MARITAL STATUS: CAT LADY

Out of the 743 concerns parents have when changing their marital status, the major worry is how their children will handle it. We knew after the initial divorce discussion with our son, he would want to know what his life was going to look like. Therefore, we had already started the process of purchasing a condominium for me so he would know where he’d be sharing his time. When we told him about it, his first response was what you would expect any 12-year-old to say: “It’s always good to have more real estate.” Thankfully, he’s a kid who likes to look on the bright side.

After taking stock of our ‘real estate,’ he then realized that he could finally get the cat he always wanted. His dad’s pet allergy had worsened over the years, so cats weren’t an option in our house. I told him we’d have to wait a while so we could get settled in our new place first (and, let’s be honest, so I could enjoy at least a few months of new, non-clawed, hairless furniture). So, understanding that getting a cat was not imminent, he did what any 12-year-old would do: He began selecting potential names for the cat. Every week he comes up with a different possibility, each of them worse than the last. His latest chosen name is Fluffy Puffy.

I’ve always disliked pet names based on descriptions. I can’t imagine my former cats, Ophelia and Franklin, would have tolerated being called Mittens or Whiskers. We don’t name our children by their characteristics, why would we do that to our furbabies? Although, come to think of it, a name concocted from our physical attributes might be useful for blind dating. Then again, with my wild curly hair and middle-aged body, Fluffy Puffy hits a little too close to home.

So I told my son if we get a cat, he’d need to choose a real name for him. I reminded him that he gave his fish the regular names Charlie and Sebastian. He thought about this for a while and finally suggested Mr. Fluffy Puffy.

I’d love to share my son’s bright side attitude, but it looks like I will soon be a fifty year-old cat lady with the only man in my life being Mr. Fluffy Puffy. Maybe we should get a dog…

HERSHEY'S, MARS, & CADBURY: THE CHOCOLATE STALKERS

Valentine’s Day has just passed and I’ve heard the usual complaints about the made-up Hallmark holiday. This on the heels of people grumbling about the consumer driven Christmas season. But not me. My grievance reaches all the way back to Halloween and the sheer amount of chocolate I am forced to eat for six months out of the year. (And by forced to eat, I mean eat.)

I stopped at the grocery store for a few things today and as soon as I push past the customer service desk, my cart almost has a head-on with a display of Easter candy. I sigh deeply and reverse, taking the long way around to the produce section. I’m not about to walk directly past the display where a bag or two could fall into my cart. I just recently vanquished the last of the red and green Christmas m&m’s from our house (and by vanquished, I mean ate) so I’m not about to replace them with pastel ones. Not yet anyway.

Chocolate stalks me from October through April. It starts with going to BJ’s to buy our Halloween candy where you can’t buy less than the bulk bag of 135 fun-size bars. Couple that with the measly fifteen trick or treaters who may come to our door, and that’s 120 leftover promises of fun to be eaten in the month of November. Sure, there’s a short respite for Thanksgiving pie eating, but by month's end, I can sense a full-on ambush by Christmas chocolates.

We tend to get a lot of sweets from our generous neighbors, so there’s no reason for me to buy the Ghiradelli peppermint bark…except that it would be Scrooge-like not to. The Christmas colored m&m’s are required for decorating sugar cookies for my son’s teachers. The surplus of the 42 oz. mega-bag is merely the consequence of my charitable baking.

Thus, we have chocolate-filled holiday bowls all around the house during the month of December. This promptly takes on a gluttonous aura before the shine of the new year wears off. Having that much chocolate in the house when it’s just plain ole’ January diminishes the chocolate haze I’ve been living in. By the middle of the month, I’ve convinced myself I need to get rid of it. (And by get rid of it, I mean eat it.) By the first of February, the house is finally chocolate-free.

This lasts a whole week, because Valentine’s Day is fast approaching and red boxed chocolates are everywhere. I find myself having to walk through Candy Land just to pick up a prescription at CVS. Just walk through the aisle, I tell myself. But it’s not the same red and green m&m’s I’ve been eating since Christmas. Now they are pink and red. How does one pass up an entirely new species of m&m’s? What's the use anyway? I still have to buy my son some Valentine’s chocolates and then follow that up by being a good mother and not letting him consume too much sugar. Every mama bear will sacrifice for her child. (And by sacrifice, I mean eat his chocolate).

