Happy holidays, all. It’s that time again, the season to jingle and make jolly, to dust off annual traditions, SMILE, and plaster our sweet silly HAPPY selves all over social media. It’s time to share with the world that we, too, all live wonderful lives, especially in December.
You have some special holiday traditions, don’t you? I’m talking about those rituals we engage in, over and over again, with friends and family. It doesn’t matter how you define family or which holidays your family observes. The subject here is the traditions themselves, the rituals and customs that lend a life-force of connection and give a family its own unique fingerprint.
Caroline Kennedy says this about family holiday traditions: “Christmas can feel like a lot of work, particularly for mothers. But when you look back on all the Christmases in your life, you’ll find you’ve created family traditions and lasting memories. Those memories, good and bad, are really what help to keep a family together over the long haul.”
When it comes to holiday traditions, I like mine fine, but I’m open to looking at new ways to celebrate, too. Sometimes. You quickly learn about the compromises of tradition when you become part of a couple. A case in point? An early Thanksgiving with my husband’s family. Here’s what was for dinner: Vegetable beef soup. No, that wasn’t the starter course. That. Was. IT. Delicious and nutritious? Yes. An acceptable alternative to Thanksgiving turkey for the recently wed Rices? Oh, hellz, no. Sometimes the art of compromise can go bite itself.
A fun part of becoming a couple is that you can start your own traditions. (If your own parents allow it, right?!) In our early years, Rice and I enjoyed Christmas Eve with extended family, appetizers and wine, all followed by a candlelight service at church. After our first child, Alex, arrived, we switched things up, opting for an earlier church service, followed by appetizers and wine. When Babies #2 and #3 came a bit later but only eleven months apart, getting the whole crew scrubbed and into their holiday finest for church became an Olympic event. On top of that, Santa and the term “some assembly required” entered the equation. Christmas Eve became more complicated, and a BIG FAT debate arose as well: To wrap the gifts or no? In my childhood home, Santa’s gifts were never wrapped. Who ever heard of Santa delivering wrapped gifts? You guessed it. Jimbo Ricebob, that’s who. In Rice’s childhood home, EVERY present was wrapped because EVERY present came from Santa. O Compromise, O Compromise….
During the childrearing years, Rice and I did pretty well, keeping the compromises of tradition in check. From the time the kiddos were wee, they each got an ornament in their stocking, something reminiscent of the year they’d experienced. You know, a ceramic cello to commemorate one starting orchestra, a porcelain diploma to remind us that another’s graduation was around the bend. These ornaments got labeled and dated, and each year the kiddos added their own collection to THE family tree. Note: There were no specialty trees in this household, thank you very much. THE tree contained our family’s story told through the most beautiful ornaments ever to have been gifted. Okay, so there may have been a few tacky adornments along with some DIY decorations and one particularly heinous ornament our middle child, Quinn, got from a boyfriend shortly before they broke up. No worries. The aesthetically-challenged ornaments were lovingly hung on the back of the tree. Our youngest, Daniel, would come down before school on December mornings and sit briefly in the family room just to gaze at THE tree in its glory. How I love that memory. (Below, the kiddos in front of THE tree in the late 1990s.)
Through the years some constants remained: We always watched A Christmas Story, usually while decorating THE tree. We always sang the We Are From Ford [Elementary School] song on the way home from Christmas Eve at church. We always tied a ribbon across the top of the stairs on Christmas Eve after the kiddos were snuggled in. That way they knew to get the nod before coming down Christmas morning all together. Christmas morning meant an egg-and-sausage casserole with Pillsbury orange sweet rolls, THE family favorite, on the side. Each kiddo’s stocking contained individual sundries along with a toothbrush, a set of thank-you notes, a chocolate orange, and, during the teen years, a pack of condoms. Santa may have preferred that the kiddos abstained, but for heaven’s sake, if they chose not to, at least they’d received the safe sex memo.
