The Beginning

This week is the beginning.  The beginning of THE holiday season.  The beginning is my favorite part.  Because I love Halloween  There's no pressure, guilt, bitterness, questioning of your faith or your family like at Christmas (yeah, I know, I have issues).  Nope it's all dressing up, Boo-ing people, The Great Pumpkin, eating candy.  

I know Halloween has a dark side too.  When I was a teenager I loved watching the Friday the 13 movies on or around Halloween.  Or all my friends would sleep over at Laura's or Christine's and watch Halloween.  That sounds like pure hell to me now.  I hate the over-the-top scary part of the holiday and zombies and realistic dead people costumes.  I can't watch scary shows on TV like The Walking Dead or American Horror Story or even Criminal Minds. The whole idea of death gives me a panic attack.  And yeah the slutty costumes for women and teens and even young girls makes me question and hate our sexist society.  But I do my best to tune that out.  I focus on pumpkin patches and plastic spider rings and happy magic.

Every year we kick off the beginning of THE holiday season with a Halloween Hoopla.  My in-laws, otherwise known as Grandma and Bubba, host the extravaganza.  And it's quite a party.  In fact there ain't no party like a Youngblood party and a Youngblood party don't stop. Woot-woot! 

They really go all out and the kids (and the grown ups) love it.

There are costumes and games and food and fun.

The kids run from game to game.

The scavenger hunt is a favorite.

Bubba's famous tractor rides are also a favorite.

Bubba and Grandma turn their garage into party central-- playing music (holiday classics like Rap'n Halloween Hits), dancing and crafting and painting and candy bar bingo and so much laughter.

Uncle Joe bustin a move and showing the kids his serious break dancing skills.

Maybe I love this beginning so much because it reminds me what ALL the holidays are about.  This beginning is a great party, but it's so much more.  It's about seeing my husband's parents still in love and truly enjoying being together (which after being married for forever I find beyond inspiring). It's about grandparents who still have fun together and with their grandkids.  It's about the teenage cousins coming to the party in costume and helping out and playing with the younger cousins.  It's about my husband, his three brothers and his sister showing up, hanging out and being together with their parents. It's about traditions.  It's about bringing the dessert, connecting, laughing and dancing and eating.  It's about family. 

It's the best beginning of the holiday season ever.  

No More Waiting For the Great Pumpkin

There are three things I have learned never to discuss with people: religion, politics and the Great Pumpkin.

-Linus, The Great Pumpkin

There's no turning back now, the train is leaving...the holiday train.  The season has begun.  And unlike Linus, I always talk about politics, religion and now the Great Pumpkin.

On possibly one of the rainiest October Saturdays in recent history, we officially kicked off the holiday season of 2012.

Halloween has become ginormous, humongous, crazy big.  And we're all left waiting for The Great Pumpkin, or are we?

This past weekend, we had a Halloween Hoopla like no other.  In fact, my husband's parents hosted an amazing Halloween party for all the kiddos.

We decorated/painted/carved pumpkins like we decorate/bake/cut out cookies at Christmas.  

It's not just at the Hoopla, we go big at our house too.  Here's our rockin' Friday night family pumpkin painting party.  

Back to the Hoopla in the pics below.

There were costumes, pumpkin bowling and tractor rides through the forest(when the rain let up).

This is Tim and his twin brother, Terry, terrifying the kids on the tractor ride.  They really got in the spirit of the season.

There were ghosts and trick-or-treating.

And here's the thing, it was amazing.  I am not a girl who is in love with the holidays.  I've been called a Scrooge before. I've been called cold, unfeeling and grouchy too.  But the holidays usually represent too much expectation and perfection.  The holidays remind me of my mother crying when I was a kid and me being alone, a lot.  

But not Halloween.

Halloween is my new Christmas.  It's all candy, parties and good times.  It's costumes and cute PJ's.  It's scary stories and did I mention candy?  It's not too deep.  It's not too much pressure.  It's family.  It's good times.  It's perfect.

Look at the way my father-in-law is looking at his wife, my mother-in-law, pure love.  They are such a wonderful example of what a successful marriage/relationship looks like.

No waiting for the Great Pumpkin for me anymore.  

I've found the most sincere celebration with my family.  Tradition + Love + Scary Masks + Candy=  Ahhh, Perfection.

Here's the Charlie Brown clip. My favorite part is when Lucy takes care of her little brother. It's a true example of how you can think someone is an idiot, but still love them and help take care of them. 

Walk the Line

This week I will be playing the role of an over emotional, slightly irrational almost 40-year-old mother of four who struggles with change.  Oh wait, that's my role every week.  Ugh.


Sorry folks, but this week it's going to be a little more intense.  I dropped my two oldest children off in another state and I am prepping to go back in time (to a sometimes not so happy time) circa my 20th high school reunion.


I drove to Pittsburgh, PA straight from closing ceremonies of a busy week of vacation bible school (VBS) at our church.  A week where my kids sang sweet songs, made new friends, hung out with old friends, learned mildly (and not so mildly) scary stories about the Crucifixion and made crafts. 

A week where I ran the snack room and felt like a youth group volunteer hanging with my buddies in the kitchen.

Most of the snacks we served were healthy.  I bought 40 pounds of grapes last week.  Okay, the most popular snacks involved spray cheese and other not so healthy options.

Armed with our VBS CD, snacks and a slightly better working AC (still no husband who happened to be out of town for work) we headed off for the Burgh where Grandpa Camp awaited my two oldest children.  


Last year was the first year Peyton and Lucy went away for a week with my dad.  It was hard for me, but amazing for them.  They have looked forward to going back probably since the day they left last summer.


