Toby

I'm not a dog person. I think that is clear from previous posts. But yesterday we learned that one of our dogs, Toby, has cancer. That changes everything.

Our dogs have been coddled and spoiled by my husband and my kids. I have not engaged in this activity as I cannot separate my feelings for the dogs from my feelings about the pee stains on the carpet or the frayed edges of the furniture they have nibbled. But seen through the light of the real possibility of loss, and I am filled with compassion for this little dog.

Several weeks ago, I opened the kitchen door to the dogs and they came running in. Having failed to put up the gate that separates the approved dog area from the non-approved, Toby darted back into the bedrooms (where he has been known to relieve himself) and I went screaming and chasing after him. As ran toward the the bedroom, Toby came running back and the two of us crashed into each other at the point where the hallway turns a corner. My foot hit his little mouth and he yelped a bit and there was some blood. I picked him up and took a look - it didn't seem too bad but I cleaned him up and held a compress to him and petted him for a while. I felt badly. I wanted him out of the back of the house but I certainly didn't mean to hurt him.

A couple of weeks later I noticed that he had what appeared to be an abscess in the spot where we hit. His gum was swollen and his mouth didn't completely close over it. In an attempt to get around expensive vet bills, we treated it with hydrogen peroxide and thought it was getting better but ultimately, the girls convinced us that he needed to be seen.

We took Toby in earlier this week and learned that the trouble in his mouth had nothing at all to do with my unfortunate run-in with him. The trouble was, Toby had a tumor. Surgery was scheduled for yesterday.

Bob took the girls with him to pick Toby up and learned at that time that the cancer had gone clear to the jaw bone and in fact, there was no bone. A biopsy is being done and we will see which of three different types of cancer he has. At best, he will need a specialist who will remove a portion of his jaw. At worst, he hasn't got much time. Grief has begun.

Toby is 8 years old. He is a bishon. We got him as a 5 week old puppy. He was flown in from a breeder in Florida and we presented him to the girls on Christmas morning, a gift from their grandfather. He is a spoiled baby. He has been destructive. He thinks he is a person. But he is a good dog as far as dogs go. If you ask him to smile, he shows his teeth, especially if he thinks it will get him some attention. And as I give him the very least attention, if he is desperate for it he will eventually come to me. He will put his paws on my lap and he will smile. Without me asking. And I guess I sort of like him. And I really hope he doesn't die.

Miracles Undeserved

As we end the year, and as of 2:25 p.m. on Wednesday the 29 of December I am shamed.

If I am to be honest, I spend a good deal of my time being angry and resentful of a lot of things. I have a very hard time "letting go", "forgiving", "finding joy". And it isn't because I want to be this way. I don't. But it has become such a habit that it seems ingrained as "memory behavior". I don't know how to let go or forgive or find joy. I swear to you I don't.

But this much I know. While I am among the most undeserving of people, God comes through for me again and again and again. And I have no idea why. I can think of uncountable people who are kinder, gentler people. With softer hearts. With unconditional love. And I'm sure God works in their lives too - but He seems to shed miracles on me and my family and I swear, I am getting to a point where I can hardly believe it. Frankly, it is almost scary.

God is awesome. No matter if you don't believe, it is a fact. There is no "luck" or "coincidence". There is no "fate". There is just God. And I am sitting here, trying like hell to figure out why He keeps showing up, so amazingly, in my life.

Our family has had extreme sorrows - but it has also had more than its share of true miracles, witnessed and experienced. And as I sit here today, nursing my grudges, another highly unlikely prayer was answered and I cannot fathom it. And this house will sleep a little easier tonight. And we have NOTHING to do with it.

So at 2:39 p.m. I will post this and thank God that He is good. And I will pray that His blessings on us extend to you as well. And most importantly, I pray for the strength to allow Him to make me a kinder, gentler person - one who might be more deserving of His attention.

Truly, God bless you all.

Christmas Eve Fashions

Christmas Eve is probably my favorite night for holiday tradition. It began in 1963.

The story goes that when we were really little, my mom allowed us to choose one gift to open on Christmas Eve. After a couple of years of watching us choose the biggest and best gift to open prior to "the big morning", she began choosing our Christmas Eve presents to open - and it was always pajamas.

We grew to love this tradition, always knowing it was something fun. Sometimes it was pajamas - sometime a robe. Here we all are with my mom, the year she made us all robes out of towels. She was very creative and clever.

Both my sisters and I have continued with this tradition with our own families and my girls look forward to the night with great anticipation. We have photos of very Christmas Eve with the girls in their new Christmas Eve pajamas. It is always a big deal. And I know they will pass this tradition on to their own children as well.

Here are but a few photos of Christmas Eve festivities and fashions over the years.

Every year it has gotten harder and harder to do as the girls no longer like frilly, girlie nightgowns or cute little girl things - even Grace has shifted into more "fashionable" sleepwear. It has gotten to the point that Christmas Eve pajama shopping has become the most difficult part of the Christmas purchase season. I have to remember size, color preferences, fabric sensitivities, etc. Frankly, while I still enjoyed the event itself, the shopping was no longer fun. It was a chore.

Until this year.

This year, I decided it was time that Bob and I got in on the action and below is the embarrassing (for my girls) result. Corny for sure, but I loved the photo opportunity it presented and I'll never get to do this again.

And only another 365 days to go...

My Stocking

It's one o'clock on Sunday the 19th of December, 2010. It could be any time at all because it is raining cats and dogs and there is no telling where the sun is. In my book , this is Christmas weather and for the first time I am feeling a bit of the season. Unfortunately, since insanity follows where ever I go, my hypochondria is the only thing that mars this afternoon. I have a headache that I feel behind my eye so of course, I have a tumor - but anyway...

