Things I'm Learning - The Whole Santa Deal

Christmas always blindsides me.

Here's the thing: I grew up in a home that did not celebrate Christmas, ever. We weren't Christian, we didn't celebrate Christian holidays. So for us it was just another day. No decorating, no gift-giving, no giant meal with family, no nothing.

This is not a pity party. We never had it, so I didn't miss it.

The first time I celebrated Christmas was in my mid-twenties. I was in my first serious relationship, and his family did Christmas. I went into Margaret Meade mode, nodded and smiled, and surreptitiously took notes. Christmas Eve, okay, got it. Christmas morning, oh, okay, I did not know that. Christmas Dinner, what the hell are these cracker things? And done.

Okay, good. I had a Christmas under my belt, and now I had it all figured out. I knew how to "do" Christmas. Wahoo. Check that off on the life list, I've got this shit wired. High fives for all my friends!

Here's what nobody tells you when you're on the outside looking in: Christmas is different for every family. There is no one way to do Christmas, and the traditions can vary pretty widely. The next boyfriend's family did things totally differently. I didn't know what was going on at all!

When HWSNBN and I started dating, I was experienced enough to know that I didn't know anything, so for the first year I sat and watched from the side lines. It's more or less the same every year: Christmas Eve at this cousin's house, Christmas morning with immediate family who aren't out of town with in-laws, Christmas dinner with extended family and close friends. Some visiting of elders between Christmas and New Year's. Okay. Ten years later, I'm pretty dialed in to the whole thing.

HWSNBN and I have never gone crazy at Christmas. In ten years I think we've had two Christmas trees. On alternate Christmases (my Christmases, which my family doesn't celebrate) we go away, usually to Paris, because in my heart of hearts that's where I actually live. Every year we agree not to get anything for each other for Christmas, and every year HWSNBN breaks the deal and I can't quite get mad at him for it, so I bake him a blueberry pie as a gift. Easy, right?

But having a kid? Changes everything.

Suddenly there's letting people know what The Imp would like for Christmas, there are children's Christmas parties, there are events at daycare, and there is Santa. I don't know from Santa. I'm totally baffled by the whole notion of Santa, frankly, and wonder how any of you that grew up with this mythical, magical figure could ever trust your parents again once you found out it was all a big lie. So rather than get it wrong, I have deferred all Santa dealings to HWSNBN. He's had an easy time of it so far, since with the exception of five minutes on the guy's lap every year, The Imp's been blissfully unaware of this whole fat-guy-gives-you-presents deal. But this year he knows there's a Santa - he must've heard about it from the kids at daycare. I have to admit, this makes me a little uneasy.

The Imp's first Christmas. Life was easier before he could talk.

I'm still determined to let HWSNBN handle this, but I feel like I should maybe know some background on this shady character. So please help me? Tell me what you tell your kids about Santa? Because I was the five year old that made all the kindergarten kids cry when I went to school and told them, "My mom says there's no such thing as Santa!" I don't think that's going to be the best way to approach this, somehow.

Halp!

Things I'm Learning - Let it Snow

This morning, there was snow.

Allow me to give you some background: I was born and raised in the Yukon. I know all about snow. I have walked in it, I have waded through it when it was hip deep. I have shoveled it, I have skidooed through it, I have played vigorous games wherein one person "washes" another (unsuspecting) person's face with it. As a teenager, I ran with friends through foresty hometown shortcuts when it had been snowing long enough to accumulate on the trees, and used my fist and forearm to whack tree trunks as I ran by, leaving my friends to get caught in the mini-avalanches behind me as snow slid off heavily laden branches.

I know from snow, and I spent twenty years in the territory, enduring it more months of the year than not.

I do not like snow.

When we go to Whistler, I get a pedicure while HWSNBN hits the slopes. I have tried skiing, and I was so bad at it I got pity lessons from an instructor on his day off when I was sixteen. He was French, and even though skiing sounds more charming in French (chasse-neige!), I still can't do it without both physical and emotional scarring. I have tried snowboarding, but I was so bad at that, that by the end of the day I was manipulating my falling body to land on my chest on purpose because it was the only part of me not bruised into agonized submission. I have cross country skied (I was not good at that either), and I have snowshoed (none of your fancy city snowshoes, either, mine were bent wood and animal parts and moose-hide laces).

I especially don't like snow in Vancouver, because almost no one knows how to drive in it, and a few inches of the white stuff can lead to some pretty spectacular clusterfucks on my city's streets.

So when I looked out the window at 7:00 this morning to see snow falling past our 21st floor windows, I was decidedly not amused.

