The Christmas Card

I recently saw a rerun of the Seinfeld episode in which Kramer bad mouths the US Postal Service. Why do we need the mail anymore what with email, Facebook, electronic transfers and Bill Pay? I've recently been feeling a bit like this myself - though you have to feel sorry for them. After centuries of reliable service, they are suddenly no longer really very needed. (Though when they are needed, are they ever needed!)

In this vein, I contemplated simply posting my Christmas card here.

But then I couldn't do it.

The tradition. The tangible copy that can be hung on the wall. The physical signature. My hand indirectly touches your hand. So I did send out a Christmas card. To all but a few of you. The special few who I know will automatically have this posting downloaded into your life.

You are part of the experiment. Do we need physical Christmas cards any more? Let me know.

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
- Susan Cooper (The Shortest Day)

It is a sunny day last August, and I am out of breath. It is like I remembered it – exhausting in an exhilarating way. I doggedly place one foot in front of the other and concentrate on filling my lungs deeply. Geoff is far in front of me. He has always been my Sherpa on our mountain hikes – though sometimes I feel like his Islamic wife the way I trail him. Nevertheless I am the birthday girl and it is my wish that I make it up this mountain. The world looks much simpler up here. One can break it down into basic necessities – being warm and dry, having air to breathe, food to eat and water to drink, the strength and health to ascend and descend. And Geoff and I make it even simpler. We leave the kids at home so we can hear the quiet. It has been over ten years and three children that I set out on such a physically challenging mission, and I am relieved that I can still handle it. I am forty years old on this August day – 2010 – and I celebrate by absorbing the infinite views on top of Mt. Bierstadt at 14,060 feet.

This year has been a turning point for me – on top of having a significantly middle aged birthday. I have always felt it takes a person two years to recover from childbirth and begin to regain strength and independent ambition. And now I have gone over three years! After Christmas and tax season last year I began to wonder what I should do with the rest of my life. Okay – I am still wondering, but I’ve put the feelers out in search of direction. I listed some custom paper dolls on Etsy (http://www.etsy.com/shop/macraft), and then started a blog (http://dandelionchain.blogspot.com/) to coincide with the shop. Turns out I like blogging a whole lot better. But unfortunately neither turns out to be much of a moneymaker. I still try to keep the blog going – it’s addicting! - but it has slowed to a trickle. Which is really too bad, because I have so much to SAY! I also started building on my bookkeeping experience from our business by doing work for some friends, which has grown into referrals. This seems to be a more practical way of contributing to the family pot, and I love that it’s concrete. I continue to expand my garden, but have reached my maximum in terms of personal environmental effort – I’m beginning to think maybe I should make life easier and buy more prepackaged food. If only it tasted as good. Mainly I am still a full-time Mom and life support for our business.

It has been a hard year for our small little metal work business. Geoff struggles on valiantly, but we are in construction after all, and suddenly people don’t want to buy $25,000 driveway gates quite so readily! We are lucky in that we have received a lot of support from friends, family, customers, and vendors, all who wish Geoff to experience success in his endeavors. It continues to be a struggle, and I was hoping Geoff might consider becoming a bus driver. We shall see.

Marek is in third grade this year. He is eight going on fifteen. I sure hope he is going through adolescence early, otherwise we might have some trouble in the years ahead. The other day he asked me what teenagers like to do. I answered, “They are all different. They all like to do different things.” And then I asked him, “What do eight-year-old boys like to do?” He answered, “Almost all of us are interested in battle.” I don’t know if this is true, but our household is filled with new interests that I never envisioned like bow and arrows, wrestling, tree climbing, pocketknives, and swordsmanship. With all this fierce energy simmering around me in our small house, I frequently command Marek to take a run around the block (“And take the dog with you!”) After I told him boxers jump rope, he started a callisthenic regimen. He also has been pursuing karate with rigor. I wish I could say he pursued his math and reading with such enthusiasm… Marek is awesome at building and drawing, and it is his greatest wish that he could help his Dad work “for real” in the shop.

