Mom Mom Mom #40: All I want for Christmas is a Miracle

Yes, our Christmas tree is pink.

Yes, it’s been a long time, but here’s a new one. Let me know if you think it’s too, well, not happy enough.  It’s scheduled to run in the December 24 edition of the Alameda Sun.

All I want for Christmas is a Miracle

I so wanted this to be a Holiday Miracle story. I keep reading them, in magazines and the newspaper, on the Internet. They are everywhere. I religiously watch the same movies every year on TV. (I even watch the silly, corny ones; I just can’t help myself.) These stories are truly amazing, whether they are based on actual events or fabricated. At the last minute, on Christmas Eve, something magical happens—“It’s a Christmas Miracle!”—and you can fill in the ending on your own:  He made it home. They kissed. The present arrived under the tree when there was no money to pay for it. She survived. They lived happily ever after.

I wish I had my own Christmas Miracle story to tell you now, to affect you and change your life. But I come up empty.

The second biggest Christmas Miracle story of them all (after that first One, which seems to get lost in the mayhem somehow) is Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Countless renditions of the Scrooge story have been revised and rewritten based on the original cranky old man who gets a new lease on life. The story transcends religious affiliation; anyone can change if they see enough Ghosts of the Past or the gloomy, hooded Future. This story gives me hope for my own redemption, because every year, no matter how much I try to change my attitude or how many shows I watch, I pray for the whole season to pass quickly into January.

Don’t get me wrong, I do believe in Christmas and the possibility of its Miracles. I also believe in Heaven, ghosts and fairies. I am the first to clap when I see Peter Pan and they ask for the audience to believe, to clap to keep Tinkerbell alive. And, absolutely, that was your late grandmother who knocked over her photograph to let you know she was in the room. Heaven is whatever you want it to be.

It’s not really my fault, this obsession with Holiday Miracles. The intrinsic need for miracles at this time of the year begins at an early age. It’s not only the miracle birth of a baby in Bethlehem, if you are a Christian, or the miracle of the container of oil, if you’re Jewish, or the miracle of Santa Claus for just about everyone else. (“How does he get around the world to every single house in just one night, Mommy?”) I learned these stories from my parents and I have gladly, happily even, handed them down to my children. It’s easier to create Holiday Miracles when you are dealing with little ones. If he sees you when you’re sleeping, he can make anything happen, right? It was as traumatic for me as it was for my girls when they finally figured out that Santa was just Mom and now we can negotiate about the presents each year. What happens to the magic of Christmas when the children have all grown up?

I guess I’ll continue reading the stories and watching the movies time and again with that tiny seed of hope for my very special Holiday Miracle. In the end, I’m not completely certain that it’s really one big miracle. It’s a specific series of events that create a miracle, just as a specific series of events create a life, which truly is the ultimate miracle. And, in this life, sometimes you just have to let go and go about your business. That Miracle just might happen. And, maybe that’s what the spirit of the season is all about.

May we all experience a miracle to call our own this season. xo

Mom Mom Mom #39: You’ve Got Your Hands Full

From our garden - Mary Lee Shalvoy 2009

This ran in the September 24, 2009 issue of the Alameda Sun. They edited it a bit, but here’s the original.

You’ve Got Your Hands Full

When my three girls were very young and we were still married and living in northern San Diego County, we lived in a house in a development that sat on a ridge above a golf course. Our street was actually a very long, winding circle that weaved through the entire neighborhood.

On nice days—and let’s face it, most days are nice in San Diego—I would strap the girls into the long triplet stroller, baby in the front, twins each in the second and third seats, and push them the 2.5 miles around the neighborhood. As in most housing developments, the homes were nearly identical. I think there were two models—a tudor style and a non-tudor style. These homes were built in the late 1970’s/early 1980’s and the primary differences were the yards. Each yard had a different shape and landscape.

On these excursions, the girls and I would pass one house on the circle with a particularly gorgeous front garden. The gardener was a master. Throughout the year, she displayed a gorgeous array of seasonal plants. As we passed, I pointed out colors and flowers to my captive audience.

One day, as the gardener was gardening, I shouted out a greeting and my envy. How I always wanted to garden and how beautiful it looked. How my grandfather grew up on a farm and how he, too, had a garden that he timed to have something blooming from the dwindling snows of early spring to the first frost of fall.

“Well, thanks, but this takes a lot of time,” she shouted back. “You’ll have time to garden someday, but you have your hands full right now with those little flowers.” The girls waved and the baby woke up and made some noise, letting us know that it was time to go. Now.

