If You Go to Trader Joe's With the Leatherkids...

The Leatherkids and I ran some errands Saturday, and one of those errands was a trip to Trader Joe's for some much-needed groceries.  Ella must've asked ten times while on our way to Trader Joe's where we were going.  I had already told her nine times.  The last time triggered this post.  She said, "Aw, Cal's going to want to go to the park," where "the park" is the "Trader Joe's park" I wrote about in this post awhile ago: The Wonder of Trader Joe's Park; and we naturally proceeded to collectively assemble a story in the vain of the "If You Give a Moose a Muffin" and "If You Give a PIg a Pancake" kids' stories.  Here's the story:

If you go to Trader Joe's with the Leatherkids, 

Cal will want to go to the park.

Ella will want to go, too.
You'll want to save it as an incentive for cooperation at the store,

but you'll stop before anyway.
You'll declare, "you've got five minutes,"
knowing full well it'll be thirty.
They'll race to the slide.

Cal will convince Ella to go on the seesaw with him.

She'll jump on.

Cal will seesaw too fast and too hard, and Ella will get hurt.

You'll have seen it all.

Ella will cry and then run and snitch on Cal to you.

Just a couple of minutes in, you will be annoyed.

You'll tell Ella to stop being a snitch.

You'll tell Cal to stop playing so rough.

And you'll tell both to JUST GET ALONG.

Cal will say, "I didn't touch her!"

And Ella will retort, "Yes, he did! He made me fall!"

She'll ask for a band-aid and point to where the band-aid is needed.

You'll look closely.

There'll be a tiny mark.

You'll tell Ella she doesn't need a band-aid, it's just a scratch, it won't be the last one.

Cal will already be on the climbing wall.

Ella will run to it.

She'll climb it herself.

They'll continue to play well together.

And apart.
You'll catch Cal throwing wood chips on the slide.
You'll tell him stop, and Ella will tell him to stop, too.
You'll tell her you're the parent.

You'll catch up on Facebook posts and news stories on your phone.
Cal will ask you to watch him on the monkey bars.
You will and will tell him, "good job, Cal!"
Ella will want you to watch her, too.
You'll think that she's better at the monkey bars than Cal.
You'll ask to take a picture of them.
Ella will smile; Cal will make a funny face.
Ella will declare she's thirsty.
You'll tell them they have two more minutes before having to head to Trader Joe's.
It'll be five.
And chances are...
... if you leave for "Trader Joe's,"
They'll want a sucker when they get there.

We didn't actually go to the park this time but had a fun time writing this story.  They also didn't get suckers but candy canes from the Salvation Army guy outside of Trader Joe's instead.

Friday's Physical Texts with Cal

Home from work for only a few minutes this past Friday and learning the Leatherkids were upstairs, I climbed the stairs leading to our bedrooms and met up with this note:

Oh, boy.  This was going to be fun.  Initially, I wondered about this Pokemon thing.  It's an interest that's come and gone... come and gone... and come again.  I don't understand it, nor did I believe it could be the answer to this supposed boredom Cal was experiencing late on a Friday night.  But the grammar?  Goodness.  Missing commas aside, what not-yet-9-year-old knows the proper use of the word "whom?"

I love this kid.

I decided to respond with a note myself and placed it outside his door:

I don't know if this was mean, but it seemed fitting.  If he was going to properly use "may" and "pleased" and "whom," I was going to push his 8-year-old literary boundaries a bit and use a big word.  I wanted to see what he'd do with it.

A few minutes passed and I walked by his room to see him standing by his desk looking down at a book.  The note had been picked up, and I concluded he had to have been looking something up in his dictionary.

I love this kid.

Then he hand delivered a response to my note:

I guessed he didn't find "presumptuous" in his dictionary.  I'm not surprised.  It's a kids' dictionary.  The kicker was that he included an "I love you too!"  That pulled at my heartstrings.

I love this kid.

