When Sweetie was an infant at his first Christmas, I did what many parents do and had professional holiday pictures taken of him. He couldn't even sit up yet, so I had the laying-down-on-the-fuzzy [blanket/rug/bean bag] photo done with him in his white turtleneck and red Christmas tartan overalls snuggling with a teddy bear in a big red bow. It was challenging to get a decent picture; he was really sleepy and I really wanted one of him awake. It took a few tries ... I would give him his pacifier to settle him down, and the sucking would make him drowsy, then I would reach over to take the pacifier out and get out of the frame quickly, while the photographer snapped furiously before the squawking began. Ultimately we got a cute picture ... but he definitely looks sleepy. Every time I look at that picture I remember that day and smile.
Also like many parents, especially with my first child, I bought a gazillion prints in all sizes. Seriously, my child is the most beautiful child in the world and everyone else loves him as much as I do, right? Of COURSE they want their very own 8 x 10 for the wall, 5 x 7 for the desk, and a wallet to show off to friends. The Ex and I combined have a small family, so I always had way too many pictures left over. While trying to come up with ideas of what to do with some of the extras, I decided to put one in an empty picture frame ornament someone had given me. I didn't know it at the time, but a new tradition started that very day.
When I unpacked my ornaments the next year, I looked at that picture ornament of my 3-month old son and smiled. "Awwww, look how cute and little he was. I remember that day." And then I looked at my then-15 month old son who was "helping" me decorate by shoving tissue paper in his mouth, emptying boxes of decorations, and tugging on strands of lights. I was amazed at how different he looked. I thought it would be fun to make a picture ornament of him at 15 months, and then compare those first two years with what he would look like at 27 months the following year. So I did, and I've done it every year.
When Stinker was born, things changed a little. I was much busier when the second one came along ... I was chasing a 2 year old, working full-time, and when Christmas rolled around, I was going through a divorce. I didn't have as many professional pictures taken of Stinker when he was a baby because of the craziness that was my life, and I certainly didn't buy as many, but I was determined to keep the tradition going. As I scoured the few pictures that I had (in comparison to Sweetie's pictures at his first Christmas), I was challenged to find one that was appropriate for an ornament. I simply didn't have as many to choose from; I didn't take as many, and by then everything had gone digital so I didn't have paper photos laying around. Most shots were in close up. When I was looking through my cache of "leftover" professional photos for a cute picture of Stinker, I stumbled across a wallet-sized picture of both boys at Sweetie's third birthday. They were both wearing Hawaiin shirts and denim shorts and they looked so cute, so I decided to put that one in a frame ornament, too. A new tradition was born.
Now, every year, I add 3 new ornaments to my collection: one of Sweetie, one of Stinker, and one of the two of them together. I have pictures of them at a character breakfast at Disneyland, in Halloween costumes, and in professional portrait poses. I have school pictures, soccer pictures, and candid photos. As I type this, I have 21 ornament frames (not counting the ones they have made for me over the years) hanging on my tree. And the candidates for this year's new ornaments have been selected ...
On this eve of Christmas, it warms my heart to sit in the quiet, look at my tree, and enjoy all of those smiling pictures of my children looking back at me. Peace on Earth. God bless us every one.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Roller Queen, That's Me!
I grew up in a small town (at least by Southern California standards). When I was growing up, there wasn't a whole lot to do. We had two movie theaters - a "walk-in" with two screens and a "drive-in" with one screen. Back then they didn't have indoor play structures, or warehouses full of bouncehouses ... we just made do with good old-fashioned imagination. We had a single bowling alley that was always occupied with league play. The nearest mall was 30 minutes away "over the hill" or "in the valley." We did, however, have a skating rink. From about seventh through tenth grade - until friends started driving and dating - we young teenagers spent just about every Friday night and Saturday night at the "roller rink." Either my mom or the mom of a friend would drop us off at the rink, we'd pay our couple of dollars to get in, and a parent would return for us in a couple of hours.
