Hanukkah for Christmas

I hate Christmas - for the same reason I hate multi-level marketing schemes. Intense feelings of guilt and obligation, with only the minority of people actually getting anything out of it. But frankly, I think it's because we're doing Christmas all wrong.

Christmas is, hypothetically, supposed to celebrate the birth of Christ. It's a time to imagine your god in infant form, unable to ask anything of you, and only there to give you warm feelings - warm feelings which you MUST feel! It's the season! He doesn't judge. He doesn't speak. He's the easiest Christ for all the Christians in the world to get behind. But you know what? That's not all bad. I actually am okay celebrating Christ's birthday. That's okay. He was born in April, though, but why not take the Winter Solstice and make that commemorate the birth of Christ...

With Christmas trees. Because Christ, born in Bethlehem, would have loved himself a nicely decorated tinsel pine tree with holly berries. Mmmm... And gingerbread. Because that was his favorite food, definitely, when he was an infant. The holy family all gathered round that manger like that. With hot chocolate. And cider. 

And candy canes. Because he was the good shepherd, and candy canes are shaped like a shepherd's staff, right? Thank goodness we can make some kind of a religious tie there, without resorting to paganism... Every time I see those candy canes, I think about the red and white stripes which symbolize all kinds of stuff about Jesus. Candy canes. Jesus. Thinking about Him every time. 

SANTA. Oh my goodness. Can I tell you how much I just love everything Santa? Sticking his jolly fat face in the middle of everything. Seriously. He brings gifts, like the three wise men, who, actually, weren't even there for a couple of years, and....

Just stop. Stop. Everything. Stop it. 

I had to give my husband a disclaimer before I married him, that I was not going to be the woman who celebrated Christmas. I wasn't going to lie to my children, to sell them into the materialism of it all. The only trouble, though, is knowing HOW to celebrate. Because, unfortunately, such a huge deal is made about Christmas, that you can't NOT celebrate it. 

How depressed would my children be if they went to school and had to listen to their friends talk about all the STUFF they got for Christmas, if they didn't get anything? How would they feel? As a child, I would feel ridiculously jealous, because STUFF. Stuff is golden. And that's what Christmas ultimately turns into, for kids. Because they're kids. Kids love Jesus, but unless Jesus is bringing them that push-bike, he's going to come in second. You can't blame their testimonies. Santa is huge and loud, and Christ doesn't intrude. He's an infant, for heavens sake.

I don't want to confuse my children. But to an extent, no matter what I do, they will be confused. If I played along, they would be confused about Santa vs Jesus - a matter I'm not willing to negotiate on. (Thou shalt have no other gods before me.) If I don't play along, which I am choosing, I have to explain to my children why all their friends and cousins are believing in this red fat man who sneaks into their house in the middle of the night with flying reindeer. I have to explain it to them, and somehow convince them not to ruin it for everyone else.

Bless my heart! What to do? This has been a source of confusion and angst for me for years. (I wrote an essay on it, my first year of college!) I want my children to be happy, but I also want them to know what's what, and what's really important. What matters!

And I think I've come to an answer.

We're Jewish. Not SUPER technically, but enough, that we can make this work. My great (great?) grandparents, on my mother's mother's side were married in a British Israelite wedding. It's the mother's side that counts, which makes me Jewish, as well as my children. (My daughters' children can claim the same privilege, but not my sons' children.) (They are also uncircumcised, and we're eating pork for Thanksgiving from now on, so obviously we're not very good at this.) BUT! Hanukkah doesn't play Santa. Hanukkah is religious. For real. I admire them deeply, and hope my desire to join them isn't an offense. Because they don't cloud their holiday over with secular garbage, and religion is all I want out of my religious holidays.

