All I Want for Christmas is You

When I was in sixth grade, I asked Santa for a CD player for Christmas. Compact Discs were all the rage. Players were finally being mass produced. I couldn't wait for the elves to manufacture and red-sleigh ship mine. 

On Christmas morning 1993, there it was: a big rectangular box, the letters S-O-N-Y revealed under Santa's signature wrapping paper, two big speakers, a cassette player, AM/FM radio with such a sleek little antenna, and there on top, the open button that magically unveiled the mechanism to spin a shiny, beautiful, little futuristic record. 

And wait, what was that? Those, I should say. Three more little gifts to open. Ah, my first CDs: Mariah Carey's Music Box, Barbara Streisand Back to Broadway, and Julie Andrews Christmas Treasure. A perfect summarization of my unrefined music tastes then and now.  

I tried Julie Andrews first; it was Christmas after all. I ripped the cellophane off the case, which was difficult with my chewed up nails. It wouldn't open still. Come on. But then, ah, I noticed little round stickers on each edge. I removed those as well, also difficult without proper nails, and finally cracked it open ... wow, awesome. I carefully popped the CD out of the case, and placed it into the machine, everyone gathering around to witness how it was done. I closed the lid. Pressed play. And watched the disc spin from outside the oculus as a little humming sound whirred through the air. Magic. And there she was - Julie Andrews - her voice as sweet as Mary Poppins. I remember my Dad commenting on the clarity of the sound as my brother and sister calculated the days till next Christmas when they could ask for their own boom boxes. 

The following Christmas season, for St. Nick's Day, I received Mariah Carey's Christmas album - a compilation where every song seemed better than the next with perhaps one exception that could be deemed best of all. All I Want for Christmas is You. My siblings and I played that one over and over on my CD player, dancing through the kitchen, stirring the dough of our Christmas cookies to the beat, running back to the pantry to press the repeat button as soon as it ended. Classic 1990s. While the meaning of the song was lost on a girl who still had a long list for Santa, the melody captured me and perhaps over the years the unselfish sentiment started to rub off. 

***

Fast forward 25 years or so, and my kids have been telling Siri to play Mariah's Carey's All I want for Christmas is You all December. They love dancing to it, but in this crazy Pandemic year, I think they are drawn to it for reasons other than its catchy beat. 

Christmas was another holiday we spent alone this year. And perhaps because the season carries so many moments and memories of togetherness, the loneliness was more apparent. 

I think the kids felt it as well. A couple weeks ago, I asked Mary what she wanted for Christmas. She hadn't written a letter to Santa yet, hadn't trusted me with her secret wish list, and even at this prompting, she remained stumped. She said she would let Santa pick a gift for her. Surprise her. 

She stopped. No paused. I could tell there was something more, so I waited, ready to listen. 

'What I really want is Mimi,' she said. 

My heart broke and I didn't know what to say. 'We all miss her' came out, but I questioned if that was the right way to respond.

I thought of all the people I wanted to see too - those I miss, along with Mimi. I gave Mary a hug, wondering if that was anywhere near enough to empathize with how she was feeling. 

This year has had so many holes in it - whether you lost loved ones or just lost moments with them - experiences that you can't get back. And the holidays make those gaps more noticeable. An empty chair, a leaf of the table you don't need, a downsized menu, and for us, an extra hand to help with the magic making - someone to hold the babies, take Margaret for a walk, run around the yard with Bobby to drain some of his energy, or give Mary the extra hugs she needs because she is missing so many. 

Despite the gaps, we did it. As much as we could, we held on to traditions. We cooked and baked the food that carries the holiday feels. I set the table and ironed the Christmas linens. We lit candles and the fire place. Santa flew into town, leaving footprints by our fireplace. But it wasn't easy and behind the scenes, I felt like I could crack at anytime. 

Around 5:00 PM on Christmas Eve, as I took out all the seafood I had bought, the thought of an elegant little feast of seven fishes seeming crazier and crazier by the second, I stifled a tear or two that were ready to disturb my quiet calm. I was cooking for the two of us basically. There were babies crying, a kid needed help with the potty, one wanted another glass of lemonade, a movie got turned off, the subdued desire to open every present under the tree threatened mutiny, a thought that we should be at Mass right now surfaced, and there I was, thinking I was going to sauté squid tentacles in peace. The next tear got heavier, and I thought it would land, but I stopped it. I stopped myself. How ridiculous of me. How blessed we are. How fortunate. Stop thinking. Stop. Stop.  

