So That was Christmas?

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The day after Christmas, I was reading my daughter a bedtime story. It was Zen Shorts by Jon J. Muth, a book about three siblings who each learn a Zen principle in an encounter with a giant panda named Stillwater. One such lesson was “misfortune becomes good luck.”

It was not my daughter’s book. It wasn’t her bedroom. In fact, we weren’t even in our own house.

Ava and I were staying for an uncertain length of time at our friends’ Michael and Nicole’s home just 10 minutes away. Earlier that day they had traveled with their children, 9 and 14, to Atlanta when Michael passed out at the American Girl store. (It’s okay, you can laugh; he’s all right now, we just weren’t sure at the time.) He was rushed to the ER. Our friends are transplants to the South and don’t have family to call on, but they do have us. And having fixed us a fabulous Christmas Eve dinner, I guess we owed them. So when Nicole asked if Ray could drive to Atlanta to get the kids and bring them home so she could focus on the situation at hand, he hopped in the car without a second thought (I mean, it was a really good dinner).

But let’s rewind to Christmas morning.

It was our second Christmas alone. Ever. We didn’t have the money to fly home to our families so we raked up our sorry-for-ourselves feelings and tried to make the best of it. It was working, right up until the wee hours of Christmas morning when I suddenly woke to my throbbing upper lip, or what used to be my upper lip and was now a suitable perch for a barn owl. By sunrise, it had grown so large it could sustain a flock of seagulls. Better yet, the Flock of Seagulls, their groupies and a touring bus.

I lay in bed considering the possibilities. On Christmas Eve, I thought I might be getting a cold sore, but this was clearly so much more. Flesh-eating virus came to mind. How inconvenient.

I woke my husband and told him that we might as well enjoy our last Christmas together, or at the very least, my last Christmas with this particular lip.

“What are you talk—” he rolled toward me and opened his eyes, “Whoa!”

Yeah. About that.

As our daughter merrily tore through her Christmas stocking, I drank my coffee through a straw and felt bitterly sorry for myself quarantined and alone on Christmas Day. I dodged Ray’s picture taking even as he tried to convince me that the size of my lip “didn’t translate two-dimensionally.” Apparently he was lying because when I Skyped my mother she shielded her face with her hands and yelled, “Oh my God! Dad, come here! Quick! Look at Andrea’s face!” Dad and Mom gawked and pointed in horror like I was a legless giraffe at the zoo.

“It’s spreading up the side of your face!”

It wasn’t; makeup just wasn’t a priority that morning. But thanks.

Clearly, it was bad. But it was going to have to wait. It was Christmas, after all. And more than that, even my dermatologist couldn’t see me like this.

Things improved moderately overnight. I went from circus freak to Botox gone horribly wrong. We had just gotten the call from Nicole, so I knew I would have to venture outside sooner or later. There I encountered my neighbors and quickly acknowledged the elephant woman in the room.

“Ray got me lip injections for Christmas.” Cue the recoil.

“Just kidding. I have a lip funk.” They laughed, somehow comforted with the thought of a communicable disease over restylane. Clearly I played this right.

Sure, they dispersed moments later, citing a variety of made-up errands. I couldn’t blame them. Survival of the fittest. And I was not fit for public consumption.

All the same, I had things to do. I had our friends’ children to care for. When they arrived, they kindly averted their eyes and never mentioned my lip until two days later when the swelling mercifully subsided.

“What happened anyway?” the 14-year-old asked.

Christmas happened. Somewhere between my over-inflated lip and the rush to our friends in need, the holiday spirit swept through virtually unnoticed.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I need to heed Stillwater’s Zen wisdom. All this bad luck was actually good luck in disguise. I didn’t spend Christmas “alone.” I spent it with a husband willing to drive ten hours to help our friends, friends willing to trust us with their children and home, and my daughter willing to believe the whole thing was one big adventure.

And the lip? Well, if I had gone home for Christmas I inevitably would’ve run into 50 people I went to high school with who would then permanently fix the vision of my lip into their collective memory and forever refer to me as the girl who “used to be pretty.”

Thank you, giant panda, for a memorable Christmas.

Yeah, I BET you wanted to see a picture of my lip.