Hanukkah is a celebration otherwise known as the Feast of Dedication. It celebrates the Jewish re-dedication of the temple, after reclaiming it from the Greeks, who had desecrated it with unholy sacrifices, etc. There's a whole bunch of additional story about the Jews relighting the menorah in the temple, but only having enough oil for one day - though the menorah miraculously burned for 8 days. There is no scriptural evidence of this event, in the Maccabees, however, and it may very well have been made up - as it also changes the shape and form of the original menorah to incorporate 8 days, which, to me, is questionable, as it is for several Jewish sects, who don't agree with the story as well. Yup. But that bit's not important for me.

But the Feast of Dedication. We know Christ celebrated it. It is full of delicious symbolism. Plus, nothing wrong with celebrating reclaiming your temple and re-dedicating it to God. And I realized, that's very much how I feel about Christmas. Just substitute "Santa" with "Greek" and you might see what I see. So I will choose to dedicate my home, once again, to Christ, for Christmas. We'll do gifts. Perhaps we'll do one gift a night for 8 nights, by candlelight. It'll be calm. No wrapping paper flying. Not 8 big gifts, because that's not the point. 

We're still working through the details - mostly just how to get everybody on board with ALLOWING us to celebrate Christmas in the way that we feel is most appropriate. It's eclectic. It's a work in progress. But there you have it! Be warned!

If Jesus Was a Gun-Owner

If Jesus was a gun-owner,

Would He have one gun, or three?

Would He have a Smith and Wesson,

A Remington, or Benelli?

Would Jesus open carry,

Or would He carry securely hid?

Would He tote it under arm, or hip,

Or thigh, just to be hip?

Would Jesus take up hunting,

Or prefer to target shoot?

Would He go out with friends, a drink or two,

Or to the desert, someplace offshoot?

Would He join the NRA,

Or host a class for concealed carry?

How often would He clean his gun, buy bullets, or...

Hold up, Nelly!

I don’t profess to know Him,

But I know a thing or two.

I’ve read the book a few more times,

And there’s something He wouldn’t do.

He wouldn’t own a gun, of course,

Designed in lethal taste.

He’d turn His cheek again

Before boasting about His “place.”

He’d be the last to argue

Fighting for civil defense.

“My rights!” He would not shout, but more,

“Trust God. He’ll do what’s best.”

He wouldn’t hunt. No, not for fun,

Or sport. No, I don’t blame Him.

He taught compassion, love, and, yes,

He loves them ‘cause He made them.

I’m not saying He’s vegetarian

Or vegan. No, just prudent.

His heart would take no pleasure

From killing for amusement.

He’d see the damage that guns cause

To life and pride in that market.

As our Prince of Peace and hope for man,

He wouldn’t own. Cathartic.

So if Jesus were a gun-owner,

I don’t think I’d recognize Him.

We could follow his example...

No? Alright. It’s just a whim.

Your Birth - Dexter

I wrote a blog about Julian's birth, for when he wants to know, and figured I should write something for Dexter. Here goes:

Dexter.  You were due on 7/17/17, which was terribly exciting for me, even though that wasn't the day you ended up coming. You came into the world during a time a great anxiety for us. But I get ahead of myself.

Your brother was 6 months old, and amazingly adorable. I needed another one. And so you came to pass.

My pregnancy with you was a breeze. Perhaps it was because I was so busy chasing Julian around that I didn't have the amounts of time I had with my pregnancy with Julian to sit around and feel sorry for myself. I was up and running! And you were perfect. There was never anything concerning during the pregnancy. Everything was always "just right." You were healthy. You were perfect. And I really appreciated that! I was working full time while your brother went to daycare, up until the month before you were born.

I took that last month off because we were moving. (And I wanted to be home to help Julian out with all of the transitions that would happen in his life - new brother, new home, Mom being home all the time, etc.) When we'd found out we were pregnant with you, your father and I decided it was time to buy a home - a place with three bedrooms, instead of continuing to rent the two bedroom townhome we were living in. We bought a place that was being built, and scheduled to be completed just before you were born. They pushed the deadline back a lot, but then, holy heck, our mortgage company...

