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The Good Enough Christmas

It’s December 8, folks.  High freaking gear for the holiday season.  Are you ready?  Are you freaking out?  Do you feel your heart rate rise just thinking about December 25th being less than three weeks away?

To date, I have ordered some gifts online, my family holiday cards arrived in the mail yesterday (but need to be addressed and posted), and I stopped at the Dollar Store to buy a few holiday gift bags for that inevitable moment on Christmas Eve when I don’t have a single gift wrap left in me and I allow myself to surrender to the less lovely, but far more user friendly gift bag.

With the holidays, as with most things in my life, I follow the simple rule of “good enough.”  Will my preparations be good enough?  Will the tree be good enough? Will the decorations we manage to put up be good enough?  Will the love and anticipation my kids feel on Christmas Eve as they lay out a plate of cookies and carrots for Santa and his reindeer be good enough?  Will the mix of lovingly prepared cookies and brownies, most likely made from a mix this year, be good enough?  Will the gifts I choose be good enough?

My answer for all of the above questions is a resounding, “YES.”  Everything will be good enough, because I will be doing the best I can and that is all there is to it.

A dear friend posted this “cry for help” — her words, not mine, by the way — on her Facebook feed a few days ago.

Holiday Text

 

This is my girl, yo, so don’t any of you get any funny ideas of slicing and dicing this gal in the comment section.

In the moments after I read her text, bravely posted publicly for all in her Facebook orbit to see, comment, and silently judge, I just wanted to transport myself to that Target parking lot where my friend was and hug her and hold her close and assure her that it was all going to be alright.  Not having any kind of cool technology that enables me to transport myself (maybe I’ll get one for Christmas!), I did the next best thing and left a supportive response.  “Oh, honey. Your kids have everything they need. For real. Your love and support and nurturing and wisdom and humor and kick ass cooking. Take a page from Frozen and let it go.”

We are too hard on ourselves, especially at the holidays.  For whatever reason, and I know there are many, we convince ourselves that more is more.  If we did this last year, we should do THAT this year to make it better.  Did Facebook create this culture of more?  Do people see what their friend’s elves are doing every morning and translate that damn elf into feelings of inadequacy and emptiness?  Are we all required to morph into Martha Stewart / Betty Crocker / June Cleaver in December?

How amazing would it be to absolve ourselves of that pressure?

Full disclosure, I had a hard time relating to my friend’s post, feeling sympathy for her more than empathy.  I hate that she was hurting in those moments, I hate that the pressure she was feeling was real and legitimate, but I have never truly felt that pressure myself.  Cue the “good enough” mantra I live my life by.  READ THIS POST I wrote in 2012 to understand what those words mean to me.

We don’t need to be perfect and our kids don’t need for us to be perfect.  They need for us to be present.  Sure, around the holidays they like and expect presents, but the most valuable thing we will ever provide them is being there for them.  Showing up.  Every day.  That is enough.  It truly is.

I think back to the Christmases I had as a kid.  My memories are a mix of bitter and sweet, like the chocolate we put in our cookies.  We had an artificial tree that was well worn and way past its prime and required copious amounts of anguish and hope and sheer force of will to put up and make vertical year after year.  My Dad suffered from depression and the holidays really weren’t his bag — my Mom flew solo the holiday season.  They fought about Christmas shopping and money and even getting to the mall, as my Mom didn’t drive for much of my childhood.

The flip side of that Christmas coin are fond memories of listening to super swanky 1960s holiday music on our ancient stereo.  Enjoying Midnight Mass as a family along with my Dad’s two sisters who were nuns, bellies full of homemade cookies as the beautiful service unfolded, the church twinkling in candlelight.  Lying in my parent’s double bed on Christmas Eve with my three older siblings, giggling with anticipation, and tearing down the stairs once my Dad, who always, miraculously, found his Christmas spirit just in the St. Nick of time, had rung the jingle bells on the front door yelling out, “HO! HO! HO!” signaling that the Christmas booty had been deposited under that precariously teetering tree.

My childhood Christmases were a hodge podge of stress and tension and joy and light, but ultimately, they were good enough.  I trust that they might be very similar for our boys.  When you live in grief, as we do, it’s hard to escape the heaviness made heavier by the holidays.  But alongside that are the things my husband and I do together to make, what we hope and believe, is a good enough holiday for our sons.