Bumper Stumpers

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Bumper stickers are like tattoos for cars. They seem like a good idea at first, but are never as cool the next day. Decorating your car with slogans and images is a lot like decorating your middle school locker. It’s not a reflection of who you are as much as it is a reflection of who you wish you were. I, for instance, wanted to be a professional volleyball player and River Phoenix’s lover. Each time I opened my locker, River would stare back at me amidst a collage of “Maui and Sons” and “Gnu” stickers (the Hurley of their time). I don’t understand the appeal of those stickers or the brands they represented. I didn’t surf, ski or skate, but nonetheless me and every kid in the early 90s put them on our lockers and binders, and dreamed one day they’d be on the back windows of our VW Bugs.

Luckily, I outgrew my counter-culture, wannabe-punk phase by the time I actually got my first car. It was then that I embraced my true self (or at least the next person I wanted to be): A young scholar. My sticker of choice said “WWU”, indicating where I’d be attending college. It made me feel grown up and unique. I stuck it on my back window, top and center—the same place every other person at the college put it.

Two used Honda hatchbacks later, my husband bought me a brand new, grown-up hatchback: a gray Toyota Matrix. As soon as I drove it off the lot, it occurred to me that everything about my Matrix said “cat lady” or, more accurately, “recent-graduate-student-entering-the-workforce-with-plans-to-start-a-family.” When I expressed my interest in sporting up my car by adding a cycling, running or Obama sticker, my husband responded, “A car without stickers says ‘adult.’ And don’t put an Obama sticker on it unless you want your car keyed.” (I think he meant by him.)

So I’ve left my car sticker-free for seven years, and now that I spend 45 minutes waiting in a line of cars to pick up my daughter from kindergarten, I’m glad I have.

Don’t get me wrong, some make me laugh. But do you really want to be known as the mom with the “Gun Control Means Using Both Hands” sticker? Not if you want to head up this year’s bake sale.

The worst offenders are the ones that rob us of our sexy, such as “Mom’s Taxi.” You might as well slap on a pair of high-waisted Lee jeans and give me a frosted perm.

Lately, I’ve been most annoyed by those stick figure families. I’m sorry if you think they’re cute. In an attempt to accurately depict your particular family unit, these stickers get it all wrong, like a department store family portrait that puts you in front of a leafy background and commands you to smile like you just got poked in the rear because, dammit, you’re happy even though everyone knows you spent the previous hour trying to keep little Johnny from smearing boogers on the faux-bear rug and little Janey from eating them. It’s too cookie cutter for my taste. The daughter rendered as a princess and the dad as a briefcase-toting salesman is a pigeonhole I don’t want my family to step in.

And what happens when the family unit changes? I recently saw a stick figure family comprised of a mom and two kids. The only evidence of “Dad” was the sticky outline where he’d been picked off. How do you breach the  “Where did stick Daddy go” discussion anyway? Or when a dog passes? Or when little Janey turns in her tiara for a football helmet?

Families are always in flux. People are always changing. So for now, I’m keeping the canvas clean. My gray Matrix can just speak for herself–even if she doesn’t say much.

Ode to My Husband (Please come home!)

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My parents left yesterday after a two and half week visit. Mom cooked Thanksgiving dinner (and all the other dinners in between) and set up my Christmas tree. Dad fixed everything around the house that was broken, and what he broke while here (I swear my toilet automatically shuts down when it hears my father’s voice).

As I pulled away from the airport, I felt sad—sad that I wouldn’t see them again until this summer and sad that I was heading home to a half-empty house. I say “half” because while Ava’s here with me, Ray’s in Tokyo for a couple more days. My parents served as a nice buffer while he’s been gone, taking off some of the pressure to play rock-paper-scissors (Ava’s new favorite game) until neurosis or carpel tunnel sets in, whichever comes first. But now that they’re gone, it’s roshambo-a-rama. Plus, I’m spending an inordinate amount of time engaged in strange, non-adult conversations. First there was the argument about Justin Bieber’s name. Ava swears it’s “Beaver.” It’s not. And I’m not willing to let that go. Then there was last night’s prison discussion. Ava wanted to know if I’ve ever been arrested (I haven’t) and then she told me she wants to see the inside of a jail. As far as I know, the county jail isn’t on the fieldtrip calendar, but I’d like to honor her curiosity. So I said, “Okay.”

