Jen's column / Santa

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah and Happy New Year, everyone! Hope you're having a fantastic holiday season.

Here's last week's column. I have yet to write next week's... but once it's done, you'll be the first to know. :), Jen

* * *

“Santa isn’t real,” my five-year-old announced at the dinner table on Monday night, his face peppered with tomato sauce from our traditional Christmas Eve spaghetti dinner. “He’s just a fairytale.”

I was not prepared for this. Bergen is my youngest child. My I’m-still-small-enough-to-believe-everything-Mommy-says child. My believer.

I did my best to recover the situation.

“If Santa is a fairytale,” I asked, “who’s bringing your presents tonight?”

“Spies,” said Bergen matter of factly. “Spies sneak into our house and bring us presents. Then they sneak back out.” He looked around the table at us as if the answer were obvious. Hadn’t we all heard the story of the Christmas Spies?

This was something else I wasn’t prepared for. Frankly, it kind of creeped me out. It’s OK for a fat man in a big red suit to squeeze into our house through a chimney hole the width of an orange. It’s OK for his flying reindeer to stand on our roof munching carrots while the sleigh-side GPS lines up the next stop. But spies — undoubtedly dressed in dark clothing with little black beanies on their heads — jimmy-ing our locks and hiding toys in our stockings? Whispering into their high-tech walkie-talkie watches while tiptoeing around our Christmas tree? That’s just weird. Weird and freaky.

I assumed Bergen had his story mixed up, and I was going to turn it back around.

“Do these spies live in the North Pole?” I asked with a mischievous smile. “Do they have pointy ears? Do they like to make toys and sing Christmas carols?”

“No,” said Bergen, looking at me with a fair amount of pity. “They’re not elves. They’re spies.”

Christian, my eight-year-old, stepped in. “Bergen,” he said. “Santa is real. And if you don’t believe in him, you won’t get any presents.”

Christian believes.

But Bergen was undeterred. “Santa is a fairytale,” he implored — willing someone to believe him. “Spies bring us the presents.”

I changed my tactic.

“Who told you this?” I asked, looking for someone to blame. “Did you see it on TV? Did someone at school say this?”

“I didn’t hear it,” he said, grabbing a piece of garlic cheese bread from his plate. “I just know it.” Case closed.

A few hours later, Christian prepared a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa. He held it high, delivering it with pride and anticipation through the wrapping-paper littered living room to its place of honor on the coffee table.

“Do spies like sugar cookies?” I asked Bergen.

“Yah,” he answered. “They’ll eat ‘em.”

I went to bed that night a little sad at the turn of events. I want both of my sons to believe in all the magic of Christmas — of angels and miracles and, yes, of Santa. I want them to have open minds and wild imaginations. I want them to grow up knowing that just maybe, given the right circumstances, the impossible can happen. I want them to believe.
I consoled myself with the thought that at least Bergen had the imagination thing going for him. Still, I fell asleep hoping that Santa would make a return to his Christmas mythology next year.

It turns out I wouldn’t have to wait that long. I woke up the next morning to Christian sitting on the edge of our bed, asking if he could please, PLEASE go get his stocking even though everyone else was asleep.

Bergen, roused from his sleep by our voices, jumped out of bed, ran into the hall and — his face shining like 1,000 Christmas lights — yelled, “Let’s go look in our stockings, Christian! Let’s see if Santa came!”

Jen's Column / Christmas gift

OK, so I didn't post last week's column like I said I would. But that's because it was dulls-ville for anyone not living in Rochester, which would be all of you, right? (It was on ways you can volunteer your time this holiday season...)

To make it up to you, I'm posting this week's column three days earlier! Enjoy. Hope you're all relaxing amidst the chaos of the season! xo, Jen

* * *
Every year, when Christmas rolls around, I tell my husband I don’t want a gift. And I’m not lying. I really am quite content with what I already have. Yet, every year Jay gets me something — and it’s usually perfect.

Last year, however, I got a gift neither of us expected.