Oscar started kindergarten this fall. How wonderful for me to escort a child of mine to the first day of school with a smile on both of our faces – the first in line at the door! He has met a great group of boys and is really having fun reading, writing, rhyming, and counting. Sometimes he tells me about the “trouble makers” at school. I’m not sure what this means in kindergarten, but I am glad not to find out! Marek and Oscar walk home alone from school together every day now, and I love living within the community and allowing them to experience this independence. Oscar has become one of those boys who delight in making an array of strange vocal noises ranging from spits and clacks to dolphin-like chirps. He still loves Legos and Star Wars, though he is shaped by Marek’s warmongering ways. Oscar is also quite an artist. He plays soccer and is learning to swim.

Matilda just turned three. She is a feisty girl having fought ninjas and Darth Vader for most of her conscious life. She will not allow me to dress her in clothes that she considers “too pretty.” Tildy is an organizer. Today I turned around and she was handing me dishes to put away from the clean dishwasher. Evidentially this task could not wait another instant. She likes to collect things in little Baggies and stash them in her room – her backpack is a treasure trove of missing household items. Tildy started swim lessons this fall, mainly so her mother could experience sitting by the pool by herself, but she LOVES taking part in the group and is already talking about going to kindergarten. Tildy loves reading and letters, riding her bike and playing with her friends.

“When can we go to Christmas?” Tildy’s question shapes my view of the holidays this year. It is a destination to arrive at – a world of warmth and wonder and abundance and joy. I am so in anticipation of this journey!

We hope your journey to Christmas, this year, and in life is filled with good things also.

Christa for the Newtons

December 2010

Sock Trauma

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!"

This is the refrain of Oscar as we trudge up the hill on the way to swim lessons at the rec center.

Is it the hill bringing him down?

No.

The trudging?

No.

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!

Is it the socks?

Yes! How did you guess?

Apparently Oscar is being tortured by his socks. I made him wear socks since it is only about 35 degrees out, and they are evil, badly fitting socks that refuse to stay up where he wants.

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!"

I can't stand it either. Oscar's whining/complaining is almost more than I can bear. With three kids, sometimes I feel like someone is constantly whining or complaining or crying around me. Especially when we are tired. Like today. I would like to turn around and explode, but I suck it up, and try for the ignore approach.

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!"

What is amazing to me is our capacity as humans to stand - anything. In instances like sock trauma with my kids, an image of the WWII concentration camp survivors comes to my mind. A photo is burned in my mind of a bunch of starving, skeletal men in beards peering out of bunk beds. How did they stand it? How did they keep going day after day with no clothes, little food, rampant disease, working literally to death, living in the midst of insanity?

How did they stand it? What else could they done? What choice did they really have?

Life hands us things that we must stand. Like sock trauma and whining and concentration camps. With each delivery of my children, there was always a point pushing my kids out, when I felt like I could not endure another second. With Tildy I specifically remember bouncing up and down in bed with her head lodged halfway out in the middle of the burn, "Get out! Stop hurting me! You are ripping me in two!" The nurses were there immediately to make sure that stand it I would - before I gave my daughter brain damage.

I stood it.

Luckily for us, most of the time we are not caught in life's choices midway through child delivery. Life usually presents choices. We do not have to stand most of what we do not want to stand.

I mowed lawns for several summers in college. This was the best job even if it did contribute to the weathered appearance of me today. To walk around getting exercise all day, breathing in freshly cut grass, dreaming my thoughts in my head while listening on my Walkman to Sinead O'Connor - and to be paid for this temporary bliss!

But there was one thorn in my side. I believe her name was Lynn. She was a co-worker. A complaining co-worker. After each lawn section was completed we would load up our mowers and ourselves into a trailer and drive to another section to begin anew. This was a chance for us to take a break and socialize. But for Lynn it was a chance to compare notes on everything bad about this job.

Lynn wasn't my child. I didn't have to stand it. So one day I did explode. "Stop your whining! If you don't like this job, go find another one! I love this job, and you are ruining it for me!"

Amazingly enough, she listened. I no longer had to stand Lynn. And she no longer had to stand mowing lawns. I think she got a job in the library. Probably she had to be quiet there.

"I can't stand it! "I can't stand it! "I can't stand it!"