Which leads me to today, four days after Valentine’s Day, when I almost collide with the display of Easter candy. Chocolate is relentless. It changes its color with each holiday. It stakes its claim months before your little black dress is too tight to wear to the office Christmas party. It laughs in the face of your half-hearted New Year’s resolution. Just when I’ve made a pact with myself to no longer succumb to Mars and Hershey, out comes chocolate’s cleanup hitter, Cadbury. This is when I realize that the fun-size bars of a distant Halloween were just a warm up to the grand finale: Cadbury’s giant chocolate bunny. 

By the time we fully thaw out here in New England, the last of the solid bunny ears have been gnawed, digested, and commemorated on my hips. The chocolate laden holidays are finally over. Lucky for me, it’s just in time to think about bathing suit season…and chocolate’s deliciously nasty cousin, ice cream. 

THE TARNISHED GOLDEN GLOBES STILL HAD SOME SHINING MOMENTS

I started writing a Facebook post about an aspect of last night’s Golden Globes that bothered me, but when I realized my rant would be much longer than a simple post, I took to my long-neglected blog.

Let me preface this by saying that I am not an expert on movies, television, or awards shows. I see about two movies a year that aren’t made by Pixar or DreamWorks, and my television viewing mainly consists of PBS and Bravo (although I try to remember which night The Grinder is on, because that show is freakin’ funny). And I might’ve missed the Globes from 9:00 to 9:50 because Downton Abbey was on at that time. And I didn’t watch the last half hour because it was past my bedtime. HOWEVER, this will not deter me from giving my (non-expert) opinion about the show, because this isn’t a Vanity Fair article or even a Huffington Post one. This is what a blog called Korina’s Take is made for.

That being said, I will start my Golden Globe stream of consciousness writing at the beginning: with Ricky Gervais. He is a guy who usually makes me giggle the minute I see him, even before he says anything that I know is going to be hilarious. I love his style and I love his laugh, and I thought he was extremely funny in past years. But this year he seemed to relish too much in his identity as being the nasty host. He made more jokes about being mean-spirited than he did mean-spirited jokes, but it still had the same effect of putting the guests on edge. I felt like it was the school bully bragging about being the bully. Who wants to see Jeffrey Tambor afraid?

After the monologue, it was all a blur, maybe because I was bopping back and forth between the awards show and The Real Housewives of Atlanta. So I’ll just throw out my thoughts.

I appreciate Jonah Hill trying something cheeky. It is the Globes, after all. If Jack Nicholson could talk out his butt on the Golden Globes stage back in the day, then Jonah Hill can dress up like The Revenant Bear. Or so one would think. Alas, I love Jonah Hill’s movie work, but at the Globes, he and Channing Tatum looked like two frat boys who accidentally got asked to speak at the grown-up party. Jonah Hill, you’re no Jack Nicholson.

Everyone, in fact, seemed to be trying too hard to keep up the Golden Globes' reputation of being the boozy, good-time awards show in comparison to the Oscars. Jamie Foxx was under the impression that he was doing stand-up, which left poor Rose, I mean Lily James, to stand beside him nervously chuckling. And why, oh why, are they still doing the outdated, demeaning, misogynistic Miss America-type thing introducing Miss Golden Globes? (Beside the fact that it seems like a direct reference to her breasts.) Every year they pick an actor’s daughter to present herself and show how pretty she is so she can be in the business, too. And Jennifer Lawrence wonders why there’s a pay gap between actors and actresses.

I think they should just go ahead and take the Globes all the way down the path of being the Oscars’ naughty brother. The Golden Globes should be the Eric Roberts to the Oscars’ Julia. If Ricky Gervais is going to stand up there with a beer and Jonah Hill is going to put on a bear head, then why not go all the way with it? Why not put in a bunch of Barcaloungers? If they have to scooch between chairs to run up and accept their awards, let them wear sweats and sneakers. Serve Doritos and beer, so when the camera pans to the crowd, their bored and rude behavior might seem more warranted.

The whole thing was just so down the middle that it didn’t work in either capacity. The ‘We don’t care, let’s just party’ attitude was not believable. These people make their living in front of the cameras. No matter how many swear words they used, they knew millions of us were still watching at home. (Or some of us were still watching. It was 9:00, time for Downton Abbey.)

