Yes, My Daughter, There is a Santa Claus

I love me some Christmas! Bug has been so spirited this year it is impossible not to live vicariously through her. We started the season off by going through our closets and the toys to donate our things to boys and girls and mommies and daddies who don't have as much as we do. It's not easy to convince a three-year old that two of her dolls should go to someone else, but she definitely caught on. She has actually thrown it my face a time or two: "I give my toy to boys and girls don't have toys cause I don't want to pick it up," or "Mom, if you don't wear that shirt why don't you give it to mommies that don't have shirts." After donations she picked the gifts to give to her friends and cousins. We talked about how happy they will be to open it up. She can tell you that she likes to give because it makes her people super happy. She loved bundling up and walking hot chocolate jars, cookie bags, and homemade dog treats to the neighbors and singing "Merry Christmas!" in that special way only a young child can. And she asks often about Santa and whether he knows she is being good or if he can see her petting the cat nicely.

I have always been infectious with holiday spirit. As a kid, I was the one that couldn't contain my anticipation for Christmas morning. I would turn up the Mannheim Steamroller CD until the blaring trumpets shook the shelves (still do.) Even at the age of 15, I was up at 5:30am surveying the bounty ablaze in the pink, green, gold glow from the tree lights. My parents made a rule that we were not allowed to disturb them until 6, and only if our grubby paws were cradling hot cups of coffee or tea or cocoa. I begged my baby sister to say she still “believed” until she was about ten, cruelly suggesting that Santa would never come again if she stopped believing because she was the youngest. 

My mom and I were chatting the other day about the one Christmas morning that I slept until 8am and she knew for sure I was deathly ill. True be told, I had actually cried myself to sleep that night.  I was eight-years old and finally played opossum well enough to trick my mom into thinking I was asleep. I crawled out of bed, tiptoed down the hall, and witnessed the great con of children. I was devastated. My heart was broken. I am shocked I didn’t wake my sister with how loud I was sobbing.

Now integrity is a big deal in our house. Through the potty training woes with Bug, the most important issue for me is always whether she is telling the truth about her business. Having an accident is secondary to telling me a lie and that pretty much goes for everything else in this house. This fact coupled with my devastation from Christmas of ’88 makes me seriously contemplate the role Santa plays in our holiday traditions. Muffin thinks I am making too big a deal of it and that it would be cruel to take the magic of Santa away from our children. I agree that there is a magic about this particular holiday that wouldn’t be the same without the blind belief in St. Nick. But I worry about being confronted with the question one day about whether I have been lying to them all these years. So, I plan to use history.

Saint Nicholas was born in the third century to wealthy parents and raised a devout Christian. His parents died when he was young, and he obeyed the word of Christ by giving his wealth to the poor and the sick. He eventually became a Bishop known for his generosity to the needy and to children. He was imprisoned by Romans for his faith and after his release attended the Council of Nicaea. He died December 6, 343, and that day became known as St. Nicholas’ Day throughout Europe to keep the stories of his goodness and generosity alive. Simple gift giving on December 6^th is supposed to preserve the focus of Christmas Day on the birth of Christ.

1667 years later, we still remember Saint Nicholas as a generous and kind man whose desire to live like Christ strengthened his community and spread compassion throughout the world. He was a real person and his mission of honor through giving continues nearly two millennia later through each of us. That is magical. That is awesome. That is as real as any love on this Earth. So when my daughters ask about Santa, I will hug them close and confidently tell them that his magic is real enough to change the world, as is any heart focused with kindness, integrity and pure vision.

The Discipline Gene

So the other day I was confronted by the stark contrast between JD and Jennifer. Muffin has a lawyer friend he met as a police officer. The two hit it off over their interests in special military units (and possibly involvement although I admit I may have glazed over some of these conversations) and love for golf. While they get together whenever Muffin is in town, I have never personally met Lawyer Steve. I know that Steve has had a lot of success in his career: ivy league graduate, DA, successful private law practice, attorney for major recreational resort, great home in THE neighborhood, right family connections, etc. By sheer coincidence the other day, I happened upon Steve’s name on the Facebook profile of a high school buddy of mine. Sure enough, Steve and I went to high school together, and to make matters worse, he graduated a year after I did.