We were supposed to sign towards the end of June. We were supposed to be able to move into our new home on June 29th. But the date ended up getting pushed back, and pushed back, due to our incompetent mortgage company. (That is such a long and frustrating story, I won't even go there. It's still too fresh for me.) But because we didn't close before the end of the month, we had to leave our townhome, and enter... homelessness... until we could officially move in. Our stuff went into storage, and on the night of June 30th, after a full day of moving, we packed ourselves into Grandma Read's second and third bedrooms.

Your father was exhausted. I was emotionally spent, despite having spent a large portion of the day at Grandma's house doing nothing but watch your brother. (I was upset about the mortgage company and being homeless until who knew when, living with my mom.) I was too pregnant to move anything, and we were supposed to be keeping me "calm," so I wouldn't go into labor, which is why I had minimal work to do for the move. I'd spent the night watching the first episode of Call the Midwife, while Julian slept and the rest of the family finished cleaning up our townhome, till well after dark.

Grandma and your dad rolled in around ten o'clock. We sat around talking for awhile, and your dad and I retired to bed pretty late. Your dad grumbled about being tired, while trying to assure me that everything was fine, and I didn't have to worry about a thing. I worried about a few things, like a restless, confused Julian, and my homeless, pathetic pregnant state. I remember finally pulling up the covers, rolling onto my side in the dark and thinking, "This bed is sort of uncomfortable with this pregnancy pillow... And I'm going to have to sleep like this for the next five nights?"

As if you took that thought as a sign from above, my water broke, just then. I remember feeling it and thinking, "Oh, that can't be what I think it was..." Your father later told me that at that time he was rolling over in bed thinking, "This would just be the WORST time for her to go into labor."

"My water just broke." I told him, as I jumped up and sprinted for the bathroom. (Didn't get the bed wet at all. Score!) We rushed around as quietly as we could, and I went and woke my mother, briefly, to tell her we were going to the hospital, and that she was now in charge of Julian. Surprise!

When we got there, your dad went to park the car, and I stood around feeling completely disgusting. Like I was peeing my pants and just kept peeing. It was marvelous. They ushered us back to a room - the same room I'd given birth to your brother in, to be exact, and the waiting began. The nurses were friendly, and all was going well.

Your father was exhausted. He'd spent the entire day moving an entire house in the sun, and had also taken a Trazodone to help him sleep. And so sleep he did! Nurses came and went, hooking me up to devices, giving me an IV, etc, and your father slept. Lights turning off and on, and he slept.

I made him wake up when they sent for the epidural man. I didn't want to do that part alone. Getting the epidural with your brother was exceptionally easy. I bragged that it was easier than the IV was. (It was.) Your epidural... not so much. It hurt quite a bit. It took a long time. It was hard to get through. I went from lying on my side in the fetal position, to sitting at the edge of the bed, grimacing and just downright hurting. This time, the epidural was the hardest part. As I sat at the edge of the bed, I noticed your dad starting to turn whiter and whiter, so I mentioned calmly, "Dad's going to pass out." for the nurses.

The nurse made your dad sit down, and gave him snacks to eat. (Royally unfair for the woman who could eat nothing.) She continued to hold my hand, and saw me through the last two minutes until my epidural was in place, and working. (Later, Dad said it was the blood that got to him. Glad I didn't see that. It was bad enough.)

And then Dad slept again, and I actually got about 4 hours of sleep myself. (God bless epidurals.) In the early morning I texted your Aunt Hannah, and told her I was in labor. She expressed an interest in being there, and, with your dad still asleep and struggling to stay conscious as he was, and with his difficulty with blood, at the time, I thought it would be nice to have another support person. And I thoroughly enjoy your Aunt Hannah. I knew she would be a great partner to have along. She'd keep the mood light, and keep me laughing. When Dad woke up and gave me permission to do so, I invited her to be there.

