Column

It’s a game of hide and seek a lot of women play. You hide the last bite of something delectable for yourself, not because you’re selfish, but because you are a visionary.

Based on personal history and past performance, you know with certainty that soon, maybe in the next week, day or next five seconds, you may feel depleted, exhausted and in need of a small pick-me-up.

You need a bit of encouragement. Or a bite of encouragement.

The key to keeping a small private reserve is knowing where to stash it.

For years I kept a couple of Hershey Kisses in a buffet drawer with the cloth napkins. It was a great hiding place. Not once in the history of our family has anyone ever said, “You know would make this meal complete? Cloth napkins!”

The napkin drawer was such a great hiding place that I often forgot about it myself. I rediscover my small stash each year at Easter and Christmas, the only times we use cloth napkins.

Another strategy is tossing a couple of miniature candy bars in the freezer for later. Later comes when someone goes to the freezer in search of butter, digs around and pops out yelling, “Look, old Halloween candy! The kind only Mom likes!”

If the treat is something no one else likes, you can leave it in plain view. Dried apricots are safe here, so are nuts and fresh dates.

It’s easy to quietly consume something sweet that you saved for later, but crunchy snacks do not lend themselves to stealth. Chips can be heard from outside the house at the far end of the driveway. Small children have been known to awaken from a deep sleep by the crunch of a single Cheeto. Fritos smell. For days. Weeks maybe.

Hiding things has a cascade effect. Whenever we go out of town, I hide my ancient Rolodex with old addresses, defunct landline phone numbers and home repair contacts. Like someone is going to break into a house and say, “First thing we look for is an old Rolodex!”

“Look! I found the ID number for her library card!”

If they only knew what was hidden in the napkin drawer.

I’m not sure why there is a stash of anything delectable anywhere. Whenever we have something special, the husband refuses to eat the last piece or the last bite. He saves it for me. I don’t even have to hunt for it.

Love is sweet.

I was puzzled when the husband announced he was going to burp the house. I asked if he thought it would need a diaper change, too.

“You know, burp the house,” he said with an air of disbelief.

I didn’t know. I couldn’t get my head around patting a two-story house on the back.

He said burping a house is based on the German practice of “lüften” where you open all the windows, so cross ventilation lets the inside air escape and the outside air enter.

It sounded like spring cleaning – or what I do after we’ve had fish for dinner. He said when you air out a house in the winter, it’s called burping.

He was surprised I had not heard about burping a house. I was surprised he had heard about it. He’s not exactly what you’d call a domestic by nature.

When we were dating, he invited me over for dinner, but all the dishes were dirty and piled in the kitchen sink. He’s come a long way, but still. Who was this man? How and when had German domestics infiltrated his head?

I nonchalantly pointed out that the ground was covered in 10 inches of snow and the outside temperature was 5 degrees.

“Even better,” he said. “The furnace has been running and running and who knows what we’re breathing. Burping the house releases trapped, moist air from cooking, showering, and breathing. It also reduces condensation and prevents mold growth.”

I married an infomercial.

He threw open all the windows. The warm air was sucked out of the house and bitter Arctic air blasted in. I grabbed my coat, scarf, gloves and the book I’d been reading and dashed into the utility closet to stand next to my new BFF—the furnace.

I saw the husband shoot back and forth from one side of the house to the other a few times, monitoring air flow. “It’s getting awfully cold in here,” I shouted. “Are we about finished burping?”

“Not yet!” he said. “Two more minutes to go on the timer.” It was a timed burp. Perhaps one times burps in adolescence, but here? Now? Us?

“I’m going upstairs, where it’s warmer,” I shouted over the roaring furnace.

“Fine,” he said, “but I’m burping the upstairs next.”

The man was showing a domestic side that has been hidden for many years. I liked it. Only a fool would resist.

 

Three of our grands have their learner’s driver’s permits, but somehow, I seem to be the one receiving instructions on how to drive.

“You probably should have waited ‘til that car passed,” advises our oldest daughter, as I pull into traffic. She’s my front seat passenger and mother of twins with drivers’ permits.