Once the initial small world shock wore off, one word came to mind: ouch. Here was a glaring example of all that I had NOT accomplished in the twelve years since high school. Adding salt to the wound was the fact that Steve remembered who I was out of a student body of 2000+ people. Now I remember nearly every person I have ever had a conversation with, but I never recalled having gone to high school with Steve in the four years he has been a friend with my husband. But he remembered me.

And why wouldn’t he? JD was a go-getter. Two-sport varsity athlete as a sophomore, International Baccalaureate student, club A, club B, blah, blah, blah. And in 12 years of work and study, what exactly have I done with all that potential? Yes, yes, I have created and nurtured a two beautiful girls and a marriage, don’t get me wrong that is hard and rewarding work, but what has that overachiever actually achieved? With that tenacity, that drive to do it all, what does my resume have to show for my twelve years in the world?

The honest answer to that question is: quit before I could fail. “NurtureShock” by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman is a collection of research studies and conclusions that go against the grain of modern parenting. It’s a great book on parenting I picked up before Bit was born. One of the studies they discuss talks about honors students being told throughout their childhood that they are smart, smart, smart. But when they finally get to a subject that is difficult for them, instead of having the confidence to try until they figure it out, they become insecure and give up. Right now I feel like the adult poster child for that study.

There are grandiose ideas swirling around in this head of mine, but I never start on any of them. I have a craft project I began in April when my best friend had her baby that still isn’t finished. I save ticket stubs, museum pamphlets, and Christmas cards for the scrapbooks I will put together someday. I have a shadow box of objects from my wedding five years ago that has never been put together. So, while I’d like to say that admitting I have a problem with discipline is the hardest step, obviously moving on to the next one is really the tough one for me. How does one suddenly become more disciplined? How does one begin finishing things they start, and clean the house, and nurse a baby, and wrestle a three-year old, and tickle feet, and make homemade dinners, and sleep? It seems that I am still a sprinter who needs more endurance.

I don’t want to leave these questions out into the Internet void and have my two readers (hi mom, hi mom-in-law) think I am not working on the solution. I am, but the solution and plan will have to come another day. In true Jennifer fashion, I am putting off finishing the thought for another day. HA!

No, honestly, I need to get to finishing one of the few projects I can honestly say I am seeing through to completion: my first family Christmas. It is the first year we are spending Christmas at home with no grandparents, traveling, or visitors. We are starting our own traditions, which means that I get to make all the meals and wash all the dishes. Sorry, Mom, there’s another thing I always took for granted!

The Potty Chronicals - Update

Since Bug decided she was, in fact, a big girl now, she spent two days in big girl panties with 100% success and enthusiasm. She started out wearing a shirt, socks and big girl undies, but yesterday I was able to get her into pants. I was hoping for three days in a row before she earned a spontaneous frozen reward, but she wanted to wear a diaper this morning after I changed her from overnight. I am still completely thrilled for our success and the plan is to just follow her lead. 

I am starting to realize that humans are hardwired just as any other animal. Sure, they model behaviors after their caregivers and learn important life skills from us, but there are some things they just do on their own time. I cannot force Bit to roll over, I cannot force Bug to fall asleep at my whim, and I cannot make Muffin write me a romantic sonnet. I am now a believer that children potty train on their own time. I taught her the process at 18-months. She knows the procedure and how to do it. But the motivation to finally let go of what she has always known is something she has to muster for herself. 

Her desire to know that Mommy will change her butt is just as strong as her belief that milk tastes different if it isn't in a sippy cup. We have discussed that after Santa comes to visit, her sippy cups will be thrown away and she will have to drink milk the same way she drinks juice. She had difficulty transitioning milk from bottles into sippy cups as well. It seems that my oldest girl is brave when it comes to trying new frivolous things, but when something is truly important (like milk or Mommy changing her) she is not easily convinced that change is a good thing. So, if potty training is any indication of the future, she may be a girl who needs a few more hugs during the beginning of school. She may have a hard time sometimes with the uncontrollable outside world or accepting new approaches to learning when she has mastered the old way. And I'm okay with this because, honestly, she really is just like her mother and her father.

