Today's Advent selection offers you a couple of options. There are many lovely illustrated versions of The Nutcracker, which most of us know as a ballet. Here are two versions of the story in written form -- both are lovely.
The original story, The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, was written in German by E.T.A. Hoffman in 1815, and is much longer and more involved than many folks realize. If you are interested in the full [translated!] text, this edition, illustrated by the great Maurice Sendak of "Where the Wild Things Are" fame, is a great choice. The pictures are full of detail and weird whimsy, great to pore over and explore.
If you have younger readers/listeners, an abridged version of the story may be just the thing. This edition, re-told and illustrated by Susan Jeffers is a good one. I have recommended this telling of the story before -- I think it's very pretty.
And I would also encourage you to go see a performance of the ballet and luxuriate in the gorgeous Tchaikovsky music. In multiple dressing rooms across America, someone is strapping on her pointe shoes right now. Go see it!
OK, so here's the thing: I have so many things I want to tell you that I think my head might explode. We spent a week at the beach so that's a whole lot of fabulous to discuss; and I still owe you a report about the sparkles and glamour that the girl in charge and I experienced at the CAPPIES Gala.
But first I feel obligated to share with you a sort of tragic math equation. It turns out that:
the sum of dogs X (fine and delicate tulle of a ballerina tutu)
minus [absent and oblivious Liz] / the square root of "shoot me now"
= $$$ + Reason #57 why (I SUCK)
See, the sunny girl was supposed to wear this lovely confection of satin and tulle in the big year-end recital. Unfortunately the hellhounds did not receive the memo about how the recital costumes should be wearable for the actual recital. They came upon the fluffy and delicate tutu in the sunny girl's closet and proceeded to dig into its fragile beauty with all eight paws.
What should have looked like this . . . .
. . . ended up looking like this when the hellhounds were done "exploring" the tutu scene.
People, when I saw that tattered tutu, I had a true out-of-body experience; believe it. And the sunny girl cried, which should tell you something , since -- as her nickname implies -- she is typically pretty Pollyanna-ish about the way of the wily world.
I, of course, assured her that I could "totally take care of it" and she immediately regained all of her sunny good humor and faith in humanity.
Meanwhile, I attempted to safety-pin the shredded costume together, and quickly began to hyperventilate, as I realized that 1) I did not have the skill or wherewithal to fix this disastrous situation by myself, and 2) we were scheduled to leave for a week-long beach vacation within 48 hours and would return just in time for the sunny girl to perform in the recital. There was no time built into this schedule for a costume disaster; I needed to make this problem go away -- fast.
And here's the thing: there are so many wonderful people in the world. First, Memere (Lisa's mom -- I named my sunny girl in her honor) immediately and calmly said, "Don't worry, Liz. I've got this." She can fix anything. And then a lovely ballet mom who doesn't even know me said, "Don't worry, loser mom that I don't even know. I've got this." Apparently she can fix anything, too. So this means two people immediately volunteered to repair the tragically damaged costume.
And then the sainted Miss Linda (director of the ballet studio) said, "Don't worry, Liz. I've got this." And Miss Linda got on the phone and worked multiple miracles, and a brand new lovely costume was delivered to the studio within 72 hours, with no drama. And Coleen (who said, "don't worry, Liz. Your friends have got this.") picked up the new tutu and delivered it to my house while I was at the beach.
So the sunny girl and I returned from a relaxing vacation, and she danced in the recital ( she was terrific, of course) and neither one of us even broke a sweat. Because when it comes right down to it, Hillary Clinton was right: it takes an entire fricking village to raise my child -- or at least to get her through a damned ballet recital.
So I don't know about you, but I find middle school to be a very tricky proposition, especially for girls. Academically kids are thrown into multiple classrooms during a day for the first time, and into courses that demand more and more of them -- and they encounter teachers who cut them less and less slack. On top of that, it seems like the "mean girl" phenomenon really kicks in to high gear right about 7th grade, and too many intimidated urchins who once said whatever was in their heads or on their hearts just shut down. Too many of them feel like they have to wear a mask -- all day, every day.
And then there's puberty -- that bitch! She whacks our girls over the head with so many changes all at once that I am convinced most of them feel itchy in their own bodies every minute of the day -- and then she stirs up a big batch of hormone stew that makes our sweet girls cranky and sad and giddy and worried and passionately in love and on the verge of tears -- all at the same time.
Middle school sucks.