I finished stuffing the calamari, ran upstairs, put on my lipstick, got the camera and starting taking pictures. Documenting a special Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Gathering photos to remember that despite being just us, we have us. And that was all we really needed. 

           

But still ... all I want for Christmas next year is you. And you, and you, and you. Your whole face. Without a mask. And without the fear of catching or spreading this terrible virus. 

Until then, I'll keep humming there's no place like home for the holidays. 

Lo. 

   

Around our Table

Last Sunday, I did the grocery shopping for Thanksgiving. I knew the store would get more crowded later in the week, and in light of Covid I only wanted to make one trip. 

The checkout lady, examining the contents of my cart asked if I was cooking Thanksgiving dinner. 

'Yes I am,' I enthusiastically replied.  

'Well, good luck,' she said. 

It must have been a question and answer on repeat this year - a different form of check out line banter giving the sales people a chuckle. All too many awe-struck women and men passing through, trying to decipher what they were going to do with the contents of their cart when they got home. Here we go again. Another experience, chore, and potential disaster to add to this abnormal year. 

I took the woman's well wishes in stride. Luck? I didn't need luck. I had my Grandma Fischer's recipes, my Dad a quick call away, and my detail oriented husband by my side. We would surely be successful in our dinner preparation. 

I started cooking on Wednesday morning, in lock step with the processes and patterns my Dad was executing in Pittsburgh. Boiling and stirring the cranberries, running them through a sieve, then reheating the juices until it thickened enough to put in the mold. I made Pumpkin Pie and cranberry bread with the kids. I coaxed the neck and giblets out of our still slightly frozen fourteen pound turkey while simultaneously holding back vomit from pure disgust at what I was doing. I chopped celery and onions, made some already stale bread staler, and then simmered the aforementioned, and apparently edible, turkey parts as the base for gravy. 

On Thursday, I tossed the bread, vegetables and stock together, stuffed the bird, baked and basted, baked and basted, baked and basted; I said a little prayer as I removed the jelly from the mold and shouted halleluiah as it finally slid out; I peeled and mashed potatoes, made the corn bread, and set the table with our good china and linens. 

In my experience behind the stove, there are some dinners that just seem to click. When everything miraculously goes right. This was one of them. I smiled with pride as we sat down to eat a beautiful feast.

What happened next can best be described by Peter's statement, 'who knew the hardest part of dinner would be eating it.' There was a fight over who lead the prayer and a fight over who went first giving thanks. Mary filled up her plate but didn't like or eat most of it. Bobby said he wanted meat, not turkey. Margaret put her feet, tap shoes and all up on the table. The babies cried and cried. And five minutes later everyone was asking for ice cream. I gave everyone a better behavior speech and dismissed the kids to the basement until Peter and I finished.  

Despite the dinner table chaos, the food was great, the champagne even better, and seeing Peter joyfully fill up his plate three times made it worth the effort.

***

After the argument over who went first, we did end up sharing the words of gratitude that Mary made us write on pieces of paper in her hand crafted 'thankful cup.' 

Peter pulled his out and said he was thankful for the twins and the big helpers we have: Mary, Bobby and Margaret.

I said I was thankful for my kids' school and coming off of stellar first trimester report cards, all the progress they were making.  

Mary and Bobby both expressed thanks for their mom and dad while Margaret drew a square, surely representing something, but she wasn't around to defend herself when her piece of paper was drawn.

There were a couple others, but these are the ones I remember. 

While I contributed one thing, my appreciation this year goes much further. 

I'm thankful for the help we've had over the past two months, including visitors who braved the Covid cooties in Ohio, Indiana and Illinois just to hold a baby and offer me another hour of sleep. 

I'm thankful for my job, my company and the gift of maternity leave. 

I'm thankful for the roof over our heads and a yard big enough to contain the energy of my children. 

I'm thankful for our health. 

I'm thankful for my family ... 

for my friends ...

 

and perhaps most importantly my faith and the ability to practice it again.  

