Oh for heaven's sake....

I just made the mistake of reading an article about the "War on Christmas" shortly after being part of a discussion about how some members of my company are not attending the holiday party because it wasn't called a "Christmas party." I should know better.

I'm not a Christian. I have family members who are, and others who are culturally affiliated with Christmas, though they don't buy the religious significance. In my home, we celebrate Hanukkah, which is one of the least interesting holidays of the Jewish year, IMO. Love the menorah, am amused by the dreidels, love the latkes, and otherwise, meh, it feels like a stale attempt to have something to compete for the hears of Jewish children who are watching their Christmas-observing friends go through their winter wonderland. I wait until January 1st, and then I deck the house in snowmen. Winter, at least, we can all share.

Here are things that I ponder this time of year:

Do you greet another person with the holiday you celebrate, or with the one that you believe they celebrate?

If a person celebrates Christmas, and they encounter another person who they know does not, should they wish them a Merry Christmas? How would that be interpreted by the person being greeted? I might think to myself "oh, how nice that they're so enthusiastic about their holiday." I might also think "oh, how self-absorbed, that they're pushing their holiday on me." I might also think "they must not realize that I don't celebrate Christmas." I'm fair skinned, something on the Clairol blonde scale, and light eyed. You might expect me to be generically Christmas-observing....

Do you greet another person with the holiday you celebrate, or with the one that you KNOW they celebrate?

I'm pretty open about observing Jewish holidays. Heck, I'm pretty open about my whole conversion process, decision to become Jewish, and the importance of raising my son as a Jew. I wear a piece of jewelry nearly every day that could identify me as Jewish. NOW what do I think? A complete stranger -- see item 1 above. But if you know me, and you wish me a Merry Christmas, I go either of two ways: You're enthusiastic and not thinking, or you're a little too hung up on wanting everyone to be just like you.

What would you do, if I did the same in return?

I mean honestly, if I went up to people whose religions I don't know and said "Happy Hanukkah," what kind of response would I expect?

How would you expect me to feel, if you began belaboring the attack on Christmas in front of me?

Nearly all of my decisions in December have to do with maintaining the integrity of my religious views without being seen as a curmudgeon who wants to kill Christmas. I put my son in a private school that doesn't have overt religious celebration of any kind, to avoid the trauma of dealing with schools that have Santa visit to acknowledge Christmas (well Santa's not in the BIBLE, right?) or do easter eggs (they aren't either) as an art project, but would never accidentally have the kids make a dreidel or a matzah kugel. I avoid all malls with my child, who currently has much longer hair than usual because I've got two weeks to go before we can safely go to his regular hairstylist. The stress of reducing the stress on my 5-y-o son by avoiding the expectation that Santa is going to come to town for him is overwhelming. You can't MOVE this time of year without being confronted with it unless you turn off the television and radio and don't ever leave your home. And someone's going to stand there in front of me and say that they feel oppressed because spoilsports are at war with Christmas because OCCASIONALLY, JUST OCCASIONALLY, a store decides that not 100% of their clientele is celebrating Christmas, and they put up a sign that reads "Happy Holidays"? Or, as I experienced last week, someone decides to BOYCOT a corporate event because it's inclusive of more than people just like him? Like, it includes ME?

THIS is a war on HIM?

A colleague once explained to me the concept that insurance companies use when reviewing coverage of reading for inclusion or reading for exclusion. I've concluded that this concept is relevant everywhere. Particularly now. Particularly when people get so worked up about how you greet them during the month of December.

When I'm not so pissed off about it, I generally think that this time of year is lovely, with people all going around being enthusiastic about what they're enthusiastic about -- Christmas, Hanukkah, winter, having a break from school, snow, fuzzy boots -- whatever it is that makes this time of year magical. Cards, and cookies, and parties. How lovely. And I rejoice in everyone's rejoicing. I love that my Christian friends are decorating their homes with lights and trees and presents. I love that my Jewish friends are lighting menorahs and singing prayers and gambling with their kids over foil-covered chocolate. I love that we're waiting for a huge snowfall, and have the sleds out and ready to go. I love the joy in each person's eyes, and I love that we're all so much more willing to reach out and greet one another and wish one another well, even if sometimes we get the wrong holiday.

And I think that's indicative of reading for inclusion here. We're all celebrating, and each of our individual celebrations makes our community more lovely, more warm, more loving. If we can all remember that we're all a part of it, and there's enough December Joy to go around for everyone, we're all a little better off for it.

