Over the years, I have experimented with letting go of the various “shoulds” and “have-tos” of Christmas.

There was year I tried to cut back on baking and making, when I decided not to spend hours in the kitchen making 300 of my signature Southern pecan pralines , half of which never manage to harden into candy but end up sliding off the counter onto the floor.

Only thing, when the mailman came around, I felt bad that I had nothing to give besides a weak, “Can I help you with that 35-pound package?”

There was the Christmas when I decided to forego the Christmas photo for the annual Christmas card. This decision came, mind you, the year after the Christmas tree fell on the baby while the photo was in progress.

Only thing, no Christmas cards means I slip out of the card-exchange loop: Don’t send any Christmas cards. Don’t get any Christmas cards the following year.

There were the various and many de-stressing shopping experiments, to include the Christmas I bought everything by Sept. 1; the Christmas when I bought nothing by Dec. 1; and the Christmas when I shopped online for almost everything.

The problem with early buying, of course, is that kids change their minds. The problem with late buying includes not being able to find a single, solitary winter hat with those little tassels hanging down, not to mention standing in line with really mean people. The problem with online buying is that shipping and handling costs as much as the item, sometimes more. Some day, I’d like to find out how much it really costs to send a two-ounce CD in the mail.

My conclusion after all these experiments: Managing Christmas is a job, added to whatever other jobs you already have. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, if you are the reigning Christmas Manager in your house, and most women are, there will be stress at Christmas.

There are, however, things you can do to ease the intermittent agony that creeps Grinch-like into the joy:

1. Strive to be reasoned and measured. This goes for everything from the amount of presents you buy to the number of pralines that make it to your mouth while you are making them. It makes infinitely more sense to say you will only eat a certain number of pralines, say a pound daily, and stop at that.

2. Don’t rub in your status as manager of all things Christmas in your house. “Just how many people is it that you shop for?” I one year asked the husband of a friend who was sweating as he peered into the jewelry counter where I was also shopping. “My wife,” he said. “Hm,” I said. “I shop for several cousins, aunts and uncles, my three children, my husband, his family, several secretaries and teachers, and I make and package 12 boxes of pralines to send to out-of-towners,” I said. He dropped his head and left the store.

3. Expect to be dissed and ignored by store clerks, especially as the clerks become younger and apparently, wiser. At one store, where a cashier tried to sell me one of those irritating warranties for the video product, I tried to engage him in a conversation about the days when you didn’t have to buy a warranty, when warranties actually came with the purchase. He just looked at me. “Merry Christmas, lady,” he said.

4. Expect a mess. “I have given up on trying to scrape the glitter/glue combo and a multitude of paint globs off of my table and sweep beads up off of the floor, at least until it’s all done,” says SnappyMom.

5. Look for concrete ways to keep the enchantment alive. Drink Bailey’s. Walk up to somebody who looks like they could use it, and put a $5 bill in their hand. If you know your husband will not remember to buy stocking stuffers for you, buy Oil of Olay and calligraphy markers and stuff your own.

6. Never speak your theory about Santa, that his sleigh makes perfect landings on snowy roofs because the runners have special Velcro on the bottom. As long as nobody says it out loud, everyone will still believe it’s magic.

7. Finally: Do not wear clogs while making pralines. You will get sugar in your shoes.

- Debra-Lynn

Every year when it’s time to start thinking about the children’s Christmas pageant at their church, I cringe.

I think of the sweet elements, of course, all those precious little shepherds and angels processing to the altar with the Holy Family,their tiny voices lifted in song.

I think of the dedicated parents who manage to get all those wired kids dressed and crammed into church on Christmas Eve.

But then thoughts turn to the Christmas pageant of 1988.

I was excited that year because my husband and I were going home on the train for the first time in years to spend Christmas with my mothers and sisters in New Orleans.

I was especially excited because we would be bringing a baby with us, our first baby, the first grandchild in my family in 10 years.

At 3 months old, he was the perfect age and disposition for traveling.

He was also perfect for something else apparently, as two weeks before we were scheduled to leave, the priest at our church, along with the pageant director and two beaming members of the pageant committee, approached us after church and with great pomp and ceremony and announced:

“We want your baby to be Jesus this year.”

Ouch. Yipes. Whaaat??

Our jaws dropped. Our hearts sank. We felt selfish. We felt sinful. We felt downright ungrateful, if not sacrilegious, choosing the Big Easy over Jesus.

