Valentine's Day: All We Need is Love (and Bacon)

As I stumbled around the kitchen this morning, waiting for my coffee to deliver its promised get-up-and-go, I noticed a pyramid on the counter. Centered around a lovely bouquet of irises were (in order of priority), a new jar of Nutella, a pound of bacon, and the latest Tony Bennet CD, "Duets."

My husband so gets me. I'm even more impressed some days that he stays with me.....

Happy Valentine's Day. All we need is love, and bacon.

Snow On Snow On Snow

I can scarcely think of a better way to help a family grieving one more Christmas without their son and brother than a feathery falling of snow.

Christmas Eve was the perfect excuse to grab snowshoes and dog to head for our favorite community trail system, where my spirits are always renewed by the healing breath of nature. We spied a little hawk perched high in a cottonwood tree, chased each other around the stubby spruce trees, and let Bear show us the snow shelter he built last week at outdoor survival daycamp (yes, given many options for vacation fun, he picked winter survival; go figure).

I was content with 14 inches of perfectly perfect snow already on the ground, and our dreams of a white Christmas would have been fulfilled, easily. But when kid is in bed and all the lights are out except for the Christmas tree, and the eggnog is poured, and Midnight Mass is on the radio (I am a sucker for Christmas and Easter High Holy Mass), falling snow pushes me over the edge of sentimentality. And did it ever snow! Way beyond our bedtime of 1 a.m.

Bear woke up this morning to a new sled from Santa and a deep desire to try it out right away. Obviously.

The only other thing that competes with falling snow for a lump in my throat is the sight of a little boy flopping down on his brand new Christmas sled and belly-whopping down the sledding hill lovingly built by his dad.

It almost made up for the other boy we are missing. Almost. But it sure helped.

"A People In Darkness Have Seen a Great Light..."

I'm trying to keep that phrase close to my lips this week. Today is December 21, the shortest of the year and one that sends most Alaskans into a tizzy of excitement; not for the extreme non-length of the actual hours today, but for the additional eight seconds tomorrow. Sometimes that's how we must think, here.

Normally, Winter Solstice passes as a peaceful, snowy interlude with lantern walks, evening ski and snowshoe adventures, and hot cocoa beside a roaring backyard fire. It is the night before The Night To Come, and yet another way those of us who consciously choose to live in the Far North recognize the balance between nature and creature.

This year was something else, again. A month of warming, blowing, absolutely insane weather has played tricks on our usual celebrations. Trails are icy, roads are treacherous, and sledding hills are, shall we say, insanely dangerous (although that doesn't seem to be stopping some people).

In the wake of not one, not two, but three storms of 90 mph magnitude, we were tired. Tired of the creaking house frames, tired of picking up trash and chasing trash cans, tired of the darkness created from not enough snow to create the sparkling wonderland we have come to associate with Winter Solstice.

But the sun came out today. It warmed the earth, made the soggy snow to look something special, and gave me a special gift while I was out running on a local trail this afternoon, waiting for Bear to finish winter survival day camp.

The sun started to go down around 3:15 this afternoon, fingerlings of whispy clouds reaching toward my for my tired body and brain, offering energy, respite. Suddenly, the very bland colors of an Alaskan winter changed from gray and beige to orange and red and yellow.

We simply cannot have one without the other.

Here We Are Again: Four Holidays Later

If I could do math, I'd calculate how many months, weeks, and days it's been since Wolf has spent a holiday at home. I'm not even sure we really know what "home" means to him, anymore.

For all the blessings heaped upon Wolf and our family this past year, we are also sad that he won't be with us again this year, on the last Thanksgiving and Christmas of his "childhood."

Oh, I know he is safe, warm, and loved where he is, and that his surrogate family will do their absolute best to make sure all the boys are treasured and gifted. But Wolf, like so many kids who don't "get" the whole concept of their disability, only wants to know why he is not home. Even after four Christmases away, he does not connect the dots from behavior to privilege to home.

It is not surprising, perhaps, that all the kids experience escalating behaviors around the holidays, which makes it harder for staff to enforce boundaries and families to just ask for a child to be "let off the hook" for the holidays. The irony is painful for the entire family. I'm tired of cutting and pasting together Christmas cards with single images, divided, instead of one, solid, family photo.

Bear told the dentist the other day that Wolf might be coming home for Christmas; interesting, because we have not talked about it at all. Wolf said today in the New Hour of Power that he just doesn't understand why, if he wanted to come home, that we wouldn't "let" him.

If only it were that easy, boys. I'd wish both of you together in a minute.

