Charitable Offerings

 In which our Heroine now accepts Money. 

          Finally, I decided to take my Christmas decorations down.  They looked so pretty in my usually bare living room, and I love having the lights on at night.  I’ve never felt this compulsion to leave Christmas hanging around for this long before—and truth to tell, if I wasn’t trying to get my house organized better, I’d probably leave the decorations up until spring.  I really liked finally having my own house to decorate.  Also, Jon and I are getting better at knowing just what our Christmas traditions are, and have enjoyed displaying some of them. 

          Anyway, as I was taking down my ornaments (with Eva's ‘help,’ of course), I came across a simple one shaped like a Christmas tree that some anonymous person gave us this year.  In my opinion, Christmas ornaments are special because there are usually memories attached to them.  On the outside, this particular ornament is simple, small, and unassuming.  But it represents a wealth of generosity and love. 

          It came in a simple envelope with a card, but the card had $200 in it.  Jon and I have been blessed financially through all of this expensive health care.  We weren’t asking for any help.  But I will admit that it was very nice to open this envelope up.  To have $200 that didn’t yet have a purpose or a task to fill in our carefully maintained budget was so great. 

          I scorn those blogs out there that put the little side bar up asking for donations.  Admittedly, some blogs or web pages are created for charitable purposes, but it bothers me to see the money aspect on most.  My blog was created to keep my friends and family informed, to offer me a kind of creative therapy, and to hopefully explain or express some facts and experiences about cancer to those who may have need of it.  Therefore, no solicitation.  I stand by this rule, but I also have to say thanks to my anonymous benefactor. 

          To whom it may concern: I wasn’t sure at first why you bothered to put an ornament in the envelope when the money was clearly enough, but today I began to see that this little piece of ceramic(?) will represent far more when it hangs on my tree each year.  It occurs to me that the real gift is the memory of your charity, imbued in a Christmas ornament, and not the money at all (though I truly appreciate that too).  What a lovely gift. 

Naked Bandit

In which our Heroine’s Child becomes villainous. 

Christmas is such a lovely day filled with gift giving: good family times in the early morn hours, the charming shaking of beautifully wrapped boxes, the frantic tearing of pretty paper, the maniacally giggling children everywhere—and oh yes, the memory of the sweet baby Jesus in his poor manger.  The day after (or rather two days after) Christmas is quite a different story. 

The raging naked child bouncing against the sides of her crib upstairs is not mine.  Nor is it the fault of a young, susceptible mother who was only trying to give her precious little one a nice Christmas.  In a somewhat futile attempt to pin the blame on someone or something, I choose the evil, plotting scoundrel of commercialism. 

Drat that foe.  Many a man or woman has fallen to its sweeping tide of glossy items.  I am such a one of those helpless creatures.  Perhaps it was too much to grab the bathtub crayons from the side aisle as I walked out of Target that day.  How could I know I was laying the foundations of my eventual ruin?  The toddler on the front of the package looked so happy in his little bathtub, holding a little ball of a crayon that “fits perfectly in his small palm.”  His little belly button just peeked out above the bottom of the package.  Yes, I am blaming the carefully driven packaging.  Heck, at this point, I’ll even blame the toddler model’s parents who all participated in this dread scheme.  All toward my own demise as a mother. 

The problem with the after-bath tantrum is that the child is naked, wet, and diaperless.  Because of this, I exacerbated the problem by not administering swift tantrum punishment (throwing child in crib and shutting bedroom door until I hear happy sounds eventually emanating).  Instead, I made vain attempts to wrestle my child down on the floor with my weakened left arm while making the maverick effort to dress her bum in a clean diaper with my not-quite-dexterous-enough right hand.  Her wiggles were not cute.  Rather, the wiggles were frighteningly effective.  I gave up and put my naked bandit behind the bars of her jail-like crib.  Hark!  She has just quieted!  (Finally).  I’m sure Eva is even now shivering in her skivvies, waiting for her beleaguered and commercially sickened mother to make a jail break before she decides to pee her bedding.