I find one of the tragedies of modern times to be the loss of the extended family presence in everyday life. An important system in human society, it is no longer a certainty in a global economy that has people moving all over the world, far from the family who bore and raised and loved them.

As someone who left my family of origin years ago, I feel this loss most dramatically during the holidays – in particular, Thanksgiving.

This is one holiday that has nothing to do with commercial trappings. No gifts required. Just the gift of family, as many as can fit around the table. And yet my extended family, and my husband’s, are hundreds of miles away from where we live now in Ohio with our three children.

Some years, we are able to come together, one group traveling to join the other. Other years, we don’t have the money, or our car is on its last leg, or our kids are older and too busy to travel.

This particular year we knew we wouldn’t be going anywhere, and nobody would be coming to us. We knew we would mope if we didn’t do something. And so my college professor husband sent a mass e-mail to the graduate students in his political science department, many of them internationals, inviting those without a Thanksgiving home to join ours. Very quickly, we heard from students from Turkey, Russia, Peru and France, many of them isolated here with their own young families, many of them eager to engage with other families on a day that is a reminder of their own mothers and fathers, grandparents, aunts and uncles an ocean away.

We received one e-mail with regrets, from a former U.S. soldier who has his own family now, but who wrote to tell us of a holiday season several years ago,

“I remember being a soldier in basic training in Anniston, Alabama. While given some time off to relax and some rare off-base passes, many of us entered the ‘civilian’ community during the holidays. While at the mall in uniform (we were not allowed to have civilian clothes yet) we had a number of families approach us and invite us into their homes. In five years in the Army, I was never home for Christmas. But all but one, I was in someone else’s home for Christmas. I was very moved by the kindness of these folks and have tried to remember that generosity in my own dealings with people today.”

I don’t know where we’re going to seat 25 people in our small home. I worry that we won’t have enough water glasses or that not everybody will like mashed potatoes and gravy. Many of our new friends will make the special dishes of their countries, while we make the foods of ours. At the request of our Turkish Muslim guests, I will roast a “kosher” turkey, which I have learned means the bird has been blessed by clergy and slaughtered under particular circumstances. I’m happy to learn of this tradition, as I imagine this is a good and respectful animal practice regardless of religion.

What I do know is that we are opening ourselves to something new. We are redefining family on a day when family is rich with meaning. We are pioneering a wonderful new option for ourselves on this Thanksgiving Day, much like they did at that first celebration in 1621 at Plymouth Rock. The importance of blood kin notwithstanding, it’s a brand new world, and we may never look back.

I do not like to cook. I’ve only really acknowledged this recently because I feel like I should like to cook. Other people seem to, and I certainly like to eat, so where is the disconnect? For me, I think it’s partly because I have to prepare meals everyday for a somewhat picky crowd. Every darn day.

If I only had to worry about, say, Wednesday dinner each week, I could pour over recipes in preparation and find something that would appeal to everyone. I could sauté, braise, and roast to my heart’s content. But when it’s a daily occurrence, it becomes a chore. And rarely am I solely focused on cooking. Like most moms, I’m often multitasking between homework assistance, settling quarrels, and our constantly ringing phone. Then when the meal is served, there is usually at least one child who is less than enthusiastic about it. Where’s the joy in that?

I even have a beautiful recipe box that my husband made for me for Mother’s Day. My older kids copied over my recipes onto large index cards while my youngest decorated the backs with pictures they printed out from Webshots. Still, nothing.

But I do love to bake. It’s not daily and everyone appreciates the end product. You can’t go wrong with a cookie. So, when I received an e-mail asking if I would prepare something for the teachers at my daughter’s school to eat on conference night, I was happy to comply when I saw that desserts were needed. However, I apparently wasn’t quick enough, because I received an e-mail back saying that desserts were covered but could I please send in a crock-pot of soup.

