Ah, the Christmas season. I really love it, and I especially love that I always finish my shopping in November so I never have to enter the horrible, horrible pit of hell that is the mall in December. This year, I really focused on baking. The boys love to help with baking, and I thought they would really enjoy decorating gingerbread men and the gingerbread house.

After our hours and hours of decorating the gingerbread house and cookies, I came to the realization that there are two types of moms in this world: those that can use the little attachments on the icing decorating tubes, and those that can’t. I belong to the latter group. Artistry is not my strong suit, as is obvious by looking at the globs of icing dripping off the gingerbread roof, and the windows which look as if someone set them on fire, melting down the gingerbread walls. But who really cares? It’s Christmas, and the boys think that the house is fantastic and the strangely faceless, but highly decorated gingerbread men are awesome. Part of this is due to the fact that they are three and four years old and hey, anything with icing and candies looks great to them. Another, larger part is due to the fact that artistry is not their strong suit either. And yes, you can tell at this age.

Doesn’t gingerbread decorating really seem like the kind of thing that moms should be able to do, like locating a specific, small obscure toy in a room full of other small, obscure toys, and knowing exactly when everyone in the house had a snack and therefore when they will need to eat again? It’s like a male friend said to me when his wife was pregnant “I better figure out how to fix the bathroom plumbing. Don’t dads always know how to do those things?” Very true.

When I was pregnant with Mark I read probably every pregnancy book on the market. I felt like I was studying for some strange exam that featured questions about weight gain, blood pressure, ankle swelling, and epidurals. Finished all the pregnancy books, I started on the parenting books. The bizarre world of parenting books, starting with “The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding” and ending with the truly strange “Babywise”. Every book, it seemed, had a different agenda, a different program, and “studies” to back them up. Every book promised that if I followed their program, then my baby would be well-adjusted, developmentally gifted, and the happiest baby ever. First time moms can be insufferable when it comes to the parenting books, and I was certainly no different. I really just wanted to get everything right. I wanted to know how to do everything that I thought a mom should know how to do, not realizing that most moms learn through experience and instinct.

After Jake came along, only 17 ½ months after Mark, I gave up reading anything about parenting or milestones. Hell, I think I probably forgot how to read for a while, so sleep deprived and hormonally deranged was I. At that time, it was all about just getting through the days without too much crying (on my part). But what do you know? Despite the fact that I read none of the up-to-date parenting journals at the time, Jake has turned out okay. He’s turned out great, actually. Experience and instinct – it’s what parenting is all about. You don’t have to know everything to be a good mom.

So back to the original story – the cookie decorating. So what if my gingerbread house looks like it was decorated by blind, insane people? It was fun doing it, and the boys enjoyed it. I’m never going to be able to use those little attachments on my icing decorating tubes, and I’m okay with that.

Bad days are actually good because they make you appreciate the good days, right? Well, yesterday was a very bad day. It’s all relative – it wasn’t SO bad, I guess; everyone was healthy and husband was still employed. But the minutes ticked by and I kind of felt like I was going to have to be checked into a mental hospital by the end of the day. It was all because of Jake.

The day started out fine, but by 8:00 things started to go downhill and just kept sledding. Every single little thing was a battle, the kind of battle that is accompanied by much shrieking, whining, and not-so-occasional sobbing. We’ve all had days like that, right? “Please brush your teeth” is answered by an ear-shattering “NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOO” and the flopping of a small body to the floor. The response to “Let’s get you dressed” is the turning of a small body to steel so that you practically have to peel pajamas off and then the limbs start flailing and the body goes limp so that it is almost impossible to get clothes on without sustaining some sort of injury to either the dresser or the dressee. And that’s just the beginning. The rest of the day was all “I am NOT going to be nice today”, or “I don’t want to do ANYTHING”, or “I am not going to play, or read books, or eat my supper”. It was all so tiresome, and completely irritating yet boring by the end of the day. Eleven hours straight of this was kind of tiring.

Why is it so hard when our kids have a bad day? I mean, other than the obvious. Listening to nails scratching a blackboard or maybe a bagpipe screeching for an entire day seems to be an apt analogy.