But the train tickets were paid for. My mother was standing on her head waiting to get her hands on her new grandbaby.

And so 1988 became the year our son could have been Jesus.

It’s a reality I’ve had to face every Christmas Eve. I see the
procession of miniature shepherds and the angels in their glittering wings start down the aisle. And then I shut my eyes tight as I wait to see who gets to be Him.

For years, I fantasized we’d get another chance, like the year 1992 when we had a baby girl, in June. But then some other family went and had a baby boy in November. And I knew even if the church elders felt sorry for us,they weren’t going to choose a boisterous 6-month-old girl over an immobile newborn baby boy guaranteed not to rise up out of the manger and start cooing at the crowd.

In April 1997, we were blessed with another strapping opportunity, and the right gender this time. But I knew then, too; even if he wasn’t going to be too old at Christmas, he weighed 9 pounds at birth and 20 pounds by October. There wouldn’t be any swaddling clothes big enough to fit this child.

No, this is the cross I have to bear.

Some other mother’s child will get the extra boost of divine
inspiration at an early age.

Some other child will be so inspired to become a priest or a missionary, a Peace Corps volunteer or just a really nice person.

Some other child will carry with him throughout his life the knowledge that the year he was born, he got to play Jesus in the Christmas pageant.

There’s just one other lament: If he had been Jesus, doesn’t that mean I would have been Mary?

- Debra-Lynn

Photo is from Knox Presbyterian Church, Ontario

We have a dog. We promised my kids one for years before we actually got one. There was always a reason to wait. New baby, upcoming move, no room, etc. Finally, last Christmas, we felt that the time was right. We wrapped up a box of doggie bones to put under the Christmas tree and started looking.

The kids looked online at the available dogs in the area. It’s fun because it not only shows you a picture but it gives you information about the dog, as well. Above all, we wanted a friendly dog that would be good with children of all ages. Our house seems to have a revolving door with kids coming and going and I didn’t want to have to worry about a grumpy pooch.

Another requirement I had was I wanted the dog to be fairly young, but not a puppy. I was hoping to avoid accidents everywhere and chewed up furniture. I preferred a midsized dog and a nonbarker would be nice. I didn’t care about the sex or breed. In fact, I’m kind of partial to mutts.

After some online research, we decided to make some trips to animal adoption centers. At the first one, Rescue Village, we made a scene when we left with one sobbing kid and two angry ones because we left without the dog they wanted. Believe me, it was tempting to give in just to pacify everyone.

Even my husband was leaning towards their side. “Maybe we should consider the puppy.”

But I was firm. Basically, because I knew that if things didn’t go well with the new dog, I would be the one dealing with the problems. So, finally in April we hit the jackpot at PALS where we met Sasha. She is a mutt with some German Shepard blood who was described to us by the very helpful worker as a smart, lovable, quiet dog that they estimated to be about 10 months old. It was love at first sight.

I believe that animals that are adopted from shelters are grateful. At some level they realize that you rescued them. Sasha adores her kids to a pathetically sweet level. She sits by the front door when she starts to hear school buses drive by our house at about 3:00. When the kids are outside playing, she runs from window to window in order to keep an eye on them. She sleeps at the bottom of the steps (she’s not allowed upstairs) all night long, just waiting for her people to wake up.

This past summer, we had a neighbor take care of Sasha while we were away for three days. Sasha didn’t eat anything for the entire weekend. How sad is that?

So, we are thrilled with Sasha. We’ve had pets before. Cats before we discovered my daughter had an allergy. We had a bunny for a while which was a pretty good pet (she was litter trained!) but not too interactive. We still have fish. We had a skink for about 4 years until it died. Again, a nice enough pet but not much you can do with it. But, a dog is hands down the best so far.

We are not one of those families who think a dog is an actual person in our family. I don’t let her upstairs or on the couch. I wouldn’t spend thousands of dollars on her health if she had some terrible disease. I know of a dog that has braces. We could hardly pay for the braces my child wore last year so the chances of Sasha having something like that are nil. Sometimes I forget to feed her until she starts nudging me. Don’t feel too sorry for her. The vet tells me that she is a 50-pound dog that weighs 70 pounds. I know how she feels.

