In the end, it was me.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t not do Christmas the way we’ve always done.

The kids, oddly, would have been fine.

When we told them we’d be cutting back from 18 presents to two — not so much because of our own economic status, but because we wanted to focus on what’s important and because we wanted to honor those who have less –they were surprisingly acquiescent.

“I don’t need that much stuff anyway, Mom,” said the eldest and the trend-setter for the rest of the crew.

It sounded so good on paper. Instead of starting my shopping in August, I would spend a couple of easy days picking out for each of my three children a few clothing items and maybe a few books. I would not worry about each child having a spread from Santa and 17 gifts under the tree, an electro-techno gadget of some kind, six stocking stuffers, a game each, a DVD, a Yo-Yo, Silly Putty and a Slinky.

On Christmas Day, instead of the usual four, we would spend half an hour opening gifts. The rest of the day would be spent engaged in family activities, playing the one new game somebody got. Maybe even later we would go to a community center to serve food.

Somewhere around Dec. 18 then, I lost it.

I reverted to old behavior, which I learned from my own mother: Mama couldn’t afford to buy me and my three sisters much stuff the rest of the year. Ah, but she used Christmas as an excuse to lavish.

Presents wouldn’t even be that big or that expensive. But they would be plentiful and evenly divided. No child would get more than the other. But each would get a lot, 15 or 20 under the tree. As each gift was opened, the rest of the family would look on, celebrating the giver and the receiver. We went to Midnight Mass and visited Grandma and sang carols and ate pralines and chocolates. But just as all those things were Christmas, so was opening presents.

Christmas presents was ritual.

And tradition.

And in the end, I couldn’t give it up.

In the end, I rushed around getting calendars for each kid and techno gidgets. I got the right number of books and the fleece hoodies. I got 6.5 stocking stuffers and a Slinky for each child. I got lots and lots of tiny presents, mostly things they needed like socks and ink pens, and yes, one big luxury for each child — an iHome for my daughter, a digital camera and Rock Band for my sons. It didn’t matter the size or the expense of the presents, though, I found joy watching ever so happily as each candy cane was unwrapped, each pair of socks tried on.

I used the opportunity to lavish my family, who just like my family of origin, doesn’t get much the rest of the year. They don’t get a lot. But they give: My 20-year-old son started United Way on his college campus last year. This past spring, all five of us gave up our spring break and traveled on a bus for 20 hours to New Orleans, where we worked on a school that had been destroyed by Katrina. We give on a regular basis to family members less fortunate than us.

I don’t say this for praise, but more, I suppose, out of guilt – and an attempt at understanding the fullness of our humanity at Christmas time. Sometimes we give. And sometime we get. On Christmastime, in particular, we in this culture have a tradition of giving presents. To others. And to ourselves. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

- Debra-Lynn

P.S. Photo above is my 11-year-old son opening a snow globe.

On an overcast wintry Saturday recently, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a cozy sweater. I threw a suitcase, a bunch of CDs and a map in the gassed-up minivan.

And I hit the road.

I had no idea where I was going.

No matter.

I was running away.

OK, so I’m being dramatic. So I wasn’t really “running away” — not in the Britney Spears/Paris Hilton sense, which typically involves a) adolescent tendencies; b) a vow never to return; and c) cops.

My family knew I was going and, perhaps more importantly, that I was returning.

All my friends and family knew I’d been threatening a getaway for a long time – though not the family kind when you still have to remember the sunscreen and the asthma medicine and cook all the meals and be the mother even though you’re on vacation.

Nor was it going to be like one of those “ momomcations,” popularized by groups like the Girls Getaway Group. These women meticulously plan two-to-three-day excursions with other mothers as they escape from “screaming infants, frustrating adolescents and defiant teenagers,” according to one travel writer.

The most important piece of my particular plan is that there would be no plan.

Turning my CD player way up and my cell phone way down, I would simply get on my favorite road north and drive to the Lake Erie shoreline 50 miles away from our northeast Ohio Cape Cod on the cul-de-sac.

I wouldn’t stop until I landed at the front door of some yet-to-be-named bed and breakfast in some yet-to-be-named little town where the proprietor cares only enough to feed me homemade blueberry muffins in the morning.

All spontaneous. All impulsive. All just what a 24-7 responsible/overscheduled/overcommitted mother needs. (See this article.)

There was only one thing that I might should have planned for: winter on the Great Lakes. A tumbledown lakeside village that is a Pee-wee’s Playhouse of ice cream shops and hot dog stands in the summer is a Norman Bates Pscyho Town in the off-season.

“Help?” I said, phoning my Google-friendly sister two hours and 100 miles into my trip.

