This year I did the following:
-changed jobs
-changed houses
-bought a car
-got a dog
-changed boyfriends (a few times...)
-cut my hair short!
-ran a half marathon
-said yes to more invitations
-laughed more than I have in years
2008 was, to say the least, a rollercoaster ride. It had it's highs and it's lows and to tell the truth, I'm not sad to say goodbye.
I'm welcoming 2009 with open arms, a hopeful smile, and a big bottle of champagne. Here's to the best one yet.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Overheard in the classroom
"You guys need ta stop arguin' like butterflies!!. I hear that all the time at home."
-a 3 year old
-a 3 year old
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Merry Christmas
Last year, my family was gathered around the Christmas tree. Wrapping paper littered the floor. Bing Crosby played soft and low in the background, and we marveled at the mountains of presents we'd exchanged. It was then that my Mom asked us to quiet down. She reached into the Christmas tree, between the branches, retrieving a plain, white envelope. I hadn't seen it until then. We watched her, wondering what this could be. Money? Tickets for an exotic vacation? My brothers and I snuggled closer on the floor as she opened the envelope and began to read:
It’s just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas--oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it--overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler’s ears.
It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That’s when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition--one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take down the envelope.
Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.
______________________________________
This story was originally published in the December 14, 1982 issue of Woman’s Day magazine. It was the first place winner out of thousands of entries in the magazine’s “My Most Moving Holiday Tradition” contest in which readers were asked to share their favorite holiday tradition and the story behind it. Woman’s Day continues to support this tradition and The White Envelope Project today.
______________________________________
My wonderful and kind Uncle Chris and his wife Midge brought this tradition to our family. And I'll be forever grateful that they did.
Today, when the presents had all been opened my Mom reached for the white envelope....
A donation has been made in your name to the Make-a-Wish Foundation....
And so it continues; the spirit and true meaning of Christmas. To give because it is the good and right thing to do and because in the end, love multiplies when given.
So tonight, when the fire burns low give a moment of thanks for all that you have. There are so many that just don't have enough.
Merry Christmas,
Tiffany
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Uh oh
So my "Christmas of Gratitude" was lost. Literally. I typed them all and tried to post day by day. And they we're erased. I don't know. Call it fate. Or whatever. All I know is this, I'm thankful, so very thankful for everyone who has touched my life in some way. So thank you. And now? I'm posting an article from www.Damomma.com . She posted it last year and had requests to re-post this year. Enjoy.
Repost: How I came to Believe in Santa
December 22nd, 2008
I’ve had a couple of requests to repost this entry from last year.
– EBS
How I Came to Believe In SantaPosted by DaMommaDecember 7, 2007
It has become fashionable for parents not to encourage their children’s belief in Santa. Call me hip, call me cutting edge: I grew up not Believing.
My Dad was literal and honest with us about everything, and felt that Santa was a cruel joke to play on kids. I was in my teens before I realized there were people who actually Believed in Santa.
I wrote a paper for a college theology class in which I argued that God existed because people believed in him. I called it, “Yes Virginia, there is a God.” I got an A.
I grew up literal and honest about everything.
“Don’t you feel badly tricking them?” I asked Emily when Mary was finally old enough that some sort of Santa Policy had to be made. Cute Husband desperately wanted her to Believe and I was asking mothers I respected for advice.
“Oh, I think if I felt like I were tricking them I would feel badly,” Emily said.
(”Yeah, but, you’re telling them a fat guy in a red suit pops down their chimny and drops off a bunch of presents. I mean. Come on.”)
“Here’s the thing –” she said. “After it’s all done, after I’ve wrapped everything, set it up and I stand there looking at it before I stagger to bed … I Believe.”
Right, she’s Believing away while she’s chomping on cookies her kids made for the fat guy.
I totally understand how my Jewish friends shake their heads in perplexity at the tradition of buying piles of presents for kids and pretending someone else — some stranger with an eating disorder and a questionable relationship with elves — brought them down the chimney.