“Excuse me? I pulled out just fine, thank you. And, by the way, I’m not the one with ‘Please Be Patient: Student Driver bumper stickers plastered all over my vehicle.”

I always wondered who put those stickers on their cars. Now I know. She’s sitting next to me, scrutinizing my every move. I won’t be surprised when she pulls out a clipboard and begins taking notes.

“Brake!” she snaps.

“Seriously, girl? You’re going to tell me how to drive? Even your father knows not to do that.”

“Well, I’m teaching two teenagers to drive, so I’m practically like a real driver’s ed instructor now.”

Sure she is.

“I taught you to drive, didn’t I?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Dad did. Remember, you taught J to drive, so neither of us girls wanted you as a teacher.”

Great. I know where she’s going. One time, one time. OK, maybe two or three times. “But I taught your brother to drive a stick shift in a Ford 150,” I say.

“Yeah, and every time he killed the engine you punched him in the arm.”

“It was reflex,” I say.

I come from a long line of impatient driving teachers. My grandfather taught my mother to drive a stick shift. She got in, shut the door, started it up, let out the clutch and killed it. “Lesson over,” my grandpa said. He got out, slamming the door, and my mother didn’t learn to drive until she got married.

I’m not sure the kids need to know that story. Come to think of it, they absolutely do not need that story.

My driver’s ed instructor and I grab fast food for lunch and use drive-thru. Two very long lines wrap around the building and then merge to exit.

“Zipper, Mom. Zipper.”

“I’m going to merge,” I say.

“No, you zipper. The car in that lane goes, then our lane goes. You know, like a zipper.” She holds up her hands demonstrating how two sides of a zipper go together.

I may have gotten my license in the last century, but I don’t need hand motions explaining how a zipper works. What I might need are stickers on the back of the vehicle saying, “Please Be Patient: Dueling Driver’s Ed Instructors in Vehicle.”

For the record, I merged then, I merge now and will continue to merge.

 

You know winter is knocking on the door when the go-to topic of every conversation is wind chill. You know winter has moved in and made itself at home when the house settles with loud cracks, the hardwoods creak and kitchen cabinets along an outside wall have the interior temperature of a cave. Winter is the lingering houseguest with no departure date in sight.

Experts claim that exposing oneself to light is the best defense against a long, dreary winter. I have taken this wisdom to heart, frequently rotating from the glow of the light in the refrigerator to the warmth of the light over the stove, to the radiance of the light in the oven.

Yes, there is a correlation between all those appliance lights and seasonal weight gain, but when you pull a warm apple crisp from the oven, that idea completely disappears – often beneath a mound of vanilla ice cream. It’s hard to hear rational thought when you’re chewing.

In the long days of winter, I often take my laptop into whatever room has sunlight streaming through the windows. I do this in hopes of increasing productivity, and it does. Naps increase exponentially in the warmth of the sun.

A friend announced she wasn’t going to suffer through another long, dreary Midwest winter and was taking preemptive steps. This is commonly known as “Freezing the Day.”

She and her husband booked a rental on the coast of Alabama in March. They have planned every hour of every day of their trip — absorbing the sun.

My first newspaper job out of college was in North Dakota at the Fargo Forum. I started in January. The temperature was 19 degrees below zero, which means the windchill was probably 70 below.

Every time I stepped outside, the moisture on my nose hairs froze into tiny icicles. With every breath taken, I could feel a burn deep in my lungs. Covering a story in Minot, I was informed their claim to fame was having more mentions on the Weather Channel than any other town.

The people were warm and hospitable, but the frigid temperatures were unbearable. I left before a second winter. I regret not having a shirt that says, “I survived winter in Fargo.”

I have recently spied an enormous squirrel on our patio. He is so large that when he sits on his haunches, he can fold his tiny hands and rest them on his enormous protruding belly. He has no definable neck.

When he’s not shaking the daylights out of the birdfeeder, I suspect he competes as a sumo wrestler.

The squirrel is either a warning we’re in for a North Dakota winter, or a sign to quit warming myself in front of all the appliance bulbs.

 

 

It’s too late now, but I probably should have become a chiropractor.

Why? Two words: tech neck. It’s when a neck has been bent over a screen for so long that it needs medical attention. The phenomenon is everywhere. I’m not neck-saggerating.

