My Top 10 New Years Resolutions

1. Do not get pregnant again.
2. Do not even consider having sex again.
3. Get on Atkins diet and get body ready for post baby Costa Rica bikini beach adventure.
4. Stop eating meat.
5. Step out of the comfort zone in my yoga practice.
6. Get back into walking every morning. December's cold made me lazy, well that and the no sleep because of the teething, baby's cold, teething, strange houses, new faces, teething. Did I mention no sleep because of the TEETHING?
7. Stop swearing - even under my breath.
8. Enroll in school before the baby brain completely engulfs me. Masters in Journalism here I come.
9. Get back to writing my book and shopping the pitch to publishers.
10. Do not accept second glass of wine from hubs who might be plying me into letting my guard down so that point 2 will occur which could end in point one.

Then again who ever keeps their New Years Resolutions?

Die, Die, Die, Die

This is Fin's newest sentence.

Die. Die. Die. Diiiieeee. Die. Die. Die.

I'm trying not to take it personally.

Just to be proactive though, we did put the kitchen knives out of sight.

Catholic WorSHIP - A Modern Day Mary Story

I'm not much of a Catholic even though I was raised in it's church and school system. I gave up on the teachings of the church a long, long time ago for various reasons I don't need to get into to retell this story. My mother however, remained a devout Catholic until the end. Christmas 1996 Mom asked us all to go, as a family, to Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. Of course we all agreed to go because this might be mom’s last Christmas and we were going to do whatever we could to make mom happy. Truthfully, I hated sitting through the drone of the Catholic Mass, it rambled on for more than and hour and a half and the Priest who should have been rejoicing in the Virgin birth of our Savior this Christmas was scolding us all for being born sinners begging us to repent and ask our forgiveness. That Catholic guilt stuff gets a little old.

Our family was late for everything so we were stuffed together into a pew near the back of the church. The view before us was a sea of tacky Christmas sweaters and the back of people's heads. This was what we had to look at for the next 95 minutes. Perhaps, even though I am fairly tall, if I stood on tiptoes I would get to see the top of our priest's balding head. Perhaps.

The church was hot and overcrowded with all the seasonal Catholic Church goers - the ones who attend only at Christmas (me). Which incidentally is funny to me because they are never there at Easter when the mass goes on for two hours while the priest reads the Passion in its entirety. I figure those people had likely been trapped at my Church one past Easter when the tone-deaf Priest decided to sing the entire Passion, which took onwards of three hours and they had learned their lesson.

The priest said a few words and my parents along with the rest of the congregation would, in monotone, respond the appropriate phrases. I too had them burned in my head from years of Catholic school and regular church going but I refused to say them. No God would cause so much suffering to one family. I was not buying that “God doesn’t give us what we want only what we can handle” BS any longer. Our family was on overload. Recently my dad; who had a wife with breast cancer, a grandchild born with a genetic disorder and a mother who had suffered 5 strokes in as many months had vowed to change our last name from Shipley to Ship Wrecked. God was testing our love for our family and him – surely. Most Catholics would say this is when you get down on your knees and pray all the harder. But I was done with this charade. No-way was I going to mime the words from our book of psalms along with the rest of the congregation. No-way God, not this year.

While the sermon was going on I liked to people watch, it gave me a chance to see and say hello to old high school buddies. I have to say, it was, and is always fun to see how the high school kids grew up. Who got fat, who got thin, who came out, who got married, who bought boobs, who had not changed her hair or makeup styles since high school, who had kids…. and my favorite, who walked by pretending not to see me when clearly they did! Yeah I love that one. How wonderfully Catholic.

I passed the time by taking a count of how many women were wearing fur, and when we were asked to spin around under the guidance of our priest to extend the sign of peace to our fellow pew mates uber-cool me offered a peace sign with two fingers rather than shake a hand. For God's sake - it's cold season I am not touching people!

Another old standby used to keep me entertained during the sermon was to yawn and then see who caught the yawn and then I would watch it spread around the church. I learned this one when I was an alter girl in the fifth grade. It was very progressive at the time to have girls help the priest serve mass. My friend Laura and I would serve together and when we sat up on the altar on either side of the priest facing the congregation I would fake a giant yawn and then watch it rotate around the lower level and then up into the balcony of the church. This never got old and no one caught onto what I was doing – except of course my mother who asked me not to play that game when I was serving at our next door neighbour’s father’s funeral. Show some respect she had said.