I'm truly thankful for this year. Despite the loss we've all felt, no matter what depth or dimension, I think it's brought forward our humanity in a novel and necessary way. It's exposed our frailty, our failings, and some of our greatest fears. But in the face of it, we've experienced ingenuity, resilience and compassion. It's a year that could bring us together in a way we never have before ... when and if we choose to accept that path forward. 

Lo. 

             

Slimer

My kids start discussing Halloween costumes months before the holiday. Generally, I prompt the debate with suggestions on a theme. They were super heroes one year, Greasers another, Robin Hood and Tinker Bell before that. But my persuasive power is waning. They've become too independent for my off the wall ideas. Instead, they flip flop back and forth on more personalized choices each week leading up to Halloween. I tend to order their final selection as close to the holiday as possible to prevent a change of heart at the last minute. 

This year, Bobby was the most indecisive. He originally was set on being something scary. He had visions of a skeleton, then a bloody vampire, then a frightening Frankenstein. But the options for skeleton weren't scary enough, vampires required too much crafting and make-up and he distrusted my ability to deliver, and Frankenstein bordered on babyish. His words, not mine. He finally chose an inflatable, electric green Slimer costume ... 'but only if Dad goes as a Ghostbuster.' Okay. Ordered. And there's no backing out now. 

My parents were in town when the costumes arrived. The kids dug into the Costume Express box, claimed their characters, and immediately put them on to parade around the house. Bobby was the clear favorite, and we laughed and laughed as Peter came down in his adult Ghostbuster costume to match his little sidekick. I couldn't wait to take pictures on Halloween.

On the 31st, as fate would have it, Bobby decided he didn't want to be a big green blob anymore. Instead he wanted to go as his two-year old self, good old Super Man. The costume was snug to say the least, but he argued that he could see better and run faster in it. Fair points. But I spent $50 on Slimer, buddy, come on! 

No dice. He was suited up and not looking back. 

So instead of the perfectly planned, theme-oriented cast of characters that I envisioned that evening, I found Rapunzel, Hermione, a too-tight Super Man, a Ghostbuster, Ketchup and Mustard. A motley crew, but a happy one. 

Halloween felt normal. And everyone that I talked to said the same. It was an almost eerie reminder of what life was like before the pandemic. It was refreshing: to focus on trivial fights over costume selections, to decorate the house, to see the kids run off with their dad collecting candy, to experience the sugar high and bed time low of Halloween, to celebrate like we always have and photograph the memories. It felt like the world was in order. 

But if Halloween was defined as normal, Thanksgiving will be characterized as abnormal. 

As the virus spreads, allegedly propelled by Halloween parties, the CDC has said not to travel. So we aren't going to Pittsburgh. And for the first time ever, I won't spend a holiday with my family in a given year. 

In my state, we are encouraged to only dine with those in our household, or to keep the celebration size to six people. We have seven under this roof, so Slimer might have to eat outside. Just kidding, buddy. 

To that end, the officials advise to eat outside if you can. In the upper midwest, that is typically not an option in late November. 

My Grandma's heirloom recipes call for a 14 or 15 pound bird I think. With only five of us eating the solid part of dinner, I'll need to pare down the portions.  

The restaurants and bars are closed, so no Thanksgiving eve revelries.  

There is a telecast of a virtual Macy's Day parade. I don't even know what that means. 

And while I have my reservation for Mass on Thursday, I'm praying they don't close the churches by then. 

This litany of change is what the world is focused on. The new abnormal. The departure from the familiar. The differences, inconveniences and sacrifices. But similar to how we got through Easter, I've been reflecting on the good that has come from the pandemic inspired shifts. Perhaps the normalcy we all miss needed a change. 

For example, don't you wonder how you ever ate a piece of cake after it was blown all over? Or took M&Ms from the communal dish at work that you know was handled by unwashed hands. The prescription of public health measures in our society is long over due. I actually feel like we might not get sick this fall - and we always get sick in the fall. And winter. And spring. 

I've found that people have learned to cope with humor more than ever. And the stuff going around online is hysterical. 

I've never talked to my high school and college friends as much - even though it's not in person, we've made efforts to call each other, zoom and text like we never have before. 

I've also gotten closer with my community and the families in our neighborhood - the friendly faces on my walks make my day. 

Working from home, prior to my maternity leave, made me more productive on the job and at home. 

Smaller gatherings have replaced chaos with intimacy. 