I think it’s especially hard because it makes me feel like I’m doing a bad job. For those of us who have given up careers to be at home with the kids, the kids’ accomplishments can seem like our own, and when they are doing well, we are doing well. It’s wrong I know; I know that the kids are individuals and separate from us, but that is really how it feels sometime. So when they have a bad day, it can feel like something I’ve done or haven’t done. It’s silly, really, especially when it’s obviously one of those “I got up on the wrong side of the bed” days. Everyone’s entitled to have a bad day once in a while, right? Thank god for wine.

Anyway, this morning I woke up super refreshed thanks to a (rare) full, uninterrupted night’s sleep, and Jake was his usual sunny self. I breathed a sigh of relief that his bad day wasn’t the result of impending sickness, or that he was actually in need of an exorcism, but just a bad day.

So I’m driving home from Co-Op when Mark asks to drive home through the alley across the street. He wants to see a 1950’s vintage car that a neighbour has in his yard, ostensibly to restore. He calls this car the “Old Hudson Hornet” after the character in the Cars movie. It certainly does resemble that character, or would if it a) had an engine, b) was painted blue, and c) had a face. Anyway, I agree. As we are driving past, I can’t help but notice that, hanging from the place its engine would be if it had an engine is a deer. A field-dressed deer. A field-dressed deer that is looking at me with its big dead eyes.

I don’t say anything. The boys don’t say anything. Did they notice it? If so, why aren’t they saying anything? If not, is there something wrong with their vision? I drive home in silence, remove boys and groceries from the van, uncharacteristically order the boys to “sit on the couch and watch TV”, and phone Rob at work. When he answers, I burst into tears, and he naturally thinks that some disaster has befallen. When I finally choke out what happened he starts laughing uncontrollably. “Aren’t you surprised this hasn’t happened before?” he asks, appropriately, since our neighbour wears camouflage on a daily basis and has a bumper sticker stating that his truck is protected by Smith and Weston.

This incident reminded me of a story I heard many years ago, back when I was gainfully employed as opposed to the bon-bon eating housewife that I have become. Back then, I was working for an oil company and drove out to visit and tour one of their terminals located in Rimbey, Alberta. For those of you who don’t know Rimbey, it is a typical small Albertan town where about 90% of the vehicles are pickup trucks, and 90% of those pickup trucks are equipped with gun racks.

After my tour of the terminal, the operator took me out for lunch at the ubiquitous Chinese-Western restaurant, the sort of establishment at which you can dip your dumplings in Thousand Island dressing. Over lunch, Larry related the tale to me, tenderhearted, mostly-vegetarian, 24-year-old innocent that I was, the gory tale which featured the one and only time that he had hit an animal with his car.

It was Christmas Eve. Larry was heading home from the hardware store with his two small children in tow. A deer jumped in front of his truck. When he got out he realized that the deer was still alive, but injured, and the impact had sent the deer flying into, unbelievably, a barbed-wire fence. There was really only one humane thing to do, but Larry realized he didn’t have his gun with him. He began searching for something heavy. Fortunately a co-worker drove by and stopped when Larry flagged him down. The co-worker did have his gun with him, which he promptly lent to Larry. The gruesome job finished, Larry got back into his truck which contained wailing and hysterical children. Not only had they just witnessed the tragic scene, but they assumed, on account of it being Christmas Eve, that their father had just taken down one of Santa’s reindeer.

It just occurred to me that my children have never made a list for Santa. It also occurred to me that Christmas Eve is three weeks away, and they have never stated “I hope Santa brings me ____”. Hmm. My first thought was “Do they know that it is acceptable to make a wish list at Christmas time?” Certainly I am frequently guilty of not giving them enough information. Is this something that I should bring up? My second thought was “Is it possible that they have so much stuff that they can’t think of other things to want?” Because really, between two sets of highly indulgent grandparents, plus aunts and uncles, they certainly do amass a lot of gifts, at Christmas, on their birthdays, and on other occasions throughout the year.

I don’t really think that explains it though. We have been reading many books about Christmas, and a lot of them center around receiving gifts Christmas morning. They do have a lot of stuff but take them into Costco and they instantly covet a tow truck nearly identical to one they already own. This brings me to my third thought, which has to do with advertising, or lack thereof.

During the day, the only television they are exposed to is the morning and evening news (if you can call Breakfast Television “news”) and Treehouse. The greatest thing about Treehouse (other than the great new show Toot and Puddle) is the lack of advertising. Sure, they have “this program brought to you by…” but, with the exception of a spaceship/ rocket launcher advertisement, none of those “brought to you by’s” have ever captured their attention.