I am still sucking, sucking, sucking it up. I am ignoring, ignoring, ignoring.

And finally I am rewarded for my patience.

Joyful quiet.

THINGS TO DO: Make A Tree of Thanks

Several years ago when the holidays approached, I obsessed about the lack of tradition in my children's lives. We don't have the cornerstones of religion or a humongous family to draw upon in celebrating the holidays. Since I didn't want my children to believe the holidays were all about consumption - of turkey and shopping malls - I consciously stepped in and created some traditions.

Out of this pondering, thankfully, a few man made traditions stuck. One was the Tree of Thanks.

Each Thanksgiving we gather up branches from our backyard, and assemble them in a bouquet. We decorate the branches with pine cones, and then cut out paper leaves to hang on the tree. We each write what we are thankful for on leaves as thoughts occur to us, and hang our leaves on the branches. On Thanksgiving we read through all our plenitudes of thanks.

The results make a great centerpiece to our home. It is so large compared to our square footage, that it tends to grab people as they walk by making sure that one is recording thanks. Due to this feature, Geoff is especially thankful when we can take it down.

Happy Thanksgiving! Let's play some BINGO!

An Investment in the Future

"For sale! Hand-crafted wood! For free! Made by kids!"

It's quite the marketing jingle, isn't it? It makes a mother proud, to hear such banter coming from the mouths of her babes. I had suggested to my kids that they make a sign rather than accost each confused passerby, but I do have to admire their efforts. They are chanting together as a group and have managed to "sell" one or two of their glued together wooden sculptures to cooperative strangers wandering by our front yard.

Their voices are loud enough to attract the attention of a neighbor across the road and down the block. I watch as the mom with daughter and dog walk down the alley to join us at our roadside stand.

It's the typical get-to-know-you conversation. I try to be welcoming and chatty. (I know - this is a stretch for me...) And not comment on the rudeness of her dog who is tramping through my long ago harvested strawberry plants, but gross! Isn't this like letting your dog wander through someones empty refrigerator? And I find that I am interested in this women, because she is different from most people that I encounter in my daily life living on the fringe of middle America.

She is poor.

I judge this in a split second by her clothes, carriage, energy, demeanor, and the home she has just exited.

I wonder of her story before she wandered onto my porch.

Is she really a Harvard graduate that pursued too many diplomas at the expense of a career? Is she looking to cause a lawsuit like the freak that wandered into my cousin's rummage sale years ago, tripped over her sidewalk, and sued her? Or is she simply what she appears - a just-moved-to-the-neighborhood, down-on-her-luck woman looking for companionship?

We supposedly live in a classless society. But as my economic class has dwindled, I find that classes most certainly do exist, and the definition of poor, white trash has become more important to me.

Does poor, white trash exist, and what qualifies one for this honor?

When I think of the cliche "poor, white trash" I think of a tired, mean, straggly-haired woman with too many children to feed, supported by an alcoholic husband who is seldom home. She spends her time hanging gray clothes out to dry on the broken car in her yard. She yells a lot using poor grammar, watches a lot of TV and could loose a few pounds without missing them. Her dog barks at everything and her hobby is smoking cigarettes. She feel trapped in her bathrobe, and in life.

I must admit, sometimes I wonder if I'm toeing the line. Those are the days when I use the vintage postal jeep perpetually parked in our yard as a hose holder, and yell at the kids for - nothing much - just because I am tired, and serve hot dogs and beans for dinner, and there are toys scattered all over the backyard, and Geoff is working late again, so I am alone trapped in my bathrobe, and in life.

I tend to compare myself in life with my Mom. At forty years of age she had a great job and career, had just built a new house, had a daughter (me) in college and she was just about to become a grandmother. She started her family when she was twenty.

If I really want to be accurate in my comparison, I need to look at my Mom when she had a three-year-old child to raise. She was home with her kids, babysitting to help pay the bills. Our vacations were by car, my bike was a recycled work of art, and neither she nor my Dad had yet to get a college degree (though they both would a few years later). Their lifestyle was not so different from mine today. But my life is proceeding in a non-linear fashion. It has not been building economically for a while. It has taken a detour while I invest in the future of my children.

