Christmas Traditions

I haven't blogged in a while and I really have no excuse other than that, well, Christmas happened.  We have three birthdays and Thanksgiving and Christmas within two months of each other, so this time of year is always a blur of cake and gift-wrapping and cleaning so that the next round of cake- and gift-demolition can begin.

The birthdays are hectic, but Christmas - Christmas is hard.  There's such a cacaphanous clash of traditions secular and sacred, of everyone being sure they know what is right for your child, of buying and worrying about the perfection of the pies and the tree and the lights.  And amid all that, we're starting to figure out how we want our Christmas to look.

We've had a difficult time with Santa Claus.  I'm a grinch - Santa and his elves and his reindeer are a lie that we tell children, and I'm not cool with lying to my kids.  "But it's fun," I've been told, or "it's magical" - well, plenty of lies can be fun, but that doesn't make them right, and I can't think of anything more magical than the birth of Christ.  Is the reality of Christmas somehow not enough on it's own?  And if I spend years weaving an elaborate lie for my children around a mythical fat man, I'm undermining my credibility with things that I really do need to present to them as truth.  If Santa is a fun fiction - then is cute baby Jesus just a story, too?

Super-Smart Hunky Husband (SSHH) wants to participate in the Santa cultural tradition, though, and so we've tried to find a good way of approaching Jolly Old St. Nick.  And while the obvious way would be through St. Nicholas, he doesn't bear much resemblance to the American icon in red, so we've found a different path.

We go to Mass first thing on Christmas morning - while there's always a veritable mountain of presents to be opened, they can wait until after we've celebrated in prayer.  And you know what?  The kids have never once raced out of church or asked to go home to open presents.  In fact, they usually want to stay after Mass to look at the nativity scene and the poinsettias - this year I had to remind them that it was time to leave and go see what there was under the tree.

And what is under the tree is a celebration of Christ's birthday - torn into with messy shouted exuberance.  If on an ordinary birthday one person gets presents, Jesus' birthday is so special that the only way to celebrate it is for everyone to get presents!  And Santa comes, bringing a gift to add to the collection, and leaves a note wishing us a happy birthday celebration.  We try to make sure that Santa is part of the observance of the birth of Christ, and not in competition with it.  It's a hard line to walk - especially when stores and TV are flooded with Santa-this and Santa-that, and when it seems like everyone we meet wants to know what the kids want from Santa or what Santa brought them.

We also amuse the grocery store bakers by ordering a big sheet cake with "Happy birthday Jesus!" written on it - and we sing happy birthday before we eat it, too.  The whole day is a party, with decorations and songs and gifts and food.  And through it all is woven the idea that it's not a party for us, but a party for Christ, and one so big that one church, one family, one house can't contain it.

Our family Christmas traditions are still a work in progress, but we're figuring it out.  There's plenty of fun, and plenty of magic, too.  So if anyone is reading - please share how your families approach Christmas.  We'd love to borrow ideas!

Ba Rum Pum Pum Pum

I have a confession to make.  I didn't go to Confession for a long, long time.  On the order of years.  I couldn't make it feel important, I couldn't seem to make it feel not-awkward, I just didn't want to.  I knew it was important, and serious, and a deep awesome good thing, but that was in my head - in my heart, I wasn't there yet.

And I should have gone anyway, because not understanding something to do with God is no excuse for running away from God, but that's easier said than done, and when kids are screaming and groceries are to be bought and toilets scrubbed and floors vacuumed, going to Confession - when you don't really know why you're going in the first place - moves to the bottom of the list.

But I've learned that when God wants me, he'll find me.  And slowly, I found myself wondering if maybe I shouldn't go and just do it, try it again.  Then I found myself wanting to go.  Then I did.  And again.  And again.  Regularly.  And there was God, patiently waiting for me to stop my bustling and tantrum-throwing and just come back.  It's not much of a strategy, just waiting for God to find me - I should probably do more looking and less sitting around - but there is something to be said for simply being open to having my mind and heart changed.  I find myself in that place more and more, simply saying "God, I'm here to learn - I'm listening - teach me."  And He does.  I was - unknown to myself - in that place when I went to Mass eleven years ago and found Him there.  I was in that place walking out of my first appointment with the obstetrician, pregnant with Sprout, and He showed me the depth of what it is to be pro-life.  I was in that place when SweetPea was born, and I realized that I had become open to His gift of life - whenever and however it came.  And I was in that place when I headed back to Confession.

It's really pretty embarrassing, actually.  I've been spending all this time and energy feeling very self-important and caught up in my own plans and agendas and thinking I've got things figured out, and God comes along and makes me feel like a child.  And I've been thinking about that, too.  Momastery talked about the popular carol The Little Drummer Boy recently, and she got me thinking about that child.  We tend to angelicize him, a sweet little cherub making beautiful music for the Christ child.  But if my experience with young children is any indicator, the Drummer Boy probably looked - and sounded - more like these two:

It's unlikely that he was a solemn, gifted musician.  He probably dressed a bit on the ridiculous side, as kids do.  And his joyful music just might have been loud, out-of-tune banging.  The most fantastic song my girls could come up with was shouting "I'm a wittle pwincess, WA WA WA WA WA!" at the top of their lungs, shaking a tambourine erratically and pounding on a cardboard box.  Is that what the Drummer Boy sounded like?  Was he just a kid, making happy loud kid-noise for Christ?

And if he was, then there's a lot to learn there.  The Drummer Boy asks to play, and Mary nods - letting him come to Christ, just as he is.  No circumstance, no rules.  And when he makes his joyful crazy noise, Jesus smiles.  It's all He wants, for us to come to Him, just as we are, even when we're too loud, too unschooled, too out of tune.

