G.I. June (Cleaver) – Homefront support from a team of moms who love our country.
And if you don’t know Jennie’s little army, you should read this. What she describes is all too familiar. “Like lifting a scab,” is how my husband described my reaction to reading it. Ay-yup.
When was Earth Day – last Sunday? Sorry, it’s not a high feast day around here. We take our responsibility as stewards of God’s gifts pretty seriously, but too many “Save the Earth” types are prejudiced against big families. I don’t get that – after all, per person, my family consumes less electricity, water and gas than a family of three or four: our house is much smaller than Al Gore’s.
Today is Take Your Child to Work Day, another ridiculous idea. Back in the days when Bill worked for a civilian firm, our kids were too young to attend any of the pomp surrounding this day. Now our kids are old enough, but he’s never had a job that left him free for the day to shuttle children around from one activity to another. Because Take Your Child to Work Day isn’t about taking your child to work at all. It’s about taking a day off work to spend it at your office doing activities unrelated to work at your employer’s expense. It’s really Have a Fun Day at the Office Day. And if I wanted the kids to spend the day doing fun stuff with their dad, it wouldn’t be at an office with someone else’s choreographed activities. We’d go to the beach or a park or a museum – definitely not the office.
My husband’s office is having events all day today, and they’ve chosen an Earth Day theme. What could be more fun (please note the dripping sarcasm) than combining two idiotic secular holidays into one big celebration? My husband assures me that he will be somewhat available to spend some amount of time with us as we move from activity to activity through dense crowds of kids all hyped up because they’re missing school for the day (and I include my own in that judgmental statement). Times like these are when I kick myself for not buying those kid leashes that seem so awful until you have more than two kids to keep track of in a crowd.
I’m sure the day will be lovely. I also plan on getting out of there right after lunch, even though they promise a puppet show at 1 pm. Petey will just not care about puppets by that time. Pray I don’t lose anybody!
When Bill and I decided to homeschool, there was a long list of reasons why. Among the top five was his military career. We knew he would deploy during Fritz’s kindergarten year, and we knew that if he continued his employment with Uncle Sam, there would be many other times when it would be more convenient to have a school schedule that suited our needs.
Sure enough, six months after he returned, he began working in DC on temporary orders that did not give us an allowance to move. Unwilling to pay out of pocket to relocate the family from New Jersey, we put up with his weekend commute for about 6 months. It wasn’t fun, but it was better than deployment.
During the week, Bill lived in a one-bedroom hotel suite. He had a kitchen with a full-sized fridge, a microwave, full-sized range/oven and even a dishwasher (I didn’t have one of those in NJ!). The dining area had a table and four chairs, the sofa was a sleeper, and the bedroom contained a king size bed. I would have moved in at once, but it was in the city of Arlington and dragging four kids to the little playground a few blocks away would have been tedious to do 3 or 4 times a day. And keeping the kids quiet in a hotel for hours on end was not realistic.
We did go down for a few days at a time on more than one occasion, hauling Fritz’s 1st grade books with us. It was just an attempt to have a bit more family time. We were desperate.
Every day I was thankful to have the ability to homeschool. I’m not stupid. I know that administrators and teachers don’t appreciate it when kids miss school. I doubted I would have much trouble with the particular parochial school to which I would have sent Fritz, especially not in those really young grades. But now or a few years from now? You expect 3rd or 4th or 5th graders to spend much of their school day learning. Not learning in an ambiguous osmosis sense, but actually learning facts like history dates and state capitals and multiplication tables. How much of that does a good parent want their kids to skip? How often would I have pulled Fritz out to go have dinner with Dad in Virginia? I doubt more than once – if at all. School is important.
And so when I read this article, and I see that envisioned nightmare of mine happening to another military family, I am reminded that this reason of mine to homeschool is a very valid one. Dad is due back for a two-week leave from Iraq. One week falls during their spring break, but they’d like to keep the kids home the other week too. The principal initially told the mom the kids would get zeroes for the missed work – that it was an unexcused absence.