I wonder now more about other people and their economic state. The collapse of our economy has blown open the lives of many people as foreclosure and unemployment become more common. I think about how I lived ten years ago versus how I live now - the luxuries I took for granted as necessities and the peace of mind of a steady paycheck. The age old question: How can a few people on this planet live so well while some are literally dying for lack of food and medicine?

Ten years ago I went to a J. Crew outlet with my cousin visiting from the Czech Republic. I spent about $100 on new clothes for the season - clothes I considered a bargain and a necessity. My cousin cried on the way home because it wasn't in her budget to purchase any new clothes. Her boyfriend wisely thought their money should be invested in an English dictionary. I think I felt so bad about the situation that I gave her one of my old sweaters when we got home, and I think this actually made her feel better.

But the inequity of it all that was so apparent to my cousin at the time, barely glanced off me. Now when I go out to dinner, it is infrequent enough that I am astounded by the portion sizes and the casualness of the waste. And new clothes? Let's just say they are few and far between.

There is a mom at my son's school who - if rumor is correct - is a welfare mom. Her husband died of a drug overdose two years ago, and she lives in public housing raising her three children on food stamps and hand outs. Back before I was a mother, I had a lot of contempt for welfare moms. But there are several things interesting to me about this mom. I think she does a great job masking her lifestyle - she has a cell phone and a family dog, and does not look hungry. And when I place myself in her shoes, I find she has made a choice. She is choosing to stay home and raise her kids rather than find a job as a single Mom and place her children in child care. I see this mom and her kids at all the community events: the school's Bike Rodeo, Back To School Night, soccer games, etc. She is there for her kids. When I think about it, I would probably do the same in her position, because this is how the cycle is broken.

Poor, white trash.

It is the absence of education. It is the absence of power over destiny. It is the absence of hope.

A few weeks later I see my neighbor again. She is clearly on her way to pick her daughter up from school. She has a new purchase; one of those fancy bikes that sit low to the ground. She is towing behind her bike another bike for her daughter to ride home. I laugh at her cleverness and applaud her taking a step forward in terms of environment, exercise, and example. I look at her and I see hope.

We have a class system here in the U.S., but we also can choose to move within it.

I pick up the toys scattered all over the backyard, bake some bread, change out of my sweat pants, and I feel better. I believe that wherever I am at, it is going to get better, because I will make it better.

Epitaph to A Squirrel

Tildy and I are walking in the door with an armload. It is noon, and we have just come from the library. I let Daisy, our beloved and decrepit, ancient dog out, as we walk in. I empty my arms, and then I turn to walk back out to get another load.

And in this split second somehow a squirrel has appeared who is struggling desperately to get out of Daisy's mouth.

Instinct kicks in. I run over to Daisy wringing my hands and yelling, "No, no Daisy, what have you done!" practically flinging myself prostrate kicking and crying in grief on the ground. But since Daisy is deaf - and a dog - she looks at me puzzled-like. And then politely drops her plaything and steps away so I can share.

I am left with - not a dead squirrel as I expect - but a very frightened and scared and broken squirrel. He is breathing quickly and when I come close, he gathers strength and pulls himself away from me. And then I notice his friend up in the tree. So I figure I will let the thing die in peace - last moments and all that. I gather up Tildy and Daisy and retreat inside.

A half hour later, Tildy is asleep, but that darn squirrel is not. He has dragged himself onto our back porch, and is still crying and chatting with his friend.

What would you do?

Obviously the logical thing to do is to put the creature out of his misery. Could you kill an injured squirrel with your bare hands?

This is not a question I expect to be faced with - well, ever.

I briefly consider plunging the squirrel in a bucket of water and drowning him, but realize in a micro second that this is a no-can-do for me. Create a Dead Thing? Never.

So I contact everyone I can think of to help. The Internet is a wonderful thing.

I call my husband, who mocks me: "Just pick the thing up and wring its neck! Or let Daisy back out." I guess he is in a busy, highly efficient sort of mood. Geoff isn't thinking of the squirrel germs on poor Daisy. Or me.

I call a woman who supposedly conducts squirrel rescues. She hangs up on me when she hears I do not have a car to load the creature into for delivery.