Or she could completely surprise me, and be just like Bug.

Bit's Baby Dust

Since Bit was born, we have been overwhelmed with the need for congratulations for our extended brood of friends and family. I am now up to seventeen friends expecting babies in 2011 and more than half of those pregnancies were something I physically prayed for or for people who met Bit. It seems that since our little girl came into the world in such a dramatic fashion, so has the fertility of our friends.

It started back in May or June. At the time I was heavy in the belly and planning a trip for Bug and I out to Colorado for my Bestie Wendy’s wedding. I was thinking of all the friends and family I wanted to see and if my bulging belly would make any of them uncomfortable. One of our closest friends suffers from a tumor on her pituitary gland that likely began growing after her first pregnancy six years ago. She and her husband have racked up quite a list of doctor bills trying to figure out how to convince her body it is not in menopause. Muffin’s cousin had been struggling to conceive after a miscarriage, and I had two cousins in the same boat. Some of these conception problems had been going on for years and doctors had no answers as to why the couples were having problems.

So in May or June, I would be thinking of these women and feeling blessed to be pregnant. I would rub my belly, feeling connected to my baby girl, and give thanks for the opportunity to take part in such a miracle. And I would say a prayer for these four women, hoping that they could soon get some good news. By September, each one was pregnant, despite incredible medical situations! One did have a miscarriage, but it was her first conception and after five years of trying, the disappointment came with the silver lining that they could in fact conceive.

I boasted my baby dust success on Facebook and started getting requests from friends to pray for them. I started jokingly rubbing Lil Bit’s baldhead and saying prayers for my friends.  One by one, friend after friend, starting announcing they were expecting. Two conceived shortly after seeing me pregnant out in Colorado and after rubbing my belly for themselves. A third has recently announced she is expecting after a night out with Muffin and I and meeting Bit. The latest is Muffin’s best friend, who met Bit in the NICU, and I secretly made a few wishes for them (without their knowing it. SURPRISE!) So far, the streak is up to nine pregnancies for couples that I actually prayed for or had interaction with us. The other eight are coincidences. Usually I find out about two at a time. First, a coincidental pregnancy is announced and then the one I prayed for. The current dust list has three new members and the one original that miscarried.

I find it interesting because after our ordeal, I was given 25-30% chance of some sort of preeclampsia issue to arise again in any future pregnancies. For Muffin, these odds are too high to chance another NICU baby, mommy hospitalization, or fatalities. Since Bit is still so tiny that I don’t have any baby fever, I am inclined to agree with him, although I’m not sure how I will feel when she is running and talking and trying to catch up to her sister. But with these two beautiful girls in my life, would it be fair to risk their mother for the 50/50 chance of a brother?

The announcements of joyous new additions are helping me cope with the idea of being a complete family. I would have expected it to make me feel the opposite, but I am so thrilled to stalk the slightest hint at news for the people on my dust wish list, that I am satisfied. I look at my baby girl and I see her as such a catalyst for joy and completeness. It’s as if she was the missing cog in a machine, a puzzle piece that completed the whole picture, an elf bringing Christmas in July.  What if these announcements aren’t a coincidence? Could it be that the genuine, unselfish wish for joy for another is a magical aphrodisiac?

I do know one thing for sure; Bit’s Baby Dust is likely to strike again. There is a reason for her sly little grin!

The Potty Chronicals - Invoking Santa

Yes, I have invoked Santa to promote potty training. My level of Santa endorsement as a parent is still completely undecided. I’d prefer the girls to understand more of the spiritual concepts of the holiday season rather than the materialism. But, she asked a question the other day and I ran with it, hopefully all the way to the potty finish line.