“I said, ‘We’re not talking about Disneyland here. Their father has been at war for the last eight months and all we have is this little bit of time together.’ God forbid if he goes back to Iraq and something happens to him,” Keila Rios said.
My bet is that the media stink will make this principal a wee bit more tolerant of the family’s request to do the schoolwork at home. Oh, and the best line from the article:
Griffin (the principal) told the Star he is a former soldier himself, and that he supports the troops and sympathizes with the family.
Yes, sir, I support you, I will just do absolutely nothing within my power to make your life even the tiniest bit easier or happier or nicer. But if you give me your APO address, I’ll be sure to send you some beef jerky and gum.
Thankyouforyoursacrificetoourcountryhaveaniceday.
My husband did not cross the international date line. He left Germany last Thursday morning when “engine trouble” made it “necessary” for his plane to land in Scotland. There were “no parts or mechanics” for their type of plane in all of the U.K., and so they sat awaiting rescue via another plane returning from a trip to Afghanistan. Until Saturday.
He complained bitterly about his horrible luck in being “forced” to stay in Scotland, when he would much rather be home with us. Just to pass the time, he went to Edinburgh Castle, saw the crown jewels of Scotland and St. Margaret’s Chapel, and learned how they make Scotch whisky.
But he had very little fun without us, of course.
And I’m not jealous, at all, because I happened to give up haggis for Lent and the temptation would have been too great, I fear.
And so, instead of an 8 day trip, it was 10 days. And instead of a 3 day weekend, he took yesterday off and had 2, which I’m sure that as he is staring at his desk right now for the first time in nearly two weeks, I’m sure he regrets, but not really, since he really did miss us.
Actually, he went halfway around the world and then turned around and came back.
Bill has called me twice today, on his cell phone, from Germany. I was wondering what we would ever do with all those rolled over minutes that we have been accumulating. He’s on his way back from a brief visit to Afghanistan. He spent two days there and the rest of the time through his return tomorrow afternoon (about 6 days) is travel time.
While “in country” he sent me this email:
Leaving soon … good trip overall..had dinner w/ Perry this evening…it was great to see him!!! {The Boss} recognized him from his visit and called on him frequently. This place is a dump but I feel guilty being in my position. I get VIP coattail treatment while everyone else is … well deployed. I’ll have a beer in a couple of days, they won’t. Heck they may not live a couple of days. You’ll be pleased to know security has been real tight and I feel quite safe. Hope things are well there.
War is hell. Now, in 18 months, when he gets deployed as I predict he will, he’ll try to tell me just how safe the place is. The emphasis added is mine – that’s all I saw when I read that note.
Bill typically gives up beer for Lent, but not this year. I’m willing to bet, knowing he’d be spending the night in Germany tonight, he intentionally did not give up beer just so he could indulge in one today. What amazing foresight. The man has his priorities straight.
A month or so ago, Bill had to fly out to Missouri and then California over the weekend. As he was saying goodbye to all the kids that Saturday morning, Billy blithely said, “Bye, Dad. Hope nobody shoots your plane down.” Bill assured him that it wouldn’t happen, but I pulled him aside and mentioned that planes don’t get hijacked in this country either, huh? I don’t like to speak in absolutes to children, unless it really is an absolute (death, taxes, God’s love, and the way somebody will urgently require your attention the moment after you pour milk into the cereal that tastes really nasty when it’s mushy).
Billy’s comment stemmed from his knowledge of a helicopter crash in Iraq that killed soldiers from my husband’s office. We didn’t include the kids in most of the conversations about the incident, but they hear things, they know things. Obviously, though, he just didn’t grasp the meaning of it all. That people don’t generally live through those situations doesn’t seem to enter his mind.
