Judith Pettersen

In life, sometimes a person needs a behavior check. Or a mood check. Usually we don’t even realize it. Thank goodness for friends. Or in my case, siblings who don’t wait for friends to speak up.

The first hint of their concern is a gentle tone of voice. Susan and Linda are masters at this. “Am I going around the bend?” I start to wonder. “Am I the last to notice?” My other sisters, Jen, Cindy and Joni, are sympathetic, but have a harder time suppressing their panic. They have no poker faces. Or voices.

Living mostly in different cities, we stay connected with phone calls and yearly reunions. The latter can involve up to thirty-eight people or just a small group of twelve or so, depending on spouses and kids. The feeling shared by all is a slippery combination of anticipation and dread. Individually, we are benign. An opinionated set of individuals with a flair for dramatics and a deeply imbedded sense of family placement. (I’m number two. It’s very hard.)

Together, we are the perfect storm of deep, deep feelings. Two weeks of fun amidst loud and incessant conversation translating into a kind of boot camp therapy, starting with a ‘he said, she said,’ tell all that occasionally ends in tears. (Though usually for just one person.) Strange mutterings may be heard at family dinners. A kind of, ‘Its’ not going to be me breaking down, dammit,’ confession. Sure enough, at the first sign of moodiness, everyone else relaxes, knowing its not going to be them cracking up this particular year.

 Some siblings attempt to sneak away from family gatherings, to find a quiet corner in which to read a book or simply enjoy some peace. (We are all readers, thanks to our parent’s fruitless attempts at keeping us quiet.) Alone, we are each friendly, fun loving and sensible. Grouped together, we are a loud, singing, verbose, mighty wind.

Some would say we resemble the mafia, except that every one of us wants to be the Godfather. In terms of siblings, it should be Linda, the eldest. She’s been resisting the role since my brother Billy became baby number four. Hiding in her room, (yes, she had her own!) she would pass the time reading.  In high school she shared a room with Susan and me. We became fans of her Gordon Lightfoot collection as well as the many hits of K-Tel, including the ever famous song, “Winchester Cathedral.’ It was fitting, because for certain, we were always bringing her down.

Now that we’re older, Susan, number three, is the real boss of the family. Not that she’s bossy. She’s too subtle for that. But she has a way with words, a kind but firm tone that we all respond to in a mostly positive way. She notices things that the rest of us don’t, being either too distracted or too self indulgent. I can’t throw any stones. I’m the last one to see that the dishes need doing, or the table set. Okay, maybe the second last.

Brother Bill is locked in the middle … three girls older than him, three younger. This position has helped him considerably in his life. He’s learned all kinds of skills, like how to wear tights, how to fight off a wild pack of girls chasing him down for a kiss. That kind of thing. He’s a guy who could build a shopping mall with a nail file and some lego, or escape from a prison camp in the middle of the wilderness. I know the last is true because I was one of his jailers. It’s one reason why you hardly ever see him without his tool belt.

Cindy came out of the womb knowing exactly what she wanted. She was a ‘mama’s little helper,’ type of kid with hair that was really hard to brush. I remember because somehow it ended up being my job. She treated school work like someone was paying her a million dollars to do well.

Joni was everyone’s darling, and over the years, nothing has really changed. If you ever travel with her, be prepared to hug strangers in an airport because she knows everyone in the world. Everyone. I’m not even kidding.

Jennifer, as number seven, had to fight hard to be heard. As a child, she had an extremely loud voice which she somehow managed to translate into a successful career. It all came down to survival. As the baby, we had to take care of her. And it was her job to make sure that we did it in the most fun way. Even when it was very inconvenient. Picture a Saturday morning, possibly 7 am. Jennifer is three, and very precocious for her age. I am eighteen, and possibly hung over. She would climb the ladder to my bunk with a large bag of books, slapping them down on my legs and reading them directly into my ear. Things have not changed a whole lot, though now she brings witty conversation and interesting drink recipes.

I’m not sure who I am in this crazy mix-up of a family. But what I do know is this. There is a secure fortress surrounding me at all times; a wall of people who have my back. It is made up of love, history, and the steely resolve of children who could crack the most stoic parent.
So you can take me or leave me, like or despise me. Just don’t mess with me. Because you’re going to have to answer to them. And it won’t be pretty. We are family, with a capital F.

Mario Puzzo said in his book, ‘The Godfather,’ “The world is so hard a man must have two fathers.” I say, for extra protection, have siblings.