“You have your hands full” has been mentioned to me more than a few times since I’ve had my daughters, but the association between raising kids and gardening really hit home this summer.

We planted crops this year in big container buckets in the small backyard of our house here in Alameda. We started from both seed (beans, carrots, cucumber, herbs, zucchini) and plants (tomato). We used a mix of regular soil and Miracle-Gro. We bought a new hose to water, and, damn the drought, we watered every day. It was thrilling to see the young green sprouts; the girls fought over who was going to water each day.

It took some time, but the original gusto and excitement of our urban victory garden lost some of its luster as the summer wore on. Maybe it was when we left for our east coast trip. Maybe it was the cold summer weather when we returned. I do think the neighborhood critters had something to do with it. As soon as any of the fruit, especially the tomatoes, were just ripe enough to pick, they would disappear. One morning, I found a large, juicy, half-eaten tomato on the ground. Now, there’s school and activities that steer us away from the containers in the yard.

What really got in the way, I believe, was the lack of knowledge about how does a garden grow. Why are the leaves brown and shriveled on one plant, but not the other? How do you know when to pick carrots if you can’t see them ripen? Why does only one cucumber grow at a time? My kids have completely lost interest and I am just frustrated.

It takes time to grow and nurture a garden, as it does to raise children. With kids, there are so many unknowns, but as soon as they can talk, they help you out with the process. Tomatoes don’t talk, yet, and there are thousands of variables in the success of their growth. Yes, there are resources, but I realized that the master gardener of our neighborhood in San Diego was right, it takes a lot of time to work a garden. You need to fully invest in the success of each plant for a garden to truly thrive.

The same can be said for kids. My investment right now, as it was 12 years ago in San Diego, is still in the growth of my family. Even though they’re older, they still need me and I am still excited by the sprouting of their minds and lives.

I will have time for a garden some day. Maybe by then, the tomatoes can help me along.

Mom, Mom, Mom #37: Sex, Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll (or Raising Teenagers Today)

This is the latest Mom Mom Mom column scheduled to run in Thursday’s (June 25) Alameda Sun.

Sex, Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll

My oldest girls, twins, “advanced” from eighth grade to high school this month. It was a momentous occasion with lots of dressing up and cheering and even a few tears from good old MomMomMom. I say they “advanced” because that’s what Alameda’s Lincoln Middle School called the ceremony—an Advancement, as opposed to a Graduation. Without having any official reason for this, I am assuming that it is because a graduate “receives an academic degree or diploma,” (so say several online dictionaries) whereas my girls just received a handshake and a certificate of advancement into ninth grade. In other words, Girls, you are not finished yet.

Certainly, they are well aware of all the hard work and opportunities the next four years hold for them. Their mother is aware, too, and it’s keeping her awake at nights.

Of course, it’s hard to believe that my babies are teenagers, but, really, it just doesn’t seem that long ago that I was in their shoes, wrapping up grammar school, putting it all behind me and growing deeper into my teenage years. Well, it was a long time ago and many things have “advanced,” let’s just say.

I think we are feeling similarly, my girls and I, about this next stage of our journey together. We are both a little apprehensive and curious. How will they do in high school? Is it really the big, scary place everyone talks about? Are there lots of sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll and who knows what else? And, most importantly, how do they continue to grow up in a healthy way dealing with all of that? (Okay, so that last question is really mine.)

As I have contemplated these worries, I had an epiphany. I am getting old, but there was a lot of sex, drugs and rock and roll in my time. I had older brothers and sisters; I had some wild friends. Yes, I know the drugs are different, you say, and although today’s society has a far more lenient approach to sex, the chance of pregnancy is always an issue and there are now sexually transmitted diseases that did not exist in the 1970’s.

What gives me both hope and pause is the major difference between today and the 35 years it’s been since I entered high school. Today, my children are far more educated on what’s out there than I ever was. They’ve been in programs that openly discuss drugs and alcohol, and the potential destructive effects of both irresponsible casual usage and deeper addiction on a person’s life. At the same time, their mother actually talks to them about things, like, well, sex, drugs and rock and roll. (I really prefer the music conversations to the other two subjects.)

In my family growing up, we kids did not share much of anything with our parents. I was the most vocal of my siblings, but certainly, neither my mother nor my father knew much of what was happening. We all lived under a “don’t ask, don’t tell” kind of policy. So, even if my parents did know, they faked it, preferring to stay in the dark.

