Cup o’ Joe

If I had all the time in the world, I would start up a blog dedicated solely to my son, who turns FOUR tomorrow, and the hilariousness that comes out of his mouth on a daily basis. I’d call it something like ‘Cup o’ Joe,’ or ‘The Book of Joe’ or something much funnier and wittier that I am far too tired to come up with right now. Instead, I will share a few recent quips from the little guy, who celebrates his entrance into this great big world tomorrow, and who brings me love and light and a genuine smile to my face each and every day.

Who turns FOUR? THIS GUY. (Photo credit goes to Mel at Loft3--she bad and she know it.)

Earlier this week….

…his little sister Miss P, found his Peter Pan figurine stuck in the pilot’s deck of his beloved Millenium Falcon. I am certain he put it there (it is the kind of thing only Joe would think of to do) who knows how many days or weeks ago, but even so, Pili took him off guard when she found it. The conversation went like this (verbatim, according to Jack):

P: “Here  you go, JoJo. Here’s your Peter Pan.” (handing the precious figurine to him.)

J: “WOW, Pili, you found my Peter Pan! I haven’t seen him in YEARS! Thanks ,P, you’re a HERO!”

P: (Smiles the ‘That’s what I thought’ smile, and is quite obviously pleased with herself.)

Siblings. Also heroes (to each other). 

…on the way home from school I may have passed gas (I had two cups of coffee that day, totally not the norm for me!). Joe, who sits right behind me in the driver’s seat, says, “Sheeeeeew-eeee, I think somebody has stinky pants and her name starts with a ‘P’ and she’s part of our family!” (We always like to play these kind of ‘whodunit’ games.) Pili, who looks appalled by the charged offense, retorts, “No I DIDN’T, JoJo.” (It’s incredible that she even understands she has been implicated as the aggressor in this situation. She’s clever.) Meanwhile, I, the clear one to blame here, kept mum (or Mum), bit my lip, and silently shook I was laughing so hard. I kind of feel bad for letting Pili take the fall on that one. Well, not really. 

P was embarrassed. Joe thought it was hilarious that his sister tooted. Joke's on both of 'em--it was me!

…the same day as the gas incident, he tells me “Mommy, you know who is my best friend?” “Who, Joseph? ” (I’m waiting for Kellan or Natalie, Olivia or Webster to come out of his mouth.) “Daddy is my best friend.” “Aw, Joe, I think Daddy will be happy to hear that. Is Mommy your friend, too?” “Yeah, you’re my best friend. But Daddy is my BEST best friend.” I’m more than okay with losing out ‘best friend’ status to my hubby, who is clearly the ‘cool’ one, since I’m pretty fond of Joe’s Daddy, too. It’s a darn good thing, because I’ve got a little Jack on my hands with Joe. Both little scientists/observers, both a bit naturally suspicious, both clever with words and full of wit. Good dudes, those JAGs.

My two JAGs. Can't imagine life without 'em. 

…and yet another tale from the day of the gas incident—we get home that day and he asks for a snack. He requests Fire Roasted Tomato and Olive Oil Triscuits and cheese. I think he likes this particular flavor of Triscuit because they have somewhat of a red color—and the kid is ALL ABOUT red. “Ummmm ummm, Mommy, these crackers sure are good and spicy!” “Spicy, huh, Joe?” “Yup. Spicy is another word for yummy, Mommy.” Fair enough. This kid’s appetite is insatiable lately—asking for seconds and thirds at dinner (except for his veggies, of course), multiple glasses of milk during a sitting. I am starting to think it will be cheaper to buy a cow during his teenage years than to supply this kid with milk. Milk does this boy’s body good!

Flexin' his muscles in his shadow.

Last week…

…we celebrated my Pawpaw’s birthday. Pawpaw is now in Heaven, and we said special prayers for him on that day before bedtime. Joe very innocently looked at me and said, “Do you think Pawpaw gets to play with the dinosaurs in Heaven?” And then, very naturally, he asked, “Mommy, are there even dinosaurs in Heaven?” He stumps me on a regular basis with his questions. Hmmm, dinosaurs in Heaven? Why not?

That's my little thinker on the left. On the right? My doer. Photo courtesy of Melanie at Loft3.

…he says to me, after looking through a catalog that came in the mail with various Halloween tchotchke and trinkets, “I don’t think any of these things are part of our world,” (referring to the witches and goblins and ghouls and, in general , the scary, spooky things he was seeing that will probably give him nightmares—he’s very into ‘what’s part of our world’ and ‘what’s not part of our world’ right now—told ya I have a thinker on my hands!). He then goes on to say, “And we don’t have any bad girls in our world, right Mom?” STUMPED yet again. How I longed to shield his innocence and say, “You’re right, Joseph, there are no bad guys in our world.” But the Navy Yard shootings had just taken place so the fact that the world can be a not-so-nice place was in the forefront of my mind.  I opted to explain to him that there are some ‘bad guys’ in our world, but there are more good guys. I thought that was sufficient for a four year old wise beyond his years.

My little thinker; his wheels are always turnin.' Photo courtesy of Melanie at Loft3.

Speaking of bad guys, he said to me earlier this summer, “Mom, I love you. (Nothing better than an unsolicited ‘I love you,’ followed by an unsolicited kiss.) But don’t worry, I’ll never put you in jail.” Bonus!

