Tradition

Two years ago, with the help my siblings, I put together a special present for my parents. It was a collection of twelve essays that spoke to our favorite holiday traditions - rituals that have been engrained within our understanding of the celebration of Christmas over the years. 

It was a fun exercise for my brother, sister and I, stirring memories as we chronicled a seasonal methodology that we each held very dear. From cookie baking, to carol singing; from trimming the tree to fish mongering at Wholey's; from registering the rare capacity crowd at Sacred Heart, to reveling in gift after gift from Santa, we each wrote about the special things that made Advent, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day unique in our household.

As I was writing my portion of essays though, and as I was reading them aloud to the family on Christmas morning, I wondered how the structured order of events and activities would change in the upcoming years. Between trade-offs from one side of the family to the other and new additions on the way, there were bound to be variations in our theme. 


This year, Peter and I traveled back to Pittsburgh for Christmas. And as I had expected, there were certainly some new wrinkles to our documented festivities.

We didn't fill a pew at Sacred Heart's 6:00 Mass; instead we ventured into the North Hills with the all the other Northern Suburbanites, and embraced a peanut gallery, standing room only view. I took the barefoot and pregnant cliche to heart and slipped off my patent leather Mary Janes as I nestled into my cozy place along the wall.

There was no candle light procession, but I was able to light a couple candles: one for Double G, and one for his great granddaughter, right under her namesake.

There were two new Christmas Eve chefs and a new dining table room table to gather around.

Stuffed fish was swapped out for succulent stuff beef, which along with potato and celery root gratin, green beans, and homemade bread made for a fantastic feast.  

There was a plate of cookies, but there was also a beautiful Buche de Noel.

There was a new chimney for Santa to slide down, and at the bottom would be some love from Lyla.

Back at my parent's house on Christmas morning, we found out that Santa apparently had bought and learned how to use a label maker. 

But many of the toys that he brought, were a little more old school.

The essay elocution was exchanged for more child friendly literature.

 Egg McMuffins were added to the tree.

And a new queen of fashion reigned while Mimi Maternity took a break.

  

My addition to the Christmas feasting was served at brunch. 

While the entertainment on Christmas Day did not disappoint. 

   

Why thank you ... thank you.

Some people graduated to the turkey-dressed adult table earlier than expected. 

 

  

Pigs flew.

And while our patriarch watched from heaven, he and Peter helped fill our glasses at the end of the night as the family toasted to the Dad and Grandpa that we miss so much.

While some of the formulas and prescriptions varied this year, the overarching theme of a successful Christmas celebration remained intact. That is, family; being surrounded by it; feeling a never-ending amount of warmth, generosity, and joy in their presence. And I'm willing to bet, that of all the things that Lyla will remember next year, it'll be the pure happiness that came from all the hugs, kisses and love that were shared on Christmas Day. 

Lo.

Christmas Strata Recipe 

Ingredients :
2 cups cubed stale Italian or French bread 
9 eggs
1 1/2 cups whole milk
1/2 cup cream
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
Salt, pepper
Polish pork sausage, casings removed
2 bags of spinach
1 package of crimini mushrooms, sliced
2 cups shredded Gruyere cheese.
9 slices of tomato


Directions:
Wilt spinach in a saute pan. Let cool, drain of water, and chop loosely.

Saute mushrooms until just tender in a little butter. Remove and set aside.

Brown pork sausage for about 7 minutes and set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, cream, nutmeg, salt and pepper. (I use about 1/2 teaspoon of salt.)

Butter the bottom and sides of a medium casserole dish. Spread bread cubes on the bottom of the dish. Evenly layer pork on top. Then mushrooms, spinach, and tomatoes. Sprinkle cheese evenly over the top. Then carefully, add the egg mixture across the whole casserole. Cover and place in the refrigerator for at least four hours, or overnight (which is preferred.)

Remove when ready and bake at 375 degrees for 45 minutes.

