Nearly Christmas

I’ve been a cookie baking fool. Over the course of the past few weekends I’ve been producing cookies at a furious pace and maniacally labeling freezer bags and Tupperware with cookie types and dates and storing them up for Christmas. Then to top it off I made cranberry bread this morning. I’m like a conscientious squirrel readying myself for the long cold months, and I can only imagine if I were one of the other squirrels I’d hate me.

But the fact is, aside from the by-product that it will be nice to have an assortment of cookies for those who stop by for some McClusky family holiday cheer, I think the cookie baking somehow turned into this nostalgic refuge for connecting with my mom.

There is something about getting your house ready for Christmas when you’re the one playing Santa. I want it to be nice. I want the tree to be pretty–not over-the-top fancy, but sweet and nice and covered in ornaments that have meaning to me or Mark and someday when she’s old enough to grock it all, to Kate.

My mother kicked ass at Christmas. Not that she’d ever take any credit for it, and not that she was showy about it. But she made pinecone wreaths, she baked and cooked special food, she hacked down her own tree with an axe and made a profusion of Chex Mix.

Going through all the motions this year I’ve given myself time to do it without stress and panic and the fear that I wasn’t going to have time to do everything I wanted to do. Even though it’s taken time and energy and planning, it’s this weirdly rewarding act—getting ready for Christmas—which was totally devoid of external pressure. How comforting it is putting a perfect double batch of Mark’s family chocolate cookies in the freezer.

And part of the comfort of it all is the knowledge that I’m doing the things that my mother did year after year—and since this is the first time we are having our own Christmas and not going home to RI, doing this all myself has made me realize all that goes into it. She’s been on my mind so much as I set out the manger figurines, or wrangle with fresh garland that I’m determined to frame the front door with, or put the cards in the little red wooden sleigh every day after Mark and Kate and I open them together. By repeating this well-worn ritual that she performed for so many years it’s like I’ve somehow been hanging out with her.

Part of the connection comes from the fact that so many of the decorations, the manger, the sleigh, the ceramic angels that lean towards each other and kiss–and are surprisingly not tacky, though in describing them it’s hard to imagine how they couldn’t be. So many of the things were hers. And I think she knew that of all of us I would cherish them the most. I think before she was even sick she said that I’d get the manger “one day.”

Peggy arrived today, and after going to a Christmas party we came home and got Kate to bed and watched a movie called The Family Stone. I guess I’d put it on our Netflix queue at some point thinking it was a light-as-a-feather comedy about a guy taking his girlfriend home at Christmas and she’s all New York and uptight and they’re all mellow and quirky but tight-knit and they give her a hard time.

It turns out the movie, while also being about the anal girlfriend thing, was more about this amazing family who lived in this huge old house that was totally enviable, but also a real family house with the requisite set of mismatched coffee mugs. Diane Keaton plays the eccentric but crazy-with-love mother of five distinctly different but successful in their own way adult children.

Somewhere towards the end, I realized that somehow my perspective on movies like this has totally shifted. I’m not identifying with the horror of being the child whose parents make a scene in front of the new significant other. I’m not picturing myself as the derelict daughter who wants to make the girlfriend’s life hell because she’s protecting her brother. I’m totally putting myself into the mother role—even though the mother is probably in her sixties in the movie. I’m thinking about how great it would be to have a brood of five children, who are all unique and fabulous and who unconditionally adore me despite my idiosyncrasies. I’m relieved to see that as this mother I’ve managed to hold onto my smart and funny husband who I still connect with and who isn’t afraid to hug and kiss our adult sons and tell them how much he loves them. From the snow-covered house to the cute gay son to the high-thread count sheets and patterned wallpaper, it was a nice daydreamy kind of fantasy.

I kicked Mark who was lying on the couch next to me. “Five kids,” I say. “How great is that?”

And of course, before they spell out what was going to happen in the otherwise light and breezy movie, it dawns on me that, of course (duh), the mother is sick. Just when you might be nearing the point of finding the family all to perfect in their garrulous noogie-giving love for each other, you realize that they are about to lose their most central character.

