Since surgery is not an option, I have got to learn to live with this stomach. And, I'm going to live with it like my unwed pregnant grandmother did in 1940 ... I'm going to hide it.
Let's face it, grandma failed, but I hope to have better luck.
I use to throw on anything I wanted and I looked cute. Now, I have to really think about it. Now, I have to find clothes to cover my vast waist land.
I'm an engineer by education. I can figure out a lot of things, but clothes were never on the top of the list. The really aren't for most engineers I know, female or not. In other parts of the country, I feel confident about my clothing choices. But that confidence usually dwindles the further I move away from the arrivals gate at LaGuradia airport. My clothing choices are comfortable workout clothes, jeans, sweatshirts, and big, bulky sweaters. Guess what ... I've learned all are big no-no's in the Big Apple. A stylist told me a few basic rules, during a clothing intervention.
1) Workout clothes are only good if you're going to, coming home from, or involved in a workout.
2) Jeans are too casual, unless you're between the ages of 10 and 16.
3) Sweatshirts are too casual unless your coming home from high school practice, or Ivy League colleges.
4) Big bulky sweaters are just to hide big, bulky people. You're not fooling anyone.
I didn't know these rules when I purchased my clothes, of course. The workout clothes are worth the investment since I do workout a lot, but other than that ... well, I look like a tourist, a pregnant one.
So what am I too do, besides wear double Spanxs and pretend to be from Canada? What ever American company does these days.
Outsource.
Luckily, the cause of my pain, a city full of fashionistas who want to work in the fashion industry, is also my saviour. Some may be quick to criticize, but other are quick to offer assistance. And some are even quick to offer assistance at a reasonable rate per hour without making you feel like a fat slob, even when you are not. I've found a woman, Sadia, who has had three kids, a "mummy tummy", and the experience in dressing models. Ok, the experience of dressing models really doesn't help, since they are basically pre-teen, size nothing, paper dolls. But, she also knows how to minimize the trouble areas and maximise the good areas on real woman, not just paper dolls. We all have them, good areas not paper dolls, but tend to get myopic. I know I have. I look at myself and all I can see is the mummy tummy. Not good for one's ego, but worse for improving the situation.
Sadia loves to shop, which is good because I hate to shop. It may be one reason I'm not good at it, but it has never been fun. If I buy something in the store or online, it usually looks bad at home. Something is always wrong ... color, cut, fabric, fit, whatever. Then there are the stores. They can be huge, crowded, racks and racks of "coal" while I try to find a "diamond". I usually just end up with the coal ... or workout clothes, jeans, sweatshirts, or a big bulky sweater. But by going out with a pro, the experience becomes pleasurable and fast. A few questions, such as "What do you like to wear? What is your style? What's most important to you, comfort, fashion? etc." And then we are off. Crazy, overcrowded stores become diamond mines. I've found a person who not only knows fashion as her career, but has also had three children! She knows how to dress for the after baby body, which as become just the body. We had a wonderful shopping experience, and I didn't even spend a lot. I told her, "Schedule me for at least once every six months. You are my new BFF -- Best Fashionista Friend."
Wednesday 25 January 2012
What a Drag it is Getting Old - My Stomach
"No, I'm not pregnant, thank you," I said.
You would think this would be enough to shut people up, but no, they keep talking.
"Oh, are you sure you're not pregnant?
Like who the hell are you asking me these questions? Complete strangers or Asian woman who work in the salons in New York, that's who.
"No, really, I'm not."
"Because if you are, then we may need to adjust the treatment."
The treatment is a manicure.
"No." With an implied, "Shut up!"
"Well, ok, but may I suggest a bit of diet and exercise?"
"No, you cannot!" With an implied, "Fuck you!"
"Well, I do suggest you do something about that stomach. It looks bad."
This is where I became a human tornado in the salon letting everyone know what I think. I then realized that everyone was now looking at my stomach. I left the salon and went to anther one.
"Pick color."
I pick my color and sit down.