A Christmas Shower

The other side of early rising, is a very early bedtime. How early? Like geriatric early. There are mornings when coworkers will tell stories of absolute fatigue ... that they couldn't believe at 8:45, they just passed out on the couch. EIGHT FORTY FIVE. I nod my head. Feed their incredulity. Concur with just how much sleep they must have needed. But leave the fact that I generally turn in every night around the same time, if not earlier to myself. 

I've never shied away from an early bed time and a very calculated amount of sleep. My parents said lights out at 9:00 PM. Done. That was a hard boundary. Nothing made me more nervous growing up, than missing my bedtime and not getting enough sleep. Say, when my cousin, Meghan slept over and wanted to read an entire book in her characteristic, speed-reading ways right at 9:00. Terrible. Or at sleepovers with my friends when the clock was creeping toward 10:00 PM and there was still no mention of rolling out our sleeping bags. My temperature would rise.

Did I care about missing all that late-night stuff? Nah. The drunken antics, Harlem Globetrotting, and football player shenanigans that took place underneath my bedroom at the lacrosse house; whatever my Mom was howling at on television, my sister's late night flute concerts, the nail-biting finales to Notre Dame or Steeler games. I would just get the headlines in the morning. Bedtime was bedtime.

And when in bed, soundly tucked in, I hardly ever woke up. Only one thing could stir me: a bad dream especially later in life, when my teammates and I developed a shared reoccurring nightmare of being late to or not showing up with the right equipment for lacrosse practice, which would lead to endless conditioning sessions. Night. Mare. And there was only one thing that could make stirring, into a sleepless night. That is, the nightmare of a Christmas list gone awry. I would lay awake into the wee hours of the morning, listening for reindeer on the rooftop, sleigh bells, and Santa squeezing down our chimney, and when I was finally able to drift off to sleep, I would have bad dreams that Santa left me coal.

As I matured, and realized that Christmas would be just as merry even if I didn't get the pound puppy, American Girl doll, or new pair of shoes on my list, I was able to sleep quite soundly. And I was never sleep starved again ...

That is, until the latest pregnancy symptom shined its ugly face on me. For the past week, all the deep sleep stuff so characteristic of my personage disappeared. Which is only made more frustrating, by the fact that I married a sleeper even sounder than me.

Two nights ago, I found out that it gets worse when baby can't sleep either. I guess by combining some sort of innate pregnant woman insomnia with a little baby's first Christmas, even if it is in utero, you get a very sleepless night.
So when twas the night before our little baby's first shower.
When she would get present after present for a whole hour 
My baby started stirring, then so did I.
I couldn't get back to sleep as hard as I tried. 
Yes, the stockings were hung.
And St. Nicholas in the form of Aunts, cousins and girlfriends had come.
While my baby was doing the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies in my tummy.
I was rolling over and over again thinking, this is really crummy.

But ... the next day, when you are greeted at the door by two beautiful hostesses, nut rolls, rattle shaped cakes, friends, family, and a room full of presents to open, you rally. And suddenly, sleep or the lack thereof, is a non-issue.

And then when the wine-inspired diaper oracle speaks to you ...

You really rally. Because you realize that while dressing up a little baby in the cutest clothes, wrapping her in warm blankets and watching her stare up at her new windmill (no that's called a mobile, Lo ... oops) is going to be amazing, it will be all the thoughtfully composed moments that were written by every one in the room on a set of diapers that will make a the grogginess so worth it.  

It will be the games of itsy bitsy spider.

The marches down the stairs with Opa.

And the entrance of one more smiling face into the family picture next year. 

I think this whole not sleeping thing is because I just can't wait.

Lo.

A Timely Celebration

When a baby has nearly the same date as Jesus; and when you share time during the holidays with two sides of the family, Christmas is bound to come a little early.

Last night, it did. Nestled away at Schloss 440, a growing family, with two on the way, one who is oh, so close to making his debut and the other who is in need of two and a half more months of cook time, gathered to celebrate in style.