She showed up about twenty minutes to show time! It was perfect! My doctor was working that day, a Saturday, and was there for my delivery. Another bonus was that my doctor was Aunt Hannah's aunt-in-law. So the room felt royally unrighteous, fun-loving, and light-hearted. The mirror was brought out, and I was told to push.

I actually forgot what I was supposed to do and how to do it. Was I supposed to hold my breath, or breathe through my nose? I wasted a contraction, and we laughed and shrugged it off, while the doctor reminded me what I was supposed to be doing. Dad held my hand while Hannah stood in my line of sight next to the mirror. Yes, I had a mirror there. I remember how much easier it was to push with a mirror there, when I had Julian, and requested it again. For your birth, however, no one stood in the way of the mirror, and I saw the whole thing!

It took two contractions and a half to get you out. As Grandma Read would put it, "After you have one, the rest are like shelling peas." You came easily. But with the most impressive cone-head the world has ever seen. Unlike your brother, who was rushed away by the NICU ladies, they plopped your little wriggling body into my arms, and you were perfect. (This is disgusting, but I intentionally kept some of your goop on my forearm for the rest of the day, until I realized I was being disgusting and overly emotional, and that I had YOU, for goodness sakes. I didn't need your goop.)

We all smiled and laughed. I had a first degree tear, which was nothing like the third degree tear I had with your brother. You had some trouble breathing, to be honest. You didn't really cry, and your breathing was fast, enough so that they called a NICU nurse to come down just to look at you. I remember looking at Aunt Hannah, the nurse, hoping she would tell me if your breathing was something to worry about. She just kept smiling and saying that everything was fine - that you were good. I didn't believe her, and continued to worry, until they packed us up and sent us upstairs. (Once again, I was put in the same room I'd been in with your brother. What were the chances!)

In addition to a fantastic cone-head, you also came out with a fantastically bruised face - to the point that they put a little sticky note on your bin, saying "Bruised Face," so the nurses wouldn't see you and assume you were low on oxygen. That had mostly cleared up by the next day, though.

I kept you close. The first night I slept on my own, but the second night, when I was fully rested, I kept you by my side the whole night - even though we were doing formula, not breastfeeding. (I'd learned my limits well enough from my experience with your brother. I wanted to bond with you, not wrestle with your disappointment and frustrations.) I remember sleeping with you in the bed next to me, waking up when the nurse did her rounds, and kindly pushing off any offers to help. I was so glad to be with you, and you gave me incredible feelings of hope and energy. I napped with you at every opportunity.

And then we took you home! Oh, wait, no. We were homeless. We took you to Grandma's. (Several nurses had heard our sad tale. I thought it was hilarious that you had come just in time to live at Grandma's. Really? You didn't want to wait just one more week?) 

Julian was obsessed with you, and still is. (You're five weeks old, now.) He's just waiting for you to grow up and play with him. One of his favorite things to do is kiss you. 

Overall, you've been an extremely pleasant baby. Very lazy, I might add. You didn't open your eyes until the third day, and I took a video of it, just to prove to your dad that you did actually have eyes. When you were FOUR WEEKS OLD, your Grandma asked if we'd had your eyes checked out, because she thought there was the possibility that you were BLIND, because you never had your eyes open for her! (She has since seen your eyes, and knows that your vision is fine. But it's not like Grandma hasn't been around a lot. You're just lazy!)

You still wake up like clockwork to eat every three hours, and have finally reached the point where we don't have to torture you awake to finish a bottle anymore. You are now motivated enough to eat. At your 2 week appointment you were in the 14th percentile for weight, but we're anticipating you'll catch up to average or above average in no time. 

You're a good buddy to keep me company while your brother naps, screams, throws tantrums, etc. You're pretty chill. (Actual picture of right now.) 

On Sunday, aka yesterday, you were blessed at church. Your father blessed you, with Uncle Patrick and Uncle Oliver and Grandpa DeMill there. He said that you were born at a time that the Kingdom of God was in great excitement. He mentioned that you would be a steward and a teacher in the Kingdom. He mentioned that you would have trials, but that you would be able to teach others how to overcome their trials, because of your experiences. 