"So, when you due?"
This is not my worse nightmare. It is something that actually happened.
Here's the scoop for those of you that don't know what I look like or haven't seen me in a long while. I'm not fat anywhere on my body, except my stomach. I still run, and run well. I aim for twenty-five miles a week and five days a week at yoga. I watch my diet. In Milwaukee, I could be a model. In NYC, I'm told I need to do something about it.
After having my daughter, my muscles got pushed out, and have not gone back. Please note, I only gained 23lbs while I was pregnant and ran two marathons. I did spinning class until the day I delivered. I have tried everything I could to get my stomach muscles back -- diet, exercise, Biggest Loser Camp for a week, but nothing really worked. I finally couldn't take the comments any longer and I went to see a highly recommended plastic surgeon who was located between Park and 5th Avenues in the high 60's. He was a religious Jew, who wore a yarmulke and a prayer shawl under his doctor's coat. He didn't look me in the eye. I wasn't there for work on my eyes, so that didn't really matter to me.
"Your muscles didn't just move apart vertically in the middle, like most women. Yours moved apart horizontally also, like a mesh fence being pulled apart. This happens more often in women with your body type who have their first child in their 40's," he said.
Lovely. But what to do about it?
For me, nothing.
The surgery would be two and a half hours if everything went well. However, because I have the blood clotting disorder Factor V Leiden, unnecessary surgery is not an option.
"You could die on the table. It is not worth it," the doctor told me.
"I totally agree. I'm not that vain that I want to look great in my coffin. I have a 3.5 year old daughter than I need to be here for. But what do I tell these nasty people?"
"Tell them to screw themselves!" he said.
I busted out laughing. I wasn't expecting that comment from a man wearing a yarmulke and a prayer shawl.
But really, what do I do now?
You would think this would be enough to shut people up, but no, they keep talking.
"Oh, are you sure you're not pregnant?
Like who the hell are you asking me these questions? Complete strangers or Asian woman who work in the salons in New York, that's who.
"No, really, I'm not."
"Because if you are, then we may need to adjust the treatment."
The treatment is a manicure.
"No." With an implied, "Shut up!"
"Well, ok, but may I suggest a bit of diet and exercise?"
"No, you cannot!" With an implied, "Fuck you!"
"Well, I do suggest you do something about that stomach. It looks bad."
This is where I became a human tornado in the salon letting everyone know what I think. I then realized that everyone was now looking at my stomach. I left the salon and went to anther one.
"Pick color."
I pick my color and sit down.
"So, when you due?"
This is not my worse nightmare. It is something that actually happened.
Here's the scoop for those of you that don't know what I look like or haven't seen me in a long while. I'm not fat anywhere on my body, except my stomach. I still run, and run well. I aim for twenty-five miles a week and five days a week at yoga. I watch my diet. In Milwaukee, I could be a model. In NYC, I'm told I need to do something about it.
After having my daughter, my muscles got pushed out, and have not gone back. Please note, I only gained 23lbs while I was pregnant and ran two marathons. I did spinning class until the day I delivered. I have tried everything I could to get my stomach muscles back -- diet, exercise, Biggest Loser Camp for a week, but nothing really worked. I finally couldn't take the comments any longer and I went to see a highly recommended plastic surgeon who was located between Park and 5th Avenues in the high 60's. He was a religious Jew, who wore a yarmulke and a prayer shawl under his doctor's coat. He didn't look me in the eye. I wasn't there for work on my eyes, so that didn't really matter to me.
"Your muscles didn't just move apart vertically in the middle, like most women. Yours moved apart horizontally also, like a mesh fence being pulled apart. This happens more often in women with your body type who have their first child in their 40's," he said.
Lovely. But what to do about it?
For me, nothing.
The surgery would be two and a half hours if everything went well. However, because I have the blood clotting disorder Factor V Leiden, unnecessary surgery is not an option.
"You could die on the table. It is not worth it," the doctor told me.