This year I had a new distraction in the form of an eight-month-old baby boy. My sister had had a baby. Born in sin, out of wedlock and my Mother and Father couldn’t have been more excited or proud to be grandparents. The baby was our savior this year.

Our mother had held my sister by the hand, held her own wigged head up and proudly marched the unwed mother of the Cri-Du-Chat Syndrome baby boy proudly into the eternal judgment of our lord’s home. Amen.

My nephew was born deaf. Actually with no ears at all – he just had little nubs we call lobes. We had all been taking sign language classes so we could teach my nephew in the hope we would one day have some form of communication with him. All was going well with this I thought. My sister Sue was in night school taking sign language classes and I was learning through studying her books and under her guidance.

After mass I decided to take my Nephew up to see the Crèche at the front of the church to the left of the altar. There had been big ceremony in marching the baby Jesus statue into the church in the processional and placing him in his manger next to his Virgin mother and earthling surrogate father. Not that we could see this from our position, but, it was a once a year occurrence and I was certain what was going on up there. The Crèche was pretty and so I thought my nephew would like to see it up close.

Holding Aaron in my arms, I waded through the winter coat clothed people, who were either standing around in boisterous discussions or pushing toward the door, making my way to the front of the church. Pointing at the crèche’s inhabitants one by one I made the sign for each animal. There is a donkey, signing donkey, there is a cow, I sign cow, over here is a sheep, this is the Virgin Mary I make the sign for mother. She is the baby’s mother – I sign baby. The nephew stares off into the ceiling watching the fan twirl around.

My sister is waiting patiently at the back of the church for me to finish showing my nephew the crèche. I look back at her to make sure she is not annoyed with my side excursion. She smiles at me – a look of relief washes over her face telling me she is happy mass and the public scrutiny is over. I return her smile. I then go back to pointing out the wise guys, a cat and finally to Joseph, I sign daddy and then I sign beard and point out his beard to my nephew. My nephew has lost interest in the ceiling fan and decided to pay attention again – this sign for beard has caught his eye and he is entertained by it – so I continue to stand at the crèche in front of the altar and sign “beard.” Suddenly I can hear my sister’s laughter erupt from the back of the church, it is echoing off the nowhere near empty church walls. I spin around to look at her and she gives me a sign of her own. Her hand is flat waving in front of her neck – cut it – shut up! It says to me. She begins racing up the centre isle of the church toward me, her hand is pressed over her mouth in an attempt to muffle her laughter, and as she nears I see tears squeezing out of her eyes.

Michelle

Sue what’s so funny?

Sue

That’s not the sign for beard idiot. That’s the sign for F- You.

F-You Joseph, F- you. You keep signing it over and over and it’s so funny. I had to come and stop you in case anyone in here signs. They are really going to think we are the worst Catholics ever.

Michelle

But we are, I say, we are. And it was an honest mistake the two signs are different only by hand direction.

Still giggling, we hook arms and take our blasphemous selves out of the church and out to the car. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night – except you Joseph you surrogate baby daddy– F-You!

Finally, It Looks A LOT Like Christmas

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Our front door even says, Welcome Christmas!

It's TRUE! It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, which for me is a Christmas Miracle in itself. I have to admit to being quite a Grinch over the past few years. What I have not allowed myself to write or speak aloud until now is this:

My mother spent 8 years dying of Breast Cancer. Every Christmas had the underlying, unmentioned feeling that it could be mom's last one. She spent her last 4 Christmases either undergoing or finishing treatments. We nick named it the annual Christmas Chemo like it was a seasonal holiday treat like egg nog. And then she died just before Christmas December 12, 2000. Yup. That was the worst Christmas ever. I spent the whole day in bed in a rental house in Nags Head NC with Steve's family. I got up to get very drunk then I went back to bed. Sad really, but, it was my way of coping. On Boxing Day I woke up and carried on.

The Island of Misfit Toys sit on top of my painting.

Each Christmas has passed since then without it's luster. I believe it was because we didn't have my mother's home cooked meals, our Christmas morning rituals sucked because we were missing our matriarch. We tried to hold fast to them and replicate them. On Christmas morning I didn't look across the room to see my mother in her burgundy velour housecoat, her eyes filled with anticipation as we opened our gifts from her. There was just awkward silence and then my voice making stupid jokes to sever the tension. We tell a few "remember when mom" stories then look at the floor, choke back tears and leave the room.

