Star Wars: Ms. Fisher Awakens

After too many decades of way too many Christmas gifts, my family finally started a "Secret Santa" tradition a few years ago. At first, it was just the grownups; my daughter who was probably a tween when we started and my niece who is ten years younger were exempt. They still raked in truckloads of toys. 

The rest of us agreed to a more sober approach, drawing names at Thanksgiving and then purchasing one, fairly modest gift for the person we've chosen. Nice and civilized. This year, my mother pulled my name and gave me a soft infinity scarf (from Ann Taylor Loft), which my daughter is already coveting.

But, I wrangled another gift as well.

My younger brother, aghast upon learning that I had not yet seen Star Wars: The Force Awakens, treated me to a matinee. And not just any matinee. The theatre, on 42nd street just west of Times Square, boasted a food court rather than a lowly concession stand, enormous reclining seats, and a sound system so advanced that said reclining seats shook all through the previews. I could only imagine what would happen once we boarded the Millennium Falcon.

I saw the first Star Wars the year it came out (more than once). I was 15 and loved it, particularly moody young Luke Skywalker (as the second and third movies came out — and I grew up a little — my allegiance switched to roguish Han Solo). At any rate, my holiday invitation to the new installment included one for my own teen daughter. Alas, after Harry Potter, Twilight, Hunger Games and Divergent, Star Wars was a bit too old school for her. (Plus, she was in NYC for just a few days and wanted to enjoy it. She ended up going downtown with her dad.)

The movie was really quite wonderful. ("Awesome" is actually the first word that comes to mind.) My niece was kind enough to show me how to work the space-age seat, and with some gentle if persistent reminders from my sister-in-law didn't give anything away. Not to worry ... I won't either.

Of course, one of the best things about the new Star Wars is the reunion of the cast members of the old Star Wars. Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford are all in attendance, and appear to have enjoyed the experience immensely. But, let's do a little math. The first film was made in 1977. That's 38 years ago. 

Do you look like you did 38 years ago? 'Didn't think so.

Should we expect actors — and, more particularly actresses, since they're the ones under fire — to stay young and slim, gravity-defying and ageless? Apparently, there are thousands of trolls on the Internet who think we should.

It's ridiculous. Of the movie's three stars, I would argue that Fisher looks the best. Then again, Hamill and Ford aren't being unfavorably, and unfairly, compared to 20-year old versions of themselves in gold bikinis. And, while much has been made about Fisher's 35-pound weight loss for the role, there's been very little press about the 50 pounds Hamill had to lose.

So, once The Force Awakens actually awakened (after the most hype Hollywood has ever generated and exponentially record-breaking presales), the Web pretty much exploded with mean-spirited criticism about her looks and whether or not (they were quite vocal about the "not") she had "aged well."

"YOU DIDN'T AGE WELL AND YOU SUCKED IN STAR WARS. IT WAS A  REST HOME PIC." 

Critics and TV personalities participated in the bashing too. John O'Reilly on Fox stumbled through an attempted Fisher diss after alluding to a major spoiler: "But it comes out worse for our friend Carrie Fisher, Princess Leia, because she doesn't look like Princess Leia."

Um. Maybe because she's General Leia now. Did ya see the movie, John?  

When Fisher responded, she was greeted with more abuse. 

"Showbiz is optional ... fame and age come with it ... don't agree Carrie? Give all the money back."

"So you want the money & adulation that comes with being a famous actor but not the criticism. Whoever told you life was fair?"

But, if there's anything to be learned from this, it's not to match wits with Carrie Fisher. She will win.

"Please stop debating about whether OR not I aged well. Unfortunately it hurts all 3 of my feelings. My BODY hasn't aged as well as I have."

And, even more thoughtfully ...
 
"Youth and beauty are not accomplishments, they're the temporary happy by-products of time and/or DNA. Don't hold your breath for either."

You tell 'em, Princess ... er ... I mean General! 

And, one more thing. I'm five years younger than Fisher, and I won't be getting into a gold bikini any time soon. 

So, don't hold your breath for that either.

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.  

Christmastime Questions

Remember when yearbooks had captions like "Most likely to succeed?" Today, students are awarded more modern honors like "Best Tweeter." Kids campaign for these prizes and results were recently announced.

Apparently, one of my daughter's oldest friends, also a high school senior, was robbed! 

