Happy Merry Everywhere

My Mum called me the other day. Apparently, my godmother, J., had called her after reading my last post, concerned about the fact that I seem...not to happy with--people. (This is how Mum put it). Well, yes. It was a rough week. I do concede to being subject somewhat to wide hormonal swing of pregnancy. But truthfully, the bite and dark and impressive disinhibition is really just a result of being my unpleasant self. (J.--I'm completely ok, sorry about stressing you, and mostly, I think my indignation was mostly pre-emptive. Oh well). 

(Lee and I are in the car. Lee drives, as is his manly expectation. I am in mid-rant, on the subject of some injustice or another. I look over, and catch his expression--pained weariness. You know what?! I bark, This is who I am. And if you didn't really really like this kind of thing, why the hell did you marry me? I like it. I really like it, says Lee quickly. I giggle. And Lee, of course, is relieved, having once again diffused masterfully.)

For the past several weeks, I have been vibrating with anticipation for the Gagetown Christmas pageant. The kids didn't really care one way or another, and Treva didn't fully get it, of course, but I have been deeply attached to the idea of my little shepherd and angel, up on stage. My parenting style is a weird conflation of attachment principles, and my own mother's enthusiastic approach. Overall, I believe deeply in respecting my children's sense of self, and their own agency when it comes to decision-making. But I'm definitely not going to cater to, or encourage what people like to call "shyness". Wherever we go, I witness parents kneeling down next to their children, and asking weakly, mealy-voiced: Bobby, would you like to go up on stage all by yourself? Of course, Bobby looks back at his mother, lip quivering, and shakes his head "no", having just received permission (or encouragement) from her to be frightened. I prefer the following approach: Horus! You're going to be a shepherd! It'll be great! Here. Put this on. And away he goes.

 And away he went. Horus was one of the youngest--*the* youngest?--in the pageant, and he was fantastic. (Oh wait--except for my beloved friend K, and her 6 month old, J., who played Mary and Jesus--the whole thing was kind of lovely and hilarious and I deeply appreciated the fact that it was readable both as irony and entirely straight). Horus' part involved walking up on stage, and then standing. So yes, I'm not actually getting too worked up about it...but I am! And Treva? Wasn't going to happen. Although she did try to follow her big brother behind the curtain, before someone retrieved her, and stuck a piece of shortbread in her hand (which upset me, of course, but I kept my cool).

 But I'm getting ahead of myself. The pageant was only last week! Before that, on the 17th of December, my second son, Kristjan, turned 8 years old. So, thank you, nasty people, stalkers and friends, for failing to be unbearable, by pointing out to me that actually, I will soon have five children--not three! I do know this. What a strange situation. How many kids do you have? strangers ask. My answer mostly depends of the amount of time we have. If we're going to be there for a little while, I say, Four! (smile), and then I explain that my two oldest sons live with their father in Vancouver, and this is all wonderful--happy happy kids. If we're just in passing, I say, Two little ones at home--and now of course, another on the way. I have learned to not get caught up with the shadow looks of judgement and disapproval, the questions lurking around the issue of my missing boys. How could you possibly understand the situation? In any case, everyone loves to hate a bad bad mother. I think the fact that Horus and Treva are so clearly loved, confident, brilliant and cared-for tends to complicate even more. I suppose all of our issues and idiosyncrasies are a kind of filter. I know my friends.

 I believe that the date I had with Horus--just he and I, at the Imperial Theatre in Saint John, to see the Nutcracker Ballet!--fell on the same day that Kristjan turned 8, *and* performed in the Vancouver Ballet production of The Nutcracker. Kristjan, apparently, has been taking several ballet classes a week, and is a very talented and dedicated dancer. I am so intensely proud. And I cried quietly throughout the entire Saint John performance, seeing Kristjan in every little boy dancer. I am ok. (How is this possible? And yet, I am). But it never goes away. And I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Not even you. Most days, anyway, not even you.

 Tonight, we are heading to the Shambhala Buddhist Centre for their Solstice children's celebration. And the Christmas eve service is being held at St. Stephen's gorgeous little Anglican church, just a few minutes down the road from our house. And I feel at home here. And our home is warm and cozy. And my husband is severely artistic which is a good portion of his considerable charm, and strength. And we are very very lucky.  To be as fortunate as we are.  To have each other.  And Santa Claus is coming, having gone way overboard as usual.

  Merry Happy Season, everyone. Yo