Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
- a lap top, tablet, or iPad with Skype installed
- a good internet connection at funeral home, portable internet for cemetery
- depending on device, any additional equipment to be better seen or heard
- power supply and perhaps extension cord
- someone willing to carry you around, park you in a good place, and check on you from time to time
- someone who will introduce you and will welcome the other mourners to interact with you
- whichever device gives you the best picture while using Skype
- a headset if needed
- a good internet connection
- a glass of water or tea (or something stronger)
- an extremely good reason why you couldn't be there in person
The day after my father died, I got a post card from him from our favorite breakfast joint with an invitation for breakfast with him. Today, we got our last mail from him - our Christmas cards. I guess I am not handling it all very well.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
I am pretty sure I used to believe in Santa Claus. I used to believe in god too – thanks Catholic school. I believe in neither now.
I am pretty sure my belief in Santa was short-lived. I have no memory of believing, but I do remember not believing. Plus my sister is four years older than me, and she probably filled me in. We moved to a new house when I was in kindergarten, and I distinctly remember my parents talking about Santa coming down the new fireplace, etc. and I didn’t believe then. That’s young, I think. I was 5.
This year I have a student who still believes in Santa. He’s 9. I haven’t had such a young student in ages. It was such a pleasure to listen to him describe how Santa brings him and his brother presents on Santa Claus Day at the beginning of December and how the magic star brings them presents again on Christmas Eve. He had magic and wonder in his eyes. It was sweet.
I wonder how he’ll feel when he figures it out.
I don’t recall any traumatic moment of finding out that Santa did not exist. I mean, I went to Catholic school, so I knew all about the Saint Nicholas part of the story and the Jesus part of the story as well. Santa in the red suit never visited our school, and I only remember one time I sat on Santa’s lap after the local Christmas parade. In fact, a successful Christmas means you don’t see Santa. He comes to your house when you’re asleep.
Misiu played Santa this year for the village Santa Claus Day party. Last year it was one of the moms. Two years ago it was the least drunk guy from in front of the local shop. Rosie cried that year and said Santa smelled bad. I am happy to report that Misiu did a wonderful job. He talked to the kids, danced with them, sang some songs, gave them their presents, and posed for pictures. Only one child cried, but it is understandable for a one-year-old. We told our girls that Santa was Daddy, but Rosie was still a bit scared. She said with tears in her eyes, “That doesn’t look like Daddy.” She cheered up when she heard Santa talking with Daddy’s voice. Misiu said it was a million times better than the last time he played Santa 20 years ago at college when he had a massive hangover.
We didn’t introduce the concept of Santa to our kids, and for the longest time I wasn’t even aware that Poland celebrated Santa Claus Day as a separate day. When our nanny found out that the kids didn’t get anything under their pillows, she took Santa Claus Day into her own hands and surprised them each year. Then they went to pre-school and the fascination grew. I tried to limit discussions about Santa, you know, to limit how much I had to lie to them. I still feel guilty about it and a little underappreciated as well, as it wasn’t Santa who went to 3 stores to find “Beautiful Hair Barbie” or whatever her name is in English, but me, Mom –without extra assistance from any magic reindeer.
I hope that my children don’t experience any long-term damage from the web of lies surrounding the childhood magic of Christmas. I find it fascinating that my children are interested in mythology and religion as legend, don’t believe in god, but yet believe wholeheartedly in Santa Claus. Every year we watch a cartoon which states explicitly that there is no Santa Claus and that we each honor the spirit of Saint Nicholas every time we do something nice for someone or give someone a present. They have noticed that the presents are wrapped in “our” wrapping paper and that they get the presents they asked for after writing letters to Santa.
When my kids ask me something, I usually give it to them straight. They know how babies are made, they know where meat comes from, they know that their friend’s dog didn’t go to live on a farm, they know that Mommy isn’t too busy to play Barbie, but that mommy simply doesn’t like playing Barbie. My friend said that it was cruel of us to tell our kids that god doesn’t exist. I never told them that god doesn’t exist. I just didn’t tell that god exists. I tried to do the same with Santa but it just didn’t work out. Oh well, they’ll figure it out sooner or later.
Friday, December 26, 2014
Monday, December 22, 2014
Years ago when my Grandmother was still alive a 6 a.m. or even a 3 a.m. phone call meant that Gram had gotten her time zones mixed up or she had called the wrong granddaughter. Since she passed away, 6 a.m. phone calls can only mean something (as Rosie says) “very not good” has happened.
When the phone rang at 6 o’clock this morning, I just repeated to myself, “Let it be a wrong number. Let it be a wrong number.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t. How I wish it had been.
My father passed away unexpectedly.
He was prepared with all the necessary paperwork and insurance policies, but he certainly wasn’t ready. Nor am I.
I am at least able to say that I spoke to him a few hours before his sudden death. My last words to him were “I love you, Dad” and his were “I love you, too”.
Today has been a very hard day, here so far away.
I came home this afternoon only to find a post card, just delivered, from my father. It’s from a local restaurant where my father likes to eat breakfast and hold court with his local friends. He wrote in his careful script – “You are invited for breakfast. Love, Mom and Dad”.