I am not naïve enough to think that my children tell or will tell me everything that’s happening in their lives, but I do believe that I am far more prepared to handle whatever my kids throw at me than my mother ever was—if only because I actually talk to them about these things. I ask the questions that my mother couldn’t even dream of, with her limited knowledge of the world. I’ve also seen more of the world, both good and bad, than my parents did.

Unfortunately, none of this makes me an expert at raising teenagers. And, okay, so I am not really that confident about what lies before me and how equipped I am to handle it. I am actually quite intimidated and overwhelmed by the limitless potential for I don’t know what might happen.

I do know this:  I want high school to be fun for them, not necessarily the best years of their lives, but really good, happy, memorable times. And, maybe let them share some information and have a few conversations to keep their old Mom in the loop.

Mom, Mom, Mom #35: Saving the Earth Gets Messy

I didn’t realize that it’s been so long since I’ve posted. I am busy on Twitter (@mommommom), though, if you are interested in tracking me. This is the latest Mom Mom Mom column and is scheduled to run in the February 26 edition of the Alameda Sun. (I will post the link when it’s live.)

Saving the Earth Gets Messy

My sixth-grader came home from school recently and informed me, with a tiny glimmer of fear in her eyes, that someone in school declared the doom and destruction of the earth in 2010 due to global warming. He read it on the Internet or something to that effect. I laughed it off, telling her that if every prediction of the end of the world were true, we wouldn’t be standing in the kitchen talking.

When she left the room, a little relieved, I turned to see my own form of doom and destruction due to global warming. My kitchen is a mess. More so than usual, that is. In our own humble efforts to extend our lives beyond the next few years, our entire kitchen has turned into a mini-recycling station—and a not very organized one. This is garbage we are talking about here. And it isn’t pretty.

We have many recycling projects going at the same time. In addition to keeping the doom of our planet at bay, we are also trying to get something in return for consuming stuff. In one corner of the room are shopping bags full of plastic and glass bottles and aluminum cans waiting for their trip to the recycle station. My eldest-by-less-than-a-minute twin daughter is hoping the cash refunds will contribute to paying for her own trip to Washington, D.C. with an organization called Close Up. Recycling hasn’t been very lucrative so far, but every little bit helps.

In another corner of the kitchen is the actual garbage can (lined with recycled trash bags) and next to it is a brown paper grocery bag filled with table scraps and food. I am looking for small recyclable bags that fit the small green bin that Waste Management provided to carry organic waste out to the large green bin. That little green bin just gets so incredibly nasty; the brown paper bags are better for now. On any given day, a glass jar or tin can bound for the recycling bin sits on the sink, getting rinsed out for its eventual journey through the land of green. The rain we’ve been having is great for our drought conditions, but contributes to my kitchen’s clutter as the waste usually kept outside is inside staying dry until garbage day.

The point of the multiple recycle stations is to reduce the amount of actual garbage we create. The recycled stuff gets, well, recycled somehow, somewhere.

I am not the only one who struggles with keeping a green kitchen clean. Renee Marx, whose kitchen is otherwise pristine, keeps her food scraps in a decorative ceramic bowl on her sink and struggles, too, with where to put recyclables. My Dad in New Jersey has to tie piles of newspapers together and keep them separate from the plastic, from the cardboard, from the glass.

Jodi O’Neill, a single mom based in Cleveland, Ohio commiserates with my plight. “I keep missing the every-other-week recycling pick up. Plastic bottles line my counters and are taking over my garage!” she told me.

Meanwhile, my sister in Vermont with her husband, five children, two dogs, three cats and rabbits has figured out the ultimate green circle of life. On the kitchen counter next to the sink is a large metal bowl. Throughout the day, as they complete each busy meal, they toss food scraps and debris into the bowl. At the end of the day during last summer, the scraps got tossed to the hungry pigs in the sty behind the big garage that looks like a barn. When the pigs grew large enough, they were sent to slaughter, with the meat ending up in the family’s giant freezer and then on to the table in the form of breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Now that it’s winter and the pigs are gone, the food scraps get tossed into the big compost pile behind the chicken coop. The pile is frozen right now (yes, they have several feet of snow in their yard) but once it thaws, it provides fodder for the garden they’ll start growing in the spring when it thaws. In a few months, their garden will be full of vegetables that make it to their table, and, well, I think you get the picture.

It would be tough to emulate my sister’s lifestyle here, considering we are trying to be vegetarian and there’s no room for pigs or chickens. Still, I am working on green ways of my own. I am working on the plan for a Victory Garden in our tiny back yard. It will be a challenge for my brown thumbs, but it’s important to put in the extra effort to being green. Then, our food scraps can go to our very own compost pile.

