Gearing Up for Sobriety

She's an alcoholic. This is dreadfully humiliating since she once professed to be a substance abuse counselor. She'd gone into the field with the intent of fixing her alcoholically dysfunctional family of origin, curing her mother and brother of their alcoholism, looking for the answers and tools necessary to get her own unstable psyche on track.

During her training as an alcohol counselor, she learned that it takes a child under the age of five,only five weeks to become addicted to alcohol; under the age of 15, five months; an adult, five years.

     
She  knew herself to be at risk, potentially alcoholic given the fact that she came from a strong line of drunks. Even then she ditched the initial three daily beer bottles in the barn at the back of her apartment until she could dispose of them properly.

      
But still, there was plenty of time. Given that this had only been going on intermittently for 2 ½ years; she was safe for another 2 ½ according to what she'd wanted to believe. After all, her "situational" bout of alcoholic drinking was purely "temporary", until she got back on her feet after being abandoned by the love of her life.- Right?

Years passed, and she got married, relocated, had children.

During  a visit  to her parents' house over the holidays, her mother discovered her stash in the closet. After agonizing for days over this turn of events, the elder woman confronted her daughter with her discovery of empties buried in her suitcase and dirty laundry- rather ironic given all the times that the shoe had been on the other foot. (What was her mother doing searching her belongings anyway??)

      
The younger woman fled with her two young children to visit a friend in another part of the state, and then spent her remaining time in New England in a motel so as not to face her mother. 
      
The older woman was convinced that her daughter had left to resume her drinking (wouldn't she have done the same?). But she was wrong. Discovery was what the young mother had needed to stop drinking- for someone else to know so she could be held accountable. Her eldest was approaching the age she was when she became aware of her mother's “drinking problem”.

      
She confessed to her friend and later, her sister. In passing she mentioned to her husband that she had the "potential" to become alcoholic.

     
"So stop drinking."

      
And she did. For three weeks.  
      
She had learned that one of the "tests" in determining whether or not one is alcoholic (designed more to break through the denial of the "problem drinker" she later suspected) is to go 30 days without a drink, or 90 days having no more than one drink a day.  
      
She had clearly failed. She took her drinking into the closet; she no longer drank in public. Ever.

      
At her mother's death bed three years later, not wishing for her to die with that boulder around her neck (it was her faulty gene passed on after all) she assured the dying woman that she had taken care of the problem. "I know," her mother beamed. She had noticed that her daughter no longer drank at family gatherings. Little did she know... She was her mother's daughter after all... she knew the signs, She had them all. 
      
Following her mother's death, she nearly went off the deep end because she was convinced that her mother now knew everything from her cosmic perch.

      
 Three years later... 
      
She came home for a moment from a neighborhood gathering, for some brilliant and well planned excuse,  to fortify her alcohol level with the wine hidden behind the furnace, or in the root cellar, or her closet. She remembered the times that she had chalked up her husband's discovery of hidden bottles to her mother's previous visits. (Couldn't do that anymore; she had to remember to bury the bottles in the garbage on pick up day.)

      
By now she was plotting to ensure that she had a constant supply. But she didn't want everyone in her small town to know, so she alternated between liquor stores. She learned the liquor shop keepers' schedules so as to make her purchases seem more spread out.

      
She invented reasons to go to the city: She needed some supplies from the craft store - and while she was at it she'd just slip into the liquor store next door.

     
When she went out with friends, she'd leave the restaurant to go to the package store next door under the guise of going to the ATM two doors down for cash.

      
She stopped on the way home from appointments in another town to "get wine for a friend who is unable to get a certain kind in the local store", or because "Joan asked me to get it for her".

      
She was constantly on the lookout for options, and excuses to go to new locations. She'd even gotten a purse large enough to accommodate two 1.5 liter bottles without splitting it out.

When she arrived home with her stash replenished, she was giddy with relief and anticipation.

       
At  the airport, during  layovers she sampled wine  from each bar within the  allotted time frame. She even tried once to smuggle a bottle onto the plane, but security made her get rid of it- "oh, no problem" as she nonchalantly deposited three liters of wine into the nearest garbage receptacle, cursing under her breath.