There is a new product on the market called ‘The Butterfly.’ It is a subtly named  body liner designed to prevent ‘accidental bowel  leakage.’ And no, I haven’t started using product placement in my writing, though given the contents of my April blog, I’d probably do well to buy some stock in the company.

Allow me to be a little more high brow than that, please. The ad got me thinking about all the ways our bodies give out as we age. Though our knees can ache and other parts drift southward, nothing leaks away faster than the stiff upper lip.

I’m not sure what the trigger is for men, but for women its mostly menopause.  I didn’t even know I was stoic before until, suddenly, I wasn’t. The problem started in my late forties. First, I was crying during a poignant television commercial. Then the news that an acquaintance was moving away made me morose for days. I stayed away from sad books and learned to watch a lot of comedies.

However. What the body wants to spill, it will spill. The things that have made me grieve have been so minuscule, I feel embarrassed to admit them, even to myself. Thank goodness for this handy blog.

 Here is a short list of sadness triggers for me:

1. Bird song late in summer, (because its a mating call that was never answered.)
2. PBS’s nostalgic Saturday night concert series; anything from doo wop to John Denver. It’s always a two Kleenex event.
3. Reunions. I once had my eyelashes dyed so I could cry freely.
4. Seeing other people cry. This is a guaranteed trigger, even when it happens in movies. Maybe especially in movies.
5. Songs like K’naan’s ‘Waving Flag.’ I’m not sure if its the combination of rap and choir, or the fact that it was the first song our town danced to in the very first Culture Days. Weepy, weepy.

The list is fairly short, but you get the idea. One thing I’ve noticed, though. When life became harder and things happen that are more serious than a sad songbird, heavy, depressing literature makes a come back in my life. A well written, deeply moving and morose novel can cheer me up immensely. I have no idea why, nor do I care.  This also applies to sad movies.

My aha idea is this. When serious leakage begins, forget the butterfly application, the cheery slogans and uplifting comedies. Instead, lean into it. Indulge yourself in whatever manner is required. For me, it is giving myself permission to watch Romeo and Juliet (the 1969 version) or reread a real downer, like ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’  Perhaps misery loves company. I think its all about perspective. A thirteen year old stabbing herself to death for love makes my John Denver concert seem pretty chipper. The worst of situations is a walk in the park when compared to Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road.’ Things might be tough, but at least I’m not being chased by cannibals.

For minor leakage, please insert the butterfly. For major events, lean in and let ‘er rip. You’ll feel a lot better. I promise.
 

Last year my four year old niece Lilly came down with the stomach flu. When finally offered something to eat, she shook her head sadly, saying, “My teeth are afraid of the chicken.”

We spend our lives wanting to be understood. But not all of us have Lilly’s gift for conveying exactly what we mean. Our desire to be heard  is primal; a definition for what it means to be human.  At its worst, communication might involve a gun, a death, and a lengthy trial. At its best, the messenger offers  the receiver a gift.

Art is, arguably, the highest form of communication. The artist engages the audience with an openness and vulnerability that belies the courage it takes to create something and let it go. Their work invites a response, verbal or visceral, whether the medium is a painting, song, movie, book or more.  It connects us, engaging us in conversation and self examination. We arrive at a place of empathy and understanding with ourselves and the world around us.  Joseph Waumbagh said it best in a novel. Every time a country song came on, his protagonist would react with astonishment, wondering how the artist could possibly understand the depths of his own confusion and sadness. It was brilliant and funny and would fit this blog so much better if I could recall the book’s title.

Gossip is one of the lowest forms of communication. It is passive aggressive, implying cowardice on the part of the deliverer. I’m not talking about movie star bashing (though I can’t help but think, why? Who cares?) but a group of people throwing stones at one who is absent. We’ve all done it. Perhaps we just listened silently, disagreeing but not wanting to speak up. Listening silently implies agreement with the speaker. I’ve noticed how the mood in a room darkens when we indulge in bashing others with our words.

Regarding conversation, I wish we all spoke like characters from a Jane Austen novel, with witty repartee, poetic confessions and gentleness. Or maybe like Margaret Atwood. Modern, but with all the right words in our tool belts. As it is, the rest of us are stuck with ourselves, with our ‘ehs’ and ‘yah’s, our OMG’S and WTF’s. In this present day, its a compelling argument for art as the true, timeless form of communication. Whether its a hand knitted sweater or a homemade urn shaped like a log cabin, it can speak to us more effectively than anything we might say. If you concur, please comment. Or message me on facebook. I long to hear from thee.