I woke HWSNBN to let him know that I was going to take the car to my early exercise class because it was snowing. At that exact moment, The Imp came blinking into the dim light of our room, and came fully awake justlikethat.

The Imp: "It's snowing?"
Me, disgusted: "Yes, it's snowing outside."
The Imp, excited: "It's snowing?! I want to see!!"
Me, still not impressed: "Well then, go look out a window."

The Imp ran to our dining room window and pressed his nose against the glass. Inches away, big puffy flakes drifted lazily past him. He actually clapped, and started jumping up and down.

The Imp, turning to look at me, beaming: "Yay! This means we can build a snowman! Yay!!"

That gave me pause. To The Imp, a Vancouver-born child of three, snow's not something to be endured; it's a thing of myth and legend. It happens rarely, and it's cause for celebration.

Me, putting on my game face: "Yes, honey. That means we can build a snowman."

I went off to my class, and the boys got up and had breakfast. By the time I returned an hour and a half later, the skies had cleared. And much to The Imp's chagrin, it had warmed up enough outside that any snow on the ground when I left had already melted away.

My snow-hating self was given a reprieve.

Two things:

1) It is way too easy to pass our biases on to our kids without even realizing it - with a smidgen less self-awareness, I would have obliviously squashed all The Imp's joy this morning. That's something to think about.

2) I need to buy The Imp some mittens. Next time it snows, I'm blowing off the exercise class.

The Imp in the snow, November 2010, almost exactly a year ago

Things I've Learned - Holiday Flotsam and Jetsam

Bits and pieces I've picked up along the way:

1) All that fretting about what to do with an almost three year old in Hawaii? For naught.

Our day goes something like this:
7am: wake up. Imp starts demanding we go to the beach.
8am: breakfast
9-10:30am: into the pool, out of the pool, back into the pool, out of the pool
10:30am: snack
10:45-noon: into the ocean, out of the ocean, back into the ocean
12pm: lunch
12:30-3:30pm: into the ocean, out of the ocean, back into the ocean, out of the ocean
3:30pm: ice cream for us/sorbet for The Imp
3:45-5pm: into the pool, out of the pool, back into the pool, out of the pool
5pm: clean up for 5:30pm: dinner
6:30pm: into the ocean, out of the ocean
7:30pm: bath, story
8pm: bed

Weather permitting, all other variables indicate that today, and every day that follows, will be a case of lather, rinse, repeat.

The Imp getting his surf on at Waikiki beach

2) When I was first in Oahu without my parents, over twenty years ago, I had the carefully crafted attitude only a 19 year old can carry off. I didn't want to go to any of the "touristy" spots, like Waikiki Beach. My aunt, who's now lived here over 40 years, told me, "Don't be an idiot. The reason the tourists all go to Waikiki Beach is because it's one of the best beaches on the island." She's totally right. We've had perfect weather every single day. The waves are gentle enough for The Imp to run through, high enough for it to be exciting when they wash over him. There are other spots on Oahu I love too, but we could do a lot worse than to spend every day here.


3) Before we booked our trip, we debated getting a condo vs a hotel room. In the end, we opted for the hotel - and I'm glad we did. The reasons for getting a condo made sense: with The Imp's dairy allergy we could be sure of what he was eating, we'd save some money compared to restaurant meals, we'd have laundry facilities handy. But when I think about all the pros, the big con is this: shopping for groceries, cooking, and doing laundry don't sound much like a holiday. It sounds like being home, but with palm trees and air conditioning. Staying in a hotel makes it a true vacation. Plus they bring you slushy drinks as you lay around the pool. How awesome is that?


4) The problem with shopping after you've been here a few days is that big bold floral prints start to seem like a good idea. See also: ukuleles, surfboards, and Wyland. (Except I'm just kidding about the Wyland thing. That never seems like a good idea.)

New sandals, in dire need of a pedicure

5) Being a non-drinker, I feel totally justified in spending money on shoes. What I've spent on our holiday to date is only about half of what HWSNBN has consumed in mai tais at $11 a pop.

6) If you bring more than one bathing suit, one top, one skirt, and one pair of flip-flops, you've totally overpacked.

7) My favourite lip gloss is $5 cheaper at Macy's in Waikiki than it is at home.

8) Despite the proliferation of Australian, Canadian, and various European accents I hear around me every day on the beach, Hawaiian tourism seems to still have a lot of eggs in the Japanese basket. I wonder what effect the whole radiation/earthquake/tsunami hit to the Japanese economy will have on that.

My boys, kickin' it poolside

9) Seeing The Imp and HWSNBN play together in the pool and on the beach makes my heart sing out loud.

