Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas and Other Insults

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Last night Bradley and I rewatched a 30 Rock episode that included this gem:

"What Christmas card did we end up sending out?"

(Reads front) "Happy holidays..." (Opens card) "...is what terrorists say. Merry Christmas!"

That punchline packs a whopper because it's totally true. Not that we know what terrorists say come December, of course, because who'd want to make small talk with such folks? The kicker is the idea that we can get so up in arms about the semantics of holiday greetings.

I've heard lots of talk lately about the words we use to wish each other well this time of year.

I can see the issue from a number of perspectives. As a Christian, I celebrate Christmas. I wish people I know Merry Christmas because they too are celebrating Jesus' birth.

That said, I don't find it an insult if a cashier wishes me Season's Greetings, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa or plain ol' Happy Friday.

Sharing one's best wishes for this season is hardly akin to a put-down. And while I don't celebrate Hanukkah, Kwanzaa or Boxing Day, for that matter, I don't wince at the words.

Like individuals, businesses select their own festive decorations and should have the ability to recognize whatever holidays they wish. After all, we do celebrate more than one holiday this time of year, even if Christmas is our main focus.

I just wrapped up Thanksgiving, am excited for Christmas and plan to sleep right through New Year's. I think an enthusiastic "Happy holidays!" covers all of those occasions perfectly.

On the other hand, I don't want to be held back from wishing others a Merry Christmas if those are the words that flow from my pen or come out of my mouth. There's nothing unkind or untoward about that sentiment, particularly when said with an impossible-to-misread kind of smile.

I love living in the South, but around here we sometimes take for granted that everyone believes what we do. If you don't celebrate the birth of Christ, please don't take it personally if I wish you a Merry Christmas. Besides Easter, which really is the completion of Christmas and the crux of our faith, Christmas is the happiest time of year for believers. Take that wish as an extension of our joy.

As a child, I was thoroughly confused by a neighbor who put up a Christmas tree but said his family didn't believe in Jesus. The two seemed intrinsically linked to me.

Nowadays, schools have 'holiday trees' and many cultural traditions (stockings, trees, gifts) are celebrated whether or not a family believes in the religious significance of Christmas. So it goes.

For my family, the Advent season is a special time of year because of Jesus. For others, it's not. I won't be offended if they wish me Happy Holidays and I hope they won't crinkle their noses if I unknowingly wish them a happy holiday-they-don't-really-celebrate.

Don't we all mean well?

Another blogger summed it up perfectly in a post you must read:

"Don't tell anyone, but sometimes I wonder if the best thing that could happen to this country is for Christ to be taken out of Christmas—for Advent to be made distinct from all the consumerism of the holidays and for the name of Christ to be invoked in the context of shocking forgiveness, radical hospitality, and logic-defying love. The Incarnation survived the Roman Empire, not because it was common but because it was strange, not because it was forced on people but because it captivated people.

Let’s celebrate the holidays, of course, but let’s live the incarnation. Let’s advocate for the poor, the forgotten, the lonely, and the lost. Let’s wage war against hunger and oppression and modern-day slavery.

Let’s be the kind of people who get worked up on behalf of others rather than ourselves."

Preach.

Ben Stein, who does not celebrate Christmas, had this to say:

"I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees, Christmas trees. I don't feel threatened. I don't feel discriminated against. That's what they are, Christmas trees.

It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, 'Merry Christmas' to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. It doesn't bother me at all that there is a manger scene on display at a key intersection near my beach house in Malibu. If people want a creche, it's just as fine with me as is the Menorah a few hundred yards away."

If you're tempted to boycott a department store because their banner celebrates more holidays than just yours, please don't. Bestow all the Happy Christmases (if you're British, of course) you can, but take the meaning of what you're saying to heart.

Would it be a victory if we pouted and stomped our feet and got people to call their decorated trees (nowhere to be seen the night of Jesus' birth) by the name Christmas just to please us? Would it bring anyone closer to Christ or draw them to the Gospel? Hardly.