Now we last visited potty training, I had completely stopped trying. We moved backwards into actual diapers again from pull-ups and I ceremoniously put the big girl panties into a box in my closet. This last week, despite my opposition, Bug has been adamant about being naked… in December… in New England. Now when she is naked she is 100% perfect with the potty so I gave in and let her be naked. She was doing her business about three days ago and asked, “Do you think Santa knows I went poopoo in the potty?” I immediately sent a text out into the grandparent universe and ten minutes later the phone rang with a jolly laugh and recognition of her victory.

I wish I could say that she has been completely diaper free since then, but the rest of the day continued to stay “dry.” The next day, we went to see Santa at the mall on one of his visits from the North Pole to see the children and update his list. It was her first official Santa visit and she happily talked to him, although politely refused sitting in his lap. She was dry for three and a half hours at the mall, I finally forced her to go when we stopped for dinner, and then another two hours until we got home. She did wet her panty/cover-up combo just before bed, but I was pleased with the progress.

The next day, she started the negotiations. She wanted candy for each attempt (Muffin decorates the tree with candy canes like his grandparents) and I agreed, but ONLY if she had clothes on AND used the potty. The most difficult step for our potty training has been the transition to clothes on. Momma gets tired of scrubbing floors or couches if we are in big girl panties only, and she just doesn’t seem to care about a wet layer.  She was resentful about that offer for most of the day. We had a play date with Momma E and her three-year old friend used the potty during the play date. Again, Bug was resentful about this as if it was being rubbed in her face.

But this morning, I noticed that she had left our bed without any drill sergeant demands that I get up too. After a little more dozing, I heard her stomping up the stairs, “Momma, Momma, I went poop!” She came around the corner naked as the day she was born and beaming with pride. I hopped out of bed with visible vigor, and sure enough, a wet diaper was on the floor next to her jammies, but she had indeed used the potty. I danced. I sang. I kissed. I hugged. I gave her 1/3 of her prized blue candy cane.

As we speak she is playing Simon Says with Muffin, shirt, socks and BIG GIRL panties on. She says she wants to be big. I said, “Yes, you are working so hard on being a big girl.” She resentfully replied, “NO. I AM a big girl.” So, no more conditions. I will treat her like a big girl and hopefully she will rise to the occasion and be one. And hopefully I don’t have to scrub my couch.

The Hardest Time of the Year

I miss the stars. I miss stepping out into the darkness of the Colorado plains and being welcomed by the Milky Way spread out before me, horizon to horizon, not a single tree or city haze to separate me from awesomeness. It’s been five months since I really saw them. Even at the near-ripening age of 31, it is one of the few things that instantly steals the breath from my lungs and weighs my jaw. To feel so small, so infinite, so mesmerized.

We dog sat the last few nights and during my 3 am potty walks I was treated to a rare New England star display. The crisp December air contrasting with the deep, dark sky actually made me thankful for those pulls out of bed in the wee morning hours.  I can’t remember the last time I saw the Big Dipper, Orion, Taurus, Gemini and Pegasus in one sky; I’m pretty sure it hasn’t happened since we moved here. Usually, the megalopolis city glare or cloud sweeps steal the heavenly thunder.

It couldn’t have come at a better time. Starry skies have always touched a primal emotional place inside me I cannot explain. Time under the stars often stirs me into a centered place especially when my mind is chaotic, as it has been these last few weeks. This is the hardest time of the year for us. Sure, the holidays are a common time for people to feel bummed out, lonely, and alienated. But for us, the first week of December brings distance, hollowness, and the reality of the potential evil lurking deep inside those few bad apples. This is the anniversary of the shooting.

Muffin used to be a civil police officer and I used to be a producer for a local morning news show. The third shift lifestyle fit our insomniac tendencies so we easily shifted to matinee movies and 7am dinners. In fact, I still contort at the idea of running grocery errands on a weekend. The night of the shooting I had just gotten my computer fired up and was reviewing the 10pm rundown when I heard “3Adam-38. Traffic.” It was my Muffin on the scanners calling in a stop (3Adam meaning his particular substation in the city and 38 for his ID number that night.) “Get ‘em Muffin,” I whispered as I did every time I recognized his voice on the scanners. I checked the time on my computer: 11:15pm. Then my editor/overnight photographer walked in and I needed to have a “supervisor” chat with him about work, so we sat down to talk. Just as I was getting to the meat and potatoes he stood up and walked away. “Where are you going?” I asked. “I have to gear up… officer down, didn’t you hear that?”