We have no elf and the holiday books we read are the same ones that got packed away the previous January.  We might nosh on boxed brownies instead of eight different types of homemade cookies.  Our tree will be fresh, but it will be small, probably no more than five feet, and probably not make an appearance before the 15th.  We like it that way.  Our gifts, even the ones already purchased, will no doubt sit naked until after the kiddos go to sleep on Christmas Eve, making for a marathon wrapping party late into the night (that’s when those gift bags I scored at the Dollar Store will come in so handy).

It’s what we can manage and none of it is perfect and all of it is okay. Merry Christmas, folks.  May it be good enough.

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When He Was Six

In just a few weeks, my now six year old will turn seven.  I am not one of those moms who mourn their children growing older.  I can’t, simply because of circumstance. I celebrate the milestones, the independence, the sheer miracle of a child growing up.  What a blessing.

I also savor the fleeting nature of childhood, knowing that it is not a given or something to be taken for granted.  If you have a healthy, developing child, you did it — you won the lottery of life!  Hooray!

As six morphs into seven, I wanted to take a few moments to remember those things about my boy being six that I have treasured.  What an amazing age, full of curiosity, willfulness, stretching, and the wee glimpse of separation that will be his task to come in the next few years.

Six is still about unmitigated affection.  The spigot of hugs and kisses is still flowing freely.  You cuddle me at night, even though you prefer your Dad’s singing voice, justifiably so.  You happily hold my hand, and not just in parking lots or crossing the street.  You love to nuzzle on the same pillow together, reading books or brainstorming activity ideas on Pinterest.  I smell your hair and it is wonderful.

You draw me hearts even when it's not Valentine's Day.
You draw me hearts even when it’s not Valentine’s Day.

Six is about straddling that gap between being a little kiddo and simply a kiddo.  You now prefer showers over baths.  You are just as likely to want to read to yourself before bed as have Mom or Dad read to you.  You go to places like arcades and don’t require constant supervision anymore.  This stage is like the teeth that you have started losing — just as the little kid leaves or falls away, the big kid is right there, pushing in, ready to take his rightful place.

Six is about starting to navigate relationships outside your immediate family.  You have school friends now, and cousins, and neighbors.  Your world is growing and you are thirsty for it.  You are proud to think of yourself as the “playground peacemaker,” not picking sides and wishing everyone could just play together.  This was the first year Mom and Dad weren’t enough at Halloween.  You wanted to be with your friends, but knowing Mom or Dad was close nearby.

Six is seeing you absorb so much of the world around you.  You ask more questions now.  You have opinions and think Donald Trump would not make a good president (smart boy!).  You pay attention, now, when Mom and Dad are listening to morning radio.  We try and protect you from the bulk of it, at least for a wee little while longer, but those days will soon be gone.  You are more attentive to this larger world you will inherit.

Six is about grumbling and stumbling.  You make mistakes.  You require lots of reminders for basic things like changing underwear and brushing teeth and putting the book down.  That  world you’re creating in Minecraft might consume you if we didn’t require some non-screen time.  The idea of homework ticks you off.  Limit setting is not your friend.  Sometimes, you think Mom and Dad are the worst parents ever.  We get it.  We still love you.

Six is about expanding those proverbial horizons.  You’re hoping Santa will bring you a baseball glove for Christmas and for the first time ever asked for a Chicago team shirt.  Any team would do, you said, as long as it was from Chicago.  Those doubts you had about the old man in the red suit seem to have been addressed and your belief is sweet and innocent and precious. That water that terrified you just a couple of years ago is now one of your greatest pleasures.  You love to bounce and toss on the waves.  You haven’t conquered the bike yet, but that will come.  My bet is on you, six year old, and all those places you want to go.

Dice

I love you and I have loved you being six, my boy.  I love that when I told you that my elbow had knocked the tip off your most prized Lego creation yesterday your first response was to say, “No problem, Mom.  Thanks for telling me,” followed quickly by welling eyes and tears when you realized the fix would not be as simple as you thought, finished up with a sense of victory when, after a few moments, you got to concentrating and figured it out all on your own.  You are learning every day and watching that unfold is one of my supreme gifts in this life.

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In Defense of Caillou

Poor Caillou.  Seriously.  Poor little bald headed animated child.  People hate him the world over. Not dislike him, or feel mildly irritated by him, or, you know, turn the channel when he comes on the TV dislike him, but hate him, loathe him, and wish very, very bad things upon him.  Him being a fictional character.

What's not to like?
What’s not to like?

I don’t get it.  I never have.

The level of animosity reserved for this little guy astounds me.  You would think that a fictional four year old would push a few buttons, what with the whining that goes along with being four, but man, it would be easy to confuse him with, I don’t know, Hitler or ISIS, for all the hate and venom he incites in parenting circles.