Traditions come and go, no? For years on the first Sunday in Advent, our family invited friends and neighbors over for an afternoon potluck. That was followed by the lighting of the Advent candle at dusk and a Christmas carol sing-along. The dreaded 12 Days of Christmas became a favorite, with the women taking the even verses and the men the odd ones. Oh, the harmony (and drama) the guys put into those 5 golden rings! I don’t remember when or why we stopped doing those Advent potluck-singalongs. Other spotty traditions include my taking a couple photos where the kiddos pose the same way year after year for comparison sake. (Left, Alex, Daniel, and Quinn, early 1990s; right, same crew, early 2000s.)
For many years, I sent out a family New Year’s card and newsletter. I’m not sure when or why I stopped doing that. Maybe it was around the time it became unclear as to whether Rice and I were still the kiddos’ immediate family, or whether we’d been relegated to “extended” status. Actually, while it’s bittersweet, I can embrace that. If Rice and I are extended, that means our kiddos are building their own lives, anchored with some new traditions. In the words of Abigail, a character in Pat Conroy’s The Lords of Discipline: “The human soul can always use a new tradition. Sometimes we require them.”
It’s true. Sometimes new traditions have their place. A case in point? Picture an adult son, because he loves his wife, going from store to store in search of a Sara Lee pecan coffee cake to enjoy with his wife’s family on Christmas morning. Pillsbury orange sweet rolls be damned. Sometimes a son’s gotta do what a son’s gotta do. For the sake of a new tradition. In the name of love.
So, yes, new traditions can have their place. You know THE tree I’ve talked about here? Beautiful as it was, it was also lots of work. Besides, it hasn’t been the same since the kiddos moved out and took all their ornaments with them. I’m learning to enjoy a smaller, modernized version of the tree (below), supplemented by a few tabletop minis to commemorate special memories (further below, my Happy Hour and Thursday Night Slashers’ tree).
If the human soul can always use a new tradition, maybe I could spruce up our household’s mishmash of Christmas stockings, no? Not that I planned to replace the kiddos’ three beautiful hand-appliqued stockings their Aunt Tina lovingly crafted for them years ago. But why not swap out some of the old stocking collection I’d piecemealed together through the years when the kiddos added a spouse or partner or grand to the family mix? Why not start with some new fur-trimmed stockings for Rice and me and the grands?
As luck would have it, I found some stockings I fancied on sale. Back home, I laid them out on the coffee table near the mantel, contemplating who would get which one and how I’d arrange them for hanging. They were still there on the coffee table when my six-year-old grandson came for a visit. He saw them and had to touch them, of course, giving extra attention to the soft cream-colored one in the middle.
“Would you like that one, B?” I asked him, somewhat pleased with myself.
He didn’t answer right away but continued running his hands over the indulgent fur.
“JJ,” he finally said. “I like my old stocking better. And I like the Winnie the Pooh stocking you put out for Charli last year when she was in my mommy’s tummy.”
Touche, little man. The newer stockings might be finer with their rustic style and subtle tones, but sometimes a JJ’s gotta do what a JJ’s gotta do.
Britton and Charli will be keeping their old Christmas stockings. Perhaps the human soul doesn’t always need a new tradition after all. Sometimes this ol’ soul knows the value of compromise. For the sake of tradition. In the name of love.
- Oct 31, 2018
(This post is a tribute to the friends and neighbors we've enjoyed through the years here in the sac. Love you all!)
On July 21, 1991, Rice and I moved with our three kiddos into a suburban neighborhood northwest of Atlanta. We chose a big house on a little cul-de-sac, smack in the middle of the bulb. We’ll probably move one day. For now, though, life’s on track here in the sac.
If you’d asked me back in ’91 if I’d still be living here today, I would have shouted NO! I figured we’d live here a few years, and then relocate to another home in another neighborhood, maybe one closer to the ATL. Turns out, the joke’s on me. The kiddos may have outgrown driving their camo jeep round and round the sac, but Rice and I are still here.
When I was a kid, I lived in at least seven different houses. That’s what people in my life did. They focused on movin’ on up. Rice, on the other hand, lived almost his entire childhood in the same house. Years after we married and moved away, he had to return to empty and then sell that very house after his mother’s passing. In the mind of a Rice, if you’ve got a good, strong house, why move?