Thanks for not puttin' me in jail, little guy. But I think I'd get more sleep there. 

Also from earlier this summer…

…on a day when I was feeling particularly nostalgic for my summers in Spain, and also when his dear Miss Carly was in Spain herself, we read Ferdinand, one of his favorite books. Spain was hot on our minds. 

JoJo: "You guys are gonna take me to Spain someday, right? To show me all the beautiful things?"
Steph:"Yes, JoJo. That's right."
JoJo: "Well, I think Friday would be a nice day to go to Spain.”

He’s old enough to understand ANY day is a nice day to go to Spain. Well-played, Joseph.

Both kids in their Spain uniforms. Summer 2012--when Spain won the Europe Cup. Campeones!

…Joe had to set our neighbor straight (and protect his little sister):

Miss Tracy (our spastic/no filter/ whirling dervish of a neighbor that my kids are really fond of): "OH. MY. God. What IS that thing on her neck?"
Joe: "Calm down, Tracy, it's just her birthmark. It's called a He-Man genoma." 

Boys and their super heroes...boys and their little sisters. *Smile.*

Two seconds later, he was hugging her. He's a good big brother like that. Photo courtesy of Melanie at Loft3.

…I was with Joe and P at the park before dinner one night. Joe had his hands in his mouth (Gah!) AGAIN.

Steph: "Joe, WHEN will you finally stop putting things in your mouth?!" (Exasperated.)

Joseph: "Ummmm. Probably Saturday. Or when I'm five."

When he's five? I'll believe it when I see it.

I don’t know what it is about Joe, but he ALWAYS has something in his mouth. Always. We recently got family pics taken and at one point, our photographer looked over at Joe, who had been meandering about doing who knows what, and he had a stick in his mouth. A STICK. Whatty? Good news: he’s passed this trait along to his sister.

Told ya. Stick in the mouth. Photo courtesy of Melanie at Loft3. 

This boy. I tell you. He’s my walking heart, an extension of me. I love him so, and love how he’s shaped my camino. Thanks, little buddy, for being my bestest boy. My Cup 'o Joe runneth over! Happy Fourth Birthday.

The JoJo

Sweet P, Keeper of My Soul

A gal only turns two once—and that’s what PKG did over the weekend. Last Friday, our little P-spunk celebrated two revolutions around the sun.  And so I write this post in honor of Pili Kate, our firecracker of a daughter, who has helped me more on my camino of late than she will ever realize. 

It’s always a nice (albeit expected) feeling when your little toddler still occasionally needs you, long after the newborn days of milking you like a cow and/or using you as her human pacifier. But you know what’s not expected? When you need her. ‘Tis true: that little girl has been my saving grace of late—her smile has lifted my rough days, her laughter has filled my soul, her hugs have reminded me that life is simple. And good.

The simple and good life

Miss P, to celebrate your 730+ (and here’s to many more!) days in our lives, I am listing five things I absolutely, positively, without a doubt love and adore about you:

God whispers and the world is loud (your voice!)

A version of this refrain rests on our hutch in the dining room, Sweet P. It was given to us by dear friends shortly after you were born and it always gets me a thinkin.’ This world is a loud, loud place, and so the need to find your niche, your voice, is pivotal to carving out your space on this earth. And you know what? I’m not worried. Your voice, both literal and figurative, is already developing—and well.

You came out kicking and screaming. Your cry as a youngin’ was piercing and shrill. Though you spoke no words for quite some time (you didn’t need to! Your brother spoke and understood ‘Pili’ better than any of us!), you used your voice to always make your message loud and clear. You babbled to no end as an infant (flashback vid!), always keeping up with your brother, and always, always with an intensity and a look about you that conveyed you clearly knew what you were talkingabout, it was the rest of us [idiots]that didn’t.

               

Now that you have gotten older, you speak with more clarity—and you still have moments, like in your baby days, where you have a lot to say, and other times where your wheels are just turning in that crafty mind of yours. You know what I like best about how your voice is developing? That you already seem to know when to use it, and you already seem to know when to listen. I can respect that, my P girl. Check that—more than respect that, I love that about you.

As the saying goes—the world IS a loud place, and God whispers. You seem to have a keen sense when you need to take on a listening role already, and that’s going to be invaluable to you in this country full of talkity-talk-talk-talkers. I’ll never forget when I was so upset earlier this summer by a pretty tough situation going on in my professional world and I couldn’t help but break down crying in front of you, you who reminded me how fragile and precious life is, you who reminded me of the things that really matter. You looked at me with a seriousness that was beyond your little years and said in  your sweet PKG voice, ‘You okay, Mommy? Why you cry, Mommy?’ and then proceeded to pat me on the back and say ‘It’s okay, Mommy.’ My littlest lady, that literal voice of yours asking me if I was okay, and that figurative voice that reflected a compassion beyond your toddler years made me surrender to your sweet, honey-bear soul. And it’s the reason I have gladly let you sleep next to me in our bed this summer, even though you kick the ever-livin’ snot out of me most of the night—because I needed you, Sweet P. Sometimes a Momma just needs that closeness with her baby girl.

