the xmas compromise: our beloved bipolar tree

For most of us, the holidays are a time when we cling to traditions. We dust off cookie recipes passed down through generations. We pop in our favorite Christmas CDs (since we embarrassingly haven’t transferred the holiday playlist to the old iPod). We tune in to the tried and true TV classics from Rudolph and Frosty to “Home Alone” and “The Grinch.” And we pull out boxes of ornaments—each with its own story—and dig into decorating the tree.

I’m a huge fan of all these traditions. They don’t just help us mark the passing of time, but they warm our hearts with memories of growing up and great times spent with family and friends. Yet much as I love the purity of these pastimes, I have to admit…brace yourself because if you’re a traditionalist this is going to sound blasphemous…sometimes I just want to mix it up. Passing by gleaming store windows and paging through the sumptuous settings in Elle Décor, it’s hard not to be swept away by design inspiration.

So one day, as the season approached, I decided this would be the year we’d change things up.

“You want to do what?!” My husband was flabbergasted. “What about all the awesome ornaments we bought over the time we’ve been together? The hand-painted trout and birch canoe from Michigan. The driftwood Santa from Minnesota. The Winnie the Pooh and Piglet sitting on a chair sharing cookies (from the time when we were kitschy kids in love).”

He was pulling heartstrings like a puppeteer.

“I know, I totally love them all,” I said. “I just want a change.” Puppy dog eyes. “Everything is so mixy-matchy—this year I would just love to have a swanky tree. Matching ornaments, one ‘look.’ Trust me, you’ll love it.”

Shrug. “If it’ll make you happy, go ahead.”

Cha-ching. I felt like a teenager asking my dad for the car keys. License to drive…all the way to diva décor for the new tree!

Though he was skeptical, when I pulled out the sparkly booty of handblown glass, shiny silver and pearly white orbs, he was sold. (And if your mind was in the gutter just now, it may have also taken the other kind of booty as well to convince him!)

But little did I know, my “fancy tree” plans were about to be foiled.

The tree was up, the lights were on, the egg nog was poured, and the delicious scent of pine permeated the air. The family tree-decorating fun was about to commence. We pulled off the lids for the ornament boxes….and then all hell broke loose.

Little grubby hands, completely bypassing the silver and white sparkles, greedily grabbed at the intriguing collection of objects in the criss-cross grid of ornaments from years past.

“Awww, how cute! Look at this fish—it’s adorable!”

“Oh there’s a spotted cow with a Santa hat on. I love it!”

“Yes honey, they’re so cute. Mommy and Daddy got those when we were first dating. We love them, but we’re not using them yet.”

I strategically used the term “yet” in the hopes that we could fill up the tree with sparkly goodness first…and then conveniently run out of room for the riff raff. But for each bauble I put up, I’d find two crafty ornaments hung along the bottom half of the tree, as high as the kids arms could reach while standing on tip toes.

“Ok guys, here’s the deal,” I snapped. “We’re not doing these yet.” My inner Santa was quickly being usurped by my inner Scrooge.

I put a halt on my decorating agenda and quickly began removing the ornament invaders from the perimeter of the tree…only to find more sprouting up on the other side.

“Ummm Mommy, I don’t understand why you don’t want to put these pretty ones up.”

My inner monologue fired back. “Well let’s see…because red and blue and green and birch and wood and plastic don’t match silver and white. Because….”

As I rattled off the reasons why in my mind, I caught a reflection that caused me to reflect. The soft white tree lights shone on the shiny silver ornaments and giddy faces with Chicklet smiles were beaming as they happily placed the ornaments on the tree.

Was I really going to kill their xmas spirit by kicking the kitsch off the tree? On the other hand, wasn’t I entitled to a little sophistication for the holiday season?

In parenting, there’s often a tension, a push and pull between serving your interests and nurturing your kids’. Most of the time, you sacrifice for the greater good. You let go of your agenda and best laid plans. And other times, you find a way to work it out.

I turned to my kids. “You know what, you’re absolutely right. We can’t leave all these awesome ornaments off the tree. But they’re so cool they need their own special spot.” Their eyes twinkled with delight. In full transparency, the special spot was on the back side of the tree, but that was beside the point. It was a win-win.

And so it was born: our beloved bipolar xmas tree—like a mullet, styled in the front with a party in the back. Silver and pearly white peacefully coexisting with snowmen and swimming trout.

