As life goes on, the meaning of something has become very important to me. Especially when that something constitutes large outputs of time and energy on my part. Why spend a lot of time doing something if you don’t even know why you’re doing it? Or maybe I’ve always been that way, with a certain curiosity about the “why” behind things. Like the game my four-year-old and I play. “Why? Why? Why?” Going deeper and deeper into the source of things until the question becomes moot.
After Kian was born, my Catholic-raised husband broached the subject of baptism. I was raised by a Protestant mother and a Christian Scientist father (not Scientologist, please – that’s L. Ron Hubbard. Christian Scientist is Mary Baker Eddy and about healing with faith and prayer). We weren’t baptised, so this was a foreign concept to me. So I asked him “What does it mean?” He didn’t know.
“Well, why should we do it?”
“Because I was baptised and that’s what you do when you’re Catholic.”
“Ah”.
So began my quest into the meaning of baptism. I googled. I asked friends. I even went to see a minister at the United Church of Canada. We had a wonderful lengthy discussion, about baptism and even what it means to be Christian. For those, like myself, who are not clear about what a baptism is, my understanding of it is very simple: it is welcoming a child into a community, and asking that community that shares your beliefs and values, to help in the moral education of your child.
Once we understood the meaning behind the rite of baptism, we didn’t feel it was right for our family to baptise our son Catholic or in any other church, if we were not prepared to take an active part in that community ourselves. Even though neither our son nor our daughter were ever baptised, at least now we know what it means and why we made the choice we did.
For the last few Christmases, I’ve been able to get away with very vague explanations on the “why” of Christmas. But my son is now 4 ½ and I can’t get away with nearly so much. The “it’s Jesus’ birthday” part is easy, but then we get into “who is Jesus?” And here the road gets extremely bumpy for someone who does not call themselves a Christian (don’t freak out here – remember the lengthy conversation with the minister? After that discussion I felt I had a workable definition for what it meant to be a Christian: a follower of the Bible and Jesus Christ as a way to God. And since I do not read the Bible, nor go to church, and my way to God is through many paths, I feel I cannot call myself a Christian in that sense).
I was going to once again consult the all-knowing of the 21st Century: google. A search query something like “pagan Christmas explanation for four-year-old”, but I thought of it in the car, didn’t have paper, wrote it on my hand (along with “put paper in car”), then washed it off my hand before I got a chance to do either. Then forgot to do both. (That is the story of my day, every day, in a nutshell).
So here I was, Christmas Eve morning, racing out for a haircut, and my son in the bathroom trying to get me to do anything but get myself ready. “I hate Papa.” Translation: “I’m really mad at you for not telling me earlier you were leaving today. I hate surprises. I will miss you.”
“Don’t do this, honey.” It’s Christmas Eve. Christmas is about love, not hate. Christmas is...”
Oh, great. I almost made it. He hadn’t even asked, and yet here I was in the 11th hour, having to scramble for meaning. If not THE meaning, at least a meaning that would make sense to me and my little boy.
“Honey!” I yell to my husband. “Christmas is when Jesus is born, right?” “Yeah” from the kitchen, as my mind goes over its inventory of Christmas images like “The Little Drummer Boy”, multiple manger scenes, etc. Ah yes, the day he was born. Duh.
“Jesus is... a guy who was really wise and... he understood...everything. And he tried to teach us what he knew. And one of those things is about loving everyone. That’s why we give gifts, to show how much we love someone. You see, Christmas isn’t about getting gifts, it’s about giving them. It’s about love. And even those who have nothing (here I’m thinking of the Little Drummer Boy again), still give something.”
Dang, for the 11th hour, I thought I had done pretty good. I even squeezed in a good upper cut at commercialism. A little icing on the cake. But that was all I had time for.
“Scoot, scoot!” Pat on the head. A big smooch goodbye to all, and out the door in the -15⁰ sudden freeze we found ourselves in.
As I was driving to town, I thought about our little exchange. I think Christmas really is about love. Or it should be. Or could be.
Do we need to be a Christian to celebrate Christmas? It’s gotten so commercial; it’s pretty much jumped the boundaries of religion already. And for many, Christian or not, I think it has lost its meaning. So why not concentrate on a universal meaning that can be shared by all?
That evening at my in-laws, I tried to do just that. Think about the love behind Christmas. I tried to remember it as we made our way through the four-course meal that my 85-year-old father-in-law makes with much well-deserved pride, but that unfortunately is served so late that both my kids are in total meltdown by the time it’s finished and we’re unwrapping gifts at 1am. I kept thinking of it as I was downing espressos at 1:30am so I could stay awake enough to prepare our Christmas when we got home (which, why on Earth I had waited until then is indeed a mystery). And I thought of it this morning, bleary-eyed and cranky from a poor few hours of sleep, as we ripped and tore our way through the beautiful gifts of love from our beautiful and bountiful family.
One of the last gifts I opened was an ornament from my step-mom. On it is inscribed, “Christmas is love.”
Huh. I guess I was right all along.
And with that, I say Merry Christmas to all.
With love.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Middle-Aged
It hit me just the other day. I realized that I’m not young anymore. I had seemed to be young for so long. I probably stretched it out more than most, living in France, being single, sleeping when I was tired, eating when I was hungry, quitting jobs because I was unhappy, dating men ten years younger... I was young. I felt young.