      
She dampened her husband's suspicions by claiming that the alcohol he thought he smelled was the breath freshener she used; or that she was slurring because she was so exhausted and could scarcely keep her eyes open.

      
She stayed home when her children would go skiing, or hiking, or camping, or bowling with their father. 
     
Over the last two or three years she was spending as much as $60 a week, asking friends to pick up wine for a "romantic dinner". She threw up a quart of wine that graced the toilet in it's original form, and went back to the closet for a replacement slug.  

      
In the mornings over those last three months, as she stood at the bathroom mirror gazing into her mother's eyes, she sensed her spirit presence day after day, as Mother seemed to nudge her left shoulder and breathe encouragement- Come on Girl, it's time to pull yourself together. Girl, you can do this, it's time...

      
But she couldn't do it. She'd try. She would resolve to put an end to this hell. And she couldn't make it beyond a day or two.

      
 Finally she realized that the only way she could do this was to let her husband (who had been in denial all those years) know that she was in trouble. But she didn't know how to tell him.

     
So she hid her bottles where he would be certain to find them- in the cabinet with the cat food. He fed the cats every day; he couldn't miss it.

      
After several days of dread filled walking on egg shells, she chickened out and moved the bottles.

      
Several days later, the dreaded confrontation happened as her husband angrily told her of his discovery. He was furious!

      
He insisted that she see an alcohol counselor; she told him she would if it became necessary. She was after all, a former substance abuse counselor- she knew the drill. Besides, seeking outside help would be so humiliating!

       
It became necessary.

      
Elizabeth Kubler Ross writes, "It is only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth- and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up- that we will begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it was the only one we had."

       
And so, she embarked on the long and difficult and blessed journey to recovery.

RDW 7-28-07

Gearing Up for Sobriety

She's an alcoholic. This is dreadfully humiliating since she once professed to be a substance abuse counselor. She'd gone into the field with the intent of fixing her alcoholically dysfunctional family of origin, curing her mother and brother of their alcoholism, looking for the answers and tools necessary to get her own unstable psyche on track.

The Old Man and the Little Girl

As I understand it, her mother's father died a painful death of esophageal cancer when she was two. Being a sensitive child, she felt for his pain and tried to soothe him with the white blanket which brought her so much comfort, patting him gently and singing softly as she covered his lap. Of course, she was too young to understand about death, and was bewildered by his absence when he passed on to the next world.

       

Her eldest sister, eight years older than she, doted on her, relieving her mother by taking her little sister in the stroller for a walk about the neighborhood. Occasionally they made the expedition to the center of town where she released the little girl to run about the common and watch the trains arrive and depart from the elevated station across the street. On one such adventure the sweet little blond spied an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife, sitting on a park bench, and mistook him for her beloved grandfather. Climbing into his lap, she threw her arms joyfully around his neck.

      

In the days that followed, the little girl and her sister would often see him on their jaunts downtown and they grew to become friends. Finally, one day at church, the girls' parents met the grandfatherly soul they had heard so much about, and from that day forward he joined the family for Sunday dinner and the afternoon. When it was time for the children to go to bed, he would say goodbye and go back to his lonely existence until the following week.

       

As the years passed, he became the young girl's special friend, and she the grandchild that he would never have. They saw each other several times a week as she grew old enough to venture downtown on her own, and he continued to join the family on Sundays. After dinner the old man and the little child would walk hand in hand downtown. They would go to Brigham's ice cream parlor where he would enjoy a vanilla shake as he watched her eat her ice cream, and then lovingly clean up the sticky mess before resuming their walk. They visited the other shops in town, picking up candies and trinkets along the way.

      

As time passed, the man joined her family for holidays and other special events as well. To her delight she discovered that he was able to reliably predict the weather a week in advance. He was an avid fan of the Boston Red Sox, and drew her interest to follow the televised games on Sunday afternoons . When she was in fourth grade, she was assigned a research paper on the state's capitol. Given that he had grown up in Boston, he dictated the whole thing, incorporating his life experience of the city, relieving her of the research that had been the intention of the assignment.