When Billy asked me at the school table last Wednesday where Dad was going on his trip, I very lightly said, “Afghanistan.” “But that place is dangerous,” he spluttered and immediately was in tears. I calmed him somewhat by mentioning all the people we know who are over there ***although I am most happy to know that as of today, my friend Stacy’s husband is on US soil…she will see him on Friday!!!*** and by telling him that people live there: families, children. Eventually though, I had to forbid him any tears in front of his sisters lest he upset them, and I made him stay in the den until he could get a grip on his emotions. (That’s right, son, repress those tears, be a man.) He’s been weepier than usual about little things this week, and I’ll be happy when he sees his dad tomorrow.
Fritz argued, “But this is the second time Dad has been deployed.” As if deployment were a disease like chicken pox that you became immune to once you got it. I wish. I explained that two days in country does not count as a deployment.
Nonetheless, Billy, my talker, went around to everyone he saw (clerks at the grocery store, people at church), telling them his dad was in Afghanistan. Living on a military installation, we would get sympathetic clucks. Then Billy would say he was coming home in X days, and they would get all excited for us. It was quite embarrassing.
Both boys have been pestering me the entire week about making Dad a welcome home banner. Not a picture, but a big ol‘ banner like you’d hang on the front porch, if we had a front porch. No, I tell them. If you can plan making a banner the day after the man leaves, it’s really too short of a trip to warrant such displays. They look at me as though I’ve just declared their Dad unworthy of love.
I’m just grateful that the girls seem oblivious to the hullabaloo. Their normal shenanigans are enough for me. And I’m grateful that Bill will be getting up in a few hours and heading for home.
Nutmeg tagged me to show off what I see when I blog. Here you go:
That’s Pete having a temper tantrum. And that’s frequently what I see when I sit down to the computer or have the audacity to want to take a few pictures.
This is the spent casing from a real bullet that went through the gun of a real tank. His plan had been to polish it up and turn it into an umbrella stand. We are not umbrella people. Bill thinks it is unmanly to carry an umbrella (unless you are carrying it for someone else like your wife…then it’s chivalrous), and I prefer a hat myself since I generally have my arms full of kids. And if we did go out and buy an umbrella, it would likely be the collapsible kind that wouldn’t fit in this case. Maybe in 30 years, we can use it for our canes, but for now, it holds my broom. Had he brought home a tire from a NASCAR race, I would have planted flowers in it.
And here is my desk:
This secretary belonged to my husband’s grandfather. That spot in the middle is my inbin that I happened to clean up last week. It has a limited height capacity, which indicates to me when it is time to move my piles. This desk is my #1 Hot Spot (for you Flybabies). If my desk is clean, the rest of my house is usually pretty good too. Or I may have a clean home, but my computer is buried. The desk is my Final Dumping Ground. Even the kids dump stuff there, and that simply must stop.
Typical: the page-a-day calendar to the left is on January 19th. I feel a month behind too.
Growing up, I always remember there being one or two cards from my parents waiting for me in the morning of St. Valentine’s Day. And usually there was a small amount of candy. My mom continued to mail me a card after I left for college and even into my early marriage, but since having kids they get the red and pink envelopes, not me. That’s OK. I know my mom loves me, and I know she loves them even more.
Except for those awful adolescent and teen years when Valentine’s Day pointed out who had a boyfriend and who did not (I being in the latter category generally), this saint’s feast was never a big deal to me. My parents were (and are) affectionate and hugs, kisses and “I love you”s were (and are) commonplace. I don’t recall them doing anything extra like going out to dinner, and certainly my dad never got my mom an extravagant gift.
By February of my freshman year of college, I was dating my husband, and we had precious little spare cash. A card, a carnation stolen plucked from the dining hall centerpieces, and a quiet walk on the freezing cold campus by moonlight sufficed for a romantic evening. Young hearts can always make up in knowing glances, soft words, and warm caresses what they lack in roses, expensive dinners and diamonds. Fortunately, Bill is an affectionate and romantic man much of the time, and this has kept my heart young. I don’t need much to make me happy.
