On Christmas Eve we went to church with our friend Maggie, and while the pastor gave an informative talk about the origins of Christmas, Col drew a picture of baby Jesus in a cradle, which looked more like a big cauldron in which Jesus was simmering, maybe with some carrots and potatoes. And then when the choir began to sing, Col leapt up and started dancing this weird, cheerful dance—ballerina kicks, fluttering arms and opium-den smile—and it was one of those moments where you want to be fine with your child’s inner desire to dance! now! And yet you can’t help but notice that none of the other 500 or so people in attendance have budged from their chairs.
On Christmas Day I woke up feeling like my 100-pound head had been bolted to my neck, Frankenstein-like, and my tonsils had been scooped out and replaced with grapefruit. Recognizing the signs of strep throat, I called the Durango medical practice I go to, begging for antibiotics.
“Listen Rach,” said this doctor whom I’ve never met, “we just don’t do this. We have a policy about never prescribing antibiotics over the phone.” I told the doctor that my alternative was a five hour wait at the ER. “You can’t go to the frickin’ ER!” the doctor shouted. “There’s people in there with trauma and shit, you’ll never get seen! Now listen. Anyone in your family docs? Or are they all artists and shit?” The doctor finally agreed to call in an antibiotic as long as I brought him back a bumper sticker from the Haight that says “Hookahs not bazooka’s.”
And I’ve typed and deleted this sentence five times now, but here it is: I’m not sure I like Christmas. And I feel like I’m stomping on elves and reindeer saying this, but maybe Christmas should come with a rating, like movies, so that if you’re young enough to be scared by Scooby Doo, you’re probably too young to handle the gracious receiving of more than a few presents at one time.
And I know lusting for gifts at ages 3 and 5 is as normal as freeform dancing in church aisles, but I do want Col and Rose to learn appreciation and simplicity. Just as I was stewing over this in my 100-pound head, this post showed up in my e-mail in-box, which has some good ideas and reminders on how to help children cultivate simplicity and appreciation.
I found my camera! But I can’t remember to bring it anywhere, well really, I’ve barely had the energy to drag my enormous tonsils out the door. I’ve been falling asleep with the kids at night, which is its own vacation, a soft, pajamed butt never far from reach.
Okay, I have taken a few photos.
Looking for the tops of redwood trees:
Contemplation at Jewel Lake:
Lots of visits with Great-Grandma Joyce:
Col and Rose enraptured with the squirrel who eats my dad’s birdseed:
And for local peeps, meeting up with Durango ex-pats, Ryan and Calliope!
Today I’m very dorkily excited about going to Trader Joes. And in a few days, a reunion with a bunch of high school homies and all our collective little people!
Anyone know where I can get that bumpersticker? And what do you love to get at Trader Joes?