“Wow. I was not expecting that,” she replied.

Well, that’s one of the perks of having a husband like Ray. He’s like Mister Rogers. He’ll manage to book an all-access tour and easily answer all of her difficult questions appropriately—an area in which I often fail (you may recall my explanation that God makes the water come out of the faucet). Now I just have to stall until he comes home.

“The jail is closed this week.” I’m not proud.

Super Dad

It’s been 15 days since Ray left and not 24 hours since my parents got on their plane. One thing is painfully clear: I never want to be a single parent. It’s too hard.

But it’s not just that. There’s something else. I spent a long time last night trying to put my finger on the “something else.” After reading some “brave” anonymous-mom blast me on my blog for being a bad parent and overall bad person (apparently humor doesn’t always translate), I wanted someone to assure me that this woman was a complete moron and that I’m in fact, the greatest writer, mother, person on the planet. Had my parents not left, they would’ve done just that. They’ve always been in my corner cheering their hearts out—albeit sometimes a little too enthusiastically (my Mom earned the nickname “the bucking bronco” for her seemingly involuntary whoops and gesticulations during my high school volleyball matches). I could’ve called a number of my closest friends, but it was late and this was about ego, not life or death. If Ava had been awake she would’ve hugged me and assured me that I’m the “best mommy ever.” But most often this responsibility falls on my husband for two reasons: general proximity and the fact that he’s so damn good at it. He gives pep talks that could inspire the blind to see. After 15 years, all I have to do is show him my frowny face and mumble, “I need a pep talk.” He delivers every time. Sometimes I even loan him out to friends in need. I needed him tonight—not just for the support, but for the love I’ve grown accustomed to getting. Come to think of it, I’ve needed him ever since we first met.

Because of my parents, I was lucky enough to expect that the people I surround myself with should be my biggest fans. They should be the ones willing and able to pick me up when I fall flat on my face. And if they’re not, I don’t need them. This has become especially important as I grow older and realize that whenever I put myself “out there” as a writer, teacher, parent, or basic human being, there’s always someone who thinks it’s their job to tell me how much I suck.

Lucky for me, my husband makes damn good earmuffs.

Teaching Compassion

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“Who’d you play with today?”

I regularly quiz Ava about her kindergarten social life in an attempt to tighten the chord between us that gets a little slack after seven hours of school. I know the kids in her class by name. I know which ones I would like her to play with and I’m not afraid to make suggestions. After all, as a woman in my 30s, I’m a better judge of character. And yes, if you must know, I have some control issues that sending my child to school has managed to expose like an open, festering wound.

“I played on the bars with Tristan,” she replies.

It’s been the same answer for the past week. Tristan seems like a nice kid—though a little on the quiet side (which makes Type-A freaks like myself a little nervous). But what about her two BFFs from class?

“They play with another girl,” she responds, matter-of-factly.

“Well, can’t you play too?”

“No. The other girl doesn’t like me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” There’s actually no way that could possibly be true.

“No, seriously. She told me. She said, ‘Go play with somebody else. I don’t like you.’”

I do not like this “other girl.” But enough about me.

“Does that hurt your feelings?” What I really mean to ask is, “Are you going to grow up wearing all black and drawing temporary barbed wire tattoos around your wrists with a Sharpie?”

Ava just shrugs it off. She’s either trying to act tough or she’s a bigger person than me.

Regardless, I hurt for her. It pains me that kids are so cruel. Ava’s guilty of it too. Not too long ago she spent the better part of a day in “timeout” for not being a judicious playmate. But it stings more when it’s your kid on the losing end of the cat o’ nine tails.

I had lots of friends growing up. At least I think I did. See, I’m under the impression that everyone likes me. I mean, why wouldn’t they? I’m nice. Funny. Easy to talk to. Logic (i.e. my husband) tells me there’s no way everyone likes me. But my delusion has served me well for more than 30 years. What’s the harm? A healthy dose of ego never hurt anyone.