“There’s a B and B in a town called Painesville. You’re a few miles from Painesville.”

“I don’t especially like that name, but OK.”

I drove to Painesville as dusk descended, only to find a full sign on the B and B, and I refused to stay at a sterile hotel even if there was one.

“Go west to Sandusky.

“I don’t want to go to Sandusky. I think I already went to Sandusky,” I said.

“But Sandusky has B and Bs.”

“Sandusky’s too far away,” I said, not yet knowing just how far far is.

“So let’s go east. Here! Erie, Pennsylvania! How far are you from Erie, Pennsylvania?” she said.

“I don’t know. Wait! Here’s a sign. ‘Cleveland, 47 miles, Erie, Pa., 50 miles.’ If I go to Cleveland, I’m an hour away from home. If I go to Erie, I’m two hours away from home.”

“You can’t go that close to home! Google says there are lots of B and Bs in Erie. I’ll stay on the phone with you while you drive to Erie.”

I drove on to Erie like my shaman sister said, only to find that some major event had taken up every room within 20 miles of Erie, which the 1-800- accommodations guy told me after I got there.

“So drive the 100 miles back to Cleveland, and I’ll stay on the phone with you again,”my sister said.

My sister and I laughed hysterically as we traveled together, and yes, you shouldn’t talk and drive, but I think she kept me awake, and I know her companionship kept this leg of my “getaway” from being a total wash.

“I’m getting pretty close to Cleveland,”I said finally.

“Good because there are lots of B and Bs there. Here’s one with a dog dressed in a little plaid suit on the bed.”

“I am not going to a B and B with a dog on the bed. In fact, you know what? This doesn’t make sense. I’m an hour from home. Why should I spend $150 on a room when I’m 45 minutes from home?”

Seven hours and 268 miles later, I turned the car south.

“Pretend I’m not here,” I said, as I walked into the familiar Cape Cod on the cul-de-sac and went to bed.

Ah, but I was not to be defeated. The next day, I got up and left again – this time, with a prospective reservation in hand, which I canceled; I took one look at the To Kill a Mockingbird town where it was located and kept driving, not stopping until six hours and 219 miles later when I found a quiet resort on a peninsula I hardly knew existed.

It was not a B and B. But there were muffins waiting. Winter rates were one-third the summer rates. I had a Jacuzzi in my room next to a window overlooking Lake Erie. I had a king-sized bed with a down comforter.

But the destination was no longer the thing.

It apparently never really was.

A friend once told me that you can no longer be spontaneous once you become a mother.

Ha.

- Debra-Lynn

The set-up: It is snowing really hard this morning. We live just before a 90-degree turn on a street that gets busy during rush hour. There is, of course, a yellow street sign telling all the drivers “Hey, we told you to slow down before, now, we really mean it!” (read with humor).

The incident: As my kids and I waited (with the dog) for the bus to arrive in the slippery, slippery snow, a little red car could not make the turn and ran right into the sign. The road conditions were too treacherous to overcome. The car was stuck.

Polyanna’s immediate reaction: We have to help, we have to fix this! I put the dog inside. The kids and I walk over to the car (just sitting there, stuck). There is a man sitting in the car. Just sitting in the car. I walk to the front of the car and put up the international signal for “are you OK”? He responds with the international sign for “yes.”

Great, thinks Polyanna. The man is OK. The car is stuck, but no one is hurt. He tries to back out. His bumper is stuck. I signal him to come forward. He does. I signal him to go back. [Of course, traffic is backing up. People are beeping but I see NO one get out to assist the mother and two small children trying to push a car….lovely]. He shakes the car loose and off he goes.

The relationship to the PTA Meeting: I got my kids on the bus and walked inside to write this post. I wanted to write about the PTA meeting that I missed the other night (don’t think me a quitter, I had to see my Mom at the hospital; family first).

The PTA “issue” ( original post) ( follow up post) is like what happened this morning (stay with me).

• The PTA is like the traffic; they just want to keep moving (“beep, beep: Get out of our way! We need to keep moving”).

• The parents who want more information are like the stuck car: we’re broken down, need help and are in the way of traffic moving along (“I’m stuck here, could you help me?”).

• It doesn’t seem to matter to the traffic that assistance is needed on the road…traffic only wants to keep moving. No one got out of their car to help get the stuck car UN-stuck (which would benefit everyone)

Yucky, yucky feeling inside. I’m glad I tried to help. I’m sad no one else bothered.

The Meeting: I missed the meeting, yes. But I did not miss much. Despite the promise in the October meeting that this issue would be discussed at the November meeting, it was not on the agenda, it was not addressed whatsoever.