Once we left the insular college life, we were bombarded with commercials and co-workers who tried to define for us what a true expression of love constituted. Frankly, I was repulsed. I saw a complete disconnect between what had been a commemoration of a saint’s martyrdom and what had become a Hallmark holiday. It’s not that I was offended from a religious perspective (at that time of my life, religion was not particularly important to me, and I doubt I even knew the history of the two St. Valentines), it was more that rampant consumerism, instead of inspiring competitiveness with the Joneses, made me want to throw out the TV and live in a cave. We were struggling with student loans and paying for the rent; we could not live that life, and I didn’t want to live that life. I didn’t want to be poor, either, of course. By the time our finances were such that we could afford a dozen red roses, my anti-Valentine’s Day resolve was ingrained to the point that I would accept flowers on any day of the year except February 14th.
I’m not quite that bad now. Bill can buy me flowers or not. It doesn’t matter much to me what he does, although our FRG is selling flowers on Wednesday as a fundraiser. I suggested that he buy some for our daughters who always get all giggly and excited whenever Daddy sends Mommy flowers, which he does occasionally do for no reason other than because he loves me. I think if he failed to acknowledge the day with a minimal expression of his love such as a card or some special chocolates, I would be a little disappointed. But he knows he doesn’t need to be scouring the diamond district for a good deal on a bracelet or earrings or whatever.
He was also very confused when I told him my plans to make this cake for his office on Wednesday. I told him it was a bribe cake. My hope is that all those good feelings that scientists say occur in the body when it eats chocolate will inspire everyone to go home at a decent hour, or at least send my husband home in time to eat a second cake I’m making for our family. He had to think for a bit…what is Wednesday? Why is my wife making a cake Wednesday? Why would my wife want me home for dinner on Wednesday? Oh, Wednesday is Valentine’s Day! OK, got that…now, why is my wife making a cake on Wednesday? She’s not a big Valentine’s Day person…??? I told him that if making a cake is what is took to get him home mid-week…finally, he gets it. “Oh, you want them to think you’re like most women!” With a faux teary expression I say, “That’s right, honey. If you’re not here on Valentine’s Day, I will be so upset. Of all the days of the year, can’t you come home and have dinner on that extra special day with your family? Don’t you love me? Love us?”
I sincerely doubt this ploy will do much to affect my husband’s schedule. The snow and freezing rain we’re expecting on Tuesday and Wednesday might, though! Perhaps God’s gift to hard-working husbands and their families this year may be weather foul enough to close the roads. And when ice knocks down power-lines, what could be more romantic than snuggling under blankets in a candle-lit room drinking hot cocoa from water boiled on our propane grill?
I’ve been fighting tears, somewhat unsuccessfully, since Saturday when we learned about this helicopter crash. Although each individual soldier is important and special, three of the soldiers involved worked at my husband’s office. He knew them all.
Today it is unthinkable, but there is no official count of the number of American casualties on D-Day. A low-ball estimate of 2500 is an incredibly staggering number. I can’t imagine my mind trying to live through that time and trying to grapple with that magnitude. But my guess is that you would just go numb. I mean, really, how many tears can you possibly shed in one day? And when the next day and the next and the next bring you the same news but with different names, at what point do you just dry your eyes and get on with life? Imagine the horrors of September 11th repeated over and over again for years.
When you spread out the same number of deaths over a much longer period of time, the pain is prolonged. There isn’t the anesthetizing effect that thousands dead in one instant has. When a dozen die, you can read every news article, every bio, every obituary. You have the luxury of mourning. But when over fifty thousand lie dead or wounded after three days fighting, as they did in the town of Gettysburg, there is no time for tears. You pick up your shovel and join the other women, children, and old men left to deal with the mess. And you pray you don’t recognize any faces.