But, even though she isn’t even close to being human in my eyes, I do love her and my kids are crazy about her. My youngest lies on the floor with her face inches away. Communing, I guess. My kids all love walking her on her leash. Sasha came potty trained, doesn’t chew on my stuff (although she instantly destroys all of her toys), hardly ever barks, quickly learned our yard boundaries, and is the gentlest soul I know.

So, if you have an inclination to add a pet to your family, I encourage you to do so. There are lots of clear benefits of pet ownership for children. I’d also advise you to carefully consider the type of pet that would be a good fit with your family. Finally, wonderful pets are available at minimal cost at a shelter near you.

-Kay

I’m so excited. I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

If you have taken this journey with me, you’re well aware it’s a “doozy!” ( original post) ( follow up post) ( second follow up post)

I opened my kid’s folder and found the PTA meeting notes. My heart raced as I scanned the page looking for something about the communication issue that has been looming since the initial meeting.

It was right there in black and white. “Communication: The PTA is forming a committee to resolve the communication issues brought up at the meeting. The committee will address ideas including using the website more effectively.” YIPPEE.

The whole process has been a roller coaster of emotions – complete with feelings of annoyance and camaraderie and everything in between! The annoyance stemmed from the initial defensive reactions at the first meeting. The camaraderie came from the other parents struggling to make things better for their children as well.

I’m thrilled the PTA officials listened to the heartfelt plea and are taking some steps to improve things. I’m thrilled that there are other parents out there that want to make a difference. I’m thrilled that I contributed to process improvement.

As we approach Christmas, I feel like I already received the most wonderful presents – faith, hope and love. Faith that the PTA is pursuing resolutions to an important issue. Love for our children and their welfare. Hope that improvements can be made in a system that needed improvement.

How great is that!

- Lisa

This year we picked out our Christmas tree on a bitterly cold winter morning. The van thermostat read 22 degrees when we pulled into the “cut your own Christmas tree farm” in the middle of nowhere (actually, Mantua, OH). By the time we had scouted the field of potential picks and evaluated the merits of each, we were all in severe pain. Our noses and toes felt like they were going to freeze off. It was perfect…just as it should be.

We lived in Southern California for many years and while there I just couldn’t get used to picking out our Christmas tree. We used to go to this place right next to a busy road. Imagine cars going “whoosh, whoosh, whoosh” as they drove by at 70 miles per hour. The Christmas tree place tried to cover up the traffic noise with piped in holiday music, but that really just added to the cheesiness. We’d often be wearing shorts and certainly never anything warmer than a sweatshirt. A Mexican gentleman who didn’t speak English sold the precut trees. As we walked on the scorched, dry ground we’d see little lizards darting around. The kids would try to catch one while my husband and I picked a tree and tried to figure out how much money Cincuenta is in Spanish. Eventually, we’d hand over mucho, mucho, dinero just to be done with the whole anti-Bing Crosby, winter wonderland, sugar plum experience.

If you grew up in the Southwest, this probably feels perfectly normal and festive but for my husband and I who were transplanted from the NE, it felt like a page out of Dante’s Inferno. Slight exaggeration, but you have to understand that I love Christmas. The traditional kind.

When we moved to Ohio 4 years ago, my husband and I were thrilled to be able to experience Christmas as we had growing up. We really wanted our children to enjoy some of the same joys that we did as children. Building snowmen, sledding, tromping through a field hunting for the perfect tree, and losing feeling in our extremities.

At the Christmas tree farm we found a tree we could all agree upon and snapped a picture of the kids standing in front of it to share on Photoworks. The kids were doing their best to look happy but I’d have to say the smiles turned out more like grimaces. Then, my husband lay down in the snow to cut it down. It was one of those moments when I’m glad I’m the female. We all helped drag it back to our van where he tossed it on top and secured it while we girls attempted to regain the use of our frozen fingers inside of the toasty van. Again, glad I’m female.

When we arrived home, the kids anxiously waited (translate into moaned and groaned) while their father put up our tree and strung the lights. Then, the kids and I draped the beaded garland and placed the ornaments on the tree. I love my ornaments. If my house caught on fire, my ornaments would be near the top of my list of things to save. Many are old. My mother has always bought each of her children an ornament each year so some of mine date back to the 1960’s. As grandchildren have been born, she has added them to the list of ornament recipients each year, so my children look for theirs when decorating. In their minds, those dating back to the 1990’s are ancient. My favorite ornaments would have to be the ones made for “Mommy” by my children. My kids mock their own young attempts at art, but I notice they look for them each year as we decorate.