Our trees graced our wedding table. They make me happy.

The wrapped gifts under our tree came from; Santa, the elves, Mrs. Clause, the birds in the back yard feeder and even from the dog. Her tourtieres were always made with fresh ingredients, she made her crusts cutting out holly leaves and berries to decorate the tops, she woke early to make her stuffing from scratch, we would always have to beg her to stop or hurry up so we could open our gifts. Our stockings were filled with the best things in them and even into adulthood included a toy of some sort. Crumbs were left on window sills and carrots were half eaten in the snow. As kids we never clued in that it was always mom or dad who discovered and brought this wondrous Santa evidence to our attention. These are the things I think of every year. These Christmas memories are my mother.

A girl is never ready to lose her mother no matter how old we are. I found out my mother was sick when I turned 20, she died a month before my 28th birthday. Those are the formative years. When a girl discovers her mother is a person, a woman, not just a mother. It's in that time I wanted to know about what my mother thought, dreamed of and wanted for herself and for my sister and I. I know some of these answers. They are pieced together by what my dad, and my aunts have shared, they help fill the hole that mom's passing has left. But, they aren't her words.

I have been angry that my mother never wrote a letter to my sister and I telling us her thoughts. She never pulled out her Christmas cookie recipes to make sure we had them, she never went wedding dress shopping with us just to make sure she saw us in a dress. Other mother's have done this with their daughters when they new they were terminal. Not ours. I can only surmise that she was optimistic to the end that she would beat her cancer and not have to leave us. I hang onto the fragments of my memories of her. I pause when I come across her hand writing on a birthday card tucked away in her makeup case in my drawer. It used to smell of her but has long since faded away.

The mantel in our dining room.

This is the first Christmas I feel Christmassy. It's because of my little girl. It's because I can now share in the delight my mother and father must have shared in as they readied our house for the arrival of old Saint Nick. It's in every cookie I bake, ever gift I wrap and every little bit of decor I place around the house. It's in Finley's face every time I look at her toothy smile shining up at me from her favorite spot at my feet. Christmas is back! It's here in my house as I take from my mother's ideas and replicate them in a way we do when we take on customs making them our own.

Cookies I baked. Not mom's but Joy's (of cooking)

Finley's little shining face looking up at me. Then the Grinch's heart grew and grew!

A beautiful glass ornament from a new and dear friend hangs in the kitchen.

Finley opens a gift from her Grampy (and his new finace') Grammy.

And so this Christmas marks a new chapter. I'm having my Christmas cry while I write this post. Saying goodbye to the last decade of sorrow and hello to new beginnings. Wondrous new beginnings. As evidence by the signs of Christmas all around my house. The fact that I have allowed myself to write this means only one thing. I am finally healing. I am letting mom go and keeping only the very best parts of our story together. Merry Christmas Mom and thank you.

The ORIGINAL Elf On A Shelf. If Only My Folks HAD Marketed It.

When we were young before the “secret” was out, my dad and mom would tell us they could see Santa’s elves. All grown ups can- they would say. The elves are Santa’s eyes and ears they help the parents and Santa with the naughty and nice lists. Long before the Christmas lights indicated Christmas was around the corner my mom and dad would use Santa and his elves as a way of bribing us into good behaviour. Santa Clause’s naughty and nice list was yearlong leverage for the management of behaviour of children in our household.

Dad:

Oh I just saw Santa’s elf. He’s watching you Michelle.

Michelle:

Where?

Dad:

Over there on the kitchen window sill.

Michelle:

I don’t see him.

Dad:

Only good grown ups can. You had better be a good girl and clean up those crayons and put away the paper then come and help your mother by setting the table or the elf will report to Santa that you are naughty.

Mom:

Susan! Stop eating out of the bird feeder, put your clothes back on and get in the house before you catch a cold! I guess since you are not listening I will have to dial up the big guy…

My mother headed for the phone on the kitchen wall – dialed some numbers and proceeded to conduct a very loud one -sided conversation with Santa Clause’s wife about how Susan likes to run around naked in November and surely this would be a check on the naughty list.