The Hannukah tradition is so much more sensible. Family. Brings presents. Happy Hannukah.
And then one Christmas my friend Angela told me a story of when she was an elementary school teacher in Stafford, Virginia. Every Christmas Angela and her co-workers identified families who might be having trouble making Christmas happen, pooled their money and helped to buy presents for them.
Angela was coming down the hallway on the last day of school when she found a little girl crying on the steps.
“Santa’s not coming to our house this year,” she said. “My mother says it’s because we don’t have money, but I know it’s because I wasn’t a good girl.”
The little girl wasn’t one of the children Angela and her friends had identified, but her situation turned out to easily be the worst. The girl and her brother, mother and grandmother were struggling to survive, much less have Christmas.
Angela called her husband, a Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant stationed in Okinawa, Japan.
“I feel so bad,” she told him. “What do we do?”
“Get the family’s name and address,” he told her. “And the ages of everyone in the house. I’ll see what I can do.”
From Japan, Angela’s husband called back to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. The following afternoon, Christmas Eve day, the little girl from Angela’s school was playing in her house when there was a knock at the door. Her mother opened it to find two young Marines in dress blue uniform.
While her mother stared in astonishment, the Marines began to move boxes of things into the house — food, gifts for everyone, and a tree.
The 20 year-old Corporal — stationed away from his own family (he would have dinner at Angela’s the following night) — stopped to speak to the little girl.
“Santa was worried he might not make it to your house this year,” he said. “So he called in the Marines and asked us to help out. He said to tell you you were a very good little girl and he was proud of you.”
“That’s Santa,” Angela said simply. How could anyone not Believe after that?
“Okay, girls, pick something awesome. Pick something great,” I say at the mall toy store. We’ve done it every year, even years when we couldn’t buy anything for our own children and had to rely on family to do it for us.
Because even in those years, we knew we had it good.
“It has to be good,” I say. Something you really want for yourself — something that will hurt a little to give up. Mare choses an exquisitely-dressed ballerina Barbie. Renny, a Dora doll. I pay and walk them over to the Marine in dress blues at the Toys for Tots table.
“Okay. Please give them to the Lance Corporal.”
They turn them over — Renny a little less than graciously. But it’s Mare who really hesitates as she passes that ballerina doll over the counter.
“You help Santa, right?” Mare asks, dark blue gazed fixed on the young Lance Corporal.
“Sure do,” he says, eyes flickering to me. I nod.
“Will you tell the girl who gets this: ‘Merry Christmas from Mary?’ — And I hope she has a good Christmas and that I am sorry her family doesn’t have enough money?”
“Baby,” I say before he can answer. “He can’t do that. Santa will give this to parents who can’t afford gifts for their children, and they will give it to their little girl. It’s not from you. It’s from Santa.”
You have to give it up for zero reward. You can think of that girl in your heart, but you can’t ever ask her to thank you. After all, you didn’t really do anything except grow up privileged enough to be able to do this.
I never say “Him” when I talk about Santa. I don’t answer questions about sleighs or reindeer — I read the girls the stories not as literal truths, but as allegories of the magic that really does exist.
I get what Emily meant.
Christmas Eve when it’s all done and I look at the magic of lights and the quiet peace of joy and comfort we can provide, I will truly in my heart Believe. When my kids squeal and open presents in the predawn living room I’ll be thinking of that Dora doll and the ballerina, and hoping those kids Believe, too.
-Damomma
Repost: How I came to Believe in Santa
December 22nd, 2008
I’ve had a couple of requests to repost this entry from last year.
– EBS
How I Came to Believe In SantaPosted by DaMommaDecember 7, 2007
It has become fashionable for parents not to encourage their children’s belief in Santa. Call me hip, call me cutting edge: I grew up not Believing.
My Dad was literal and honest with us about everything, and felt that Santa was a cruel joke to play on kids. I was in my teens before I realized there were people who actually Believed in Santa.
I wrote a paper for a college theology class in which I argued that God existed because people believed in him. I called it, “Yes Virginia, there is a God.” I got an A.