It feels like the Polyanna parents who want to make this change are jumping up and down screaming “there is a car stuck in the road, if we all work together, we can make the world a better place!!” And the PTA is sitting in their car beeping the horn for traffic to keep moving.

Losing Polyanna?: Today, I feel yucky at about the apathy I see with the PTA and the traffic. Today, I noticed that the man I tried to help didn’t wave or beep or say thanks or offer any acknowledgment that I tried to help (I didn’t try to help to get a thank you, by the way. I tried to help because I think that is what we’re supposed to do for each other in this world). But today, I don’t feel like Polyanna, I feel like a grouchy, old, negative, yucky, scrooge.

Lest the “yucky people” in the world get the best of me, I’m going to make hot chocolate and play in the snow until Polyanna returns to my heart….

Lisa

In a few hours, I will drive my sister to the airport so she can fly back to Memphis where she lives.

It’s been a good visit and a rare one – like my other two sisters, Aunt Sharon only gets up here to northeast Ohio every few years. This time, she got to see snow. She got to cook the turkey, thank God. She got to meet international students from the local university who celebrated Thanksgiving with us.

Most importantly for me, as Maggi from askanaunt.org can attest, she got to spend time with my three children.

When my three sisters and I were growing up in Greenville, S.C., we were surrounded by extended family. We had two sets of grandparents and two sets of great-grandparents, all living in the same town. We lived within a mile or two of 20 aunts and uncles, several great aunts and uncles, a great-great aunt here and there and dozens of cousins and first cousins, second cousins and cousins twice-removed.

Holidays were generous with relationship and family tradition: Thanksgiving was always at the home of Mama Syracuse, my maternal grandmother. We kids would put pillows on the floor in front of the TV in the living room, watching Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, while my mother and grandmother cooked. Later, like clockwork, we would watch the Packers against the Lions.

Easter was likewise predictable, held every year at the big Southern house of Grandma Bledsoe, my paternal grandmother. All us cousins would come in our Easter suits and big Easter dresses, puffed out with so many starched petticoats, and hide Easter eggs under the wrap-around porch. Afterwards, we would gather to wait and wait and wait for fried chicken and green beans and sweet tea while Uncle Bill said a blessing as long as the dining room table.

Christmas was at both grandparents, then ended at Big Mama’s, my great grandmother from Lebanon, where we played games with our mysterious dark-haired cousins home from college, then gobbled up grape leaves and homemade yogurt, meat pies and kibbeh and tabouli, and bowls and bowls of olives that were considered exotic because they were imported.

Extended family was a given during the events of my childhood, each event richer and more lovely than the next. But embedded deep in each moment was something even lovelier than the gifts of Christmas or the Easter pictures we would today post on PhotoWorks: We were, each of us, establishing place, identity and a sense of belonging.

And then my parents divorced. And my mother moved and took us with her. And that was that. This was the late 1960’s when people didn’t get divorced, certainly not good Southern Catholic girls. My mother was ashamed. Contact with all those family members dwindled to nothing as we eventually moved miles and cultures away from South Carolina, to New Orleans.

In the years that have passed, I have made attempts to reconnect. My father died in 1991, my mother in 2005. On my own, I have developed scattered e-mail relationships with a few extended family members – an uncle on my mother’s side, a remote cousin on my father’s.

But it is my three sisters that I cling to.

We live hundreds of miles apart. But we talk on the phone or e-mail every day. We know who among us has a doctor appointment, which sister gained 10 pounds, who among our six children got all As on their report cards. Even if we are not geographically close, we communicate daily the pains and joys of our lives. In the absence of the community of a large extended family, and perhaps in its memory, my sisters and I have learned to turn to each other for most everything we need. We look to each other to fill the gaps we know are there. And on that rare occasion when one of us comes to visit the other, we soak up the chance for our children to know the family they don’t even know they’re missing.

- Debra-Lynn

My husband and I could almost hear the collective uh-oh when we asked the kids to sit down for a family meeting.

“We’re going to have to cut back on Christmas this year,” my husband said, as the gasps went up.

“It’s only partly because of money,” I said. “It’s also because we think there are better ways to celebrate.” (See this article…)

A hush fell as the kids said not a word.

Then one by one, beginning with the eldest, and trickling down through the middle and to the youngest, the three of them began to nod their heads.

“All right,” said one, shrugging his shoulders.

“Fine with me,” said the other.

“OK,” said the youngest.

Huh?