Then she would ask Mrs. Clause to put Santa on the phone for a word. At this Susan dropped the moldy bread left out for the birds, collected her clothes to run up the stairs toward the back door of our house. Susan, running, the back steps and door were never a good combination.

On a regular day without the threat of Santa’s Naughty list Sue could be found trying to right herself after losing her balance falling backward into my mother’s rose garden. It always occurred to me that my mother must have derived some kind of masochistic pleasure from having children topple into her rose garden – why otherwise would she plant thorn bushes beside a set of stairs with no railing?

Since Sue’s hands were filled with articles of clothing, and Santa was on his way to the phone, Sue made haste. The rose garden and a naked Susan seemed doomed to meet. She had a hard time with the door. Losing her balance she fell into the garden but this time she did not cry she didn’t have time. Santa was on his way to the phone. She picked herself up navigated the stairs with a little more caution entered the house to get dressed in a real hurry. Incidentally, Sue was never hungry for a home cooked meal following the bird feeder buffet and another phone call would be made to Santa.

Since Santa was on speed dial and the elves lived on our windowsills year round you can imagine how paranoid I was in the days leading up to the 24th of December. Even after the tree was raised and decorated and the stockings were hung I would sneak into the living room each morning to make sure they were all still there. I was terrified the elves would come in the night to take them away as this year might just be the year Santa was skipping past our house.

I don’t think my folks ever equated my anticipation of Christmas morning with the shear dread I had that Christmas was just not going to happen at all. They had just assumed it was excitement. “Oh Look at Michelle she is bouncing off the walls.”

Dad, who had seen a sketch on either SCTV or SNL starring Martin Short playing an over excited child the night before Christmas, had dissolved into fits of laughter at how representative this sketch was of my behaviour. He reenacted it for me the next day and each subsequent year until I too finally saw the sketch and had to admit – the producers of SNL or SCTV must have been watching me – that or the elves really had reported me and in the off season must have been in the business of making comedic television. Was Martin Short just excited about gifts from Santa? Or had he been brainwashed into thinking he may have more strikes on the naughty side of the page than the good side and that the jolly fat man in the suit was likely passing by his house too? I will never know.

By Christmas Eve I was dying to slip into the living room to see if any treasures were left under the tree. Each year I was truly amazed at what would be there waiting, not just for me but for my whole family. Each year the set up was different, the crumbs left by Santa were in a different place, the carrots left out for the reindeer strategically placed by an exterior window were gone, and it never occurred to us that it was my parents who discovered these things and pointed them out to us…

My usual MO was to wake up around 4:30 AM to go on a recognizance mission up the hall of our bungalow past my parent’s and sister’s bedroom doors toward the living room just to have a peek to see what might be there. Completely unaware, I held my breath, my hands clenched into tiny fists and I pause just a moment before I peer around the half wall into the living room. There before me stands the Christmas tree sparkling and beautiful. There are presents everywhere! The cookies we laid out for Santa are gone! All faith in my behaviour is restored. He was here! I am good! I am good.

I gravitate toward the stocking, which is and has always been my favorite part of Christmas presents. And then I hear;

“Get back to your room before I call Santa and have him come back here to pick up all these presents! Do you know what time it is?”

I whip around to face my Mother.

Michelle:

He was here already mom!

Mom:

Yes, I heard him leaving, he was very noisy, must have woke you up.

My hands still behind my back carefully take an item from the top of my sock, hide it in my hand to take back to bed with me - this small item was the evidence that I had been good all year. Despite all the threats that the elves were watching me and would report back to Santa if I didn’t eat my Lima beans – the big man had come.

A giant sigh of relief heaved my tiny chest as I settled back into my pillow – I could go back to sleep until 7 AM - at which time I would announce confidently to my whole family it was time to get up to enjoy the delights of Christmas by crowing like a rooster. A rooster. Martin Short never did that.

I laugh when I think about that. What an odd kid. Who crows like a rooster but a rooster? Me - I did.

I was taught to believe in the magic of Christmas even once the giant lie of Christmas was out of the bag. If you can’t believe in the magic of Christmas, then Christmas will never be the same, was my mother’s explanation. So, I believed.

The Christmas Stockings

To this day stockings are my favorite part of Christmas and lucky for me my sister Sue has inherited my mother’s gift for creating the perfect sock. This is great news as one year stocking duty had fallen in the hands of my father. Not that this was a bad thing it actually proved to be the shining bright spot in the first of a string of rather dark Christmases.