I loved the whole Christmas tree experience this year, even the extreme cold. I think it’s unifying for our family. There’s a reason those hardy people who live in frigid climates are so tight knit. It’s a bonding experience to get frostbite together. Plus, when we got home we warmed up with hot chocolate and cookies. That alone made it all worth it.

When our tree was all decorated, we turned out all of the lights except for those on the tree and were awed by the serene, beauty of our tree. There’s really nothing else like it. As I gazed at my children in the glow of the lights, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace and thankfulness. No wonder I love Christmas so much. What other time during the year has the same sense of magic and wonder?

Peace be with you.

-Kay

My friend, Lisa, has become generosity personified.

But first she was angry.

She was mad because in the last few months, my husband and I lost a third of what we had set aside for our retirement and a third of our three children’s college savings.

She was mad for people like my friend, Bob. At 51, he is the father of five, and the sole wage earner in his family. Two of his kids are in college. He had just finished putting an expensive extension on his house. Last month, he was told that his company could no longer afford him.

My husband’s brother likewise lost his job in November, just after he turned 50. Bill worked for the same company for 25 years. He has three kids in college. Luckily, his wife works as a bank teller. But nobody knows how long her job, or even her bank, will last.

The list goes on: My 40-year-old friend from Asia, whose husband was recently disabled, whose daughter is 8, was told this past Monday – just 17 days before Christmas – that her job as an architect is no longer there.

My friend, Brian, a woodworker and a much-respected contractor in our town, can find no work. Earlier this week, he told me he just spent his last dollar. The good news about his low income is that he finally qualifies for Medicaid, which is especially good because he has cancer. He also has two young children. He is 42.

At first, Lisa, who is 51 and the single mother of a 15-year-old daughter named Zoe, could be nothing but livid about the corrupt economy that is forcing layoffs all over the country. A former academic advisor and college counselor at Akron University, she always loved making sense of the human condition. But this recession bordering on depression bordering on destroying family’ss lives – this she cannot spin. “I am honestly having a hard time wrapping my head around how bad this thing has gotten.”

But then, like the Grinch whose heart “grew three sizes that day,” something flipped inside Lisa. She started asking people: What do you need? Do you need gas money? Do you need child care?

And then Lisa started giving away her money – not just $5 here and there, but $900 to one friend to buy a month’s worth of health insurance to pay for her jobless husband’s cancer treatments. She started driving friends to doctor appointments and offering her daughter’s free babysitting services to anybody who needed child care for any reason.

No need went unnoticed: When her friend was crying that she couldn’t even afford to do Christmas crafts with her young daughter this year, Lisa opened up her own box of felt and stickers and markers and said, “Come on over!” She has begun opening her modest home every Sunday from 2-6, telling her friends for soup and to play music or do crafts with Zoe or just plain talk and hug and be together.

Lisa is not rich in the traditional sense of the word. Although she once was a counselor, the demands of motherhood and the richness of it called for something simpler: Today, divorced from her dentist husband, she works in a warehouse as a packer and lives in a small frame house in a middle-class neighborhood in tiny Kent, Ohio. While she lives an unassuming life, she says she also was blessed recently by the sale of a condo she once owned. It is the cash from that sale that she freely gives away.

“The way I look at it, I have this extra income. And people just have to know: If they don’t take the money to pay their health insurance or to buy gas or groceries, it’s going to American Express. I’d rather they have it.”

Lisa’s world view constitutes a “new paradigm,” she says, one that embraces generosity and sharing, one that decries the shame and embarrassment of expressing need, one that says nobody should ever have to suffer alone, particularly at Christmas, when the losses are particularly acute, when electricity is expensive but the heat needs to be turned up anyway, when we’re all stuffed inside our individual houses in the bleak of wintry days, reflecting on what’s going to happen tomorrow, who’s going to get hit next.

“I’m adamant. I won’t sit for this. All these things are coming up for people. I just won’t allow it. I want to tell people, “I won’t allow you to deny me. Because I care about you.’ ”

A couple of days ago, Lisa reached out with her benevolent calling, e-mailing 25 of her closest friends, asking them not only what they needed, but what they could give, not only where they had weaknesses in their systems, but where they had strengths.