I've known this lovely young lady since ... well, since she was born. Today, by all accounts, she is a proficient — and prolific — Twitter poster. (She also wears a penguin costume when she goes on vacation. Really. But, that's another story for another time.) Over Christmas break, she tweeted this:

"If I had a dollar for everyone who asks me where I'm going to college, I'd have enough money to go to college."

We know how she feels.

At our annual tree-trimming party last week, we were concerned that our hyperactive new puppy would be underfoot (or up a tree). My daughter immediately stepped in and offered to take him for long walks, to the dog park, and to visit her grandmother (my daughter's, not the dog's). I was impressed. This seemed like a very mature and selfless thing to do.

Then I realized that she saw it as a win-win.

The dog would be contained (and entertained). In fact, she suggested bringing him back to the house for a few minutes every hour so people could meet him. We may have nicknamed him "Spawn of Satan" (we're on rug repair number two right now), but he's also absolutely adorable and affectionate. But, being out of the house would be better all around. 

Meanwhile, my daughter would have a perfect excuse to dodge what has become a positive barrage of questions about the C-word.

College.

No one's fault, really. She's eighteen; she's a high school senior. It's the end of December. The oh-so-logical query on every grownup's lips is ...

"Where are you going to college?"

There are variations, naturally. "Do you know where you're going?" is a common, casual version. 

"What are you doing next year?" is more politically-correct; after all, not every kid goes to a traditional four-year school. 

Then, there are the more enlightened adults who preface their interrogation with an apology ... "I'm sure you're tired of hearing this ..." or "You probably don't want to talk about this ..." or even "Sorry, can I ask ...?" 

And, they proceed anyway.

So, dog-sitting was a smart dodge on my daughter's part. 

I, meanwhile, am happy to brag about her accomplishments. She's been accepted at three of the four schools to which she's applied — and awarded generous merit scholarships. ("See?" I tell her, smugly, "All that hard work paid off!" Cue: eye roll.) 'Not sure what's holding up the final one; oddly enough, it was the least competitive of the bunch. Regardless, she's narrowed it to two, and week after next, we'll be visiting one of them to try and get closer to a decision.

She's quick to remind me that she has until May to make up her mind. And, despite my own impatience, we are heading into 2016 with exciting options. Graduation, summer vacation and first semester freshman year will be here before we know it. While I look forward to knowing what she decides, I don't want to rush any of it.

Besides, I can probably think of other things to do while I wait.

Like training the new puppy.

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here. 

Christmas Eve Gift, Again

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Again. I have a handful of things to get done between now and then — some wrapping, some deliveries, some copywriting, a meeting. Then, my teenage daughter and I will enjoy our annual tradition. I'll drive with her to the stable in the morning (something I never thought I'd miss, but after a year and a half of her driving herself there each day, I'm looking forward to it). Then, we'll find a place for lunch. Nothing fancy, just a local joint where we can enjoy basic food and a chance to play Secret Santa.

Here's the post I wrote about our Christmas Eves the first year Lovin' the Alien was published.

Merry Christmas!!!

Saturday, December 24, 2011

"Christmas Eve Gift!"

Our family has a tradition that dates back longer than I can remember. It started with my mother's own childhood, growing up in Mountain Grove, Missouri. On the morning of December 24th, the first person to shout "Christmas Eve Gift!' wins. My family takes this pretty seriously — my enthusiastic younger brother has been known to call people minutes after midnight to declare "Christmas Eve Gift" victory.

The game is not unique to my family. If you Google "Christmas Eve Gift" (with the quotation marks), you'll get over 600,000 hits. I'm a working mother and didn't have time to read them all, but the handful I did peruse were sweet reminiscences much like mine in the paragraph above.

This friendly (and sometimes not-so-friendly, sometimes downright ruthless) competition frustrated my husband to no end. 'What do you win?" he demanded. "Why is there no gift? This is lame!"

So, when we adopted the practice with our own daughter, I made sure there was always a gift. A funny, seasonal knick-knack (which I chose based on its appropriateness for any of us, but bought specifically for her since I always let her win). It might be a wind-up dancing elf, a small box of chocolates, an ornament, a Pooh Bear dreidel, or (her favorite) a tiny naked baby doll from Japan wearing a Santa hat. This year, it was an adorable felt donkey ornament. I figured it was close enough to a horse if my daughter won it. And, it's the symbol of the Democratic party if my liberal husband won.

