December 15th, 2018
By way the light filters through the curtains, I know its gray gloomy day outside. A sudden burst of wind whips around the corner of the house and around back upsetting the wind chimes in the old walnut tree. It calms just as quickly and oddly enough, I never hear another burst of wind again.
It’s up to me to get motivated to roll out of bed. Mornings are different now. There’s no fanfare like there used to be…when the slightest indication that I was wakeful would cause a commotion with both our giant dogs. It’s been a month since we lost our beloved greyhound mix J. It happened fast and too soon. And it’s changed the energy in our house.
H., our other dog, who always seemed so lively and spastic before, takes no initiative without him. He’s a beta that wasn’t ready to be the alpha. He’s simply been lost. Depressed. Unmoved. Just…well…”there”. We all share his grief, but unlike H., we all can express this to each other and know what has occurred. It can be explained. We have no recourse for the poor dog who must wonder what has happened to his friend, and possibly worse…wonder what WE did with his friend.
I’m working through these sad thoughts when I notice my seven year old is staring pensively out the window. He turns instinctively and seeing I am awake, steps to the bed and shares his thoughts: ”I wish everyone was like Minecraft people so that when they die they would just respawn. I wish J. was like that”. I sit up and hug him and agree. He grew up with J. J. was the puppy we had gotten when we thought we could not have a child of our own. And a few months later, I was expecting F. So he was there from the beginning. They grew up together and always seemed to have a special connection. And certainly, at the end, F. knew it. The night J. died, F. had predicted this, at bedtime saying “I’m going to give him lots of love when I say good night because it will be the last time”. I responded with “you don’t know that, honey”, but he did. And, now he is working through this grief at my bedside. But, as I hope he will always be, my son is as resilient as he is tender-hearted and after a brief pause, he quickly gets on with chatter about toys, Christmas, and even a song about pancakes. He cajoles H. into getting up with his chittery-chiriping. But he also stirs awake our newest addition to the family. C.
With a leap and a bound onto my chest, the gray morning is softened by something golden and sweet and wild. Some sort of beagle, retriever mix (we have dubbed a “retreagle”). He is about 4 months old. There was much heated debate regarding his name, including about 3 days of negotiations, but we landed on it during F’s recitation of Reindeer names. “Comet!” He has been with us for about a week now. We just couldn’t bear to see H. so lonely, and we are wired to be a two dog home. Two weeks ago, B. and I agreed to visit a dog at the shelter. We were disappointed upon arrival to learn that said dog did not do well with other dogs, and though we then walked the kennels on the adoption floor, did not find a match that felt right. We headed out with our heads down. As luck would have it, the shelter director ran into us at that moment, recognized us, and, learning that we were leaving empty handed, offered to show us a puppy that was not yet ready for adoption. She said he was very sweet and no one had come to claim him. She was hoping to find a good home for him and would we like to go take a look? A few days later we brought both our son and our dog to meet him and it was love at first sight for all. So here he is licking my face on this otherwise gloomy Saturday morning.
We all four leave B. in bed to sleep in and rush down to let the dogs out. F. gives me the seasonal report. How many days left until Christmas Eve, Christmas and winter break. He reconfirms how many presents he has under the tree so far, inquires how many might be there by the big day, and updates the advent calendar on the breakfast nook. He then runs around making action sounds and shows me a ring box he has made into a Minecraft character’s head. He’s fashioned it with tape so that the jaw is articulated.
I spend what feels like the entire morning saying no and taking things out of the teething puppy’s mouth. It’s like having a toddler all over again.
Our friend H. arrives with daughter S. about 10 am, showing up at our door in a red Christmas tutu and Santa cap, exasperated that she does not know where her phone is. She is working a seasonal job for extra money at a local jeweler, so we are watching S. F. tells us all a joke about Uranus. The kids play Minecraft and I cuddle with dogs on the couch with some coffee. I work on planning our Christmas day dinner which will include something I have never prepared before: a prime rib.
I wrap presents in full view of the children and they never even notice. It’s a fine tradition this time of year…to wrap B. or F.’s presents where they could easily see… but they don’t. Then I taunt them about it once it’s wrapped. The kids decide to help write the tags for each present, which gives them the excuse to handle them and guess their contents. I do some housework, run and get lunch.
