Every year when Christmas comes around, we get treated to a lot of reflections on the holy child. We try to imagine what God as a human being must have been like as an infant, and quite honestly a lot of nonsense makes its way into the common lore.
It first struck me when the choir I sang in during grad school performed a version of Silent Night containing a lyric I’d never heard before (and thank God I’ve never heard since):
…Lovely boy with golden hair…
Blond hair? Really? News flash: Jesus was Jewish! I had to grit my teeth to get through that concert.
And then there’s this one:
The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.
Right. Because God in human form would never cry. Because He had telepathy and lightning bolts to communicate that he was hungry, tired, gassy or dirty. Riiiight.
We believe in a God who is fully divine and fully human. And I think very often we focus on the divine nature because the human one is inconvenient, or uncomfortable. Birth in a stable was probably pretty gross. Pretty smelly, and not just because of the animals. Baby Jesus had to nurse every two or three hours, just like our babies. And just like our babies, I’m pretty sure he had exploding diapers, too.
In order for Jesus to be fully human, a true bridge between Heaven and Earth, he had to have had the full range of human experience. To be fully human is to embrace the messiness of life on Earth–misunderstandings born of an imperfect mode of communication, entering into relationships without knowing what is going on in someone else’s head. It involves risk.
Sanitizing Jesus’ human experience serves to hold him at a distance. If we view him as superhuman rather than human, we can write off his holiness, his total commitment to discerning and carrying out God’s will, by saying, “Well, he was God after all. It’s different for me.” It makes him other. Separate. It absolves us of the responsibility to seek.
In Jesus, God embraced the messiness of life on Earth in order to show that holiness can be found despite (and within) the mess.
Our challenge is to do the same.
Still, in the first nine days of Advent it’s been fun to watch Michael really connect with this season for the first time. I realized that the concentration of spring birthdays in our household means my other children have been pushing three before they had their first real Advent experience. So with Michael I’m seeing Advent in a whole new way.
First, a portrait of Michael. He wants to do everything, and he gets very bent out of shape if he’s passed over. He’s beginning, finally, to attempt to talk a little bit. Not spontaneous words, but increasing willingness to repeat (or attempt to repeat) words. Some spontaneous signing. He’s also toilet trained, as long as you don’t put any clothes on his lower half–even to the point where he’ll tell me he needs to go. I’ve never toilet trained in the dead of winter and it makes me wince, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. I’ve targeted the week after Christmas for knuckling down and making the transition to toilet-trained-while-clothed. And he’s singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” sans words, with enough pitch/rhythm accuracy that we can identify it. (“Is that normal for a two year old?” Christian asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s not one of those skills they put on developmental charts.”)
Lately people who know Michael’s propensity for destruction through exploration have been pointing me to that U. of Iowa study about messy kids being smarter. It was really about babies smashing food, but it sounds good, and I made the leap as quickly as everyone else. The kid is impossible to keep out of anything: the iPad, the Advent calendar, the refrigerator, the pantry where the graham crackers are kept (on the up side, since he can get into anything now, maybe I can move them back to their old location on the lazy susan and free up that pantry space at last). You can see the intelligence in his eyes, just before he pounces. He’s a whirlwind, into everything. He knows how to turn on the computer speaking voice from the “unlock” screen,” and twice we’ve caught him almost purchasing something from iTunes via the iPad. The difference between him and Julianna, who has always, from age two to age almost-seven, been content to sit quietly and rifle through books and cards, is quite profound. She just never did get into things the way he does.
So it’s been really, really fun to watch him make Advent connections. I kept him (and Julianna) home while Christian took the big boys to get the Christmas tree on Saturday, because it was just so brutally cold. But when it was finally time to put ornaments on, he was so excited. He had to do it himself, and he had to point every one of them out to me afterward. Making cookies was Heaven. I get to measure spices, snitch batter, AND spread icing and sprinkles? And last night, when we bundled up and rang the Salvation Army Bell at Bass Pro, he was the cutest thing, walking up to people and ringing the bell at them, grunting for attention.