I grew up literal and honest about everything.
“Don’t you feel badly tricking them?” I asked Emily when Mary was finally old enough that some sort of Santa Policy had to be made. Cute Husband desperately wanted her to Believe and I was asking mothers I respected for advice.
“Oh, I think if I felt like I were tricking them I would feel badly,” Emily said.
(”Yeah, but, you’re telling them a fat guy in a red suit pops down their chimny and drops off a bunch of presents. I mean. Come on.”)
“Here’s the thing –” she said. “After it’s all done, after I’ve wrapped everything, set it up and I stand there looking at it before I stagger to bed … I Believe.”
Right, she’s Believing away while she’s chomping on cookies her kids made for the fat guy.
I totally understand how my Jewish friends shake their heads in perplexity at the tradition of buying piles of presents for kids and pretending someone else — some stranger with an eating disorder and a questionable relationship with elves — brought them down the chimney.
The Hannukah tradition is so much more sensible. Family. Brings presents. Happy Hannukah.
And then one Christmas my friend Angela told me a story of when she was an elementary school teacher in Stafford, Virginia. Every Christmas Angela and her co-workers identified families who might be having trouble making Christmas happen, pooled their money and helped to buy presents for them.
Angela was coming down the hallway on the last day of school when she found a little girl crying on the steps.
“Santa’s not coming to our house this year,” she said. “My mother says it’s because we don’t have money, but I know it’s because I wasn’t a good girl.”
The little girl wasn’t one of the children Angela and her friends had identified, but her situation turned out to easily be the worst. The girl and her brother, mother and grandmother were struggling to survive, much less have Christmas.
Angela called her husband, a Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant stationed in Okinawa, Japan.
“I feel so bad,” she told him. “What do we do?”
“Get the family’s name and address,” he told her. “And the ages of everyone in the house. I’ll see what I can do.”
From Japan, Angela’s husband called back to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. The following afternoon, Christmas Eve day, the little girl from Angela’s school was playing in her house when there was a knock at the door. Her mother opened it to find two young Marines in dress blue uniform.
While her mother stared in astonishment, the Marines began to move boxes of things into the house — food, gifts for everyone, and a tree.
The 20 year-old Corporal — stationed away from his own family (he would have dinner at Angela’s the following night) — stopped to speak to the little girl.
“Santa was worried he might not make it to your house this year,” he said. “So he called in the Marines and asked us to help out. He said to tell you you were a very good little girl and he was proud of you.”
“That’s Santa,” Angela said simply. How could anyone not Believe after that?
“Okay, girls, pick something awesome. Pick something great,” I say at the mall toy store. We’ve done it every year, even years when we couldn’t buy anything for our own children and had to rely on family to do it for us.
Because even in those years, we knew we had it good.
“It has to be good,” I say. Something you really want for yourself — something that will hurt a little to give up. Mare choses an exquisitely-dressed ballerina Barbie. Renny, a Dora doll. I pay and walk them over to the Marine in dress blues at the Toys for Tots table.
“Okay. Please give them to the Lance Corporal.”
They turn them over — Renny a little less than graciously. But it’s Mare who really hesitates as she passes that ballerina doll over the counter.
“You help Santa, right?” Mare asks, dark blue gazed fixed on the young Lance Corporal.
“Sure do,” he says, eyes flickering to me. I nod.
“Will you tell the girl who gets this: ‘Merry Christmas from Mary?’ — And I hope she has a good Christmas and that I am sorry her family doesn’t have enough money?”
“Baby,” I say before he can answer. “He can’t do that. Santa will give this to parents who can’t afford gifts for their children, and they will give it to their little girl. It’s not from you. It’s from Santa.”
You have to give it up for zero reward. You can think of that girl in your heart, but you can’t ever ask her to thank you. After all, you didn’t really do anything except grow up privileged enough to be able to do this.
I never say “Him” when I talk about Santa. I don’t answer questions about sleighs or reindeer — I read the girls the stories not as literal truths, but as allegories of the magic that really does exist.
