Sweet Dreams

When I was little, I never knew when I was going to be able to fall asleep on Christmas Eve. I was told that Santa wouldn't come unless everyone was in bed, so I would close my eyes wishing myself into a slumber, but visions of sugar plums seemed far from my head.

Fatigue ultimately calmed the excitement whirling through my mind and I would eventually drift off. That's when the dreams would start; each one predicting a different version of the Christmas morning to come. The morning that my siblings got way more presents than me. The morning that I got all the wrong stuff. And the morning that Santa completely missed our house. Each dream would wake me with a start. Please don't let it be real, please ... phew ... still 3:00 AM. Now come on, go back to sleep.

A couple hours later, I was the first one up. I would patiently wait in my room, prepping my Molly doll for the feast of presents that was about to unfold. At a more decent hour, I would quietly summon my brother to join the waking ranks. Next we'd rouse my sister, and finally peak into my parents room, begging them to remove the vacuum cleaner that barred our way down the stairs and into fantasyland.

The splendor of our living room bedecked in Christmas regalia was heavenly. The big guy had come. This was the real deal. Savor every, last, perfectly wrapped present. Christmas morning and the festivities that followed always trumped whatever dreams my mind had concocted. Each Christmas was pure magic; some of the best childhood memories I own and absolute inspiration for the legacy I wish to leave my children.

***

My kids and in turn, Peter and I haven't been sleeping well recently. I'll blame Bobby's inability to sleep on his mysterious allergic reaction and all the trauma that went with it. I'll blame Mary's 1:00 AM panic attacks on the mixed up emotions and general over stimulation she's been feeling. And it's self explanatory why Peter and I just can't get a good night sleep.

Perhaps it was something more on Christmas Eve though. Perhaps after a day downtown, Mass and the party at Mimi and Opa's that followed, everyone was too amped up to sleep as soundly as I would have liked. Or perhaps they were having the same kind of dreams I had growing up, wondering what their Christmas Day experiences would bring.

I wonder if Mary dreamed about a doll house and the miniature family that lived inside; about new bows and fancy underwear; about collectible pop up books and a whole cast of Frozen figurines. I wonder if she dreamed about a Christmas Tree that grew and grew and grew until at last it filled the frame of its predecessor. I wonder if she dreamed about mice that stole Santa's cookies and the exterminator that fended them off. And I wonder if she dreamed about little sugar cookies that helped Bobby's medicine go down. With all the times that Bobby woke up in the middle of the night, I just hope he found a minute to dream about something.

Whatever Mary's visions of Christmas might have been leading up to the celebration we put on for our little family, I hope her expectations were met, and even exceeded. Judging by her stubborn plea to stay up later and later, unable to quit Christmas Day, I'm guessing it was better than the dream that had woken her up at 2:00 in the morning.

Despite the utter exhaustion I felt as I was trying to get Mary to sleep two nights ago, I didn't want the day to end either. It always goes too fast. I'd swear it was just another dream. But I have the photos and memories to show from it. And they are healthy, happy and adorable.

Lo. 

Joy, Joy, Joy

From elementary school through high school, I wore a uniform. At St. Edmund's, my grade school, we had casual wear: a knee length gray kilt, a collared white shirt, and a navy blazer. And we had formal wear: same unflattering gray kilt, knee socks, white oxford button down shirt, maroon tie, and to complete the look, a maroon blazer with our school's emblem sewed onto the lapel. Formal wear, also known as 'Chapel Uniform' was for that express purpose: regaled attendance of Thursday morning's non-denominational service.

Despite the formality, from uniform ensemble to the incense heavy procession in and out, Chapel was always fun. The songs, the words of wisdom from our chaplain, the scroll of commendations, and the announcement of who would be lead boy / girl that week were all uplifting. Students, regardless of their faith, looked forward to Chapel and the surprises it held all week.   

Not surprisingly, my favorite parts about the service were the songs and the booming organ accompaniment played by the revered Dr. Jenkins. Everyone had favorites: The Saints of God, Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones, and the Alma Mater, naturally. But there was one song you looked forward to singing all year. And I believe it was right around this time of year when it would affect the program.

It started ... 

I've got that Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy down in my heart

WHERE? 

Down in my heart. 

WHERE? 

Down in my heart. I've got that Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy down in my heart

WHERE? 

Down in my heart to stay. 

Then the next two verses would swap Joy, Joy, Joy with ... Love of God, Love of God then Peace that Passes Understanding ... THEN ... THE best part ...

And if the devil doesn't like it he can sit on a tack

(everyone, dressed in their formal wear, jump up in their pew) OUCH!

Sit on a tack

OUCH!

Sit on a tack. And if the devil doesn't like it he can sit on a tack 

OUCH!

Sit on a tack to stay. 

At Mass two Sundays ago, in between helping Mary color and replying to her request for snacks, I caught the gist of the second reading. And in it heard the lector say, 'the peace that surpasses understanding.'

No ... Really?