I responded with a hearty “sure” since I didn’t want to admit my culinary inadequacies to those PTO moms. Nothing against PTO. I’m a member, myself. Just some of those Moms are so bubbly and well, perfect. After I hit the send button, I regretted it. I don’t make soup. I Googled “soup recipes” but they all required so much chopping and dicing and time. I called my neighbor and asked if it was tacky to pour canned soup into my crock-pot and just add some noodles and chicken to make it look homemade.

She responded by saying, “No, um, that’s fine. But I have a really easy soup recipe. You just roast chicken, shred the meat, cut up carrots,” and that’s when my mind started glazing over. I just don’t enjoy cooking. Period. I wish I did.

So, I was debating about what to do about the whole soup thing and I had a brainstorm. One of my very favorite, easiest recipes is called chicken chili. Chili’s close enough, right? So, on conference night I made it, took it to the school, and put this little label on it that said, “Mexican Chicken Soup.” Brilliant.

The very next day, a woman from the PTO called me and told me that she had received multiple e-mails from the teachers and the principal requesting the recipe because my soup was such a hit. She asked if she could have the recipe and would it be okay with me if she forwarded it throughout the school district.

After I yelled, “IN YOUR FACE, PTO!” (inside my head), I agreed. My only hesitation was the recipe is so darn easy. Now the teachers would know that I hadn’t been slaving away all day to create the perfect soup. But, I happily shared it and I’ll share it with you too because even mothers who like to cook need a few easy recipes for those busy days.

Chicken Chili (or Mexican Chicken Soup)

2 cans Great Northern Beans (undrained)
2 cans of canned chicken (undrained)
1 16 oz jar mild salsa
1 package (2 cups) shredded Mexican blend cheese

Mix all together in crock-pot and cook on low 3-4 hours. It is delicious and easy. My kind of recipe.

While I was searching for a soup recipe I came across a few good websites regarding food and children. Nutrition Explorations is a site for kids to check out and learn about nutrition. It has some cute activities and recipes that my 4th grader had fun with. Kids Food is a site that is for parents. It has ideas on how to get your children engaged in cooking and also kid-friendly recipes. And after looking at the Food Network website, it even made a non-chef type like myself feel like putting on my apron.

Bon appetit!

-Kay

I’m no longer a practicing Catholic.

But now that the election is over, I may need to confess my sins.

“Bless me, Father,” I would say in the confessional, “for I have said 400 unloving things during political debates, rallies and conventions. Out loud. In front of my children.”

It’s important to note here that I am generally a mother who prides herself on practicing and preaching tolerance whenever applicable. I don’t let my children say bad things about people who are different than they, nor so much as kill a spider that finds its way into the house.

I am also a mother who strode up and down in front of the TV during political conventions and debates, yelling intolerant comments at various and specific candidates, while openly sneering at them in front of my children.

Could it help to know I’m not the only sinner in the room?

“My son said watching me watch the (other) convention, was like watching Dad watch college football on Saturday,” said my friend, Megan. “I kept telling him we have to understand what’s good about all the candidates. But my son says, ‘Then why did you always yell at Sarah Palin when she was on television, Mom?’”

Let me also say that in addition to practicing and preaching tolerance, my friend Megan and I routinely practice other good habits that make us role models for our children. In fact, about the worst I do in front of my kids is sneak my own popcorn into movies. I consistently drive 1-4 miles over the speed limit. OK, and as long as I’m coming clean, I say bad words on particularly significant occasions, like the other day when the lid exploded off the blender, spraying scalding potato soup all over me.

I promise to bring these items before Father while I’m in there.

Meanwhile, I know that part of being cleansed of sin is vowing not to commit them anymore. And therein is going to be our little problem: I’ll do much better saying 400 Hail Marys for penance than going back into the world with a renewed commitment not to say ugly things about people who I think are saying ugly things. That’s the funny thing about my breed of intolerance. My intolerance is almost always in response to other people’s ugliness. Shouldn’t that be OK? Or is this just moral justification, much like saying it’s OK to take in my own popcorn because they are price-gauging me with theirs?