When SweetPea presents me with a note, filled with misspelled words and some backwards letters, I am filled with love for her and see her kind heart in her childish note.  When Sprout plays at saying Mass and intones "For the most high and resurrected merciful body and blood of the wonderful feast of the Annunciation, Keeri-yay Ee-lay-zone!" I see the prayer in the jumbled words.  When SweetPotato plays with Doodle and smothers her with so many messy kisses that her baby sister starts to cry, I see the love in what she does.  And I love them so much I feel like I might crack open, despite and because of all the crazy ways they express the beauty of themselves.

Why couldn't God love us the same way?  The most earnest of my attempts at prayer and worship must look to him like SweetPotato banging on a cardboard box yelling "WA WA WA WA WA!!!"  But He loves it, He rejoices in it, and He wants me to keep doing it.  The absolute worst thing I could do would be to feel ashamed of my own pitiful attempts and turn away or shut down.  Christ on the cross didn't call out "Father" or "Almighty God" - He cried "Abba."  Daddy.  That's a model for us. We're supposed to turn to God like an awesome daddy, with all of our foolishness and childishness and craziness.

And maybe that's what I finally got that made Confession feel important.  It's not about following the "rules" or being "clean."  It's about showing God all the weird unsophisticated rough-hewn parts of myself and doing it purposefully and without shame, like SweetPotato dancing naked in the living room to an invisible band, not caring who sees her  and wanting everyone to see her.  Her joy in herself, fearfully and wonderfully made, is her gift.  If you hold that part of you back, then you're not seeing God as Abba, you're seeing Him as the Rule Maker.  The Drummer Boy got it.  Mary got it.  Maybe I'm finally starting to get it (hey, I never claimed to be bright).

And the point of this intolerably long epistle is that I want my kids to get it, too.  Last year in Catholic school Sprout was sent home with a letter he'd written, apologizing for poor behavior at Mass.  We were shocked - the kid never misbehaves at Mass.  And his transgression was - he put his head in his hands.  That's not disrespectful, that's how he prays.  And while it's surely difficult to shepherd 30 seven-year olds through Mass, the emphasis on the rules ("one prays with their hands folded") at the expense of the relationship was troubling.  I don't want that.  I want them to know Abba, I want them to dance their beautiful crazy dances and sing their beautiful tuneless songs and love in their wild abandoned way and I want them to know that that's what God loves about them - that if they open themselves to Him, He'll open Himself right back.  The rules will come.  But the love is a gift.  Teaching the kids at home has allowed us to continually foster that love and joy, to point out God not just in church but in the way they care for each other and in the simple prayers they make up and songs they sing and in the beauty of their own strong little bodies as we hike through the woods and in the spider outside the door.  It's the biggest gift we can give to them.  I'm glad we decided to give it.

On Finding Time

When people learn that we homeschool, they react in one of two ways.  First, they say "Oh, that's great!  I've always wanted to homeschool/wished I could try that/been interested in homeschooling."  Then, they follow up with either, "But I don't have the time for that," or, "But I'd never have enough patience."

Well, lemme tell you something - neither do we.

Patience, like most other things, is a virtue.  We are about the most un-virtuous people you ever met, but the great thing is - patience can be learned and cultivated.  One of the most common requests in our morning before-school prayers is that we be patient with each other.  It's not uncommon for one of us to walk away from a particularly frustrating moment - Sprout arguing over his spelling work, or SweetPea mispronouncing the same word for the eighteenth time (and she knew it yesterday) - and come back in a minute or two with temper firmly in check and a fresh helping of compassion.  I don't think anyone is born naturally patient, but homeschooling will force you to learn, quick.

As for time?  Well, SSHH is a stay-at-home-father, but with four wee ones to chase after and a busy volunteering schedule, there is precious little time for hitting the books.  I am fortunate enough to have a job with somewhat flexible hours and to work from home most of the time, so more often than not the kids and I are all sitting around the dining room table during the day, each of us concentrating on their own work.  I love being available to answer math questions and share a giggle over a funny line in a book.  What time this takes away from my job, I'm able to make up once the kids are in bed.

Neither one of us can spend all day with school, though, and so Sprout has a very detailed checklist made for him each day that lists exactly what he needs to do for each subject.  With some oversight to keep him focused, he's then able to get through much of the school day on his own - although we're always available for questions.  The plans take a ton of time to make up, but we wouldn't be able to find the time during the day to direct Sprout through all his schoolwork, in between baby-feedings and work conference calls.  And really, he shouldn't need us to say, "And now go get your grammar book.  And open it to page 79.  And read the next three pages.  And then do this worksheet."  As long as he has someone there for questions about the material, following directions and working independently and managing his time are important skills to learn.  So we are there, floating around and taking care of life and ready should Sprout need us during the day, and I do lesson plans, grading, and organization when everyone's tucked in for the night.  I confess that most evenings I groan inwardly when everyone's finally quiet in their beds and I still need to get school  ready for the next day and finish up my own work, but it's a very small price to pay for the sort of flexibility we enjoy.

As fortunate as we are to have a situation that is conducive to homeschooling, I really believe that anyone can make it work - the key is just to find an arrangement that works for you.  I know homeschooling families where both parents work full-time - playtime and self-explanatory work can happen during the day with a caregiver, while the more hands-on school goes on in the evenings.  For that matter, there's no rule that says school has to happen Monday through Friday - some families use the weekend, when parents are home, for school, and have the free days during the week.

The ways to work it out are as varied as the families who homeschool.  And while homeschooling isn't the right choice for every family, not having patience or not having time should never be a reason not to give it a try.