I get what Emily meant.
Christmas Eve when it’s all done and I look at the magic of lights and the quiet peace of joy and comfort we can provide, I will truly in my heart Believe. When my kids squeal and open presents in the predawn living room I’ll be thinking of that Dora doll and the ballerina, and hoping those kids Believe, too.
-Damomma
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Technical Difficulties
So I'm having issues with Blogger. It won't let me post anything over 3 lines long. I will keep trying!
Friday, December 12, 2008
If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down? We might, if they screamed all the time, for no good reason. Jack Handey
And so begins the saga that is : HOLLY.
My crazy funny, crazy smart, crazy awesome, just plain crazy Holly.
Oh and did I mention she's pretty and witty and hilarious and inventive and shocking? Yeah, she wears a lot of hats. (Not literally 'cause that would be dumb, but ya know)
I've known Holly since the revolutionary war or something. A really long time. And she's been who she is all along. I think she was born with her personality completely formed. She's uniquely unique. Some people try to be unique, but Holly? Nah, that's real. She's seriously that awesome.
I could list hundreds of things I've laughed about with her but they boil down to the same four categories:
making fun of ourselves
death
other people
miscellaneous
And hours can go by. Hours. Where we sit around laughing until our stomachs ache and our glasses are empty. And those hours? Those are some of the best hours of my life. And I have a feeling they will always be in my top memories. Because when I need to smile, when I need something to pull me up all I have to think about is the time Holly threw a rock at me during lacrosse practice causing me to drop my stick in mid-shot. Meanhwile, no one saw her throw the rock and I got in trouble for dropping my stick and not taking the shot.
And I know I love her because it was such a great move that I didn't even get mad.
And when you're walking down the street and see a girl throw herself to the ground and start screaming something, well that's probably Holly. Just step over her. She's ok. She's just expressing herself.
There's no one else like her.
My crazy funny, crazy smart, crazy awesome, just plain crazy Holly.
Oh and did I mention she's pretty and witty and hilarious and inventive and shocking? Yeah, she wears a lot of hats. (Not literally 'cause that would be dumb, but ya know)
I've known Holly since the revolutionary war or something. A really long time. And she's been who she is all along. I think she was born with her personality completely formed. She's uniquely unique. Some people try to be unique, but Holly? Nah, that's real. She's seriously that awesome.
I could list hundreds of things I've laughed about with her but they boil down to the same four categories:
making fun of ourselves
death
other people
miscellaneous
And hours can go by. Hours. Where we sit around laughing until our stomachs ache and our glasses are empty. And those hours? Those are some of the best hours of my life. And I have a feeling they will always be in my top memories. Because when I need to smile, when I need something to pull me up all I have to think about is the time Holly threw a rock at me during lacrosse practice causing me to drop my stick in mid-shot. Meanhwile, no one saw her throw the rock and I got in trouble for dropping my stick and not taking the shot.
And I know I love her because it was such a great move that I didn't even get mad.
And when you're walking down the street and see a girl throw herself to the ground and start screaming something, well that's probably Holly. Just step over her. She's ok. She's just expressing herself.
There's no one else like her.
She's got a way about her
The first person in my Christmas of Gratitude series is my lovely friend, Tara.
I met Tara my Sophomore year of college at Towson. I don't remember the specifics. Mostly I feel like she's always been around. Like how would I have ever lived without her? Because to tell the truth, she's the kindest person I know.
I've often thought about Tara and wondered how any one person can be so good. So kind. So empathetic and still have enough left over to take care of themself. I think it stems from the fact that my Tara is genuine. There is no smoke and mirrors. When you look into her eyes, and listen to her words- they match. She lives with an integrity that is hard to find. And over the years I have come to rely on her. We may not get to hang out as often as I would like but if I ever needed her I know one phone call and she would be by my side. There aren't many people you can say that about in life.
For those of you who don't know Tara, let me just say this: she is beautiful, inside and out. And I'm proud to call her my friend.