Of course they care. They care so much in fact that they’re allowed to put any movie or actor in the comedy/musical category, even if it’s not a comedy, just to better their chances of winning. Just because your drama has a few light moments in it doesn’t make it a comedy, the same way having a movie score doesn’t make it a musical. The producers from The Martian should’ve been embarrassed to be up there “winning.” I would berate Matt Damon, too, except for the fact that he was up against actors in other non-comedies. (And he’s sweetie pie Matt Damon. You can’t berate Matt Damon.)

However, I can berate David O. Russell, because American Hustle was so good that his next two films have been way overrated. Silver Linings Playbook might’ve seemed like a good movie unless you read the book. If we’re honest, Joy was on par with a really good TV movie. Besides, I don’t want to see the same four actors in a bunch of different movies. I like Jennifer Lawrence but he’s made her overexposed. But that’s not the real issue. The Golden Globes has a distinct category for comedies and comedians so that they can get the recognition that the drama-filled Oscars denies them. Jennifer Lawrence doesn’t need to sneak into the comedy section to get a little recognition. They need to keep the comedy category for TRUE comedies. Spy was hilarious. Train Wreck was funny. Melissa McCarthy and Amy Schumer should’ve been the two favorites vying for that award. And if it ever happens that Jennifer Lawrence doesn’t make a Golden Globe-worthy drama one year (like, say, this year, for instance) then she should bow out and allow an actress in a comedy to win the award she deserves. Hopefully all the funny women in Ghostbusters will push out any actress who happens to make a joke or two in her drama for next year’s awards season.

Ok, enough ranting. Let’s get to the happy stuff.

Sylvester Stallone. I loved him and I loved Rocky. I loved the story of him making Rocky and winning three Oscars for Rocky. Sylvester Stallone was the 1976 version of Good Will Hunting’s Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. It was like getting to see an old friend be happy. It was my highlight of the night.

Dwayne, The Rock, Johnson and Jennifer Lopez. My TV actually had an aura around it when they were on. Together, they were almost too beautiful.

Eddie Redmayne. Let’s just have a moment of silence to sit quietly and reflect on the beauty that is Eddie Redmayne.

America Ferrerra and Eva Longoria. Eva Longoria was funnier in her bit than Jennifer Lawrence was in her movie.

Tom Hanks. He’s one of those guys that when you see him, you smile. I hope he lives forever.

Denzel Washington. Why aren’t there movies written just for Denzel? Hopefully this will remind directors that they should leave the action movies to Vin Diesel and give a meaty drama to Denzel.

Christian Slater. Isn’t he one of those young actors you figured would go the way of Judd Nelson or Corey Feldman? How nice it is to see Christian Slater in a hit show and looking so good. Even if his wife is young enough to be his daughter.

Melissa McCarthy. Svelte!! (And robbed.)

Jim Carrey. For the first time he was, dare I say, restrained. And funny. as. hell. We’ve missed you, Jim.

Mozart in the Jungle. Whaaa?? I have to admit, I wasn’t even aware of 95% of the shows in the TV category. But this one looked so intriguing that I looked it up so I can start watching it. Then I found out it’s on Amazon. Um…Isn’t Amazon where I order my hair products from? This is when I realize I am one of those technically challenged old people. All I want to know is which channel is Amazon. Whaaa??

Cate Blanchett. How can someone be mesmerizing just by sitting there? She is.

And lastly, it was brief, it wasn’t scripted, it was just a quick shot before a commercial break: Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio, with her arm on his shoulder, talking closely, together again. My happy ending is realized. Finally, I have some closure. 

What did you think about this year's Golden Globes?

DOWNTON ABBEY: THE DAY I GOT TO SEE THE REAL THING

Me at Downton Abbey (Highclere Castle)

            As the car wound its way through the rolling hillsides dotted with fat sheep, I could barely tamp down my excitement. We slowed and pulled to the side for each approaching car as the lane was too narrow for two vehicles to safely pass each other.

            “No wonder Matthew was run off the road and died,” I said.

            “Who died?” My eleven-year-old son asked in alarm.

            My husband clarified, “Remember the show we told you about? Downton Abbey? One of the characters of that show was driving on this lane fast and was accidentally run off the road.”

            “Oh, so nobody really died,” our son said, relieved. “It was just a show.”

            Just a show?