So, from us to you, happy everything, friends. And Merry Christmas in particular. We're celebrating for a reason in our house, but wherever you are, we hope you spend this season grateful and happy. Thank you for all of your sweet wishes this season.

Don't Call Me Mama

I'm not unique in that I wear many different hats; we all do.

Just today I overslept and rushed to make breakfast, pack a lunchbox, restock a backpack diaper stash, brush teeth, dress a toddler, make myself presentable, let the dog out, grab an umbrella and drop Mac safely off at school in forty minutes flat.

While he was gone I scrambled to pick up Christmas clutter for a visitor who's not coming 'til Thursday. Oops.

I fielded client emails, worked for a bit, called the home warranty company, the doctor and the pharmacy, then looked over paint chips and fabric swatches for our little girl's nursery.

After crunching numbers and finding some papers, I skipped lunch to meet an accountant about my first full year of small business taxes. Said meeting ran five minutes over, so I barely made it to school in time to get Macky - who is now refusing to nap.

My remaining to do items for this afternoon include meal planning, grocery shopping, making soup (what else on such a gray day?) for dinner, preparing to host a small group Christmas party, folding ten billion loads of laundry, hanging out with my husband and resting my heavily pregnant self.

What am I getting at? Like you, I do a lot of things. I am a lot of things. I work at home as a wife and mom; I work from home, too.

It took this big talker 16 months to squeeze "Mama" into his massive vocabulary.
I still revel in it.

The things I'm most proud of in this world, however, are my marriage and our son. Hands down. These are my people, the one I've chosen and the one I carried.

I'm tied to these two in every possible way, and I find a strange freedom in that. This is the life I've been given and, on an hourly basis, the life I choose. I am so grateful.

(Even when I'm frustrated, behind, exhausted, confused, under-organized, frazzled, at a loss, overwhelmed or having one of "those" days, weeks, or months, I'm always thankful. Even if it's masked a bit by all my whining.)

Then I read this piece last week about a woman who fought back tears and hid her flushing face after a hairstylist identified her as a "mom," demographically speaking. I was a little puzzled.

The author suggests that women drop the identity of motherhood, one that is far more permanently and powerfully branded on us than on our male counterparts or even our husbands.

In a way, I understand. No one wants to be that mom, the slovenly and flustered woman sprinting three yards behind her kids, screeching at them to behave. Always late, never showered, rarely able to discuss anything besides the gory, disastrous details of childbirth or potty-training.

No woman wants to feel that she's "just" a mom or "just" an anything, for that matter. We're all busy, growing, multi-faceted beings.

But I think the writer missed the mark. While there are few labels I'd want to wear as my only identifiers, there would be no shame in one of those being mom. Or believer, wife, daughter or friend. The parts of my life I'm most passionate about and engaged in are going to be the easiest to identify me by, and probably the most accurate.

I think what she's hinting at is the fear that women, unlike most men, are minimized by parenthood. Do people see me differently now, especially pregnant, than they did three or four years ago? Sure.

My body, my personality, my life, my age, my "cool" factor - everything has changed these last two or so years. Why wouldn't they view me differently? People who judge me or minimize my abilities because I have a child are missing out, though.

From my point of view, I've been given a gift and am in a very specific season of life where I'm needed. In twenty years, I won't be a mom in the same way I am now. I'll be a hands-off counselor mom, not a find the shoes/kiss the boo-boo/change the diaper/ward off the tantrum mom. This time is fleeting, and it's a privilege no matter how bleary-eyed or short-fused I get.

For people to believe I can contribute anything less to society because I am a mother makes little sense at its heart: if anything, I am contributing society. Little people. A future generation. The folks who will take care of us when we're all past our "worried what my hairstylist labels me as" days - if we're fortunate.

I've walked the line, especially in my first weeks back at full-time work after Mac was born, between proud parenthood and concern over the perception that raising a child will overtake my life.

But you know what? It can't overtake my life because it is my life.