I met Tara my Sophomore year of college at Towson. I don't remember the specifics. Mostly I feel like she's always been around. Like how would I have ever lived without her? Because to tell the truth, she's the kindest person I know.
I've often thought about Tara and wondered how any one person can be so good. So kind. So empathetic and still have enough left over to take care of themself. I think it stems from the fact that my Tara is genuine. There is no smoke and mirrors. When you look into her eyes, and listen to her words- they match. She lives with an integrity that is hard to find. And over the years I have come to rely on her. We may not get to hang out as often as I would like but if I ever needed her I know one phone call and she would be by my side. There aren't many people you can say that about in life.
For those of you who don't know Tara, let me just say this: she is beautiful, inside and out. And I'm proud to call her my friend.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The 25 days of Christmas (minus a few since I'm already late)
In lieu of giving presents to everyone I know I thought I'd try something different (and non-returnable. Boo-yah!).
I am blessed to know some extraordinary people. (And they know me too. It's not some creepy Facebook stalker thing!) And as a tribute to these amazing people. I thought I'd take time each day to honor them one by one. If you're not mentioned. Well, then I probably don't know you or I don't know you read this blog and I'm totally embarassed right now that I forgot you. You rock.Seriously. My bad.
Check back tomorrow for the first in the series.
I am blessed to know some extraordinary people. (And they know me too. It's not some creepy Facebook stalker thing!) And as a tribute to these amazing people. I thought I'd take time each day to honor them one by one. If you're not mentioned. Well, then I probably don't know you or I don't know you read this blog and I'm totally embarassed right now that I forgot you. You rock.Seriously. My bad.
Check back tomorrow for the first in the series.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
It has been a while
Days like today make me think.
Days like today make me pray.
Days like today make me wonder.
And days like today...
they make me thankful.
I was ready to tear my hair out. The kids in my class were screaming. (I'm teaching two year olds. Lots of two year olds). And today, some of those two year olds had fevers. And rashes. And temper tantrums. And my patience? It was ripping. Paper thin, fragile, and ripping.
I sat down, cradling a tiny body in my arms, wishing her pain away and realized that she clung to me for comfort. She wiped her tears on my shirt and layed her head on my chest. And in the midst of the chaos. The wall covered in green crayon. The floor sticky with juice. The toys strewn about. I was ok. Because I can comfort and nurture and be there for someone else.
Oh the day was challenging. Don't get me wrong. But it's over now. And my sore throat, aching legs, pounding head, and tired back remind me of just how hard this job is. But my heart. My full, loving, hopeful heart tells me that I'm here for a reason. And day by day, piece by piece, I'm putting this puzzle together.
So tonight, sitting here with my dog by my side, the Christmas tree shining brightly I have faith and hope, and love.
So this is a huge THANK YOU to everything and everyone. Thank you. Because sometimes thats the only thing to say.
Days like today make me pray.
Days like today make me wonder.
And days like today...
they make me thankful.
I was ready to tear my hair out. The kids in my class were screaming. (I'm teaching two year olds. Lots of two year olds). And today, some of those two year olds had fevers. And rashes. And temper tantrums. And my patience? It was ripping. Paper thin, fragile, and ripping.
I sat down, cradling a tiny body in my arms, wishing her pain away and realized that she clung to me for comfort. She wiped her tears on my shirt and layed her head on my chest. And in the midst of the chaos. The wall covered in green crayon. The floor sticky with juice. The toys strewn about. I was ok. Because I can comfort and nurture and be there for someone else.
Oh the day was challenging. Don't get me wrong. But it's over now. And my sore throat, aching legs, pounding head, and tired back remind me of just how hard this job is. But my heart. My full, loving, hopeful heart tells me that I'm here for a reason. And day by day, piece by piece, I'm putting this puzzle together.
So tonight, sitting here with my dog by my side, the Christmas tree shining brightly I have faith and hope, and love.
So this is a huge THANK YOU to everything and everyone. Thank you. Because sometimes thats the only thing to say.
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