“I’m sorry,” I kept telling my kids, especially my impressionable preteen, even as I was yelling at the TV. I’m not perfect, and neither are the Amish, who reportedly sew the tiniest mistake into each beautifully accomplished quilt. They make the mistake intentionally as noting that only God is perfect.

The same could be said when I’m yelling at the TV. I am not God — and neither is that &^%$#$%B on C-Span.

- Debra-Lynn

One of my favorite parts of watching my children grow is their emergence of language and how they almost magically internalize all of the rules and vocabulary necessary in order to speak English. While they’re learning, little kids all have words they say that aren’t quite right, even though you know what they mean. When my kids misspeak, I often correct them or use the word they’re looking for in a sentence of my own. Before I know it, I’ve forgotten all of the adorable mistakes they used to make daily.

My five-year-old, Olivia, still occasionally says “hims” instead of “his.” As in, “this is hims book.” It’s rare now, but every once in a while she slips back into the pronoun confusion stage. It just sounds so sweet to my ears. Otherwise, Olivia has pretty much mastered the major grammatical rules. However, she still has some vocabulary that she confuses or just fabricates. For example, she calls a sneeze an “ahchoo,” as in “I feel like I have to ahchoo.” Another is she calls the dentist the tooth fairy despite understanding the distinction. But, for whatever reason, she has always called our dentist the tooth fairy. I guess it helps that we have a female dentist. Now, the entire family has taken to calling our dentist the tooth fairy. And we probably always will. Let me explain.

We have some words that we’ve adopted and made part of our family lexicon, i.e. “packaback” for “backpack” and “comfortable” for “comforter.” These are invented words that we use so frequently that they are accepted parts of our conversation. Not only do we retain the words but we also hold onto some memories as each has a cute story behind it. Furthermore, it encourages that sense of team that I try to build into our family unit. It’s similar to having inside jokes. Now, we don’t go around talking baby talk or anything like that. It’s just the occasional word or phrase. I’ll share two of my favorites.

When my oldest daughter, Emily, was about two, she was (still is) a very picky eater. After learning that it wasn’t acceptable to say, “yuck” she cleverly came up with the oft repeated, “it’s not my favorite.” It’s so polite that it’s hard to be offended. We have generalized this expression in our home to refer to not only food but most anything: books, movies, clothes, and even the occasional person. It’s rare for one of my kids to say, “I don’t like whatever.” But, you often hear, “it’s not my favorite.” We all know what it really means.

My second story involves my daughter, Grace. When she was about three, she was leaning over an infant, studying her. The baby reached up, grabbed a hunk of hair, and pulled hard. Grace was in a difficult position. The baby was hurting her, yet she knew she couldn’t just haul off and slug her. So, in a very deep, low, strangely quiet voice she said, “Don’t do that baby.” Like she was in the mafia or something.

So, “don’t do that baby,” is thrown out in conversation frequently. If one of my daughters is about to do something unwise, that’s my comment. Tone and all.

I believe by retaining a few adorable, funny verbal mistakes or cute phrases and turning them into part of your family’s language, it is unifying. It’s like a secret code.

After all, your family is a very exclusive club. By special invitation only.

-Kay

Last month, I wrote about the Parent-Teacher Association meeting. I shared with you how stunned I was at the childish behavior that ensued. (Here’s the original post)

Two weeks ago, the minutes from the meeting came out and NOTHING was written in the minutes about the problem that was raised. It was as if the whole incident was erased. To top it off, nothing was noted about the issue being discussed at the next meeting (which is what the committee said they would do).

Disappointed doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings.

So here’s what I’ve learned:

• I am a Polyanna. I believe that people and groups genuinely want to improve and grow.
• Being a Polyanna is lonely.

What keeps running through my mind are my children’s voices “but that’s not fair,” “but that isn’t nice,” “but you told us we’re supposed to work together.”