"I totally agree. I'm not that vain that I want to look great in my coffin. I have a 3.5 year old daughter than I need to be here for. But what do I tell these nasty people?"
"Tell them to screw themselves!" he said.
I busted out laughing. I wasn't expecting that comment from a man wearing a yarmulke and a prayer shawl.
But really, what do I do now?
Friday 20 January 2012
What a Drag it is Getting Old - My Hair
Starting at the top of my personal issues, is my hair. I probably have more "hair" issues than anyone I know. When I was little, my mother would always say,
"Tamara would be pretty if she just had pretty hair."
The last time I heard her say this was when I was 29 at my graduation party in front of all my friends. Note, I sent myself to college, which is why it took me ten years of night school. And, I paid for the party. Thanks mom for sharing. She probably still says this behind my back. Yes, years of therapy spent, and still spending, on this one.
So my hair ... I have a lot of it, I've been told by hair stylists. But, its baby fine, super straight, and won't hold a curl if there is a cloud anywhere between New York and Iowa. Thankfully, now it is the style. People pay hundreds of dollars to get their hair to look like mine (while my mother just can't understand it). But back in the late 70's and 80's, it was not the style. I tried everything to keep it curled, only to fry my hair out completely.
I then moved away from trying to curl it to coloring it. It's been every color of the rainbow. I don't know if I was just trying to make mom mad or if I was trying to make my mom happy. Maybe by changing the color, my mom would like it, but that didn't happen.
When I was 30, divorcing my first husband, and finally asserting some true independence, I cut my butt-length, over-processed, then blond hair into a bob -- colored it red. I liked the red. Sixteen years later, I'm loving the red. But now, life is truly busy. My colorist is in downtown and I'm on the Upper East Side. I just can't run next door to get my hair done. Time flies, schedules are off, and the next thing I know, it's been two months since I've been in.
And the mirror shows it.
If asked what my natural hair color is, I would always say blond. It started as blond then moved to that "dish water" blond, or dirty blond. My school pictures show the process. Until at sixteen, my hair looks as if I was trying to impersonate Joan Jett. On some level I was. Since then, when people ask what my natural hair color is, I tell people that my hair is blond, but has gotten darker with age.
No lying to myself about my hair color now. It's grey. Not the pretty, Betty White grey that looks great on a 90 year old woman. No, the grey like a street rat, grey. The grey that when you look at it looks, oily, stringy, witch-like. The grey that reminds me of my grandmother when she hadn't washed her beehive hair for a month.
I need my mother's little helper and fast. As God is my witness, may I never miss a hair color appointment again!
"Tamara would be pretty if she just had pretty hair."
The last time I heard her say this was when I was 29 at my graduation party in front of all my friends. Note, I sent myself to college, which is why it took me ten years of night school. And, I paid for the party. Thanks mom for sharing. She probably still says this behind my back. Yes, years of therapy spent, and still spending, on this one.
So my hair ... I have a lot of it, I've been told by hair stylists. But, its baby fine, super straight, and won't hold a curl if there is a cloud anywhere between New York and Iowa. Thankfully, now it is the style. People pay hundreds of dollars to get their hair to look like mine (while my mother just can't understand it). But back in the late 70's and 80's, it was not the style. I tried everything to keep it curled, only to fry my hair out completely.
I then moved away from trying to curl it to coloring it. It's been every color of the rainbow. I don't know if I was just trying to make mom mad or if I was trying to make my mom happy. Maybe by changing the color, my mom would like it, but that didn't happen.
When I was 30, divorcing my first husband, and finally asserting some true independence, I cut my butt-length, over-processed, then blond hair into a bob -- colored it red. I liked the red. Sixteen years later, I'm loving the red. But now, life is truly busy. My colorist is in downtown and I'm on the Upper East Side. I just can't run next door to get my hair done. Time flies, schedules are off, and the next thing I know, it's been two months since I've been in.
And the mirror shows it.