As per Christmas Eve usual, the tween walked away with the prize. I don't think she was impressed. She told me, ever so sweetly, that she thought it would look better on the big tree downstairs and not on the smaller one in her room. Clearly the adorable ornament wasn't as adorable as I thought. Oh well.

That's all right; we have another annual tradition. My husband meets his best friend for lunch (if the long nap he takes each year afterwards is any indication, we are probably talking 'liquid lunch'). So, my daughter and I go out together for our own meal. This was especially fun back when I was working at an agency in Boston and rarely saw her midday. She was just three or four years old the first time we had our special Christmas Eve luncheon. We went to a chic and charming little bistro, called ... Friendly's.

That particular day, Friendly's was overcrowded and understaffed. There were a couple of waitresses who weren't moving very quickly, and one waiter, who seemed to be pulling most of the waitering weight. He was amiable and efficient, and even though the kitchen mixed up our sandwiches (how do you mix up grilled cheese?), he kept his sense of humor and made everything right.

We felt bad that he was working — and working so hard! — on Christmas Eve. So, we decided to leave him a "Special-Secret-Santa-Christmas-Eve-Tip." I went and paid at the register while my daughter wrote "MERRY CHRISTMAS" (phonetically) in crayon on her folded placemat. We slipped an over-the-top generous gratuity inside and raced out, giggling wildly.

From then on, we made a date for our Secret Santa lunch. Once Friendly's closed (after more than thirty years; my husband worked there as a teenager), we moved on to other local restaurants: Bertucci's, Pizzeria UNO. Each time, we made it a point to converse with our waitperson and find out what he or she was doing for the holiday. Each time, we left a regular tip for our meal plus a generous Christmas bonus. Each time, we ran out of the restaurant, thrilled with our little secret and laughing.

Last year, we went to a coffee shop in neighboring Salem. The joint was jammed and our waitress was terrific! She noticed that we had made a list on one of our napkins and asked if we were still shopping? No, I told her. The list included friends' houses at which we planned to drop off goodies on the way home.

She said that she herself was almost finished. She was a single mom, she explained, and just needed two more presents, the big ones, for her teenage son and daughter. When she got off at 5:00, she was going to rush over to the mall to get them each an iPod. It occurred to me that she had probably waited until the last minute to get these special gifts because she didn't have the cash sooner. My daughter and I were excited — it felt like we had hit Secret Santa pay dirt! We did what we could to contribute to the iPods and our giddy dash out of the restaurant was even more exhilarating than usual.

I enjoy most (all right, many, or at least some) meals with my daughter. But, I treasure the time we spend together at lunch every Christmas Eve. Joining forces to help someone is powerful stuff. We don't have the resources of Oprah or Warren Buffett or Bill Gates, but we can make a difference in our way.

Maya Angelou once said, "I have found that among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver." I'll think of this as my daughter and I joyfully run down the street together after our lunch this afternoon.

May your soul find liberation and joy this Christmas Eve too.

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here. 

Going Nuts

Oh, nuts! It's starting already.

Christmas is just two weeks away. But, that's not the problem. I'm actually in good shape.  

Christmas cards are done. Shopping is done. Wrapping is done. Well, everything except bows and tags. (BTW, this should be interesting. Will I remember what's what, where, and for whom? We shall see.)

One of my favorite things about the season is going to see The Nutcracker. Growing up in Manhattan in the 1970s, I attended the New York City Ballet's version at nearby Lincoln Center. One year, my sister and I got to go backstage to meet Gelsey Kirkland and she gave us autographed toe shoes. Another year, we bought little furry mice in the lobby concession stand. 

Still another year, we missed it because we both had the mumps.

As I grew up, there were many years I didn't go. In high school, I was too busy doing theatre (and homework). In college, I was too busy with my boyfriend (and homework). Then there were all those young professional years when ballet tickets seemed out of reach (I fondly think of that time as "The Ramen Era"). But, as I got older — and my bank account got a bit healthier — we started a new tradition. 

Each year, right after Thanksgiving, my mother would come up to New England for a long weekend, and together we would see the Boston Ballet's Nutcracker. It was pretty much just us (we did bring my future mother-in-law along once) until my daughter turned four. Then, she came too.

My mother likes to remember that first trip. She and I were both in elegant black velvet and my daughter was in red. We surprised her with her own nutcracker which she brought to the performance. As the lights dimmed and the orchestra started Tchaikovsky's familiar overture, I leaned down and whispered.

"I'm so proud of you, honey."