And I've appreciated the blessings of an open school and church in an unimaginable way. I can't thank our teachers and Parish staff enough. 

So basically, I think Bobby was onto something the moment he said he didn't want to be Slimer for Halloween. He was tired of being slimed this year. Instead he reached for something super. Because in this pandemic, we need more heroes, less Slimers, more smiles.  

Lo. 

  

Momercise

After two or three weeks worrying about the size and corresponding survival of my babies, a period of time when they slept more than ate, the twins decided to wake up. 

And eat. 

And eat. 

And eat. 

Which meant Peter and I lost the ability to sleep. And sleep. And sleep. 

There were nights, when we were feeding babies at 8:00 PM, 9:00, 10:30, 12:00, 1:00 ... you get the point. Round the clock. If one was sleeping, the other was eating. And just as I would settle back into bed, the other would wake up, grunt, poop, and want to eat more. Then I'd pump, do dishes, and try to go back to sleep, only to start the cycle again. 

The portrait of marital love and devotion became Peter and I, sitting side by side on the love seat in the nursery, heads back, eyes closed, bottle feeding and burping babies with the slightly soured smell of spit up misting the air.  

While the idea of napping with the babies is great, it becomes difficult with three other kids who want their activities to carry on: the soccer games, bike rides, school pictures, homework, block parties, playdates, dance classes, piano lessons, and of course pumpkin picking all vying for your attention.

 

 

(But I've got to say, in return, the three older ones have become great helpers.)

So I find sleep where I can. My body has a newfound ability to go into REM sleep for the 15 to 30 minute stretches I can afford. I've also been sleeping in a bit, going against the title of this blog. And I've frequently chosen sleep over exercise. 

I ask myself though, do I really need it given the hustle of mom life? There's a reason my grandma, a mother of eight, stayed so trim without a daily exercise regimen. Running after multiple children and keeping the house in order all day is definitely a work out. 

To illustrate, I've put together this 10-circuit 90-minute full body work out that starts at 6:30 AM for me. (yes, I consider that sleeping in.)  

Circuit 1: Arms and boobs: Arm raises holding four once bottles for fifteen minutes while pumping. 

Circuit 2: More arms and a little back. Burp babies, change babies, lay them back down. Repeat until everyone stops fussing.  

Circuit 3: Legs. Down the stairs, make coffee. Up the stairs, put a pacifier in. Down the stairs, set out breakfast, pack lunches. Up the stairs, Bobby can't find his sporty pants. Down the stairs, Margaret needs someone to sit with, draw face on Pumpkin and put next to her. Up the stairs, Mary doesn't want to wear tights, look through drawers for leggings. All the way down to basement, get laundry out of dryer, find sporty pants and leggings. Up the stairs, someone needs milk. Up the stairs again, finish getting Mary and Bobby dressed. Put a pacifier in. Down the stairs and breath. 

Circuit 4. Legs. Repeat above cause something obviously went wrong. 

Circuit 5. Dehydrate. Sip already cold cup of coffee. Energize. Eat a handful of Cheerios. 

Circuit 6. Full body. Wrestle Margaret out of her dance costume and into something she can wear to school. She doesn't like what you picked out. Repeat. 

Circuit 7. Back. Pull overflowing garbage bag of diapers out of pale and lug outside. 

Circuit 8. Abs. On hands and knees, scrub off jelly that has fallen on floor, been stepped in and then been smeared around the first floor on a pair of someone's tennis shoes. 

Circuit 9. Sprints. Up and down the stairs three more times because Bobby forgot his socks, Mary forgot her text book, and then Margaret forgot her purse, which you argue she doesn't need, wasting five valuable minutes of your morning.  

Circuit 10. Cool down. Lunches in back packs, fill water bottles, hugs, kisses, hoist children into mega automobile. 

And done. Breath.  

With all this said, something clicked this past weekend for the babies. They started to sleep 4-5 hours at a time and wake up in sync to eat. Peter and I slept. It was glorious. 

That same svelte Grandma that I mentioned used to say, 'this too shall pass.' In the moment, when you are suffering the tortuous pangs of not sleeping, it seems like it never will. That frustration will get the better of you. You cling to the invaluable help that you have, and remind yourself again that the moment is fleeting. 

 

The moment passed this weekend. And as it did, I went for a run.  

Lo.