And that's why the sunny girl is my hero. My tall and graceful ballerina has danced her way through three years that could have sucked her soul dry. Instead, she laughed, sang, twirled, and went rock climbing -- always knowing when to strike a dramatic pose.
She chose great friends and made good decisions and is more than ready to be a Bulldawg. Look out, C.D. Hylton High School: the sunny girl has three more days of eighth grade left, and I am here to tell you that she kicked middle school's ass.
So the sunny girl loves to dance. From the time she could toddle, she twirled her way through life; a two-year-old in a tutu can dance anywhere she wants to, has always been my motto. She used to spin along in the frozen foods section of the grocery store, and has been known to fling her arms out gracefully as she takes her seat in church. To this day, she gives off a very Isadora Duncan air, except without the free love (the sunny girl is only thirteen) and also without the part about being strangled to death by her own flowy scarf.
Well, a lifetime of dancing means that we buy a lot of dance shoes. It was fabulous back in the good old days, when I could pick up a pair of ballet slippers and some tap shoes for twenty bucks at Walmart -- but those days are long gone. The sunny girl has grown-up feet, so we get to trek over to Heather's Dance Boutique.
Let me just say that a dancer who walks into Heather's for the first time feels a little like Harry Potter the first time he entered Ollivander's Wand Shop. Stacks and stacks of dance shoes surround the famous Heather herself, as she kneels at a dancer's feet. She is unwilling to pronounce herself satisfied with a pair of pointe shoes until the ballerina has tried on multiple sizes of multiple styles by multiple makers: Blochs, Capezios, or Russians? Serenades or Supremas? Size 6B or 7A? I know that she would nod her head in complete agreement with Mr. Ollivander: "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter." Substitute a couple of words in that sentence and you'll understand why the sunny girl tried on 37 pairs of pointe shoes before Heather would sell us a single pair.
But here's the thing about ballet slippers and pointe shoes: while each pair costs approximately the same as a good pair of basketball or running shoes (ballerinas are athletes, no joke), unlike other athletic shoes, they do not come ready to wear. No, no! The ballerina mom must pay close to one hundred dollars for these airy confections of silk and glue, and then take them home and sew on the ribbons and elastic that are required for them to function at all.
Do I strike any of you as someone who enjoys sewing?
This is my sewing box; it consists solely of the items necessary to sew 1) ballet shoes and 2) merit badges. People, I have made many a kick-ass Halloween costume, but you can bet your Aunt Pat that I used glue and staples, and a little smidge of duct tape. I have made a kitty-cat, Sacajawea (with papoose, thank you), and several versions of Neil Armstrong, and never once did I so much as thread a needle -- much less put on a thimble.
Today my fabulous girl in charge turns sixteen, and I am a little freaked out, as usual, by the speed with which the years have flown by since I welcomed this dynamo into my world.
She has always been my dark-eyed beauty, and carries a serious demeanor wherever she goes -- this fools people into thinking that she is not just as big a goofball as the rest of us.
She holds her hugs close, so when I receive one I know she means it, and each hug is doubly dear.
She is brilliant and organized and logical -- a triple threat.
She loves to be on stage (here she and the tall boy ham it up), she loves to argue -- and she loves to win at any game. Good thing for her she usually does!
A natural athlete, she is strong and graceful.
Whether on the softball field . . .
. . . or in the ballet studio, she moves with power and beauty.
Her little sister has always wanted to be like her -- and glows with happiness when they spend quality time together.
She informed me long ago that "it's so hard to be the middle child," and I am sure that she finds it frustrating to be such a swan among us ducks and geese -- but we feel so blessed to have her in our lives.
If you are ever fortunate enough to meet this beautiful, loving, smart young woman -- who can't wait until she is old enough to change the world -- I know you will agree with me:
I couldn't let February get away from me without telling you that my baby, my youngest girl, my very last child, turned thirteen years old this month.
This girl has always been my funny, sunny, early Valentine -- she brightens any room with her cheery smile, her goofy sense of humor, and her flair for the dramatic pose.
Of course the important task of the big day was to get her ears pierced -- our traditional rite of passage. Her birthday was also a snow day, in advance of the Blizzard. Since we didn't know how quickly the storm would blow in, we scurried to the mall to git 'er done, rather than journey to Pincurls and the fabulous Lynda Lee.
Another tradition -- dinner and milkshakes at the Silver Diner with Coleen and her urchins -- also went by the wayside, as we all freaked out just a tiny little bit in advance of the storm. People abandoned their cars that day before a single flake ever hit the ground. It was madness, I tell you! Instead, the family celebrated with lunch at Cheeseburger in Paradise.