Without missing a beat, she responded, "I'm so proud of you too, Mommy."

Since then, we've rarely missed our annual performance. Things have changed: new sets, costumes, choreography, even a new venue when the Boston Ballet was evicted in order to accommodate the Radio City Rockettes (a poor call on the part of the Wang Center, if there ever was one). 

We've experienced change on our part too. Several years ago, my daughter refused to wear party dresses (she was already self-identifying as a horsewoman, and lace and bows weren't going to cut it). A few years later, I stopped giving her nutcrackers because we had no more room for them. Our collection, mostly hers and lined up on our dining room mantle, still generates a lot of comments at our tree-trimming parties.

This year, we couldn't stop for a pre-show dinner (or post-show pastry) because of a looming test in AP Bio, the bane of my daughter's senior year existence. But, we had fabulous seats and the production truly was the most beautiful I think I've ever seen. At intermission, I tried to get my companions to go out into the gilded lobby with me for a nice group photo. Neither generation was interested; the crowd was too thick, the seats too comfortable. As the second act began, something occurred to me.

'This won't work next year,' I realized. My daughter won't be here the week after Thanksgiving. She'll be in Ohio or Vermont or New Hampshire or Rhode Island. This, of course, made the lovely and bittersweet second act all the lovelier and more bittersweet.

At the end of the ballet, there's a gorgeous pas de deux between the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Nutcracker (who is more of a prince consort by that time). Then, all of the inhabitants of the land of sweets dance once more and wave good-bye to Clara and her uncle/wizard/godfather/grownup-friend Herr Drosselmeyer (there's a little grey area there and more than one version I've seen has been downright creepy in a Humbert Humbert way). 

In the current Boston Ballet production, there's an added coda. Clara is sleeping (on a really nice fainting couch) with her little wooden nutcracker. Each character she's met stops by and sort of enchants her one last time. She wakes and stretches in that graceful way that only ballerinas can. 'It's all been a dream,' she seems to think. Then, she lifts her hands and feels the jeweled crown on her head. She smiles in wonder and delight. And ... curtain.

So, yours truly spends the enthusiastic ovation, subtly wiping away tears (really not a good idea to let the teen know that I'm choked up). Was I verklempt because Clara's dream was over? Or because the past eighteen years have gone by way too fast? 

I think we know the answer. The more pressing question is this. If I can't get through The Nutcracker without tearing up, how will I make it through the next eight months?

This is going to be nuts.


If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien.    

Teenage Wonderland

It's their world, we're just walking in it.

Cell phones ring, texts are texting
And your parents, you are vexing
It's here, Christmas Day,
So put your iPhone away,
Pissed off in a teenage wonderland.

Put away, is the backpack.
Why do you look like such a sad sack?
Tons of homework, it's true,
But you've two weeks till it's due.
Sulking in a teenage wonderland.

Holidays can be kind of boring —
Sorry your BFFs aren't around.
After lunch, Daddy will be snoring
So when you use the iPad,
Please turn down the sound.

Santa's come, stop your whining.
So many gifts, now you're shining!
A saddle, some clothes ...
And what else who knows?
Smiling in a teenage wonderland.

Finally smiling in a teenage wonderland.

Under the tree, smiling in a teenage wonderland.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

All These Brother and Sister Creatures

Did you know that at midnight on Christmas Eve, animals are given the gift of human speech? 

In many European cultures, this lovely superstition has children sneaking downstairs and into barnyards and stables, hoping to witness the miracle for themselves.

The tradition probably sources back to the nativity. As you probably remember from Sunday school (or the creepy Little Drummer Boy "Gift of Love" TV special from the 60s), in the story of Jesus's birth, his parents could find "no room at the inn." So they settled into a "lowly manger" and it was there, among farm animals, that Mary delivered. Those creatures, blessed to be present, passed the gift of speech down to their descendants two thousand years later.

It's a lovely story, whether you consider human speech a gift or not (I certainly know people in whom that gift is wasted — to quote my mother-in-law (and many others), "If you can't say something nice ..."). Those of us who make animals part of our families speak with them year-round. And they find ways to answer, Christmas Eve or not.

In our greater family, this season has marked the passing of several beloved animals. My brother's family lost a special cat about a month ago. My business partner and his husband lost a beautiful dog. And, just this week, an older equine at my teenage daughter's stable, a retired race horse, ran wildly around the paddock only to collapse and die.