Over the years, wanderlust has struck me more than once. Here are just a few of the reasons I’ve suggested to Rice that we should move: Cul-de-sac life is insular. It breeds dependence on cars and a false sense of security. Guests don’t have a place to park. Cars use it for a turnaround spot. Kids often skip our street when they’re trick-or-treating. The neighbors are close. Here’s the reality. Our cul-de-sac is safe and quiet. Littles toddle about and draw with sidewalk chalk like they own the whole bulb. Biggers play hockey and basketball, ride bikes and scooters, and sometimes tolerate their parents during a challenge of corn hole. Adults whine over wine. The neighbors are close. We look out for one another. We share a sense of community, a heart.
Have I mentioned the parties?
In this sac, we celebrate. Life gets reveled through pool parties, cocktail parties, jewelry parties, art parties, Bunco parties, holiday parties, gender reveal parties, rent-a-pony birthday parties, erotic toy parties, Pampered Chef parties, progressive dinner parties, Tupperware parties, karaoke parties, rent-a-bouncy-house just-because parties, engagement parties, divorce parties, come-sit-in-the-sac-cuz-it’s-Friday parties.
What a surprising journey, to watch your life story unfold around a cul-de-sac, season after season, year after year.
In this sac, lives evolve. The days of those lives (shoot, even the weeks or the months) don’t always merit a FaceBook post, pic, or smiley emoticon. Sometime pipes burst, playdates fizzle, cigarettes get snuck, parents yell, teenagers come out, marriages unravel, college rejections arrive, addictions get battled, miscarriages occur, cancer gets diagnosed, ceilings cave in.
So there you have it. In this sac, life sometimes sucks. Here’s the deal. We try to celebrate anyway. That’s how we role, here in the bulb.
Through the years, this sac has been home to sales execs, retail clerks, DFACS managers, at-home moms, flight attendants, dispatchers, fire fighters, grants managers, school teachers, RNs, airline pilots, and computer programmers. Yesterday’s littles have blossomed and moved on to become today’s school teachers, RNs, airline pilots, computer programmers, organic hippie moms, Arabic dancers, TV camera operators, nonprofit managers, and administrative whizzes.
Here in the sac, we’re mostly a gentle community, one with a big fat throbbing heart. Even on Halloween.
To this sac, yesterday’s littles who have blossomed sometimes return. Not for good. Just for one more taste…one more reminder that it’s a good thing to look out for one another.
For 27 years, 3 months, and 10 days, Rice and I have made a home in this little northwest Atlanta cul-de-sac, smack in the middle of the bulb . We’ll probably move one day. For now, though, life’s on track here in the sac
(This post is in recognition of National Grandparents' Day. 'Tis great to be a grand....)
A week or so ago, my grandson Britton faced a seemingly impossible task, in his mind at least. His teacher had challenged her first grade students with learning to tie their own shoes. As Britton’s mom dropped him off at our house before school, she encouraged him to work with me to tackle the shoe-tying challenge. “I can’t do it, JJ!” he grumbled. “It’s too hard.”
Now I’m no early childhood expert, but as far as I could see, Britton had no physical or mental limitations to learning this new skill. At the same time, my experience as a mom reminded me that kiddos develop different skills at different times, often to their parents’ pride…or utter frustration. (Britton’s mom tied her shoes at age three; she didn’t walk until fifteen months or ride a bike until age seven.) As parents, we take ownership for our kids’ successes and failures. As grandparents, we realize we’re not the complete reason for either.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I told Britton as we headed into the house. “Let’s get JJ’s shoes, because practicing on long laces is easier than short ones. But we’ll only practice tying three times before breakfast because practice takes patience. And patience takes time.”
Working side by side, I proposed to demonstrate each step so Britton could copy it. There was no pressure. If it worked, cool. If it didn’t, no biggie. There was always tomorrow.
Britton agreed to try. During our demonstration round, he grew annoyed with himself, not enjoying the fact that he wasn’t very nimble and couldn’t tackle this thing on the first go-round. I encouraged him to slow down and make adjustments (things like “pinch the loop lower on the lace, closer to the shoe”). Once he gave in to being patient with himself, he was able to succeed on his second go at it. You know that look a person gets when he thinks he’s done something stellar, like climb Mt. Everest? Oh, yeah, the kid had that look. Truth be told, I had that look, too. After all, I had taught the B to tie his shoes. I had reframed an impossible task into a doable challenge for someone I love.