It all started last November when our neighbor, Brian, asked if he could store a jewelry armoire at our house. The three-foot-tall, nine-drawered walnut armoire was a Christmas gift for his wife, LaNae. So we put the box in the furthest corner of our storage room and forgot about it.

Fast forward to Christmas Eve. At home for a quiet day, our family was doing typical Christmas-Eve activities: Playing games, wrapping last-minute presents, packing for the next day’s trip “up north.”

I was in the kitchen, assessing the ingredients for our traditional spaghetti-and-garlic-bread Christmas Eve meal, when I remembered the armoire.

“Jay,” I hollered down the stairs, where I’d like to say my husband was hanging the stockings by the chimney with care — but was actually playing a Star Wars Legos videogame with our sons. “Why don’t you pull that armoire out? Brian’s coming by to get it this evening.”

Several minutes later, his answer — “Ah, Jen? You might want to come down here” — sent me flying down the stairs in a mix of apprehension and panic.

And for good reason. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw it: Twenty-five white golf tees were embedded in the cardboard box holding the armoire.

“Who… Did… This?” I stuttered, my hands held over my mouth in disbelief.

My four-year-old smiled proudly. “Look! I made an arrow!” he beamed, pointing at one of the many patterns — including diamonds and smiley faces — engraved dot-to-dot style in the cardboard box.

“No… no… no…” I begged, shaking my head.

“All might not be lost,” Jay interrupted with forced optimism. “There’s got to be Styrofoam in there. Maybe the tees aren’t deep enough to reach the armoire.”

He opened the box: And he was right. Kind of. Twenty-one tees were lodged safely into Styrofoam. But four renegade golf fees were embedded in the walnut — including one broken off in a seam.

Jay and I stared at each other in silence for a full five seconds before shooting frantic looks at the clock and announcing, “We have to get another one!”

I ran to the phone, ripped open the yellow pages and called the mall. Item number in hand, I held my breath while the jewelry manager checked the stock for a replacement.

Nothing. But, she said, there was one armoire left in Red Wing. They closed at 3 p.m. It was 2 o’clock. We could make it.

“We have to go to Red Wing!” I screamed at Jay, who was sitting in the corner looking as green as I felt. “Go! Go! Go!”

He jumped from the chair, bounded up the steps and grabbed his keys, yelling, “Where’s the JC Penney in Red Wing?”
“I don’t know,” I hollered back. “Just go! I’ll call with directions!”

I spent the next hour nauseus — praying we’d have a replacement armoire in our possession before Brian came innocently to the door to retrieve LaNae’s gift.

We did. LaNae got a new — untouched, unscratched, golf tee-less — jewelry armoire for Christmas.
And — Merry Christmas to me — I got the damaged one. The broken tee is still in it.

It's officially Christmas!

There's no turning back now! We decorated our tree this morning. We baked Christmas cookies this afternoon (Bergen's featured a 1 to 2 ratio of cookie to frosting). Jay put icicle lights on the garage. We've even hung our stockings from the mantle. The kids are so excited that they wrapped a dozen little gifts to put under the tree. We don't know what's in them... but I have a sneaking suspicion we'll be opening at least a couple Lego creations in a couple weeks.

The month's going fast. Hope you're enjoying it.

I'll post tomorrow's column... as soon as I write it. (Come to think of it, I should really be working on that now...) xo, Jen

Some feedback...

The Post-Bulletin allows readers to offer feedback on its Web site -- and I had to share two recent comments with you. These were posted about my "war" column, which ran last week. (There's a copy of this column a couple posts down -- under "Jen's Column / War" -- in this blog.)

The column centered on children's reactions to the war in Iraq -- and featured their unedited responses to questions about the war.

OK, so enough back story. Here are the reader comments:

"These are more insightful comments than I've heard in any of the debates."

"Seems like the age limit to be in office should be lowered to 4 and be no higher than 10."