So here I am. Having spent the past few weeks channeling my own mother and hoping that somehow from wherever she is seeing me and admiring the fine job I’m doing of feathering the McClusky family Christmas nest. Then after renting an unsuspecting holiday hoax movie I’m suddenly crying over the fictitious dying mother who I wanted to be, and over the searingly sad pang of goneness of my own mother. No gut-wrenching sobs, mind you. Just the kind of weepiness that anyone would get watching a movie like that, but at a deeper, more personal level.

Maybe my mother is communicating with me through my Netflix queue. I swear I don’t remember ever having picked that movie, but it seemed to have made its way to me at a perfect time. Maybe I needed some sort of culmination to it all. Some big emotional moment to work out all these stray thoughts I’ve been having about Mom, so I can settle into Mark and Kate and the here and now and focus on the great new Christmas we are about to have–thanks in no small part to all my hard work.

Pygmy Tree and More Puking

On Saturday I gathered the family in a stern holiday-spirit march and forced them out the door to Half Moon Bay, where a Google Search (TM) had informed me that there was “one of the largest choose-and-cut live Christmas tree farms in the San Francisco Bay Area.”

Despite the fact that Kate barfed all over me in the Safeway parking lot the day prior, it seemed perfectly reasonable for me to pack her into the car for a 45-minute drive for Christmas-tree-cuttin’ fun.

About a half-hour into the drive she started kinda whimpering. I offered her water and cereal and she definitively shook them off. Then nearly 10 minutes to our destination I looked into the back seat and got some sort of telltale “I’m gonna spew” sign from Kate. Mark pulled over. Thankfully, giving her some fresh air seemed to intercept the sickies, but did nothing for our feeling of being bad parents for having taken her out.

At that point though, we were almost there, so we didn’t know what else to do other than persevere. At the entrance to the farm we stopped at a small hut that had a friendly “Pick up your saw here!” sign on it. After years of post-9/11 air travel, this seemed utterly disconcerting. Here is a venue that requires you to pick up a saw before entering. It was so perverse, I had Mark stop so I could take a picture.

The hot blonde local teen working the saw-hand-out hut gave us some spiel about where the different kinds of trees were and how it was we were to find and cut and pay for our tree. As we pulled away I confessed to Mark I didn’t really listen to/follow anything she’d said. And in an uncharacteristic moment he said he hadn’t either. (If he turns his brain off when we’re together too, what’s to become of us?)

Well before we had too much time to fret over not knowing where to go or what to do we stumbled upon the “warming hut” which was producing fake snow and trying really hard (and tragically) to give off some alpine woodsy cachet. We pulled over since I’d read there was some Santa-photo op, and with Kate’s poor performance with Santa the day before I thought we could traumatize her anew and/or hopefully get a good (and free!) picture for a holiday card.

But really what happened was we bought some over-priced slice and bake Christmas tree sugar cookies and Kate freaked out when we asked a stranger take our picture with a guy dressed in a Rudolph costume. Turns out she likes Rudolph as much (or little) as she likes Santa.

When we ventured out again for the project at hand—the contrived “we will cut down our tree as part of our tradition, damn it!”—we were totally confused by what the kinds of trees that Mark and I like are called. We were even uncertain that we liked the same kind. Mark seemed set on a short-pine tree, but I had no idea what the needle-length was of my ideal tree.

“I think I like Noble Firs,” I said, trying to sound cool. “Or wait, is it Scotch Pines?” So we drove around a labyrinth of dirt roads following little hand-painted signs and trying to figure out what it was we liked and wanted and where that might be found. In the few times we ventured out of the car, I cared less about getting a tree, and more about photo ops with Kate. Prop her up, take a picture, she falls forward planting her hands in the dirt and yelps, I brush it off and re-prop her for more photo fun. Yes, I was that Mom.

Finally, we found the type we both like—Noble, I think—and realized that all the Noble Firs were teeny. Or maybe at least in this little foresty nook where we were. Was this all the Nobles that they had? We did another lap and found another section, at this point getting well into overdueness for Kate’s afternoon nap. So, determined, we traipsed around and looked for The One.