This summer has been an interesting challenge for me as a mother.  After JT broke his arm, I went through an "everything is scary, danger lurks everywhere" phase for a couple weeks.  I thought I was over it, but my "don't be afraid of living" attitude was challenged within the first 30 minutes of our arrival to Pittsburgh.  

My dad lives on a cliff in the south side of Pittsburgh.  An incline car used to carry people up the cliff many, many years ago where his house now sits.  There are remnants of those old incline cars/lines still on his property.  There is a roof top deck, 30-foot walls, steep staircases, a hot tub and more.  These are some of the reasons why Grandpa Camp is only for the older kids.


But those older (supposed to be wiser) kids proceeded to sit on top of that 30-foot wall upon our arrival.  My dad and I knew not to react too excitedly or they might fall.  I am not kidding.  We had to talk my kids off the ledge.  They had no idea of the danger, they hadn't even looked at the other side.  How did I raise such not-very-smart kids?


I couldn't sleep that night.  I couldn't get the image out of my head of what could've been.  Then every could've been ever started running through my mind.  It was 1 a.m. and I called my husband who was driving home from the airport in Michigan.  "Tell me stories of all the dangerous things you and your brothers did growing up," I begged.  I needed to hear kid survival stories.


He sure gave them to me.  Stories of riding 40 mph on dirt bikes with no helmets through the woods at age 10, jumping off the roof of his house, seeing how long they could hold onto the electric fence before being knocked down to the ground with electricity and more good stuff.


Kids do scary things, dumb things.  It's normal to be not-so-smart.  My dad and his wife will love them and look after them, they will be safe. And I am beyond happy that my children get to spend time with my father and make such special memories.  They will have the time of their life and look forward to camp next year.  And I will dwell in a place of happiness and anxiety, joy and fear.  I will walk the line of parenthood (and sanity).


As I drove away to head home with my two littlest boys in the van, they asked to hear the VBS music.  Reluctantly, I put in the CD and started playing the songs that we heard only 2,035 times the last week.  I started singing louder and louder.  I cried a little.  I felt the music.  I felt the lyrics.  "Isn't this great kids?" I yelled back.  No reply.  My little boys were sleeping.  I shrugged and continued singing to God to give me strength for the journey home and beyond.

Tell Me a Story

"Let's renamiss," I loved to suggest to my grandmother as a kid.  I thought I was very interesting using a big word like reminisce even though I couldn't pronounce it correctly.  


My grandmother was a hard working woman who smelled like bleach and Oil of Olay.  She was always cleaning, preparing food or taking care of a child.  I only saw her sit down on a few occasions.  But when she did sit, I would jump at the opportunity for a story about the olden days.

A lovely picture of me pre-braces and my serious, but loving grandma.

She would mostly tell stories about raising my mom and my aunt, but sometimes we would get a story about her own childhood or early adulthood.  Like when she baked pies for a living at a restaurant, which for some reason seemed so glamourous to me at 7 years old.  She talked about owning goats and ducks and having an outhouse, just like Laura and Mary on one of my favorite shows "Little House on the Praire" I marveled (I was even relating to television shows/pop culture as a child of course).


I soaked up every word picturing what it all must have been like and filling in the gaps with my very own fascinating details.  My grandmother was pretty vague about how she met my grandfather.  In my mind it was a prize-winning pie that she made that first got his attention.  He came back to the restaurant every day for a year and asked for "Leona's Pie" every single time.  They fell madly in love and he proposed right there in the restaurant and he said "I can't live without you, or this pie, marry me!" and they lived happily ever after.  Okay, it was fascinating to me at 7.


Today in church, one of the reverends spoke about the Hebrew term midrash.  She explained that midrash is a way of interpreting biblical stories that goes beyond the religious teachings.  It fills in gaps left in the bible stories.  As the radio personality my conservative grandmother loved Paul Harvey would say it's "the rest of the story."


I am fascinated by the idea of midrash.  I was midrashing (not sure if that is a correct term, but I am using it) my grandmother's story.


Midrashing.  Storytelling.  Reminiscing.  They are all vital--it gives a person history, value, moral lessons.  I believe it is critical to helping kids create their own identity later in life.


And hell, sometimes a story can just help you feel better.
Lucy had a rough day in church today.  She was off, maybe because of allergies, but she just was not feeling the vibe when it was time for her choir to get up and sing.  Just as expected, she did not hide how she felt.  She stood up with her choir and scowled.  No singing, just angry eyes.

Blurry pic, but you get the idea of the angry eyes.

After a painful 10 minutes that felt like 30, she quickly left the room and began to cry.  "Everyone was laughing," she sobbed.  Okay, I was laughing and I have it on video.  Yikes.  I thought it was funny.  


Feeling guilty, I told her a story to feel better.  I reminisced about when I was a cheerleader freshman year of high school.  It was horrible, I was horrible.  I felt uncomfortable and out of place, so I mouthed the cheers.  Never once uttering a loud cheer.  As I told Lucy the story I started cheering in the hallway at church, not holding anything back.  "L-E-T-S-G-O, Let's Go!"  She laughed, I laughed.


I will let her midrash the rest of the story however she wants, however it helps her feel better.


Stories are important.  


"Human minds rely on stories and story architecture as the primary road map for understanding, making sense of, remembering and planning our lives--as well as the  countless experiences and narratives we encounter along the way," Kendall Haven, renowned storyteller and author.

Lucy pouring her heart into a story on the whiteboard at church.  She was making up a story and it was also helping her feel better.  Stories, even made up ones, are important.

One of my favorite movies about the power of storytelling. And yes, it is from the early nineties.

They matter.