It seemed fitting to continue, so I did:

Explaining the meanings of words to the kids is a parenting responsibility that I find challenging.  I have a decent vocabulary and generally use words correctly; but providing definitions on demand is not something at which I'd claim to do well.  More often than not, my definitions are way too long winded for the kids to have a clue what I'm saying.  This note is a good representative of that.  And why I had to get the dig about his misspelling in, I don't know.  I guess I didn't look at it as a dig so much as a teaching moment.  I figured he could handle the bluntness, which he ultimately did in his follow-up:

He beat himself up a little too much in this note for my liking, but I did like that he explained his motivation.  And you know what?  I think he was genuinely glad that I read his note.  I think he enjoyed our exchanges.

I love this kid.

Not finished, I added some comments to draw our physical texting to a close:

I had so much fun exchanging these notes with Cal.  It really did bring me joy, and he gave me so many more reasons to be proud of him.  He's so smart and paying attention to everyday teaching moments that we have with him at home.  That grammar he's using isn't something that he's learning at school just yet, I'm sure.  That comes from our chatter at home.  His curiosity and interest in knowing things at any given time will only lend itself to expanding his knowledge base and reinforcing his learnings.  And his handwriting is so neat!  It always has been.

And he loves his mom.

I love that kid.  Now, I wonder where I can find one of these Pokemon "boost packs."

Knock Knock...

A Sunday Leatherman dinner is generally something to dread.  One Leatherkid is chewing with his mouth open, wiping his mouth on the neck of his t-shirt and constantly turning to watch whatever sport is on TV.  The other Leatherkid, sitting across from him because if they were sitting next to each other they'd be fighting... physically, is lying belly down across her chair, her hair almost dusting the ground and her plate full of uneaten food. And Leatherdaddy is unhappy... expressively unhappy.  Virtually every Sunday.  Every meal, really.

So when I found myself laughing at the dinner table this past Sunday and looking across to see Daddy laughing, too, I was pleasantly surprised and wondering when it would turn, soaking up every smile... every giggle... everything positive in the moment that I could, while I could.

Turns out, it lasted for awhile.  The source of it?  Knock-knock jokes, told by the kids.

Ella started it.  I didn't even know she knew any, not that her execution proved that she knows any... which actually made them funnier.

"Knock knock," she started.

"Who's there?" one of us responded.

"Cow, MOO!" she said.

"No, that's not it!  You say 'Interrupting cow...'" Cal corrected her.

"Knock knock," again, Ella tried.

"Who's there?"

"Interrupting cow MOO!" she said, again, ruining the joke.

"No, you need to wait to say 'Moo'" we all chimed in.

Ella proceeded to attempt several more times, eventually getting it right, "Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Interrupting cow," she replied.

"Interrupting c..." 

"MOO!" Ella exclaimed, proudly getting it.

We then struggled with the purposely annoying "banana" knock-knock joke, you know, the one that repeats banana a bunch of times until someone introduces another, specific fruit.  It was fun to watch the wheels turn in Cal's head on this one.

"Knock knock," he started.

"Who's there?" we all asked.

"Banana," Cal responded.

"Banana who?" Dan and I asked, knowing full well how this one went.

""Knock knock," Cal said again.

"Who's there?"

"Banana," Cal responded.

"Banana who?"

"Knock knock," again, Cal started, this time looking up, clearly thinking about what his next step was.

"Who's there?"

"Banana," Cal said again.

"Banana who?"

"Knock knock," Cal clearly hadn't figured out what was next, so Dan stepped in to explain.  He instructed the kids to say it twice and then the third time say "Orange. There's an art to this.  Twice isn't enough.  Four times is too much."  Yes, three times is the target.  I didn't have the heart to tell him he had cut it short by one.  Really, you should do the "banana" part three times and the "orange" part once.  "Orange you glad I didn't say 'banana' again?"

Ella struggled with that one for a bit, then pulled out this one, "Knock knock."

"Who's there?" we asked.

"Spell what," she stated.

"No," Cal corrected her.  "Just say 'spell.'"

Ella struggled with this one for many more rounds when Cal took over.  But instead of doing what we expected (i.e. "spell 'who'?"), he did this, "Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Who's," he responded.

"Who's who?"