I call the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keenesburg, Colorado. They save lions and bears, why not a squirrel? And the woman who answers is very understanding: "The best thing to do would be to help it along, but I couldn't do it. The line between a squirrel and a rabbit is so fine, and then the line between a rabbit and a cat... I would be holding it in my lap while it died."

I search around the neighborhood for someone with a killing instinct who might owe me a BIG favor. The closest I get is the guy across the street, who doesn't owe me squat: "I don't have a BB gun. Have you tried calling Animal Control? Why don't you call Animal Control first, and if they don't help you, I'll come over with a shovel."

Meanwhile, the squirrel has managed to scramble all the way across the porch and into the flower bed, and two hours have gone by!

I call Animal Control. The woman on the phone is very patient with my squirrel story, but clearly thinks I'm insane: "We usually say 'Let nature take its course' for this sort of thing, but I'll ask dispatch to give you a call and see what they say."

At this point, it no longer matters. I am out of time. It is time to pick up the kids from school, and with the plans of the day, we won't be home again until after seven o'clock that night.

I say my goodbyes to the squirrel. The flower bed is a cozy, sheltered spot for a squirrel's final moments. Please forgive me for your pain.

At 7:15pm the kids and I come home after soccer practice. We pause on the way in to check the flower bed. It is dark and cold and creepy. The air now has that Halloween feel to it with leaves blowing and rattling. We thoroughly check the flower bed. And check again. There is no dead squirrel in the flower bed.

After tucking Oscar and Tildy into bed, it is 8:00pm. Marek and I take a flashlight and explore the yard hoping to find a carcass. Nothing. Nowhere. Even Daisy on the leash can't sniff it out. But I think I hear something in the bushes.

At 9:00pm, everyone is asleep and I am alone with Daisy on the leash. We head outside again for one last look. As we open the back door and step down the stairs, a squirrel scampers away from us. It stops and looks and scampers some more. It kind of looks like a drunk when it scampers. It has the wobbly look of a biped, rather than the smooth lope of a squirrel. And it doesn't go up a tree like it is supposed to. This is the supposed-to-be-dead squirrel. It is now scampering. I feel chills. It is Stephen King's Pet Sematary come to life. I backtrack quickly into the house and lock the back door. Any squirrel with powers over death like this one, probably can turn door knobs.

It is time for action. I call Geoff again. I told you he worked late hours.

"If I come home early to kill this squirrel, I am going to KILL this squirrel!"

But he appears with his shining armor glinting in the moonlight.

We tiptoe outside together. I shine my flashlight all over the yard peering under bushes and in flower beds. Nothing. And then I spot it. And it is dead! I can't believe after all this, the squirrel dies right after I break down and ask Geoff to come home.

Geoff blows this theory away when he scoops up the squirrel with his shovel. "This squirrel is stiff. It's been dead for a while."

How can this be? I know I just saw it scampering an hour before. I run inside and look up "rigor mortise" online. Sure enough, rigor mortise takes three hours to set in. Great. I am now being haunted by the squirrel I couldn't kill.

As I am pondering this one, Geoff comes in. "Well, turns out you did see a different injured squirrel. I let Daisy out and she caught it again. It's over."

Geoff's autopsy report: The Mom died, and the cute little squirrel that Daisy got - twice - after all my efforts - was the baby.

I am befuddled. I feel relief that the crazy squirrel is no longer in my backyard where my children and dog play. But I am annoyed that all my efforts to keep the dog away from the injured squirrel were for naught. I mean, I could have just let Daisy kill the squirrel ten hours earlier and saved everyone, squirrel especially, a lot of pain.

"Let nature take its course."

Marek has another theory. "You know, Mom, how Daisy has been trying her entire life to catch a squirrel? Well, her life is almost over, and now her wish has been granted so she can die in peace."

Rest in peace, Daisy - I guess soon.

Rest in peace, Squirrel.

So - could you kill an injured squirrel with your bare hands?

A Letter For When You Are Sad

Right after my father passed away, I stumbled upon a letter in my baby book. It is a letter written by my Dad the day I was born.