            My husband David and I came upon Downton Abbey a full four seasons in. We heard the hype but never had the time to start from the beginning so we kept putting off watching it. Finally, I borrowed season one from the library and we began to watch. We needn’t have worried about the time factor. We watched the entire season in one weekend. Seasons two, three, and four immediately followed, although we paced ourselves a bit better so we could prolong the experience of immersing ourselves in that house, those clothes, the Crawley family, and their servants. Timing was on our side, because as soon as we finished watching the last of the DVD’s, the new season was just beginning on PBS. After binge watching every prior episode, it seemed highly barbaric having to wait an entire week between shows. Of course, that was nothing compared to the period of mourning we endured after the final episode, knowing we would be waiting a year to experience the final season of the series. Just a show?  Not quite.

            We weren’t driving up in a jaunty convertible Rolls Royce or 1911 Renault. It was a nondescript taxi and we didn’t get to pull up to the castle with Carson and his servants lined up to greet us. We made it only to the car park (the parking lot), but my excitement was not dulled whatsoever, because I had already gotten my first glimpse of Downton Abbey, a.k.a. Highclere Castle. It was more beautiful in person than they could even make it look on television. I couldn’t stop staring at it.

            Highclere Castle is open to the public on a limited basis (about 60 to 70 days each year), because the Countess of Carnarvon and her family make it their full time residence. Because of this, I expected it to be teeming with tourists. However, the grounds are so vast, we only saw small groupings of people here and there. We almost felt like we had been invited to one of the Crawley garden parties. 

            To balance the flow of traffic inside the castle, there are two ticket times, one morning and one afternoon. Our afternoon ticket was not in effect for another forty-five minutes or so, but we were allowed anywhere on the grounds before that time, so we took advantage of it. As you know from the show, the grounds are stunning. I always notice the trees when I watch, mostly because they’re usually incongruous with whatever season it’s supposed to be. (Sure enough, they had just wrapped shooting the Christmas episode the week prior when everything was in full bloom.) The trees are magnificent and enormous. You can get a sense of the scale with this photo of my son standing under one of the trees.

My son under one of the enormous trees

            We immediately recognized the path that is often trod when two or three of the characters are walking and talking outside.

The often seen path

We followed it around the perimeter of the castle. The grounds behind the castle lead to a meadow of wildflowers and a brick walled garden of roses and topiary bushes in the shape of arches. 

 

A greenhouse chock full of blooms stood adjacent to the garden. When we walked to the coach house later on, which is now a café, tea house, and gift shop, we saw several people buying their potted flowers. At the back of the garden we spotted a wooden sign that read Secret Garden, so we opened the wrought iron gate to reveal a winding path of countless varieties of flowers. How many adjectives can I substitute for the word spectacular? That’s all it was. Spectacular.

              

          Even so, 1:00 arrived and the castle awaited. We made our way to the front of the castle and waited a few moments for the short line of people to filter in. My only disappointment of the day was that there was no photography allowed once inside the house. To be honest, I am known to break this rule in certain places and just don’t use a flash, but because this was someone’s home, I felt I should respect the request. 

One of the front doors

            It was at this point that I felt a slight trepidation. I recalled the moment I first saw Dorothy’s ruby red slippers at the Smithsonian and was disappointed that they merely looked like the kind of red sequins I used to use for craft projects pinned to a shoe. What if, up close, Downton Abbey turned out to be Downton Shabby? To add to my fears, the first room we would be seeing was the library – my favorite room.

            I stepped into the room and caught my breath. It was even more stunning than on television. It was precisely the same but somehow better. The mahogany paneling, the rich red curtains, the desk, the columns, the fireplace hearth, the long windows, and the books. All. Those. Books. (Fun Fact: There are 5,650 books in the room.) Oh, how I wanted to sit on one of those red velvet couches and be served a proper tea. We lingered in the library for quite some time, but no one pulled the chord for tea service, so we moved on.

            The drawing room where they are sometimes seen gathering before dinner was also a favorite. The green silk fabric on the walls gave the room a soothing feel. An impressive collection of ancient Chinese furniture and artifacts were also displayed in this room.

            As we toured each of the rooms – the music room, the smoking room, etc., the only differences I could decipher from what is shown on TV is the removal of all the framed family photographs and the repositioning of some of the furniture. “That side table should be over there,” I muttered to myself. Three other obsessive fans women in the room nodded in agreement.