There’s no getting around the topic of this blog posting. Clarence tried to dissuade me from writing it, but in the spirit of the Hanson Family Motto (no thought goes unspoken) I just had to. My husband came up with alternate titles, vaguely referencing the direness of the situation while skirting the facts. He liked ‘Last Tango in Regina’ or ‘A Bridge Too Far.’ I preferred to steal the title from an SNL skit about adult diapers. Here’s how it all went down.

We were traveling from Calgary to Winnipeg, passing through the City of Regina. I had no inkling of what was about to occur, which, when I think about it, seems highly unfair. Mother nature has certain signals for this kind of thing, but there was no hint of what was to come. No twinges, no sound track from the movie ‘JAWS.” Either would have been appropriate.

Clarence and I were both tired and decided to stop at the Delta Hotel. Leaving our car in the front, we walked through the lobby to the desk. I opened my mouth to ask for a room when a strange rumbling sound caught my attention. Also the desk clerk’s, who was quick to give me directions to a nearby bathroom. Did I hurry down the hall? Not really. It is impossible to rush while doing a partial plié in a backward leaning stance and cupping a hand over one’s backside at the same time. It prevents any kind of quick movement. Of the walking variety, that is.

By the time I reached the attractive facility with its marble floors and counters, the damage was done. I will spare you the details, which, in the light of this blog entry, may surprise you. Suffice it to say that it was a good thing I was wearing long underwear.

Thank goodness I was the only occupant. There was no one to bother me except for Clarence who kept opening the door and hollering, “Are you done yet?” while trying to suppress cruel laughter. There is a certain helplessness in this kind of situation where more than one pair of hands is needed,  yet, unless one is in a nursing home, not wanted. 

My feelings of self pity should have been accompanied by high, sad violin music or at least a soft piano chord or two. Something Oscar worthy. Instead, I had only the company of my own bad language.  Suffice to say that I managed to sneak up to the room we’d checked into without embarrassing myself further.

I have no explanation for this event except that things seem to happen to me while on road trips.  My hope is that I can check this one off my list. I know I’m not alone in this situation. There are others out there who have done this particular Tango, maybe not in Regina, but certainly other places. I could use an understanding smile or kind word, so feel free to provide one when you see me. I’ll be the one wearing three pairs of pants.

As March wanes on, we Manitobans have begun to feel like the half dead survivors of a Polar apocalypse. The cold has seeped into our bones and sapped our energy.  Endless snow shoveling, frozen car batteries and cabin fever are just a few symptoms of this never ending winter.

 Sure, the sun shines occasionally and every now and then the wind cuts out. But the snow is still here, piled high in drifts where chunks of ice hide. Covered with a skiff of snow, they wait to catch us unaware, leaving us feeling  bruised and sheepish.

Like a horde of marauding zombies, the cold bites into us, scouring our flesh and souls in equal measure. We fall, one by one, into a stunned acceptance, trudging off to work and school with faces so dull, we look like we’ve joined Team Walking Dead.
The worst of it is that, at the back of our minds, we’re all secretly worried that this is it. The future has arrived. Climate change was supposed to be our grandchildren’s problem. What happened to that idea? There’s a certain indignation at the bumping up of the schedule. Like the dire warnings that said ‘Only thirty years from now!’   Yet here we are.

They’re doing well in Vancouver and LA,  trim and fit from time spent in the great outdoors. All that  walking, bicycling and roller blading. The wearing of light sweaters and attractive fall jackets. Here in the frozen north, we dress like we live on the moon. Down coats, layers of long underwear, and bulky hats that make us look like astronauts in the aftermath of a bad landing. I’m sure all those living on the coast smile broadly, even while making their four thousand dollars a month mortgage payments. “It’s worth it!” they declare, having watched the news and seen the suffering of their northern brethren.

  But take comfort, dear Manitobans. When the oceans rise and Vancouverites swim frantically for Alberta’s new shore line, we’ll wait for spring and rejoice at being high and dry. In spite of our distress at winter’s duration, (which has started to feel like an unending marathon,) we’re a grateful bunch who count our blessings. We’re survivors and we pride ourselves on our stoicism. We’ll outlast this winter and emerge with our hearts and souls unscathed. Our frost bitten toes are another matter.