We comfort ourselves as well as we can. "He lived a long life." "She was adored and knew it." "He died doing what he loved to do."

But, despite kind words and common sense, there's a hole in our hearts. St. Francis called animals our "Brother and sister creatures." I would add "Son and daughter."

This year marks our first Christmas in eighteen without our own Boogalie (that's Cajun for "Swamp Monster"). Boogalie was a very little dog with a very big personality. He joined our family a year and a half before our daughter did and passed away in July. He has left an empty place in the kitchen (my husband calls it our "Tiny Tim corner"); after five months, I've finally stopped calling to him when I get home.

The trouble is that these animal family members become completely human to many of us. But, they don't enjoy human lifespans. With any luck, we do, so we must rebuild without them. Find new ways to love them even though they've left us.

The other day, after "General" died, my daughter's stable posted a beautiful poem to help heal all the young equestriennes who were mourning his loss. It's called "Don't Cry For The Horses" by Brenda Riley-Seymore.

Don't cry for the horses that life has set free.
A million white horses, forever to be.
Don't cry for the horses now in God's hands. 
As they dance and prance to a heavenly band. 

They were ours as a gift, but never to keep
As they close their eyes, forever to sleep.
Their spirits unbound, forever to fly. 
A million white horses, against the blue sky.

Look up into Heaven. You will see them above. 
The horse we lost, the horse we loved. 
Manes and tails flying, they gallop through time. 
They were never yours, they were never mine.

Don't cry for the horses, they will be back someday. 
When our time has come, they will show us the way.
Do you hear that soft nicker close to your ear?
Don't cry for the horses, love the ones that are here. 

It was strange to do my Christmas shopping this year without picking up boxes of treats, rubber  balls and squeaky toys (Boogs was so ferocious; toys typically lasted about ten minutes, rarely making it out from under the tree). When I pulled out our stockings earlier this month, there was a particular one, red plaid and bone-shaped, that I kissed and put back away. 

We'll pass it on to another little family member next year.

This year, we'll just remember.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Ghosts of Christmas Parties Past

This weekend, I had my annual tree-trimming party, and something unexpected happened about halfway through the afternoon. I was talking to a small group of adults by the fireplace in our dining room. We were sipping wine and nibbling mini quiches. 

Suddenly everything in the room was shaking.

No, I don't live in California; this wasn't an earthquake. It was two boys, the sons of good friends of ours, running across the second floor of our antique house. Talk about a blast from the past! My own offspring is now seventeen years old. She and her friends hang out in her room sometimes (when they're not buried in homework), but they don't race around. They're way too laid back for that. 

But they used to.

Our holiday party tradition predates my teenage daughter, my handsome husband, my grownup house ... pretty much everything. It started in 1985. I had a one-room apartment on Beacon Hill and a tall, virtually empty Christmas tree. I invited college friends, a handful of neighbors and the other women who worked at Talbots (my survival job while I job-hunted, which was great fun and where I scored a Coach briefcase I still use a quarter of a century later). "Make or bring an ornament" read the invitation. I still have some of the wonderful trinkets from that first year: glass icicles; a little wooden Santa; handmade seashells glued together, hanging from green yarn (they're much prettier than they sound).

I had a Christmas party every year and once I moved to the suburbs with my boyfriend (soon to be fiance and eventually husband), we continued. The ornament collection grew and included everything from vintage baubles found at antique marts to gorgeous original works (it really helps to be in marketing and have so many friends who went to art school). One bona fide artiste crafted an ornament out of a deer's thigh bone and some wire. Another spray-painted a dried artichoke and decorated it with pearls and cat teeth. Two women spent the day before one party bar-hopping through Boston; they pinned matchbooks from each stop to a styrofoam ball, hung by a red ribbon. The same enterprising ladies gave us a rather suggestive (and well-endowed) ornament: a particularly long pinecone wrapped in a protective latex sheath with two glass balls (blue ones at that) dangling from the top. This particular piece fell apart after a time, but we still hang the balls each year — and get a knowing grownup chuckle from it.

Eventually, with four trees full, we had to request no more ornaments. In later years, we had guests bring hats and mittens or donations to Toys for Tots.

Of course, the nature of our parties changed when our daughter was born. She attended her first at just three months old. That may have been the year one of our trees fell during the festivities. Not on her or any other young guest, thank goodness, but into the arms of a stalwart friend who maneuvered it back into its stand with nary a decoration lost. 