Even if I were in Beijing brokering the sale of a billion dollar company, my thoughts and my heart and my concerns would lie in the care and well-being of my children. (Typing that in the plural still makes me tear up.) There might be a million other facts tumbling around in my brain, but I'd still drop everything in a heartbeat for the role that matters most, the one only I can fill.

So, moms, don't feel belittled. Even if you do wear yoga pants to the grocery store after a full day of not doing yoga. Even if your business suit has spit up stains or your under-eye bags need a luggage rack and you have no idea what movies won an Oscar this year.

And non-parents, take a moment to think about how many things you do well. Don't fall into the trap of presuming a person can only be defined by one task, even if it's her biggest and most important role.

So that's my diatribe today: Mom shouldn't be or feel like an insult. And even if it is, it's still a gift.

May Mac never doubt that, even covered in his drool or tearing him, weeping, away from the "race car" grocery cart, I am proud to be his mom. I hope he can be as proud to be my son - at least 'til middle school rolls around...

Fat (Talk) Tuesday

There's irony in the fact that I came across this video just after examining a "pregnancy weight gain chart" online*. We'll get into that another time...

Right now, I'm beginning to process the full (figurative) weight of our future daughter - the blessing she is already and the high bar I need to set as we raise her. Especially for myself.

I'm going to be a girl mom. It will be my responsibility to help shape and shepherd the heart of a sensitive, sweet being who may always, as I do, worry about how she looks. I'm terrified.



Take a look at this video and think about the many casual phrases we toss about in daily conversation. The "jokes" we laugh off about our looks and bodies.

Notice our constant references to backsides, stomachs, hips, "cankles" and "thunder thighs." I could give you a list of the (genuinely funny!) things I've said about myself, but you'd probably just roll your eyes - and rightfully so.

Pick up on each thoughtless comment about ourselves at mealtimes, after dessert, while trying on clothes or when we catch our reflection in a mirror. How aware we should be of these when little ears are picking up on them!

I don't mean to dismiss the value of healthy living or the effects genuine obesity can have on a woman. That's another issue entirely. I do, however, intend to clean up my fat talking act - and fast.

If I've learned anything from my two years of parenthood, it's that children absorb far more than we realize they do. Mac spits things back out that I don't even remember saying - but I know I have. (No toddler says "oh my word" and "oh no!" this often. Or corrects the dog with a, "No, sir. We do not do that." Mind like a steel trap, I tell ya.)

Just as damaging as any four-letter word can be the subversive, easily overlooked insults to ourselves. Our children, who for a time feel like extensions of us, can only absorb those same ideas - and oh how I'd like to save this little girl from every ounce of heartache fat talk has caused me.

The truth? (It's difficult even to type this, fighting the urge to qualify or deprecate or joke.) I've never been obese, or even overweight. But I have spent the bulk of my years feeling large, misshapen, puffy, odd, awkward, out of the ordinary, "curvier," bigger than other girls, too tall, disproportionate and just plain unpretty.

Scripture tells me I'm created in God's image, that I'm fearfully and wonderfully made. For a lot of years, and in a million moments since I've "grown out" of those feelings, I would have disagreed. How I wish I could tell you I've just switched off those instincts.

My prayer now, not just for Fat Talk-Free Week but for all of my girl-raising days to come, is that I talk about what matters. My heart, my hopes, the world around me, the lives of others, what I'm doing and who I can help - notsomuch about how I look while I'm doing it.

I'm grateful for a healthy body that has carried a beautiful boy and is growing another baby as I type. I'm thankful for a life easy enough that my mind can even wander to such superficial thoughts as the size of my thighs.

I'm glad to be able to get around, to care for our family and myself without assistance. And I'm grateful for the people in my life who make me laugh so hard I feel beautiful - while forgetting about looks altogether.

For those of you who are raising daughters, or who are daughters yourselves, how do you combat the urge to 'fat talk'? How can we fight the subtle 'you're not good enough' messages we unintentionally send to girls without putting too much of a focus on looks in general?