To back fill a bit - I need to describe to you the physical attributes of the Shipley women. I have and under developed bosom, where my sister has (had -they are gone since she began running) an over developed bosom, and my mother had one bosom – the other removed in an attempt to eradicate breast cancer.

It was tradition now for me to crow like a rooster to wake the family to gather for Christmas morning festivities. But on this particular Christmas morning I did not crow to call the family to Christmas. It just did not seem appropriate. Mom had been in the hospital undergoing another round of Christmas Chemo so she was feeling pretty punchy. We the Shipley’s are quietly nestled in the living room opening our stockings well past the 7 AM usual time in fact it was erring on 11 am before Christmas morning was underway. Sue and I were feasting on a Christmas tradition of the Christmas Eve party’s left over chips and dip for breakfast while drinking coffee and Bailey’s. Christmas stockings were being passed around and we were all feeling less than jovial.

Taking the lead I dove into my stocking and pulled out a pair of socks and a magazine then my sister says:

Sue:

A lime?

Dad:

Put your hand back in there.

Sue: Another Lime?

Dad: Shell what have you got.

Michelle:

A grapefruit?

Dad:

And?

Michelle:

Another grape fruit!

Dad:

Carolyn what’s in your sock?

Carolyn:

A Florida Orange?

Sue:

Dad what’s going on?

Dad just sits there with a straight face. We all exchange glances and then look back at Dad. His face contorts, he grunts and then erupts into laughter. We all stare at the crazy person who is clearly breaking down in the strain of the holidays and the hospital visits in the past month. Finally he regains his composure long enough to say:

Dad:

Well Santa thought you could all use a little help to fill your brassieres!

Then dad bursts out laughing again. The kind of laughter that turns his whole face red, the kind of laughter that takes his breathe away and makes him have to leave the room to blow his nose making the off key high school symphony trumpets section sound, the kind of laughter that no one in their right mind could hear and not join in on. But before he leaves the room in search of a Kleenex he fires his hand into his own stocking drawing back to reveal two lumps of coal and a banana. And just like that normalcy is restored to the Shipley Family Christmas.

Hoidays At Tryon Palace New Bern NC

While my dad was visiting this week we went to check out Tryon Palace in New Bern, NC. I have been wanting to get there for some time as I love historical sites, especially homes! When I went online to see what the hours were I was pleased to find there was a special holiday candlelight evening celebrating King George III.

We braved the, unusual for NC, cold and a screaming, teething, Finley to drive the 45 minutes to New Bern. All she wants for Christmas is her TWO FRONT Teeth, yeah joy, I found out about the bliss that is MOTRIN after this car ride. But, I'm so happy we made the trip!

We arrived on time to tour the adjacent Tryon Palace Houses and buildings. Guides dressed in period - 1700's - told us about the houses and inhabitants.

The Palace was open late for evening tours. Once inside Tryon we were treated to a ball, and other wonderful performances throughout the house by actors and musicians . The property was lit with candles and little fires in raised free standing fire sconces the air smelled of camp fires. The grounds were complete with entertainers, string quartets, and a sword swallower (no pics because I was staring slack jawed - who learns to do that?) Here is a link - Tryon Palace Holiday It's on again this Saturday and SO worth going to!

I'm a sucker for natural Christmas decor.

This is Dad walking one of the pathways in downtown New Bern.

It was cold - but- not Ottawa cold! He's sporting the diaper bag by Betsey Johnson. Tres chic- non?

We waited at the gates and at 5 PM the Fife and Drum band marched us inside onto the Palace grounds! They played and we followed just like the Pied Piper. At the entrance to the house we were welcomed by the Governor and his wife as though we were there as guests of the ball!

Dad & I waiting for our turn to enter the house for the tour. Finley missed this pic her head is just below frame. The line moved quickly and we were soon inside on a fabulous tour.

The grounds and house were lit ONLY in candle light. It was beautiful.

We toured through the kitchen then out into the kitchen garden where we were served hot cider and ginger cookies. Dad made friends with some of the household staff and guests.

The Jonkonnu Band is an African American Holiday tradition unique to North Carolina.

A film crew was filming - so was I - I hope their footage is better than mine! You get the idea & you get to hear the wonderful sounds.