I met my husband late in life, had kids even later. I’m a mother of two under five, and like all mothers of young children, I’m exhausted. Staying up late to watch a film usually ends up with snores on the couch. My meals are usually the leftovers of my children. No more fancy multiple-course meals, lounging around the table with stimulating conversation, several bottles of wine and time to kill. Followed by dancing until dawn, going to bed with the sunrise. Those days are gone.
I don’t even feel young anymore. And yet, I’m not old, per se. I’m not that wrinkled (yet), I still go to the gym, even put on some techno music and go a little crazy. I run and play with my children. I will be going back to work soon, and am still young enough to re-enter the work force, and have a bit of career before I retire. Technically, if I live to my eighties or nineties, I’m about halfway through my life... I’m... Oh my God. And that’s where it hit me. I’m middle-aged!
This thought struck me as I was driving, and I just held the wheel, stunned. I’m middle-aged! I’m finally here! Huh. So this is middle-aged. I’ve probably been here for awhile, but it was the realization that was new. I tried it on for a moment... middle-aged....I’m middle-aged. I was feeling too old to be young, but as middle-aged... I feel quite good! I’m not a bad middle-aged! I can still rock as middle-aged. I can be a cool middle-aged (careful here, to not fall back into the person who thinks they’re still young and tries to dress like it), think Coco Chanel, with class, and elegance, a bit of sassiness. I’ll have to do something with my wardrobe of sweatpants, though. Wow. I’m middle-aged.
I had too much fun in my extended youth to really have your typical “crisis” – running off to find yourself type of thing. And I think my “crisis” was when I realized that although being young is fun, other aspects of the human experience were passing me by. Having a family, having a partner, to name two. My eldest brother passed away in 2004 and it was then that I realized I had a big hole in my life. After the funeral, everyone had someone to go home to. I was still the daughter aching for the comfort of my parents, but my father was busy with his elderly sister and his wife, and my mother had passed away long ago. My other brother and sister had their spouses and children to go home to. I had... my two cats back in Montreal, across the continent. That was when I realized that it was time to “grow up”. To give up the Peter Pan lifestyle and mindset. It was time to get a life of my own.
And I did.
And there I was, seven years later, driving down the freeway in the middle of Montreal suburbia, realizing I had made it to middle-aged. It felt good. I mean, I could have still been the “too old to be young” girl, trying to stretch out a few more years of my youth long gone. But now I was happily settling into middle-aged. My kids will have to deal with having an “old” Mama, not the sprightly late-twenties version donned in Lululemon, but the mid-forties, “when am I going to hit menopause?” version. But that’s okay too. After all, I still have half a life ahead of me. I’m only middle-aged.
I met my husband late in life, had kids even later. I’m a mother of two under five, and like all mothers of young children, I’m exhausted. Staying up late to watch a film usually ends up with snores on the couch. My meals are usually the leftovers of my children. No more fancy multiple-course meals, lounging around the table with stimulating conversation, several bottles of wine and time to kill. Followed by dancing until dawn, going to bed with the sunrise. Those days are gone.
I don’t even feel young anymore. And yet, I’m not old, per se. I’m not that wrinkled (yet), I still go to the gym, even put on some techno music and go a little crazy. I run and play with my children. I will be going back to work soon, and am still young enough to re-enter the work force, and have a bit of career before I retire. Technically, if I live to my eighties or nineties, I’m about halfway through my life... I’m... Oh my God. And that’s where it hit me. I’m middle-aged!
This thought struck me as I was driving, and I just held the wheel, stunned. I’m middle-aged! I’m finally here! Huh. So this is middle-aged. I’ve probably been here for awhile, but it was the realization that was new. I tried it on for a moment... middle-aged....I’m middle-aged. I was feeling too old to be young, but as middle-aged... I feel quite good! I’m not a bad middle-aged! I can still rock as middle-aged. I can be a cool middle-aged (careful here, to not fall back into the person who thinks they’re still young and tries to dress like it), think Coco Chanel, with class, and elegance, a bit of sassiness. I’ll have to do something with my wardrobe of sweatpants, though. Wow. I’m middle-aged.
I had too much fun in my extended youth to really have your typical “crisis” – running off to find yourself type of thing. And I think my “crisis” was when I realized that although being young is fun, other aspects of the human experience were passing me by. Having a family, having a partner, to name two. My eldest brother passed away in 2004 and it was then that I realized I had a big hole in my life. After the funeral, everyone had someone to go home to. I was still the daughter aching for the comfort of my parents, but my father was busy with his elderly sister and his wife, and my mother had passed away long ago. My other brother and sister had their spouses and children to go home to. I had... my two cats back in Montreal, across the continent. That was when I realized that it was time to “grow up”. To give up the Peter Pan lifestyle and mindset. It was time to get a life of my own.
And I did.
And there I was, seven years later, driving down the freeway in the middle of Montreal suburbia, realizing I had made it to middle-aged. It felt good. I mean, I could have still been the “too old to be young” girl, trying to stretch out a few more years of my youth long gone. But now I was happily settling into middle-aged. My kids will have to deal with having an “old” Mama, not the sprightly late-twenties version donned in Lululemon, but the mid-forties, “when am I going to hit menopause?” version. But that’s okay too. After all, I still have half a life ahead of me. I’m only middle-aged.
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