When we were finished, we turned off the lights and stepped back to admire our work. I was on a quest for the perfect tree…and I, or rather we, succeeded in making it so.

making lemonade

the violet hour is a hipster lounge in our neighborhood with a whimsical energy and a retro vibe. inside, succulent cocktails are served amidst ultra-high wing back chairs, twinkling chandeliers and cascading cornflower blue drapes. outside, the air of intrigue is underscored by the utterly obscure façade.

there is no sign, no logo, no marker that it’s there. just a collection of plywood panels that are regularly painted and repainted with interesting images and pop art iconography.

a few days ago, we were driving by and this scene caught my eye. the previously brown panels had been painted sky blue, and across the entire façade, a flock of birds appeared to flutter across the canvas. it was a cool graphic amidst the concrete cityscape. and yes, perhaps there was a bit of disney nostalgia that drew me to those cute little birds.

but as we drove closer, something else came into view. the black spray paint marring the idyllic scene. it’s hardly the first time the site has been tagged—i mean, a blank city wall pretty much screams out to the gangsters and graffiti artists of the world. but it nonetheless bummed me out.

i started to go off on a tirade about mean people and frustrating circumstances and how, no matter what we do, crappy things are simply sometimes beyond our control.

…and then i noticed something else.

the birds weren’t just placed randomly flying across the wall. they were nestled on the graffiti itself.

perched on top of the words. nesting in the cradle of the letters. and down at the bottom, a deviant chicken with a can of spray paint in his hand.

i realized that instead of rushing to repaint the wall immediately after it got tagged, the owners turned the graffiti into a part of the art. the writing became branches—the perfect stoop for tweety and his feathered friends. and there was the villain in all his “fowl” (buh dum bum!) err foul glory…it wasn’t perfect, not nearly as pristine…but then again life isn’t.

it was an awesome case of making lemonade out of lemons. sometimes we just have to deal. make the best of a bad situation. accept that shit happens. often out of our control. often to good people. but sometimes, also with a flipside. perhaps even an upside. the challenge is finding a way to make it work.

best laid plans

when my husband and i first started dating, part of my induction into his "world" was an obligatory trip to sleeping bear dunes. if you haven't been there, it's on the northwest coast of michigan, a 450 ft sand dune, pristine, beautiful, surrounded by the turquoise waters of big and little glen lake. never having been to anywhere in michigan but detroit and flint before this trip, i was stunned by the natural beauty, the fresh, crisp air, and the fact that this little gem was in the midwest of all places.

after we raced up the hill that first time (i won!), it became our habit to, whenever we were in the area, make the trek up the sand dune, to stop. breathe in the air.  soak up the view. and come down a little more renewed than when we came.

so when we had our first child, this was one of those "must do's" on our list of things we loved, that we had to share with him—an induction into our family rituals and the places that we hold dear.

we had brought him to the dunes once before, only then he was still an infant, strapped in a baby bjorn and not quite cognizant of the magnitude of what he was experiencing. a hint: he giggled just as much at the top of the hill as on the car ride watching baby einstein...

but this time it was going to be different. he was 2 1/2, walking (so therefore fully equipped to feel the sensation of sand between his toes), joyful, energetic and ready to go. i had my camera fired up. batteries charged. shot list in my head. this was going to be a perfect day sharing one of our favorite places, "the world's biggest sandbox," with our little boy.

when we got to the dunes, the sun was beaming. beautiful...but hot. we hiked up the hill, breathing heavy, cheeks flushed, amazed that he made it all the way up. we spent a couple minutes taking it all in, and then it was time for the photo shoot.

only by then, mr. photogenic had lost his energy. he was hot. he was distracted. in the famous words of jerry lundegaard from fargo, "he was NOT cooperating, see"...and the sun continued to beat down. i'd ask him to smile, he'd pout. i'd call his name, his lower lip would jut out further. out of 50 shots, probably 5 were usable...and, with sweat rolling down my brow, i was a majorly unhappy camper.

and then it hit me. literally hit me...some sand kicked up by a gaggle of kids running full-speed down the massive hill. they were laughing, panting, squealing with delight, with each giant step of their descent.

i looked at my little boy and i knew what i had to do. i shut the camera off. strapped it over my neck. grabbed his hand tightly. 

"are you ready?"

"yeah!" [squeal]

and we took off down the hill—leaving my expectations, our projected feelings about the import of the moment, and my incomplete shot list, in the dust. at the bottom of the hill, his reaction said it all. he squeezed me as hard as he could.

"again mommy, again!"

sometimes we get so caught up in our plans. how we're going to control every aspect of a situation: a party, an event, a presentation, a relationship, a photo shoot(!)—that we forget what's most important. sure planning is good, even necessary, but sometimes circumstances won't "cooperate." at a certain point, you just have to let go. be in the moment. stop. breathe in the air.  soak up the view. and come down a little more renewed than when you came.