A Momma and her daughter

The moments in which you do use your voice to your advantage—I gotta say, you make me proud. It is my greatest mission in life to raise my kiddos by their Daddy’s side to be happy,  comfortable in their own skin, and self-assured—whether quietly and with a steadfast manner, or more outwardly assertive (readers, in our house I like to call Pili and myself ‘assertive,’ not bossy—it’s all in how you package it, ya know?). I kinda get the feeling you are going to go the assertive route—maybe by the way you told me what shoes, necklace and earrings to wear the other day (‘Not dat one, Mommy, DAT one!’) or maybe by the way you told me what you wanted for dinner the other night (‘NO Mac n’ Cheese Mommy, I want PIZZA.’)—and that’s more than fine by me. There is nothing more I could hope for than you going after what you want. From dinner desires to selecting your accessories (oh, Sweet P, I love your love of accessories—it’s a trait you clearly get from me!), you always have a clear preference of how you want things to be. Gotta admire that about you, girl.

  

The point is, Miss P, that you have a beautiful voice, a beautiful self. May you continue to hone that strong voice that the Man Upstairs gifted you with, both on the days you use it loud and clear, and the days you use it with less force, but no less conviction. And may you be able to discern when to use your forceful voice and when to use your gentle one, PKG, as that, too, is a gift—one that takes practice, experience, and hard knocks to develop.

The best medicine (your laugh!)

Girl, you can laugh with the best ofthem. Anyone who has heard your giggle can’t help but fall into fits of laughter themselves.  And you know what the best part about your laugh is? That it can entice your brother into the deepest of belly laughs. You LIVE to make your brother, who is your bestest friend and idol, giggle—and when you do, you reign victorious and consider your day 100% complete. Let me tell you, Pilarín, it makes JoJo’s day complete, too. Oh, and mine and your Daddy-o’s for good measure.

While this video is not my finest specimen of parenting, it’s the perfect example of how your laugh takes us all in and makes us want to chuckle right alongside of you, no matter what shenanigans you are trying to pull (I couldn’t press the ‘stop’ button even against my better judgment. Your laugh always leaves me wanting more!):

And this video is the perfect example of how your laugh takes us all in and makes us want to chuckle right alongside of you, most especially your brother. It also highlights another thing I love: that your Daddy can make BOTH of you laugh like none other: 

The window to your soul (your eyes!)

Sweet heavens, Pilicakes, do you have purty blue eyes. Those eyes are gonna get you out of all kinds of trouble growing up. You know how I know that? Because you’ve got your Daddy’s eyes and his have done the same for him—mostly gettin’ him outta trouble with me. You already know how to work those eyes on your Daddy-o, but I, well, I’m wise to ya. It doesn’t mean I’m not going to fall for them hook, line and sinker more times than I’ll care to admit—but just know that I’m on to you and the pickles you may try and get out of by using those sky blue peekers.

Those eyes? Yes, those eyes. 

You know what else I love about your blue eyes? The fact that they were so unexpected. Yes, your Dad has them, but I’m still stunned that NONE of my (dominant) Italian genes were passed on to you, my fair skinned blanquita with the bluest of blue eyes and a Spanish name. Your baby blues are the window to your soul, and by extension mine. You smile beautifully with those eyes, girl—and if your Dad, brother and I have our way, you will always have reason to smile.

 The way you heal us (your hugs!)

Anyone who has been really and truly hugged by you knows that your embrace can unfurl a million smiles—and heal any hurt (at least temporarily). Had a bad day? Dr. Pili can fix you with one of her hugs! Sometimes I’d like to prescribe some of the grumps I come across in a day with one of your dynamite huggies.

Post Pili squeeze: best feeling ever

Also, anyone who has been really and truly hugged by you may or may not experience their eyes briefly bugging out of their sockets. Uf! Dang girl, you’ve got a good grip on you—and you pour all of that spunk you’re packin’ into your abrazos. There’s a reason your beloved Miss Kathryn nicknamed you ‘Squeezy.’ And there’s a reason your beloved Miss Carly calls your hugs ‘Pili squeezes.’ I live for when you charge up to me, gaining force in your short and choppy steps, and I lift you up and you wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my hips and you latch on and just pour mighty little love into your hugs. Best. Feeling. Ever.

 The way you light up a room (your smile!)

                It’s better to let the images speak for themselves on this one.

Probably calling China. Or 911. 

Everyone smiles on their first trip to Skyline! 

Pili and her buddy Santi!

P and two of her faves--Joe and Michael Dia

You can see the smiles and hear the giggles

Girl, I could write for days thinking about all the things I love about you. The way you dance. The way you do Pilartes. The way you count and sing. Your naturally highlighted hair. And the list goes on and on...

It goes without saying that you’re un rayo de sol, my Sunshine P, and one of the brightest spots in my everyday camino. Thank you, Sweet P, Apple of My Eye, for the gifts you bring to my, and our family’s collective camino. 

Two of the three brightest spots on my every day camino--their Daddy is the third

It's not you...it's me

To Facebook or not To Facebook…that is the question.

It’s been a question of mine for quite some time now. I’ve made my mental lists of pros and cons, I’ve done trial runs (intentional and unintentional), I’ve thought it through. And through. And through.  Final declaration: it shall not be rethunk (at least for now). I’m going off the FB for who knows how long. I never say never, so maybe I’ll be back. Maybe not.

Very important disclaimer: what I am about to say about Facebook applies to me and my circumstances. It is not meant to apply to yours and it does not mean that if you are on Facebook you have a problem, or I am better than you, or you suck. It probably means you have better self-discipline than I do when it comes to the FB beast—and if that’s the case, good for you! I wish I had it. If I did, I wouldn’t be getting off.