      

In the summer he sent the girl letters and postcards through General Delivery in the town closest to the family's current vacation spot. Upon their return, he would greet her with his favorite song, Hello Dolly. Once, upon returning from a two week camping trip, the family was devastated learn of their elderly friend's admission to the hospital. The girl accompanied her mother to the hospital for visiting hours, but broken-hearted, she remained in the lobby due to the age restrictions placed on visitors. After he became well enough to return home, he occasionally stopped by the house to pick his young friend up for one of the church suppers being held in the area, for that was often where he found his evening meal. Then one day he took the girl, her three sisters, and their caregiver, to the St. Patrick's Day parade in Boston, and it was with great alarm that the older woman reported that their friend was a danger behind the wheel.

       

As she grew older the girl became aware of the fact that she had him wrapped right around her little finger. All she had to do was gaze longingly at an object that drew her fancy and the following week it became hers: the beautiful orange and white gold fish, the adorable pink Easter bunny, the Kodak Instamatic camera in the drugstore. For her eleventh birthday, he presented her with a beautiful garnet ring.

As they each became older, he well into his eighties and she approaching puberty, their relationship began to change. Their Sunday afternoon walk became a game of hide and seek, the girl running ahead, hiding in a doorway or alley, heart thumping in suspense as he approached, peering into nooks and crannies along the block. It was terrifying.

      

He came to require a nap in the afternoon and sulked if the budding young woman wanted to spend time with girls her own age. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she lay on her bed while he napped on her sister's bed in the room they shared. As soon as his breathing deepened she would sneak away to her friend's house and guiltily, fearfully stay away until it was time for supper, coming home to find him watching TV or reading the paper, clearly upset by her abandonment. As it came time for him to leave, rather than accepting a kiss on the cheek as he had always done, he wanted a kiss on the lips. “Oh, that was just a peck,” he would chide as she brushed his lips with her own, and in her confusion and disgust, she felt obligated accommodate him. As he left he would place into her hand three Cadbury Chocolate bars.

       

One afternoon, because her friends were going to the movies and she was required to stay at home to “entertain her guest”, filled with resentment, she reluctantly walked with him deep into the cemetery as they had done on occasion over the years. They sat on a park bench and he pulled her to him, kissing her wetly on the lips as she attempted to pull away. She was deeply humiliated when a couple walking by looked on intently, and even more so when the cruiser pulled up, the officer telling them to get into the car, he was taking them home.

      

The next day, the child was sent to spend several weeks with friends in another state. Upon the girl's return home, her mother informed her that their friend would no longer be spending Sundays with them, as she had forbidden him to see her daughters. She was at once relieved, angry with her mother for having hurt his feelings, and deeply ashamed that she had somehow caused each of these people whom she loved dearly further humiliation.

      

As the weeks and months passed, the girl became intensely fearful of running into the man on the street during one of her trips to the center of town. When she did catch sight of him, she turned to flee in terror, dizzy, her eyesight dimming as she felt the blood rush out of her head, heart pounding in her throat.

       

That fall, she was admitted to the local hospital for exploratory surgery, resulting in an appendectomy. While recovering from the operation, she looked up to see the white haired man in his damp wool coat looming in the doorway, a large armful of pink gladiolas in sharp contrast to his black coat. He started to sing Hello Dolly, as he had so many times before. Despite the familiar panic sensation, she had the wherewithal to ask him to go to the coffee shop to get a strawberry frappe, and then pretended to be asleep when he came back. The next morning before dawn, the flowers having been placed in a glass vase on the counter across the room, inexplicably crashed to the floor, shattering the vase and ruining the flowers.

       

The following spring, he attended a concert in which she was a choral and orchestral participant. With a frightful gasp, she looked up to see him sitting in the second row. She left the stage for the bathroom, refusing to come out until the auditorium had been cleared. Slipping out the side door she peered around the corner of the building to see him waiting out front, the familiar panic seizing her as she rushed to hide in the back seat of family car.

       

That was the last time she saw him, for after that she rarely left her own neighborhood.