As our daughter started to grow and attend preschool and elementary, the house was filled each year with dozens of little girls in party dresses. And that's when the racing across the second floor began in earnest. They were like a herd of miniature velvet-clad elephants. "Please stop running!" I'd beg them, but as quickly as they stopped they'd start up again. Whether it was the excitement of the season or all the sugar they were ingesting, they couldn't help themselves.

The last few parties have been oddly civilized and quiet. My daughter has stepped back from some of our traditions. ("No tree in my room this year," she insists with a world-weary sigh. "It's just too much.") As parents, we shake our heads and marvel at how quickly time has passed. We compare notes about college applications, and the handful of her friends who show up tend to keep to themselves. 

This year, my daughter had a conflict during our party, but I asked her to come for the last hour after she closed the shop where she works. Everyone was happy to see her and she didn't roll her eyes once. I'm so proud of the woman she's becoming, and I have to admit that spending a few festive hours with other adults was delightful.

But, I still smiled when I heard the two young pachyderms upstairs. Christmas is about family and friends and cherished memories.

And I certainly didn't ask them to stop.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Glad Tidings

As my regular readers know, "Lovin' the Alien" is purportedly about my daughter. In reality, it's more about my experience living with (and loving) a teenage girl. 

In this post, however, I'm going to talk about a teenage boy.

When my daughter was little, we had it pretty easy. She was polite and well-behaved. She was sweet and compliant. She was always neat and tidy. (Until she started riding horses, but that's a mess of a different color.) Friends with boys her age had another situation — not to mention loads more laundry — on their hands. 

We go skiing every year with good friends who have twin boys. Once, when the kids (theirs and ours) were about eight-years old, my daughter came running into our bedroom, frantic. "They're fighting!" she exclaimed.

"Well," I told her, always cool in a crisis (yeah, right), "That's what siblings do. Especially boys."

"No," she shook her head, wide-eyed, "You don't understand. They're going to kiiiiilllllll each other." Of course, they didn't. But, it was still a fairly traumatic wake-up call.

"Just wait," older, wiser parents warned us. "Girls are easier when they're small. But the teen years will be payback. In abundance."

Sure enough, we've had a much rockier roller coaster in recent years. All emotion, all the time. Highs are high. Lows are lows. Nothing ever seems to be moderate to middling for very long.

On the flipside, I've never envied my friends whose sons become sullen and incommunicative as they move through adolescence. Yes, that might be easier to live with, at times. But, I'd rather have my daughter stomping about or in tears than silent (shhhhhh, please don't tell her). This mother can't stand closed doors. While girls, and my own in particular, tend to wear their hearts on the sleeves of their overpriced North Face Denalis, boys seem to avoid emotion at all costs. At least this is what I thought.

Today, I stand corrected.

A 16-year old in Australia just wrote a compelling letter to his community after reading about local parents who didn't think they had enough money to give their children a good Christmas. Here's what he told them on the Sunny Coast Community Board:


SO, I've been seeing a lot of posts about people having troubles around Christmas and them being worried about their kids getting presents.

I am 16 and when I was a kid growing up my family didn't have lots of money and when my mum left my dad we were living on nothing but Centrelink payments, so as a result through my childhood money was always tight. 

I can tell you that my childhood was still amazing because it was never about the money or having fancy things. When Christmas came around, my mum would wrap everything up - new school bags, stationery and broken toys and me and my brother loved it!

When you're living rough and you are worried about what your kids think, I'd like you to know some of my best memories are of broken chairs when the top didn't fit to the frame so it was an adventure to sit down; of couches that if you didn't sit on the frame you would fall through and of TV sets that you had to hit to get working and that had two channels.

As long as you make sure your kids know you love them and all of you are still laughing, your kids will remember their childhood as brilliant.

I promise every parent it's not about the money, it's about being a family.

So you should all stop worrying about whether you can get your kid the best present worth a $100.

Christmas will always be amazing for your kids, even if what you get them is from the $2 shop.

Everyone have an amazing Christmas and remember how great Christmas is, isn't decided by how much you spend.

Wow. All I can say is that Ben must have one proud mamma right about now.

I'm reminded of wise words from another teenage boy, this one Alfred, the hapless janitor from Miracle on 34th Street:

Yeah, there's a lot of bad 'isms' floatin' around this world, but one of the worst is commercialism. Make a buck, make a buck. Even in Brooklyn it's the same - don't care what Christmas stands for, just make a buck, make a buck.

