"2010 had good stuff, but a lot of it came at a high price," a good friend said to me recently. I have to admit that as much as I've looked forward to figuring out how to flip off 2010 with two middle fingers while holding a glass of champagne at midnight, he said it best.
Each year on December 31st I naturally look back at the year. This year I couldn't help but think about the slow real estate market, my daunting job search, 2 cancer scares, and our miscarriage. But how can I say it was a bad year when we watched our son blossom from a precious baby to a healthy, independent little boy? And I did find a job, one I quite enjoy actually. Despite a negligible vitamin deficiency and maybe a cavity, I'm as healthy as can be. And my genious husband has shown the real estate market who's boss.
All in all, it was a good year. But that doesn't mean I don't think 2011 can do better. A lot better. And I'm not afraid to say it, even demand it. Last year we started off by saying that 2010 was the year we'd take charge of our lives again. When we'd stop letting the economy decide what we do with our lives. And we did.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Perfect Christmas
We all want it, plan for it starting in July, dream of it starting in January. The perfect Christmas. All year, whether we admit it or not, we live for that moment, for any number of reasons. It's a well deserved break from the grind, reuniting with family we haven't seen all year or longer, and a time when strangers smile at eachother and say "happy holidays" (or maybe yell obscenities at eachother over parking spaces at the mall, but I'm going for hohoho rather than bah humbug here).
My Mother is no exception. Not to the parking lot shouting, OR the annual quest for the perfect holiday season. Wait, the parking lot shouting is mostly me. Anyway, my Mother raised me, an only child, all on her own. She worked nights as a nurse, and 24 hours a day as a Mom, and Christmas was no exception. But each year, for as long as I can remember, the woman worked her butt off to make my Christmas perfect, starting in January. Christmas was the culmination of all her hard work and sacrifice all year long, and she made sure that whatever she thought I might be missing in life, she made up for it under that tree.
Most of my childhood Christmas's were spent at least in part at my Grandmother's house. Looking back, we joke about Christmas's past; how the stress of holiday prep would sometimes errupt over wrapping paper fiascos or one time, iced tea - that was a weird one. And we'd roll our eyes and snicker about how everyone would arrive late Christmas Eve with war stories from the drive to Grandmother's house and scramble to wrap all their gifts in the back bedroom of the 3 bedroom house as if it was a secret mission. And the one shared bathroom among 4 women and 7 children is a whole other blog entry. Far from perfect.
Christmas is a lot different now; still less than perfect in its own special way, and still wonderful in absolutely every way. This year, we planned a laid back Christmas Eve and Christmas day at my Mother's home, where we'd sip hot chocolate and spiked eggnog and watch Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer with my 18 month old son. With snow in the forecast, we planned to wake to a french-toast breakfast and video a giggly wide-eyed little boy rip through a huge stack of presents under the tree on Christmas morning. So far, what's actually happened is two solid days of toy store chaos, an ant outbreak in the house, and a toddler with a recurrent cold who has suddenly discovered sugary baked goods - and temper tantrums.
It occurred to me in a Christmas Carol like moment that our Christmas's have never been perfect in spite of all the planning and hard work. But the chaos and things gone awry are what make it memorable and special, each successively closer to perfect than the year before it. I wouldn't trade the ant fiasco or the wrapping paper shennanigans for Christmas at Martha Stewart's place, even with its hand made wreaths and real cranberries and perfectly orchestrated festivities. Afterall, it isn't what's under the tree, but whose standing around it.
So as I wrapped the umpteenth present tonight in the 3rd bedroom of my mother's house, I remembered with a smile the loud crazy Christmas's past. And as I watched my husband sitting next to me assembling our son's first battery powered mega toy, and heard my Mother singing bedtime lullabies to my baby boy in the next room, I couldn't have imagined a more perfect Christmas afterall.
My Mother is no exception. Not to the parking lot shouting, OR the annual quest for the perfect holiday season. Wait, the parking lot shouting is mostly me. Anyway, my Mother raised me, an only child, all on her own. She worked nights as a nurse, and 24 hours a day as a Mom, and Christmas was no exception. But each year, for as long as I can remember, the woman worked her butt off to make my Christmas perfect, starting in January. Christmas was the culmination of all her hard work and sacrifice all year long, and she made sure that whatever she thought I might be missing in life, she made up for it under that tree.
Most of my childhood Christmas's were spent at least in part at my Grandmother's house. Looking back, we joke about Christmas's past; how the stress of holiday prep would sometimes errupt over wrapping paper fiascos or one time, iced tea - that was a weird one. And we'd roll our eyes and snicker about how everyone would arrive late Christmas Eve with war stories from the drive to Grandmother's house and scramble to wrap all their gifts in the back bedroom of the 3 bedroom house as if it was a secret mission. And the one shared bathroom among 4 women and 7 children is a whole other blog entry. Far from perfect.
Christmas is a lot different now; still less than perfect in its own special way, and still wonderful in absolutely every way. This year, we planned a laid back Christmas Eve and Christmas day at my Mother's home, where we'd sip hot chocolate and spiked eggnog and watch Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer with my 18 month old son. With snow in the forecast, we planned to wake to a french-toast breakfast and video a giggly wide-eyed little boy rip through a huge stack of presents under the tree on Christmas morning. So far, what's actually happened is two solid days of toy store chaos, an ant outbreak in the house, and a toddler with a recurrent cold who has suddenly discovered sugary baked goods - and temper tantrums.
It occurred to me in a Christmas Carol like moment that our Christmas's have never been perfect in spite of all the planning and hard work. But the chaos and things gone awry are what make it memorable and special, each successively closer to perfect than the year before it. I wouldn't trade the ant fiasco or the wrapping paper shennanigans for Christmas at Martha Stewart's place, even with its hand made wreaths and real cranberries and perfectly orchestrated festivities. Afterall, it isn't what's under the tree, but whose standing around it.
So as I wrapped the umpteenth present tonight in the 3rd bedroom of my mother's house, I remembered with a smile the loud crazy Christmas's past. And as I watched my husband sitting next to me assembling our son's first battery powered mega toy, and heard my Mother singing bedtime lullabies to my baby boy in the next room, I couldn't have imagined a more perfect Christmas afterall.
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