Of all the ass prods (associate producers) at my station, I took great pride at being the best scanner hound. From robberies to odd accidents with gnarly video, I had developed a reputation for not being afraid to send my video crew out on hunches from the scanner chatter. But I did not hear the officer down call this night. My brain never processed it. If I had, I would have known that Muffin was NOT the officer down, but the one making the call. While the next ten minutes was terrible, I’m glad I do not have to live with the sound of his voice making that call.

While my editor ran to gear up and grab the nearest reporter, I slowly processed the now screaming scanner chatter. The digital ID told me the chatter was from Muffin’s substation; 3Adams called in from every which where. They were all driving to the intersection of Muffin’s traffic stop. Then came a frenzied and quivering voice clear as new glass, “Where’s the medics, man, where’s the medics? You gotta get ‘em here quick, man. He’s hurt bad… he’s hurt real bad.”

I had often daydreamed scenarios like this; ALL soldier/first responder spouses do it. I had played scenarios in my head so often that I honestly wondered if I would have any emotion if it ever happened. I had two reactions: the left hand grabbed my cell; the right hand grabbed the work phone. With the right hand I dialed the only producer who knew the morning show well enough to cover immediately, my anchor, and my news director. I rallied the troops to cover for me because I was headed to the hospital. Between calls I ordered the overnight news crew to the right intersection and told them which non-emergency numbers to call.

The left hand was monitoring the cell phone. As a police family member I had attended a brief family readiness meeting on critical incidents so that I would know what to expect if my officer was involved in a shooting. I was reassured that spouses and family were quickly notified in the event of an incident. Because I worked with scanner traffic, I had mentioned to Muffin that if something was going down and he was NOT involved but going to cover, he should call my phone and let it ring once so that the missed call would let me know he was ok. The left hand phone stayed silent.

The silence prompted right hand action after the producer work was completed. I called the non-emergency number and rattled off Muffin’s personal ID code. I pleaded for them to just tell me if he was the one hurt, but they said they had no information. Because of the scanner, I had more information than they did. Because of the family briefing, I next called the substation nearest to my work so that someone could come and pick me up. They were completely clueless as to how to handle the situation. In retrospect, there was a substation whose desk operators knew that the newsgirl calling for beat checks was married to an officer. These women later told me that they were ready for me to call them and had their supervisor standing by for me. I honestly didn’t think to count on my own connections because I was trying to follow the protocol suggested to me.

Despite my constant calls, I had a few brief moments in between of emotional crying out. My poor colleague didn’t know what to do or say for me and sweetly just left a hand on my shoulder before he hustled out to do his job. I was left briefly alone with the silent left hand. After about 8 phone calls by the right hand, the left hand finally rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Fortunately I knew the voice, “There’s been a shooting. I hit bad guy. It’s gonna be a long night.”

Thankfully, it only takes an exhale for panic to leave the body. From my family training I knew that Muffin was now going to be swept away as a witness for reports, interrogations and any necessary first aid. “What do you need me to do?” I asked him. “I have no idea,” he replied.

And that was pretty much how I spent the next hour. No one seemed to know what to do with me. I was a spouse who knew about the incident sooner than they could have ever planned for and once my crew returned I would likely know more than any public relations filter they would normally put on a critical incident. It took about 20 minutes for other newsies to begin to filter in and crowd the newsroom. They all told me to go to Muffin, to leave and do what I needed to do. But honestly, I had nowhere to go. So after panic/focused protocol came limbo. After briefly talking to my mother-in-law and taking notes from the first calls with information from my reporter, I was shunned to a quiet space where I wouldn’t be a face on a news story. I made two more calls to the police department before finally being directed to someone on duty who happened to graduate the police academy with Muffin. He and his wife were members of our police family we actually socialized with and I believe he was taken off the streets and specifically put on Jennifer duty for the night. I drove to the police administration building to sit and wait.