If asked what my natural hair color is, I would always say blond. It started as blond then moved to that "dish water" blond, or dirty blond. My school pictures show the process. Until at sixteen, my hair looks as if I was trying to impersonate Joan Jett. On some level I was. Since then, when people ask what my natural hair color is, I tell people that my hair is blond, but has gotten darker with age.
No lying to myself about my hair color now. It's grey. Not the pretty, Betty White grey that looks great on a 90 year old woman. No, the grey like a street rat, grey. The grey that when you look at it looks, oily, stringy, witch-like. The grey that reminds me of my grandmother when she hadn't washed her beehive hair for a month.
I need my mother's little helper and fast. As God is my witness, may I never miss a hair color appointment again!
What a Drag it is Getting Old - Intro
How dare Mick Jagger have the nerve to sing this line at the ripe old age of 22. Did he think he wouldn't make it to 23? Considering his life style, it was a possibility. However, he is still rocking at 68, and people are still paying to see him do it. At 46, I'm starting to feel that "drag". I'm not needing the "Mother's Little Helper" as the song indicates, in the form of pills. However, this mother has found a few much needed "helpers" along the way to guide me through the journey of life.
For starters, all I have to do in the morning is look in the mirror to realize that I'm not exactly who I was at 22. I mean, 22 Mick ... 22 ... really? At 22, my biggest problem of the day was deciding what cute outfit would look the best, not which one would hide my stomach the best. Cuteness is an added bonus at this point in my life. But then I don't want to look "too cute", or like I'm trying "too hard". We all know those women, and swear will never be one -- fake tan, overly Botoxed, clothes from Forever 21. Then, 22 turns into 32, into 42, to "of a certain age, too."
Where is the line? What is the difference in aging, aging gracefully and looking like an urban scarecrow?
In the next few postings, I'm going to write about a few of my "helpers." I'm going to admit to them, and what I do about them. Don't be afraid, I won't use the names of any of my friends in these postings. You're all safe. Trust me, everyone believes you naturally look that way ... they do, really, don't worry.
For starters, all I have to do in the morning is look in the mirror to realize that I'm not exactly who I was at 22. I mean, 22 Mick ... 22 ... really? At 22, my biggest problem of the day was deciding what cute outfit would look the best, not which one would hide my stomach the best. Cuteness is an added bonus at this point in my life. But then I don't want to look "too cute", or like I'm trying "too hard". We all know those women, and swear will never be one -- fake tan, overly Botoxed, clothes from Forever 21. Then, 22 turns into 32, into 42, to "of a certain age, too."
Where is the line? What is the difference in aging, aging gracefully and looking like an urban scarecrow?
In the next few postings, I'm going to write about a few of my "helpers." I'm going to admit to them, and what I do about them. Don't be afraid, I won't use the names of any of my friends in these postings. You're all safe. Trust me, everyone believes you naturally look that way ... they do, really, don't worry.
Friday 13 January 2012
Red light, Green Light
When I went to pick KZ up from school yesterday, her teacher told me that KZ had a bit of a meltdown during their pattern matching game.
The teacher said the conversation went as follows:
"The pattern was red, yellow, red, yellow. KZ what should the next color should be?" the teacher said
"Green!" KZ said.
"No, KZ, it is red," the teacher said.
"No, it's green," KZ said.
"No, red," the teacher said.
KZ then started to cry and asked for her mommy.
I was running late to get KZ to music class, so really didn't think too hard about it as the teacher was telling me this. But as I rushed down the street, trying to make each green light as best as I could, it dawned on me, street lights are red, yellow, green.
When we got home from music, I asked KZ about the patterns.
"Mommy, that teacher was wrong. Green comes after red and yellow. I needed you there to explain it to her."
I just smiled.
"Yes, KZ, green does follow yellow on street lights. But in other places, like your school classroom, it doesn't have to. Your teacher was right, and so are you."
I wasn't sure how to explain to her that the teacher was right and wrong. I want her to respect her teacher, but I also loved that she was thinking independently and questioning at three and a half years old.