I have promised to take the kids to renew their elf licenses at the Muncie Children’s Museum’s Great Elf Adventure. They have been asking and asking when we can go, and now that the hour is upon us, suddenly I find myself in the time-honored power struggle of game of shoes and coat. As the coat argument always goes, it becomes more than it should. This is a power struggle and no one is willing to give in. I find that aside from the bribery and extortion, a lot of parenting is taking children to have a good time and making memories that are in reality fraught with struggle and resistance. This is no exception. There is enough arguing on the way that when we are greeted by the entrance elf, his jolly tone is not appreciated by anyone. We are, at this point, as excited to be at the ELB as we would the BMV.
But the mood quickly changes as we get our hands stamped, don our elf hats, and descend the stairs. The Elf Adventure is in the basement of the museum. It is set up as a sort of large holiday maze which intermittently deposits us into rooms where the kids must complete a series of holiday/elf related tasks. Each task earns them a stamp and when all are completed, they are presented with a new license. We enter through the first series of whimsically decorated corridors that include slight optical illusions. It’s like the psychedelic version of a Rankin-Bass special. Fact, there is a large Abominable Snowman along the path. I snap a ridiculous amount of photos. This first leg opens up into a room in which sits a female elf behind a desk. This is the first task: an interview. She begins by asking them a series of simple questions, including “Do you like toys?” F. says “Family is more important” I roll my eyes internally, knowing how much this kid has talked about his Christmas list since Halloween. When we com across Santa’s giant list, F. puts himself on the naughty side because of his actions on the way in, and then on the nice list too. S. puts her name on the nice list but makes sure some of her classmates are on the other.
There are several other tasks that include finding hidden snow balls in a cave, dressing reindeer for cold weather, making Kwanza bracelets or a menorah, matching each reindeer to their locker by its contents. We travel through a spinning tunnel of lights, which gives me vertigo to even look at. I cross through once, eyes closed, and the kids go through un-phased several times. Then we arrive at the last two and possibly most important portions of the journey: Central Command and obstacle course. The kids have to practice sending presents down a chute and cranking a conveyor belt, leading the sleigh, and using a switchboard and phones to coordinate gifts. Then, an obstacle course that includes riding bouncy reindeers through cones, climbing on to a roof top, then into a chimney and sliding down. The next room is the license approval.
They adopt their new elf names for the licenses which speaks volumes about their different personas: Steve and Crinklenose. One pragmatist rooted solidly in the world of no nonsense and fact, and the other all whimsy and imagination. They are given their paper license which will expire next November.
On the way out we argue again. Once they learn we are going to DOMA for the Gorey exhibit, they are less than pleased. Its only 3 blocks back to our house, but I am quite angry by the time we hit the front door. I find myself saying things that are quintessential motherhood. “I just am asking for ONE HOUR of the ENITRE year to do something that I want. Day in and day out I am taking care of everyone else. Please just do this one thing for me! It’s my birthday after all!” Yesterday was my birthday, and today is to be the day that we will partially celebrate.
We pick up B. and he is not ready. This does not improve my mood, as I think of the many times he has complained about waiting on the rest of us. We now have about 45 minutes to drive, park, walk to and enjoy the exhibit. But we manage to do all of that. On the way in I tell the children about Gorey and how I discovered his work at the age of 8 when I found a copy of The Shrinking of Treehorn at the library. I have always loved his vacant, macabre, full-of-peril worlds.
Surprise! The children act like children in the museum. From the upper level, they giggle about the nude behinds of the sculptures in the main hall. They are loud. They move about in unpredictable ways, zig zagging, making us worry that they’ll topple over a Hiram Powers on themselves and join the ranks of Gorey’s own Ghashlycrumb Tinies. They are not willing to stand and appreciate a single piece of art for any more than 5 seconds.
We make our way to “Gorey’s Worlds”. We are first greeted by a large photograph of the artist himself, advanced in age and striking a ballet pose on what appears to be a dock. Above it one of his fur coats is suspended as though it’s flying over us. The children gleefully mimic the pose of Gorey’s portrait. In the two main rooms, over one hundred pieces of art, both Gorey’s own work and that of other artist’s from his private collection, are presented. I am thrilled to see the photographs of Eugene Atget among this collection and can see why his images of Paris so inspired Gorey. A moody lavender tone on the walls and some black and white vinyl treatments such as a chair-rail/wainscot around one entire gallery, and a giant illustration from The Doubtful Guest in another, as if they were drawn by Gorey, created an appropriate mood to the show.