This morning my husband wandered out of the bedroom wearing a pair of jeans that were so short, he looked like he was pulling them up to wade through water. When I pointed this out, he went and changed. This signifies his easy going nature rather than any agreement on his part. We’ve had similar conversations over the years. His swaggering self confidence contrasts starkly with my hand wringing plea for a middle ground in the wardrobe department. His tastes have always been quirky.

I was never attracted to guys who were perfectly put together. The kind who can’t pass a mirror without checking themselves out. No one can grow up in Flin Flon and appreciate that type of male unless he’s shirtless, holding a wrench and dancing provocatively on a stage. We northerners like our men to have a certain disdain for the perfect outfit. However.

Some of the conversations we’ve had are enough to make me feel slightly wistful. I can imagine the GQ guy’s kind of closet. Shirts hanging neatly, immaculately ironed and placed slightly apart. Shoes stowed away, underwear folded. That man could nag me about my own drawers and I’d only be grateful. Really.

Some years ago, Clarence bought a set of vintage burgundy curling sweaters. He wore each in turn, having heard Oprah’s friend, Peter Walsh, say that a garment unworn is one that should be given away. When I questioned the suitability of wearing the sweaters for work, he looked at me like a little boy who’s been given the best. gift. ever!

“These are the Flin Flon Bomber colours! (Insert the word ‘duh’ here, unvoiced but expressed in other ways.) “They’re vintage sweaters! I bought three so that someday our daughters can wear them to my funeral.” With a shake of his head he managed to convey his disbelief at my shortsightedness and lack of taste.

I had no comeback. Aside from a comment shouted from another room, (No way, dad, we’re not wearing those sweaters EVER!) there was really nothing anyone could add that would make a difference. And so his love of vintage clothing and unusual combinations continued.

When another MLA at the Legislature said, “Wow. I didn’t know you could wear all those plaids at the same time,” my husband bragged about it to me. He is not unaware of my opinion regarding his wardrobe and is always looking for opportunities to lobby for it.

Sadly, I’m not above whispering lies to complete strangers. “He’s in a play and there was no time to change.” Stuff like that. Clarence is temporarily over his love for Hawaiian shirts, replacing them with a series of strange hats. A few are fairly cool looking, but some have me walking slightly ahead of or behind him, like an embarrassed teenager. Especially the one that looks like it should be accompanied by yodeling and the clicking of heels. His ‘I’m an extra in the Sound of Music’ look. Sigh.

It’s a good thing he’s such a keeper. The fact is, I value humour and kindness over clothing choice, which means we’ll be together until one of us departs this life. When that day comes, there will be copious weeping, the tearing of clothing, (his) and a tabloid worthy profusion of vintage sweaters and Hawaiian shirts. If they’re not worn by family and friends, chances are they’ll at least be for sale.

Just like the winter games taking place in Sochi, the imaginary ‘Olympics of Life’ would host an ongoing series of events. Some would have clear, well defined and easily judged values. Like, who makes the most money? Who has traveled the furthest? Worst criminal ever would be less definable, though not as hard as, say, picking the most altruistic human alive. Then you’re getting into categories that, much like pairs dance, are influenced by opinion rather than fact.

It’s the same when we judge ourselves. Our own ideas regarding our virtues and faults may be coloured by wishful thinking. “I’m a ten out of ten,” we might think when considering our own characteristics of friendliness and good humour. And we believe it to be so, mentally hanging the gold medal around our own necks while being careful not to check with the judges, i.e., friends and family, for their opinions.

I try not to worry about things like that, but instead, focus on the tasks in which I truly excel. Like reading. If there was an Olympics for readers, I would be a contender. For one thing, I train hard for it every single day. I read as if I were being paid a fortune to do so. When I see others sitting glumly on the bus, bookless, not a magazine in hand, I can’t comprehend their motivation. Why stare into space when you can gaze into the soul of the universe? Everything you ever need to know about life can be found in a book or great magazine article.

Do you need to be more compassionate? Read a book. Do you have an ungrateful heart? Crack open “Twelve Years a Slave”  and you’ll never complain again. Cormac McCarthy’s, “The Road,” with its bleak and despairing future, actually made me feel less stressed about the environment. Reading chips away at our faults,  breaking off little pieces of pettiness and intolerance. This honing of our character leaves us stronger and much less certain about the rightness of our own opinions. Which is a very good thing. A ‘peace on earth’ thing. Children and adults become more empathetic when reading. It’s impossible to have an ‘us against them’ mentality when a book opens the door to a new world, inviting us in and introducing us to the lives of others. We learn how to live when we read a book. We become a better version of ourselves.