Recently on the news (or maybe it was Breakfast Television) Calgary was stated as having one of the highest rates of consumer debt in the country. This didn’t overly surprise me as this city has had a boom for a long time, and seems to have been relatively insulated from economic downturns felt in other parts of the country. Calgary seems especially bad in terms of “keeping up with the Joneses”. You have an Audi, I want a Jag. You have a giant house, I want a bigger one. Throw in some sly advertising, and suddenly you have a city choked with consumer debt and facing economic crisis.

So what does this have to do with Christmas and parenting? It’s a tricky one. This is the time of year that we are supposed to, as Charlie Brown says, focus on the true meaning of Christmas and teach our children about giving, not receiving. And of course we all try to do that. However, advertising is everywhere, and even if it hasn’t hit my children yet it certainly hits me. Who is immune to some good advertising? I look around my house and although it is nice, cozy, and paid-for, I experience dissatisfaction when I think about my friend’s bright new infill. I go to Lululemon and instantly think that my yoga practice would be better if I just had that new Ujjayi top. Then I pull myself together and think a) what a terrible way to think about yoga, and b) I actually already have that top, just in a different colour.

How do you teach your kids about the true meaning of Christmas? There are all sorts of answers in parenting books and magazines, such as filling a shoebox for the underprivileged or having a family volunteer night, and I agree with those sentiments. More importantly though, I believe you need to start with yourself. I think that if you can stay above the wave of consumerism, if you can pass on something that you want, if you can watch that commercial or read that catalog and not submit to instant gratification, you will pass that important message along to your children.

High and mighty words, I know. And I will certainly struggle with it. I will let you know how it goes.

Although Mark is very much like his father in personality and looks, there are a few traits of mine that he also possesses: his ability to leaf through a book for hours, his highly selective eating (read: picky) eating habits, his inability to handle a sad or scary television show. These are traits that, while I’m not particularly proud of them, I’m not particularly unhappy to pass them on. Sure, it can be annoying when we are eating anywhere but at home (“I can’t eat that, Mom. It just doesn’t look right”) or when I just want to ply the kids with a TV show so I can make dinner in peace (“I can’t watch this show. That guy hurt his friend’s feelings and it is too scary”). But for the most part I am understanding. After all, I am the same person who sobbed for hours after watching “Life is Beautiful” and avoided any conversation involving said movie for years. I also scan menus online before going out to ascertain what I am going to eat, and I recall on many occasions sitting at the table as a child long after everyone else had left because I had refused to eat “shipwreck” casserole or fried liver. So I’m sympathetic to those little idiosyncrasies of Mark’s.

Jake, however, is what you might call “my son”. He and I are so alike in temperament, it’s uncanny. For the most part, that’s fine, except when he exhibits certain behaviours: perfectionism, frustration, and an overwhelming need to be number one.

Today’s Parent magazine recently ran an article detailing a woman’s struggle over accepting her daughter’s personality traits which mirrored her own. Or rather, her struggle over accepting those traits which she disliked in herself. This is exactly what I struggle with, every day.

Jake, as a second child, is sort of used to having his older brother do things easily that he himself is just learning to do. With the two of them so close in age, it’s hard for Jake to see that he is good at the alphabet too, he can count too, he is learning the same songs at preschool too. What he sees is that Mark can count higher, knows all the letter sounds, is faster. It’s frustrating for him and this I can really understand.

What I have a hard time with is that he can’t accept himself. When they are running around the house, pretending to be race cars, Jake can’t not win. (“I win!” he shrieks, despite the fact that there is no finish line. “I won the race!”). He can’t even discuss not winning (“I think it was a tie, Jake” Mark says kindly. “NO! Not a tie! I win!”). It’s this that I have a hard time being sympathetic to and understanding of, despite the fact that as a child I was the exact same way.

I believe this is called projecting. It’s painful to be reminded of personality traits that you may not like in yourself, and see them mirrored back to you every single day. Friends of mine who were shy children, and who now have shy children, tell me the same thing. It’s so hard to be reminded of something you don’t really like in yourself, and to know that your child will be going through similar experiences that you went through. This is where it would be of utmost importance to be supportive and accepting, but this is also where it is hardest to be that way.