A few days later, still basking in the afterglow of my JJ awesomeness, I came across a social media item written by M. Molly Backes (find her on Twitter @mollybackes). Her topic? The Impossible Task. Specifically, she wrote: “Depression commercials always talk about sadness but they never mention that sneaky symptom that everyone with depression knows all too well: the Impossible Task.”
Whoa. I could feel my afterglow of awesomeness start to fade. I continued to read. The Impossible Task, Backes wrote, is not an official name. Rather it’s the name she herself uses when something as simple as replying to emails or placing phone calls becomes suddenly undoable. The Impossible Task varies from person to person, and even more exasperating, the task itself can vary withinthe same person from day to day. In other words, you might have had zero trouble placing a phone call yesterday but find telephoning an Impossible Task to handle today. “From the outside,” Backes says, “[the task’s] sudden impossibility makes ZERO sense.” The task is rarely actually difficult, and it may be something you’ve done thousands of times before. This makes it very hard for outsiders to have sympathy. Or patience.
Ding ding ding! Dear God, I thought, she’s describing me.
Truth be told, I face dozens of Impossible Tasks almost everyday. Mundane but important information eludes me constantly (like computer passwords). I can’t remember simple sequences when receiving oral directions and almost always have to ask for repeated instructions. If I research a bit about the Impossible Task on Google, I might diagnose myself with Executive Functioning Disorder. If I complain about it to my husband, he might smile and tell me I don’t remember things that aren’t important to me. If I moan about my lack of recall at work….
Stop. Wait. No!
At work, I struggle with grueling ferocity to hide my lack of recall. My biggest challenges often relate to multi-tasking. Or new technology, which can leave me flummoxed. Shoot, even old technology presents Impossible Tasks. Judge me if you will, but often I’m the first to remind co-workers that I’m THAT PERSON, the more mature IT user in need of remedial assistance. My modus operandi? Make fun of myself first…before I become the laughing stock of others.
That’s not always possible, though. Sometimes I’m headed to a meeting off site, where our IT gurus are unavailable and my other colleagues are busy with their own pre-meeting to-do’s. On these occasions, I load myself down with iPhone notes and post-it’s to remind me of all sorts of mundane but important information that I might need to know:
call-in numbers and passwords
which cords to plug in where
how to link my laptop to the big screen
which icons or toolbars to click and when
a reminder that this too shall pass
Can you say ex.haust.ing?
I admit M. Molly Backes’ post comforted me. A good bit. She’d cut open her own veins to bleed out loud about something personal and poignant. Close to 15,000 readers liked that Twitter post. Hundreds commented “hell, yes!” They totally understood the Impossible Task.
Part of me, though, got little solace from Ms. Backes’ post. I mean, why does my brain not work better? Why do I struggle so with recall, especially when it comes to technology? Even at home, my computer gets testy. I swear, it freezes up when I’m having my most prolific thoughts. Technology, ugh. “I can’t keep doing this, Rice!” I’ll holler from my downstairs office to my husband’s upstairs workspace. “It’s too hard.”
Sometimes Rice will come down the stairs to offer help. Other times, he doesn’t hear me. (Or maybe he’s ignoring me?) During my most recent outburst, he simply wasn’t home. Agitated, I rose from my chair and paced into the kitchen. There on the floor sat my tennis shoes. Yes, THE shoes that represented my grandson’s recent Impossible Task. Both shoes had been tied by Britton, in double-knots even, because sometimes you can go that extra mile if you just take your time. “Practice takes patience.” My own words rang in my ears. “And patience takes time.”
Taking the time to teach a little boy to tie his shoes had been a lesson of love from me to him. Staring at those double-knotted shoelaces, I realized they held a lesson for me as well. Being patient with Britton is easy. So why is it so hard to be patient with myself? Especially at work, patience with myself is often my most Impossible Task.
So here’s to upping my game when it comes to sharing time and practicing patience. May I offer these gifts to others often. But may I also shower them on myself. After all, doesn’t the present of patience say “you’re worth it”? Doesn’t the gift of time say “you are loved”?
That, my friends, is just one of the wonderful lessons my grandson has taught me.