Yesterday, our FRG had a special meeting to state what was known, to ask for support for any future assistance we might offer these families, and to discuss ways to help them. For a week or two, volunteers are needed to answer phones in a call center, and my neighbor and I will take turns watching the kids or working the phones. It’s not going to be a pleasant task listening to people cry on the phone, answering their questions, directing them to services, but I suppose it’s better than digging graves or dressing wounds. Fritz was over at my neighbor’s house yesterday afternoon and told me that she was baking cookies (and gave him one!). Today is her turn to do phone duty, and I’m sure she is planning to take those cookies to the call center. I spent my afternoon online looking up ideas for services we might offer the families. We’re keeping busy. We’re doing something, because that’s how we deal with it. If we do this, will it make it all better?
One of the soldiers has three adult children, one has five minor children, and one has two boys ages 9 and 5. One woman in the FRG said that the 9 year old asked his mom if he and his brother never fought again, would Daddy come home? If he does this, will it make it all better?
If only…
We don’t get the newspaper, and I really don’t spend too much time at online news sources. I’m not turning a blind eye to the world, I just can’t handle it. Half of the news is really gossip: what celebrity was arrested, which famous marriages are on the rocks, who is being treated for love addiction. On the “serious” news side, we have articles about legislators who apparently think parents should reason with their toddlers. I’m not a proponent of spanking, but if your 6 year old runs across the street without looking you can point to a car and explain to them how stupid it was; if your two-year old does the same thing, a stern NO punctuated by a whap on the rear sends the message that running across the street has bad consequences better than rambling speeches or an impromptu 2 minute time out.
The rest of the news is generally unpleasant, depressing or sad. And important news makes its way to your home through other channels. I am so glad my husband is here. I am so weary of worrying for my friends whose husbands are not. I just want the war to end.
Heading up to PA to visit Bill’s family for just the day. Kids will get loads of presents and sugar and thus begins the hyper, too-excited to eat, sleep or think coherently phase that marks a truly good holiday season. Say three Hail Marys for a safe and happy trip – we’ll need it with I-95 traffic.
Since I don’t plan to blog much over the next few days, here’s something to chew on, should you happen to have some down time and are looking for something to read.
It’s hard to believe that it’s already been three years, but it has. Three years since the worst Christmas ever with Bill deployed to Kosovo and not due back for two more months. The day after, I wrote about what it was like and I like to dig it out every year to rehash the misery. It serves as a reminder of where I was, what I survived, and what other families are going through right now. If you’re in the mood for something upbeat…this might not be the thing right now. Come back in a few days. In the meantime, say a prayer for the troops overseas and for their families. God is listening.
A Deployment Christmas
December 26, 2003
I know many people will ask me how my Christmas was, so I thought I’d write it down. I want to remember it too. I’m sure by the time Bill comes home in mid to late February, I will have forgotten already how hard it was.
With Bill away, I debated for a long time about how to spend the holidays from Thanksgiving through the New Year. For many years now, my family has gone to Ohio for the week of Thanksgiving to be with my parents. My dad and mom helped me continue that tradition by driving me to and from their house. It wasn’t too bad to be there without him, because I’ve been to Ohio with the kids and not him many times. And this year we went a little wild and had lasagna for “Turkey Day”, so it didn’t even feel like Thanksgiving.
But Christmas couldn’t be disguised as another ordinary day. I decided to tone things down a bit: no outside lights, minimal interior decorations, and only a fraction of the ornaments on the tree. I held out hope until the very end for some home-baked cookies, and finally settled on pre-made store-bought dough. And since I consider chocolate chip cookies “everyday” cookies, not “Christmas” cookies, this was a tough thing to accept. There are many days left in the Christmas season, so I still hope to get a batch or two of real cookies made up.
