Take the sad remarks about children with a grain of salt, please
This year, in the middle of my search for the perfect doll for my six-year-old granddaughter—do I want to get her an American Girl doll pretty much like everyone else in her California village of Santa Monica, or do I want to spend way too many bucks for a Madame Alexander doll like mine which is still tucked safely away in my bottom dresser drawer. The problem with Madame Alexander is that while you can get a doll for $35, what you really want after examining the web site, is the $329.99 special edition bride doll which just makes your mouth water.
Anyway, the last thing my husband said as he left for work this morning was, “She doesn’t need a doll that costs that much.” And he was looking at the $35 doll. Humph.
Amid this crucial decision making process came an e-mail from Diane saying how much she was missing her dad this year. In fact, she had spent most of the morning, “sitting and crying and typing.”
Richard, her dad, died last year right after Christmas and naturally she is missing him right now. There should be some kind of ritual for the sadness of Christmas, for the feeling of longing that you have for the past and for those who’ve gone. This should come under the heading of Obscure Holidays that Need to be Celebrated But Aren’t.
For example, these holidays should include an official day of mourning for your waist after your first baby. We could call it Fatmus and every year on, say, the day after Labor Day, all the women could get together with their old skinny clothes pinned on their new stretch-waist black knit pants and dance around and throw candy bars to the kids.
And on the Saturday before Christmas, we could have Sad-day and everyone could miss their parents or siblings or spouses or ex-husbands and wives; and there could be some sort of general acknowledgement that in some ways, the holidays can be awful.
Maybe we could stop shopping for the morning and call each other up and give comfort, and listen to the stories about loved ones who are gone. We could do simple things like get out Grandma’s afghan and curl up on the couch for a minute.
I could get out my dad’s old shirt that I have in my pajama drawer, and smell the fresh soapy smell that is still there in my imagination after all these years. Or open my mom’s empty perfume bottle that has a whiff of the fragrance she wore.
We could sit for bit in front of the Christmas tree and remember when the kids were still upstairs, waiting excitedly for the big day, instead of making airline reservations to come see you on the 26th.
Then, at noon on Sad-day, all the crying would officially be over, and we could get back to celebrating the holidays the way we should: stressed out by the fact that we still haven’t gotten anything in the mail that should be in the mail, or that your aunt in Wisconsin is going to get a Christmas card with the photo of the kids around Easter, and that you really only have enough money to buy the $35 bride doll even though it doesn’t include her trousseau and the real going away leather suitcase.
Anyway, the last thing my husband said as he left for work this morning was, “She doesn’t need a doll that costs that much.” And he was looking at the $35 doll. Humph.
Amid this crucial decision making process came an e-mail from Diane saying how much she was missing her dad this year. In fact, she had spent most of the morning, “sitting and crying and typing.”
Richard, her dad, died last year right after Christmas and naturally she is missing him right now. There should be some kind of ritual for the sadness of Christmas, for the feeling of longing that you have for the past and for those who’ve gone. This should come under the heading of Obscure Holidays that Need to be Celebrated But Aren’t.
For example, these holidays should include an official day of mourning for your waist after your first baby. We could call it Fatmus and every year on, say, the day after Labor Day, all the women could get together with their old skinny clothes pinned on their new stretch-waist black knit pants and dance around and throw candy bars to the kids.
And on the Saturday before Christmas, we could have Sad-day and everyone could miss their parents or siblings or spouses or ex-husbands and wives; and there could be some sort of general acknowledgement that in some ways, the holidays can be awful.
Maybe we could stop shopping for the morning and call each other up and give comfort, and listen to the stories about loved ones who are gone. We could do simple things like get out Grandma’s afghan and curl up on the couch for a minute.
I could get out my dad’s old shirt that I have in my pajama drawer, and smell the fresh soapy smell that is still there in my imagination after all these years. Or open my mom’s empty perfume bottle that has a whiff of the fragrance she wore.
We could sit for bit in front of the Christmas tree and remember when the kids were still upstairs, waiting excitedly for the big day, instead of making airline reservations to come see you on the 26th.
Then, at noon on Sad-day, all the crying would officially be over, and we could get back to celebrating the holidays the way we should: stressed out by the fact that we still haven’t gotten anything in the mail that should be in the mail, or that your aunt in Wisconsin is going to get a Christmas card with the photo of the kids around Easter, and that you really only have enough money to buy the $35 bride doll even though it doesn’t include her trousseau and the real going away leather suitcase.
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