But even though her day did not go exactly as she thought it would, my sunny girl carried her glad heart and spunky, funky humor with her -- as she does every single day.
The child never met a rubber duck she didn't adore -- her collection is extensive, and includes glow-in-the-dark duckies, multi-colored light-up duckies, ducky pajamas, a quacking ducky trashcan (very loud, given by Coleen as payback for the time I gave the seven-year-old Jolie Blonde an extensive grown-up makeup collection), and -- troubling -- a "devil ducky," who sports cheetah spots, horns, and a very sketchy leer.
The sunny girl is surprisingly knowledgeable about ancient Egypt, and loves the one measly mummy owned by the Smithsonian, with a pure and abiding love. She and I recently traveled north to spend a day in Manhattan, and she almost passed out when she found the Egyptian collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
In case you were wondering, her favorite Egyptian god is Thoth, the god of science and literature. Go figure.
People, I could go on and on . . .
. . . about her graceful way of moving . . .
. . . her sacrificially loving and generous heart . . .
. . . and her loyalty as a friend.
I will just stop -- but you can see why I know without a doubt that I am the luckiest mom.
Here's her theme song, useful for brightening any day:
OK, so I have to tell you that I don't see myself as particularly controlling when it comes to clothing the urchins. I mean, don't get me wrong -- I feel firmly that they should be clothed. And I am all for clothes that are appropriate for the venue: school clothes aren't good at the beach; church clothes are not for raking the yard. I think we can all get behind these universal truths.
Although I will also tell you that the youngest urchin showed up once at her big brother's basketball game wearing a tutu and cowboy boots -- and I felt pretty good about that. She was not nude, and it had been a really long day, so don't be a hater.
The urchins might offer a differing opinion about my controlling ways, offering as examples days when I may or may not have said, "We are not leaving until you change out of that hideous shirt," or, "When has it ever been OK to wear sweats to church?!" -- or words to that effect. I would argue that I have allowed urchins who shall remain nameless to wear clothing that other mommies might frown upon: leggings have been worn to Mass. Spaghetti straps have appeared in public. These concessions on my part are gracious and magnanimous, which is to say that I am too lazy to argue the point.
tangent: The tall boy serves as a Master of Ceremonies in our church's altar server program, which means that when he serves he stands right up on the altar with the priest -- in a cassock and surplice (very conservative priest-like garb). He has also been known to wear a pair of black and white checked Vans to church. A couple of times we have arrived at church to find that the Master of Ceremonies on the schedule has shirked his duties. The tall boy, being a responsible sort -- and being nudged and goaded by his mother -- has then stepped up and volunteered to fill in for the missing M.C. From the congregation's point of view it is hilarious to see the tall boy dressed like a baby priest, with the checkerboard shoes peeking out from under his cassock. From the clergy's point of view the shoes are problematic, although they do follow the priesty color scheme.
I'm guessing the Pope wouldn't have that much on it.
But people! The clothing trend that I cannot abide is the "saggy baggy pants" look. I have grave moral misgiving about any attire that is designed to display one's skivvies (Linsday Lohan, I 'm talking to you), but what I really don't get is just the basic physics of the baggy pants. I'm serious: how do they stay up? And by "up," of course, I mean "precariously perched on the lower hip region, below the butt cheeks, bunched in such a way as to suggest a diaper that needs to be changed." I regard the whole phenomenon as a gravity-defying miracle.
I have researched this fashion trend vigorously, where vigorously means I googled the phrase "baggy jeans." From the data I gathered (read: pictures on other blogs) it appears that the baggy jeans are an homage of sorts to the beloved song stylist Li'l Wayne. Tony Bennett, eat your heart out.
Hey! How cool would it be if teenaged boys all over America started wearing tuxedos to school as a shout-out to Tony Bennett?! Get started on this, people!
The whole thing reminds me of that Little Golden Books favorite, The Saggy Baggy Elephant, which my urchins remember fondly, but always made me crazy because the elephant so clearly just needed to pull his pants up!
What do you think?!
Image Credits: Billy, Eleanor, and Enyeart: Orville Wright (yes, that Orville Wright) 1898/Library of Congress Cowboy ballerina: Heidi Malott 2008 Saggy skater: courtesy of TheUrbanGent.blogspot.com Tony Bennett: Kevin Winter 2004/Getty Images
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