This week, I'm going to talk about things that matter. And cellulite, my friends, does not.

*More irony? Wanting to take down pics from yesterday's post because they are "unflattering." And being afraid that they're not unflattering, just accurate. And looking at pictures of oneself long enough to have such opinions. Oh, I have work to do.

"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."-Psalm 139:14

No Gifts, Please - Just Pass the Cake!

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You may know of my addiction to all things etiquette and advice-related. I frequent the columns of Miss Manners, Carolyn Hax and Dear Prudence and sometimes wish I could join their ranks, but that's a story for another day.

This time I'm asking for insight from you.

The question: As Mac's second birthday approaches, how can I convey that gifts are not necessary at his party?

The background: Last year, we explicitly stated "no gifts, please" on the invite. No one complied, but we wanted the small group invited to know that their excitement was more than enough for our well-loved boy. (Obviously, Mac was overjoyed and "wrote" everyone thank you notes. But the hope was that they felt free to come empty-handed, too.)

Emily Post and Miss Manners, however, believe that just mentioning gifts, even if you are asking guests not to bring any, implies that they should have thought to bring one, or that they would have.

So this year, I left that clause off. (Invites have yet to go out.) But we still want our nearest and dearest to know they needn't bring anything but themselves.

We're inviting guests so we can have a few extra voices in the mix as we warble out "Happy Birthday!" and stuff ourselves with cake; I don't want them to feel compelled to bring a thing.

Side note: This is not a judgment against people who do want people to bring their children gifts. Who doesn't want their child celebrated? And it's not that gifts are entirely unwelcome or unappreciated, just unnecessary. Coming by means enough!

Mac isn't covered up in toys, as we have gone heavy on books and light on shiny things in his two years. But he has no need for anything in particular besides cake and candles.

So the goal is: if you want to swing over for a sweet treat and the blowing out of two candles, feel free to do that, sans the trip to the toy store.

Back to the point: How we should we let people know? Word of mouth? A note after the invite that conveys we'd love to see them, but they should feel welcome to bring only themselves?

How would you do it? And was there an age (for your children) at which you stopped saying "no gifts" or is that always an acceptable concept?

(Do fifth-graders rebel at such nonsense, or are overstretched parents even more thankful then for the reprieve?)

So looking forward to your thoughts!

xoxox,
A hostess planning two dinner parties thisveryminute to appease Miss Manners' "where has non-gift-related entertaining gone?!" voice pointing out her hypocrisy.

A Crystal Ball for Baby Sizes?

Our average-sized, perfectly perfect baby

When I was pregnant with Mac, I had several doctors guesstimate what his birth weight would be. Most were clear that theirs was just a ballpark figure; none used an ultrasound to back up any claims.

On the day I delivered, though, a doctor literally felt my stomach (not quite like rubbing Buddha's belly, but close) and told me newborn Mac would weigh "between 7 and 8 pounds."

If I had to guess, I'd say three-quarters of babies are born in that general weight range.

Sure enough, our Mac was born 12 days early weighing 7 pounds and 10 ounces, squarely in the range the doctor predicted. He felt so proud to have been correct!

While my course of treatment and delivery were not affected my doctors' guesses as to Mac's size, I have friends with different experiences. One petite coworker was given a c-section after an ultrasound indicated her baby might be over 9 pounds. Hours later, after what she considers an "unnecessary c-section," her daughter was born weighing barely 6 pounds.

On the other hand, a friend was allowed to go a full week past her due date with the idea that her small (read: 6-ish pounds) baby needed more time to fatten up. When he arrived, he was well over the 9 pound mark.

Anecdotal evidence aside, I wasn't surprised when a friend posted the link to an article indicating how rarely ultrasounds accurately predict a baby's size.

I've always known that guessing a baby's weight is an art, not a science. I imagine doctors take into account the birth weight and current size of each parent, plus the size and weight gain of the mother and the growth pattern of the baby so far.

For the record, I was long (21.5") and lean (5 pounds, 4 ounces), born four full weeks early. Bradley was just as long and born full term, right around 9 pounds.