"I'm Cal, you're Mommy, you're Ella, you're Daddy," he said and laughed, and so did we... very hearty laughs.  We all thought this was genuinely funny, Cal included.

When Cal knows he has an audience (me), he knows to tap into it regularly.  That he's tried some knock-knock jokes at bedtime over the course of this week thus far is no surprise to me.

"Knock knock," he started.

"Who's there?"  I asked, like any good knock-knock-ee.

"Cal," he replied.

"Cal who?" I asked.

"Cal Leatherman!"  He was proud of himself.

Duh.

Not to be outdone my by 8-year-old kid, I had to try one, having the concept of it in my head but struggling to come up with a good example.  This was the best I could do:

"Knock knock," I said.

"Who's there?" He was a willing participant.

"Don't punch," I replied.  You can see where this is going.

"Don't punch who?" Cal then asked.

I jumped all over him.  "Don't punch ANYONE!" I exclaimed, poking him playfully in his side, as if to yuck it up over my funniness and ignoring the improperness of the grammar required to make that joke work.

There were many others attempted and a few delivered with some level of success; and they escape me now.  But it's been a cheesey knock-knock-joke kind of week in the Leatherkid household; and one that we've all participated in, contributed to and actually veritably enjoyed.

Racing Cal

I don't know what's more surprising, our unseasonably and in-the-60s-warm, snowless weather here the past couple of weeks or that I somehow survived it without being challenged to an early-morning race with Cal.  I've been happily holding the temps-too-cold card in my back pocket for a few months now and only occasionally playing it when asked about a race.  "Mommy, can I race you?" he may ask as I, myself, am racing out the door.  "No, Baby Bear, it's too cold out," I naturally respond, as if that's really why I can't race. Our whole winter has been unseasonably warm. No, I'm running late, and I don't have time.  No, it's too stressful.  No, your sister will want to race, too, and... just, no.  No, someone will cry.  Those were my real excuses.  Weather too cold was something he could understand and accept.

It's not that I hate... er, don't like racing the kid.  It actually started out quirky and fun. But after the first week, our race was rarely without some form of stress on the participants, oftentimes involving tears.

We must've raced virtually every weekday in October, and I'm certain it rolled in to November at a relative frequency.  We only raced as I headed out in the morning to catch the train, perhaps the worst time for it but, really, the only one.  The starting point was the far east side of our driveway, and the finish was the corner where I'd make my turn to speed out of the subdivision.  That we even call it a race is funny.  It has to have been the most unfair match-up in the history of racing, with me in my car and him on his feet.  Eventually, he did move to his bicycle, as if that made it any more fair.

I don't recall how it actually started other than to say that it wasn't my idea.  It was all Cal.  Of course he knows his audience -- I'm amenable to just about anything this kid proposes that we do, admittedly sometimes with reservation but almost always willing to participate if I have time, and even when I really don't.  He also thinks he's really fast.

I remember just barely beating him the first time we raced and then never again after that.  The kid sprinted the entire way, from our house, past maybe 7 others, until he reached the corner.  I kept up with him as he sprinted, expertly balancing stepping on the gas and coasting so as to keep the race close.  I always had my window down, yelling to him through the passenger-side window, "Go, Cal, go!"  and "Great job, Cal Daniel!"  And I always ended it with, "I love you!" and then something about having a good day before turning on the next stretch of road to officially make my way to the train.  Early on, he asked me to wave out my window as I did so; so I made sure to do that every time thereafter.

Sometimes he'd announce, "I beat you, Mommy!" to which I'd respond, "yes, you did, Baby."  I wonder if he knows how ridiculous this match-up is.

I remember always looking in my rearview mirror to see him still standing on the corner, watching me speed off and waving to me.  This would both warm and break my heart.  I love that kid.  Early in this routine, I wondered what he was thinking at that time -- was he genuinely content or was he sad that I was leaving him behind so I could go to work for what he knew would be yet another long day that had the potential of ending past his bedtime?