All true. It isn’t fair, it isn’t nice and it clearly is not working together. Unfortunately, the world isn’t always fair, nice or cooperative.

So what do I do now? Give up? Uh, no! I will continue to teach my children that there are issues worth fighting for (just prepare yourself to face apathy in others).

That Polyanna side of me wants to keep fighting for justice. That Polyanna side of me believes if I just figure out the right way to discuss the problem that we can work together…

And so, I remain dedicated to working together (or, more truthfully, to find a way to get the group to believe it is worth it to work together!). I called another parent to prepare for the meeting and we’re putting together a committee….there is strength in numbers! If we join together, we’ll be heard and understood. If we stick with it, we’ll prevail.

Polyanna’s search for justice continues….

It’s the first week of November. I walk into the department store to pay a bill, and…uh oh…oh no… is it…could it be…is that what I think it is wafting out of the sound system?

I refuse. I will not be so weak as to allow the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and ambient lighting seduce me into Christmas shopping without my consent. Quickly, I pay my bill. I hurry out of the store without spending another dime.

Let me suggest that leaving a store in November, empty-handed, while Here We Come A-Caroling  is playing, is no easy feat for a red-blooded American woman.

This is particularly not easy for a self-proclaimed former Christmas Queen. Actually, I am merely a descendant. My mother was the original reigning monarch: She started Christmas-shopping/baking/wrapping/crafting in September and didn’t stop until she shop-hopped the after-Christmas sales on Dec. 26. She did up the homemade thing big: icebox fruitcakes and bourbon balls, wreaths out of Styrofoam cups, tabletop trees out of green and red netting. She once locked herself in her bedroom for 16 hours while she made tiny Barbie outfits to put under the tree, each with matching muffs, purses and hats.

By the time I had my own family, I was her able protegee, but better. I finished my shopping by Oct. 1 and my decorating by the day after Thanksgiving. I bought gifts for 32 people on both sides of the family, made 150 Christmas cards stamped with engravings, etched in wood, and hosted craft parties for three different ages of children. Most nights in December, you could see me standing over the stove making hundreds of pralines, fudge squares and lemon bars for bosses, secretaries, neighbors, the mailman and my editor. One year, I did it with a child with chicken pox strapped to my back.

For years, I wore my Christmas acumen like a soldier wears a badge of courage. My husband says he fell in love with me because of the way I do Christmas.

Then one year, I didn’t do the cards.

The next year, I dragged up only four boxes of decorations instead of the usual 12.

The year after that, I didn’t give pralines to the mailman.

Bit by bit, I began controlling Christmas instead of vice versa.

And now it’s time to tackle presents.

This will be the worst, not because we are a particularly materialistic family, but because presents are TRADITION. Presents are exciting! Presents are fun! Presents are what you get when you don’t get anything else the rest of the year: My three sisters and I hardly got so much as a pair of underwear from January to November. But on Christmas, Mama wrapped the tiniest things to be presents and stacked them halfway up the Yule trunk. It took us hours to open them, one at a time.

The tradition has continued in my own family. While all the other neighborhood kids are roller blading on their new presents in the street, we’re still in our jammies at 4 p.m. oohing over the pair of socks Aunt Susan gave Dad.

And now, I am determined to stop it, or at least cut it in half — partly because money doesn’t grow on Christmas trees, partly because my knees are getting too old to walk around Target making sure each kid has the same number of presents, partly because it just doesn’t make sense. It simply isn’t necessary. There are better ways to celebrate.

Like the little engine that could, and Barack Obama, I think I can do this.

The worst part will be getting the kids on board, two of whom I think will be OK. As for my middle child, my 16-year-old daughter, she is no American Eagle/Old Navy/Aeropostale Material Girl. But she is at the age when she attaches deep anthropological meaning to everything. If we don’t do Christmas the way we always have, then God and Motherhood are not institutionally sound. The bells won’t toll on Christmas morning. Earth will tumble into blackest space.