The teacher said the conversation went as follows:
"The pattern was red, yellow, red, yellow. KZ what should the next color should be?" the teacher said
"Green!" KZ said.
"No, KZ, it is red," the teacher said.
"No, it's green," KZ said.
"No, red," the teacher said.
KZ then started to cry and asked for her mommy.
I was running late to get KZ to music class, so really didn't think too hard about it as the teacher was telling me this. But as I rushed down the street, trying to make each green light as best as I could, it dawned on me, street lights are red, yellow, green.
When we got home from music, I asked KZ about the patterns.
"Mommy, that teacher was wrong. Green comes after red and yellow. I needed you there to explain it to her."
I just smiled.
"Yes, KZ, green does follow yellow on street lights. But in other places, like your school classroom, it doesn't have to. Your teacher was right, and so are you."
I wasn't sure how to explain to her that the teacher was right and wrong. I want her to respect her teacher, but I also loved that she was thinking independently and questioning at three and a half years old.
Welcome to Preschool in 2012
KZ started preschool as of late December. Her teacher had them line up boys and girls separately yesterday.
KZ got in the boys line.
"No KZ, you are a girl," her teacher said.
"No, I'm a boy," KZ said.
The teacher eventually got her in the girls' line.
Now we always call her a girl and treat her like a girl, but she acts like a boy in so many ways. She climbs everything, runs around constantly, and has no fear. The exception, she loves dresses and princesses.
When the teacher told me this story, my response was,
"Well, she just may be batting for the other team, like half my family."
The teacher looked shocked! Oh well! Welcome to preschool in 2012!
KZ got in the boys line.
"No KZ, you are a girl," her teacher said.
"No, I'm a boy," KZ said.
The teacher eventually got her in the girls' line.
Now we always call her a girl and treat her like a girl, but she acts like a boy in so many ways. She climbs everything, runs around constantly, and has no fear. The exception, she loves dresses and princesses.
When the teacher told me this story, my response was,
"Well, she just may be batting for the other team, like half my family."
The teacher looked shocked! Oh well! Welcome to preschool in 2012!
Wednesday 4 January 2012
Are You Smarter Than A 3.5 Year Old?
The Foods
"Mommy, look, foods," KZ said as she pointed out of the cab window as we sat at a red light.
Foods? I was looking out the window, but really didn't see any grocery stores or street vendors, which is odd on the Upper East Side.
"Foods, Mommy, foods. F ... O ... O ... D ... S ... foods!"
Than I saw it, big as day, practically in my face. There was a parked truck with the word "Foods" visible to KZ.
Yes, she was certainly seeing Foods. I was so proud.
The Present
"Mommy, is that a present for me?" KZ said.
I looked at the religious-neutral holiday wrapped gift on top of KZ's pram.
"No, Honey, it isn't for you," I said.
"Is it for Aviv?"
Now how does she know that it is for Aviv? Yes, it is for Aviv. Aviv is the name of the little boy she drew for her "Secret Santa". I'm not sure of all the politics in pre-school Secret-Santa-ing, but I was under the assumption that the gift was suppose to be from "Santa", not KZ. So, I played it cool.
"No, Honey. It isn't for Aviv."
"Then why does it say Aviv on the tag? See, A ... V ... I ... V ... Aviv?"
Busted ...
She looked at me like the prosecuting attorney on a trail for a major crime ... the crime of lying to your child.
"Why, yes, it does say Aviv, now doesn't it. I guess it is for Aviv."
KZ just looked at me for a long minute, then rolled her eyes and walked off.
I felt a bit embarrassed, but I was so proud.
The Hat
"Mommy! Help me with my bicycle hat, please!"
KZ had just been given a bicycle helmet from one of her best buddies, Chloe. That morning, at Chloe's apartment, they rode their bikes all through the hallways, laughing the entire time. I'm sure the neighbors on the floor enjoyed it as much as KZ and Chloe did. KZ didn't have a helmet, but Chloe had two. She gave KZ her spare to take home, which was wonderful. Now back at home, KZ wanted to ride her trike through our apartment, showing off her new hat.