      

Eight years later, the girl having moved with her family to another state, was walking up the hill to the post office, when a sob caught her throat and she burst into tears for no reason. The next day she received a call from the man's cousin informing her of his death at the precise moment she had broken down the previous day. He died a peaceful death: looking at family pictures, they began to slip out of his hand onto the floor, and he was gone. He had left one third of his estate to her, his cousin explained in bewilderment.

She attended his funeral with her older brother and sister. The officiating minister, who had not known the man, said that his favorite song had been God Bless America. But the girl knew better.   - RDW 6-19-07

The Old Man and the Little Girl

As I understand it, her mother's father died a painful death of esophageal cancer when she was two. Being a sensitive child, she felt for his pain and tried to soothe him with the white blanket which brought her so much comfort, patting him gently and singing softly as she covered his lap. Of course, she was too young to understand about death, and was bewildered by his absence when he passed on to the next world.

       

Her eldest sister, eight years older than she, doted on her, relieving her mother by taking her little sister in the stroller for a walk about the neighborhood. Occasionally they made the expedition to the center of town where she released the little girl to run about the common and watch the trains arrive and depart from the elevated station across the street. On one such adventure the sweet little blond spied an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife, sitting on a park bench, and mistook him for her beloved grandfather. Climbing into his lap, she threw her arms joyfully around his neck.

      

In the days that followed, the little girl and her sister would often see him on their jaunts downtown and they grew to become friends. Finally, one day at church, the girls' parents met the grandfatherly soul they had heard so much about, and from that day forward he joined the family for Sunday dinner and the afternoon. When it was time for the children to go to bed, he would say goodbye and go back to his lonely existence until the following week.

       

As the years passed, he became the young girl's special friend, and she the grandchild that he would never have. They saw each other several times a week as she grew old enough to venture downtown on her own, and he continued to join the family on Sundays. After dinner the old man and the little child would walk hand in hand downtown. They would go to Brigham's ice cream parlor where he would enjoy a vanilla shake as he watched her eat her ice cream, and then lovingly clean up the sticky mess before resuming their walk. They visited the other shops in town, picking up candies and trinkets along the way.

      

As time passed, the man joined her family for holidays and other special events as well. To her delight she discovered that he was able to reliably predict the weather a week in advance. He was an avid fan of the Boston Red Sox, and drew her interest to follow the televised games on Sunday afternoons . When she was in fourth grade, she was assigned a research paper on the state's capitol. Given that he had grown up in Boston, he dictated the whole thing, incorporating his life experience of the city, relieving her of the research that had been the intention of the assignment.

      

In the summer he sent the girl letters and postcards through General Delivery in the town closest to the family's current vacation spot. Upon their return, he would greet her with his favorite song, Hello Dolly. Once, upon returning from a two week camping trip, the family was devastated learn of their elderly friend's admission to the hospital. The girl accompanied her mother to the hospital for visiting hours, but broken-hearted, she remained in the lobby due to the age restrictions placed on visitors. After he became well enough to return home, he occasionally stopped by the house to pick his young friend up for one of the church suppers being held in the area, for that was often where he found his evening meal. Then one day he took the girl, her three sisters, and their caregiver, to the St. Patrick's Day parade in Boston, and it was with great alarm that the older woman reported that their friend was a danger behind the wheel.

       

As she grew older the girl became aware of the fact that she had him wrapped right around her little finger. All she had to do was gaze longingly at an object that drew her fancy and the following week it became hers: the beautiful orange and white gold fish, the adorable pink Easter bunny, the Kodak Instamatic camera in the drugstore. For her eleventh birthday, he presented her with a beautiful garnet ring.

As they each became older, he well into his eighties and she approaching puberty, their relationship began to change. Their Sunday afternoon walk became a game of hide and seek, the girl running ahead, hiding in a doorway or alley, heart thumping in suspense as he approached, peering into nooks and crannies along the block. It was terrifying.

      

He came to require a nap in the afternoon and sulked if the budding young woman wanted to spend time with girls her own age. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she lay on her bed while he napped on her sister's bed in the room they shared. As soon as his breathing deepened she would sneak away to her friend's house and guiltily, fearfully stay away until it was time for supper, coming home to find him watching TV or reading the paper, clearly upset by her abandonment. As it came time for him to leave, rather than accepting a kiss on the cheek as he had always done, he wanted a kiss on the lips. “Oh, that was just a peck,” he would chide as she brushed his lips with her own, and in her confusion and disgust, she felt obligated accommodate him. As he left he would place into her hand three Cadbury Chocolate bars.