For the past few years, I have hosted a small Christmas Eve gathering: my husband and children and his parents and brother and sister. The day is spent in final preparation for the birth of Christ. At last, the ornaments can go on the tree and carols can be played. I run to the store for fresh ingredients and to get a green wreath for the front door. The guests arrive as the food is cooking. The kids watch the sky for the first star – a sign of the birth! At last, the Savior is here! We bless the Christmas tree – a blessing which recalls the fall of man and the need for a savior. The baby Jesus is found and paraded and placed in the stable with his mother and father. We sing “Away in a Manager” and “Silent Night”. We read the story of the birth of Christ from the Gospel of Luke. I commend my in-laws for going along with all this pageantry with such good-nature.
This year, with no husband and a nursing infant, I couldn’t face all the stress of hosting and a moment of sagacity made me realize that I would have lots of work to do after the kids went to bed that night. My sister-in-law came over early in the day so I could get to the store, and she held the baby as she slept so I could unearth my nativity set from the mound of clutter. She also baked my not-so-Christmasy cookies, which saved me that hassle.
In the afternoon, my husband and I had a “date” on the computer with our web cameras. I couldn’t believe how empty the computer center was for Christmas Eve. We spent about an hour together. The kids came and went throughout that time. At one point I was swarmed with all four kids who were hamming it up for dad. I heard a jingle and realized that Bill had sent me an instant message – one that made me blush. And then another jingle – he was laughing that he could see me blushing. I guess it’s nice to know he hasn’t changed much in the last ten months.
After our date, my sister-in-law was gone and I started dinner while the three older kids took a bath. I wanted a nice dinner for Christmas Eve. I knew I couldn’t have everything I usually make, but thought I could swing something decent. I was wrong. The baby just wanted to nurse and be held, so she spent quite a bit of time screaming as I did some basic things. In the midst of this chaos, three-fifths of the Cincotta family stopped by to sing me a Christmas carol. My kids got out of the tub, and I didn’t have a free hand to get them dressed and didn’t have the energy to hassle them. Eventually, Fritz got himself dressed, Billy put on some underwear, but Katie remained completely nude…and we sat on the floor in front of the Christmas tree to listen to carols and eat our dinner. The baby would not let me put her down without her crying, so I either had to juggle her AND the food, or eat and listen to her cry.
After dinner, I called the children together to get the baby Jesus and take him to the nativity scene. In my mind I imagined angelic children singing “Silent Night” with their sweet voices as we presented the baby Jesus to his mother. I saw wide eyes glistening as I read from the Gospel of Luke, and heard innocent voices asking questions about the true meaning of Christmas. Instead my half-naked children were fighting over who got to carry the statue of Jesus, who got to lead the procession, and who stepped on whose foot first. When my 5 year old threw a temper tantrum because the 3 year old didn’t hand him the baby Jesus properly, I threw my own temper tantrum. I announced that Christmas was over and told them to get ready for bed. I put the baby in her pajamas and closed the door to the boys’ room so I didn’t have to hear them and sat on the couch and nursed the baby and cried. I cried because Bill was gone. I cried because my children weren’t interested in the story of Christmas. I cried because I had lost my temper.
I cried because I was crying.
As I emailed Bill earlier in the day, “I have everything I need/want…besides material possessions, I have a wonderful husband, (mostly) great kids, and most importantly, a loving God who is taking care of me. I have nothing to cry about.” I despise self-pity and self-induced misery. I hated that I felt lonely and sad.
After about a half hour in the bedroom, the kids got restless. I reminded Fritz that I was done for the day; the show was over. Worried, I suppose, that I might cancel all things Christmas (oh, like Santa and presents), he was interested in cooperating. I didn’t care. I was tired of trying to get the kids to conform to my mental images of a perfect Christmas Eve. I told him, “You don’t even know what Christmas is all about! I’m trying to teach you, and you don’t care!” He yelled back, “I DO know what Christmas is all about!” “What is Christmas all about?” I asked. “It’s the birth of Jesus,” he said. “But what does that mean?” I pressured him, still not willing to relent. He answered, “It means we can go to heaven.”
Wow. Did I teach him that?
Hark, now hear the angels sing,
a new king born today,
and man will live for evermore,
because of Christmas day.