Love it! :), Jen

P.S. This doesn't mean I'm going to be checking reader comments regularly. In fact, I avoid doing so just about more than anything else. Could stem from the first review I ever got, which read, "Yawn...." (Ouch.) But I was curious about what people were writing about this particular column. Thought I might get skewered. Was relieved to see I didn't... online, anyway. :)

Jen's Column / Radio Show

Here's Wednesday's installment. Enjoy! :), Jen

* * *
About five years ago, Bill Nietz was listening to a college radio station while driving in his car. “The DJ was just terrible,” he remembers. “I thought to myself, ‘You know, I could do at least that bad….’”

So Bill and his friend Curt Johnson (who also thought he could do at least that bad) talked to the powers-that-be at RCTC — the owners of radio station KRPR 89.9 — and voila! Meet the hosts of the Bill & Curt Rock Show, proudly playing your classic rock favorites Thursday nights at 10 p.m.

They play a little Styx and Springsteen (Bill’s favorites), a little Kiss and Cheap Trick (Curt’s favorites), and a little of everything else in between. They have theme shows (“Women of Rock,” “UK Rock”) and have even based playlists on episodes of TV program Cold Case.

But the coolest thing they do is allow listeners to create their own shows. This is where I come in.

You know those people who make you listen to songs when you visit their house? The ones who say, “You’ve got to hear this!” — and then make you sit at the kitchen table staring at their stereo for the next 4 minutes? The ones who, when you try to say something about the real reason you came to visit, interrupt with, “Shhh! This is the best part!”?

I am one of those people.

I love music — all kinds. I listen to rock and country, to blues and showtunes. (That’s right, I wrote showtunes.) In the last 20 minutes, in fact, my iPod has shuffled through an eclectic mix of John Lennon, Willie Nelson, the White Stripes and the Bert Kaempfert Orchestra.

And if I love it, I want you to love it. If it makes me sing or cry, I want you to sing or cry. So imagine my excitement — my sheer glee — when Bill invited me to create the playlist for an entire edition of the Bill & Curt Rock Show.

Making hundreds of people sit at my kitchen table and listen to my favorite songs? Sign me up.

I agonized over my list — which songs to add, which to axe. The Bill & Curt Rock Show is, of course, a “rock” show. So that narrowed the field considerably — nixing Alabama, Johnny Cash, and Willie Nelson from the get-go. Gloria Gaynor didn’t even make it to the starting line. Bill and Curt put the kibosh on disco with zealous headshakes at the first mention.

But it still left me with groups like The Kinks, They Might Be Giants, Gear Daddies, and Elliott Smith. (Smith, by the way, is my current obsession. And, yes, I do mean obsession. I’ve found myself, on more than one occasion, watching his performances and interviews on YouTube at 3 a.m. and wondering where the last three hours went.)

With great anguish I’d cut musicians (goodbye Blind Melon, so long Bob Dylan), decide that I finally had my Top 20 — and then, bam! — I’d hear Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” and realize that no mix is ever complete without “Tainted Love.” Obviously.

Want to find out what made my final cut? I’ll give you a hint: One song rhymes with “Rangel is a Penterfold.” But that’s all I’m telling you. Tune in tomorrow night at 10 p.m. to hear the whole set on the Bill and Curt Rock Show on 89.9 FM.

If you’re a music lover who’s interested in putting together your own show, e-mail Bill and Curt at rockshow@charter.net.

And she's done!

We had Wanda's (Jay's mom's) big retirement / 60th birthday last night at Fortune Bay Resort in Tower. Everyone had a great time, and Wanda was reallllly surprised. Really surpised and a little toasted -- she and her six sisters downed a few bottles of champagne in the limo on the way to the party....

The boys thought it was ab fab to run around with minimal parental supervision, draining the punch fountain and playing the balloon game (you know, the game where you keep a balloon in the air at all times, bouncing it between adult conversations, off adult bodies and dangerously close to big white birthday cakes...).

The boys and I stayed at Fortune Bay last night and are heading to the pool this morning. Jay took his mom home last night, but is on his way back today to watch the boys swim -- and deliver a safety pin. (Christian pulled on his swimming trunks about 10 minutes ago... only to have them fall instantly back to his feet. The elastic has given up. Refuses to go on.)

Thanks to everyone who came to the Wanda's party, and to everyone who sent their congratulations. It was a good night. :), Jen