After the first week, the novelty of it wore off... for me.  It took time to participate in this race, even as good as Cal was at being ready and timing his exit with me to do it.  Anyone who knows me knows that my trips to the train are perfectly timed given good conditions where traffic is such that I can speed and most stoplights are green when I hit them; when conditions aren't good, my commute is nothing short of stressful.  This race really made my commute worse -- instead of doing 35 to the corner, I had to do 3.  It probably cost me a minute and felt like ten.

But Cal didn't know the difference.  He was excited every time he headed out to race and almost always smiled at the finish.  Of course, he won most races.  He was like South Africa's Oscar Pistorius before his downfall.  Or better yet, Jamaica's Usain Bolt, who's downfall has yet to happen.  I wonder if I had beaten him more often if he'd have wanted to bail on this daily event.  I'm certain that thought crossed my mind the further we got into October; but I never entertained it.  It made him too happy.

And then Ella wanted to participate.

Ella's wanting to participate made this morning race 10 times worse than it already was.  When Ella joined in is when the stress heightened significantly and yelling and the tears became common.  When Ella joined, fairness became a factor.  When Ella joined, no one enjoyed this race.  That we continued it for a few weeks cannot be explained.  That we eventually reached a point where both kids were smiling at the corner as I made my turn is entirely attributable to my figuring out how to make it good.

They started on the same side of the street, Cal on foot, Ella on her bike, me in my car.  I honestly don't recall how the first few of these races went, and that might be explainable by them being so terrible that I've blocked them out of my memory.  I just remember Cal being upset, feeling slighted by my not going faster; Ella being outwardly distraught that she kept coming in third; and me being stressed, sad and unable to please anyone, including myself. Every morning.  The Leatherkids are exceptional at expressing their feelings, especially their displeasure and their hurt.

Somehow, we evolved to Cal jumping on his bike on the sidewalk across the street, Ella using her scooter on our side of the street and me, of course, in the car actually on the street.  I would "keep up with" Cal for the first half of our race, encouraging him with "go, Cal, go!" as I did so.  I'd then look in my rearview mirror to see Ella striding away on that scooter, sometimes tearful, other times determined.  I'd then lay off the gas to let her catch me.  "C'mon, Ellie!  Yea, Ellie!" I'd cheer, letting her finish second.  And all the while I was thinking about all the laws I'd have to break to actually catch my train.

All he wanted to do was finish first, and all she wanted to do was be a part of it and finish second.  When I figured that out, surviving these races became just a matter of me ensuring that happened and suppressing any anxiety about the slowness of it all as I did so.  It was rarely fun.  Had I left earlier, it could have been fun.  But I just... couldn't.  I think most train commuters would agree that breaking a long-established morning train-catching routine is virtually impossible.  Even if I had overcome that and left earlier, I don't know that it would've been fun.  There was something painful about seeing them in my rearview mirror, so innocently standing on the corner and watching me drive away.  I'm not really even sure why.  We always exchanged "I love you's" before I turned the corner to speed away, and I always waved as I did so.  And I never worried about them making it back home safely.  Not once.  But it still hurt.

Since we stopped racing sometime in November, Cal has asked to race me a couple of times.  I've used the excuse that it's too cold, which it really isn't, and he accepts it without a fight.  Our morning routine has changed since early February -- the Leatherkids are doing the before-school program at the Y -- so racing is really out of the question.  That may answer my question about which is more surprising, the weather or no racing -- our unseasonably, in-the-60s warm February must be.

So mine and Cal's (and eventually Ella's) morning races to the corner might now be a fond memory among many others.  As much as he seemed to enjoy it, I'd put money on Cal challenging me again in the future, though; and I'd put money on him winning the race.  And I doubt it'll be fun.  But it's a simple thing I can do to make him smile, so I'm sure I'll do it... as long as it's not too cold out.

