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.  

Mother's Day

Allow me a quick fantasy. 

It's Mother's Day. I sleep late and wake to those soft chirping sounds you find in a Disney Princess feature-length cartoon. My daughter and husband slip into the master bedroom, quietly in case I'm still sleeping. As they see that I'm up, they present an elaborate breakfast-in-bed: fresh flaky croissant, steaming café au lait (apparently they got the tray in Paris or something), a single flower with petals like velvet. Once I've eaten, my devoted family suggests a marvelous afternoon of activities, each chosen to suit my tastes and preferences: a trip to a local art gallery, a musical theatre matinee, an early evening picnic on the beach. Although, I've told them I don't need presents, they surprise me with some romantic art nouveau estate jewelry. Nothing too grand. Diamonds are always appropriate.

All right. We're done.

Here's how my Mother's Day really went.

I set my alarm for 4:45 am. This means that I was up pretty much every half hour since midnight, counting down. "Oh, I still have three hours." "Oh, I still have two hours." "Oh, I still have forty-six minutes." "Oh, WTF, I might as well get up."

After splashing some water on my face, I went to check on my teenage daughter. Wonder of wonders (miracle of miracles), she was already up. My child getting herself up at oh-god-o'clock can only mean one thing ...

Horse show.

Yes, a big fat USEA recognized three-phase event on Mother's Day. To make it even more special, it wasn't local. No, that would be too easy. It was out in Western Mass. Two hours and forty minutes from our stable, which is thirty minutes from our house, where my daughter had to spend forty-five minutes grooming her pony and loading the trailer.

Do the math if you like. I'm too tired.

My husband, meanwhile, had to prepare for a business trip and look at a new (new, used) car, so I was flying solo. Well, not solo, exactly. I was flying with three very excited teenagers and their trainer.

It was unseasonably warm (after being unseasonably cold for the past two months or more). The event was packed. Hundreds of young women (and the tiniest handful of young men) were there to compete in dressage, stadium jumping and cross-country.

My role at these events is critical. In addition to driving, I do hair (a tight bun in a black net with a smart velvet bow). I pack a lunch and nag my daughter to drink water and eat something. ("Something with a little protein in it, please.") I locate lost articles (a single glove, a collar pin, a hoof pick).

And, I hold my breath while my daughter does her course. That and pray a little.

I'm fairly certain this helps.

On Mother's Day, with my husband otherwise occupied, I also had to use my daughter's fancy-schmancy camera to capture action shots. The directions were clear and to the point. "Get every jump," she told me. Pressure much? But, I succeeded and, in all honesty, I was so nervous about taking the pictures that I forgot to be nervous about my darling daughter and her beloved steed flying over jumps.

At one point, my daughter came up and said "Let's get a picture of the two of us together." It was a nice (and unusual) request, but something interrupted and we never managed to do it.

When we got home that evening, I learned why she had asked.

There, on Facebook was a picture of the two of us from an earlier show this season. My daughter had posted it with the following message:

Late to the game...but happy mothers day to the best (horse show) mom there is! Thank you so much for sacrificing your day today and going to my event! You were and always are so helpful thanks for everything love you

Then there was a little emoji smiley face.

It wasn't breakfast in bed (that's ok, we grabbed Dunkin' Donuts on the road). It wasn't a museum or a matinee.

But, it felt a lot like diamonds to me.

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

Your Money at Work

We went through three years of dance school and, consequently, three years of dance recitals. Yes, like loving mothers everywhere, I had the ubiquitous photos on the fridge. (I think we still have at least one of them there: our little angel tarted up in feathers and lamé looking like nothing so much as a toddler in a tiara.) 

My very first round as a dance mom, I attended the dress rehearsal. My now teenage daughter was five, and her group was supposed to be fairies. They wore green and pink stretchy velvet dresses, flower wreaths and gauzy wings (the costumes were sluttier in subsequent years; these were actually pretty sweet). The choreography included flitting about and tumbling. Their fifteen minutes of fame was compressed into about three.

Another mother sitting behind me in the auditorium tapped me on the shoulder. "Your money at work," she said, gesturing to the stage.

These days, dance school is but a distant sequined memory. Our daughter is all about the horses and the entire household must follow suit. For three years, she attended equestrian camps ("your money at work"). This year, she went away to a renowned horsemanship clinic in Vermont. It was only ten days but there was much expense entailed: trailering the pony up and back, the program fees, new equipment, room and board with a host family, a weekend at a B&B for my husband and me at the end.

We dropped her off the last Saturday in June. As always when my daughter is away, I missed her terribly. But, the week went by pretty quickly with work and the 4th of July. Before we knew it, we were driving back up. We visited the facility on Saturday for a three-phase event (dressage, stadium jumping, cross-country), did some sightseeing Sunday, and Monday, picked her up and brought her home.