The letter is written to the nurses at the hospital thanking them for the wonderful job they did delivering me (even though he was not allowed in the delivery room as he very much wanted to be!). It is written by his hand in his very personal cursive writing, just on standard yellow notebook paper, but it is in my father's voice - at least the voice of my father at 26 years of age, very excited after the birth of his first child.

For obvious reasons I treasure this letter.

When my first child was born, one of the first things I did after I made sure he was breathing and all that, was sit down next to him, and write him a letter. Since then I have written him and Oscar and Tildy each a letter at least every year.

Mainly these letter are just filled with information about them - developmental milestones, friends, vacations, interests, quotes - but I also try to include my thoughts on life and its issues, questions that might come up after I am gone, and I hope that my love will seep through in between the lines. The letters are written to them as young adults. I have very rarely shared them.

A while ago I wrote my first-born a very non-standard letter on depression. This was in addition to his annual update. I stored this letter away in his baby book just like usual, and figured maybe I would hand it to him in high school. But recently Marek has been going through some tough times, and I felt like it might help. So I pulled it out and read it to him.

And then after I read it, I thought I might as well share it with the world.

TO: MAREK
WITH ALL MY LOVE
FOR WHEN YOU ARE SAD

Dear Marek,
I worry about you sometimes, because you seem so sad and serious. I worry that you are a person that must fight depression. I especially worry, because Dad and I both have experienced this fight. You are one of those people who take life very seriously, as am I. Much too seriously. Most things really don't matter that much. It's better to laugh. It's so easy to say "Lighten up," but so difficult to do. Here are some ideas for when you're down:

1) LOVE - You are so loved. Even if Dad and I are not around, know that somewhere we are loving you unconditionally. We loved you into existence, we've cared for you your whole life. You have love. You are not alone. But I know this is sometimes not enough.

2) SLEEP, EAT, BATHE - Everything looks better on a full stomach after a good night's rest. Care for yourself and you will feel better. Your mind won't function correctly without care. Depression is a disease of the mind, after all - keep the chemicals well balanced.

3) EXERCISE - Everything looks better when you're run (swam, biked, danced, punched) yourself into exhaustion. Getting the blood flowing and your lungs breathing helps restore optimism.

4) STAY CLEAN - Say "No" to substances. Alcohol and drugs might bring a short high, but they will bring you lower in the end. And they are addicting, so you must always get more to feel better - and even more next time.

5) ACT - It doesn't matter what you are doing - get out of your head feeling sorry for yourself and do something. Solve the problem with activity. Problems rarely go away on their own. Keep to your normal schedule and at least try to maintain.

6) SOCIALIZE - I know you aren't a people person - neither am I - but there is nothing worse for depression than sitting home alone dwelling in your mind. You don't have to throw a party - though you can. You don't have to interact one-on-one - though a walk with someone might be just the thing. Just get out in public, see other people and know whatever you're experiencing, you are not the first and you are not alone. Go to the park or the library or movie theater and people watch. Or volunteer for an organization and HELP.

7) ENVIRONMENT - Make sure you are not adding to your sadness with unneeded downers. Are you listening to sad music? Reading a sad book? Watching too much news? Surrounding yourself with negative people? Ruthlessly remove the extra downers. Replace with uplifting materials.

8) NATURE - Reconnect with where we are supposed to be living. Take a walk in the park, go camping, drive in the mountains, work in a garden, go to a plant store. Smell, touch, and feel real energy.

9) ART - Make some or experience some. Write, draw, or sing out your sadness. Absorb yourself in a good book or movie. Escape into the creative.

10) IMPORTANCE - Know that your life, like all life on this planet, interrelates and connects with everything else. Your life has value, meaning, and importance. Even if you don't feel this today, there is no telling what might happen tomorrow and what possibilities you might create. You can help and share your life and love with others. It is so important.

---------
My worst depression was when I was twenty. I had been a ballet major and decided to quit dancing. I went home for the summer and felt like I had nothing left. My passion was gone, and I had no friends in the area. I remember laying around staring at walls finding it even hard to reply to my parents when they asked me a question. After a few weeks of this, my Mom found me a job mowing lawns for Saint Mary's. I was too depressed to care. With this job she gave me life again. I had something to do, a place to go every day where I could interact with my peers, and a job that gave me exercise and connected with nature. I met a lot of friends, and ended up having a lot of fun. By the fall I was back on a path towards modern dance. A new passion and a purpose. Though I have never thanked my Mom for this intervention, I consider this one of my life's defining moments.