Talking about a roller rink elicits certain memories for me. Why was the carpet always so ugly? And really, how many rows of lockers do you need for a couple of hours of skating. All the cool kids had their own skates, and the not-cool kids had to rent those babypoop brown skates. I remember BEGGING for my own skates and finally getting some beautiful pristine white "girls" skates for Christmas one year. (And then, of course, I had to beg for the accessories - the colored laces, the pom poms, the neon wheels, etc.) The snack bar had delicious junk food - or so I heard - but I never had any money to buy any. If you ever spent any time in a skating rink as a kid, you'll remember this: standing along the barrier wall, near the entrance to the rink, waiting and wishing and hoping that cool cute guy would ask you to skate during the "couples" skate. It seemed like every roller rink, no matter where it was, had the same "theme" skates - all boys fast skate, all girls fast skate, hokey pokey, couples, reverse direction, etc. They all had disco balls in the center, and a DJ who shouted into the microphone so loud and fast that you couldn't even understand him. I was a decent roller skater, though certainly not one of the cool kids. I could skate backwards, though I never really mastered it. I could do spins and a few ice-skating-type tricks. And I could skate FAST. It was so much fun.
When I was in college and after, the rollerblade craze started. I jumped on that band wagon, hung up my roller skates, and bought a sleek pair of inline skates. I bought wrist guards and knee pads, but I would not be caught DEAD with a helmet on. And, looking back, I wonder why no one ever espoused about the benefits of padded pants, maybe like the ones bikers wear. At any rate, my enamor with rollerblades was over really quickly. It was really hard. And I kept falling. Hard. I put them away for a couple of years, and then tried them again when I was 30. While blading with a friend (who was much better than me), I fell so hard that I thought for sure I broke my coccyx. That was the end of all form of skating for me.
So guess what I did a couple of days ago? I went roller skating!! And let me tell you, not much has changed. The carpet is still ugly. The wall still has rows and rows of lockers. The snack bar sold junk. The kid behind the rental counter was on skates, moving around smoothly and confidently, and doubled as the DJ. They did an all boys fast skate, an all girls fast skate, and the hokey pokey. We couldn't understand a word the kid said over the intercom. There was a disco ball above the floor (or a disco-ball effect somewhere else in the rink). "Old school" was in the house: the kid with the rubber legs, gliding quietly across the floor, passing everyone; the boys who raced each other - even though racing is not allowed - weaving in and out of the slower, less skilled skaters; the girls who don't know how to skate, holding on to each other as they scoot in the inner circle of the floor, practically falling and laughing hysterically; the 14-year-olds holding hands as they skate around and around; the boy skating backwards with his hands on the hips of his girlfriend. I was flooded with deja vu!
There was one significant difference. Roller derby girls. There were several of them. You can't miss them, what with the 70s style shorts over leggings, all of the padding, the specific-purpose skates. One had what I suspect is her derby name written across her backside. Another was teaching her young daughter a fast start. These women seemed fairly unskilled compared to the derby girls I've seen during derby exhibitions ... until it was time for the fast skate. Those women got out there and hauled A--. And I think one woman was a derby ref (or is it an ump?) because she was skating faster backwards than everyone else was skating forward. And then it dawned on me that those markings on the floor were probably roller derby markings. It turns out, my area has at least three roller derby teams. That's something I must explore (and blog about later).
I had some revelations: Skating is good exercise! My legs were tired, I know I worked my back muscles and I was sweating. It turns out I'm still a pretty good skater ... for a middle-aged overweight woman who hasn't been on skates in 30 years. I only fell once - and I was SPINNING when I did it. So there.