As Rob reminds me, there are benefits to having a perfectionist, number one personality: achievements, high scholastic grades, quality workmanship, and I agree. I think it’s important to set high goals and reach them. However, I see the drawbacks, namely a hard time accepting yourself for who you are and the feeling that you are never good enough. And that is why I have trouble when I see Jake like that. I want him to achieve things, yes, I want him to reach for the stars and grab one, but more importantly I want to make sure he feels that he is good enough, in fact more than good enough, and that he is a special and wonderful person no matter what.

Later, I take the tearful boy on my lap and listen to him. “I really wanted to win, Mama. I really wanted to”. And all I could do was hold him and say “I know, love bug, I know”.

I don’t want to discuss the politics of war, not today. I don’t want to discuss egos, power struggles, or strange ulterior motives. I don’t want to discuss how looking at the young, young faces in war footage makes me sad or how images of rows of white crosses makes me feel physically ill. I am fully cognizant about how wars begin and about both sides of the story. My husband has a dear friend in the military who has already completed one tour of duty in Afghanistan and may be sent for another. But that is not what I want to discuss.

What I was thinking about today is that I have two boys. If they were growing up in a different era, say an era of conscription, maybe I would have none. Or maybe I would still have two boys, but they would be scarred for life, mentally or physically. Maybe I would be waiting months for a letter, only to get a censored one with little information. Maybe the boys would be suffering in ways I can’t even imagine, for reasons that start small but grow to be bigger than life. When I see the wreaths being laid by the mothers and families of the fallen, that is what I think of.

The boys came home from preschool with their poppy crafts and lots of questions. I tried to answer with honesty, yet who wants to be too honest with children that age? How do you discuss war with children who don’t comprehend why so-and-so hit another kid in their class or so-and-so called someone else a stupid-head? I used words like bravery, respect, standing up for what you believe in, but the explanations are too vague even for such young children.

When I see an elderly man in a parking lot, getting out of his car with a veteran license plate, I swallow hard and think about the mother who cried with joy when her son came home.

As parents, we have more influence over our children than anyone. When the children are small, especially, one area in which this is very apparent is the way in which they speak. Nothing is more warming to the heart than your children repeating something kind that they have heard you say. For example, the conversation that occured earlier today between my boys.

Mark: “Jake, that is a really nice tower you are building. You are really working hard!”
Jake: “Why, thank you Mark”.

Less warming to the heart was the announcement from Mark that our “garage door is a piece of shit”. Clearly, he was in the garage with Rob when our psychotic garage door started its semi-weekly hooligan activities. But I digress.

I try my best, I honestly do, to speak to the kids as I wish them to speak, with good manners and what we call my “nice voice”. It’s a bit of conversational karma. I can’t justify forcing them to behave a certain way if I do not behave that way, and so I say please, thank-you, sorry, excuse me. Mostly.

Last week was a crazy, busy, overscheduled week for us and, as is usually the case when things are crazy, busy, and overscheduled, the children were threatening to make me check into a mental hospital. Kindergarten tours, dentist appointments, a three day visit from my sister-in-law, and Halloween with all its sugar-infused festivities, in addition to our usual playdates and preschool all added up to an exhausting week. I found myself tired and snappish, and, if I can quote Jake, “speaking too sharply”. Not surprisingly, this is what I was getting back from them. It’s funny how when I’m busy and frantic, I seem to expect them to be Little House on the Prairie children: seen but not heard, maybe working on some needlepoint or silently drawing on a slate. I never seem to remember that when I am busy and frantic, they become frantic, and all of a sudden they need need need things from me. In a five minute span they need snacks, and drinks, and the markers down from the high shelf, and also paper, and then I need to read a book, and also play farm animals and where is my little blue car, you know, the Hot Wheels one, the little one, no not that one! And then it’s no surprise that I hear my own voice coming out of their mouths, directed at one another: “Jake, I want that book right NOW!” “That is ENOUGH out of you!” Then I realize that the whole week I have been snapping “Why don’t you have your shoes on?” instead of “Please put your shoes on now”, or slowing down a bit to help.

And so today we start a new week, in a new month, and I resolve anew to take the time to treat the kids as people, who don’t need to be shrieked at to behave a certain way, but just to have behaviour modelled for them from their number one influence. I guess it’s behavioural karma.