I plan to talk to my family very soon about my plans; I will offer a progress report in an upcoming post. Until then, I vow to keep close at hand my dog-eared copy of Unplug the Christmas Machine, a book chock full of ideas about how to disentangle from the behemoth that is Christmas materialism. I vow to keep close to my heart what it is I really want for Christmas and my family. Finally, I vow to stay far away from all stores playing Jingle Bells.

-Debra-Lynn

My husband, Jeff, was on a painting crew every summer during college. In addition, he’s an illustrator by trade so between his work experience and his steady hand, he’s a pretty decent painter when it comes to our home. Especially when compared to moi.

Early on in our marriage we bought a “ fixer upper.” The entire house needed major renovations and the least of these was a paint job throughout. So, I bought brushes, tape, Spackle, and paint. By the way, I seem to have this inability to look at a little paint chip and picture it accurately on my wall. Sherwin Williams has an online tool to help with colors, which has really helped me with my selections.

When I started painting our house, I discovered something I hadn’t known about my husband until we became homeowners. He’s a paint elitist. A paint snob, if you will. He’s very critical, in the nicest possible way.

“Here, let me show you how to caulk the baseboard so you get a better seal.”
“You might be using too much paint if you’re getting drips.”
And my favorite, “The secret to a good paint job is the preparation.”

Like I said, I had bought all the materials for preparation and I was using them. Just not efficiently, apparently. I do find it ironic that Jeff wants every nail hole to be Spackled yet he couldn’t care less how clean our bathroom is and walks across our carpet with dirty sneakers without a second thought.

But, here’s the bottom line. He’s right. When Jeff paints a room, it turns out beautifully. When I paint a room, it might look fine to most people until they really take a good look. Then they’ll notice sloppy trim work, uneven brush strokes, and the dreaded paint drips. And it’s all because I hurry through the preparation (well, and also because I’m just a really bad painter).

I was thinking about this yesterday as I was painting my bedroom. It’s kind of like kids. If you take your time and really focus on the task at hand, you’ll end up with dynamite kids. What I call sparklers. If you rush through your days and are always focusing on all you need to get done, you may end up with a child who looks pretty good until you take a closer look.

I used to come across this type of kid all of the time when I was a teacher. Kids who initially appeared to have it all together but pretty soon I’d start to notice the neediness. Children whose parents were either too busy or just unaware of the necessity of “preparing” their child. How does one prepare a child? Easy. Spend time together. Lots of it. “In the moment” time where your attention is fully focused on your child. Here are a few suggestions on how to make that happen.

• Individual dates with kids. My husband loves to grab a kid and go to Home Depot and grab a donut on the way home. I like to steal a child and go to a few Open Houses on Sundays. It doesn’t have to be complicated.

• Let your kids help you with tasks. I know it will slow you down but it is great time together. Baking, gardening, laundry, cleaning, or whatever is on your plate.

• If your child is struggling in any area, figure out a solution that involves your time. My oldest was getting behind in her homework so I put aside 4-5 p.m. so I can sit with her to get her started. Every day.

• Join your kids in doing whatever they enjoy. Games, reading, crafts, or my daughter’s personal favorite, her assortment of Care Bears.

Nothing earth shattering in those suggestions. Common sense, just like Spackling and taping before painting.

-Kay

There is one dirty little secret of motherhood that nobody tells you, and it has nothing to do with saggy breasts.

It has to do with orderliness. Once you have children, there will be none.

My children are 11, 16 and 20, which means my refrigerator has had a catsup/egg or milk spill in it for two decades. I have for 20 years not been able to find the scissors, the tape or the AAA batteries. The dust bunnies under the bed are dust hippos. And my basement looks like Kmart the day after Thanksgiving.

Ah, the basement.