The Challenge of Participation

When Ella was maybe 2 or 3 years old, we were told by her teachers that she didn't always participate in the classroom activities.  I honestly don't recall exactly what activities it was that she was choosing to skip, but it left an impression on me that I haven't had a reason to shake.  Ella doesn't always go with the proverbial flow -- Ella doesn't do anything Ella doesn't want to do.  I've seen her at birthday parties -- yes, plural -- sit along the wall, watching her friends participate in the themed activities with no intention of doing so herself... and be perfectly fine with it.  I find this both comforting and concerning.  Comforting as I look at her as a teenager being tempted to do things and choosing not to do them because what teenager really wants to do the crazy shit they do?  Concerning because I am a firm believer in the value of participation in the development of a child and his eventually leading a fulfilling life. I believe that participation in school and extracurricular activities made me the active, pretty well-rounded person that I am today.

So, yes, I want my kids to participate in activities, and I'm trying to instill some of that in them now.  But it's difficult.  Getting them to want to participate and try new things is a challenge at which I'm failing.  And I really don't know what the right approach is -- make them participate because they don't know how good and fun it can be or let them choose to participate when they know they're ready?

When I was growing up, I was a huge participator, playing any sport I could (except for soccer, of course), holding positions in the student council, accepting spots on the Mathletes and JETS teams, being a member of clubs from the Outdoor Club to the French Club, and, of course, actively participating in my schools' Spirit Week.  My parents didn't have to goad me to do this, either -- I did it all without question.  To me there was no choice, no alternative BUT to participate.  Of course, that was when I was older than the Leatherkids, say, 11 or 12.  I know I first tried out for softball, my first sport, when I was 9.  Maybe I didn't do anything before 9... but I would have given the choice!

With a couple of seasons under his belt and a dad who played, Cal is committed to baseball now and doesn't have any vision of anything other than baseball for himself.  But I do!  The kid is athletic.  I've seen him dribble a basketball time and time again, and I've listened to the thud of him dunking his mini basketball on the hoop on his bedroom door enough to know that he's at least interested in and has some skills for the game.  I know a player when I see one, and he's it.  So I keep asking him as I find Park District programs, "Cal, do you want me to sign you up for this basketball camp?"  He always gives me some wishy-washy answer, I tell him he needs to broaden his horizons and try different sports and that he'd be good and then we move on to a different topic altogether.  I've told him that skills I learned in basketball I applied to softball and vice versa.  I believe it, but it's lost on him.  He's 8.

And Ella, whom I believe is an even better athlete based on natural movement alone, is worse.  She has no vision of herself playing any sport whatsoever.  This is (sort of... take a breath, Mommy) fine; but I can't get her to want to do gymnastics or an art class (she's good at that, too!) or want to attend a freakin' birthday party.  She swims now and knows that once she becomes a "swimmer for life," we'll let her choose whether to continue to swim or not.  She's totally going to choose to not swim -- we let Cal off the hook at the same point, and she knows this.  But she's the better swimmer!  She could do it!  Ugh!

Our front door with targets

I played volleyball for many years, on school teams through college and in many competitive co-ed and women's leagues and organizations as an adult.  I absolutely love the game and loved my time playing it.  And I really want Ella to play the game.  I'm not sure exactly when it started, but I've been throwing out this question for some time now: "Ellie, do you want to play volleyball?"  Her answer has been a consistent "no."  But when her dad sent me a picture of her hair-do in December where she asked for her nearly patented "pony braid" with a bow on top "just like the volleyball players," you can bet that I jumped all over that and bought her a "lite" (for early learners) volleyball for Christmas.  That kid is going to (try to) play volleyball if it's the last thing I do.  I told her I'd put an "X" on our front door above Cal's strike zone so she can practice passing.  She asked for a check mark.  Sure, Ellie, whatever it takes.

Cal is 8, and Ella is 6.  That I feel a little behind in getting them involved and participating in activities is likely attributable to a handful of things.  For one, I work a lot and don't have much weekday time. We have weekends, and that's about it.  Second, Cal swam, spent two seconds playing soccer, a few Saturdays playing basketball and a couple of seasons playing baseball; Ella is swimming.  Their peers are doing so much more.  Are they asking to or are their parents making them because that's just what you do with your kids in the 'burbs?  We are, in fact, behind.  Is that okay?  Lastly, the Leatherkids just don't show the interest... at least, they say they're not interested. And making a disinterested Leatherman do something is downright painful.