       

One afternoon, because her friends were going to the movies and she was required to stay at home to “entertain her guest”, filled with resentment, she reluctantly walked with him deep into the cemetery as they had done on occasion over the years. They sat on a park bench and he pulled her to him, kissing her wetly on the lips as she attempted to pull away. She was deeply humiliated when a couple walking by looked on intently, and even more so when the cruiser pulled up, the officer telling them to get into the car, he was taking them home.

      

The next day, the child was sent to spend several weeks with friends in another state. Upon the girl's return home, her mother informed her that their friend would no longer be spending Sundays with them, as she had forbidden him to see her daughters. She was at once relieved, angry with her mother for having hurt his feelings, and deeply ashamed that she had somehow caused each of these people whom she loved dearly further humiliation.

      

As the weeks and months passed, the girl became intensely fearful of running into the man on the street during one of her trips to the center of town. When she did catch sight of him, she turned to flee in terror, dizzy, her eyesight dimming as she felt the blood rush out of her head, heart pounding in her throat.

       

That fall, she was admitted to the local hospital for exploratory surgery, resulting in an appendectomy. While recovering from the operation, she looked up to see the white haired man in his damp wool coat looming in the doorway, a large armful of pink gladiolas in sharp contrast to his black coat. He started to sing Hello Dolly, as he had so many times before. Despite the familiar panic sensation, she had the wherewithal to ask him to go to the coffee shop to get a strawberry frappe, and then pretended to be asleep when he came back. The next morning before dawn, the flowers having been placed in a glass vase on the counter across the room, inexplicably crashed to the floor, shattering the vase and ruining the flowers.

       

The following spring, he attended a concert in which she was a choral and orchestral participant. With a frightful gasp, she looked up to see him sitting in the second row. She left the stage for the bathroom, refusing to come out until the auditorium had been cleared. Slipping out the side door she peered around the corner of the building to see him waiting out front, the familiar panic seizing her as she rushed to hide in the back seat of family car.

       

That was the last time she saw him, for after that she rarely left her own neighborhood.

      

Eight years later, the girl having moved with her family to another state, was walking up the hill to the post office, when a sob caught her throat and she burst into tears for no reason. The next day she received a call from the man's cousin informing her of his death at the precise moment she had broken down the previous day. He died a peaceful death: looking at family pictures, they began to slip out of his hand onto the floor, and he was gone. He had left one third of his estate to her, his cousin explained in bewilderment.

She attended his funeral with her older brother and sister. The officiating minister, who had not known the man, said that his favorite song had been God Bless America. But the girl knew better.   - RDW 6-19-07

The Santa Dilemma

One of the many quandaries a parent is faced with, is whether or not to bring Santa Claus into the holiday tradition. There are many reasons for not wanting to do so:

• Most people view Santa as exclusive to the Christian religion.

• It is believed that Santa Claus has nothing to do with the true meaning of Christmas, or that he is incompatible with the Christian values they hold.
• Santa is the embodiment of the commercialism and materialistic values so prevalent in our society.
• It is perceived as the Biggest Lie ever told children by their parents (right up there with the assurance that going to the dentist is “fun”)

Having grown up with Santa, I will always treasure the sense of magic and wonder bestowed upon me as a child. There is nothing that compares with childhood recollections of the Santa experience. 

 

Discovering the truth when the time comes, can be painful. Yet those who want to perpetuate the notion of the bearded man in red for as long as possible, are willing to go to certain lengths in order to maintain the deception.

My children were raised with a very strong Santa presence.

       

We told the boys that they could ask Santa for one thing (“a purple koosh ball”, “a nutcracker”, “cow bell”, “just a candy cane- I have lots of toys already...”).

       

They would write letters to leave with cookies and milk (and carrots!) on the mantle, and come down in the morning to find crumbs and carrot top on the letter Santa had left for them. Of course, the handwriting was disguised.