I was in line to check out at a doctor’s office, and a mom and a little boy were in front of me. The boy was about 4, cute as a button with super long eyelashes. He was holding a tablet with his hands while his head was bent over it and braced against the wall.

His mom was having difficulty with checkout paperwork and the boy just stood frozen, mesmerized by animated figures running around on the screen.

I was watching the boy staring at the screen, wondering if he would blink. After five minutes, the tablet fell to the floor. Here’s the thing – the boy remained frozen with his head still bent and braced against the wall. It was nearly 10 seconds before he leaned over to pick up the tablet.

Maybe not today or tomorrow, but some day that child may need a neck adjustment.

Experts say that keeping your head, which may weigh 8-10 pounds, bent over a device is like holding a gallon of milk from the end of your outstretched arm. Your arm and your neck weren’t designed to dangle such weight for a prolonged period.

Some call it tech neck, others call it text neck. If the neck fits.

The other morning, I was outside when a car pulled up and let out a middle school boy so he could walk to the bus stop at the end of the block without other kids noticing his mother drove him.

The boy walked to the bus stop with his neck stretched out as flat as a diving board with face glued to his phone. If there was a neck craning event in the Olympics, the kid could bring home the gold. USA! USA!

I’m not a professional, but my understanding is that removing the phone is easy part. It’s getting the head and arms back to their original position that takes week$ and month$ of therapy.

Why aren’t chiropractors in mobile units cruising the city going from bus stop to bus stop, coffee shop to coffee shop or from dinner table to dinner table?

My primary care physician, Dr. Google, says: Tech neck is treatable and can be fixed by correcting posture, performing regular stretches, strengthening exercise and taking frequent breaks, but if symptoms persist or worsen, it is recommended to seek professional advice from a doctor or physical therapist. Or a family life columnist.

I added that last sentence. Yes, on the downside, I am untrained and unlicensed. On the upside, my fees are reasonable.

 

One of the girls gave me a tube of lotion guaranteed to reduce neck wrinkles in 14 days. “Thanks,” I said, “but it took me decades to develop these wrinkles. They’re not going away in two weeks.”

“How do you know that for sure?” she asked.

“Because I bought a tube of this myself a year ago.”

The only wrinkles I’ve had success smoothing are in clothes, using a powerful little steamer. My face may have wrinkles, but at least my clothes don’t.

What is it about women and cosmetics that make us believe the unbelievable?

I don’t believe in the tooth fairy, but I believe the dark circles under my eyes might magically disappear with little half-moon shaped patches promoted by a cosmetic line featuring close-ups of a 24-year-old. At that age, the model still has baby fat.

I don’t believe in leprechauns, but I believe the anti-frizz product a stylist used on my hair in a temperature- and humidity-controlled salon might really work in 95-degree outdoor temps with matching humidity.

Hope springs eternal. And so does my hair.

I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny, but I just might believe that a certain mascara can thicken eyelashes. And then my sensible-side kicks in and says, “You can’t thicken what isn’t there.”

I don’t believe the stork delivers babies, but I can be mesmerized by products that claim to reverse aging, defy time and turn back the clock. So maybe unicorns are real, too?

If you can make peace with the wear and tear of time, you eventually find a comfort zone that comes with aging. All those lines –laugh lines, smile lines, worry lines and prayer lines – are signposts of years gone by.

They are souvenirs from the seasons of life – the rough waters and the smooth sailing. They are character lines silently etched as you maneuvered the challenges of infants, toddlers, adolescents, teens and then letting go. Crinkles are from the joys of welcoming the next generation.

You know you’ve hit the sweet spot when the promises of turning back the clock lose their allure. You work with what you have, look in the mirror, and say, “It is what it is and today is a good day.”

 

Christmas holidays generate a lot of togetherness. A lot of togetherness means cooking, cleaning, searching for kids’ missing boots and gloves, digging through trash for a gift card accidentally thrown away, separating grands leg wrestling on the family room floor and plunging the kitchen garbage disposal.

It’s a lot of merry.

Ho, ho, hold it. It is so much merry that it can feel like peace on earth skipped a row.

