection on the reality of the Savior's birth and life.  When our shift was over, we felt so peaceful that we didn't want to leave.

That ancient experience led directly to an opportunity to create a live nativity at our church in 2013.  While I have no trouble dressing up and holding a baby, I have never created a theatrical anything.  I was really nervous about how it would come together with no professionals, no budget, and me at the helm.  Not a peaceful feeling.

No budget = representational theatre

Some of the willing souls who made this miracle happen.

In the end, it did feel peaceful.  Even though I was making it up as I went along, even though we only had two wise men, even though little boys were running through the halls screaming about mistletoe...I did want it to go on and others seemed to feel it, too.  Contemplating this clutch of willing players, I knew for certain that Heavenly Father is just as mindful of me and my family, and you and your family, as He ever was of the holy family.  

That made my Christmas merry.

Dads are Awesome!

It was definitely Dad's idea to start the school day with recess.  Dad's understand about the first snow of
the season.  Dad's say things like, "There is no bad weather, only bad clothing."

Dad's don't let the kids win...
                                               

                     
                                                                                                    ...which makes it all the more satisfying.

                                      God bless dads - uniting siblings in cooperative snowball fights for generations.  

O Tannenbaum

  

Thanksgiving time warp!  One gathering with caroling friends, Two Christmas concerts, Four batches of Selfish Cookies, Five Christmas cards taped in my entry way... What?!  Slow down the Christmas freight train.  My brain is 3 weeks behind.  I still have leftover turkey people.  Am I the only one who needs more than a nanosecond to transition between these two festive occassions?  Maybe that's why traditions are so popular during holidays.  It's nice to have a reliable template during busy seasons.  With that in mind, I hope these stories of Christmases past will bring you smiles.  Which reminds me, we should really get a tree...

Full Disclosure:  I wrote this 4-5 years ago for a Christmas concert.  My head hasn't wrapped around Christmas for this year, so I'm channeling the ghosts of Christmases past.

2012

I never met a Christmas tree I didn’t like; the symbolism, the ornaments, the lights;  the very marker of the season, in my opinion.   As a young girl, I set up a holiday tree right in my bedroom.  Never mind the thousands of lights draping the bushes outside our home.  Never mind the seven foot artificial tree in our living room, a veritable galaxy of ornamental stars fashioned from macaroni and gold spray paint.  I had to have my own.  So, Mom let me use the spare.   The spare was a fake tree, completely white and  about three feet tall.   I have since learned that artificial Christmas trees were first invented by a toilet brush company.   Thinking back on my little white tannenbaum, its inauspicious ancestry is undeniable, despite my best efforts with tinsel garland and syncopated colored lights.

While I was raised in the philosophy of reusable artificial trees, my husband, Erik, was schooled in the venerable tradition of real trees.  The ones that die slowly over the course of the holiday.  This might have created one of the culture clashes so common among newlyweds except our paltry student budget precluded any debate.  Our first tree was The Butcher Paper Bonus.   As a teaching intern, I had all the responsibilities of a “real” teacher for half the salary plus an infinite supply of butcher paper, which is, I pointed out to my husband, made from actual dead trees.  I take full responsibility for the stumpless, six foot kelly green wonder taped to our living room wall, topped with a construction paper star and fitted with a half dozen brassy, White House ornaments, arguably my only marriage dowry.  They added some measure of sparkle, however absurd their combination with a paper tree may have seemed to Erik.  Wisely, he remained without comment.  He knew there would be a legitimate tree at his parent’s where, to his relief, we would actually be spending the holiday week.

The following year we had a Charlie Brown tree, not much more than a branch really, set in a vase on our end table.  Still, it was proportionate to our small apartment and our small family; just Erik, myself and our five month old daughter.  I covered it in lavender bows from my great-grandmother's dress shop because ornaments would topple it.  At night we  would sit in the glow of that diminutive tree and feel all the peace and hope of the season. 

Our next Noelle featured The Downstairs tree.  We were in post-graduation transition living in my parents basement for eight weeks.   Upstairs, they had Christmas covered with a huge tree, boughs of holly, lights, stockings; the whole nine yards.  But in defense of our independence as a separate family unit, we set up a full size tree downstairs. Admittedly, it was another spare borrowed from my parents.  But at night we basked in the glow of our tree.  And Christmas morning we opened our presents before heading upstairs where we had no qualms mooching off  Mom and Dad’s all day holiday buffet.

The following year, we settled into our first New York City apartment where we’ve ensconced ourselves for nearly a decade.  Our Christmas trees have ranged from The NYC Sticker Shock Special, our everyday Fica draped in lights and ornaments, to The Overcompensation, a monstrous Douglas fir that hunched against the ceiling and consumed a proper third of the room.  With storage at a premium, we have closed the debate on artificial trees, which evidently emit deadly toxins anyway.  Instead, we’ve purchased real trees from every Canadian committed to live in a van for six weeks in Inwood.  We’ve hauled trees home in collapsible metal shopping carts or carried them tandem style.   Most often Erik dons his tree-carrying stocking cap, especially selected for cranial comfort and sap absorption.  He sets that tree right on top of his head, a la National Geographic.  The rest of us form a noisy perimeter warning our fellow pedestrians  of the wide load.  There can be no doubt about our intentions with the children proudly yelling, “That’s our Christmas tree!,” to every passerby.

Last year, hoping for a more traditional experience, we drove our minivan to Stew Leonard’s.   It turned out to be tree shopping fast-food style.  Once we got to the head of a long line of frozen families, we had our pick of trees bound and stacked according to type, height and price range; each tagged with color coordinated spray paint.  I placed my order with the brightly vested sales associate, “We’d like an orange-seven.”  To whit, he cut the bands of the giant asparagus-like bundle.  And smacked the stump hard on the ground, twice, bringing the boughs down.  Sure enough, it was a tree.  We got a 20 second gander at our goods, a numbered ticket, and a grunt towards the line for the cashier’s booth.  The cashier provided a claim receipt and instructions to the drive-through queue.  Dubious, we bustled back into our van to join the procession of cars that wrapped around the store like a holiday ribbon.  In the end, our van was surrounded by tall, expressionless teenage boys who strapped a tree, presumably the one we had purchased, to the top of our van and then faded back into the forest of swirling shoppers and bounded firs.  By some Christmas miracle, we did get the “orange-seven” we had picked.

I don’t know where we’ll go for this year’s tree.  There are seven of us in all now, so, whether by foot or minivan, going anywhere is an exodus.  Wherever we end up, the children will surely get a fragrant slice of stump, a sticky branch or maybe a bit of handmade twine; seasonal treasures worth fighting over.  Inevitably, we will overestimate the height of our ceiling and underestimate the height of the tree.  But when we loose the bands and that tree springs open, there will be a collective  sigh in our little hearts.  And, O Tannenbaum, in that moment, we will all gratefully acknowledge that Christmas has come again.

by Alison