       

We were involved in a Project Christmas of sorts, and as the wrapping was being done by several people at our home one year, the preschoolers were enlisted as “Santa's elves”.

       

Several years later, we saw Santa on the street right after he had run out of candy canes; my youngest and I decided to be “elves” and replenish his supply. The eldest, on the verge of disbelief, was shocked when Santa told the boys that he remembered the time when their big brother was one of his elves.

      

 When I was a little girl, my older brother and sister wanted me to remain oblivious to the facts for another year, and together schemed to awaken me to the sounds of reindeer hooves and sleigh bells. To this day I am able to vividly recall that magical moment. Hence the perpetuation of my deceitful actions.

      

 When asked by my children, I told them that I believed in Santa, for one of the perks of having kids is seeing the world once again through the eyes of a child, and the magic had indeed returned. I recounted the time I was a little girl and woke up in the middle of the night because I heard Santa on the roof!

       

A year or two later, I confessed I wasn't really sure about the actual Santa Claus, but that I think Santa Claus is that feeling we have when we come down the stairs to lit tree and stockings on Christmas morning and are so excited to give each other the gifts we have for them.

       

As children become older, eventually the need to know the truth becomes stronger than the desire to believe, and we are faced with the ultimate “yes” or “no” question: “Are you Santa Claus?” “No, I'm your mother.” “Do you fill our stockings and write from Santa on the presents?” “Well...”

       

My son was rather devastated by the truth, yet insisted on letting the others maintain their delusion, and became an active participant in making that happen. The others never asked. We learned later that they had discovered the packaging to their gifts in the attic.

      

As for myself, I was in third grade when I recognized my mother's handwriting. I don't remember feeling particularly lied to, but I was disappointed; and Christmas lost that magical glow. Was it worth it? Absolutely.- RDW (12-9-10)

The Santa Dilemma

One of the many quandaries a parent is faced with, is whether or not to bring Santa Claus into the holiday tradition. There are many reasons for not wanting to do so:

• Most people view Santa as exclusive to the Christian religion.

• It is believed that Santa Claus has nothing to do with the true meaning of Christmas, or that he is incompatible with the Christian values they hold.
• Santa is the embodiment of the commercialism and materialistic values so prevalent in our society.
• It is perceived as the Biggest Lie ever told children by their parents (right up there with the assurance that going to the dentist is “fun”)

Having grown up with Santa, I will always treasure the sense of magic and wonder bestowed upon me as a child. There is nothing that compares with childhood recollections of the Santa experience. 

 

Discovering the truth when the time comes, can be painful. Yet those who want to perpetuate the notion of the bearded man in red for as long as possible, are willing to go to certain lengths in order to maintain the deception.

My children were raised with a very strong Santa presence.

       

We told the boys that they could ask Santa for one thing (“a purple koosh ball”, “a nutcracker”, “cow bell”, “just a candy cane- I have lots of toys already...”).

       

They would write letters to leave with cookies and milk (and carrots!) on the mantle, and come down in the morning to find crumbs and carrot top on the letter Santa had left for them. Of course, the handwriting was disguised.

       

We were involved in a Project Christmas of sorts, and as the wrapping was being done by several people at our home one year, the preschoolers were enlisted as “Santa's elves”.

       

Several years later, we saw Santa on the street right after he had run out of candy canes; my youngest and I decided to be “elves” and replenish his supply. The eldest, on the verge of disbelief, was shocked when Santa told the boys that he remembered the time when their big brother was one of his elves.

      

 When I was a little girl, my older brother and sister wanted me to remain oblivious to the facts for another year, and together schemed to awaken me to the sounds of reindeer hooves and sleigh bells. To this day I am able to vividly recall that magical moment. Hence the perpetuation of my deceitful actions.

      

 When asked by my children, I told them that I believed in Santa, for one of the perks of having kids is seeing the world once again through the eyes of a child, and the magic had indeed returned. I recounted the time I was a little girl and woke up in the middle of the night because I heard Santa on the roof!