And thankfully, even with Mark I do maintain some sort of awareness of what is reasonable for me to ask. What I really wanted to do was say, “I know this was my idea, and I dragged you all the way here, and Kate almost barfed on the way, but I really don’t like these trees and let’s just go back to the place 3 blocks from our house and get a tree there.” I kinda knew that saying that wasn’t so much an option.

But all the Noble Firs were so damned puny. I was hoping for majestic, and instead we got what we referred to as our Little Teapot Tree (i.e. short and stout). It ain’t tall, I tell you, but it makes up for its height with its girth! So, $75 later we left the tree farm. We cut our tree and had our experience and made our tradition, and now have a Charlie Browner of a tree to prove it.

Today Mark asked me if it was just him or was our cut-our-own-tree adventure not exactly the scene from LL Bean that I was hoping for. And I had to confess that it wasn’t. But it made me feel like Mark and I had come a long way.

It reminded me of the time when we were first dating when we decided to make our own pasta. We called Shelley and Don to borrow their pasta maker—a wedding present that was gathering dust even for them, hardcore cooks that they are. Mark and I decided to make a lasagna. and slaved over producing perfect pasta and our own sauce. The project took all day. I mean ALL DAY. And when we finally exhaustedly sat down to eat it, I had the horrible secret realization deep down inside that I couldn’t really tell that the pasta was homemade. And that maybe I’d actually even had lasagnas with store-bought pasta and jarred sauce that I even—gasp!—liked better. For shame. Of course, it was too early in our relationship to admit this to each other. So we both cooed over how delectable it was, hiding our secret disappointment.

It was kinda that way with our cut-our-own tree. Here’s all the trouble we went to, and we have an overpriced pygmy tree to show for it.

The next day we ran an errand at Ocean Supply Hardware, and as much as I was chanting internally, “Don’t look.” Don’t look,” I looked at the trees they had for sale in their parking lot and they had some really tall and beautiful Noble Pines for just $45. Oy.

Sunday evening we were invited to the neighbor’s for a Hanukkah party. And Mark had been moaning a bit about not feeling well, but truly I suspected 90% of it was a lack of desire to venture out to a party that wouldn’t be populated with all people he knows and loves. But he surprised me and rallied, coming to the party even when I said I was happy to pop over there solo with Kate. After a half-hour of chit-chattery with various folks, he looked me in the eye and said he was going home. By the time Kate and I got back 20 minutes later, I heard the retching from behind the closed bathroom door.

Kate’s Both Ends Flu has not only made its mark on Shelly, the nanny. Now Mark has fallen prey to it too, and spent today home from work moaning and, as he put it, “throwing himself a pity party.” And this morning when Shelly arrived, she looked green. She started feeling sick on Thursday and is still not in the clear—so I sent her home and called in a sick day for myself to care for Mark and watch Kate.

So now, with the two other people aside from me who are regularly in contact with Patient Zero Kate, I can’t help but feel that there’s a target painted on my forehead. It’s only a matter of time until this plague strikes me too. The pediatrician’s office today told me over the phone that, yes, this stomach virus is going around, and it takes 4-7 days to get over. (Mark was not too pleased to hear that.)

Shelly called tonight and still feels crummy, so it’s unlikely she’ll be here tomorrow too. So if you’re overcome with a desire to stop by Chez McClusky, know that I’ve nailed a large Quarantine sign on the front door. I’m just cowering inside by the overpriced pygmy Christmas tree, waiting for the sickness to strike me too.

Not So Much about Santa

The rains are here. Well, not at this moment, but they arrived yesterday and today is all gloom and impending showers. So now I’m charged with having to translate my concept of a white Christmas to a wet Christmas, seeing as it’s the first year we’re staying in California for it.

In the past, I never worried if I wasn’t in the Christmas spirit as I was working through the month of December and doing my Christmas shopping in palm-tree-lined Union Square. My single-gal tradition was always to go to Brooklyn for a couple days to visit with Mike and Lorin before heading home to RI for the holiday. And if I wasn’t absently humming The Little Drummer Boy before, I knew I’d get a turbo dose of Christmas once I touched down in NY. There is something about the cold, and the frenzy, and the hanging with Mike for our traditional holiday fancy dinner out, and sure, the store windows in Manhattan, that mere mortals can’t combat. Like it or not, Jewish, Islamic, Catholic, you get swept up in it.