Trumpets sound and angels sing,
listen to what they say,
that man will live for evermore,
because of Christmas Day.
So I relented. What else could I do? We blessed the Christmas tree. We sang “Silent Night” with my voice cracking from so much yelling. We read from the Gospel of Luke. There were no precocious questions, the kids couldn’t sit still, there were a few minor skirmishes, and Katie spent the whole time removing santa hat-fuls of ornaments from the tree and hiding them in another room.
Afterwards, the kids went off to bed. There was very little talk of Santa and presents. Billy said (for the millionth time in the last month) that he missed Daddy. I said I did too. He asked if I could catch daddy. I said I sure wish I could, and if I could I would give him lots of hugs and kisses and then I would grab Billy and Fritz and Katie and Jenny and we’d all give each other lots of kisses and hugs. He suggested I use a “cowboy rope”. I said, yes, a lasso. I’d lasso daddy and then tie us all up together and we’d never be apart ever again. The boys seemed to like that idea.
I tucked the kids in and sat on the couch to nurse the baby to sleep. It was quiet and peaceful. The phone rang. Bill had attended Midnight Mass and then went to his office and called me. We talked for quite a while. It was the first time in over six months that I was able to talk to him without also tending to our children. It was very pleasant. I didn’t want to get off the phone, but knew that he was sacrificing his sleep to talk with me. Of all the presents I got from him, this quiet conversation was the best. I didn’t even hear a single yawn the whole time.
After I said goodnight to him, I had a bit of work to do. I tackled the heap of dishes in the kitchen. I prepped breakfast for the next morning: a spinach and egg bake that I love but which I hadn’t had in months. I wrapped the last few presents, put everything under the tree, and filled the stockings. I hung the spider ornaments and hid the pickle. I ironed the kids’ clothes and had them all ready for church.
There were a few things which didn’t get done. I decided that none of the presents needed ribbons or bows. I decided that Jenny’s exersaucer did not need to be assembled that night. I decided that the box to the unassembled exersaucer did not need to be wrapped. In fact, I decided it didn’t even need a gift tag because it was very obvious to whom it belonged.
I munched on Santa’s cookies and grabbed a cup of eggnog. I planned to sit for a bit and look at the tree and listen to the cool Christmas CD my sister sent me, but as I walked into the living room, I heard the baby crying. It was just as well. As I headed up to bed with her, the clock said 11:45 pm. Best to go to sleep anyway.
The baby woke up again around 5 am to nurse. She was a bit restless and I couldn’t fall back asleep. I guess I was a bit excited and was eager to see if the kids would like their new things. Fritz woke up first around 5:40 am. We spent about an hour together before Katie got up. He was happy that Santa had come. He waited patiently for everyone else to awaken so he could get in the stockings, but couldn’t resist peeking and was thrilled to see Batman and Superman action figures popping up from his and Billy’s stockings. Billy finally woke up around 7 am. By then I had already started getting the girls dressed. Fritz got dressed quickly because he wanted to wear the new socks he found in his stocking. I brushed hair and tied neckties while the kids played with dinosaurs and ate chocolate. Katie found the magic markers in her stocking and quickly “dressed up” her white tights. At least she kept the marker away from her face (after church, she didn’t).
Somehow I managed to get everyone in the car and off to church in pretty good timing. We came in as Father Rich was intoning the generations from Abraham to Jesus which is before the processional hymn. We quickly found a seat. I allowed Katie to bring a few small stuffed animals and the boys to bring their Superman and Batman, although I told them I would take them away if they got too loud. They didn’t get too loud, but Katie did. She wanted their toys. They shared with her for a bit, but just at the consecration she asked for them again and was told no. Immediately she began a typical age 2 tantrum. Immediately I picked her up and hustled her (and Jenny) out of the room leaving my 5 year old and 3 year old alone! Great mom, huh? Fortunately, Katie was so very upset at being removed from church that she promised she would quiet down, and we were able to return after only a minute or two. As I got back to my row, I thanked the gentleman in the row behind me who had apparently been assuring Billy that his mother would return shortly.