Here is a sample from Urban Dictionary under Caillou:

A fucked up kid’s show about a spoiled little turd who gets upset when he doesn’t get his way.  If Caillou was real, I’d kill him.

Caillou is a soiled little shit TV show on PBS. Caillou can’t grow hair, not because he has cancer or progeria, but because he sucks, and even his own body recognizes that he does not deserve hair or food or love

A children’s show featuring an aggressive bald kid who is easily irritated and agitated when things don’t go his way.  Caillou made me search for my virginity.

Then there was the anti-Caillou smackdown Buzzfeed ran last week.  Um.  Okay.  Well. It seems more than a few folks take their PBS really, really seriously. In other circles I have seen Caillou referred to as a prick, douchebag, cocksucker, asshole, uterus killer, fucker, and the list goes on and on and on with some decidedly unfriendly language not typically associated with kid’s TV.

If the point is that Caillou acts like a typical four year old, well, then, sure, I totally agree.  Most four year olds (at least the two I have parented to date; I still have a two year old in the pipeline) can be whiny and entitled at times.  It’s just part of the package.

Full disclosure, if you haven’t already noticed, I kind of dig the little guy.  I first started watching him in 2007.  Eight years and two toddlers later, I’m still watching. So are my kids.  Our brains aren’t bleeding.  I haven’t gone insane from the whining.  My kids don’t seem to have experienced any adverse effects of too much Caillou.

And laying all my Caillou cards out on the table, I actually like the show, especially compared to some of the other offerings in the kids’ entertainment arena.  Here’s why:

1. Caillou gets to have emotions.  Yes, he is whiny and entitled at times, but he also experiences guilt, regret, anticipation, joy, fear, curiosity, annoyance, gratitude, frustration, confidence, impatience, relief, and boredom.  I complied this list after watching just one 30 minutes episode.  Even better, the grandmother narrator — a kind, nurturing voice, labels Caillou’s feelings for those watching at home, e.g., “Caillou was upset his little sister took his favorite toy.”  Of course he was!  But then we get to watch him figure it out, too.

2.  I recognize the day-to-day family environment.  There is a loving mom and dad with grandparents close by.  You see the family doing chores around the house, and the grumbling that goes along with that.  The adults cook, clean, shovel, rake, grocery shop.  The adults get to complain, too, because, yes, it is a pain sometimes to be responsible, especially when your car breaks down.  The family eats together and celebrates together.  The show reflects my kids’ day-to-day and I get that might not speak to everyone, but it is a comfort to see your small world reflected on the screen.

3.  It’s quiet and simple.  There is a whole lot to mine from a kid’s simple experiences, a lot to learn from and consider.  When I think of shows like Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!, Sheriff Callie’s Wild West, or even the beloved Thomas or Dinosaur Train shows, basic lessons in social skills are encouraged through the use of robots, trains, dinosaurs, or animals. Caillou does all that through people.

Why is it more appealing to teach things like patience and sharing by adding an extra layer of difference?  Is it more palatable to learn about grumpiness or bullying from a train than from a kid who might act a lot like your own?

4.  Imagination is encouraged. In later episodes (admittedly, these are not my favorites), Caillou uses his imagination to explore being an astronaut or a rock star. Some of this is accomplished through reading books found in the library his Mom and Dad take him to — win win!

5.  The show features discipline.  This is one of my favorite aspects of watching Caillou with my little ones.  When Caillou acts like a jerk, there are consequences. When he grabs a toy away from his little sister or excludes a classmate on the playground, there is a price to pay for his poor behavior.  He can stomp his feet and not like the consequence, but they are still there.

As a parent, I love that.  And I honestly think it is productive and useful to see that 1) all kids misbehave sometimes; 2) there are ramifications to misbehavior; and 3) your parents are not the only ones who practice standards of behavior, discipline, and consequences.  Those are things other kids have to deal with, too.

Perhaps this post presents me as a Pollyanna.  Well, then, so be it.  I will own that shit. I’ve just seen the words “Caillou” and “cocksucker” attached one too many times for my liking.  And rather than tell all you Caillou haters to get a freaking grip, or, do as my husband joking encouraged, and theorize that anyone who hates Caillou really just hates their own kids, I will simply encourage you all to give it another look see, that Caillou show, and try and be just a teensy bit more objective towards him.

Honestly, he’s not all that bad.  And, more importantly, he probably resembles your own kiddos more than you realize.

Caillou2