With the guidance of the Bens and Alfreds in this world, let's try not to focus on Christmas cash (or the lack thereof). Let's look instead at how we can make the holiday warmer inside our homes and out.

Thank-you, Ben. Thank-you, Alfred.

Have a brilliant Christmas!

If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

We Three Trees

Ask any of my friends and they'll tell you. I'm a tree nut. Not a professional arborist or even an amateur hugger. My love for trees is confined to one particular season and one particular tree: Christmas.

My first tree, aside from the gorgeous ones my mother and father always had when we were growing up, was tiny. And when I say tiny, I mean maybe 18-inches high, in a foil wrapped pot. It had a half-dozen lights, little red and gold gifts, and one wooden ornament, a rocking horse with the year 1984 delicately painted on its base. My then boyfriend's mother bought it for our shoebox of an apartment in the East Village. (In hindsight, I don't think it was technically a tree. I think it was a baby arborvitae, a fairly resilient shrub, eight of which now line my driveway.)

At any rate, this whet my appetite for bigger and better Christmas trees. The next year, I was living (alone) in a single, grand-scaled room on Beacon Hill. My kitchen was an alcove, my bathroom not much bigger, but I had 14-foot ceilings. Despite a lack of ornaments (I owned just the single one mentioned above), I bought an enormous evergreen and bribed some work friends to help me drag it up the hill to my apartment. I then started my tree-trimming party tradition. "Bring or make an ornament" the invitations read. Some people went all out with heirloom quality baubles. Others engineered odd configurations of matchbook covers, ribbons, seashells, and photos. One particularly artsy coworker made a ball out of wire and dangled a deer thigh bone from it. Sounds kind of gross, but it was actually handsome and dramatic. 

I kept and treasured everything.

Years went by; I acquired a much better boyfriend (who became my husband), a starter house, a puppy, a baby, and the larger home we have now. The annual tree-trimming party continued. In fact, in the past 28 years, we've cancelled only once because I was in the hospital with the world's most tenacious intestinal infection. Eventually, we had a second tree, then a third, then four of them. Eventually, we stopped asking for ornaments and partnered instead with a local toys for tots drive.

Did you stop reading when I mentioned four trees? I wouldn't blame you. I agree, it sounds like a lot. But, we live in a rambling antique house. The rest of the year, it's heavy on the shabby and less so on the chic. But, at Christmas, it is something out of a storybook or at the very least an issue of Victoria magazine. With decades of ornaments, we're able to create themes. The living room tree which sits in a bay window, pays homage to our coastal town with ships, shells, fish, and mermaids. The tree in our guest room is the most feminine, displaying angels, antique dolls, and garlands of blown glass pearls. Our dining room tree is predominantly red with an eclectic collection of Santas, Day of the Dead skulls, vintage toys, and dachshunds.

And then, there's my daughter's tree. We started with something fairly modest (she was only a year old when we moved here). It was covered in twinkling colored lights and teddy bears. A couple of years later, she requested a full-sized tree, pointing out that her room has the highest ceiling in the house (it was originally a separate building, brought to the site and added on at the turn of the last century as an artist's loft; she has an open ceiling with exposed beams). As her passions evolved, the tree eventually became home to a collection of fairies and then — of course — horses. We probably own every horse ornament ever made.

This time, as the holiday drew near, my daughter announced that she did not want a tree. No way. No how. "How about just a little one?" I cajoled. No.

As corny as it sounds, her decision broke my heart. Not literally in two, but it took a sizable chip off of it. I've always tried to create holiday traditions that she'll remember. Like our yearly trip to The Nutcracker with her grandmother, our "Christmas Eve Gift" contest, our annual party, and our multiple trees.

It's her room, she insists. It's her life. 

I try to act like it's no big deal. I must confess, I'm not very good at it. But, we move forward. We choose three trees; we put up three trees; we trim three trees. We are living in a time of rapid change around here. We are all (certainly my husband and I, but also my daughter) on a roller coaster countdown to the day she leaves for college. I know I let these small decisions she makes carry more weight than they should. I'm working on it.

What's the worst that can happen? She'll stand by the 'no tree for me' edict for the next two Christmases. Then she'll be off somewhere. Christmas will have new and precious meaning as I count the days until her holiday vacation from college.

And, there's a very good chance she'll come home to find a tree in her room.