And most importantly:

Robot voice: "It is a biohazard."

10) The cost of a slightly used, slightly peed upon king size hotel duvet is $127 and change.

Things I'm Learning - Living Fearlessly

I have always hugely admired and deeply envied those who live fearlessly. Or appear to live fearlessly - perception, after all, is everything. I've often looked at friends who just jump in to new experiences as if they were exhibits in a science museum; an interesting diorama on the life cycle and thought processes of a new species, a rare specimen to be dissected and understood. (Metaphorically speaking, of course. I've never actually cut any of my friends open to check out their spleens or anything. Hey, where are you going? It's just a little scalpel, it won't hurt a bit!)

Without realizing it, I have sought these people out, The Fearless Ones who take chances, strivers who reach higher, and artists who aren't stifled by the opinions of others. I've surrounded myself with them as if their courage might rub off on me, as if I might be accepted as an apprentice, as a member of the tribe. And I've always felt like a bit of an imposter.

A few years ago, I was telling HWSNBN about a friend of mine, who after working in her chosen field for years, chucked it all and started over again, doing something completely different. She threw herself into her new pursuit with abandon, and was quickly quite successful. I mentioned how envious I was of that kind of daring, how I yearned for that, how I wished I possessed it myself.

At the exact same time, I was going through a career change myself. I was leaving the film industry after 12 years, after working really hard to be one of the best Second Assistant Directors in the city. I was going to work for a property development and management company - a field I had precisely zero experience in and knew next to nothing about.

HWSNBN looked at me like I was really not-clever. "Um. Why do you think she's brave and you're not?" he asked. "You're doing the exact same thing."

Duh.

The courage to be myself. Skagit Valley Tulip Festival, 2000

Perception really is everything. If I look at my life objectively, I've taken lots of chances. I've leapt in, figured things out on the fly, and gotten things done. My high school English teacher, who I adored then and still adore now, (and hi, just figured out is on twitter) told me she used to read my letters to her students, to prove that you could aim higher, that you could dream big, no matter if you're from a small town in the remote north. I, me, I was held up as an example of fearlessness to others.

In the last three years, I've run a tech startup (another industry I knew nothing about until I jumped in to the job), become a parent (and anyone who is a parent will attest that you know nothing about that job until you're thrust into it) and started my own business (again in an industry I love but in which I have no educational background or practical experience.)

So there's some fearlessness there. Right? Why do I need other people to point it out to me? Why can't I see it in myself, and celebrate it? Why do I discount my own accomplishments while envying those of others?


Here's what I've learned so far: everyone deals with fear at least some of the time. Those who appear fearless are usually struggling with the same obstacles as everyone else. They just have more practice, or a better game face, or have somehow managed to shut the voice in their head up long enough to actually get things done.

I don't have all the answers yet. I probably never will, and that's okay. But I'm determined to keep working on it.

And more importantly, I'm determined to pass on whatever I learn to The Imp.

Things I'm Learning - Hallowe'en Edition

I grew up in a family that didn't celebrate Hallowe'en. As kids we dressed in costume for school events, but we never went trick or treating or were given pillow cases full of candy. So like most of the other beloved traditions of mainstream childhood (we also didn't sit on Santa's lap or have Easter egg hunts) I edge up to these events in Margaret Meade mode: observe the actions of the tribe and try not to be too obtrusive or obviously out of place. HWSNBN has a very standard background, so there are expectations about holidays. Which is fine, it's just that every time is kind of the first time for me; I'm learning as I go. Add in all the first-time stuff you get up to as a parent, and well... I'm often a little bit at sea.

I was lucky enough to be invited, along with The Imp and his Grandpa, on a trip to the pumpkin patch in Richmond last weekend. I'd never been before and had no idea what to expect, but given that The Imp has talked about it non-stop since, am guessing that it will have to be an annual event from here on out.


Things I didn't know:

1) It's a big deal. Not just a stroll out into a muddy field full of pumpkins. No. Parking lot directions of military precision, farm animals on display, duck ponds and bridges, musicians, dancing pumpkins, hay rides complete with fiddles and banjos. All week The Imp's been excitedly telling me several times a day, "We say 'yeehaw!'" I think having experienced it once, he would very much like a hay ride from his bedroom to the breakfast table every morning, shouting "Yeehaw!" the whole way.

2) The price of admission includes a pumpkin to take home. Why I didn't know this, I don't know, maybe because I've never been a big celebrant of Hallowe'en. Or it could be that I'm just not very clever.