Well, almost anyone. As it turns out, my sister didn’t always enjoy playing with me, especially when we played “school” and I appointed myself as the teacher. But it wasn’t my fault she kept failing my classes; she had a lot of promise, she just never applied herself.

“Ava’s a lot like you,” she explains, “so maybe these kids are just tired of her telling them what to do all the time.”

Ouch. And, “She’s only trying to help them play better.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clearly, my sister doesn’t get it. So I turn to a friend unlucky enough to be trapped next to me while we wait for our children to finish their gymnastics lesson.

She listens patiently as I worry and fret about Ava’s social life and mean-spirited kids who are attempting to squash her sparkly pink soul. She nods. She tells me she understands and then follows up with, “You’ve met my son, right?” Her son is a beautiful, blond, big-hearted boy just a year older than Ava. He also has special needs. My friend tells me that her son doesn’t have any friends at school. He sits by himself on the outer edge of the playground. Every. Single. Day.

She tells me that she can’t think too much about it or she’ll go crazy.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

I can’t pick my daughter’s friends. I can’t make it so every child likes her. But I can teach her to be kind and compassionate to all children. Better yet, I can insist on it.

Ava and one of her BFFs

Putting Black Friday to Rest

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Glad you're boosting the economy. Glad I'm in bed.

There was a time when I’d wake the day after Thanksgiving at 5 AM to drive 90 miles to Seattle to shop. But two things were different then: I didn’t have a child (and thus, complete respect for sleep), and the sales began at 7 AM, which was considered early.

These days, “early” is actually “late.” Most major stores opened at midnight, while the big daddies sprung their doors at 10 PM for “doorbuster sales.” The prices are good if you’re in the market for an off-brand TV or a Dora bicycle, but there’s no guarantee that you’re actually going to get one of these because you and three thousand other people with a dream are clamoring for limited stock. The stores don’t really care if you get what you came for. All they need is to get you in the door, then they can tempt you with the things no human being needs: a chair massage pad or an Orbeez Soothing Spa (you know you’re curious). And because you can’t leave a store at 3 AM empty handed, you impulse buy a zoo’s worth of pint-sized Pillow Pets.

And then there are the inevitable fights that break out. Who’s surprised by that? People have spent the past 12 hours cooking and listening to their relatives debate the difference between sweet potatoes and yams and then, tired and probably a little bit drunk, these same people line up outside Walmart in the middle of the night prepared to do battle in the name of Christmas. Some fool brings pepper spray for some crowd control and the rest belongs to Thanksgiving legend.

That said, when heartburn stirred me from my turkey-induced coma around 4 AM, I admit that I felt as if I was missing out on something by choosing sleep over sales—that “something” being a 30-percent discount on the Victorious Doll Ava covets. But the feeling only lasted until I rolled over to discover that my daughter had sneaked into my bed and was fast asleep, all cherubic and satisfied. I happily conceded my $5.99. Victorious would have to wait until another day, another sale.

I did go shopping for a couple of hours with my mom this Black Friday morning, but only after we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and cup of coffee. I avoided the ads and commercials altogether and instead stumbled upon a few deals, making me feel as if I really found something.

I didn’t want to know what I was missing. Instead, I focused on what I was gaining.

It’s Alive … ALIVE!

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So, I’ve been a little busy lately. My friend, Libbie Summers, came to me not too long ago and said, “I have an idea–” and before she could finish, I said, “I’m in!”

Libbie is a food stylist, culinary producer, writer, etc. etc. etc. Most recently she published The Whole Hog Cookbook. It’s not your mother’s cookbook. I know, because I don’t cook and I still read the thing cover-to-cover because of the beautiful photography and stories. Reading her book at least makes me want to learn to cook, or raise pigs, or travel around the world and be fabulous. But that’s what Libbie does best: she inspires.

So when she told me that she had something brewing, I knew that the best thing to do would be to go along for the ride. And I’m so glad I did.

SaltedandStyled.com is a site dedicated to food-inspired living. It’s the brainchild of Libbie and photographer, Chia Chong, so it looks as good as it tastes. I’m going to join this team of uber-talented women to flex my writing (pork)chops with a series of blogs and profiles about fascinating people doing everyday things. And, at the risk of sounding like an 8-year-old girl, I hope you like it-like it.