       

A year or two later, I confessed I wasn't really sure about the actual Santa Claus, but that I think Santa Claus is that feeling we have when we come down the stairs to lit tree and stockings on Christmas morning and are so excited to give each other the gifts we have for them.

       

As children become older, eventually the need to know the truth becomes stronger than the desire to believe, and we are faced with the ultimate “yes” or “no” question: “Are you Santa Claus?” “No, I'm your mother.” “Do you fill our stockings and write from Santa on the presents?” “Well...”

       

My son was rather devastated by the truth, yet insisted on letting the others maintain their delusion, and became an active participant in making that happen. The others never asked. We learned later that they had discovered the packaging to their gifts in the attic.

      

As for myself, I was in third grade when I recognized my mother's handwriting. I don't remember feeling particularly lied to, but I was disappointed; and Christmas lost that magical glow. Was it worth it? Absolutely.- RDW (12-9-10)

Basking in the Glow of Family Traditions

As we enter into December, we move into high gear for another holiday season, and all that comes along with it: the joy, the stress, the commercialism, the exhaustion, the magic, the rush... As the month whizzes along, we tend to get swept away with the tide, and then heave a giant sigh of relief as it passes. 

Family traditions are what the most cherished childhood memories are made of. Take the time to sit down with your beloved to make a calendar of the holiday activities dearest to your family's heart. Discuss your priorities so that you are able to simplify as much as possible, the days ahead.

Create two lists: Things you think you have to do, and things you want to do. The idea of this exercise is to take some of the pressure off. For example, do you truly hate the office Christmas party? If so, why take the time from your family to put yourself through that? Are you sending cards because you want to, or do you feel obligated to? Can it wait until the beginning of the year, or even Valentines Day? I used to start at the beginning of my address book one year and at the end the next. 

By whittling down your to do list, you allow more time for the things that are meaningful to you and yours. The following ideas are simple, fun, and inexpensive.

• Make Christmas cookies. Don't have time? Use the ready made cookie dough found in the dairy case.
  
  
• Make a gingerbread house. Graham crackers and canned frosting make an easy shortcut! 
   
• Help your child make cranberry relish, fudge, or other gifts from the kitchen.
  
  
• Rather than hosting an elaborate party, gather a group of friends to go Christmas caroling and invite them in for cookies and wassail-a traditional hot spiced fruit punch.
  
  
• Go to a tree farm or ask a friend with land for permission to have a winter woodland adventure, perhaps even to cut your own tree. 
   
• Start a collection of ornaments for each child, letting him/her pick out or make a new one each year. This creates a store of wonderful memories to be taken into their adult lives.
  
  
• Take an “ooh and aahh ride” to check out the Christmas light displays around the village. 
   
• Pick out a few select holiday videos and avoid those commercials! 

• Make a collage with old holiday greeting cards; or weave place mats with construction paper, decorate with stickers, and cover with clear contact paper.
   
• Make your own wrapping paper using post consumer newsprint or fabric, and gift tags using old greeting cards.

• Make something special for your child. Keep it simple: a drawstring bag, a travel pillow, a painted tee shirt, a bird house, a card... Gifts made by you especially for them are the ones they remember.

Children enjoy the opportunity to get creative, and love making special presents for those most dear to them. When kids have made gifts that they feel excited about, they experience on a heartfelt level that it is more blessed to give than to receive.

If you can bring yourself to leave the TV off, not only will you have created more time for yourselves, you will cut down on the whining for this or that without the constant exposure to commercials.

Even if you do not participate in the religious aspect of the Holiday, share with your child the Story of Christmas. It is a basic element in the culture of our society. Coincidental with the Christmas holiday season is the Jewish celebration of Chanukah, or Hanukkah, as well as Ramadan, an Islamic celebration. There are many good stories and books about these important holidays. Don't forget the valuable resource we have in the Public Library.

When things start becoming too frantic in your house, take a little break for a read with your children. The investment of your time will pay off and they will return the time you need to complete your task!

Above all, keep in mind that Time is the greatest gift you can give your family. 

To this day, our grown sons insist upon watching A Charlie Brown Christmas and the old Grinch cartoon once they have returned home for the holidays. As we decorate the tree, they pick out the ornaments they have each received over the years, and reminisce about growing up together. We still gather in the kitchen to make my great grandmother's cookies, and drink wassail with childhood friends. 

