Christmas, one year later.

A year ago, shortly after Thanksgiving, my father sat down hard on the curb after losing his balance as he got out of the car. The force of sitting down cracked bones in his back; his subsequent treatment got him into a hospital system that seemed to want to focus on everything but his back and his pain, and just shy of spring, Dad died.

 Christmas last year was a desperate attempt to seem normal, in my parents' home which was anything but. Christmas this year was perfectly normal, except that everything has changed. I had not realized that for me, Christmas was all about my Dad. It reminds me, in retrospect, of the Calvin and Hobbes cartoon where Calvin is lying in bed shouting "There'd better not be any monsters under my bed!" with the response from under the bed of "Nope, no monsters down here!" When queried by Hobbes, Calvin explains matter-of-factly: "They lie, I lie."

 And so it has been with Christmas in our family. Dad's innocent looking around the ceiling as we noted that Santa wrote with distinctly Dad-like handwriting, which over the years turned into gifts from one or the other of Santa's reindeer, or when he couldn't think of a better idea, the aggregate of "various elves." The handwriting never changed, but somehow impersonating Blitzen was less sacrilegious. The under-his-breath cussing while he wrapped presents or attempted to assemble them. Dad's varied attempts to make it look like a reindeer had taken a bite out of the apple we left by the hearth. The hiding places Dad used to stash presents, and his innocent attempts to cover for owning some of the stuff we occasionally found. "Oh, no, I'm reading that book! It's fascinating!" *blink blink.*

 And the highlight of the season, at least for me, was looking for a gift that would get *that* response from Dad, either of immediate fascination (physics books tended to get this kind of response) or amusement (the tissue box with the porcelain nose, where you pulled the tissues out of a nostril was a shining moment for me). And his joy at seeing a gift hit home, as well. It was about having That Moment with Dad. The moment of recognition, appreciation, and love.

 And in recent years, as his mobility waned and he couldn't do it himself, it also became about service; about being Dad's eyes and hands, looking for a gift for my stepmom, which was a special treat for me as well. Colluding together on what he had in mind, and then sneaking it in to show him before wrapping it on his behalf, again our little secret.

 We tried so hard last year, carrying Christmas up to his room, bringing the intimate exchange of gifts to him, "his" gift to her within arms' reach for him, and taking turns sitting with him as he ate dinner, so that he'd be surrounded by family even when he couldn't make it down the stairs to join us at the table, waiting until he'd gone to sleep before I could let go of the thought that he was up there, listening to our dinner, feeling alone. 

This year, by contrast, was a marvel of perfect logistics. We came together, and like a dance we all knew perfectly, we all knew exactly when to move to the gift exchange, our respective parts in the preparation of dinner, what to expect at dinner, the give and take of family stories and jokes and teasing. The littlest ones began to learn the family ways of "putting your fork and knife at 10 minutes to 4," and under what circumstances one can be excused from the table, and no, playing a game on the iPad doesn't count. Staying to make sure that the house is put right at the end, with the careful washing of dishes and putting away of pots and pans. Yesterday was perfect, except that the joke at the heart of it -- the secret -- was gone.

How is it that the Boy Scouts of American can make me so proud and break my heart at the same time?

Three things. I picked three things to involve my son in, whether he asked for them or not. While my parent friends are running ragged getting their kids to soccer or lacrosse or swim practice or skating, and then also religious instruction, and then play dates, and then tutoring, and then some other educational supplementation, and then.... It makes me tired to think.

I decided that these items would be included in the curriculum, and he could chose (and enter and leave) the others on his own decision. But these, I thought, were activities that would form his character, shape his relationship with others and to the world, and were not optional.

Religious Instruction. He's Jewish; he needs to know what that means, and be able to weather the storms and relish the joys that come with the territory.

Martial Arts. I want him to grow up to be self-disciplined, to make wise choices, to know what it means to trust an instructor and take coaching, both physical and mental, in how to engage with the world. I want him to be strong and able to defend himself and to stand up for others. I want him to be centered and confident and know who he is. And it wouldn't be bad to have a wicked flying side kick in the process.

And Cub Scouts. I remember watching my older brother as a boy scout, and as he achieved his Eagle Scout status. Our parents were so proud, and my brother has always been a dedicated, loyal, committed person, a good friend, a lover of the outdoors, able to tie knots and sail boats and administer first aid; someone I see as being unshakably able to handle circumstances in the natural world, and a leader in the communities he is a part of. I want that same character for my son.

There are so many things to fear in the world, as a parent. Last night as strong thunderstorms rolled through our area, I worried about whether it was safe to have his bed so close to the window. When he was younger, I worried that he would leave the house without telling me. At the mall, I am the parent who makes sure to point out "safe" adults to go to, if we're separated, and at museums, I'm the parent who puts my business card in his pocket and instructs him to find a guard and ask to call me if he gets lost. I worry about his school bus. I won't leave him with a babysitter I don't know. My job, as I tell him, is to get him to adulthood in one piece, ready to function in society as an adult, and requiring a minimal amount of therapy to get over the process of getting there. With all that has gone on in the last few months, the list of things I could worry about is endless:

Will he get blown up by a terrorist? Will he be kidnapped and held hostage for a decade by a psychotic pervert? Will he be injured or killed in a violent storm? Will he be killed or injured in military service? Will he be attacked by a "suicide by police" whackaloon in his school, at the park, in a movie theater? I could spend my life protecting my child from harm, and do nothing else, and never be done.

And so as I think on the recent decision by the Boy Scouts of America about gays in scouting, I can't decide how to respond. Instinctively, I think about what I have to be afraid of. What is the potential impact of this on my child?

First, let's be clear. I believe that being gay is simply the way a person is. I don't believe anyone chooses to be gay any more than they decide to be left-handed or blue-eyed. Let's also be clear that, as a mother, I'd prefer that my son be heterosexual. That's hard for me to say, really -- it goes against my diversity-conscious all-inclusive persona, and I feel somewhat ashamed to admit it in the face of friends and family members who might suddenly be concerned that I'm less accepting that they thought I was. The two factors that force me to say it, though, are selfish. Someday, I'd like grandchildren. And I don't want my son to endure any more hardship than is necessary in his life. And I know that neither of these are caused or precluded by his sexual identity. Still, life seems like it would simply be easier if it were not necessary to take on the additional social difficulties. And I'm bothered that I've even dwelled on this thought this long.

So what is it about Boy Scout policy that actually is relevant here? Well, let's say it: Parents are worried that if you get a group of kids together with strange parents, some icky weirdo parent is going to do something inappropriate with their child, and that violates the "minimum amount of therapy" clause of my parenting contract. It's one of those "improbable worst case scenario that's so vivid we live like it's growling from under every piece of furniture and out of ever closet in the house" things. No matter how statistically unlikely, we're afraid that every plane we get in will go down, and that every strange adult we leave our child with will turn out to be The One Who Is Icky. But Boy Scouting has put in place a huge arsenal of rules to handle this. As a Cub Scout leader myself, I took training about the expectations of how adult leaders behave with scouts that goes to the extent of ensuring that no adult leader will ever be alone with a scout, just to ensure that there's never an opportunity for impropriety. It would take real negligence on the part of the rest of the leadership of any scouting group for there to be an incident during a scouting event. Yet our policy is to not permit openly gay leaders in scouting. Hmm. On the other hand, we've admitted openly gay members, who are under no such restrictions on behavior other than those enforced by their packs and dens.