It is an easy receptacle for what doesn’t fit in the rest of the house, n’est-ce pas? The baby clothes you can’t bring yourself to throw away. The broken dining room chair your late mother once sat in. A collection of Goodwill blankets the kids used to make forts with. Hundreds of photographs waiting to be sorted and put into PhotoWorks. Those “vintage” Christmas decorations that your mother-in-law didn’t want because they were so kitschy 1970s, that she couldn’t bear to throw away, and so she gave them to you.

Our basement happens also to double as the office, the ping-pong room and the TV room, which means that I actually have to go down there sometimes. I have wished it clean. I have certainly wanted it clean and organized, all the Christmas decorations in one place, all the kids’ first-grade drawings properly labeled and filed.

But I could never get to it because as the mother of young children, there was always something else to do, like making sure one child or the other wasn’t falling off the changing table.

Now suddenly, my youngest child is a pre-teen, 11 years old, which means I no longer feel compelled to follow after him with a bucket of Band-Aids, wash cloths and graham crackers. My husband and I feel like a couple of Rip Van Winkles, waking up after 20 years.

“You know we could actually clean the basement tonight,” my husband said last Saturday at 8 p.m.

I looked at him for a full minute, wondering who twisted his thinking and on date night to boot.

“Argh. Let’s just do it,” I said.

We worked until midnight, hardly breathing in our determination and freedom. We moved and reorganized about 42,000 boxes and swept up that many pounds in dirt and dust. He threw out his back. My allergies were worse than they’ve been since I was pregnant and producing enough mucous for an army of noses.

But we got it done. Four hours later, and the baby clothes were sorted and stacked in bins and waiting for an unwitting grandchild to wear. The photos at least got organized and stacked in their own personal corner in the basement, even if they aren’t actually in photo albums.

As for the Christmas decorations, they are boxed and ready in an accessible corner of the basement, waiting to be pulled out in just a couple of weeks. All but those decorations from Grandma Peg. They found a special new home, too: The landfill.

- Debra-Lynn

The leaves are almost off, the frost is on the ground, and turkey is on sale at the grocery store. It’s parent-teacher conference time!

I’ve sat on both sides of the desk for parent conferences. I taught for 10 years before I was promoted to “Mommy.” Trust me. It’s much more emotional sitting on the parent side. Here are a few things I’ve learned along the way.

1. Share relevant information. Remember, school will help your child to grow socially and emotionally, as well as academically. It’s appropriate to share any issues that may impact your child in any of those areas. My very energetic niece will be entering Kindergarten next year. My sister is debating on whether to discuss that with the K teacher before my niece attends school. She doesn’t want to negatively bias the teacher against her daughter, yet she wants the teacher to be proactive rather than reactive when dealing with behavior. My advice is to give the teacher a heads-up. It will help with things like seating and proximity control, and also will open the pathway of communication.

2. Be positive when discussing your child. There are usually at least two ways to describe behavior. We could say that a child is lazy or we could say that he needs positive reinforcement to motivate him. We could say that a child is messy and loses things or we could say that he needs some strategies to help with organization.

My oldest was concerned when we recently scheduled a conference for her. “What are you going to say?” I reassured her that her Dad and I are on her team. We have her back. While we certainly aren’t going to allow her to coast through 7th grade, our goal is not to talk despairingly about her but rather to brainstorm ways for her to reach her potential.

3. Schedule a conference whenever you feel the need. We didn’t wait until the official conferences for our daughter because we could see that she wasn’t pushing herself. I called her guidance counselor, requested 30 minutes with the core teachers and five days later we had our conference.

4. If you have a specific agenda or concern, bring along your spouse, or your sister, or neighbor or someone who knows your child and your situation. Even if your person sits there mute the entire time, it’s good support. Later, if something is unclear you’ll be able to confer. Jot down your concerns before the conference and take notes during. It helps to focus and clarify your thoughts.

5. Request any special accommodations that you feel would help your child to succeed. Maybe your child needs a morning snack to stay focused. Perhaps the math homework is overwhelming and your child should only do the odd numbered problems. Most teachers are flexible and sincerely appreciate your parental insight.