A couple minutes later, Father Bill was preaching about the difference between happiness and joy, God's love, and the utter contradiction of being a Christian, which is sadness. Despite Mary's plea to help her color and give her one more goldfish, I was on the edge of my seat, catching every word. Words that I needed to hear and words that sparked my memory of the aforementioned Chapel hymn. A couple hours later, I was singing it to Mary. And she was jumping out of her seat in the car during the last verse.  

***

Christmas seems to come with a uniform too. The Christmas tree glimmering in front of a big picture window, presents skirted underneath it. Snow and the men it molds. Fires, stockings, cookies and comfort food. Train rides to the North Pole, Santa, tears, and candy canes to sweeten them up. 

And our Christmas was looking very uniform until about a week ago. Tree was up, Mary was almost through her advent calendar, presents were piling up under the tree, menus were planned, and tickets for Mass were in hand. (Phew!)

However, on our way to a fancy Christmas party last weekend, we noticed Bobby had hives on his back. Thinking they would go away within 24 hours or so, we partied on. Later that night, we returned home to a baby making our house anything but silent. Throughout the weekend his condition worsened. The hives spread and confluenced, inflaming his entire body. His eye was almost swollen shut, his ears cartoonish, his hands almost immobile, his mom and dad worried to death. He saw the doctor several times, he was in the ER, he was on steroids, than a higher dose of steroids. The blame was shifted to the penicillin he had been taking for his ear infection, to the Christmas tree in our house, to Peter's home brew, to my Pine Sol, to the dust kicked up from our kitchen remodel.

Out went the tree. In came the meds. Out went Mommy, Daddy and Bobby for a night. In came Mimi to stay with Mary. Out went the fire and the garland that I was going to drape around it. Our trip downtown to see trees and lights and decorated dollhouses was converted to a visit to a specialist at Lurie Children's hospital. Happy Mommy turned to sad Mommy.

I didn't know what was killing me more, the fact that I didn't know what was wrong with Bobby and I was continuously thinking my next call would be 9-1-1. Or the fact that my little girl at home, counting down till Christmas was confused and worried about what was going on with her little buddy as she calls him. I kept my game face (mostly) on in front of her. We baked cookies, wrapped presents, and danced the Nutcracker. But my stomach was churning and my heart melting.

Bobby turned a corner though yesterday. The steroids really started working, the specialist confirmed his treatment path and reassured us that he would be okay. Bobby seems much more like himself and is sleeping (slightly) better. All signs point to a full recovery out of everyone.

So yes, this will go down as the Christmas out of uniform to remember. The Christmas of a Charlie Brown tree saved by steroids that might just end in the miracle of Tiny Tim (Bobby) walking. But it will be wrapped in the joy, love of God, and peace we all have down in our heart. The one thing Christmas should always have in the manger and under the tree.

Lo,

A very special thank you to Elfi Pahl who got us into the Lurie Children's Allergy Department on such short notice. The wonderful team at the Lurie Allergy Department yesterday. Our pediatricians. Dr. Opa. Eva. Mimi. And all of our family and friends who sent their care and prayers. Your support was invaluable.   

And to all parents at hospitals and Ronald McDonald Houses dealing with illness and injury far worse than Bobby's this Christmas, may the love of God and peace of Christ be in your heart during this difficult time. 

Reading from Gaudate Sunday

Brothers and sisters:
Rejoice in the Lord always.
I shall say it again: rejoice!
Your kindness should be known to all.
The Lord is near.
Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, 
by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, 
make your requests known to God.
Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding 

  will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. 

Wearing the (Red) Pants

There are countless things about being a parent that make the title tough. Life and its routine shift through the addition of tasks, reduction of sleep, escalated levels of anxiety and disappearance of time and space for just me.

Parenthood also has an uncanny effect on your understanding of Christmas. You can no longer be a passive believer that the magic of the holiday will effortlessly descend upon your house; rather, the seasonal sparkle suddenly falls on you. Joining the ranks of parenthood inherently means joining Santa's posse of elves: going undercover, knowing his secrets, and doing his ground work throughout December to deliver Christmas' promise to your kids.

I received my calling last year. Santa tapped me to put on his red pants and make Christmas merry for Mary. But with a nine month old, it was easy. Arguably, elfdom remained reasonably stress-free this year too as Mary was just learning what the hullabaloo was about.  But nonetheless, to create a believer, you have to go all out from the start.

From the Mass. And the ticket that admitted you and your family.  

To the tree(s).

And each of the shiny ornaments decorating it. 

From the meals and the hours of cooking, baking, and table making that define them.  

To the sweet treats on the rim of your saucer.

From the presents, wrapped in shiny paper.

To their hiding places.

From the guests who came from far and near. 

To the music that serenaded them.

From the costumes. 

To the staged photos that are supposed to document 48 hours of Christmas celebration ... The ones that I kept forgetting to take because I was so mesmerized by the animated expressions glowing from my little girl's face all week long. 

Staging Christmas for your family is exhausting - more work than I ever really understood growing up. And I can see how it will just keep getting more difficult as that magic is enhanced year by year. But if you're lucky, you'll have a helper. Or two, or three. One elf to pull the sled, a couple more cheering, and another elf who's always ready to capture the memory of an amazing Christmas, gone too fast. 

 

Lo.