Breakfast at the Pops

I know, I know, I've been away from the old blog for awhile.  And worse, I hate when bloggers start a post by explaining an absence.

I actually have no explanation other than the obvious short and not so sweet one, which is this:

It's winter. It's dark. It's cold. I'm grumpy.

My winter-berried window boxes aren't making me smile anymore. The holiday cards in my inbox are outnumbering the ones in my mailbox. And I haven't had time to make my annual chocolate rum balls yet. 

However.

In an effort to get some yuletide cheer back, and to expose the children to something other than Wii sports, we did something fantastically Holiday-ish this weekend.

We spent Saturday morning with Keith Lockhart and his groovy Pops. Oh yeah, we did.

When we bought the tickets back in October -somehow even then I just knew I'd need something bright and sparkly right about now - we were wavering between two holiday shows: the Rockettes (debuting in Boston for the first time) and The Pops. We chose strings over legs. Not a tough decision, actually.

While The Five Year Old was a bit bored, The Third Grader was a bit enamored. I think deep down in that nine year old soul there is music waiting to be made. The Five Year Old muddled through just fine, though. It was a late morning childrens show, so in between the Hallelujahs there was plenty of Frosty and Rudolph and Santa. Ever hear an orchestra play the score to How the Grinch Stole Christmas? Neither had I. And it was pretty wonderful in a Whoville kind of way.
 
While I wouldn't claim that an hour with an orchestra is the panacea for the winter blues, it did serve its purpose. The music, the chorus, the glittery lights, all of it was what we needed at that moment. The four of us exited Symphony Hall that morning with a little more holiday joy in our step. Despite the brisk city air that hit us on the way out, we whistled and sang and Ho Ho Ho-ed our way to the nearest restaurant for a hot lunch.

How could we not?

After all, how often does one get the opportunity to see Keith Lockhart and the Big Guy color coordinated and on stage together?

Merry Christmas!

And Now He Is Nine

The Third Grader turned nine yesterday. Nine! Nine seems just inches away from Ten. And I can't begin to think about my first born in double digits. Not yet.

Where did the time go? I swear, the last time I checked he was five and getting on the school bus for the first time.

I can't say I wasn't warned by other seasoned mothers about this blink of an eye phenomenon. I just didn't think it would happen to me.

Every year on his birthday I like to get all maternally nostalgic and retell his birthday story to him.

It's possible that I bore him with this story, but I don't care because it's our story...and I want him to know it.

I tell him how I worked late the night he was born. How when I finally made it home from the office and the traffic, I inhaled a veggie burger and french fries for dinner.

I leave out the part about getting up from the kitchen table to use the bathroom and wondering about the difference between water breaking and incontinence. And how I found out the answer pretty quickly.

I do tell him how even when I knew he was on the way, I was in no great hurry to get to the hospital. How I thought I had all the time in the world. How it was a few weeks before my Christmas Eve due date and I still had a bag to pack. And the rest of a really good Friends episode to watch.

I tell him how his Dad packed a few novels in his overnight bag and that I asked him when he thought he'd have time to do any leisure reading at the hospital.

I tell him how when we finally got our things packed and were pulling out of the driveway we had to stop the car and run back inside to make sure we turned the oven off. And how, yes, we do still do this.

I tell him how on the way to the hospital I really knew he was coming.

I tell him how two hours later his Dad yelled 'It's a boy!' so proudly that the nurses outside our room heard the news.

I tell him how we ordered calzones late that night from a local pizza place, and ate the warm comfort food while we watched him sleep. And how at that moment we were giddy from the surge of adrenaline and happiness coursing through our veins.

I tell him how he slept. A lot. How he was quiet and calm since the day he was born.

I tell him how his arrival was so early that we didn't have a car seat yet. How we were unprepared and clueless, and glad to have chosen a hospital that gave out car seats to all the new babies.

I tell him how his Dad was the best baby swaddler ever. How his Dad would wrap him up so perfectly snug that he often fell right asleep in his little cocoon of safe blankety goodness.

I tell him how he was an extremely slow eater. And how not much has changed in that department.

I tell him how when we brought him home, he slept in a moses basket under our Christmas tree.

And I tell him how he was our very best Christmas present.

He listens to my birth story ramblings even though he's heard it all before. I might add a new detail each year, but it's old news to him.

What he really wants is for his mom to stop talking so he can open his presents.

And I do.

Until next year.

Just Call Me Martha

I may be feeling grumpy about holiday cards, but I did manage to muster up enough yuletide jolly to adorn my window boxes with nature's bling.

The best part? I didn't have to run to any stores or spend any money or check anything off a list.

All I needed was a willing husband to tromp through the woods for winter berry, and greens from pine trees, which are right out my back door. Literally.

And you know what? Every time I look out my dining room window and see my sparkly boxes I feel a little bit better about the whole season that is upon us.

Maybe I will even send Christmas cards this year.

Maybe.

The Demise of the Holiday Card (and why it might be okay)

I received my first holiday card today. Via email.

I suppose that ecards are the next logical step in the current trend to remove anything personal from the yuletide season.

Was that too cynical?

It's just that I've noticed a slow but steady decline in the quality of the once anticipated holiday card over the last few years. Not only are more emailed cards showing up, but, no matter their source, they're also lacking any personal touch at all.

The majority of cards we receive are of the preprinted variety - from the mailing label to the glossy online photo store processing to the standard happy holidays from the Jones Family imprint. Many contain no actual human handwriting at all. Most companies even offer to mail out customers' cards, thereby eliminating the need to purchase stamps from the post office. Are we extending thoughtful holiday greetings to our loved ones or are we simply sharpening our mail merging (or mouse clicking) skills?

Is social networking to blame? Are we connected at such a nauseating 24/7 level that there is little reason to send a personal annual greeting through the mail? Maybe. As a kid, I remember my mother sitting for hours at our dining room table carefully writing out her Christmas cards. Most of the cards were being sent to people she hadn't been in contact with since the previous December, so, understandably, there was a lot of catching up to be done and updated pictures to be exchanged. Back then, there were no minute by minute status updates or tweets or texts throughout the year. The lack of real time news streaming and picture posting made the annual Christmas card almost a necessity if there was any hope to staying in touch. 

Now, of course, updates on our family and personal lives are instantaneous. Every lost tooth, ballet recital and karate belt test is made public on our blogs or facebook pages. Vacation pictures, home renovation projects, flight delays, spats with our spouses, and girls nights out are available through a constant stream of tweets. We attempt to make the mundane newsworthy, but, in fact, I think we're just grossly oversharing.

All of this instantaneous news feeding has changed the face of the annual holiday card. Now, instead of thoughtfully containing a year's worth of family tidings in it's 5x7 space, it's merely an outsourced item of old news. It's an obligatory task that, if it's lucky, gets checked off the December action item list. And sometimes, like today, it's just an email.

So maybe instead of mass mailing holiday cards once a year, we could do something a little different. What if we wrote notes or made phone calls or even sent emails on random days throughout the year for no other reason other than to say hello? What if we shared less banal information with strangers over the internet, and engaged in more meaningful contact with friends over coffee?

What if we signed our own names instead of letting a computer do it for us?

What if reaching out didn't feel like an item on a to-do list?

Would it mean more?