My New Year’s Resolution for 2013 is to live more intentionally and be more ‘present.’ I plan to do that in many more ways than one. Pray more—more often and more meaningfully. Return to spending my sacred 20 minutes with my husband—those 20 minutes after the kids go to bed and before my eyes instantaneously snap shut in exhaustion. Reflect more—blog more, write in my diary more, read more. I’m quite confident that leaving the FB will help me do all of the above. I’ll of course have to do other things to keep up those resolutions. I am fully aware that coming off the FB is not the easy road/quick fix to the hefty resolution I have laid out before me. But I know it’ll help.

I want to live more intentionally--for these three goobers--and for myself, too. Happy 2013!

My reasons for leaving FB are many. Number one is to help fulfill my resolution. The rest include, but are not limited to…

1 Too much time!

Maybe this is just me, but I can find myself logging on my Kindle before going to bed at night around 10:15. After I’ve just done what I would think was ‘a little Facebooking,’ I roll over and see it’s 11:00. Dang! Where’d those 45 minutes go? I should have been spending time with Jack. Or at the very least reading. Hell, I should be sleeping since I never know when the kiddos are going to wake up in my crazy, unpredictable house. It’s a time sucker-outer for me, that FB. I am an extremely self-disciplined person. I am able to set long and short term goals for myself and achieve them—regularly. But I just can’t do it with the FB, I just can’t. I’ve tried to tell myself to only log on for 15 minutes a night, or only once every few days. And that stupid icon on my smart phone and Kindle—it just mocks me. I’ve even tried taking the icon off both devices—I’ll do well for a few days and then all of the sudden I HAVE TO HAVE IT and I end up putting it back on. What is this, chocolate? Or worse, chocolate and peanut butter?

Take today as another perfect example. We are in Paradise. We are at Nonna’s Castle. My kids are frolicking in the sun on the beach. I am joining them. I feel I am being present. I am laughing, and sinking my toes in the sand, and running into the waves with Joe and running back out to the sand so the sharks don’t get our ankles. We’ve been digging for buried treasure and going to the park, and playing with puzzles. Even so—why on Earth have I checked Facebook on my phone no less than ten times since I’ve been awake? Why did I check it when I got up to go to the bathroom at 6:15 a.m.? Why was I scrolling through it when I was putting P to bed last night instead of holding her tight after we said prayers and smelling her deliciously sweet hair (that had sand and Triscuit crumbs in it)? What the heck am I looking for? Gold? Some other buried treasure? Validation? Happiness? To see what John Mellencamp is saying about his next tour? I’m not looking for gold. I know that’s not on Facebook, it’s out on the beach where the pirates have buried it (that’s what Joe says, at least). I’m not looking for validation. I don’t need it. I’m not looking for happiness, because that I’ve got. Maybe I  AM curious about what Mellencamp says about his next tour. But I am quite certain I can do without that information in my life. I wasn’t aware that I have an addictive personality, but maybe I do? I dunno. But it seems I find myself checking Facebook sometimes just because I can, or just to fill the gaps in between activities, those two and a half minutes of silence or transition from one thing to the next. I think that time would be better spent with my own thoughts or just being more present in the world around me. Perhaps it’s not Facebook that’s the problem, perhaps it’s my smart phone. Or perhaps (more likely) it’s me!

2 Too much negativity!

More often than not, Facebook celebrates life and the good things. The hope and the love. The warm and fuzzy stuff. I will miss seeing exciting announcements: engagements, pregnancies, births, mega revelations. I will miss following friends that I’ve recently just connected with, and old buddies from the grade school days. But there are enough times that FB doesn’t celebrate the good that it brings me down. I’ve done my best to cut the folks with the dismal updates from my feed, and that helped some. But here’s another thing the FB has done that I wasn’t aware of until I was: it’s contributed to my sometimes insecurities as a parent.

I consider myself a fairly confident person overall. I find the way in which I doubt myself the most is as a Momma. I’d say five out of seven times a week I rate myself as a pretty good Momma and feel okay with the job I’m doing. But on those two days I feel inadequate parenting, the FB is my worst enemy. A  post about how one stay-at-home Momma is doing XYZ with her kiddos and not missing any milestones here, a post from a full-time working Momma about how she’s juggling all her plates with ease there. A post from a Momma whose kiddo was potty-trained in three days here, a post from a Momma whose kiddo cleans up after himself AND always says please and thank you there. A post about a Momma whose six weeks post-partum and has lost her baby weight here, a post about a Momma who can do it all there. I can’t compete with any of that. On my five good days, those posts don’t bother me. In fact, I probably like them or comment to give a Momma a pat on the back. On my average two inadequate parenting days, I read a post like that and just think I’m STILL not keeping up. And I don’t need that, suckas! It’s just like that dual subscription to Parents Magazine and Better Homes and Gardens that came from a very well-meaning friend but has made me realize how much I’m NOT doing as a parent that (apparently?) I should be doing. I need to be okay with what I am doing—on my good days, but ESPECIALLY on the bad ones.