More From Christmas in Alaska

While Yukon and Bear play Hot Wheels up and down the hallway (I knew replacing carpet with laminate flooring was a good idea), I am finally getting around to organizing my office and uploading photos of our lovely Alaska Family Christmas.

Note the angel playing the bongos, the cammo ski goggles coupled with a cammo robe, cammo watch, and cammo shirt. If the child gets any more we won't be able to find him.

A lovely day full of friendships and fun and family. Slept in late, ate great food, and explored the finer points of making our own ice buckets with only, well, ice. Truly one of the nicest Christmas holidays in a long time. Must be that Peace on (my) Earth thing. A favorite moment was when a flock of Red Poll birds came flying to the bird feeder where we had placed some Christmas goodies. Gorgeous red heads against the blue winter sky. Amazing.

Now if only that oldest son would decide to call....hmmmmm.

Merry Christmas, From Our Alaskan Family

Before we share our photos from a wonderful Christmas Eve and morning, before I tell all the funny and serious tales of yet another joyous holiday, here is a video I want you to watch.

From a remote Alaskan Bush village, a Hallelujah chorus you won't forget.

It's perfect. Absolutely perfect. Merry Christmas.

From the Wolf Den: All is Calm. All is Bright.

I've received quite a lot of questions regarding my last Wolf Den post in which I express a desire for my son to understand the meaning of Christmas in the practical realm of "quality versus quantity".

Really, I can't rationalize to him. I know that. The same brain that prevents Wolf from conceptualizing the idea of Jesus as a real human being but made by God is the brain that also stops short from understanding that giving and getting are different terms for the same holiday. I have struggled with this ever since Wolf first started understanding the boxes under the Christmas tree contained his beloved "stuff".

But here's what I do understand: Christmas contains magic and wonder and joy, even for this child, or rather, especially for this child. I hear on the phone mounting excitement as boxes bearing Wolf's name are delivered to CHYC, and as he outlines Christmas morning for Yukon and I. Special wake-up by staff with Santa hats and candy canes, presents piled up outside doors, hot chocolate in their jammies while the cacophony of 10 boys (all who love stuff) builds and builds until, at last, all the shouting and showing and jumping around winds to a hum of satisfied glee.

Christmas Eve, Wolf will go to bed with anticipation for morning and sleep, undisturbed by nightmares. If I know my son, he will wake early, with joy in his heart and undeniable tranquility in his soul.

He will have peace. He will be happy. And if one single night and one single morning a year of pure childlike contentment brings peace to my child, this must be part of God's plan, thanks to His.

And surely, surely, Wolf, and I, will sleep in heavenly peace.

Peace.

From the Wolf Den: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas. Darn it.

It's the holiday season once again, and once again I, and many other parents like me, are gnashing teeth and wringing hands over one of the most stressful times of year.

Wolf and his cohorts at CHYC love Christmas, as they love birthday, Valentine's Day, and any holiday representing the accumulation of "stuff". Children with Asperger Syndrome love stuff; cheap stuff, expensive stuff, stuff from the vending machines at Wal Mart, doesn't matter, because it's STUFF.

I remember taking Wolf to Minnesota to visit my friend D. one summer. Even at four he had a nose for gift shops and collecting things, and we brought back a few trinkets (I established a rule early on that all things from tourist traps had to fit in my backpack) and a zipper bag full of sticks. Yes, sticks. At least they were cheap.

Now that Wolf is older and the stuff seems to be exponentially more expensive, Christmas and birthdays are something else, indeed. Yukon and I are beginning a new trend for we family here at home of reducing the amount of our own stuff, so Christmas this year is more about experiences than things (as a travel writer, too, I am practicing what I preach on a daily basis to my readers). But explaining this to my stuff-happy 16 year-old is not so simple. He knows the facts about Christmas, sort of cares about the Reason for the Season, but moves on to the loot faster than Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. In this respect, he selfish, but through no fault of his own, and this is something Yukon and I struggle over. Do we try to teach compassion for Baby Jesus and the Star in the East even though we know it is almost futile? Do we hold back to try and keep Wolf involved in our family's intentions of giving more and receiving less? These are tough questions.

Wolf told us on the phone last week that his pile of presents last Christmas took up two chairs in the Common Room. Oh boy. I laid out the "quality as opposed to quantity" spiel and was immediately blown back by the forcefulness of the "WHAT???!!!" over the miles.

To many kids with AS, more is always definitely better, which worries us on many levels. But Therapist B was on the line, too, and heard this outburst of defiance for present-dom, and I believe will be working with all the boys to level out their expectations for Christmas.

Don't even get me started with the fact that Christmas break throws them all off their routines. Argh.

Giving Thanks for....Haircuts?