We wore our winter best. (Or whatever fit.) 

I played carols on Winona's Steinway.

While Jan wailed a couple on his trumpet.
Ellie played her loud, musical hat and added her own, 'ho ho ho's' to the melody line.

Trains went round the Christmas tree.
And rocking horses came to life.

Peggy gave a nod to Jess by preparing her stuffed flounder. 
As SGS made sure the rolls were fresh, not frozen.
Gifts were given and received.

One was played with all night.

Cups of tea eased flu symptoms while a mini glass of port eased seemingly eternal sobriety. 
The icing on the dark chocolate cake was pure peppermint delight thanks to baker and blogger, Sweetapolita.

Sorry, office. I failed again. There is only one piece left. (And sorry, it's mine.)

All toast after toast was made to a loving, lovely family.

While it's a little sad that Baum #2 is missing so many shiny presents this morning, I have a feeling that the kind of Christmas that comes a little early, also goes a little late. After all, the best gift won't be here till March 6. 

Lo. 

Gifting

Well, I've gone and done it: I came in over budget, and I went over board. But there is one beautiful display of shiny gold presents under our Christmas tree this morning.

For the past twelve months, I've been painstakingly frugal. The new house is one culprit; the fact that I can't find it in me to do high fashion the disservice of dressing for two is the other. I've been through X number of steps to wean myself off an innate addiction to purchasing new shoes and cocktail dresses. I've put Neiman Marcus lunch breaks on hold. We've been enjoying more humble entrees for dinner, and the wine budget, well that was cut when I saw the little plus sign. I haven't even gotten a hair cut since last February. And yes, it's looking bad.

So when the world called, emailed and jingled me to shop on Black Friday,  I caved. After all, it wasn't for me - it was for everyone else. What started as a one page outline, multiplied as I kept seeing the perfect thing for pick a family member, friend or nook in our house.

When I was done, no doner than done, I thought back on the pitiful birthday present that I got Peter and cushioned his Christmas a little more.

I still wasn't satisfied though. So last week, I picked a tag from the Giving Tree at Church and added a little boy named Jay to my list. He's just two, and he lives in one of the most vulnerable communities in Chicago. On the tag was his little wish list. There were no toys or games, electronics or sports equipment. All he wanted were clothes, underwear, and shoes. I got a little teary eyed as I tucked the tag into my purse.

I've been thinking about this little boy all week; what his Christmas Day will be like, what the New Year will bring ... if he'll succeed in school, make the team, go to college, raise a loving family, make a big impression in his community, and pick a little tag from the Giving Tree in his Church someday for another little boy.

I thought about him while picking out his little outfit at the mall on Tuesday, and then again when I returned to get him one more thing on Thursday. I thought about him while wrapping his gifts in shiny silver paper, tying them together with a big bow, and placing them under our tree. While I'm going to love seeing the surprise and gratitude that my gifts bring to the ones I love, it's Jay's reaction, even though I won't see it, that will give me the most joy on Christmas morning. I hope that the little jeans give him a confident swagger. I hope the flannel shirt keeps him warm. I hope the little robots on his underwear make him laugh. And I hope that Carmel, the teddy bear, provides him all the comfort, hugs and hope he needs at night. Above all, I pray that all the love and joy of the season find him and his family on Christmas Day. 

I think the disproportionate number of gifts for my nieces, soon to be nephew, and little Jay speak volumes. Christmas is at its best, when shared with children. They bring the magic back into the season, as it comes to life through their eyes, words and smiles. They make you believe again as well.

How someone could possibly extinguish, no annihilate the purest and sweetest part of Christmas as he did on Friday, just breaks my heart.    

Lo.