I am very aware that FB is full of the highlights and not the everyday mundane stuff. Not many post about the bad stuff. But still, the danger of comparing another’s highlights to my everyday mundane stuff is too great—and ends up being a source of negativity that I don’t want to contend with.  Again, this is not Facebook’s problem—it’s mine! But if I clearly don’t have a good handle on it 100% of the time, then it’s time to do away with it.

3 Too much stress!

Perhaps this is a compulsion of mine (see paragraph on possible addictive personality above), but every time someone posts on my wall, or sends me a message, I feel an obligation to write back. I also feel like I should respond to ‘likes.’ Am I the only person who feels this way? Damn you, Facebook! You’ve made me have another inbox! Or—it’s the common thread I’m noticing—damn ME for making it seem like one! I’ve made FB another inbox, that’s what I’ve done. And I’ve already got plenty of those, the biggest and heftiest of which (work) already consumes enough of my time and stress. Bah!

On the flip side, for those who do write to me or post on my wall, and I never get back to them—I feel that I’m missing out on an opportunity to reconnect. I have forgotten to write back to a former student or a well-meaning friend on more occasions than I’d like to admit. If those same individuals had written me an e-mail, I guarantee I’d have gotten back to them much quicker. I’m just better at e-mail, I guess. Or maybe I think e-mail is more personal. Again, I dunno. It just seems that with Facebook, I have at once made interactions more and less personal, if that makes any kind of sense. Maybe it’s just not an ideal form of communication for me.

Bottom line: the FB has become another stressor in my life. And Heavens knows I don’t need another one of those!

4 Too little interaction with the real world!

I was on the beach today with the kiddos and found myself wondering what kind of witty, sharp, funny post I could come up with to capture our time out there. What the? In what world am I living? The real one, or the social media one? And for whom am I performing? Serious eye-opener. Time to clock out of FB world, Steph, and clock in to real time. Less documentation of your life, Steph, and more living it!

Once again, I’m reserving the right to disclaim that these are my problems with the FB, and not yours, or not those of many (or perhaps any other) Facebook users. So do not misinterpret my words. Facebook is a great thing, it really is, when used the way it was intended and in moderation. But at this moment in time, for reasons I cannot explain, I apparently cannot use the FB as it was intended, or in moderation.

When it takes away too much time from what I should be focused on (hubby! kids!), when it brings about more self-doubt than already exists in a still-new Momma, when it causes more stress than joy, when it straddles the line of reality and sub-reality, it’s time to put on the breaks. While I cannot explain why it’s done this, I know myself well enough to know when it could potentially become a problem. That time is now, so I’ll quit while I’m ahead.

I gave up Facebook for Lent in 2012. A stress-free 40 days? Hardly. A feeling good about myself 100% as a Mum 40 days? Of course not. But I do recall it being extremely refreshing and a bit more carefree. I went to China for 11 days and their government restricted me from logging on to Facebook while there. In that time, I read three (very long!) books, took baths (who does that?!), and felt extremely well-rested. Yes, I do realize a huge part of that is because I was sans kids—but even so, I felt more in touch with the outside world, and more engaged in it. Turns out that was a very good thing, as it gave me the time and space to learn as much as I could about China’s culture while I was there.

Facebook—thank you. For allowing me to celebrate the highlights of my camino. For introducing me to Ali, to Nora, to Momastery. And reconnecting me with many dear loved ones and introducing new ones. But it’s time we parted ways.

It’s not you, Facebook, it’s me. 

The three loves of my life, who deserve my attention--Facebook free!

Tradition, Part I

I’m lucky to have a Mom who taught me many of life’s important lessons. How to tie my shoes, for instance. How to make Rice Krispie treats (the only sweet treat I’ve had the patience to ‘bake’). The importance of reading. Of having (read: purchasing) a few neutral pairs of boots—each and every fall season, of course. The importance of bargain hunting and sniffing out a clearance rack from miles away. And of course, the really important things, too: how to stand on my own to feet; the importance of being financially independent; how to love, both myself and others; how to be wife; how to be a mother.

Perhaps one of my favorite lessons my Mom has taught me is the importance of Tradition.

Tradition: noun, “the handing down of statements, beliefs, legends, customs, information, etc., from generation to generation, especially by word of mouth or by practice.”

My family is big on Tradition, especially around the holidays. So you can imagine their disappointment when they heard we would not be coming to Cincinnati for Christmas this year. It was a hard decision for us to come to—it was the first time ever we would not go to Cincinnati for the 24^th and 25^th—but we knew it was the right one.  Why? Because it was time for the Goetz family to start our own Tradition(s).

In the, well, traditional sense of the definition for Tradition, it mentions a handing down of beliefs from generation to generation. I’d like to add to that. I think in a culture and country as varied and hodge-podgey as the U.S., Traditions can be handed across, instead of down, from culture to culture, too. You can pick and choose what you like from one culture to the next and put your own toque, or touch, on it to make it yours. And then hand it down to your children for them to tweak it as they see fit. We are a nation of mutts, we U.S. citizens (melting pot is perhaps more PC, but let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?). Yes, we’re mutts, and so our Traditions should proudly be hybrid and mutt-like, too. After all, our Traditions should be just as much about who we are as where we’ve been, both literally and figuratively. Who we are and where we’ve been are one in the same, are they not?

Some of the Traditions we have in the Goetz family are definitely mutt-like. I imagine many nations and cultures who celebrate Christmas have the days-long Tradition of strewing the Christmas kitsch about their homes—and we are no exception.