Our plane

On Sunday, a co-worker of mine texted me out of the blue that he had reserved an airplane at our local airport and would I like to bring the family by to see the plane and even take ride?  Rather than reply immediately, "yes!", I asked the kids if they'd like to go.  Ella, without hesitating and sucking me in for some misery later, said she wanted to go.  Cal?  Cal said, "no"... repeatedly.  When it came time for Ella and me to head to meet my co-worker, I suffered so.  "I don't want to go," she repeated, and I can't remember all of the other negative stuff that she said.  When we got into the car, I broke into tears and told her to "just, please, go and be nice to Mr. Gevin... you can be mean and complain to me about it, but please, be nice when we're at the plane."  I was defeated.

Ella radioed up

It turns out, Ella was positive and enjoyed every moment we spent at and on that plane.  She doesn't know it, but she had an experience that few have or will ever had.  We went for an impromptu plane ride to Yorkville!  And what I took away from that is that, given the choice, she wouldn't have been there to experience it.  In the end, I made her go.  And my conclusion to it, applying it to the dilemma I've been facing in getting the Leatherkids to participate in things, is that I need to just sign them up, make them try new things.  Given the choice, they won't.  I know better, though.  As an experienced participator and knowing the positive effect it's had on my own life, I have to strongly influence them to participate in activities.  I know it'll be painful and likely involve my own tears; but it's important to me that they not hide from things, that they be well-rounded kids, that they find that they can do and enjoy more than they think they can and will by simply trying.

Cal may end up not being good at basketball and Ella not so at volleyball.  But I see potential, and I want them to just give these things -- any things, really -- a try.

Treasured Ornaments

So I last wrote in my blog before Christmas season, almost dreading it because I knew I'd be with the Leatherkids constantly at the end of it for two solid weeks.  I don't know if my last post actually said that, but that was certainly its intended prevalent theme.  It goes without saying that I truly love them; they just have a way of driving me nuts.

It turns out, it was tolerable... and, looking back, fast... and almost describable as "fun" at times.  We had the right amount of goings on to break it up with Christmas Eve at my brother-in-law's house, Christmas with my family at our house and then a three-day trip to the Dells for some Great Wolf Lodge Waterpark fun with my sister-in-law and her kids starting the day after Christmas.  After a couple of recovery days and a visit from my dad to help him with some computer issues, we found ourselves rolling into New Year's Eve, which we spent at our house with the Reinkes and my dad.  And then we visited our friends the Henses on the 1st (all day -- sorry, Jen and Kevin) and spent some time furthering our Great Wolf Lodge time by visiting my sister-in-law on the 2nd.  I texted my mom that the kids were driving me nuts on the 3rd and could she take them to a movie, survived all day alone with them on the 4th, and here I am blogging while the kids watch "Sing" with my mom on the 5th.  All in all, I'd say the 4th was the worst day where I survived by, in a great Mommy moment, letting them use the ipads, practically unsupervised, for what seemed like 12 hours (in the end, it was somewhere between 4 and 5, not that that's any better, really).  I felt better about myself when, at the end of the day, I told them they'd get "no ipad time tomorrow, so don't even ask"... which, of course, didn't stop Cal from asking for ipad time today, to which I responded, "No, and if you keep bugging me about it today, you won't get it tomorrow."  He gave me some mad, I-don't-like-you face but didn't ask me about it anymore.  Mommy 1, Leatherkids 23 (not that we're officially keeping score).

So here I sit at "The Vault" in Lemont, drinking a Pollyanna IPA, and blogging while the kids are with Grandma.  I love this.  It's EXACTLY where I want to be.

And what I really want to write about is my ornaments.  Yes, that's right -- my Christmas ornaments.

I spent virtually the entire day on the 3rd taking down and packing away our Christmas decorations. I really don't understand how it's possible that it took this long because we basically have decorations in the equivalent of four rooms (living room, family room, kitchen and two bathrooms... that's the equivalent part).  A quick assessment from an independent party would likely be two hours; anyone who knows me would know better because of how perfect and precise I am when packing things.  But six hours?  This would be on no one's radar.