Muffin had made the traffic stop and suspected a DUI, so he radioed in for a DUI officer (KJ) to come and do a roadside test. A second officer arrived as backup and approached the suspected vehicle. KJ arrived and the three began the same DUI dance they had done hundreds of times before. Muffin stayed in his car and began tickets to expedite paperwork. Officer #2 went around the back and passenger side of the suspect car and KJ approached the car for the third official police contact with the suspect. He opened the door. The suspect came out shooting.

Muffin heard a pop and immediately drew his weapon from inside his cruiser. He fired from the car through the windshield. Forensic evidence showed that the suspect murdered KJ, and fired at least two shots each at Officer #2 and Muffin. He was hit five times. When the suspect was on the ground, Muffin got out of his car, walked past the suspect and kicked the gun away from him and immediately attempted any first aid he could. It was Muffin who radioed in the officer down call, and Officer #2 who called in the “he’s hurt bad” statements I heard on the scanners. Muffin held KJ as he took his last breaths. Once paramedics arrived and Muffin was removed from first aid duties, his Sergeant offered him his cell phone to call me.  Regretfully, the suspect was not killed in the exchange of fire and court proceedings drew out the process for the victims.

*************

This is the first time I have really reflected on my side of the story that night. The incident is likely the defining moment of my adulthood. As a mother of two beautiful baby girls, it feels terrible to write that such an evil thing should define me. But I believe that was when JD left. I don’t want to be the woman I was before the shooting. I don’t want to be someone who takes family for granted, has career tunnel vision, or chooses pride over sappy apologies and terms of endearment. When the love of your life is in a shoot out, you don’t want to waste a moment not putting them first.  

Looking back, I cried on the surface. The first emotion I felt was guilt because I was thankful that my officer lived. KJ’s family was incredibly gracious. They actually said they felt sorry for us (and the family of Officer #2) because we had to live forward with whys in our heads instead of closure. They begged us to live forward and promised us that was what KJ would have wanted us to do. 

I spent the first year and a half baking Bug and doing my best to support Muffin’s emotional needs. He was the PTSD soldier poster child. He had swings of anger and guilt, but put on the professional face when it came to work. Things began to get tense in our relationship and I always put it on him – he wasn’t dealing with his issues, he was trying to push me away, he was being a dick. I finally decided that if he didn’t want my support I wouldn’t give it and I purposely started doing things I considered selfish: working out, spending time with friends, going out alone. That was when I realized how depressed I was and I hadn’t dealt with any of my own feeling as a victim. I had thrown all my energy into supporting my family and hadn’t taken a look at myself. In doing so, I was asking Muffin to be responsible for providing for the family through his own dark time AND to be responsible for all my happiness. For him, the weight of seeing me spinning in circles was adding to the weight of watching a man die and I was unknowingly breaking his heart.

This is the importance of balance in one’s life. This is the reason people say “you can’t help others if you can’t help yourself.” Since I realized that I hadn’t dealt with my own issues, I began taking time for myself again. I joined the gym. I took up healthy cooking as a hobby. I started making stronger efforts to hang out with the handful of friends we had made in New England. I reached out for activities to meet new people. I began the slow process of dusting off JD. 

Four years and two babies later I still struggle with the guilt of that night. There is no rhyme or reason as to why my Muffin made it and why bad guy waited until the third police contact to go crazy. I have always promised that I would live my life forward for KJ, and promised to strive to make every day of my life worthy of his sacrifice. But after 1462 days, I finally realize that living my life to honor him isn’t working. Living your life for anyone but yourself never works. So to KJ, Muffin, Bug and Bit, I am sorry that I haven’t completely committed myself to living my life as I see fit. I am sorry that I have wasted this time being a partner for someone else, a mother and role model for someone else and not the one I was destined to be. I promise that I will find the balance between ambition and martyrdom, achieving and loving so that I can live the life I deserve. And then, I will be the wife/mother you deserve.