Talking about a roller rink elicits certain memories for me. Why was the carpet always so ugly? And really, how many rows of lockers do you need for a couple of hours of skating. All the cool kids had their own skates, and the not-cool kids had to rent those babypoop brown skates. I remember BEGGING for my own skates and finally getting some beautiful pristine white "girls" skates for Christmas one year. (And then, of course, I had to beg for the accessories - the colored laces, the pom poms, the neon wheels, etc.) The snack bar had delicious junk food - or so I heard - but I never had any money to buy any. If you ever spent any time in a skating rink as a kid, you'll remember this: standing along the barrier wall, near the entrance to the rink, waiting and wishing and hoping that cool cute guy would ask you to skate during the "couples" skate. It seemed like every roller rink, no matter where it was, had the same "theme" skates - all boys fast skate, all girls fast skate, hokey pokey, couples, reverse direction, etc. They all had disco balls in the center, and a DJ who shouted into the microphone so loud and fast that you couldn't even understand him. I was a decent roller skater, though certainly not one of the cool kids. I could skate backwards, though I never really mastered it. I could do spins and a few ice-skating-type tricks. And I could skate FAST. It was so much fun.
When I was in college and after, the rollerblade craze started. I jumped on that band wagon, hung up my roller skates, and bought a sleek pair of inline skates. I bought wrist guards and knee pads, but I would not be caught DEAD with a helmet on. And, looking back, I wonder why no one ever espoused about the benefits of padded pants, maybe like the ones bikers wear. At any rate, my enamor with rollerblades was over really quickly. It was really hard. And I kept falling. Hard. I put them away for a couple of years, and then tried them again when I was 30. While blading with a friend (who was much better than me), I fell so hard that I thought for sure I broke my coccyx. That was the end of all form of skating for me.
So guess what I did a couple of days ago? I went roller skating!! And let me tell you, not much has changed. The carpet is still ugly. The wall still has rows and rows of lockers. The snack bar sold junk. The kid behind the rental counter was on skates, moving around smoothly and confidently, and doubled as the DJ. They did an all boys fast skate, an all girls fast skate, and the hokey pokey. We couldn't understand a word the kid said over the intercom. There was a disco ball above the floor (or a disco-ball effect somewhere else in the rink). "Old school" was in the house: the kid with the rubber legs, gliding quietly across the floor, passing everyone; the boys who raced each other - even though racing is not allowed - weaving in and out of the slower, less skilled skaters; the girls who don't know how to skate, holding on to each other as they scoot in the inner circle of the floor, practically falling and laughing hysterically; the 14-year-olds holding hands as they skate around and around; the boy skating backwards with his hands on the hips of his girlfriend. I was flooded with deja vu!
There was one significant difference. Roller derby girls. There were several of them. You can't miss them, what with the 70s style shorts over leggings, all of the padding, the specific-purpose skates. One had what I suspect is her derby name written across her backside. Another was teaching her young daughter a fast start. These women seemed fairly unskilled compared to the derby girls I've seen during derby exhibitions ... until it was time for the fast skate. Those women got out there and hauled A--. And I think one woman was a derby ref (or is it an ump?) because she was skating faster backwards than everyone else was skating forward. And then it dawned on me that those markings on the floor were probably roller derby markings. It turns out, my area has at least three roller derby teams. That's something I must explore (and blog about later).
I had some revelations: Skating is good exercise! My legs were tired, I know I worked my back muscles and I was sweating. It turns out I'm still a pretty good skater ... for a middle-aged overweight woman who hasn't been on skates in 30 years. I only fell once - and I was SPINNING when I did it. So there.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The Rainbow Song
I grew up in a home with a mother who liked to sing. She had a beautiful voice, an alto, and I remember her singing all the time: vacuuming, cooking, sewing, gardening, driving. Sometimes she would put on an LP, crank it up, dance in our living room, and sing her little heart out. Maybe that's where the divine dances of the ya ya brotherhood originated in my head! I loved to hear my mother sing when I was little. I really loved it when she sang "que sera, sera." (What is that song actually called? Did Doris Day sing it?) That song had an impact on my older sister as well; a couple of years ago, while she was in Paris, she texted me to tell me that it was playing in the little cafe where she was enjoying a brioche and coffee! As I got older, I thought my mom was weird - nobody else's mom sang all the time and nobody danced around!