Each Christmas morning they sit cramped in the stairwell, until we are all ready and the annual photo shoot documents their anticipation- not of what they will receive, but reaction to gifts they have chosen for each other. And in my mind, there is a time lapse vision of my childhood, and those of my parents and grandparents, as well as future generations, for I'm certain that the boys will take these traditions into their new lives.

Here's wishing you and yours a blessed Holiday Season filled with love and warm memories.- RDW (11-19-09)

Basking in the Glow of Family Traditions

As we enter into December, we move into high gear for another holiday season, and all that comes along with it: the joy, the stress, the commercialism, the exhaustion, the magic, the rush... As the month whizzes along, we tend to get swept away with the tide, and then heave a giant sigh of relief as it passes. 

Family traditions are what the most cherished childhood memories are made of. Take the time to sit down with your beloved to make a calendar of the holiday activities dearest to your family's heart. Discuss your priorities so that you are able to simplify as much as possible, the days ahead.

Christmas mourning and memories

My mother loved the holidays. She took great pleasure in creating a festive household: elaborately decorating our home with tasteful centerpieces and garlands, candles everywhere aglow from sundown to bedtime; house redolent with the mouth watering aromas of Christmas cookies and wassail as we strung popcorn and cranberries to strains of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Boston Pops drifting through the house. She loved having various friends and neighbors in; preparing for family to arrive and planning gourmet Christmas dinners to lavish upon her beloved. 

In 1996 Mom lost her battle with cancer 10 days before her birthday, and 2 ½ weeks before Christmas. Until the time of her death, each holiday celebration had been an extension of former joys, as I tried to recreate for my children the magic I experienced as a youngster.

Tradition creates a bridge from the past to the present. Upon the loss of a crucial element of the past, that bridge seems to collapse, leaving us to wonder how on earth we can carry on. 

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But life goes on, and carry on we must, particularly if there are children involved.

When we are in mourning, the pain becomes unbearable. As much as we wish to escape the anguish, it is necessary to face it before we can move beyond it. When the feelings come, let them. It is not necessary to put up a front; let people know if you're having a tough day. Don't hide your feelings from children in an effort to be strong for them or to protect them. You'll only be teaching them to deny their own feelings.

It is best not isolate yourself too much. You may not feel much like celebrating, but accepting a few invitations to spend time with close friends or family can provide great comfort.

Some of us are inclined to turn to drink. Alcohol is a depressant, so drinking serves only to worsen the heartache, not to mention all the other complications created by substance abuse.

Families can spend so many years following the same patterns and routines that we forget these traditions were made by others, suitable to their experience. Customs created under different circumstances may no longer be appropriate for the newly bereaved and it becomes necessary to make changes in the routine.

Change and adjustment are essential for those in mourning. The early stages of grief require new practices. Even customs "set in stone" need to be modified. We need to remember to include other grieving members of the family, especially children, in the decisions regarding family custom.
Incorporate the memory of your dearly departed into the holidays: Share your favorite stories over dinner. Make a toast or light a candle in remembrance. Making a contribution to a favorite charity, donating a book to the library or making a plan to plant a tree in their memory is of great solace. This in itself may become part of your revised holiday tradition.Traditions bind families and societies tightly to one another. But altering our traditions to suit our current state of affairs makes sense. Each moment, each stage of life, demands its own customs and its own rituals. For while family tradition serves to build a bridge from the past to the present, adaptation of custom is necessary to take us into the future.

Since my mother had been the cornerstone of what the holidays meant to me, it just seemed too excruciatingly painful to carry on, and every year the season's celebration became a chore. Decorations remained in the attic, cookies unbaked.

Several years after she died, the idea of honoring my mother by celebrating her birthday was presented. Dinner on that date, consisting of her favorite holiday fare has since become part of our amended family tradition. Last year my sister mailed a package with instructions to open it on Mom's birthday. It contained a beautiful old photo of her taken during the holidays, along with a cd of her favorite jazz band. It was as if my mother was in the room with us. -RDW (11-30-09)