To be fair, it's probably ornament removal and packing that at least doubles de-Christmasing our house.  There are just so many of them!  I all-encompassingly blame (and by "blame," I do mean blame, but with an appreciative slant) my mom for it.  Afterall, she gave us a 50-pack of a mixture of red, green and white balls, flakes and spires last year because our tree apparently had some gaps in it.  She's also responsible for my initial supply of ornaments, a hodgepodge of "my" ornaments that she made sure to collect, protect and save during my childhood.  And that she did that for me and that I value it more than she may know, I am doing it for my kids -- every year, they each get a new store-bought ornament to hang on the tree; and when it comes time for them to buy their own trees, I'll give these to them.

So decorative balls, treasured oldies and hopeful future treasures -- my mom is behind all of them.  And every year, when it's time to pull out the decorations and to put them away, I thoroughly enjoy my walk down memory lane, not the one with the 50 balls, flakes and spires on it, nor the one with future treasures; but the one with the treasured oldies.  I remember them all and thought I'd share some.

This one on the left, I made in 1976, the same year that my husband was born.  Yes, I was crafting when he was barely cooing.  Now, I don't remember making it, but we know that I did because my mom made sure to label it.  That a handmade ornament survived this many years I attribute to my mom's and my careful handling.  And why did we care so much?  Because this is part of my story.

The one on the right, the shepherd and his lamb, is my favorite of all of my ornaments.  I can't explain why -- I really can't.  It's not colorful.  I am not religious so I don't fully appreciate the religious story behind it, nor do I know who might've given this to me, or, if it was my mom, why she chose to give this one to me.  I adore it.  Perhaps it's the shepherd protecting and loving his lamb, like I might do with my pets.  I protect it.  I always hang it in a prominent place.  I don't know for sure, but I believe this one is dated 1979; and look at the condition it's in.  It's perfect.  I love it.

That Geometry book on the left I made when I was in high school.  Mr. Gonz's class.  It's a piece of construction paper wrapped around a piece of styrofoam, held in place by push pins, and decorated, of course, by me.  I loved that class.  Everyone loved Mr. Gonz.  I wonder how many of my classmates still have their ornaments?

That desk on the right Grandma Reiter gave to me.  1987 is the year I graduated from high school.  This ornament accompanied the gift that she gave me in the Reiter Christmas exchange.  It's my memory of her... one of many memories of her.

Last but not least, is my Fenway ornament.  Fenway was the German Shepherd who was unexpectedly given to me as a gift (never give a dog to someone as a gift without talking about it beforehand) and whom I grew quickly to love.  He was so smart and so good.  I remember rollerblading with him running alongside of me.  I lost Fenway early when, tragically, he was hit by a car.  He was in my life for only a couple of years, and I have an ornament that I put on the Christmas tree to remember him.

Those are just a handful.  The oldest ornament I have is dated 1972.  It's a glass ball with some old Norman Rockwell-types of characters on it. We had problems getting this year's Christmas tree to stay standing (it fell three times), and this ball survived the tumbles where a couple of other newer, less meaningful ones did not.

There are volleyballs and a basketball and a bat, ball, and glove combo.  There are ornaments from my local trips to Lincoln Park Zoo and to the Morton Arboretum.  There's a seal from San Francisco and a skier from Vail.  And there's my new Chicago skyline ornament.

These ornaments tell my story.

There are others, and I can tell the story of most.  I can even tell the story of our newer ones that are the beginning of the collections for each of the Leatherkids.  They each get a new store-bought ornament every year; and I make it a point to save (and hang) every one of their hand-made ornaments.  The laminated paper ones.  The hardened dough ones.  The ones missing an eye... or a limb... or both.  These ornaments will tell their story.  It'll be their decision what to do with them and how much to value them; and it'll be my job to instill in my kids that appreciation for the meaning behind the ornaments, something that I think is probably actually beyond the ornaments themselves.  But as far as the ornaments go, I'm going to value them and take care of them, much like my mom did for me.