Services such as special education testing, physical therapy, occupational therapy, math and reading assistance, speech therapy, and counseling are other options. The school will do an evaluation at teacher or parent request. If appropriate, they’ll provide services. When my oldest was in Kindergarten, I requested a speech evaluation. Her teacher thought it was unnecessary but I knew there were certain sounds she couldn’t articulate. She was embarrassed and hesitant to talk at school. Three months later, after speech class once a week, she was Miss Chatty.

6. Don’t be defensive. At another daughter’s 1st grade conference, her teacher recommended she receive some assistance in reading. We were stunned. My initial feeling was, “No way! She doesn’t need extra help. Maybe you’re not teaching her very much!” Luckily, I was able to stifle that. My daughter did receive extra help that year and now in 4th grade she reads above grade level.

7. Follow up with an e-mail thanking the teacher for her time and support. If some action was decided upon, mention that. It keeps things clear and even though our own children are paramount in our minds, teachers have lots of little people and details to attend to so it’s easy to let something slip. Feel free to contact the teacher a few weeks later to check on how things are going.

Wish me luck on my other two conferences next week!

-Kay

My 11-year-old son, whose school was closed on Election Day, was clearly not into performing civic duty on his day off.

“Can I take my soccer ball when we go talk to voters?”

“No,” I said. “I want you focused on what we’re doing.”

“I promise I’’ll be focused, Mom,” he said.

“Some of the neighborhoods we’re going into are on busy streets.”

“I’ll pick up the ball and carry it then,” he said.

“No.”

“This is the worst day of my life,” he said.

“Let’s call it suffering, sadness and service in the name of your candidate,” I said, handing him a sheaf of papers marked with 89 residential addresses, where we would go to remind people to vote.

In the space of a few hours, we made it to all 89 addresses. Rather, I made it to all 89 addresses, he made it to the halfway mark and started melting. But 45 addresses and two hours is enough to embody civic duty and responsibility, especially for an 11-year-old, especially on a sunny day in November when the rest of his friends are playing football in the schoolyard. Forty-five addresses was enough, even, to evoke this statement from him the next day,: “I’m glad I did that yesterday with you, Mom. It makes me feel good that I contributed something to the president winning.”

Such are the comments parents live and die for, even as days like Election Day are also days we bask in, when the whole family and the whole country is together around a common cause: my two older children also canvassed voters door-to-door. And at the end of the day, we and 50 of our closest friends — including a 55-year-old African-American social studies teacher who grew up with segregation in 1950s, including friends from Saudi Arabia and Spain and my college son’s new friend from France, including poll workers and poll drivers — all crowded into our tiny living room around something much larger than ourselves.

“Election Day made me feel more American,” said my 20-year-old son, an international relations college major who voted this year for the first time. “It didn’t even matter if you were Republican or Democrat. Even though the country is very split, and there was a lot of division during the election - there was just something about the whole country experiencing this together.”

It was a moment to savor, as moments like these don’t come but a few in a lifetime. The whole family stayed up way past bedtime on a school night watching the equally eloquent speeches of both victor and loser, watching the faces of jubilation around the world and singing patriotic songs. Even young Benjie, tired from canvassing voters, usually the first one to go to bed, stayed up until the wee hours singing “God Bless America.”

The next day, I kept him home from school, and when I forgot to call in his absence, the school secretary called me. I could have lied, It would have been easier just to say “He’s not feeling well,” which would have been truth enough for a child who got four hours of sleep the night before. But the whole truth was that he had worked on an election campaign, then stayed up into the night supporting a national moment, the likes of which I had never seen, the likes of which will go down in the annals of American history, the likes of which he contributed to.

“OK,” she said and hung up before I could keep going.

I wanted to tell her that my son learned something valuable on Election Day. He learned that civic responsibility not only means personal reward and accomplishment. Civic responsibility can sometimes even mean a contribution to victory - not to mention a celebratory day off from school.

- Debra-Lynn