This year we’ll be here. And Peggy is coming which will be great. But there won’t be snow or good bagels, or Aunt Mary’s Christmas Even 7-fish feast, or my mother’s sausage stuffing that Marie always makes, not to mention Marie’s exceptional pumpkin and apple pies. She somehow got the pie-perfect gene from Mom.

So yesterday I took Kate for her picture with Santa. She’s been looking at Santas in books and ornaments and storefront displays, and can even say something approximating Santa. But seeing him in person sent her into utter freak out. I mean, sure, the guy was some fifty-something unemployed hack with yellowed teeth (the ones he had) and an intermittently surly attitude. But still. Here we were, driven to Marin, where we’d met up with Shauna and Baby Kieran, our Yeshi-midwife friends who we’d fallen out of touch with and had Santa pics taken with last year. And once we got into the little Santa hut and I approached him, Kate clung to me like a panicked koala. And just moments after I’d told Shauna while waiting in line that Kate only nurses at night and before naps, she starts frantically signing for milk while looking at Santa wild-eyed.

Ultimately we got a shot where Kate’s halfway on my lap and Santa’s and I’m leaning out of the way. Kate isn’t actively crying, and nor is Santa, but both of them look like they need someone to cut them a break. I think we’ll reserve the Santa pics for the grandparents this year, and come up with Plan B for the Christmas cards.

Kate slept on our drive home, and as she was waking up I pulled into the Safeway parking lot, feeling ambitious that I’d make dinner. After unbuckling Kate from her seat to put her in the Ergo pack, she looked up at me innocently and let loose a fury of vomit. Twice.

I was drenched, she was drenched. And the diaper bag with the wipes was on the floor of the front seat, buried under 4 large shopping bags. It could have been buried in the ground and would have seemed easier for me to get to.

For the first time since having Kate I was truly stumped. How do I move the two of us, her on my lap facing me with her legs wrapped around my waist, with a pool of puke balanced between us, to get the wipes? And really, even if they were right there at hand, the wipes seemed an utterly inadequate tool to handle this job.

Someone pulled up in the parking spot next to me in a huge SUV. I was sitting with the back car door open, mentally floundering about what to do. I considered yelling out to the woman for help at least getting the wipes. But she was worlds away and was gone before I summoned the words.

So I clutched whimpering Kate to me and waddling around the front of the car, balancing her and the pool of puke. I managed to open the front door and prop myself against the seat edge pushing back all the shopping bags. Then I started stripped us down. Kate’s jacket, her beautiful handmade sweater from Mrs. Brown, her sweet ivory velvet dress (all fancy for her Santa pic), and her also-sopping tights. Without a better thought at hand, I dumped the clothes in a pile on the ground in the parking lot.

At this point Kate is cold and crying. And then it starts to rain. (Of course.) I peel off my cashmere sweater and add it to the heap. Thankfully I’m wearing a tank top.

Amazingly I had a change of clothes for Kate. I’d brought it in case the dress got annoying for her to stay in. So, while she bawled at top decibels now, I dressed her, and with one hand while holding her dumped the contents of one of the shopping bags on the car seat and piled the puke-strewn clothes into it. At least were only 5 minutes from home.

So we’re three days into this little virus thing, which the nanny called on Thursday night to inform us she too became plagued with. It’s got to end soon.

Undeterred by it all I have every intention of forging on with holiday-spirit-making activities. I got up early with Kate and readied myself to make about 5 different kinds of Christmas cookies–some from Mark’s family traditions and some from mine. I may even tackle the Italian filled cookies that are a bear to assemble, but my mother always diligently produced. And unless she’s looking Martian green, we’ll trundle Kate off to a Christmas tree farm to cut down a tree and ride on their little Christmas train later today.

If it kills me, and all of us, we will get in the Christmas spirit, damn it.

Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!