I love you!

Mom

Tea With Tildy

It is almost time for our guests to arrive to Tildy's birthday tea party. In my hands is a delicate blue and white doll-sized plate. It is old - given to me by my Grandma from family ancestors - and made of china. It is very breakable. It even feels thin and fragile in my hands. I take extra care washing and drying it before I carefully place it aside with the rest of the tea set.

It is my intention to place this set in the hands of Tildy and her three-year-old friends.

Next I look around for something to serve our "older" guests - the five-to-eight-year-old crowd that will be sitting at another table. I don't want to use the plastic or metal sets that Tildy typically plays with, and there aren't enough pieces for this anyway. So my eyes dart through our kitchen and land on our china cabinet.

Now I'm sure you have one of these also - a china cabinet filled with beautiful sentiment that is hardly ever to never used. Geoff and I have laughed about this, and vowed to someday use the "good china." But we have never dared.

And I still won't dare for this occasion - or will I? What about the silver tea set? Sure it is old and a family heirloom, but it's made of metal. I decide, though a tad tarnished, this is perfect for the occasion and begin washing.

Geoff walks in, and I give him the rundown of where I am at with things.

"So I plan to use the blue and white china for the three-year-old table, and the metal wedding tea set for the big kids."

"You're going to let the kids use our tea set?"

"Sure. It's made of metal. I don't think they can actually hurt it. And in my experience by the time one is old enough to use a breakable tea set, one is too old to want to use a tea set. So I thought I would actually use good dishes. The kids can be warned to be careful."

"Do you know how much value is lost if there is even one ding?"

Shoot. I forgot Geoff is a metalworker and might even have a preference on this matter.

"If you're talking about monetary value lost, it's irrelevant because I would never sell the tea set, so it has no value." I point to the delicate very breakable doll china. "I'm using my Grandma's set."

"Christa, I don't care if you use your family's set. That is yours. And if an item is replaceable, you can do what you want with it, but the silver tea set cannot be replaced. I enjoy admiring it in the cabinet. It is up to you to decide, but I strongly recommend that you leave our tea set out of the party."

Darn. I hate it when he does that - that manipulation by being a nice guy. But the silver tea set did come from Geoff's side of the family, and he does so rarely have an opinion on any household matter. I think through our guest list. Since all of the kids have been playing here since they were infants, they are perfectly at home and don't need to pretend to be shy or polite. And like any group of comfortable kids, they are prone to loudness and energy.

So I take Geoff's advice and begin digging around for another pitcher-like device for the older kids. But I am grumbling. Like should I put a plastic cover on the couch next? But I know I'm being somewhat ridiculous.

After the party, we are cleaning up. I am carrying in the last of the china tea set. Amazingly enough it is all totally intact.

"Well, you got lucky with that one," Geoff comments.

This rubs me the wrong way. Was it luck, or were we all especially sensitive and careful?

"We were careful."

"Oh, come on, Christa. I saw the table almost get completely knocked over."

"Geoff, I feel like every time I use a breakable dish, I am taking a risk. There are dishes I only use on very special occasions, just because I know that statistically in MY hands anything breakable has a very short life."

And this is true. I break most everything in our house. Last week alone I broke several glasses, and an irreplaceable crock pot lid. And until all the tea set pieces are washed and packed away securely into the basement, they are still at risk. After all, it is I who will be cleaning them.

But what are we teaching our kids about possessions through our action or lack of action? There seems to be a fine line between taking care of an item, and overemphasizing its value. Even if something cannot be replaced, the space can usually be filled with something else. Like that crock pot lid. I couldn't buy a new lid. So I bought a new crock pot. It's smaller. Turns out I like it better anyway.

So even if a dish had broken, I am glad my Grandma's china tea set was used. It is my daughter's third birthday party. What greater event than this would be worthy of unpacking the good stuff?