"Ok, Sweetheart, Mommy will help you with your hat."
But I couldn't. I could not for the life of me get the buckle to close. I kept inspecting it with my "engineering degree" eyes, but came to the conclusion that it was broken.
"Honey, I think this got broke somehow on the way home in the cab. Mommy will have to buy you a new one."
Once again with the eyes rolling in annoyance, KZ took the helmet off her head, and clipped the safety buckle closed.
"See, Mommy, that's how it is done."
My husband sprayed his coffee across the counter at that moment. He was, unsuccessfully, trying not to laugh.
I was truly embarrassed, and, at the same moment, truly proud.
"Mommy, look, foods," KZ said as she pointed out of the cab window as we sat at a red light.
Foods? I was looking out the window, but really didn't see any grocery stores or street vendors, which is odd on the Upper East Side.
"Foods, Mommy, foods. F ... O ... O ... D ... S ... foods!"
Than I saw it, big as day, practically in my face. There was a parked truck with the word "Foods" visible to KZ.
Yes, she was certainly seeing Foods. I was so proud.
The Present
"Mommy, is that a present for me?" KZ said.
I looked at the religious-neutral holiday wrapped gift on top of KZ's pram.
"No, Honey, it isn't for you," I said.
"Is it for Aviv?"
Now how does she know that it is for Aviv? Yes, it is for Aviv. Aviv is the name of the little boy she drew for her "Secret Santa". I'm not sure of all the politics in pre-school Secret-Santa-ing, but I was under the assumption that the gift was suppose to be from "Santa", not KZ. So, I played it cool.
"No, Honey. It isn't for Aviv."
"Then why does it say Aviv on the tag? See, A ... V ... I ... V ... Aviv?"
Busted ...
She looked at me like the prosecuting attorney on a trail for a major crime ... the crime of lying to your child.
"Why, yes, it does say Aviv, now doesn't it. I guess it is for Aviv."
KZ just looked at me for a long minute, then rolled her eyes and walked off.
I felt a bit embarrassed, but I was so proud.
The Hat
"Mommy! Help me with my bicycle hat, please!"
KZ had just been given a bicycle helmet from one of her best buddies, Chloe. That morning, at Chloe's apartment, they rode their bikes all through the hallways, laughing the entire time. I'm sure the neighbors on the floor enjoyed it as much as KZ and Chloe did. KZ didn't have a helmet, but Chloe had two. She gave KZ her spare to take home, which was wonderful. Now back at home, KZ wanted to ride her trike through our apartment, showing off her new hat.
"Ok, Sweetheart, Mommy will help you with your hat."
But I couldn't. I could not for the life of me get the buckle to close. I kept inspecting it with my "engineering degree" eyes, but came to the conclusion that it was broken.
"Honey, I think this got broke somehow on the way home in the cab. Mommy will have to buy you a new one."
Once again with the eyes rolling in annoyance, KZ took the helmet off her head, and clipped the safety buckle closed.
"See, Mommy, that's how it is done."
My husband sprayed his coffee across the counter at that moment. He was, unsuccessfully, trying not to laugh.
I was truly embarrassed, and, at the same moment, truly proud.
I Guess It Really Didn't Feel Like Christmas In Our House
"But ... but ... (sob) ... but I only wanted you to have the best Christmas (sob) ever!" my mother said on the phone this year. Or shall I say, my mother sobbed on the phone this year.
"I did everything I could for you to have the perfect Christmas, everything! And this is how you repay me? You're depriving my granddaughter."
We didn't have a Christmas tree.