Since cell phone service was sketchy at best (and my daughter had more fun things to do than call us when it did work), we had a lot of catching up to do. Here's a quick rundown of her experience:

• 1 sixth place ribbon

• 2 intensive riding lessons each day
• 6 hours of barn chores each day

• 3 demerits for not cleaning her saddle well enough

• 1 rope swing into the Ottauquechee river
• 7 nighttime bike rides (without a helmet)
• 5 new BFFs
• 4 chicken caesar wraps
• 2 sunburns
• 10 mosquito bites
• 1 spider bite (we think)
• .5 showers per day (don't ask)
• 0 letters home
• 13 horse-crazy roommates
• 56 ounces of Starburst candies

"Your money at work."

The equine experience of a lifetime? I have no idea what we spent, but suffice it to say, it was not inconsequential.

Having my daughter home again, happy and in one piece? Priceless.

And She's Gone Again

I'm not a sleeper. Never have been. Oh, I can fall asleep all right (usually, unfortunately, in the middle of a book I'm trying to finish). But, the wee hours of the morning invariably find me tossing and turning. 

It's about stress. 

These days, my "to do" list is so long that I'm convinced it slinks down the stairs from my third-floor office like a poisonous snake, insinuates itself under my bedroom door, climbs up the bedpost, wraps itself around my neck and ... voilà. Sleep no more.

When I do find myself suddenly awake at 4 am, the first thing I do is head to my teenage daughter's room. (Well, actually, the very first thing I do is try to go back to sleep. Without success.) I tiptoe over to her bed and watch her breathe for a minute. Very Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, I know, I know. But, it's my little ritual and it gives me a bit of relief. With my daughter deep in the sleep of the just and innocent, I can check off one worry.

This morning, I waited until the respectable hour of 4:45 before I gave up and got up. But, there was no reason to look in on my daughter.

She's gone again.

Yesterday, we dropped her off at a horsemanship clinic in Vermont. Her boyfriend (all 950 equine pounds of him) had been trailered up a couple of days before. Their reunion was particularly joyous — think Ashley Wilkes returning to his wife Melanie after the Civil War. The equestrian center hosting the clinic is nestled into the most gorgeous countryside, with hills and brooks and woods and layers and layers of green. My daughter was most definitely in her element and all was right with the world. I couldn't help but be thrilled for her. I also couldn't help but wonder how we pulled it off. Again.

After the last week, it was practically a miracle that we did. Let's see ...

We had five snow days to make up this year, which meant that the week we should have had between school and leaving for Vermont was compressed into one day. Laundry, last-minute shopping, packing (not just my daughter's clothes and gear, but about 500 pounds of equipment or "tack" — and I'm not even slightly exaggerating).

Along with everything we needed to do to prepare for the clinic, my daughter had to take seven 90-minute final exams in four days: World Cultures, French, Biology, Geometry, Theatre Arts, Health Ed, and English. Oh my.

And, the horse had to get a haircut. Really. (BTW, I need a haircut too. But, did I get one? Nooooooooo.)

On Friday, my daughter went to the stable (where, I have no doubt, there were some melancholy moments as she gazed at the now empty stall) to organize and pack up all of her tack. She texted me from my husband's car:

We need borrow someones car.... The bmw is stuffed to capcity with all my stuff, no room for 3 people in the car and my duffel isnt in it (sic)

Great. Needless to say, my husband's aging BMW is our largest vehicle. My sister-in-law graciously offered her Jeep SUV ... with the caveat that one of her tires had a slow leak that she hadn't had a chance to repair yet. Thank goodness my husband is mechanically minded. (Thank goodness we have a portable electric tire pump.)

Early the next morning we were on the road. We stopped several times: tire pressure check, coffee, tire pressure check, restrooms, tire pressure check. We realized that my daughter forgot to bring a (required) watch and blew in and out of Target in Hooksett, NH just as they were opening. While we were there, we ... you guessed it ... checked the tire pressure.

One final costly inconvenience (I won't get into it, but do yourself a favor, don't drive over 25 mph in Woodstock, VT; although the police officers are very polite) and we arrived. Phew!

Despite the drama, we still had a little bit of crazy to deal with. Turns out, my daughter didn't need a hanging saddle rack (which we own and brought); she needed a folding saddle rack (which we neither own nor brought). Also, apparently, her paddock boots had pretty much busted at the seams. Sometimes, there's a limit to what you can do with duct tape. 

This time, fate was on our side. When we checked in, I had seen a sign for a "Huge Equine Yard Sale" a couple of miles down the road. I figured the odds were slim, but it couldn't hurt. A quick drive and $15 later, we were the proud owners of the appropriate saddle rack. Similarly, there was a tack shop in an antique barn adjacent to the equestrian center. They had my daughter's exact boots (a half-size too big, but she can wear an extra pair of socks). 

Done. And done. (I'm so done! And you wonder why I can't sleep?) Sometimes I have to question if it's all worth it.

A quick "good-bye" and we were on our way, without the gear, without the duffel, without our daughter. I miss her already. We'll head back to Vermont next weekend for a three-phase event (dressage, stadium jumping, cross-country). Two days later, we'll bring her home.

There's no cell service at the equestrian center where my daughter will spend 10 hours a day for the next 10 days. But, the house where she and 15 of the other girls are staying has WiFi. I received a text just as I was pulling into my driveway:

Thank you for everything mom < 3 i love you

Yeah, it's worth it.