Sometimes, a body just needs a little time alone—to breathe, eat the last piece of fudge and simply stare at the wall.

If you need a little time to yourself this holiday season, try these five magic words: “I’m taking down the tree.”

You don’t even have to say it loudly. You can say it in a faint whisper and clear a room. You can just think it, and people will know from your facial expressions that something awful is about to happen.

The good news is you don’t have to actually take down the tree to get alone time; simply announcing your intentions will do the job.

Grandkids will grab their coats and run outside. Even if the temperature is single digits.

Adult children will spring from long winter naps and race to the kitchen to wash and dry all the dirty pots and pans.

A son-in-law will go shovel the drive. Even if there’s no snow.

The husband will peel out of the garage to go check the air pressure in the tires and houseguests will summon Uber.

Everybody wants to help put the tree up, but nobody wants to take it down.

For years, people took trees down on New Year’s Day. Others kept them up until January 2, possibly celebrating World Introvert Day, but were too shy to say so.

For those who want the tree to stay, it may help knowing that National Spaghetti Day is January 4. Drape pasta on the branches and you’re good to go.

You can always leave the tree up until January 6, the Epiphany, which commemorates the arrival of the Magi. However, purists will point out that the Magi may not have arrived until several years later.

National Popcorn Day is January 16. String some popcorn and the tree stays.

A recent poll indicated the window of time for taking a tree down spans all the way from Dec. 16 to Valentine’s Day.

The husband, who never likes seeing the holidays come to an end, says we don’t need to take the tree down until the needles begin falling off.

It is an artificial tree.

If you’ve had a cold recently, you know the drill: you drag yourself to the store and prepare to spend the next four days scanning row after row of cold meds.  By the time you find the meds that fit your symptoms, your cold will be gone.

All the fine-print ingredients and warnings on the boxes, bottles, and origami folded sheets of paper inside the boxes, make reading the 70-page IRS booklet on filing a 1040 seem like a party.

To find the right med, you must first identify the problem: cough and mucus, cough only, cough and runny nose, chest congestion, nasal congestion, sore throat or dry throat.

Then there is the matter of how long you want relief and how sleepy you’re willing to be: fast acting, 8-hr., 12-hr., drowsy, non-drowsy, Nyquil, Dayquil and Tranquil.

We have a plastic tub full of cough meds in the linen closet, but they’re all for infants, toddlers and children up to age 12. I’ve aged out. Our cold and cough meds have aged out, too. Most of them are expired and need to be thrown out.

When I was a kid, it was not uncommon to receive homemade cough medicine. A parent would mix little bit of bourbon and a little bit of honey in a teaspoon, and there it was – homemade cough syrup. Technically, an entire generation of kids did shots in elementary school. Of course, times have changed and today’s pediatricians strongly advise against such homemade remedies. (For the record, I stand with today’s pediatricians.)

Another home remedy (and this one is still approved of) was to gargle with warm saltwater. To my knowledge, a saltwater gargle has never stopped a sore throat, but the mere mention of the prospect will stop anyone from complaining.

The best home remedy was, and still is, chicken noodle soup. To this day, I firmly believe homemade chicken noodle soup can cure almost anything.

The best cough drops ever made were Luden’s throat drops. They were cherry flavored and came in a box. I loved them. All kids loved them because they were candy.

The box said they were “medicated.” And they were. With sugar.

Alas, I’m with the times now. My go-to cold and cough meds are over-the-counter products because many come with a “do not use heavy machinery” warning.

I take that to mean the washer, the dryer, the stove, the refrigerator, the microwave and the vacuum.

I’m feeling better already.

 

The labor and delivery portrayed in the Christmas story has been highly sanitized, as it should be. We have softened the realities of Christ’s birth with pillowy mounds of straw, cattle gently lowing, moonlight streaming in through strategically placed windows, and an inexperienced husband attending the birth like a seasoned OB/GYN who has delivered hundreds.

Like small children moving pieces of a nativity set around, edging cattle and sheep closer to the manger and standing Joseph outside with the shepherds, we too, can only imagine.