I’ve enjoyed every Advent since we started using Advent calendar activities to keep us organized and able to make time for service in December, but it’s different this year. I thought it was because I’d finally mastered the appropriate balance of activities, and I’m sure that’s part of it, but I think it has at least as much to do with watching Michael process it all for the first time.
I learned the ghastly truth about Santa Claus in the first grade. I’m pretty sure I even remember which one of my female classmates told me, clearly intending it to be an emotional earthquake. I say that with confidence because even through the haze of thirty-three years’ distance, I remember feeling a need to play it cool because she was trying to get a rise out of me.
I was taken aback, but it did not crush me, because I was already well aware that other girls had much bigger Christmases than I did, and it made perfect sense to me to think that the difference in our parents’ incomes, and not the whim of some big guy in a red coat, was what made that difference.
Christian found out in the fourth grade, and it ruined Christmas for at least a year.
Alex is in the third grade. He’s asking probing questions about the nature of Jesus, and reality and fiction have been completely separated for over two years, except in this area. I’ve been punting all Santa questions to my husband in that time, because Christian was the one who thought we ought to let it continue. I am tremendously ambivalent about this whole Santa thing. “Christian,” I said this fall, “it crushed you because you believed too long. He’s starting to act like a tween. This is ridiculous. We need to get out ahead of it.”
“All right, I’ll have a conversation with him,” he said…but he’s been procrastinating waiting for Alex to bring it up for six weeks.
So last week, Alex asked at the top of his lungs, “IS RUDOLPH REAL?”
I looked pointedly at my husband, who sighed and sent me upstairs with the three little ones so he and Alex could have The Conversation. I tried to keep an ear out, but since I was also trying to make sure the noise level upstairs covered the revelation being imparted downstairs, I missed most of it. The gist of it was that he tried to let Alex down easy, using this book The Autobiography of Santa Claus, which does, I must say, a lovely job of covering every base. At the end, Santa talks about how kids realize even he can’t give gifts to every person in the world, so at some point they decide to give up their Santa gifts so someone else can have them.
“That doesn’t sound like you really told him,” I said dubiously, when we talked it over later.
“We talked about it,” he said. “We’ve started the process.”
I sighed and let it go, because maybe he’s right that slow and incremental is the middle ground between holding onto the magic and being crushed because it lasted too long.
Yesterday evening, though, we were watching Santa Claus is Coming To Town with the kids, and Alex, who is deep into the Autobiography, looked at Nicholas knowingly and said, “Just so you know, this isn’t really how it happened.”
“Uh…” I said, caught between the child who’s supposed to know and the one we’re trying to preserve the magic for, “Nobody really knows…”
“Santa knows,” Alex said. “And I’m reading his autobiography. That’s what an autobiography is. Right?”
Speechless, I looked at my husband, who looked at me helplessly. I said to him said softly, “I don’t think that conversation ‘took’.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I tried.”
Good grief. I’m in Santa Purgatory. Come on, some mouthy third grader, can’t you put me out of my misery?
(We’re going to see Santa tonight. I swear if the “is he the real one” conversation comes up, I’m just going to tell him already.)
leads to this…
Let’s face it: My house is stuffed with Stuff.
I am engaged in an ongoing war to rid my house of junk (Halloween rings shaped like bats, useless party bag favors, toy airplanes built so shoddily they broke the first day, T shirts, T shirts, T shirts–what is it with the “we must have a T shirt for every possible occasion” thing?), and yet the truth is, a family of six is just going to have a lot of stuff.
We print on the back side of every piece of school communication or homework that has a blank side. (I’m kind of obsessive about that.) We are extremely selective about what schoolwork gets saved. We consider ourselves not big accumulators of kid paraphernalia. Yet we have So.Much.Stuff.
And about this time of year, I start contemplating crazy things to address it.
Because it’s time to shop for Christmas gifts. My husband’s family has always done Christmas big. Mine, not so much. So every year we engage in a (loving) (respectful) battle of tug of war to determine how much is “too much.”