            We went up a set of back stairs to reach the second floor. The first bedroom we saw was where the Turkish diplomat Pamuk was carried back after he died while bedding Mary in season one. We also poked around all three daughters’ rooms and Cora’s, plus a few other bedrooms that are not seen on the show (or maybe they are but I didn’t recognize them). We were told that all of the bedrooms are currently used by the family. I’m sure it’s amazing to live at Highclere castle but judging by the bedrooms, not all that comfortable for sleeping. The beds looked lumpy and the bathrooms were not updated. Plus there was no air conditioning. But you couldn't deny that the views from every room were magnificent. Here at home, I often sit in a different area of the house to change up my view when I’m writing. I couldn’t help but imagine all the different spots in the castle from which I could write without replicating the view.

            The hallways connecting the bedrooms overlooked the central saloon and led to the oak staircase. (This is where Rose had the jazz band play for Lord Grantham’s birthday.) Wow! The 50-foot vaulted ceiling makes the space even more majestic. I was wishing I’d brought a veil so I could fling it down the grand staircase as Edith had done after her non-wedding. Before descending, I took a peek behind one of the upstairs doors that led to the servants’ stairs. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I had to at least get a little taste of the “downstairs.” Tom Barrow must’ve been outside having a cig, as I did not hear him plotting with anyone on the stairs. I took my time stepping down the sweeping red carpeted staircase and noted one of the secret servant doors at the bottom of the steps.

            The last room we saw was the dining room. It unfortunately wasn’t set for dinner, and as it was early in the day, I doubted Carson had yet decantered the wine. (Although I did get to view some of the silver in a showcase before leaving.) As I walked past each dining chair, I easily imagined one of the first scenes of the series where Lord Grantham is seated at the head of the breakfast table while reading a telegram about his cousins being on the Titanic.

            Although the castle guides often told us about the painted portraits or the furniture, most people asked about the show. Apparently, one of the perks of being a docent is that they get to stick around for the shooting of Downton Abbey. “What was it like?” we all asked them. The guides concurred, “Extremely boring. Every scene took forever. We had the hottest day of the year last week and the poor actors were sweating buckets in their winter costumes.” 

            I guess I’ll have to stick to the glamour in my imagination.

            The “downstairs” part of Downton is filmed at another location, but we did get to glance at the real servants’ kitchen and sitting and eating rooms as we exited through the basement, although they were now being used as overflow tearooms.

            Just before leaving the castle, the hallway offered one final gem: the wall of servants’ bells. The bells were no longer present, but each room was labeled under the circle where the bell had once been. There were A LOT of bells!

            Servants’ bells begin the opening credits and it’s where we reluctantly took our leave. We stopped for tea at the coach house and walked the grounds one last time before finally departing. Even without a footman in sight, it was an extremely satisfying visit to Downton. 

NO KIDDING! THE BENEFITS OF TRAVELING WITH CHILDREN

Our son on one of his first flights

For months my husband, son, and I have been talking about our upcoming European holiday and all the things we're excited about getting to do. As it approaches, my son's exuberance for even staying at the airport hotel the night before our very early flight made me remember why I love traveling with him so much. I originally wrote this post back in 2011. My son is 11 now, so the packing is easier than when I wrote this (just one stuffed animal makes the trip now), but his delight at every aspect of travel still holds true.

     As our much anticipated vacation nears, the excitement of taking a family trip ebbs as the realities of getting there take its place: the shopping, the packing, the scheduling, and the dread of crowded airports.
     I laugh now when I think of our pre-child travel days when my hardest decision was how many kinds of shoes I should pack. At least having a kid in tow has made that decision easier. I know I won’t have room for more than the sneakers on my feet with all the just in case clothes I pack for him; I know pizza places and burger joints don’t require aren’t these cute? heels; and at a moment’s notice I’ll need to be able to transition from strolling through a museum to barreling through the dinosaur exhibit before he successfully scales T-Rex. One pair of sneakers should do it.

    Deciding what to pack for myself in my carry-on bag is no longer an issue. I’ve got a dozen matchbox cars, The Magic School Bus library, stuffed animals he’s certain can’t stay home alone, and virtually the entire cookie/cracker aisle of the grocery store. I just might be able to squeeze in my People magazine as long it’s not a double issue.