My mother loves Christmas. She loves Christmas so much that if you were to walk into her home anytime between the Friday after Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, you would be tripping over any and all variety of Santa Clause and his cronies made since 1963, the year my parents got married. This year alone, she had five Christmas trees. She only has three bedrooms, and two baths, but had to have five threes. Living in a cramped New York apartment, I don't even want to think were all her trees are stashed off season. If I had that much free space, I'd rent it out at over a $1,000 a sq. ft. vs. stuffing it with dusty has-been Santas.
But for my mother, nothing could be more rewarding than Christmas. Her decorating does not start before Thanksgiving, nor can a Christmas bobble be up past New Year's Day. You see, we were not White Trash. According to my mother, White Trash would have their decorations up into summer if they could, and a lot of times did. You know the type, you drive by in August and see the dirty lights still up. You don't know the type? I'll introduce you to some of my relatives. No holiday should have the decorations of another holiday exhibited, e.g. a Christmas light peeking it bright head out of a box on Thanksgiving.
Because of the militaristic way that my mother insisted that we have the perfect Christmas, the hell would begin early on Black Friday. I always thought it was called that because people had to decorate all day. I didn't even realize that people would go shopping on that day and have fun. When did they put up their decorations, Thanksgiving or before ... like White Trash? Or after Black Friday, and not enjoy the full extend of all that was meant of the holiday, oh sorry, Christmas season?
The joy of Christmas got lost on me. My mother may have had the perfect Christmas, but since I was never allowed to decorate with any of my homemade school ornaments ... we wouldn't want people to think we were poor and couldn't afford a store bought one ... I just felt as cold as the December Chicago air. THEN when I realized that my parents had been lying to me about Santa, well, that just put me in therapy for years with trust issues. My brother always caused some type of fight to try to get out of the work. When he was younger, it would be something like, "Tammy, hit me!", when I was standing on the other side of the room. When he was older, it was more like, "Mom, I gotta talk. I .. I want you to know ... I'm a drug addict." He wasn't an addict, unless it was to getting out of work. The yelling, screaming, and tears that went along with decorating, still ring in my ears and twist my gut. I swore that when I became an adult, I would not waste my time decorating for Christmas, or any other holiday.
Then this year came alone.
KZ was really getting into the holiday spirit at school. She was learning about Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, and Christmas. She made ornaments and pictures for all three. She sang songs for all the holiday celebrations and even some in Spanish! Her favorite song that she belted on on Christmas Eve in the middle of Fairway, our local grocery store, was for Kwanzaa. I'm not sure if Grandma Hoover would have approved, but KZ was having a blast, which is all that matters. KZ showed interest in Christmas trees, but Jeremy was totally against it.
"What? Next you'll be asking for a baby Jesus!" he said.
Ugh ...
So, instead I took KZ to Rock Center to see the tree. She adored it. She wanted another. So we walked up 6th Avenue stopping in lobby after lobby looking at Christmas trees until she said, "Mommy, let's go get some spaghetti."
On the actual eve and day of Christmas, we really didn't do much, except cook. And cook. And cook. We made a major English Christmas Dinner, complete with Yorkshire pudding (bread), but minus the Christmas pudding (dessert). He even made a wonderful lobster bisque. A fairly traditional Christmas dinner, made by a fairly traditional Jewish man. I was happy. KZ even ate all the Jack Daniels soaked cranberries.
There was no fighting, no drunkenness, no real boredom, and no family issues to speak of at all. Things were quiet, calm, and peaceful ... with a mountain of dishes, not a mountain of decorations, to put away afterwards.
I talked to a friend of mine several days later.
"How was your Christmas?" I said.
"Ok, you know. My family is really intense. My parents asked prying questions. My brother had issues. There was too much eating and way too much drinking. How was yours?"
"Nice, really nice. It was a nice weekend, but I didn't have to deal with all of that. I guess it really didn't feel like Christmas in our house."
"Yes, what's Christmas without the family drama," she said.
We both started laughing.
"I did everything I could for you to have the perfect Christmas, everything! And this is how you repay me? You're depriving my granddaughter."
We didn't have a Christmas tree.