Mac was born on his own schedule, fully cooked - and I'm so thankful for that. I'm also beyond thankful that his delivery day wasn't affected, either through a recommended c-section or in any other way, by an inaccurate weight guess.

This isn't intended to be a preachy post, just a reminder of what we all know: you know your body and your baby best. Ultrasounds can indicate things, but they can't confirm weight down to a tee. Well, not until they invent an itsy-bitsy scale they can plop right under your tummy to determine your bundle's exact weight.

I trust and listen to my doctors, but I also appreciate that they included my and Bradley's thoughts into their determinations. And that most of them didn't treat their pre-delivery guesstimates to be spot-on predictions of what would come to be.

Moms and moms-to-be, have you had any experience with this? Eerily accurate or totally off-base guesses at your little ones' size?

So, Do You Want More Kids?

Subtitle: Reason #4385 to love Tina Fey.

Tina, who graces the cover of this month's InStyle, had the most clever response I've heard yet to an age old question: Do you want more children? (There's usually a "when" in there somewhere, too.)

Her response, and I can just picture her saying this with a straight face, was: "If you're asking me to do that with you, I cannot." So clever!

Because, truly, what is the appropriate answer when a complete stranger, in this case one with every intention of publishing your response word for word for the consumption of millions, asks you such a personal thing?

Don't get me wrong; I don't think it's inappropriate to talk about your family or your plans. Friends, sisters, playgroup pals - this conversation can come up on its own with many people.

Fellow grocery shoppers, moms waiting with you in the pediatrician's office, receptionists at your place of business - these are the folks who tend to be the most curious and shamelessly direct.

Asking away in your little corner of the world may be kosher, but prying into the the private matters of a stranger? Not the best way to make friends.

You never know what struggles someone has with this issue, how they really feel, what they want and what they may or may not envision coming next for their family. And the truth is, you don't need to. But somehow, the topic tends to be brought up by the people who least need to know such personal details. (And I don't just mean reporters.)

Shortly after B proposed, a colleague's wife asked when we wanted to have children. (My answer: "Probably after we're married?") She followed this up by asking a friend sitting next to me, at that time quite pregnant with her first, when she wanted to have a second. Head-spinning.

Post-baby, I first heard this question when Mac was less than a month old. My timeline for having another baby was quite fuzzy, to say the least, considering my timeline for getting through the day changed moment by moment.

Hats off to Ms. Fey for putting a punchline to an answer many of us struggle with when asked. Truth be told, I'm happy to say, "We hope Mac will be a big brother one day." When pressed for further details, though, I'm glad to have a witty and disarming comeback in my back pocket.

So, friends, what do you say when people (or reporters, if you're one of the many famous folks who read this blog) ask intrusive, if well-meaning, questions?

What's In A Name?

You've probably picked up on the fact that I'm obsessed with names. I could tell you the full name of just about anyone I've ever met - and often ask people what their middle names are, just out of curiosity. I'm entranced by monograms and captivated by the stories behind old family names.

I was the girl who dreamed of naming, not necessarily having, a baby. (It took a while before I realized the two go hand in hand. It'd be a rare mom who would allow you only to name her child.)

I think it's because, growing up, I didn't love my name. (Cue Anne of Green Gables references. I never asked to be called Cordelia, but you get the idea.) Anne is my middle name; my first name is a family name that is unusual and easily mispronounced.

The first day of classes, from kindergarten to grad school, my palms would get sweaty when the teacher got to the "S" portion of the roll. When I saw a puzzled expression, I'd call out, "I go by Anne! Just call me Anne!"

Additionally, my whole family (of origin) has unusual name quirks. Three of the four of us go by our middle names. My brother, the sole "first namer," has four names. Three are last names; all are family names. Welcome to the South, my friends.

Most everyone I knew growing up was named after someone - a beloved aunt, their mom's favorite poet, even a Dynasty character. Few parents pull their children's names from thin air.