But if you want to read for exclusion this time of year, you certainly can. You could write a book about the stores that put up "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas," and how that takes a little bit away from the memories of how joyful it was when EVERYONE celebrated Christmas when we were little, and our fears that in the future, Christmas will be smaller than its glorious bigness in our childhood memories. You could write a book about the scrimpy little endcap of picked over Judaica this time of year, too, though, where everything not overtly blazoned with a Christmas image that is blue and silver goes to act like it's got something to do with Hanukkah. It's a blue and white dishcloth -- really? REALLY?

Does acknowledging that there are people who are not exactly like us really diminish Christmas? Does being considerate of that fact this time of year really minimize your ability to feel joy in your holiday? Does a little token gesture, like putting "Happy Holidays" on your corporate holiday card because you don't know the religions of the people you're going to send them too and you're considerate enough to realize that Christmas is one of those holidays BUT ONLY ONE, really spoil it for you? If it does, I think that's representative of reading for exclusion at this time of year. If any indication that someone out there is not celebrating exactly the same thing that you are celebrating disrupts your celebration, then you are not only celebrating, but you are trying to force everyone else to comply with your celebration.

Wouldn't the world be a better place if we could all rejoice in one another's marvelousness, and not be threatened by it?

Latest Antics

Noah has, since I posted last, learned to swim, ride a bicycle without training wheels, write, read, count by 5s, do simple multiplication, and rollerblade. I'm astonished by him every minute of every day. Also, his first trip to the dentist was a blast -- he's in the "no cavity club" and has two slightly every so slightly wiggly lower front teeth.

Such a big man. Thank heavens he still likes to snuggle his Mama.

My boy is a kindergartener.

I'm just saying. How did that happen? He's so clever, too...

"Mom, why did the chicken cross the road?"

We worked through this one. He wouldn't tell me; I had to guess. I made guesses. "To get his keys out of the freezer." No! "To buy shoelaces?" No! This went on for some time. Finally he acquiesced to tell me: "To get to the other side." Ba-ding!

Then a few quiet moments later, he says: "Mom, why did the chicken go into the farmhouse?"

"Why, honey?"

"To get his keys out of the freezer!"

Clever, clever, clever. Nice work. So proud.

Stage debut

Noah is having his stage debut in a 5- and 6-year-old production of The Rainbow Fish. Such a proud and nervous Mama!

Testing remote blogging

Well, now I'm a cow with an iPhone. Checking out an app for posting to blog from phone.

Well, another milestone achieved.

Son tonight uttered the pivotal words:

Mom! You're such an embarrassment!

He also hit me with this doozie:

If you don't come help me right now, you're out of a job.

So much for Mommy's most favored nation status....

The joke of the day, Noah-style

Him: "Hey, Mom, you know how to make an elephant float?"

Me (gullibly): "No, honey, how?"

Him: "You take one scoop of ice cream, two squirts of soda, and three scoops of elephant!"

Dissolves into hysterical laughter

At his 5-year-old checkup, the doctor commented that he had a very well developed sense of humor. She had NO IDEA. God, I love this kid.

I taught my son the interrupting cow joke.

Knock knock.

Who's there?

Interrupting cow.

Interrupting cow wh...

MOOO!

Okay, it's stupid, but it's my favorite knock-knock joke. So I taught it to my 5-y-o. It took two days to get the timing right, but he's been very creative with it since then. Interrupting cow. Interrupting goat. Interrupting sheep. Interrupting dog. Interrupting chicken. Interrupting rooster.

Yesterday morning, he climbed into bed with us in the morning. "Knock knock!" Who can resist? "Who's there?" "Interrupting tushie!" Interrupting tush..."

FART!

He actually timed it so that he farted to interrupt me responding to the knock-knock joke. I can't decide whether to be insanely proud or horrified.

Moogbiel

A certain young man I know is very interested in recipes now. He came home with one for chocolate oatmeal fudgies from school, and periodically tells me about "secret ingredients." The best invented recipe, though, is for something he called Moogbiel.

Ingredients:

20 cups of boiling water
1 moose
3 cups of sugar

It didn't get much further than that, but I think it involved boiling the moose, and then adding sugar to taste.

Not just a kindergartner, but a white belt too!

The little guy had his last day of school yesterday, the last day of preschool, the day he turned into a kindergartner. We celebrated with a trip to the Smithsonian to see the Ocean exhibit, the dinosaur hall, and the Imax Dinosaurs in 3D movie.

This morning after his karate class, Noah tested for his white belt.

I'm so proud!

Sometimes, it works too well.