Tree Huggers

O tannenbaum! Like so many people, I have warm memories of Christmas trees. 

Growing up in midtown Manhattan, I would often accompany my father to purchase our tree from one of the sidewalk vendors. Like everything in New York City, these trees were available for, shall we say, a premium; some years, we had to wait until close to Christmas in order to negotiate a better price. Until I was old enough to object, my father used me as a pitiful little accomplice. He would coach me en route. "Oh Daddy, this one is so nice. I know it's our tree. I just know it." My father (who was a professional actor with Broadway credits) would then sheepishly admit to the seller that he didn't have quite enough for the tree his small daughter had fallen in love with. Eventually I became too big (and too self-conscious) and my role was handed down to my sister, whose performance was even more Dickensian than mine. Step aside, Little Nell, step aside.

My mother had a beautiful collection of ornaments that seemed fragile and precious and altogether magical. A Santa from her years studying in Germany, gold and silver stars with shiny streamers, glass balls, endearing felt creatures. I loved helping with the tree as long as I lived at home, and looked forward to seeing it each year when I visited from college.

So, of course, I knew that Christmas trees would be important to my own holiday traditions.

My husband would argue that I've taken it a little too far.

Yes, I'm a Christmas tree junkie. I trim four trees each year: living room, dining room, guest room and my now teen daughter's room. (Six years ago, I was very sick, having contracted a hateful intestinal virus after some surgery. We pared back; we only had two trees.) 

The first year we put a tree in our then little girl's room, she was distressed to realize that it was the smallest tree in the house. This wasn't meant as a slight. First of all, despite a bunch of "Baby's 1st Christmas" ornaments, we had less trimmings for her. Also, a seven-foot tree felt — I don't know — awkward for a person who was barely three feet high herself.

Still, we listened. The next year, one of our trees was taller than we expected. And, since my daughter's ceiling is actually higher than those in other rooms, the giant fir became hers.

Of course, this tradition necessitated amassing another tree's worth of ornaments. We started with teddy bears of all types: knit, wooden, quilted in tartan plaid, small jointed plush. A year or two later (I confess these Christmases run together), an art director I work with gave her a box of classic cartoon characters (Bullwinkle, the Chipmunks, that scientist dog guy whose name I can't recall). My best friend gave her a collector's set of exquisitely carved Alice in Wonderland figures. There were Mickey Mouses, Snoopy and Woodstock, Disney Princesses and a bevy of Barbies, decked out in festive finery (yes, they certainly know how to put the ho in ho-liday).

Just as the decorations in her room evolved from fairies to horses, her Christmas tree eventually went equine as well. People gave her horse ornaments, rider ornaments, saddle and boot and bridle ornaments. She had (multiple) sets of lights with glowing plastic steeds where bare bulbs would otherwise be. She had a hand-embroidered garland of "tack" (that would be equestrian equipment for those of you who don't spend every moment of discretionary time at a stable, as I — alas — do). My husband brought her a beautiful painted pony from a business trip to Prague, which proudly serves as her topper.

This year, much to my wonder, she demanded a smaller tree. Much smaller. (Really. Except that it's symmetrical and actually has several branches, it could be a Charlie Brown tree.) This surprised me. She has the space; heaven knows she has the ornaments. No, she was adamant. She wanted a tiny tree.

Lesson learned: don't fight the fights that aren't worth fighting. Okay. We'd just pull a few (a very few) of her decorations and keep the rest packed away. On the bright side, she saved us $25.

My husband was coerced into tree-shopping and installing prior to leaving for a weekend with friends. As per usual, I set about trimming solo. I complain (I complain a lot), but I enjoy this all-day ritual. I listen to my favorite Christmas albums, sip coffee in the morning and egg nog in the afternoon. By dinnertime, the three main trees were up and, if I do say so myself, they looked stunning. I had to wait on the tree in my daughter's room because she needed to go through her ornaments and decide which fortunate few would be on display this year.

We sat together on her carpet. She unwrapped and passed judgement; I rewrapped. A fairly large assortment of 'maybes' was quickly whittled down to a choice dozen or so that ended up on the tree. I was surprised by some of the choices — both affirmative and negative. The thing is, to my daughter, they are all just ornaments. To me, they are distinct memories. Each and every one is associated with a particular giver back in some particular December. I seem to forget where I leave my phone on a fairly regular basis, but I do remember the back story of all our Christmas ornaments.

My strategy this year was to let her have her way. If the bristly brush squirrel ornament somehow ranked higher than the bejeweled carousel horse, well, so be it. I was proud of my ability to hold my tongue.

Until a small wooden rocking horse was moved from the 'maybe' pile to the 'no.' I couldn't help it; a disappointed "Oh," escaped.

She looked at me quizzically.

"That's from the first Christmas tree I ever had that was my own. In my tiny apartment in Greenwich Village." I turned it over for her so she could see the date: 1984.

She nodded almost imperceptibly. Then, she took the little rocking horse back and put it on her tree.