    But even with the additional packing challenges, traveling with my son has some considerable benefits. For him, the trip is an adventure from the get-go. It’s hard to stay crabby when he is bubbling over with enthusiasm. Have to get up at 5 AM? We get to watch the sunrise! Have to wait in an endless ticket line? There are always new friends to make! Nobody’s grumbling while they’re listening to a bunch of kids under the age of seven compare their vacation itineraries.

    While we’re plying ourselves with caffeine, my son is looking out at the runways giving a zealous play-by-play broadcast of the jets taking off. We notice several travel-weary businessmen close their laptops and gaze out the window, too. Maybe they can’t work with all the racket. But who knows, maybe they’re reminded of themselves at his age when they thought jets were that cool. 

     He enters the plane with anticipation as we schlep past the relaxed first class passengers already drinking champagne in their capacious seats, I tend to feel a little like cattle prodded past the prized stallions into our cramped stalls with hopes of eventually being fed some cud. Once we’re in the air, I impatiently count the hours and minutes until we land and we can begin our vacation. Taking advantage of his window seat, my son comments on the topography below and the texture of the clouds. When he wonders aloud what it would be like to fly through a rainbow, I can’t help but take a peek at the sky and for once appreciate the experience of being in an airplane. His enthusiasm for flying rubs off on the flight attendants and before long he’s helping to hand out peanuts and collect trash. They escort him to the cockpit after we land and he’s allowed to sit in the pilot’s seat and pretend he’s the captain. What an adventure he created for himself just by enjoying the present experience. It made me wonder what the rest of us could do with a change in perspective.

     For sure, traveling has its fair share of hassles. However, we can approach it as an irritating inconvenience or a surplus of uncharted experiences. We can grumble with the masses or lighten a few people’s outlooks. I’m choosing to share my son’s attitude. On our next trip, I may just bring a playlist of show tunes and hand out peanut butter cups to the passengers. First class can have their cushy seats, but coach class will have an adventure. 

IS IT BAD THAT I'M HAPPY?

            I don’t have it all. I've lost and gained the same seven pounds every year for the past five years. I struggle to help my son overcome the specific challenges he faces on a daily basis. I haven’t finished writing my book. I’m tired of the cold weather encroaching on my warm weather months. And Mark Ruffalo doesn’t live next door to me. Despite all of this, I’m happy.

            But I kinda’ feel like I’m not supposed to be. There’s a reason people refer to happiness as the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. True contentment can be elusive. Everyone wants to be happy. We all support each other while we’re inching our way towards that rainbow, but does anyone really want us to reach it? There’s always someone who finds the downside, almost as if focusing on happy has become taboo.

            If I’m happy binge watching The Real Housewives, it’s dubbed a “guilty” pleasure. If I’m snacking on popcorn, I’m reminded how the butter will kill me. If I wake up feeling good about life, there are at least three people who willingly post sad and/or horrific stories on Facebook just in case I might’ve missed the various atrocities outside my control. Might you be feeling happy about your life? Shame on you.

            Do more, start anew, and by no means remain in your comfort zone. Motivational people are the experts on happiness, so they would like us to believe. But first they need us to be dissatisfied with our lives. They make pleasure seem lazy and contentment seem trite. How can they motivate us if we’re already fulfilled with our lives? If I’m comfortable, I need to push myself harder. If I’m satisfied, I’m stuck. According to their edict, I’m not nearly sufficiently driven or successful enough to be a happy person. Essentially, I shouldn’t be happy yet…even if I am.

            As much as we follow the inspirational/motivational mantras, we also listen to the Buddhists, and more importantly Oprah, who have their own thoughts on happiness. The enlightened path is to be fully present in the moment. Finally, Oprah has united us in our quest for happiness. Live in the present. That is, after we make our vision boards focusing on our futures. Sigh.

            Chaperoning field trips, having long phone chats with my best friend, or going out for Saturday morning pancakes won’t ever come up in a google search of my name, but the small parts of my life are just as vital to me as the so-called big parts. Writing is my compass when I feel I’m blowing in the wind. On the other hand, sometimes it’s nice to have the freedom to see where the wind takes me. Perhaps it’s that very balance that fulfills me.