Sorry, you moved, and now it's cuter.

I'm proud to be your momma. You make it difficult to get out and have fun, when you demand food every two hours, but keeping that eternal perspective makes me forgive you for your starvation-induced drama. You were named Dexter Martin Lisch. As with our family traditions, we name your first name after whatever the heck we want, and your middle name after a historical hero of ours. You were named Dexter after Dexter's Lab. (Don't judge us.) But you were named Martin after Martin Luther. Not the black Martin Luther King, but Martin Luther, the hero of the reformation. 

Martin Luther was a devout man, who wanted to serve God to the best of his ability. But he saw problems with the current practices of his church - the concept that you could buy forgiveness, etc. He risked everything he had to teach that God was love. You couldn't buy His love and forgiveness, but that rather, He would give it. You would never be perfect, but God would accept you, and through his grace, claim you His. Obviously, you should still be a good person, but remember that God has claimed you His, if you will accept His taking you. He is love, first and foremost. A good thing to remember in a crazy, confused world. 

Stay at Home Mom - Friends Wanted

I've always had a job. Since I was sixteen years old, I have been working. At one point I had four jobs at the same time. I've been a party-host, an interpreter, a librarian, a dispatcher. I've worked on psych wards and in care centers. I've made tables worth of bread sticks, I've wiped bottoms and sold books. I've even worked security, and encouraged drunk concert attendees to stop urinating in the bushes.

As life circumstances would have it, however, I have become... a stay-at-home mom. I won't lie to you. It's work. There are times when I stare at my screaming son who will not be reasoned with, and will not nap, and seriously consider returning to work. Emotionally, it would be easier. Psychologically, it would be healthier. HOWEVER, I do love him. And the fact that I have the opportunity and chance to be more involved in his upbringing, his childhood, the little moments and learning experiences he has each hour, is too good to pass up. I'm a firm believer that there's nothing more important - no job comes close to compare - than raising your children. For some, this means working full time. For others, part-time - the group I intend to end up in, eventually, for my own sanity! And others, it's being a stay-at-home mom. There are no wrong answers, when you look at individuals' lives.

But staying at home is a transition. It's a terrible one! I've gone from the ultimate of 9-5 schedules, with dropping the baby off, then picking him up, making dinner, bath time, then bed, every night, to waking up when the baby does, eating breakfast, and...

I'm looking for stuff to do. Parks are awesome, but I'm also almost 8 months pregnant and it's over ninety degrees out there. (Shade is cool. Can they make more covered parks?) We have aquarium passes, but you can only go so much before you get sick of it. We could go shopping every single day, but our wallets are not bottomless. We have toys, but this kid is used to playing with a room full of infants every single day.

And that's the hard part. Julian needs friends. I'm an introvert. I can't tell you how happy I'd be to sit on my butt day after day writing, reading, or watching documentaries on the Bible or archaeological digs and discoveries. (These are my hobbies.) But Julian is a baby. He is 100%, certifiably, an extrovert. I didn't think you could tell this early, but with this kid, you can tell. He lives and breathes other people and interacting with them. And he needs friends. And I don't know how else to find them. So here goes:

FRIENDS WANTED:

Looking for candidates for potential friends for a stay-at-home mom and her 14-month old son.

Son is wonderfully cute, charming, and funny. He is precocious in language development, and is just starting to walk. He enjoys cars, other children, and is only mildly afraid of dogs. He can be convinced that they are safe, given time. He takes roughly three naps a day, making his schedule a living nightmare, though naps can be condensed down to two easily, as, when with others, he remains pleasantly exhausted. He is big, and unaware of his girth. He has been known to accidentally step on smaller, more breakable children. It is not intentional.