But the crux of the Christmas story may not be so much in the imagery as it is in that small word “behold.” From the gospel of Luke: “For the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy, which will be for all people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”

The word “behold” is an imperative, a command that shouts “look!” “Behold” is meant to grab you by both shoulders and give you a shake. To behold something goes far beyond sight. The root of the verb can also mean “to know, to understand or to experience.”

My nephew, who was blind, could see things in that manner. The first time he held our first grandbaby on his lap, his entire being lit up like a Christmas tree. His face beamed and joy radiated from every pore of his being. Even without sight he could “behold.” He could touch, feel, know, understand and experience.

For the mother who has birthed a baby, “beholding” is the moment that newborn is laid upon her chest or placed in her arms. It is seeing that engages every sensory, emotional and cranial channel. Skin on skin, flesh on flesh, a small heart beating next to her own, as close as can be. It is the power, wonder, and miracle of new life. The hard work that preceded birth fades into the past, eclipsed by joy and awe.

The marvelous lights, colors, decorations and feasts of Christmas are merely embellishments. The true heart of Christmas is the invitation to behold the babe in the manger—not just with our eyes, but with our whole being.

I talked to Santa by phone today. Truly. He was in St. Louis getting ready to head out for an afternoon shift at the mall and after that a couple of runs on the Polar Express.

Mrs. Claus was helping with the custom-fit red and white suit (which his daughter makes for him), the belt, the hat, the boots, the gloves and the signature beard.

Santa shaves once the holiday season is over and starts growing his beard again in July. He likes his beard a little whiter than its natural color, so he gives it a quick blast of “Icy White” Punky Temporary Hair Color Spray.

“It doesn’t stink,” Santa says. “That’s the main thing. Santa shouldn’t stink.”

Agreed.

He says there are three types of Santas: The type that looks like Heidi’s grandpa with a bushy beard and wild hair, the Coca-Cola Santa and the Miracle on 34^th Street Santa. He’s the Miracle on 34^th Street type, give or take a few pounds.

I asked when he knew he was going to be Santa. Quick as a flash, he said, “When I was 16 and drove my dad around as Santa with my three brothers and sisters in the backseat of our 1967 maroon Pontiac Catalina. I was glad I could drive the car and not be dressed up like an elf in leotards.”

In the years between chauffeuring Santa and becoming Santa, he worked in newspapers before the baton, or reins rather, passed to him.

Santa does a lot of merry making, ho, ho, ho-ing, and smiling for pictures, but he’s also watching intently and listening closely.

He can read between the lines when a child’s Christmas request indicates that the child’s mother is either sick or no longer in need of earthly things. He knows his offer to “do his best” will fall woefully short.

He knows when an adult leans in and whispers a request for “Peace on Earth” that it will most likely require a restraining order.

He understands that the unselfish request for “good health to all” likely includes the one doing the asking.

Santa has a soft spot for special needs kids. He once saw a girl and her mother seated far away from the group at a Pancake Breakfast with Santa. He learned the family had to exercise extreme caution about picking up food particles, as a sibling at home had life-threatening allergies.

Santa sent word to the mother that, if she liked, he would come to their home to visit the little girl in a brand new Santa suit, brand new boots and brand new gloves, all of which had never been worn before.

The next night Santa paid a visit. It was the first time the 9-year-old had ever told Santa what she wanted. After he left, the little girl cried tears of joy.

Then there was the unforgettable boy with Down syndrome. He was ecstatic, jabbering and pointing at the lights. Nobody else was in line that night, so the boy hung out with Santa for 20 minutes.

Two nights ago, a woman came up to Santa and whipped out a cell phone to show him a picture. She asked, “Remember this?”

He did. It was a family from Georgia whose little girl couldn’t support herself sitting on Santa’s lap. So, Santa got up and put the little girl in his chair.

I asked Santa if he is a man of faith.

“Definitely,” he said. Santa has a heart so warm it could melt snow.

I asked Santa what was on his wish list this year. There was a long pause. I was about to ask if he was still there when he softly said, “It’s been a hard year. I’m wishing for happiness for my family, peace and contentment.”

Those gifts are on a lot of wish lists this year.

“One last question, Santa. Eggnog or hot chocolate?”

“Both.”