Who’s afraid of the big, bad…Nutcracker? My daughter, that’s who. But, after a bit of cajoling, she decided to give him a chance.
“The nutcracker sits under the holiday tree, a guardian of childhood stories. Feed him walnuts and he will crack open a tale…”
~Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration
Take the road less traveled, Beth
Every city has its own unique holiday traditions. Three that I love in Seattle are: Christmas Ships, Nutcracker with its Maurice Sendak sets, and The Pathway of Lights.
For the past 35 years, on the second Saturday in December, if you add up a hundred volunteers, two thousand candles plus two thousand brown paper bags, you get one night of pure magic. The Pathway of Lights takes place at Green Lake, a small lake just north of downtown Seattle. If you go, you’ll experience an evening of urban Pacific Northwest at its best: Santa paddles his way across the lake in a kayak accompanied by Rudolf in a canoe. Upwards of ten thousand city dwellers swath themselves in REI finery accessorized with all manner of sparkly hats and blinking jewelry as they walk the 2.8 mile path that surrounds the lake, basking in the glow set off by thousands of luminaria.
The festivities include free musical entertainment, free hot cider, and this year’s event is even offering up a free full moon. Of course, this being Seattle, it’s anyone’s guess if we’ll actually see it. Depending on the year—and the weather– I’ve walked the lake and gazed at luminaria under a dusting of snow, luminaria being blown by fierce winds, and luminaria doing their best to stay lit in a downpour.
But no matter the forecast, I can’t think of a better way to welcome the winter season. Here’s how Big Papa and I get into the spirit. First, the two of us “don we now our fleece apparel.” I deck myself out in some groovy sparkly, jingly or blinky jewels, and sometimes throw on a pair of reindeer antlers for extra panache. Next, we stash a few airplane –sized bottles of Grand Marnier and Amaretto in a backpack which come in handy when we spike two cups of toasty hot cocoa that we purchase at a cute little coffee and chocolate shop a block away from the lake. Then we set out to circumambulate Green Lake.
Big Papa and I have headed out to see the luminaria almost every year since we became a duo. Last year we shared the evening with two close friends, who will be joining us again this year. Before I met Big Papa, I always made a point of going, even if I strolled solo. Because even on the darkest of days, it’s important to seek out the light, embrace what brings us joy, and—when we have the opportunity–share it with others.
Exploring heritage is important for all adoptive families, not just those who adopt internationally. Whether a Caucasian family adopts an African-American child domestically or a family of Western European descent adopts a child from Eastern Europe, chances are that your adopted child will have different cultural roots. Exploring heritage is one way to learn about the country and culture where your child was born, and is also an opportunity for your child to gain a deeper sense of his identity.
There are so many meaningful (and fun!) ways to explore heritage. Language, religion, food, holidays and celebrations, clothing, music, literature and the arts, travel: there is so much to learn about. I have heard of a number of ways that adoptive families explore, and embrace, the culture of their adopted child. Here are ten:
Every year since Big Papa and I have been together, the Easter Bunny magically appears on Easter Sunday. We discover chocolate eggs hidden between the chives and peeps perch on the birdbath and birdhouses. Occasionally, a close relative of Mr. Bunny can be found sunning himself on a branch in our plum tree.
This year the bunny took us all by surprise. Big Papa was the first to notice he’d made his annual appearance.
“Look, there are a few new birds sitting on the birdhouse,” he announced pointing out to our backyard.
Sure enough, there they were. Peeps! We surveyed the scene and found more evidence: chocolate chicks in the garden beds, and colorful eggs peeking out from behind the Hyacinth.
“Wow” marveled Big Papa.
“I didn’t know today was Easter.”
“Oh, but it is” I assured him.
And, for the duration of the day, so it was. We got into the spirit of spring and over the course of the day a few Peep chicks “disappeared” as we went about planting and enjoying a rare sunny Seattle day. For dessert, that night, a chocolate bunny was sacrificed.
Big Papa thanked the Easter Bunny and his helper (me) and then he said: “Thank goodness you remember these things. I know I never would.”
Three days later we discovered the error of my ways.
“Uh, sweetie” Big Papa remarked Wednesday morning.
“Easter is this Sunday!”
“Is that so?” was my retort, trying to hide the surprise in my voice.
Then I checked the calendar. I’ll be darned. Easter is indeed this Sunday.
Being forced to eat Easter chocolate a couple weekends in a row is hardly a catastrophe, but this little story offers up a picture of the bewildered state that my brain is in these days. Even though I know that stress can take a toll in myriad ways, I always feel a bit astonished when it wreaks havoc on me.
Happy Easter weekend everyone. As for me, I’ve got to get in touch with that darn bunny and let him know last week was just a practice run!
When I was eight or nine, I experienced a traumatic Halloween in the safety of suburban upstate New York. While I can’t remember my costume, I clearly remember the brand new cute plastic pumpkin that I was carrying to hold my stash of candy.
As my evening of ‘trick or treat’ came to a close the plastic handle from my pumpkin “purse” cut into my arm from the weight of my sugary loot. I was tired and lagging behind my friends. In the darkness, a boy approached. He was older than me and bigger than me.
In the blink of an eye, more quickly than a ghoul could say ‘BOO,” he grabbed my pumpkin with both hands and yanked it off my arm. As he ran off into the night, I cried: Someone stole my pumpkin!