Some folks collect angels, some snowman, some Elvis ornaments, some ugly Christmas sweaters and ties. I collect nativities. In our house we have eight so far, and what’s cool about them is that three are from other countries.

Mayan Nativity. Jesus rockin' in a hammock. 

There’s the Mayan nativity, purchased in Mérida, Mexico. I am not Mexican, nor are my ancestors. But anyone who has been to Mexico and known their hospitality will gladly identify themselves as Mexican, since they inevitably surrender part of their heart to the country after going. Plus, I send students to Mexico every summer and thus have come to love the richness of their culture. Again, it’s a reflection, however minutely, of who I am and where I have been. In the Mayan nativity, Joseph and Mary are dressed in traditional Mayan clothing, as are the wise men. Jesusito is appropriately placed in a hammock, flanked by a pig and a cow. Neat.

Then we have the German nativity, acquired in Cologne, Germany on a trip there with Jack this past spring. He’s from Deutschland, and the trip there marked his first time going ‘Home.’ How could we not come home with a German nativity? It’s a more literal reminder of who he is and where he’s from. It’s pretty straightforward, traditional, to the point. Solid. Reliable. Sturdy. Just like my husband. Very, well, German. 

German Nativity. Sturdy and reliable. Very traditional. 

And to round out our multicultural nativities, we have one from Peru. There’s an alpaca, for goodness sake. But of course!

By putting up our nativities, we are learning and recognizing what is important to each of the cultures they represent. We are reminding ourselves who we are, where we come from and what we value. And our children are understanding that la sagrada familia, or sacred family, is the same for all in each place—it’s simply the interpretation that’s a little bit different. In the most basic sense of “Tradition,”  we are handing down a nation’s beliefs and legends. We are telling that culture’s story.

Aside from relishing in our nativities, we have many other Traditions in our house, but there’s a new one we’re going to try out this year. We’re going to celebrate Los Tres Reyes Magos. It is a custom widely celebrated in Spain, a place I have come to know and love. I know it is also commonly celebrated in Mexico, as well as in other Spanish-speaking nations.  While Santa has made his way into the traditions of Spain, it’s really Los Tres Reyes Magos who are the real deal there.

Los Tres Reyes Magos are the three kings (known in our house as the wise men) who followed the star to meet Jesus, the King of all kings, in Bethlehem soon after He was born. They brought little baby Jesus gifts fit for a king—no, The King: gold, frankincense and myrrh. 

The Tradition goes a little something like this:

In December, young children write to the kings (or sometimes choose their favorite between Gaspar, Melchior or Balthasar) and tell them the things they would like to receive when the kings visit their city on the night of January 5^th. They also tell the kings whether they’ve been naughty or nice. On the night of January 5^th, the children leave some food and drink for the kings and for their camels. They also leave their shoes outside so that the kings know how many kids live there and how many gifts to leave—they may or may not leave grass and hay in the shoes for the camels (I guess it depends on if the camels have been naughty or nice). If the kids have been good, the kings leave their desired gifts. If not, they receive coal. On the morning of the 6^th, children wake up early and rush to see if presents have been left for them or not. Sound familiar?

Oh, and the parades, the very many parades that take place in Spain in each pueblo, or town, January 5^th  in anticipation of Los Tres Reyes Magos arriving to Spanish homes are a sight to behold.  Wondering what Spaniards eat during this cherished time? Rosca de Reyes, a round cake whose ingredients vary as much as the individual traditions shared on Día de los Reyes. There’s a baby Jesus hidden in the cake, and whoever finds the figurine is considered blessed—and the king or queen for the day—and considered to have good fortune the whole year long. There are many recipes out there for Rosca de Reyes—including Food Network’s Ingrid Hoffmann’s recipe.   

What the Goetz Fam like about this Tradition is that it follows the birth of Jesus and Him being the Reason for the Season perhaps better than Santa Claus, or Papá Noel, does. It reminds children that Jesus was our present on Christmas—it’s Him we are celebrating. By giving and receiving presents, we are celebrating His life. Does Christmas Day not do the same thing? Well, yes, on Christmas Day we recognize the birth of the King—but it’s just a little bit farther of a stretch to see where this Santa fella fits in with all of it. Los Tres Reyes Magos carries the message in a more linear fashion, at least in my mind.

Los Tres Reyes Magos also culminates the twelve days of Christmas—of course that assumes those twelve days begin on Christmas Day and end on January 6^th, also celebrated in the Catholic Church as The Feast of the Epiphany, or The Adoration of the Magi. Kind of neat how it all comes together.

Lastly, Los Tres Reyes Magos has a day of significance for our own family. It is the day we found out we were pregnant with Joseph. When I told my dear friend in Spain, a priest, about our baby in an e-mail dated January 6^th, 2009, he responded “Vaya regalo de los magos!” (translation: What a great gift from the kings!) What a great gift indeed.

So if you pass our house on January 5^th and see two sets of shoes outside the front door, you know our kids are signaling to the kings their presence.