Plus, we have kid birthdays four weeks on either side of Christmas. Julianna’s, in February, isn’t so bad, but Michael’s, which is this week, is a stumper. I mean, what do you give a two year old who doesn’t even get the whole idea of birthdays, and who has two older brothers? Everything he’s interested in playing with we already have! And guess what? We have two occasions to give gifts for!
Then there’s the small matter of how to do the shopping without ruining the surprise for the recipient. Last year, for instance, I thought Nicholas (3 3/4)was old enough to understand the concept of surprise. I thought it would be special for him to get to help me pick his daddy’s gift. I impressed upon him the need to keep it a surprise for Daddy, and we went to Kohl’s and chose two Jerry Garcia ties. That night when Christian got home, Nicholas met him at the door shouting, “Daddy, guess what? We got you TIES!!!!”
Needless to say, Nicholas is not going with me when I shop for gifts this year. And that adds some serious complication to the shopping process. My choices are: go while he’s in school, which is supposed to be my work time; go after the kids are in bed, which guts what little time I have to spend with my husband; or hire a sitter. How much moolah do I have to dish out on babysitting so that I can go spend even more on gifts?
I’m contemplating crazy, people. Here are the ideas I’ve come up with:
- The children must each pick two toys to give to charity, to make room for new arrivals.
- “Disappear” that train table we gave Alex for Christmas when he was two, and wrap it up as a birthday gift for Michael.
- Helium balloons. Because they’ll go away after three days.
- Take Michael with me while I go to Target to buy the markers we plan to give him. Because he doesn’t have a clue, anyway.
What crazy things have you done (or contemplated) at this time of year?
I had this post written and scheduled several days before yesterday’s drama…so read it anyway and I’ll update you at the end,
Last week’s unexpected news from the doctor has us scrambling to prepare last-minute things. So the Sunday after Thanksgiving we came home from church to a house that needed some serious “nesting.” At 37 weeks, I’m supposed to glory in this process, am I not? Well…I’m not!
First, I discovered that the box that said “Boys, generic clothes 0-6 months,” in fact did NOT have the generic clothes in it. So I had to find the box with the girls’ 0-6 month clothes. Which, not having needed them for 4 years, was in the back bottom of the boys’ closet. “Christian, I need an intervention,” I said. “I need an adult who doesn’t have a baby sticking out the front to get the box out.”
“I’m not sure I qualify,” he said.
Incidentally, would you like to know how many generic outfits we have? Three.
Next I pulled out the “coats”–you know, those big fuzzy sleeper-with-hood-like things. One for a boy, one for a girl. “Christian,” I said, “I’m putting these in the closet. When you come pick me up from the hospital, you HAVE TO BRING THE RIGHT ONE.”
“What does it matter?”
“Um, let’s see. We have a navy blue one with a train on it, and a purple one with a flower on it.”
“I don’t care!”
;lkj;lkj;lkj;lkj;lkj;lkj (our longstanding “chat” sign for drumming fingers). “Um,” I said, “I DO.” Seriously. I scrapbook. Can you imagine coming-home pictures with a boy wearing purple, or a girl wearing a steam engine????
Slowly but surely this week, I’m ticking off the preparations. Hospital bag: packed. Outgrown clothing: put away. Sheets: in the crib, if not made. And now, this:
Notice something missing on Stocking #3 of 6?
Well, I suppose that’s enough about reluctant nesting. Coming home from Champaign, Illinois last Friday night, we explored every Christmas station available in the middle of nowhere. Just as we were coming over the last hills back home, this song came on the radio. I began lambasting it for being really stupid. And then Alex started cracking up in the back seat with every new permutation of “rigging up the lights”: One bulb goes out and they ALL go out! BLINKING? WHY ARE THEY BLINKING???? And I discovered that hangover lyric or no hangover lyric, if it makes my son laugh like he did when he was a toddler, I have to like the song.
One more link–perhaps the most important link I’ve ever shared! If you are in the position of buying gifts (Christmas, birthday, just because) for Other People’s Kids, PLEASE READ THIS!
Okay, and now you can look at my new and early cutie here: http://kathleenbasi.com/blog/2011/12/01/because-we-really-are-incapable-of-having-a-baby-withou-drama/#entry
Time for a nap.