In our family, Christmas is presents and presents is Christmas. The kids wake to Santa’s unwrapped presents and an overstuffed stocking. We have breakfast, and then begins the ritual gift exchange, as the five of us spend four hours opening at least a dozen modest presents from each other and another half dozen from extended family. Each gift-giving takes several minutes, as the small gift is given, then opened, then savored, while other family members look on.

My kids have always loved this ritual and tradition. They look forward to it all year. And now they’re telling me they’re OK with cutting back on it?

“I guess I just don’t need that much,” the eldest said. “Too many things complicate my life.”

“I can’t really think of anything I need that much either,” the middle child said.

I was stunned at the acquiescence.

And yet the more I think about it, the more I realize that the joy of presents might have nothing to do with the presents themselves.

It’s that for one short block of time, our family stops.

No cell phones, no computers or texting friends. It’s just us, connected, unencumbered and together in our PJs in a tiny corner of our living room. We put a fire in the fireplace and Christmas music on the stereo. We are comfortable, safe, healthy, warm, as we truly savor each other’s presence, one by one, one at a time, and what brings that person joy.

My husband and I are determining our next step in this recreation of Christmas. We are thinking that maybe we will ask each family member what activity they would like to lead on Christmas — whether it’s building a jigsaw puzzle like we always manage to do sometime during the season, going into the community to perform even a small miracle, or playing Rock Band together, which I just bet will be the 11-year-old’s choice. The idea is not to forego presents altogether. The idea is to pay attention to what’s important to each individual, to celebrate ourselves as individuals and collectively, to fold in together as a family on that one day when we allow it.

Stay tuned, as this is work in progress. I will keep you posted. Meanwhile, I hold in my heart this treasured commitment from the book, “ Unplug the Christmas Machine: A Complete Guide to Putting Love and Warmth Back Into the Season”:

The Christmas Pledge:

- To remember those people who truly need my gifts.
- To express my love for family and friends in more direct ways.
- To rededicate myself to the spiritual growth of my family.
- To examine my holiday activities in light of the true spirit of Christmas.
- To initiate one act of peacemaking within my circle of family and friends.

- Debra-Lynn

My grandfather was quite a character. Smart, charming, opinionated, proud, hard working, cynical, and funny. He had the gifts of a sharp wit and storytelling. Since his death about five years ago, I have truly missed him.

One memory of him that stands out to me, because it happened so frequently, was sitting around the dining room table and talking. Dinner would be long over yet everyone would stay seated. The children would drift away in waves, based upon age. The older we got, the longer we’d hang around for the conversation. There was a lot of political talk (mostly critical) about the general state of affairs both locally and nationally. That’s where I learned about not only current events but also family stories, like how a great uncle dislocated a shoulder from cranking up his early Ford car. I had that same feeling of awe that my kids get when I tell them that I only had three channels on my TV and no remote when I was growing up.

Despite some hard times in his life, my grandfather was a joyful man. He laughed often and delighted in teasing his grandchildren. And he was even more delighted when we got old enough to “give it right back.” Joke Christmas gifts, funny ecards, and lots and lots of ribbing each other. All in love.

One of the expressions I heard frequently growing up was, “I wouldn’t tease you if I didn’t love you.” Growing up in my house, we all pretty much had to learn how to take a joke. Thank goodness.

After his death, I received an inheritance. Not a huge amount but enough to make me consider how to wisely spend it. I wanted to somehow honor my grandfather with the money. It would have been easy and perhaps prudent to pay off some bills. Instead, my husband and I went table shopping!

We bought a great big huge table with lots of chairs. It’s about 9 feet long and almost 4 feet wide. It’s awesome. It has a rustic look because I wanted it to be used and enjoyed. I didn’t want to worry about every scratch. When we bought it, I was hoping that my family would sit around it for hours, just talking. I pictured my kids doing homework and working on crafts. And that’s exactly what happened.

Yes, my table is often a mess. It usually has craft supplies and homework projects spread all over. But, most evenings everything is put away so that we can all sit down together. I think that would have pleased my grandfather.

Dinner is a great time to gather and talk about what went on that day. I find that I often can’t get my children to slow down enough to tell me more than the basics of their day until we sit down to dinner. There’s something about breaking bread together that encourages real talk. The sharing of thoughts rather than just a rundown of the day. If we don’t have meaningful conversations with the people we love, how can we have meaningful relationships with them? In addition, there’s research that shows children who sit down and eat regular meals with their parents eat healthier, get better grades, and have lower rates of smoking, drinking and drug use.

My kids know the origin of the table and our reasons for purchasing such a large one. They know many of my grandfather’s stories. Mostly, they know how much I value family. As you sit down around your table this holiday season, give thanks for the wonderful gift of family and the conversations that are shared.

-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

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