She suggested that her friends look to bartering and trading with each other, that if they need a good or service, they first look to their community. Within a few hours, she had responses from several people who wanted to help where needed.

“I’m really kind of selfish, you know. I just know that things are getting bad and I don’t even think we’ve sent the depth and breadth of it yet. I just want to stay close to people. I just want to raise awareness of what we can do for each other.”

Please e-mail Lisa at: lcrankshaw@neo.rr.com.

- Debra-Lynn

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

My youngest daughter, Olivia, is in half-day Kindergarten this year. Kindergarten is such a huge transition year for children. When she began in late August, her writing was limited. Every single paper she colored or drew on, she’d flip it over and write her name on the back. Then, she’d write the only other two words she knew how to spell underneath. Mom and Dad.

This touched my heart. We are pretty much her whole world. But I’ve noticed a slight change lately as her writing skills and experiences grow. Sometimes Olivia adds her sisters’ names underneath her own. Or our dog’s. Last week, she came home with the name Sarah next to hers. No mention of Mom or Dad.

She’s also been adding phrases, often undecipherable even to her. Recently, she wrote, “I see a chree” (tree). A whole sentence. Even a capital at the beginning and a period at the end.

I am thrilled that she is moving toward independence and knowledge. However, she is simultaneously moving away from innocence and that brief period where her family is her universe. Away from me. And that doesn’t thrill me.

For some reason, this is a difficult stage for me this time around. I didn’t feel quite this way when my two older daughters were going through this transition but of course, I still had a baby at home. But, Olivia is my baby and there is no one at home when she’s gone. She’s been my buddy. My pal. Shopping with me, giggling with me, and always anxious to spend time together even when her sisters are busy with activities and friends.

Next year she’ll be in school all day long. Who will I eat lunch with?

I have so enjoyed being a stay at home mom these past 12 years. And I’ve been grateful. When my oldest was born, I took a 1-year leave of absence from my teaching position. We needed to make certain that we could maintain our family financially without my income. Well, we did. Just barely. So, after that first year, I asked for one more. After that 2nd year, I quit. Since then, we have limped along. Two steps forward, one step back. But, we keep moving in the right direction. We’ve never been rich financially but we are so rich in family.

But, the times they are a changin’. So, I’m trying to proactively plan this next chapter in my life rather than just tumbling into it. Next year, I have some choices since I won’t have any children at home during the day. I’m trying to keep a positive attitude and brainstorm options that appeal to me. Do I want to teach again? Or perhaps do more writing? There are several issues I care strongly about so maybe I could somehow become involved in one of those. Or, I love gardening so I wonder if I’d enjoy working in a greenhouse.

I made a list of things I miss about working. Having nice clothes, adult conversations, applying my education, and of course the income. Even as I focus on the positives, I feel melancholy. I know I still have years of enjoying my children and watching them evolve into women. But, in my heart, I believe that I’ll always remember the years that I was a stay at home mom as the most gratifying and joyful. The best ones. Maybe not always the easiest, but certainly my favorite. It’s always sad when a really great party ends.

-Kay

If I were a superhero, I would wear a black cape with secret pockets holding pens, pencils, and various notepads. I could whip off a list in 10 seconds flat. I would be…(drum roll here)…Listmaker. Picture a giant L plastered onto my grungy sweatshirt.

Lists are especially important at this time of year. I have lists upon lists of Christmas gifts. Obviously, for my kids and husband, but also for teachers, scout leaders, friends, and all of the relatives. We have cut back over the years as our family has grown, but my list is still long and complicated.

I also have a list of things to do before we leave on the 26th for a week of Christmas fun at Grandma’s house. Stop the mail, make arrangements for our dog and pay bills, to name a few. Going out of town creates the need for a giant list of what gifts need to be packed as well as the normal mountain of clothes and stuff that a family of 5 seems to need.

Then, there’s the Christmas card list. Every year I think to myself that this is the year I’m not going to send cards. I love almost every aspect of Christmas (once I have my lists made) but for some reason I find the whole process of sending out Christmas cards extremely tedious. But, I love receiving them. It’s amazing how a year changes the children in the photos and the family updates help me to catch up with friends and family. It’s just the sending that I have issues with. It’s probably because I usually end up working on cards at about 10 p.m. after I’m tired from all of the other Christmas preparations. So, I’m contemplating sending out Christmas ecards this year.