In the meantime, my kitchen will remain a mess, all in the name of saving the planet and keeping us around a little longer.

Mom, Mom, Mom #27 (or a thing about The Sound of Music)

Hi, All~

I am really not writing too much lately for my personal byline publication–only this column for the Alameda Sun. It’s just the way things work sometimes. I am trying to focus on marketing/sales/business development work for a couple of business clients (helping bill.com CEO Rene Lacerte craft his blog at asklacerte.com and working with the folks at ELA Consulting Group.

This column is scheduled to run in the April 24 edition of the Sun.

Here’s to Lollygagging, Dillydallying and Dawdling! 

There is a scene in The Sound of Music that I never noticed before until just recently. The classic movie was on cable TV a few weeks ago, in a crazy kind of every night marathon, and the girls and I caught different parts on different nights. I have watched this movie, in its entirety and in bits and pieces, hundreds of times. Literally.

The Sound of Music was the first movie I ever saw in a movie theater. I was five and my parents had seen the movie and thought that the kids should see it, too. (It was a true story about Catholics, after all.) So, my Dad took the four older kids on a Sunday afternoon, while my mother stayed home with the baby and cooked a roast. I remember sitting in the balcony of an enormous, old-fashioned movie theater, next to my father (a rare treat in my childhood). There was something called an “intermission.” The best part was that we each got to pick a box of candy for ourselves. I remember coming home to Sunday dinner and feeling very happy and grown up, because I was allowed to go as a “big kid.” I really don’t remember much about the movie then, but my Mother bought the soundtrack and played the record over and over again.

So, I have fond memories of this movie. As an adult, I understand its strengths—hmm, let’s see, music, singing, romance, cute singing kids and puppets, drama, history (sort of), a happy ending, it’s even based on a true story (although the real Maria Von Trapp was never very happy about how her Captain was portrayed).

This last time I watched it, though, something different captured my attention. It’s the scene when the Captain is telling The Baroness that he cannot marry her. As the couple stands on the balcony of his huge mansion, Maria, his-true-love-the-governess, is wandering around the estate. She ends up sitting on a bench near a gazebo that plays an enormous part in the love lives of the women of this family. I suppose Maria is thinking about what she’s going to do next. She doesn’t really want to be a nun and she has no place to go. She seems to be just lollygagging, meandering around on the grass deep in thought, until she somehow makes it to the bench.

This time watching it, it really bothers me. What the heck was she doing? Wandering around, just thinking? Who has the time to do that? I certainly don’t, and for a minute, sitting on the couch next to my youngest daughter, as I folded the jeans that had just come out of the dryer, I am consumed with envy for a woman in a movie that was made more than 40 years ago. Suddenly I realize why:  I cannot remember what it feels like to lollygag, to just wander around thinking.

How did I get here? Even if I had the time to just sit and think, which I am sure I do somehow, I don’t think I could. There is too much to get done. I am doing laundry as I write this. I get up and clean up the sink between paragraphs. I switch over to my other jobs and deadlines when I feel I’ve made some progress on this piece, in order to slowly make progress in the other work. I do food shopping as I drive around town managing the basketball/soccer/dance carpools. When I walk, it’s with a purpose—it’s for cardio strength and exercise and weight loss, or to catch up with friends that walk with me. I eat lunch while reading the paper. It’s a rule in our house (a mostly un-adhered to by anyone but me rule) that if there’s laundry in the dryer, you can only watch television if you are folding, too.

This scene of Maria, deep in thought, deep in a dawdling kind of mode (because I believe in real life she would have had some kind of chore to do or kid to put to bed), has actually had an effect on my own life. Now, every once in a while I actually stop and think, instead of careening through life, moving from task to task.

Was it always this crazy? Maybe it’s just the time in my life; I need to hurry now and get a lot done (like paying the bills and feeding my very hungry children) so that when I am older I will appreciate down time. I tell my kids to hurry up all the time, get their work done, go to practice/lessons/games, etc. I hurry them along and they are so occupied that often, when there is nothing planned, they are caught off-guard. “What do we do now?” they would ask me when they were younger.

I’ve decided that maybe I need to show them how to build that down time in their own lives so they don’t end up like me, jealous of a fictional character in a Hollywood movie.

So, here’s to the practice of lollygagging and pondering, meandering and dawdling. If you see me aimlessly walking down the street one of these days, just lost in thought, please just smile and wave. Maybe you can do it, too.