Good news: when Santa came to visit our house in the early morning of the 24th (that is the Tradition we are starting now that we are staying in Bloomington to celebrate Christmas), he didn’t appear to be confused by the many nativities strewn about from different cultures. Maybe he understands—perhaps Santa is a mutt, too. I’d say so based on the German Christmas Pyramid, or whirly-do, as I like to call it, that he left Jack. You see, when Jack and I went to Germany, we really wanted to buy a pyramid. Jack said as soon as he set foot in Deutschland, he felt 'home.' We wanted to commemorate the occasion by purchasing a pyramid, a definite reminder of where we come from (I say ‘we’ because I’m a Goetz now, too), and  a very German tradition—but we decided against it and bought the nativity instead. I'm glad Santa remembered Jack's want to have a connection to his culture. 

Turns out Jack loved the gift. 

Jack wants to know when we're going back to Deutschland. Maybe Santa could make that happen next year?

And so did Joe.

True Wonder. How Christmas should be. 

Merry belated Christmas, friends. And thanks to you, Mom, and for all the Tallarigo family (and Dad, too) for showing me the importance of Tradition on this camino  that all of us walk. 

Time After Time

It’s December 9, 2012. Today we’re going to French Lick with Double Trouble to ride The Polar Express. Our plan to spend last evening together in French Lick with Nonna and Papoo watching the kids was thwarted due to The Plague that swept through our house. Such is life sometimes, we’ve learned.

We’ve been married six years today. Let me tell you what comes to my mind most about our big day.

Six years ago today the girls and I were getting ready at 2875, painting nails, drinking mimosas, etc., etc. I was not nervous. I was beyond excited. I believe you guys were hanging out at Schutte’s house, probably talking shop as the married boys gave you advice on how not to screw up and the non-married boys tried to get you to drink [more]. The married boys did a good job. The non-married boys didn’t (thankfully). Who cares, the point is we were both on our way to Togetherness and we each spent the last few hours leading up to it as we would’ve wanted to, relaxing as we each saw fit. Earlier in the day, Mom helped me zip up the dress, do the veil, practice in my way-too-high-heels (at least for me). Dad gave me that beautiful bracelet that I almost never wear because it’s too special. I took pics in front of Mom’s Christmas tree with both sets of parents separately, and my favorite pic of all, with me and Mom and Dad together. As usual, my parents were rock stars and genuinely caring towards one another that day. They even hugged and kissed one another upon Dad and Gaile’s arrival to the house. They may be divorced, but they loved one another enough to make me and that will forever mean something to them. And more importantly, I think, that will forever mean something to me.

Some of the gals, my mom and I. I'm the one in the green, not to be confused with my best friend in the world and matron of honor, Lauren, in the black. Kate is the cute blond to the way left, Colleen, my seester, is the spunky strawberry blond, Maria, my hottie cousin, is in the cream, and my Mom is to the far right.

Six years ago today the girls and I were pacing in the church basement waiting to get the show on the road. There was a lot of laughter, visits from the church above from friends and family, many re-applications of deodorant (I’m such a sweaty mess; this you know well). Finally, it was time to head upstairs. Morgan was singing the girls down the aisle. Mary was playing the flute. I love that they were both a part of our day. As the last few girls made their way to the front of the church, Dad was bracing to walk me to you and Aunt Laverne said to me as we were waiting in the wings, “Oh, honey, Jack looks really nervous. Are you sure he’s ready?” Little did any of us know that you were practically pissing your pants because Fr. Don had STILL not arrived (and when he did, he was asking you twenty questions to prepare for his homily). Dad sloughed her off, pulled us both together, and whispered things that I will not tell you, as what a father tells his daughter at this very moment is sacred. You will find this out with P. It will be the ONE time in our lives I do not beg of you to share with me your words. As the doors to St. Bernard Clairvaux’s church swung open and Dad swept me down to you like the perfect gentlemen, I caught a glimpse of all who were there. I remember vividly who was on the left as we walked down, who was on the right. They were there to bear witness. We did a good job fillin’ the place, Goetz. 

My Dad and My Groom, the two leading men in my life

Dad took me to you and I was so overjoyed that I kissed you. That wasn’t part of the script so you acted kind of confused. A very typical reaction from you, my love. You recovered well, shook Dad’s hand, and off we went. I do not remember the look on Dad’s face—my eyes were glued on you. You will know that feeling, too, with P—the moment that your girl turns her eyes to another man. But I will tell you now, my love, speaking from experience, that it does not mean she loves you any less. In fact, it means she loves you more. Because she knows that your whole life you’ve just wanted to see her happy—and she is. Beyond words.

Six years ago today we listened to the readings and petitions, Fr. Don’s homily, Morgan’s sweet voice filling the church, as if we were the only two there. Do you remember when Doc adlibbed his petitions, asking the congregation to pray for the health of our children—and that they have more hair than you? Do you remember the reading of Adam and Eve becoming one (I could hear the eye rolls of my feminist friends in attendance, but I didn’t care, I love that reading and we picked it out together), thinking how that would be us later that night? Do you remember when Julie’s voice quivered during the Love is Patient, Love is Kind reading? I remember it all.

Doc lamenting your last night of singledom at our rehearsal 

Six years ago today we prayed to Mary together, holding hands and resting our heads on one another. We offered her a bouquet. I will not say what I prayed for, but I think you know because she listened. She also listened when I prayed to her during their births. She continues to listen. She has become my prayer rock. Do you remember when I gave you one of my favorite books, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept? That book is what brought me to Mary. It is no accident our daughter is named Pilar. I think Mary likes us—I hope anyway. She will watch out for us, and help us through whatever lies ahead. I sometimes have to remind her that we are human and to not give us anything we cannot handle.  