The rest of the mass passed without much incident. The lady at the other end of my row helped me by putting the car seat up off the floor and taking Jenny. I let her keep the baby after communion too. Fritz asked why the lady was holding her. If I weren’t hushing him for talking during mass, I would have answered, “Because it is obvious to everyone nearby that I am in desperate need of help.”
And then I noticed Billy fussing with his tie. When I tied it before mass, I knew it would be a problem, but didn’t have time to fix it. The skinny part in the back was too short to fit through the tab on the back of the fat part in front. It took him an hour, but he finally noticed it and it really bothered him. He wanted me to fix it. I told him it would have to wait until we were home in just a few minutes. We stood for the final blessing, and he began a typical age 2 tantrum (except he’s nearly 4 now). As the choir began to sing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”, I started handing out coats. Billy wanted nothing to do with his. Fritz got his coat on. I zipped up Katie and got the baby from that very nice lady who held her for so long (Thank you God for charitable people!). As I buckled the baby into her car seat, another gentleman tried to help Billy with his coat. This only made him scream louder. I tried to go down the row to get to the aisle, but Billy intentionally blocked my path. I had to half drag/half kick him out of my way. I wanted to stop by the manger scene to pick up a piece of straw for Bill, but the noise was so loud that I decided to skip that part. I scooped him under my arm and carried the car seat with my free hand. Calling to my other two children and dodging people who didn’t seem to notice the flailing legs of the screaming kid, I made my way to the door. Sister Alice, laughing, patted me on the back and wished me a merry Christmas.
The nightmare continued. I somehow made it outside without Billy assaulting anyone. Fritz took off for the car and ran into and through the parking lot. And then, like a game of Frogger, decided to run back to me, tag up and head back for the car again. I caught him as he began his second run to the car, unmindful of the elderly man trying to back up right in front of him. I tried to yell at him but was distracted by Billy who was now upset because he was cold (he wouldn’t put on that coat while inside the church). I got the coat on him, but he continued to scream – now about how he needed gloves (it wasn’t that cold). I began trying to usher all the kids through the parking lot, and, fortunately, another kind man offered to carry the baby.
And this is why I avoid public places with the kids.
The rest of the morning was uneventful. We went home. We all calmed down. We opened presents. We ate breakfast. We called a few people and wished them a merry Christmas.
Bill sent me an email saying merry Christmas and that he wished he could be home. “But alas I am away, standing sentinel over a troubled land that knows not the joys of Christ or the wonders of Christmas.” And because we are so very fortunate to have this knowledge, we can rejoice. Even in our sorrow and through the pain of our separation, we can rejoice, and we can pray for those who know not the comforts of Christ.
Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh night when Christ was born
In the afternoon we went to Bill’s parents’ house. The kids behaved well – no tantrums. They got more toys from Nana and Grandpa and Aunt Margaret than from Mom and Dad and Santa. Margaret got the boys these cool Batman and Superman belts that talk. They say things that Batman or Superman would say. One phrase for Superman is “Emergency! The Earth needs my help! Let’s go!” I guess he’s supposed to be talking to one of the Superfriends.
We headed home early enough that it wasn’t a mad rush to get them off to bed. The house was a wreck. I didn’t even bring in the bags from the grandparents until today when I’d had a chance to move the other new toys around. Today was spent playing with toys and cleaning. There is a lot of organizing left to do. Now the toys are getting smaller and pieces are getting scattered to the four corners of every room. Fritz needs to learn to be responsible for his toys, but he also has to have a place to put them!
As I head off to bed tonight, I can’t help but wonder what it was like in Heaven before Christ was born. Did he turn to the Holy Spirit and say, “Emergency! The Earth needs my help! Let’s go!”??
Reit This Way 