Finally, there is the food list. We need items that are above and beyond our normal grocery list: baking supplies and also ingredients for those special meals around Christmas. Which brings us to yet another list. Menus for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Heaven forbid I forget the homemade pierogies that my husband’s family has made every Christmas Eve since the beginning of time.

Sometimes I feel like my head will explode. That is until I write down a list. Then I can relax. It’s all there in black and white. Phew. I can check things off as I go.

My husband tells me that I over think the whole thing, but I believe he would change his tune if I forgot to buy his mother a gift or to make our New Year’s Eve reservations or to perhaps pay our mortgage. Oops. Or what if I neglected to give our house key to our neighbor so that she could take care of our dog?

This happened to our neighbor this past summer. They were literally pulling out of their driveway to go to Myrtle Beach for a week when they realized that they hadn’t made plans for their dog. In the excitement and chaos of packing, it had slipped their minds. My neighbor frantically knocked on my door as her family sat in their loaded van. She tossed the key to me amongst apologies and thanks.

She’s probably didn’t have a list. She needed (1 more drum roll, please) Listmaker!!

-Kay

My niece, Sofia, is 2-years-old and is a chatter bug. Her very first phrase was “want it!” With the explanation point.

I wonder how many times she’ll think or say that during her lifetime. It seems like hardly a day goes by that I don’t think of something that I want or need in order to achieve contentment. Or so I think.

Usually it’s fairly little stuff, a new pair of jeans or a winter jacket. I really need a new dishwasher as mine leaves little food bits on our dishes. And a new phone because ours is constantly in need of charging. I could go and on with my list.

I’m embarrassed to say that one item I really, really want and sometimes I even push into the need category is a new house. The reason I’m embarrassed is that my house is fine. Nothing wrong with it. I even liked it until I saw “the house.”

It all started when I stopped into an “open house” just for fun. Unfortunately, I fell in love with that home. Great floor plan, yard, neighborhood, and loads of character. I could picture my future grandchildren coming to visit me in that home. If only I could have that house, my life would be perfect. Too bad it wasn’t a handy time for us to move and that it would have seriously killed our budget.

It is perfectly normal to “want it” but even if you are a Rockefeller, buying everything on your want list will not bring you contentment. There will always be more. Since it is the season of buying, here are a few parenting tips to help build some contentment into your life and that of your children.

• Frequently mention how lucky your family is. “We’re so lucky” is kind of like a mantra to me. I say it often to myself and out loud. I say it both because I truly believe it (and sometimes I need to remind myself) and also because I want my children to recognize and be grateful for all that our family has.

• Teach your child to question the things they want. One Christmas, my then 6-year-old daughter wanted (needed!) an American Girl Doll. She received a My Generation Doll from Target. She was thrilled until a classmate taunted her. “That’s not a real American Girl Doll.” So, we told my daughter to tell the classmate, “Well, yours isn’t a real My Generation Doll.” The point is, don’t get sucked into the status game of having to have what everyone else has. Being comfortable with yourself and your stuff is a big step toward contentment.

• When your child really wants something, validate it. Say, “I know you want it. It would be nice to have it. I understand.” Then continue with why they can’t have it. Perhaps it’s a budget issue or simply that your child already has enough. Or it’s inappropriate. Then move on. The lesson here is yes, you want it. No, you can’t have it. And, you’ll be fine without it. Even content.

• Keep your list of wants inside your head. Don’t complain about what you don’t have. Make the best of what you do have. Be a good example if you want your kids to do the same. Be clear with yourself and your children about the difference between wants and needs. Remember needs are food, shelter, and clothing (not necessarily the kind with labels).

• More is not always better. My daughter has two Strawberry Shortcake videos that she loves to watch. I suggested that she might want to put some others on her Christmas list. She looked at me like I was nuts and said, “but I already have enough.” My mistake.

Think about the opposite of contentment. It’s discontentment. Who needs that? The definition of contentment is: “not desiring more than one has.” Since contentment is learned in part by experiencing a lack of things, won’t we deny our children the opportunity to learn contentment if we give them too much?

As far as that house goes, sure I still want it. But, honestly, I think I could be content living in a tent. As long as I had my family with me…and indoor plumbing…and my daily quota of chocolate and Diet Coke. Oh, and there was that cute purse on sale and…. well, you get the point.

May contentment be in abundance at your home this holiday season!

-Kay