A handy portal to an expanded universe, plus the new and improved you, sits waiting  at the library. Your life guru, the local librarian, can be your guide to Everything you need to know about Anything. You might seek adventure in a travel book, learn to cook great meals, meet a kindred spirit through a biography or pick up a ‘how to’ manual which will enable you to survive the zombie apocalypse. It’s all there. And its free.

Every day I go for the gold, sharing our Canadian athlete’s desire to ‘Own the Podium.’ “But the training involved!” you might be thinking. “I don’t have time!” You make the time. Carry your book, or kobo, with you always. Read in lineups at the bank, in bathrooms (including your home,) in bed at night, and whenever you have the luxury of eating a meal alone. Take note of the time you waste on things like facebook, or computer games. I say this even as I prepare to do an online crossword puzzle. But still. Take up this reading challenge and enter the race to win it. You’ll be a better person for it, and just think how in shape your mind will be!  You might win that most coveted prize ever. Old age and a brain that still works. Now that’s golden.

 

Neil Young sat beside me last Saturday during choir practice. Metaphorically, of course. But it felt real. We were learning his song, ‘After the Gold Rush.’ The harmony was lovely and haunting, bringing me close to tears.

The music feels like a dirge with its plaintive talk of drugs and mother nature. And yet. As we moved through the piece I began to feel like my eighteen year old self en route to the best party ever. As if on cue, this memory came flashing back.

My friend Jude and I were driving around in her boyfriend’s car. A 1958 Pontiac, or something like it. Turquoise and cream, large and comfortable and, in 1971, already vintage. Jude slapped in an eight track tape and the song soared through the late summer air. Joy wrapped itself around us in the easy way it does when you’re young and living in the moment. The music sealed the memory so it could be unwrapped all those years later during choir.

More than any other sensory experience, music brings us back to ourselves. “There you are,” some part of our brain joyfully acknowledges. “Where’ve you been?”
We can go missing from our own lives and not even notice. We grow up, we learn, and we move forward, determined to be the best version of ourselves. To show the child within us that we did good. That we’re so much better than we were.

But by trying to forget the parts we find wanting, we miss the opportunity to heal some old hurts.
The music of our youth strips away the inconsequential, leaving us  feeling vulnerable and genuine. A door opens to the past, allowing us to address it in a positive way.

There’s pain in the mix of those childhood and teenage years. All the unkind things we thought about ourselves. We didn’t like our noses. Our big feet. We were too short. Too tall. It was the gap in our teeth. Hair that never looked right. Klutzy, uncool, shy, geeky.  There are a thousand things we found wrong with ourselves, thoughts sometimes unintentionally confirmed by the people who loved us.

The small potatoes of the past loom large. But that doesn’t mean they deserve the reserved seating you’ve given them in your memory bank. Transform those moments with great songs from your past and everything is put into perspective. 

I sing the words, “All in a dream, all in a dream, the loading had begun. Flying Mother Nature’s silver seed to a new home in the sun,” and I’m not with my choir anymore. I’m in the car with my friend, Jude, cruising down the highway, singing at the top of my lungs. And Neil Young is right beside me. The artist and his audience, binding each other’s wounds. “We’re mourning,” he says. “And we’re celebrating. Let’s sing.” And we do.

In 1979 I was standing on a mountain in the Himalayas. My face hadn’t seen water in four days and my 25th birthday loomed over me like a serial killer. The thing I’d been dreading all year had arrived. It was finally time for me to grow up. I made a few promises to myself back then, which I’ve kept. For example, to stop going for gold in the drinking Olympics.

Thirty-five years later my 60th birthday stands before me like a brick wall. I have no way to interpret the number that so thoroughly blocks my view of the future. I know I’m being silly. My husband is already sixty-one, my older sister the same. They haven’t spontaneously combusted or dropped dead of old age. What exactly is my problem with this birthday?

For one, I’ve begun second guessing myself. In the last few months I’ve started worrying about middle aged/ old people things like slipping and falling on icy roads. The roots of my hair seem, overnight, dramatically grayer. My face insists on keeping my chest company on its journey south. But still, all that has been going on for awhile. Why am I so bummed out?