When it came to naming our Mac, I knew early on that I wanted to incorporate family names with a lot of meaning to us. (If your last name is Smith, you know the importance of standing out a little in the first name department. Take it from "Anne Smith #8" at my salon.)

Mac is named after several members of our families, one of whom was also called "Mac Smith." It means everything that we could honor so many with one sweet little baby's name.

Reading the top name trends of 2010, though, I am a touch disheartened that Macky's first name is number three on the list. (Yes, I did what I said I'd never do and gave my son a first name he doesn't use. Don't hate me, future Mac!)

I suppose I should take it as a compliment that there are so many baby Jacksons out there, but we named him Jackson McNeal for a reason. Mac's names each have meaning and come directly from someone our families knew and loved. (The first Mac Smith skipped over Jackson, abbreviated his middle name and went by Mac too, future Macky. You're in good company!)

Though he was born in 2009, not 2010, I hate thinking that Mac's birth certificate is one of ten thousand other Jacksons!

I won't say much else about names, though I'll wax poetic for hours with friends in an adult version of the treasured seventh grade "let's name our invisible children" game.

I have lots (and lots) of "rules" and opinions about naming a child well and with tremendous thought. Given my name history, I feel I deserve such opinions!

That said, names are intensely personal and I wouldn't want to step on anyone's toes - or their top choices. Pick an old family name, find inspiration in classic literature, choose a favorite Biblical name, put lovely-sounding syllables together, do what makes you happy - but realize names last forever.

Can I please urge you, if you're going to name your child after a politician, Olympian or television figure, as the article indicates more people are doing, to choose extra wisely? Do you really want your baby to spend his life explaining why he's named Apollo Piper Chuck Bass Finn Puckerman Smith long after everyone has forgotten who most of those namesakes ever were? Okay, then.

Read the top names of 2010. How many of these babies have you bought presents for this year?

Toms vs. Bobs: Copying for a Good Cause?

From the looks of other gals' blogs (and feet!), I may be the only girl who doesn't love TOMS shoes. I don't love their style or shape; I don't even love their "must have" sequined edition.
I do, however, adore TOMS' one-for-one business model, which donates a new pair of shoes to a child in need for each pair purchased. It's an ingenious mix of fashion, corporate responsibility and philanthropy.

(Side note: TOMS' founder and chief shoe giver, Blake Mycoskie, is a debonair young entrepreneur who was scheduled to speak at a conference I helped promote. Sadly, he backed out rather late due to his commitment to sail a plastic boat to Australia. Seriously, that's what I was told.)

I'd rather donate the purchase price of a pair of TOMS than wear them, as they just aren't my style. That said, I'm impressed by how many people have bought into (no pun intended) TOMS' vision and allowed the company to become a success.
It seems Skechers is equally impressed, as they have come out with a BOBS line of shoes. Similar look and identical business model: buying a pair of BOBS will also enable a child in need to own a pair.

I can't decide if this is distasteful, my gut reaction, being an exact copy of TOMS down to the name. On the other hand, more shoes for underprivileged children can't be a bad thing, can it?

What do you think? Do you own/love/support TOMS? Would you buy a pair of BOBS, even if they seem like a knock-off, to support the cause?

When social media and serious business collide....

You'd better watch what you write. And where you write it.

Sweet Enough?

I grabbed some unsweetened applesauce at the grocery store recently and discovered, upon closer inspection, that the tiny packages were actually labeled "no sugar added." I guessed that this accounts for naturally-occurring sugar and, a week later, pulled one out for a delicious snack.

Moments later, spoon in head, I saw (drum roll) a Splenda logo!! What in the world? Since when does Splenda not count as a sweetener?

Why aren't apples sweet enough on their own?

(I'm not going to turn this into some metaphor about raising women in the South or embodying feminism in the workplace in our post-modern society. But we could go there.)

Will apples themselves soon be sweetened with Splenda? Are they going to inject defenseless oranges and watermelons with syringes of sucrose? This has to be something out of A Brave New World...

Am I the only one bothered by this??