It's been a fun week. Last week of Noah's school -- funny hat day, crazy hair day, wear your pajamas to school day, that kind of thing. And today was the last day of preschool. I'm the mother of a kindergartner now. We had a fun morning, had pancakes, and headed in the rain to school. I was focused on driving because of the traffic and the relentless rain, and not paying much attention to the little grunts I heard in the back seat, until they were followed by a heavy sigh.

"Mom, I'm not magic."

"What on earth are you talking about, son? You're completely magic. You're the most magic thing I know. Why wouldn't you be magic?"

"I'm not magic, Mom. I can't pull off my thumb."

"What?"

"Well, you can pull off your thumb, and Daddy pulled of his thumb at dinner last night, but I can't pull off my thumb, see?"

I look in the rear view mirror to see him determinedly tugging at his thumb, and then dissolve into hysterical laughter.

"Oh, Noah, it's okay -- you have to be MUCH older to be able to pull off your thumb. You have to be really old, like 20."

Another heavy sigh from the back seat. I continued to giggle the rest of the way to school. Tonight, I decided that kindergarten was old enough, and showed him the trick.

Spell, smell, who's counting?

We were driving to a friend's house for dinner last night, and debating genetic differences. Things like tongue curling. "Everyone can do it," Noah tells me. "Some people can't," I explained. "Just like some people can't smell it when a skunk sprays. Can you smell skunk?" I asked.

"S - N - I - C - K," he says. "Yep."

You know, it's hard to argue with that.

Well here's something new....

Noah went to Sunday school this morning, and I stayed home and worked on cleaning up my home office, doing laundry, and other assorted household chores. I didn't ever eat, and when he got home, we decided to have a picnic in his room. Peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches. Got out the bread, put on the peanutbutter. Got out the jelly -- we debated between types and picked the purple kind.

"Grape jelly, Noah," I told him.

"WHAT?" His response was piercing.

"It's made from grapes" I explained.

"I don't believe you" he replied.

You know, it's hard to argue with that. "How can I convince you that it's true?" I asked.

"You're a freak, Mom."

His father came in a minute later. I repeated the discussion for my husband's benefit. "I don't believe you, Mom," he said. "I only believe Daddy."

His father informed him that it was grape jelly.

"Okay, I don't believe you either."

Clearly we're in cahoots.

Well THAT was creative....

A few nights ago, we were playing "ski jump" on the wii in the basement. Ski jump is hard -- you have to get your weight juuuust right, and stand up but not actually jump at JUUUUST the right moment. And when you weigh just 42 pounds, there's not a lot of weight to shift around to control the Wii Fit device.

So Noah became a "meatball," which is how he refers to the condition of falling off the slope and turning into a snowball with skis and poles sticking out of it. And then again. And again. The charm of "being a meatball" wore off as his frustration increased over not being able to get off the jump. He began to hurl himself at the ground and kick each time he "meatballed" to the bottom of the hill. For a kid who never threw a tantrum as a 2-year-old, it was a pretty good try.

Eventually we changed to a game that was less challenging, he pulled himself together, and we bowled a couple of games and then went upstairs to get ready for bed. And as we curled up on the bed, I asked him about it. "Oh, Mommy, my brain was taken over by aliens. I'm fine now" he explained.

Well, okay. I'm going to have a hard time arguing with that one. Frankly, it was what I thought at the time.

Wingpits?

This comes from a correspondence with my 4th grade teacher; that scenario is a whole topic by itself.

We were driving to school, and Noah was looking out of the window.

Him: "Look, Mom, that bird is going to the playground!"

Me: "It is? What do you think it's going to do when it gets there?"

Him: "Go down the slide!"

Me: "That sounds like fun!"

Pause

Him: "He might get hurt. Maybe he'll go swing on the monkeybars."

Me: "He doesn't have hands, does he? How will he swing?"

Him: "With his feet!"

I'm not quite sure how this transmogrified into the rest of it, but soon the conversation was going like this:

Me: "So the bird is going to hang by his armpits?"

Him: "Yes. No. Birds don't have armpits."

Me: "Why?"

Him: "They have wings!"

Me: "Then what do they have?"

Him: "Wingpits!"

Me: "Excellent! What does Lucy (our dog) have?"

Him: "Nothing."

Me: "Well, she doesn't have arms, but she does have front legs... does she have legpits?"

He loved this concept, and debated strenuously with me about what animals have "legpits" for most of the ride. Tonight when we went to cuddle up in bed, the dog was there, and we investigated her "legpits." And then he tossed his legs in the air over his head and said "Hey, do I have legpits down there?" and I had to tickle him, it was so cute. He seems to agree that the cat has them, but he isnt so sure about the dog.