The presence of the children will not allow me to fully enjoy the exhibit. It’s a distracted sort of viewing and that is not what I had imagined. And of course any self respecting 6 year old is going to touch that fur coat suspended in the middle of the room. Of course the seven year old is going to test the limits by running around, by exclaiming loudly things like “That’s dark! Who was this guy?! Why is the penguin wearing a sweater” They are alternately fascinated, scared and disinterested on repeat. Our constant verbal reminders of how they are expected to behave are, in reality, far more annoying to the guard and the handful of onlookers than the actual children themselves. A video of the intro to PBS’s Mystery is on a loop as part of the exhibit. It is the thing that they stops them in their tracks. Before we are shooed away by the guards who are ready to go home, the kids get to sit and draw in an area made to somewhat mimic Gorey’s studio.
We end our cultural trip with a stop at Taco Bell per children’s request. The drive thru line is so long that I get out and go inside to order to “save time”. And of course, the man in front of me has purchased $47.50 worth of taco bell and his wife looks over each tray full like a burrito inspector. There are multiple corrections she asks to be made. I have left my phone in the car and so to pass the time I read the white sauce packets on the condiment counter as I wait. When I finally return victorious with nachos and lemonade, both children are asleep. Because of course he drops us off, the kids stir and eat and he goes to pick up the secret gift. It’s not really a secret gift, but a yearly tradition. Each year, B. and F. and our friend N. and S. go to Made in Muncie and paint little ceramic knic-knacs for H. and I for Christmas. He always paly along that we do not know about the secret excursion or expect the next fox, turtle, bunny, dinosaur or R2D2. They are out of the kiln and ready, and so B. runs to pick them up.
When he’s back we back into pile into the car again. This time we are headed to the Susan Gresham center for the annual Christmas light display. We do this during my birthday week every year. As expected, F. shifts between 7 and 70…saying ”ooo look at the floating penguin” to chastising the car in front of us with “no time to be on your phone, folks!”
We all point out our favorite parts. B. and I comment on how the displays have evolved over the years and have grown just like the kids who are staring out the back windows at the lights.
We look at some Christmas lights on the way home, and arrive just before H., still in her tutu. She is less frazzled now and ready to take over minding the children so B. and I can go out to eat for my birthday. We are close friends and all without relatives near enough to have help with our kids. We help each other often and our kids are like siblings.
I realize I have run so much all day that I am not dressed to my satisfaction. I am very underdressed and I feel it. B shrugs it off. We had talked about doing to Gaston to Paynes for fish and chips, but the weather is very rainy and cold and dismal, so we decide to try our luck downtown at the newly opened Ron Lahody’s Trust Your Butcher steak house. He drops me at the door to see how long the wait. One hour the hostess tells me. I look around, see the waiting area is standing room only and there is not even room to wait at the bar. It’s absolutely packed. I get back into the car and call Neely House. The wait is not long for a table of two. We head over and get a table right away. I know the hostess and our server is our neighbor D. The restaurant is full of diners who are in their holiday best. It runs the gamut of “what I wore to my son’s BSU graduation” to a woman in a full length gold gown. I love the ambiance here… a warm, opulent Victorian home with the added murmur and quieted clatter of dinnerware that comes with fine dining. We are seated in the front, west parlor area. The restaurant is incredible and a labor of love for the owners (we have known him for many years). It is a painstakingly restored property of one of Muncie’s original homesteads. Thomas Neely was an avid diarist, and so left the owners with a very detailed account of not only how the property looked, but what he grew in the garden (which, incidentally the owners have also recreated). And I have a nice slow dinner…here and there our conversation is interrupted by a server or two…it seems we know many of them tonight. We start with the scallops and candied pistachios, followed by the honey siracha fried chicken and the fillet of beef. We talk about all sorts of things: politics, art, the Neely House itself.
At the table behind us, near the fireplace and grandfather clock, are two middle aged women in short skirts and a man who B. tells me was one of his profs at BSU. They are dressed for a holiday party. The volume of their merriment is increasing over the course of the evening until they finally stumble out of the door, arms linked and laughing, with their Santa hats on. At the only other table in the room, is a group of salesmen which includes the lady in the gold dress. I know they are salesmen, because they are very loud and one cannot stop talking about his sales prowess and is ribbing the others about their lack thereof. They loudly joke about champagne being a business expense.
I am so full that I become very sleepy. B. goes out and pulls the car around so I don’t have to walk in the rain. We go home and I walk through the door to a child who latches on to me immediately saying he missed me so much. I sit on the couch with him for a long time until H. and S. decide to leave. The final act of the day is a father-son tickle fight.