My mother loves Christmas. She loves Christmas so much that if you were to walk into her home anytime between the Friday after Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, you would be tripping over any and all variety of Santa Clause and his cronies made since 1963, the year my parents got married. This year alone, she had five Christmas trees. She only has three bedrooms, and two baths, but had to have five threes. Living in a cramped New York apartment, I don't even want to think were all her trees are stashed off season. If I had that much free space, I'd rent it out at over a $1,000 a sq. ft. vs. stuffing it with dusty has-been Santas.
But for my mother, nothing could be more rewarding than Christmas. Her decorating does not start before Thanksgiving, nor can a Christmas bobble be up past New Year's Day. You see, we were not White Trash. According to my mother, White Trash would have their decorations up into summer if they could, and a lot of times did. You know the type, you drive by in August and see the dirty lights still up. You don't know the type? I'll introduce you to some of my relatives. No holiday should have the decorations of another holiday exhibited, e.g. a Christmas light peeking it bright head out of a box on Thanksgiving.
Because of the militaristic way that my mother insisted that we have the perfect Christmas, the hell would begin early on Black Friday. I always thought it was called that because people had to decorate all day. I didn't even realize that people would go shopping on that day and have fun. When did they put up their decorations, Thanksgiving or before ... like White Trash? Or after Black Friday, and not enjoy the full extend of all that was meant of the holiday, oh sorry, Christmas season?
The joy of Christmas got lost on me. My mother may have had the perfect Christmas, but since I was never allowed to decorate with any of my homemade school ornaments ... we wouldn't want people to think we were poor and couldn't afford a store bought one ... I just felt as cold as the December Chicago air. THEN when I realized that my parents had been lying to me about Santa, well, that just put me in therapy for years with trust issues. My brother always caused some type of fight to try to get out of the work. When he was younger, it would be something like, "Tammy, hit me!", when I was standing on the other side of the room. When he was older, it was more like, "Mom, I gotta talk. I .. I want you to know ... I'm a drug addict." He wasn't an addict, unless it was to getting out of work. The yelling, screaming, and tears that went along with decorating, still ring in my ears and twist my gut. I swore that when I became an adult, I would not waste my time decorating for Christmas, or any other holiday.
Then this year came alone.
KZ was really getting into the holiday spirit at school. She was learning about Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, and Christmas. She made ornaments and pictures for all three. She sang songs for all the holiday celebrations and even some in Spanish! Her favorite song that she belted on on Christmas Eve in the middle of Fairway, our local grocery store, was for Kwanzaa. I'm not sure if Grandma Hoover would have approved, but KZ was having a blast, which is all that matters. KZ showed interest in Christmas trees, but Jeremy was totally against it.
"What? Next you'll be asking for a baby Jesus!" he said.
Ugh ...
So, instead I took KZ to Rock Center to see the tree. She adored it. She wanted another. So we walked up 6th Avenue stopping in lobby after lobby looking at Christmas trees until she said, "Mommy, let's go get some spaghetti."
On the actual eve and day of Christmas, we really didn't do much, except cook. And cook. And cook. We made a major English Christmas Dinner, complete with Yorkshire pudding (bread), but minus the Christmas pudding (dessert). He even made a wonderful lobster bisque. A fairly traditional Christmas dinner, made by a fairly traditional Jewish man. I was happy. KZ even ate all the Jack Daniels soaked cranberries.
There was no fighting, no drunkenness, no real boredom, and no family issues to speak of at all. Things were quiet, calm, and peaceful ... with a mountain of dishes, not a mountain of decorations, to put away afterwards.
I talked to a friend of mine several days later.
"How was your Christmas?" I said.
"Ok, you know. My family is really intense. My parents asked prying questions. My brother had issues. There was too much eating and way too much drinking. How was yours?"
"Nice, really nice. It was a nice weekend, but I didn't have to deal with all of that. I guess it really didn't feel like Christmas in our house."
"Yes, what's Christmas without the family drama," she said.
We both started laughing.
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