Laboring

At 5:30 PM, my Mom picked us up from Extended Day. At 6:30 we were shoveling plates of linguini with clam sauce in our mouths. And at 6:45, my Mom, still dressed in her power suit, and I were on our way back to my grade school to attend an after school meeting entitled, 'Becoming a Woman.' It was a mandatory mother-daughter session for all fourth graders at my school. The boys had to go to their own version of evening awkwardness in fifth grade - when they were a little more mature.

Mrs. Goetz, our hostess for the night, encouraged everyone to sit in the first three rows of the auditorium. I sat front and center; my Mom was to my right, my best friend Katy was to my left. The screen came down, I heard the projection machine warming up, Mrs. Goetz made some introductory remarks, and with that the audio visual part of the program started. About five minutes into the presentation, an enormous picture of the male anatomy filled the thirty foot screen. I turned to Katy, who had simultaneously turned to look at me, and we both started laughing hysterically while our moms shushed us into some semblance of maturity. The giggles didn't stop though. They were my uncontrollable form of embarrassment / discomfort / shock relief, aided only by the Giant Eagle chocolate chip cookies that Mrs. Goetz was passing around.

Besides opening our eyes to a topic that had previously been avoided in many of our households, the goal seemed to be to ease the minds of the one or two early bloomers in my class, and to let them know where Mrs. Goetz kept her secret stash of tampons. As a much later bloomer, my takeaway was to always look for solace in big cookies and laughter when presented with something as uncomfortable as a mammoth urethra. 

***

On Sunday, while watching in all its graphic glory, an Asian and a hillbilly with the worst stretch marks ever painfully expel babies from their bodies then receive bloody little bundles of joy on their chests, I had a flash back to my introductory course on womanhood. Except this time, there were no cookies and the visuals were so disturbing that I actually ended up closing my eyes through parts of the presentation.

I did find the chance here and there to giggle away the discomfort though. The awkward, note-taking, scientific question-asking partner (not husband, just partner) of the woman who came to class in her pajamas, and whose happy place was Branson, Missouri provided ample opportunity for stress relief. And thankfully Peter's commentary made the giggles turn to full on hysterics by the end of the class.

Honestly, despite the up close and personal shots of babies crowning, it was a very informative class and I feel a lot more confident, knowing what to expect. I also came away with many more valuable lessons than I did in the fourth grade:

1. Labor, and delivery for that matter, is definitely going to suck.  
2. Nurse, it's great that you keep the Popsicles in there, but why are you stocking your unit with my husband's favorite snack instead of mine? 
3. For the first time ever, I think I'm going to have control of the air waves, and show tunes will be blaring as my means of relaxation. H-e-l-l-o Dolly! 
4. I will make sure to go to the bathroom several times at home before going into 'transition' in the hospital. I refuse to be part of the soiling stat that they shared.
5. I'm thinking that I won't want to do all the paper work associated with getting an epidural, so that option might be out. 
6. I by no means want to see the baby actually leaving my body. And for that matter, I want Peter up by head the whole time.
7. It would be great if the doctor cleaned up the baby before putting it on my chest. 
8. I do not want to examine the placenta like it's a Morton's steak. I'm sure it's fine. 
9. I can do this.

When we were driving home through the icy rain, never did the staunch words of Auntie Mame ring more true in my ears. I most definitely needed a little Christmas. And now! So to take my mind off thoughts of the cute little girl bouncing around in my stomach having to come out from her secure hiding place someday, we put on Christmas records and finished decorating our house for the season.

I even got to open my first Christmas present. Straight from Seattle and her book signing tour, our friend, Jess, sent me her very own cookbook, Dishing Up Washington. We used it immediately.

I started feeling a lot better. But that evening, as Peter and I sat under the tree, looking up at the memories captured in our collection of ornaments, the twinkle of the tinsel, and the soft glow of the lights, Peter said, I wish she could see it.
Aw, I do too. 
Which means I'm going to have to push her out. But the pain will be so worth it.

Lo.

Recipes for simple baked chicken, roasted beans, and carrots can be found in Jess Thomson's new cookbook, 'Dishing Up Washington.'