"I give thanks for this perfect day. Miracle will follow miracle, and wonders will never cease." -Unknown

Yeah, it's crazy, being thankful for haircuts. But if I've learned anything from my AS child and his noticable absence these past 2+ years, it is to catch hold of anything that matters and give thanks for it. no matter how goofy.

It all started with Bear and his non-conformity. He came home from school and declared "I want teenager-long hair". Oh, really, and why is that? "So I can look cool." Ah. So began a month of hair-growing-out-to-look-cool. Except that it didn't look cool. It looked like a stack of straw stuck on top of a six year-old boy's head. Just like his brother's.

Just like his brother.

When we moved to Alaska, I tried and tried to find a haircut place that was close enough and cheap enough for me to justify schlepping a husband and kids to their hallowed chairs. Couldn't find one, and heard friends talking about their own home haircuts using clippers, so I bought myself some and learned the fine art of clipper haircuts. Worked fine for Wolf and Yukon, not so much for Bear, who at the time had toddler hair and a wiggly body. He and I got the Great Clips cut. There's a savings there, I'm sure of it. Two pay, two stay. Worked for me.

With Thanksgiving looming large and my straw-stick-headed son looking scragglier and scragglier by the minute, I took charge on Wednesday and declared Haircut Night for both Yukon and Bear.

I usually get a little sentimental around the holidays where Wolf is concerned, and understandably so, but I wasn't prepared for what happened that night when I sat his little brother up on the old stepladder that serves as our haircutting stool.

As Bear sat, shirt off, old towel wrapped around his neck, waiting sullenly for me to plug in the clippers and get the show on the road, my mind flashed back to another stick-haired, skinny-backed little boy sitting in that very same spot.

I turned the clippers on, listening to their reassuring hum and bent Bear's head down so I could begin, eyes blurring as I looked at a soft little neck with a birthmark at its nape, just like Wolf's, hairline ending in exctly the same spot, the strands feeling similarly fine under my fingertips. In a moment of precious familiarity, I almost forgot which child was sitting before me.

"Miracle will follow miracle, and wonders will never cease."

Even here.

Ending the 'Naughts' Not Without Excitement

 

It was a happy, albeit freezing New Year's Eve in Alaska. We joined some good friends for an evening of king crab, steak, shrimp pasta, and 5 dozen oysters Yukon and I procured from the Kachemak Bay Shellfish Coalition. They packed 'em up and shipped them via the Homer Stage Line just in time to provide a New Year surprise for our friend T., whose dedication to the little beauties rivals that of Yukon's. In the spirit of appropriate half-shell enjoyment, there was much slurping and swilling in our friends' kitchen, and for the first few hours I saw only the reverse side of Yukon as he manned his own oyster table near the sink.

Since our friends happen to live in a woodsy section of south Anchorage, we were also priveleged to participate in some fireworks/explosions this -5 degree night. Since July 4th offers little in the way of darkness, most Alaskans save the big guns for the New Year; and clearly, 2010 started off with a bang for this rowdy crowd.

To facilitate ease of lighting and purportedly to stay warmer, cigars were provided compliments of our host. Yukon, clearly, was in a state of testosterone-fueld bliss.

Pretty good start.

Christmas in the Wolf Den

We finally decided to call Wolf yesterday after an uncharacteristic silence on Christmas day. More intrigued than worried, we wanted to be sure Wolf understood the importance of calling parents on major holidays.

The staff who answered the phone laughed when I told him we had not heard from our son, putting us in a more relaxed state of mind for sure. Especially when we found out why. Apparently the kids were allowed to play Nintendo DS and watch "Terminator: Salvation" Christmas afternoon after opening their gifts, and, as always happens with Wolf when movies are involved, it just "slipped his mind" to call the benefactors who made his Christmas possible.

When pressed for more information on his receivables this Christmas, he responded with "Great! I got lots of clothes." I guess we've reached the place where clothing has greater value than the Bionicles of last year. Fascinating. He does like to pay attention (to a point) to his looks these days, and I guess that's just part of turning 16. I'm just curious to know his perception of "cool".

We head down to CHYC on January 4th. This visit will be full of meetings, plotting, and planning, for the same clock that brought his body to maturity will now be counting down the days to legal adulthood in the eyes of the System, and Yukon and I have much to do.

The photo above is a sampler of Wolf's school Christmas crafts as a small child. I always bring out the kids' art work for display during the holidays, just like my mom did. It seems doubly important, now.

The Little Child Shall Lead Them

I do not often become emotionally involved in Christmas pageants, unless you count 'emotionally unstable' when I am helping herd a bunch of angels, shepherds, and an unwilling Joseph to walk next to an eye-batting Mary. The annual preschool Christmas play last night, however, gave me cause to break out the kleenex and stop shooting half-focused pictures.