            There are still plenty of new things I expect to do. I understand and have experienced the rewards of triumphing over difficult undertakings. However, it’s also not a bad thing to enjoy our days, take time for our friends and family, choose our pleasures, and ultimately give ourselves a break from the arduous task of seeking society’s definition of happiness. I reject the notion that because I’m content with my life as it is right now that I need to challenge myself for that promised, intangible more out of life. Besides Mark Ruffalo regularly stopping by to borrow sugar, what more can I get out of life than to be happy?

CHRISTMAS WITHOUT A SANTA CLAUS

My son is 10 years old, the age where Santa Claus rides the cusp of extinction. My boy still wants to believe, but his common sense keeps overriding his desire. He started off as a toddler extremely pragmatic about the whole Santa thing. I really had to do my due diligence in getting him to believe in the jolly guy, which was kind of hard for me because I don’t lie to my son about things. If he’s going to the doctor to get a shot, I tell him he’s going to get a shot.

“Is the shot going to hurt?”

“Yes, but you’ll get over it.”

I’m that kind of mom. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell a four-year-old that all his skepticism was valid and that Santa is a fake. And six years later, I still wasn’t sure I could. When he outright asked me in the months leading up to this Christmas, my answer was, “Do you really want to know?” He decided he didn’t, and I think we both breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t have to say those awful words – Santa isn’t real – but it was the first Christmas that he thanked us for the gifts. He thanked us about three or four times, which is three or four times more than he does on his birthday, so I think he was still testing us. Did we buy them or was it Santa?

            The fact is, pretty soon Christmas won’t be the same for either of us. Oh sure, we still open presents, we still have a special meal, we still see family and friends. The carols are the same, the decorations fill the house, but without the magic of Santa, Christmas is undoubtedly dimmed. And if my friends with older children are any indication, this is as much of a blow for us parents as it is for our children. I kept hearing from them how Christmas just isn’t as fun when the kids grow up, and how they are having a harder time getting into the holiday spirit. Heck, I even found myself nostalgic for Christmases past, and my boy hasn’t even reached his teen years. It’s inevitable that children will grow up, extended family members will move on, some will pass on, and Christmas just won’t be the same.

            So this holiday, I decided to be proactive. I didn’t want to wait to feel down about Christmas because it wasn’t the same as when he was little. I didn’t want to start buying him super-sized gifts just to compensate for the disappearance of Santa. And I really didn’t want to go through the motions all the while feeling the twinges of disappointment that hanging onto traditions can bring when they’re past being worthwhile. I decided to let our Christmas evolve with us.

We still had our Christmas Eve traditions: Christmas crowns, Christmas meal, Christmas movies. Our son still woke us up way too early on Christmas morning so we could start opening gifts. We spent the remaining morning hours, as we usually do, tinkering with our new toys and stuffing our faces with warm cinnamon rolls just out of the oven. Then, very unlike our usual Christmas, we showered, packed a suitcase, and hopped in the car to spend the rest of the day in a place that does Christmas best: New York City.

We had purposefully waited until after dark so we could see the twinkling lights in all their glory. We saw the tree at Rockefeller Center, the windows at Macy’s, listened to live music in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and did an early countdown to 2015 in Times Square. In effect, we gorged on Christmas.

Later that night, we went to Marchi’s, an intimate, no-menu restaurant run by the same Italian family for the past 85 years. Over the years, we’ve been there with my husband’s family on a few special occasions, so it’s a place we hold dear. We dined on five courses for almost two hours, reminiscing about Christmases past without sadness, and brainstorming with excitement new things to do for future Christmases.

We still had the next day to enjoy the city some more, which we did. Of course we snacked on all the NYC favorites: hot pretzels, Nuts for Nuts, Junior’s cheesecake, and their black and white cookies. We also managed to fit in The Museum of Natural History, Bryant Park, and our favorite Greek restaurant.

            We all had such a wonderful time without completely doing away with our Christmas traditions. It gave us something else to be excited about other than Santa and his gifts. What was one of the best parts of Christmas Day according to our son? Getting to stay up late at the hotel and eat a bowl of popcorn in bed while reading his new book. Take that, Santa!  

I’ll still become nostalgic for the times my son was little, especially at Christmas. But I refuse to become a part of the ‘Christmas is just for kids’ mindset. Some people hold on to their traditions so tightly even when it makes them sad to do so because it no longer feels the same. I want our Christmases to transform with us, so that each one is special in its own way, even as we all grow older.

It’s ok, Santa, you can go. We can handle Christmas from here.