If I compared my life span to a hike in the Himalayas, then I reached the summit at the age of fifty. So ten years ago, I was on top of the world. There was none of the uncertainty of my present age. Now that I’ve begun the descent, though, I’m remembering that climbing uphill is actually easier than going down. A steady descent is very hard on the knees. Two hundred and fifty miles of traveling the highs and lows of the Himalayas taught me that much. Perhaps that’s the problem. I fear the hardship of the journey on the way down.

I have a disposition that is inclined to rebellion. I’m easy going, but I don’t like to be told what to do. Maybe that’s part of the problem. None of us gets a say in our future. We can’t press the pause button, turn to Father Time and tell him, No Thanks. I’ll be leaving the station now and going my own way. You go on without me. Everything I need is right here, right now.

Facing the number sixty has made me feel helpless. Why can’t everything and everyone just stay put? Why can’t the earth keep renewing itself, the water flowing clean and uninterrupted to the ocean. The air crisp and undamaged by industry and frequent flyers.

Why can’t everyone on the planet just get along?  Turning sixty is stripping away all of  my illusions. I’m not really in charge of anything. I have no say over the car that is rounding the bend toward me, or the Tsunami of events waiting to surprise me. Would it be easier, then, to check out early? Stop writing, or running my business? Quit my marriage, say adios to my kids.

I can’t do that. For one thing, I want to see how things work out for all of us. And the parts I don’t get to see, my children and friends will witness for me. I guess that’s one of the reasons we’re here on Earth. To observe the wonderful, the ridiculous and the heartbreaking events that make up a life. What we do with those observations, how much we decide to take part, well. That’s up to each of us. That’s the real power of living.

And in the aha moment reached this very second, I’ve realized what my sixtieth birthday is really telling me. I must continue growing up, and upward. Every day brings new lessons, and it won’t be over until God reaches out and gives me the golden hand shake. That part, I’m looking forward to. “Good job! (God might say) Please head directly toward the light. And no worries, Judy, cause its all downhill from there.”

This is my tribute to women during the busiest season of their lives. In no way should my male readers take this as a slight or a rejection of all they have to offer. I know that any one of you can pour a drink with the best of them. You probably make excellent egg nog, and are a dab hand at making sure the freezer is stocked with bags of ice. You probably make those last minute runs to the grocery store to pick up the forgotten can of Cranberry sauce, gas up the cars and do those little things that make all the difference to a happy holiday. Putting up the lights outside, often a man’s job, is an integral part of the Christmas season. However.

December is a tough time for women. A time of preparation not unlike that faced by Olympic athletes. Some positive self talk is needed, some team spirit, a friendly reminder that others are also preparing for the game, laying it all out on the line. There may be doubts, but cheerfulness and good spirits will prevail, for the most part.

This salute is for the woman of the house, that workhorse of Christmas past, present and future. I’m going to take this even further and add an extra tribute for mothers. Not only are they the holders of the Christmas flame. They must also do the following:

 Remember what every child has told Santa regarding their Christmas wishes.
Decorate the tree, with help from the kids, which means everything takes a lot longer.
Find the time to give the house an extra cleaning, that lick and polish that says “Extra Special Season!”
Continue cooking regular meals while baking dozens of cookies, squares, meat pies, extra frozen ‘just in case’ dinners and making appetizers for all the parties she will attend as part of the joy of Christmas.
Buy gifts for teachers, coaches, bosses, co-workers and people her husband needs to buy gifts for.
Find that special outfit that looks ‘Christmasy’ but doesn’t break the family budget and is comfortable enough to allow the chasing down of toddlers and the searching under sofas for missing lego pieces.
Have the ability to come home from work, make dinner, prepare something for the babysitter to do with the kids so she can attend the annual party with her husband, all the while wishing she was home in a hot bath with a good book.
Smile instead of screaming “WTF!!” when realizing the cookies that were meant for the neighbor’s Christmas party were stolen from the freezer by little Elves who just happen to have the same names as her husband and kids.

This Christmas Eve, I salute all of you cheer bringers and memory creators. You are the Women of Christmas. You are the keepers of the family flame, the guardians of the heart of every child. God bless you in this joyful season. Over these next few days, take some time to thank those who have gone before you, like your own mother. Give the woman shopping beside you a friendly glance, a show of support that acknowledges all the things she’s doing for others. And finally, you dear woman reader, give yourself a word of thanks, a pat on the back. May your own Christmas wishes come true. Especially the one where other people clean up. God bless.