For me, music and memory tie together in my brain. Certain songs evoke very specific memories for me, both good and bad. Thankfully, all of the songs I remember my mother singing bring up warm fuzzies and smiles. Maybe it's because of the strong impact my mother's singing had on me, but I really wanted to sing to my children. I don't have a very good singing voice, but everyone always told me it doesn't matter to little kids, so I decided I would try it. When my sons were infants, I sang made-up silly songs to them during playtime, and they smiled. I would pace with them during the witching hours - those long nights when baby just won't sleep - and sing. I couldn't remember the words to very many songs, so I sang weird songs like "Silent Night" and "The Ants Go Marching One by One." The one song I remembered - a full three verses - was "que sera, sera." I sang that song to them a lot.
We did a lot of singing in the car on the ride home from Disneyland earlier this week, but it was more of the silly made-up type. For example, I made up a song about their stinky feet, which they LOVED. We sang it over and over again while they stuck their stinky feet on my center console and I tickled their toes. Sweetie asked me to sing it again today. He loves it when I sing. Stinker doesn't. Most of the time when I sing, Stinker tells me to stop.
Imagine my surprise when, at bedtime tonight, Stinker asked me to sing him the Rainbow song. The Rainbow song? What's that? I kept thinking about the made-up songs ... did one have a rainbow in it? No. Nursery rhyme songs? No. What the heck was he talking about? And then it hit me. He wanted me to sing him "que sera, sera." I sing three verses, and the second verse (as I sing it - who knows what it actually is) is:
Then I grew up and fell in love,
I asked my sweetheart, "what lies ahead?
Will there be rainbows, day after day?"
Here's what my sweetheart said:
Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera.
When I said "are you talking about the que sera, sera song?" he said. "yeah, yeah, sing dat one." I can't remember the last time I sang that song to either one of my boys. I have no idea what prompted him to ask me to sing. But I loved it. And I sang it. And he made a yummy noise! I was not surprised when Sweetie came into Stinker's room and said, "sing it to me, sing it to me." So I did. And then he made a yummy noise. I am a lucky mom; other than giggling, there's nothing better than a yummy noise from my sons.
For me, music and memory tie together in my brain. Certain songs evoke very specific memories for me, both good and bad. Thankfully, all of the songs I remember my mother singing bring up warm fuzzies and smiles. Maybe it's because of the strong impact my mother's singing had on me, but I really wanted to sing to my children. I don't have a very good singing voice, but everyone always told me it doesn't matter to little kids, so I decided I would try it. When my sons were infants, I sang made-up silly songs to them during playtime, and they smiled. I would pace with them during the witching hours - those long nights when baby just won't sleep - and sing. I couldn't remember the words to very many songs, so I sang weird songs like "Silent Night" and "The Ants Go Marching One by One." The one song I remembered - a full three verses - was "que sera, sera." I sang that song to them a lot.
We did a lot of singing in the car on the ride home from Disneyland earlier this week, but it was more of the silly made-up type. For example, I made up a song about their stinky feet, which they LOVED. We sang it over and over again while they stuck their stinky feet on my center console and I tickled their toes. Sweetie asked me to sing it again today. He loves it when I sing. Stinker doesn't. Most of the time when I sing, Stinker tells me to stop.
Imagine my surprise when, at bedtime tonight, Stinker asked me to sing him the Rainbow song. The Rainbow song? What's that? I kept thinking about the made-up songs ... did one have a rainbow in it? No. Nursery rhyme songs? No. What the heck was he talking about? And then it hit me. He wanted me to sing him "que sera, sera." I sing three verses, and the second verse (as I sing it - who knows what it actually is) is:
Then I grew up and fell in love,
I asked my sweetheart, "what lies ahead?
Will there be rainbows, day after day?"
Here's what my sweetheart said:
Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera.
When I said "are you talking about the que sera, sera song?" he said. "yeah, yeah, sing dat one." I can't remember the last time I sang that song to either one of my boys. I have no idea what prompted him to ask me to sing. But I loved it. And I sang it. And he made a yummy noise! I was not surprised when Sweetie came into Stinker's room and said, "sing it to me, sing it to me." So I did. And then he made a yummy noise. I am a lucky mom; other than giggling, there's nothing better than a yummy noise from my sons.
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