Christmas: Well Worth the Puke

Until you spend your first Christmas morning in your own home, with your own tree and your own first-born-3-year-old child, you have not lived.

His brother was as oblivious as he was in the past, favoring empty boxes for their contents. But Haven. He GOT it. The stockings. The trains he won't unclutch. He got it. And he made us "get it" again too.

We then spent time with family and returned home puking as humans often do when 30 or so of them visit at a time. But I can truly say it was worth it -- well worth it. And coming from someone who got close to no sleep and has had to be helped out by someone of the male gender (he means well, don't get me wrong but nurturing is woman's work) all day, "well worth it" is high high praise.

How Lovely Are Thy Branches

Haven and Daddy geared up to chop down our very first Christmas tree. Daddy grabbed his saw and Haven his axe (it was actually a wooden toy pop gun but, shh ...).

I requested something small that I could keep on the table & away from little hands so I was pleasantly shocked at the 8 foot fir they drug in.

Haven decorated one candy cane at a time, running in and out of the kitchen in circles between each addition.

Colored lights, a cardboard star and 8 boxes of tinsel (which is not showing up in the photo but has shown up in pancake syrup, in my dishwasher, between sheets, in diapers and will be found I'm sure in such places come July) has made for a magnificent first Christmas tree.

It's shadow has seen countless toddler tribal-like celebratory dances and has been the inspiration for much happy squealing and light hand smacking.

Technically or traditionally, Catholics aren't supposed to get or decorate trees until Christmas day (I think) as Advent is a season of penance (lesser than lent but penitential nonetheless as we are dwelling on our longing for the Child. Think "O Come, O Come Emmanuel."

Pete has always talked big about how we would keep a tree bare until Christmas Eve, etc., etc. But you see, he drug that big tree in our home and the kid in him who stared in wonder at, well, definitely tinsel, went nuts. The rest I already mentioned.

And if you're one of my siblings you HAVE to watch this video of my sister's mother-in-law picking up her tree in Long Island (feel free to watch it even if you're not one of my siblings). It does contain a few naughty words so be warned.

Mo' Money Mo' Problems

It strikes me odd that the fruit of the Nativity's Mystery is poverty. For those of you who aren't familiar with praying the rosary, one meditates on a mystery in the life of Christ with the Blessed Mother during recitation.



Poverty, in a season that has become so consumed by mass materialism, poverty. God became a man to display his love for man. And for decades people have gotten so excited over the occasion that they buy so much stuff that they forget the occasion. The occasion called Christmas or "Christ's Mass" should be a "holiday" or a "holy day" indeed.



So Pete and I have always scoffed at the Wal Mart ads and the fake Christmas trees set out in September. We'd say we'd instill in our family a sense of the sacred and the mystery of Christ's birth during the season. Of course we'd give presents and have a tree. It's not like we'd keep the in laws from muttering "Santa" but we also wouldn't push the concept either. For us, it would be different ... it would be holy.



Well here's our chance. Pete got laid off quite unexpectedly this week. His company had financial problems and he took the hit. He's going to land on his feet running but our faith is being tested and I'm sure our bank account will be as well.



So pray for us. We've already been met with such peace but like anyone who uses dollars to buy things like food and shelter, it's scary to suddenly not have any coming in. I'm sure Sts. Mary and Joseph can relate. The doves they sacrificed had to be enough to thank God for their baby king. They say a wealthier family would have used a lamb or a goat. I'm sure they would have wanted one unspotted.

Strange Addictions

For some, it's flossing teeth. For others, it's arranging and rearranging and arranging and rearranging one's furniture.

I once knew a girl who had a thing for cough drops. That was strange. As soon as we'd get into the carpool she'd demand one fiercly: "The kind with menthol that burns," she'd say.

Personally, my addictions are pretty run of the mill: coffee; in the past, cigarettes; when I'm old, liquor -- what fun that will be! -- cigarettes again too if I make it to 75. Hey, goals are important ...

So I can't really relate to my dear friend who can't seem to stop moving her furniture around. Today, she blamed it on the Christmas tree but we all know that was just an excuse. She also cried twice and threatened to throw it all on the curb in favor of bean bags ...

Personally, I think this friend should give her sofa a break and take up a more fulfilling addiction. Like nicotine or even soap operas. Perhaps this one's just not doing the trick. That or feng shui ... or Kung Fu ... but she's white and female ... so that won't work either.

Heavenwards

I love this CD. Kathy Kanewske took the prayers written by Fr. Joseph Kentenich in Dachau and put them to music.

Seeing that I like things quiet, this is high praise. The ethereal music just lifts up my heart & boggles my mind that the lyrics were conceived in the midst of such terrible suffering.

My husband has caught hold of Father Kentenich, founder of the Schoenstatt movement, and has a blog devoted to his writings. Some are a little brainy for me but when they're set to music as least I can hum along.

Handsome Guy

This new to us sweater vest was the inspiration for a fashion shoot. Just look at those dimples!

The Housebroken Husband

I have high expectations of my mate.

I expect that he never even look at another woman lustfully (but God himself decreed this so it must be possible -- St. Matthew 5:27; at least with His help).

I expect him to provide a living within his abilities: food, clothes, shelter, warmth and transportation.

I expect him to play with our babies happily & to help out with their needs (ie: bathing, diaper changes, nighttime rocking).

I expect him to be kind and loving to me & to make me feel safe just by being around.

And he does. He does all these things so seamlessly that sometimes I forget they take effort. Every once in a while I imagine my life without these pillars he provides and I shudder at the desolation.

So this is why I've chosen to ignore the fact that he's about as housebroken as a puppy dog. His continuous ability to live in his own filth amazes me. Sometime after we had kids I accepted this fact. I don't like it. I never will. But I choose to accept it.

But what does this acceptance look like? It means picking up his socks & washing them & putting them away (happily). It means cooking, cleaning & loading & unloading the dishwasher every single day. I don't get thanked often enough (who does?) but then again I don't do cartwheels every time his paycheck arrives either.

Does he take me for granted? Definitely. But don't I do the same in turn. Should we remind one another at times of our labors? Sure. When done in true charity, it never hurts.

But at the end of the day, I'm a lot happier expecting the only domestic help from my spouse in the form of a flushed toilet (the seat down is always nice as well). He complies every time and I am so proud.