3) There's a corn maze. I've never been in a corn maze before. I knew I was capable of getting lost - as soon as I'm inside a shopping mall I get totally turned around in about 17 seconds. A corn maze is a lot like that, but with more mud. And decidedly less perfume-sample smell.

Child of the Corn

4) I don't actually know what to do with a pumpkin. And now I have an ample supply of them sitting on my kitchen counter, because there were three of us. Three pumpkins. Sitting on my counter. And I really, really don't like pumpkin pie. It would be no exaggeration to say that I despise pumpkin pie and everything about it. The texture, the flavour: bleck.

So on Monday when I went to get the Imp from daycare I took one of the pumpkins with the intention of leaving it there.

Much consternation on the part of The Imp. "MY pumpkin!" He shouted, and stomped his feet, and would not be consoled or convinced that leaving it at daycare to play with the next day was a good idea. He did not care that we still had two more at home. He was especially adamant that he WOULD NOT SHARE it with his friends. "MY pumpkin. It's MINES!" (Yes, he says "mines" instead of "mine". It's logical, if you think about it. Your becomes yours. Her becomes hers. Even his ends in an "s". Why shouldn't "my" become "mines"?)

I really hadn't anticipated this strong a reaction. The Imp's usually the first kid to share his toys, he readily gives up a spot on the playground swings if there's another kid waiting, and he's generally a pretty laid-back little dude. (Since we discovered his dairy allergy, anyway.) No amount of cajoling was effective. Back home and onto the kitchen counter went the pumpkin.

My pumpkin! MINES!

Now, understand, The Imp has no context for pumpkins. He doesn't know they're food, he's never seen a jack-o'-lantern. We've never had one in the house before. We've never really celebrated Hallowe'en with him, because for the first one he was only a few months old, and last year he was not even 18 months. And we live in a high rise apartment building, so we don't even get trick or treaters at the door. There didn't seem to be a lot of point.

So I asked him, as we were cleaning up after dinner that evening.

Me: What do you think pumpkins are for? What do you want to do with your pumpkins?
The Imp: Fling them around.

I was not expecting that.

Me: You want to fling them around?
The Imp: Yeah.

Oookaaay.

Me: Honey, we don't fling pumpkins around. (Fumbling) We... we carve them into jack-o'-lanterns. Yeah, jack-o'-lanterns! We make faces on the pumpkins. And we can make soup. Pumpkin soup. And seeds, we can do something with the seeds! We eat pumpkins. We do not fling them around.
The Imp: Soup! We eat soup! We eat soup now!

Me: Um, no. We have to make the soup first.
The Imp: Okay. (Pause, thinking.) We say "yeehaw?"

Me: Yeehaw!*


By Tuesday morning, HWSNBN and I had managed to talk enough about how good it feels to get presents and how nice it would be to make his friends feel that way by giving the pumpkin to the daycare, that he consented to the transportation of his! pumpkin! to school with him. And he allowed that his friends could look at it, but they could not touch it. We placed it in plain view on a high counter so everyone could see it. He was skeptical, but let it sit there all day.

Wednesday, he allowed the teachers to touch it, but not all the teachers. There was a substitute, and she was not! allowed! Only the every day teachers could touch it. But he did relent enough to allow them to take if off the counter to show it to the kids at circle time. But he insisted that "friends not touch it!"

Thursday when I went to pick him up, he came running to me shouting "Jack-o'-lantern! Jack-o'-lantern!" at the top of his lungs, and grabbed my hand to drag me to his pumpkin, now sitting on a low table, and yes, carved into a jack-o'-lantern. The teacher told me that while he was still proprietary about it, he was happy to let other kids touch it, and help scoop out seeds and whatnot. Yay, progress! Clearly this was a big deal to him, as he woke me up at four this morning, by shouting "Jack-o'-lantern! My jack-o'-lantern!" at the top of his lungs in his sleep.

Hallowe'en's this weekend. And I have two not-small pumpkins on my kitchen counter. I'm sure I can manage to carve some triangular orifices and a gap-toothed grin into them with The Imp's help - after all he's more experienced at it than I am, having already done it once. But then what do I do with them?

For all my blustery bravado in front of The Imp, I really don't know what to do with a pumpkin. Anyone have a soup recipe they can recommend? How do I make the seeds edible?

I am wide open to suggestions, people. I'll make anything but pie.

Or I suppose I could just fling them around.


*This is the actual conversation we had. Verbatim, no embellishments. In a thousand years, even with a thousand monkeys pecking randomly at a thousand keyboards, I could never come up with "fling them around" as an answer to that question. 

Also: when did we stop spelling Hallowe'en with an apostrophe? I must have missed that memo.