Mother is an introvert. She is additionally an INFJ, yellow/red personality, resulting in a pleasantly opinionated, friendly demeanor. (Due to being an introvert, the opinionated/bossy will only come out if she's annoyed about something.) She is a religious "bigot," and expresses culturally unpopular, conservative opinions on a regular basis - though she is anti guns and wars, and pro socialized medicine and Muslims. She is not a Republican. Or a Democrat. And she likes it. Her hobbies including reading, writing, and documentaries focused on archaeology, as well as mutually respecting debates on current events, mental health, politics, culture, religion, and Russians. She pretends to enjoy cooking, and once she starts, she really does. But frankly, her creativity and general motivation are lacking. She also does not work out. At all. She calls life her workout.

Looking for friends who have a child, preferably close to the son's age. Friends can have more than one child, though frankly, the mother is terrified of being outnumbered. But just because this is her fear, does not mean that she can't get over it. Looking for friends who understand introverts, and won't be offended if the mother doesn't want to hang out all day long. A couple hours is awesome. Looking for friends who won't try and sell them anything. You can sell stuff. Just not to them. The mother will ask if she's interested. She is anti multi-level-marketing. Looking for friends who have a dark sense of humor, or at least won't be afraid of one. Looking for friends who have religious convictions, but don't shirk at the sight of Mountain Dew, or R-rated movies like Gladiator or Schindler's List. Looking for friends who DO shirk at the sight of anything starring Hugh Grant or Jack Nicholson, or basically most modern comedy/romantic comedy films. They are disgusting.

If you are interested, please contact me. I would love to set up a time we could have a picnic, or an awkward splash pad encounter, or something inside and creative that you've thought up, because I'm plain out of ideas on the air conditioned spectrum. We could always just chill for a bit. My place or yours. We'll figure something out.

Of Death and Living

I have had the privilege of being at the side of several people as they have passed away. One thing I have learned is that people die much the same way that they lived.

The selfish die afraid.

The fearful die alone.

The righteous die praising God.

The loving die happy.

A woman who selfishly lived her final days speaking only of what her children should/could/badly did for her clung to her life like a drowning man. A woman too frail to survive CPR insisted on it. Death called for her several times, and she fought it, clinging to the life that only made her sorry to live it, like it was all that she had.

The man who lived alone, had no friends, no close family due to fears of life change, died silently one day with no one at his side. There was no one to send a sympathy card to, for he had no one. He had lived his life afraid of change, afraid of owning or belonging to someone or anything.

A preacher tearfully asked me to play a hymn for him, and tears streamed down his face as he sang along in his weakened voice, able to raise his hands only inches over his face, he clasped them together, grateful. He praised the Lord, and reported feeling ready to meet his maker - excited for the journey that would soon be his.

A woman with many children died with them, and her grandchildren, at her side. She had told me of her life. She had been abused, nearly killed, by her former husband. She had had to save her children while holding a door back, to stop the man from entering and killing them. She had barely been saved herself. She had no money - she could barely make rent. There was no money for a funeral, or even for an obituary. And she knew that death was coming.

But she never ceased smiling. Her family never stopped talking about her, for the love that they had for this woman. Why she had no money was not important. The trauma or ghosts of her past held no sway. She was loved for the love that she gave, and I, a lowly social worker accustomed to the passing of patients, went to my office and wept when I heard she was gone. I wept for her again today, even a year later, because she taught me more about life and death than any patient I had worked with before, or since.

We die how we live. Not the lives that we’ve had, for living is much different than the situations of our existence. No, how we live is how we treat others, how we talk, how we hope, how we dream. How we live is how we hurt, how we think, how we laugh.

For you it may be car payments and broken bones. It may be the cold silence of family members, or dead end jobs, or lack of skill in cooking. (Okay, the cooking is me.) But these are not the things that define you.

You are defined by your ability to love. You are defined by your ability to pull through.

Today I’m thinking of her, and have determined, once again, that situations do not define me. It is my response to them that will lead the eventual course of my life.