« November 2008 | Main | January 2009 »
I live in Seattle (tagline: we don't tan, we rust) where we live with near-constant precipitation, in the form of rain. Here’s a Seattle quiz:
Q: What do you call two straight days of rain in Seattle?
A: A weekend.
Q: What does daylight-savings time mean in Seattle?
A: An extra hour of rain.
Q: What did the Seattle native say to the Pillsbury Doughboy?
A: Nice tan.
Yes, we know how to deal with rain in Seattle, where “the fabric of our lives” is Gore-tex. But yesterday, just a week before Christmas, it didn’t rain, it snowed. Not only did it snow, at times it fell even faster than the recent stock market.
Of course, snow is beautiful, and can be romantic, like when Bing Crosby croons “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” in the classic movie, "Holiday Inn." The movie features the fantasy version of a beautiful snowfall, where the treetops glisten, and a horse-driven carriage jingles through the snow.
Snow is great, unless you have to go somewhere, and you don’t happen to own a horse-drawn carriage. Snow is slippery, and a nightmare to walk or drive on, as I tried to explain to my dogs yesterday. Still, they insisted on their daily walk. So I went “Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland” and struggled to keep from “Slip Slidin’ Away.
Driving is even worse, and around here, we aren’t prepared for snow. We don’t have a lot of snowplows or other kinds of snow removal equipment. In Seattle, wanting something “de-iced” means you’d like your cupcake without frosting.
Here, it’s best to sit home and watch the news. The snowstorm is the BIG story, and coverage is on every channel. News anchors warn us to stay off the roads. “DON’T drive to work!” they add, broadcasting from the studio to which they drove to work. Then they show reporters who have driven around the city to show people who shouldn’t be driving around the city, as their film crews capture entertaining footage of motorists playing “Bumper Cars.”
Of course the kids love the snow, because there’s no school. “I’m so excited!” they exclaim, until about 10 am, when they switch to “I’m so bored!”
I think everyone here is ready for the snow to go away, and the end of the BIG story called "The Nightmare Before Christmas."
When Kelly was little, Steve and I told her how Santa’s elves spend the whole year making toys, and on Christmas Eve, Santa loads up his sleigh and magically delivers presents to all the good little boys and girls. When she started asking questions about how Santa could possibly fit through a tiny chimney, or how he could have time to visit all the houses in the world in just one night, we said, "You've just gotta believe."
It was a fun part of childhood. Of course, we knew she’d eventually realize there’s nothing magic about it. She’d figure out the harsh reality, that you can’t always get what you want for Christmas. Really, it's good old mom and dad who do the shopping, and the malls are crowded, toys are expensive, sometimes mom and dad run out of time, or the stores run out of toys.
The average kid stops believing in Santa at about age seven. If they’re smart, they stop believing sooner, at five or six.
If they’re really smart?
They never stop.
I knew Kelly would never stop believing in Santa when she was six. That was the year she wanted a Barbie Cash register for Christmas - the same thing every six-year-old girl in America wanted.
“What else is on your list?” I asked her. “Because I don’t think Santa’s elves can make enough of those for all the little girls who want one.”
“There’s nothing else on my list,” she answered. “The only thing I’m asking for is a Barbie Cash Register. That way Santa will know I really, really want one - more than anybody.”
“But none of the stores have them – they’re all sold out!”
"Mom, you've just gotta believe."
Uh oh, I thought, as a bead of sweat ran down my neck.
After launching a massive effort to locate a Barbie Cash Register, the sister of our neighbor’s cousin’s mailman found a solitary Barbie Cash Register, accidentally stashed behind a “Barbie Dream House Display” at the K-Mart in Boise, Idaho.
It arrived via Fed Ex on December 24th. I was overcome with relief as I held the package; I hadn't worked that hard on a delivery since giving birth.
On Christmas morning, Kelly raced out to the living room. She squealed when she saw the package, tearing off the wrapping paper. Then she danced around the room with it held high above her head. "I TOLD you!" she cried out. “I KNEW Santa would bring me my Barbie Cash Register!"
You've just gotta believe.
As kids, we all heard stories of how hard life was when our parents were young. "When we were kids," my mom and dad would say, "our school was clear across town. And in order to get there, we had to walk."
When our parents bemoaned the hardships of their youth, we'd roll our eyes. Still, I can't let my daughter off the hook, so I tell her stories about my childhood. "When we were kids," I say, "our TV was clear across the room. And in order to change the channel, we had to walk."
I continue, as Kelly rolls her eyes. "In those days, the word "remote" referred to a possibility, as in, "there's a remote possibility that Kay will actually clean her room."
"Even if you didn't have a Remote Control," Kelly answers, "it's always the dad who changes the channel. Didn't your dad do it?"
"Uh..no." I explain that this physical labor was performed by the children, and each family had quite a few. The paternal unit would direct one of the children - usually the youngest - to change the TV "dial" to a particular station. Then the child would "tune it in" by fiddling with the "rabbit ears," while the remaining family members shouted various instructions. (Move the left one to the right! Now, the right one to the left! No, that's too far. Move it back....back... STOP RIGHT THERE!)
Obviously, today's families are much smaller. Once the Remote Control was invented, children were no longer needed for channel-changing, and the birthrate plummeted.
Changing the TV channel without a remote wasn't our only challenge. I think of other examples all the time. The other day, I was in the bathroom at the Olive Garden. Kelly was with me, so I felt compelled to enlighten her. "When we were kids," I shouted from my stall, "we had to flush our own toilets!" I'm not sure she heard me, because at that moment the water in the bowl jettisoned violently, splashing my nether-lands. I exited the stall and walked over to the sink. I held my hands under the faucet. As the sensor started the water running, I added, "and we certainly didn't have all this!" I moved my hand to the right to receive an automatic measure of soap. Then I walked to the towel dispenser and waved my hands in front of it, causing paper towels to magically appear.
Yep, kids nowadays have it pretty easy. It's hard to believe, but there will be even more improvements by the time Kelly has kids. Ones that will make her childhood seem difficult by comparison. Who knows? Maybe she'll tell them, "When we were kids, we had to chew our own food."
Here's what I do know; her kids will roll their eyes.