Bear's class did a wonderful reinactment of the Christmas story, thanks to the efforts of three very experienced and very patient-but-firm teachers. There were no mishaps, no tantrums, and no reason for tears during the pageant, and Bear performed well under the intense pressure of a hundred or so parents and friends wielding video cameras.

The emotional part came at the very end, when all but one of the children were ushered out of the sanctuary, save for Bear's Girlie, R.

See, R's daddy is a Chaplain in the U.S. Army and is currently deployed to Iraq. He won't be here for Christmas, and won't see his kids or wife until they all meet in February at a classified tropical destination for some much-deserved R&R.

The preschool teacher, who has seen more than her share of deployed parents and left-behind children, helps everyone ease the potential pain of missing dads or moms during the holidays with a little help from 21st century technology.

The church Web-Cam was fired up and pointed directly at the pageant, where R's daddy could see her debut as Mary, and then listen to her say her own personal Christmas wish to him so far, far away in a desert place she neither knows about nor understands.

"Hi Daddy, Merry Christmas and I love you."

Best present ever, don't you think?

Me and the USPS

We have a tenuous relationship, the Postal Service and I, and so does most of Alaska, I'll wager. Due to our location, even 50 years after the statehood celebration, referred to sometimes as "Out of U.S." when it comes to catalogue orders, Alaska and its residents must gird their packaging moxie every December with admirable fortitude.

The holidays seemed so stinking simple when we lived Outside. Shop for the gift, buy the gift, wrap the gift, deliver the gift in person at an annual holiday hoopla. Here, not so much.

Alaskans must, in a very precise, calculated series of steps, must do the following:
Buy the gift, being sure, of course, that it will not melt, break, make noise (mailmen hate noisy toys in their trucks, as I was informed by mine a few years ago after a backhoe kept ordering "Get your hardhat on!" for his entire route. He deserved every minute of this, but I digress...), or become stinky (I am, of course, referring to the ultimate of Alaskan gifts, fish).

We must wrap the gift. Wrapping in cutsey, trendy holiday paper? Not. Brown store wrap, like the kind the pioneers wrapped their Christmas flannel shirts and calico. It has staying power. Bows looking like works of art? Never. They are squished and squashed by the time the arrive at the prescribed destination. String, maybe, this year.

We must wrap the gift again, this time with other gifts, in a box. If I can find one that does not have "Alaskan Amber" or "Jubelale" on it. Hmm. We must find tape, and scissors, and labels to ensure the package meets the criteria set by cranky people who always say "that's not good enough" to me.

Finally, after Alaskans have found the addresses of Everyone Else (that is, people who live other places besides, gasp, Alaska), we go to the Post Office. And we stand there. And stand there. And stand there some more.

I always take Bear in the hope that one day the people at the USPS will be so tired of watching my kid swing from the counter, write on the Priority Mail boxes with the pen that is supposed to be attached to the writing table but is not, and wail "I'm soooooooo tired of this place, Mommmmmyyyyyyy!" that eventually they will move me to the front of the line. Unfortunately, the same cranky people who work at the Post Office also seem to be deaf, so this strategy has not yet proven successful.

This is, however, the price we Far Northerners pay for a truly winter wonderland Christmas at the home base of Santa Claus, hot buttered rums, and many, many parties featuring things like mixed nuts from the Carolinas or a fruit basket from California. Go figure.

I bet it's easier standing in line with a beach outside your window. Then again, maybe not. A moose kept a bunch of people in the Post Office the other day because it was eating a shrub right outside the door. The line got longer, and longer, and longer. We all figured as long as we were there we'd get some more stamps and Flat Rate boxes.

Take that, Postal Party-Poopers. It's freakin' Christmas.

Turkeys, Thanks, and Giving

We had a lovely Thanksgiving Day here in Alaska. Snow fell and brought a winterscape appropriate for the Holiday and upcoming holiday spirit. Invited to our friends' for dinner, Yukon, Bear, and I relished an afternoon/evening with this Air Force family transplanted from Spokane. D. is Yukon's fishing buddy (of the bear/fish-avoidance episode this summer) and was excited to show us the finer points of deep-frying a turkey.

Rubbed with Cajun spices and whatever else is required to make a turkey carcass survive a 40-minute bath in boiling oil, the experience was new for Yukon and much anticipated. Despite a momentary and minor lapse of timing and temperature, the birdy boiler was a success and I swear I will never go back to cooking a turkey the traditional way. We're still gnawing on pieces thoughtfully provided for our continued sustenance.

Hope they don't mind us flying to where ever they are stationed in the coming years.

Hehe.