Can't Stop the Music

     For me, the holiday season has always been about the music.
     I have fond memories of stomping along in the snow, going caroling with the other kids from the neighborhood - back when it was still deemed safe to knock on strangers' doors and sing in their foyers for some cookies (and a few coins they'd put in the coffee can we'd conveniently brought along).

     Every year I'd look forward to going to Christmas Eve services at my Grandma's church, just so we could all sing "Silent Night" together, accompanied by a slightly out-of-tune organ, holding candles with those paper drip shields to protect our hands from the wax that would start to melt with wild abandon around the middle of the second verse.
     But, for sheer awesomeness, nothing beats being in a school holiday concert.
     Sure, I did the elementary school thing.
     We all did.
     Then in middle school we were all forced to choose our life path: band or choir.
     Mine was choir.
     Three years of the ridiculously high-pitched desecration of texts both sacred and secular ensued.
     My middle school choir had one boy who could actually sing.
     And I mean he could sing.
     He had classical training, amazing posture, and the ability to hit the high notes with pristine clarity. After getting a load of him, our choir director did the only thing she could do: make the rest of us his back-up singers. 
     That year we ditched Frosty and did numbers from Ahmal and the Night Visitors instead. It was probably the most culturally-edifying holiday concert our middle school had ever seen. Of course, most of us spent the evening singing "Ahhh...." and "Ohhh...." in hushed voices, so that the tone-deafness that pervaded our ranks would not overshadow il divo. Still, the applause was hearty that year. Yes, it was.
     Our high school choir was headed up by a dictator who demanded absolute allegiance from his minions. We bought fabric from him and were instructed which pattern to buy so all the girls' skirts matched perfectly. There were shoe rules (pumps, black, one-inch heel, no embellishments) and hideous red poly-blend sweaters.
     He was a perfectionist of the first order, and the only reason I'm still alive to type this is that no one would rat me out when I blurted, "Oh, shit!" after coming in a measure too early during a noontime concert at a shopping mall.
     Our holiday program was entirely sacred, much of it in Latin. We'd start practicing for it in early-October. All that lead time was necessary for the non-Catholics in the room to learn a new language, as well as the notes to sing.
     One year he went all Benjamin Britten on us - not a pretty sight. Totally fucked up my ability to spell for half my junior year.
     And when a Norwegian exchange student with a glass-shattering soprano showed up, we all found ourselves singing in her native tongue too. Man, the crowd lapped that one up like dogs.
     Every year, we ended the program with the same song: "Beautiful Savior" (Finally, something in English!).
     The school I teach at has been holding their holiday concerts this week, and I've been thinking about those adults out there in the crowd. Sure, they're all proud of their whipper-snappers up there belting it out, but it does get to be a long night, doesn't it?
     I recently realized that my parents stopped coming to my holiday concerts when I learned how to drive. Yes, once I had a way to get my sensible-pump/fugly-sweatered self to the venue without them, they were outta there. Can't say I blame them, though. I really can't.
     Now I get my holiday groove on singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" with my daughter. As I watch her stand in the middle of the living room, belting it out solo, smiling proudly, and hitting her marks on all the hand gestures that go along with it, two words enter my mind: show choir.
     And it's a fate I am more than willing to accept.
     Until she can drive.

Community Briefs

Our community newspaper is often an unintentional source of humor. It tries so hard to be folksy with its profiles of local valedictorians and stories about the neighbor's dog who's related to Bo Obama, but it usually devolves into petty little rants about who can park their boat trailer where and the correct protocol for displaying the flag.

I quote this week's Community Briefs, a section that highlights upcoming events of interest, verbatim:

Maplewood Mall is hosting the Bakugan Battle Brawlers Ultimate Battle Tour and a Women's and Children's Expo this weekend.

Let the juxtaposition soak in a moment there.

The Expo is throughout the mall. Exhibitors include home-based businesses, child care, OB/Gyn Services, health, beauty, college and career opportunities and more.

The Battle Tour is in the Sears Court. Challenge other players and get tips from experts.

How often do you see the terms Battle Tour and OB/Gyn Services in the same article?!

Do you think a lot of people will attend both?

New Emoticon Discovered

So, what should we name it?

No! No! No!

You thought I was judgmental about Bratz dollz and neckties? Well, brace yourself, 'cause I'm about to go on a bit of a Santa rant.

Back Story: Sometimes I click the "next blog" button at the top of the screen just to see the random assortment of things that are out there in the blogosphere. My favorites are the ones in foreign languages, where I have to figure out who it's by and what's going on without benefit of understanding the words. My least favorites are usually the ones by American women, moms specifically, as they tend to get more cutesy than I can handle. (Yes, I do have a blog about my daughter, and, yes, I appreciate the irony of that last statement.) I stumbled on to one of those blogs that makes me cringe today, and since it pushed a holiday hot button for me, I'm gonna tell you all about it.

Let me walk you through it...

The blog was by a mom of two little girls. Most of the blog was about the mom's rabid pursuit of the perfect scrapbook page and included pictures of her pages in progress and links to the sites of her other crafty-type mom friends.  

Today's entry, though, was a picture of her two daughters, who looked like they were about three and five years old, sitting on the lap of a mall Santa. 

They were both screaming. Full-on, eyes wide in terror, get-me-out-of-here screaming. The mom's comment below the picture was How adorable. No winking emoticon to convey sarcasm in her message. No story of how long they'd waited in line, which one started crying first or explanation as to why. In short, no context. Just a picture of two very unhappy-looking girls sitting on a weirdly-calm mall Santa's lap and the words How adorable.

A couple of her crafty-type mom friends had chimed in with comments, all of which included the words cute and hilarious.

Why do people do this?

I don't even know these girls, but my heart went out to them immediately. Going to meet Santa is supposed to be fun. 

Yes, fun. 

For the kids. 

It's for them, not so that Mom and Dad can get a picture to put in the scrapbook. 

So why do people keep their kids in line or go ahead with the picture if the kid's obviously not having any fun?

Last year, my parents took my then one year-old daughter to the mall, and my dad got in line with her to meet Santa. Another child in front of them started crying and saying, "No!" My daughter looked at Grandpa and shook her head to say, "I don't think I like this." Grandpa listened and said they'd try it again another time. Yes, my dad listened to my daughter and respected her wishes. And that's just the sort of thing I love him for. 

Sure, sometimes kids say, "No!" to stuff (like holding your hand when you're crossing the street) that you just have to insist they follow through with for their own safety. Sometimes I go a few rounds with my daughter about her needing to put on her pj's, wear shoes outside, or wash her hands before dinner. I don't back down because those are instances where she's testing the boundaries of her authority to self-govern, as it were. 

Going to visit Santa is a whole 'nother ball game, though.

You can't force a kid to have fun. 

And it's neither cute nor hilarious when people try to.