Mary listened, Goetz. We've got proof.

Six years ago today we exchanged our vows and you could barely fit my ring finger on my hand. I chuckled when you just kind of left it there, half on. I remember slipping your ring on you and thinking how you became instantaneously even more attractive to me with it on because at that moment you were bound to me, and I to you. To this day, you are much better about leaving your ring on than I am. It suits you well, Goetz, that ring and all that it means. More than you used to let on, maybe even more than you had hoped or imagined—but I knew you always had it in you.

Six years ago today we done did it, we got married. We became the fifth generation of your family to do so in that church in Taylor Creek on Harrison Road. Because we are clutzy and uncooperative, we didn’t leave out the front doors of the church like our photographers wanted to. Oops. It’s alright; they need not capture on film what I had engraved in my mind: I had married my true equal (you’re the chef in the house, I’m on dinner clean-up crew; you do the grocery shopping, I do the laundry; we each do middle of the night feedings because I’m awful at producing booby milk, even though I try my darnedest), my travel soul mate (I’ll get you to Asia, I know I will; Mexico may be up next, or perhaps Spain, Part II), my anchor, my gut check, the only human who can make me laugh during a week like we’ve just had, filled with poop and puke and power outages. There is no picture possible to sum up that for-better-or-for-worse kind of love. It’s not easy, this kind of love—it’s a work in progress, a constant effort, like we always tell our engaged couples. But we are fulfilling our vocation, and there’s no greater satisfaction than that.

Two youngins' at the rehearsal dinner, getting ready to follow our vocation. Who is that young, carefree couple? The rehearsal dinner at Pompilio's, well, ROCKED. They even made a special menu for us.

Six years ago today we went up the street to Twin Lanterns (shortest commute from ceremony to reception EVER, go us!) and got down to business. We entered the reception to the MNF theme (remember when we used to watch every game? Member when we had time and energy to do that?), we cut our cake to ‘Back Home Again…in Indiana,” we had our first dance to “Time After Time” (Chet Baker people, not Cyndi Lauper; we are more classic than 80s…just barely), Lauren and Ryan toasted to our lives together. There was a cheesy video of pics put to music. Peace was made. And then I cut a damn rug and you mingled, because that’s each of our style. I didn’t sit down the whole night and I can count on one hand the number of songs I didn’t dance to. Dang, it was the most fun I’d ever had a wedding, and it was my own. I hope everyone has that much fun at their own wedding. I’m glad we listened to all those people who said not to get hung up in the details or drama—you only get married once and so you gotta make it good. Good we made it, even great. At least we thought so.

Cuttin' the cake. YUM, it was good.

Cuttin' a rug. Watch it now, watch it!

 Six years ago today we went to spend our first night as husband and wife together at the Kingsgate Marriott in Clifton. There will be no discussion of that sacred night, but I will say that I’m glad you went Groomzilla on me, raising Cain about me buying the ivory version of my dress. Thanks to your rant, I took it back and exchanged it for the white version. You were right; we deserved for me to wear white (“All this waiting for you to wear ivory?,” you said). Thank you for making me think twice on that one. And thanks for making the arrangements at Kingsgate, where the next morning we had the World’s Greatest Brunch Buffett. And how cool is it that the first person you introduced me as your wife to was then UC head football coach, Brian Kelly? Pretty damn cool. Nice hustle, Goetz (insert little slap on the toosh here). Side note: Brian Kelly, you’re a traitor.

Obligatory bouquet shot

Six years ago today we began the story of Team Goetz. It’s been the best six years of my life, some days easier than others, some weeks easier than others, some years easier than others. Our first year seemed a piece of cake, no cares in the world. Long walks on weekday evenings, followed by late dinners. Lazy Sundays. Spontaneous weekend road trips. Watching hour after hour of Lost episodes or Dawson’s Creek re-runs (I think it’s alright to tell all that you had a crush on Joey—until she married Maverick, then you thought she was lame and/or crazy). And this last year has been our most challenging. Your parents moved out of your childhood home, the only home you’ve ever known besides ours. We learned my Pawpaw is praying for the Good Lord to take him. A new second job and peaks and valleys with the first. Family drama(s), and family fall-outs followed by put-back-togethers. We hit some growing pains. But without fail, every night when I put one of our kids to bed and say prayers with them, you are first on my list. Without you, I do not have them. More importantly, without you, I do not have us. Without you, I am only half of me. Not in the crazy-and-unstable-I-desperately-need-you kinda way, ‘cos you know it ain’t like that.  That's not my style and even if it were, you wouldn't stand for it. You were attracted to me in the first place because I could stand on my own two feet. And well at that. It's just that I'm infinitely better with you, the same way that you are better with me. You are half of me in the you-are-the-nutella-to-my-graham-cracker, the-oreo-to-my-chocolate-and-vanilla-twist-fro-yo, the-homemade-Ranch-dressing-and-goldfish-to-my-Mother-Bear's-salad kind of way. Any one of those tasty delights is good on its own, but it just isn’t great without the other. It’s like that. 

Happy Anniversary, Jack. Thanks for walking this camino with me. To many more.

The Original Goetz Fam in Le Conquet, France, Spring 2012. In the words of Pooh Bear, "If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus a day so I never have to live without you."