I'm looking around the lovely living room (I do have a nice living room) - the tree is up and lit, gifts are wrapped and under the tree. This is the second year in a row where Christmas is smallish on gifts and I am very comfortable with that. I am listening to the Windham Hill Christmas II CD - selection # 10 Bring a Torch Jeanette Isabella and looking around until I spot my Christmas stocking. And among the seasonal items that have become rote over the years, this is one thing that matters. It is magical and it holds all of my Christmases within it.

My Aunt Barbara made it for me, along with one for my sister Linda and my mom before I have memory. I imagine I was about 2 when I got it. I remember every Christmas getting lost in the details of it: the sequins and beads and felt toys and trees. The braided hanger, the stars and the moon and the angels. The star emitting Heaven's light. And the jingle bells along the bottom, under my name "Val", which my aunt always called me. It was so exciting to see it every December - I wanted to wear it - and occasionally did only to hear my mom: "Take those off right now! You're going to ruin them!" But somehow we didn't. It is about one and a half feet tall and it used to go up to my hip. I remember that well.

Christmas morning it was always stuffed - mostly with apples, oranges and nuts - but it had wonderful little things too - nail polish, and those "books" of "Life Savers". A transistor radio when I was about 10 back in the 60's when transistor radios were the equivalent to an iPhone. It bore a note on it that said "For Your Room" as my mom wouldn't tolerate seeing her daughters walking down the street with one glued to their ears - the same objection I have to seeing my kids with their phones. I got my first deodorant (Tussy brand) in my Christmas stocking. That was maybe one of my most exciting gifts as it was a validation that I was growing up. (First deodorants in the Christmas stockings became a tradition I carried down - always to the same delighted reaction).

So I figure that my stocking has been with me for about 51 Christmases. It has seen me through the thrill and joy of childhood Christmases - the smells, sights, and sounds of which still live vividly in my heart and mind as if there were only days and not decades old. It saw me through my teenage years, including the Christmas when at 14, my first boyfriend broke up with me to date the girl across the street. It was hanging there as I looked out the window to see him walking to her house and not mine on Christmas Eve. It was there for my first Christmas on my own in Los Angeles, hanging from a push pin in the wall next to a scrawny tree my roommate and I bought and pathetically decorated with ribbon. It was there all during my brief and incompatible first marriage to a very nice, dear, kind, and good man who, it turned out, was gay. It was there for my first Christmas without my mother. It was there for Christmases when I was single and living on my own and for my first Christmas married to Bob with my new children. And as they grew over the years I watched as they would get lost in the details of my stocking. It was there for Christmases of prosperity and of difficulty. It has been hung every single Christmas since 1959 and has seen everything that each decade had to offer friends and family and song and laughter and even tears. It has worn a bit over the years: some of the beading is loose, a few of the jingle bells have come off and are now held inside. But I have taken good care of it - and it of me.

I am not talented as a seamstress. I could not make one of these if I tried. The rest of my family has nice, store bought stockings. Mine is different from all the rest. When my little sister was born, my mother took the stitching that spelled her name "Carol" off of her own and re-stitched "Elisa" at the bottom. I cannot do the same. I cannot take my name off of mine - even for the benefit of my own children. Because it is not just a stocking. It is a history. It is representative of a whole lifetime of Christmases - mine, specifically. And years from now, when I am gone, it will be viewed by unknown grandchildren as a reminder of a piece of them they do not know - and while they may never know the stories, when they hold it (if they do) they will have a physical evidence of a life of Christmas secrets from someone they have a born connection to. I will be at every Christmas this stocking is brought out for. And I hope it still feels magical. And it is my greatest Christmas wish that it will be as loved as much in 50 years as I love it now.

And thank you Auntie Barbara - I hope you can look down from above and know what this gift has meant to me.

Her Mother's Daughter

Last week the lobby at Grace's school was abuzz with all the thrill that goes with a theatrical "opening night". And, "closing night" too, by the way. The reason was the annual Christmas play starring 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th graders. One performance. And Grace had a leading role.

Of course Grace knew her lines within the first 3 days of having the script. I was like that. Her dad? Not so much.

She also knew everyone elses lines. Again, like me. She had great poise on the stage. (Moi?) and a her acting was quite good (we'll throw this bone to Bob, although I have a box full of reviews and critic's awards...). Further, she flew into full diva mode prior to getting to the theatre (or in this case, school). Again, just like mama.

I felt waves of pride as I heard people sitting around me (whom I did not know) remark on how talented she was. When she sang her song, a woman behind me leaned toward her husband and said: "She can sing too?" (Like me, like me!)

So I felt positively deflated when everyone came up to me after the show and told me that "she really takes after her dad". Really!?

(It isn't about you, Valri.) Oh yeah. Hee, hee. I thought it was.

Kidding aside, the truth is, she was pretty good and everyone knew it. We have a lot of Hollywood living out here and I was approached by an actress of some note afterward, suggesting that she should have representation. Of course, everyone says that to everyone - but I think she was being sincere because we spoke at length about it.

I have never been big on children in the industry. I worked with kids in television and it was, for the most part, ugly. Not the kids, but the environment and what they had the potential to become. One need only view the recent performance crotch shots taken of our own Miley Cyrus to see the road most often taken by kids in the business.

And Grace is already DNA wired for high-octane drama (like her mother).

And when discussing the possibility of pursuing and agent for Grace with Bob and her sisters last night, she was unanimously voted by the family as "Most Likely to Let Something Like This Go to Her Head". And we can't have that. She might turn out just like her mother.