My friends, intent on making it to a few more houses, were clearly annoyed and reluctant to hang out with the “cry baby” who should have been keeping pace with the masses and obviously didn’t put enough moxie in her struggle to keep the pirate at bay. My treasures were gone and there wasn’t going to be much sympathy. We went to a house and someone called my mother.
I went home with my tail between my legs, feeling scarred. The bloom was off the rose as far as Halloween went in my book.
Of course most of my Halloween memories are pleasant. I loved to dress-up and remember many of the costumes my mother helped my sister and I put together. One of my favorites was the year I dressed like a “flapper girl” from the roaring 1920s. A pink dress with fringe and a feather boa were the highlights of that costume.
Fast forward 40 years. Big Papa and I live on a street in a neighborhood where opening the door after dark isn’t exactly the wisest maneuver. For the past two years, on Halloween night, we’ve turned off the lights in the front of the house, holed up in the back of the house and pretended no one’s home.
Last year about 9:30 p.m., the door bell rang. We waited a minute or so and snuck into our dark living room to peer out the window. On our porch landing stood three teenagers, none of whom were in costume. Even if we had opened the door, and even if we had candy to dole out, I’m wasn’t up for playing ‘trick or treat’ with a bunch of freeloaders (or worse) who couldn’t even pony up a costume.
Truthfully, it makes me a little sad. As parents-to-be, dressing our little kiddo up in her first Halloween costumes are destined to be some of our earliest “wow, that was a hoot” memories. Sure there are plenty of areas in town where malls or businesses offer up a safe-haven to trick or treat for those of us who live in risky neighborhoods. But not being able to walk out our front door and knock on the door next door and the door after that is a bit of a downer. Half the fun (aside from a belly-ache worth of treats), is seeing Mr. and Mrs. Miller dressed up as mad scientists or running into that cute boy you have a first-grade crush on as you walk down your street checking out the faux spider webs covering the Davis’ house and the ten Jack-o-lanterns heading up the walkway to the McNally’s house.
No matter the perceived or actual danger of living in a less-than-safe neighborhood, I am looking forward to sharing the festivities with our wee one. Carving a pumpkin and cooking up the pumpkin seeds, watching her eyes open wide when she spots a larger-than-life Tinkerbell or screaming in fright when she comes eyeball to eyeball with the scary green monster. We’ve waited a long time to jump into the kiddy pool of holiday festivities. Becoming parents via adoption sure has been tricky, but I’m hoping being parents is going to be a treat.
Christmas is more than a month away. Yet while grocery shopping, even several weeks ago, I noticed that nearly every store front is festooned with a holiday theme. I grumbled to myself a bit about the fact that the ‘Christmas’ season seems to begin a bit earlier each year. When I was a kid, stores wouldn’t dream of displaying their Christmas windows until the day after Thanksgiving. Now, it’s fair game the day after Halloween.
Like most folks, I’ve come to accept that this is just how it is and, after the initial shock wears off, I walk past windows filled with red, green and glitter without giving it a second thought. It’s just part and parcel of “the season” in the States.
When I thought about this, what got stuck in my brain is how little I know about Armenian holidays, even the “major” holidays like Christmas. What we celebrate in the U.S. and how we celebrate is not what is celebrated the world over. I imagine if I was walking down Abovian Street in Yerevan right now, it would bear very little resemblance to the decorated and uber-merchandised streets of Seattle.
In Armenia, Christmas (“surb tsnund “) is observed on January 6, with Christmas Eve on January 5. While those of us in the U.S. are packing up ornaments and putting the well-loved but now dying Christmas tree out in the street, Armenians are attending church and enjoying Christmas dinner. A “traditional” Armenian Christmas dinner is not roast turkey, ham or crown roast. Instead the main dish is fish prepared with butter. Rice with raisins is also popular and the holiday meal is accompanied with red wine.
I’m down with a culturally diverse household. Big Papa and I come from distinctly different religious and cultural backgrounds ourselves. We’ve already cobbled together a bit of his and a bit of mine. Good friends of ours celebrate “ThankHanuMas,” a holiday combo that suits us to a ‘t’ as well. So, I know I’ll do my best to learn more about Armenian traditions. I want to incorporate our child’s culture into our family’s “holiday blend.”
My friends, who are married and partnered, tell me that some of their first big fights occurred over which holiday traditions to honor. Will they make the oyster stuffing just like her folks make in New Orleans or the wild rice stuffing that his family in New England likes? Should the Christmas tree be decked out in a mixture of colored lights or white lights only? Blinkers or non-blinkers? Tinsel?
I’m crossing my fingers that our kiddo will take pride in the patchwork quilt of yours, mine and ours holiday traditions. He’ll laugh when he tells his friends how, each Christmas, we set off the fire alarm when making Shepherd’s Pie from scratch (with lamb shanks not ground beef). I want him to look forward to growing Scarlett Runner Beans each summer to shell and put in Christmas Eve soup each winter. I hope he’ll revel in the northwest spirit of Santa in a kayak during our walk around Greenlake for the ‘Pathway of Luminarias’ the second Saturday each December.
As far as I’m concerned, the more traditions, the merrier. Life is richer in the mixture.