If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

Christmas Eve Gift, Revisited

Only 1 shopping and wrapping and cooking and cleaning day left until Christmas. So, with about a thousand festive things left on my holiday "To do" list, I'm going to repost an essay from last Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Our family has a tradition that dates back longer than I can remember. It started with my mother's own childhood, growing up in Mountain Grove, Missouri. On the morning of December 24th, the first person to shout "Christmas Eve Gift!' wins. My family takes this pretty seriously — my enthusiastic younger brother has been known to call people minutes after midnight to declare "Christmas Eve Gift" victory.

The game is not unique to my family. If you Google "Christmas Eve Gift" (with the quotation marks), you'll get over 600,000 hits. I'm a working mother and didn't have time to read them all, but the handful I did peruse were sweet reminiscences much like mine in the paragraph above.

This friendly (and sometimes not-so-friendly, sometimes downright ruthless) competition frustrated my husband to no end. 'What do you win?" he demanded. "Why is there no gift? This is lame!"

So, when we adopted the practice with our own daughter, I made sure there was always a gift. A funny, seasonal knick-knack (which I chose based on its appropriateness for any of us, but bought specifically for her since I always let her win). It might be a wind-up dancing elf, a small box of chocolates, an ornament, a Pooh Bear dreidel, or (her favorite) a tiny naked baby doll from Japan wearing a Santa hat. This year, it was an adorable felt donkey ornament. I figured it was close enough to a horse if my daughter won it. And, it's the symbol of the Democratic party if my liberal husband won.

As per Christmas Eve usual, the tween walked away with the prize. I don't think she was impressed. She told me, ever so sweetly, that she thought it would look better on the big tree downstairs and not on the smaller one in her room. Clearly the adorable ornament wasn't as adorable as I thought. Oh well.

That's all right; we have another annual tradition. My husband meets his best friend for lunch (if the long nap he takes each year afterwards is any indication, we are probably talking 'liquid lunch'). So, my daughter and I go out together for our own meal. This was especially fun back when I was working at an agency in Boston and rarely saw her midday. She was just three or four years old the first time we had our special Christmas Eve luncheon. We went to a chic and charming little bistro, called ... Friendly's.

That particular day, Friendly's was overcrowded and understaffed. There were a couple of waitresses who weren't moving very quickly, and one waiter, who seemed to be pulling most of the waitering weight. He was amiable and efficient, and even though the kitchen mixed up our sandwiches (how do you mix up grilled cheese?), he kept his sense of humor and made everything right.

We felt bad that he was working — and working so hard! — on Christmas Eve. So, we decided to leave him a "Special-Secret-Santa-Christmas-Eve-Tip." I went and paid at the register while my daughter wrote "MERRY CHRISTMAS" (phonetically) in crayon on her folded placemat. We slipped an over-the-top generous gratuity inside and raced out, giggling wildly.

From then on, we made a date for our Secret Santa lunch. Once Friendly's closed (after more than thirty years; my husband worked there as a teenager), we moved on to other local restaurants: Bertucci's, Pizzeria UNO. Each time, we made it a point to converse with our waitperson and find out what he or she was doing for the holiday. Each time, we left a regular tip for our meal plus a generous Christmas bonus. Each time, we ran out of the restaurant, thrilled with our little secret and laughing.

Last year, we went to a coffee shop in neighboring Salem. The joint was jammed and our waitress was terrific! She noticed that we had made a list on one of our napkins and asked if we were still shopping? No, I told her. The list included friends' houses at which we planned to drop off goodies on the way home.

She said that she herself was almost finished. She was a single mom, she explained, and just needed two more presents, the big ones, for her teenage son and daughter. When she got off at 5:00, she was going to rush over to the mall to get them each an iPod. It occurred to me that she had probably waited until the last minute to get these special gifts because she didn't have the cash sooner. My daughter and I were excited — it felt like we had hit Secret Santa pay dirt! We did what we could to contribute to the iPods and our giddy dash out of the restaurant was even more exhilarating than usual.

I enjoy most (all right, many, or at least some) meals with my daughter. But, I treasure the time we spend together at lunch every Christmas Eve. Joining forces to help someone is powerful stuff. We don't have the resources of Oprah or Warren Buffett or Bill Gates, but we can make a difference in our way.

Maya Angelou once said, "I have found that among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver." I'll think of this as my daughter and I joyfully run down the street together after our lunch this afternoon.

May your soul find liberation and joy this Christmas Eve too.