Mac Childs

My wife and I had been married a few years when she had the first occurrence. We had both gone to bed about 11 PM, a little later than normal but neither of us had to get up early the next day so we stayed up and watched one of her favorite shows. I remember it was a particularly good episode of one of those ghost hunting type shows. We turned off the lights, got our little dog situated in between us, and went to sleep. Nothing out of the normal. Looking back, I would say that there was one thing that you might say was unusual, but it had been going on for a few months, so I didn’t consider it weird at the time. Every night around 3 AM, our larger dog that slept on a bed on the floor, would wake me up and beg to go outside. She had cancer at the time, so I assumed it was just that she was sick that made her need to go out way more often than normal at night. It was annoying, but as I said, it happened every night, so I never thought anything about it. You could almost set your clock by it each night.

I woke up, breathing and full of life, at 6:55 AM this morning. That’s a thing to be thankful for, I think to myself. But, that’s not the whole story; it’s not the complete picture you need to see. Let me start over. I woke up this morning in a warm bed, beside my wife who loves me. For that, I am grateful. I woke up in a bed, under a roof, in a pretty nice little house, in a pretty nice little neighborhood. I am grateful, but it gets better still. I woke up in a bed, scrunched in between some amazing little pups that love me beyond words, and were happy to remind me with a million little kisses. I woke up and went to the bathroom and the light switches responded, as they should each time by turning the lights on. Yep, the power is still on and I am grateful. I did my business and flushed... running water, check. I moved through my house and marveled at the pictures on the wall of my family and friends... more love to be grateful for. I turned off our alarm system (you guessed it, the cable and internet are still on too) and opened the door to let my pups out to do their business. What an awesome sight was waiting for me on the other side of that door; the sun was just coming up and bathing the entire yard in a kind of half-light. Even still, I could make out a hundred different shades of greens, yellows, and reds. The world outside was alive and happy to show off for me. For a moment, I felt like it was just for me. In a way I guess it was, and I am grateful. As I watched this masterpiece unfold, I was greeted by the squirrels in the trees and the birds in the sky, and I am grateful.

I’ve had some amazing Holidays over the years. Even the less spectacular years were still pretty good, at least in the end. It’s not easy though. It starts out great with your favorite carols playing, some early gift buying, then things take a sharp left turn down Crazy Avenue with week after week of nothing but carols playing in every place you go. Add in the steady build of frustration that comes with the crowds, the parking, and the ever-approaching shopping deadline and it can wear down even the hap-hap-happiest among us. It can turn even the sweetest of little, old ladies into nightmares that would scare the pants off Freddy Kruger if their shopping experience isn’t up to snuff. I worked in retail for a long time, those crazy shoppers left a nasty mark on my view of the Holidays. I’ve been out of the retail rat-race for seven years now and the flashbacks are just now starting to fade. Still, once everything was done and I realized that everything turned out OK, I got an enormous sense of well-being and joy at just having survived another one. That’s how it is for me, anyway. It’s best summed up in the final scene from one of my very favorite Christmas movie: National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation starring Chevy Chase. As anybody that has seen the movie (and who hasn’t?) knows, the Holidays are a mess for our boy Clark Griswold. Clark has to deal with the struggles of the season, just like the rest of us... he has shopping to finish, dealing with in-laws that are staying in his home for the duration of the season, a boss who’s a jerk, surprise relatives showing up that nobody was expecting (or wanting), and his tree being burned down by a careless uncle and his cigar. Then, in one final yuletide insult, he doesn’t get the holiday bonus he was depending on. That prompts the inevitable Christmas meltdown... we've all been there. But Clark's boss ends up in a kidnapping and his family ends up being on the receiving end of a SWAT incursion into his home. Still, despite all the chaos and missteps, he keeps his cheer throughout the film and everything manages to work out in the end. In a quiet moment of reflection at the end he says, “I did it.” Those three words basically sum up how I feel when I finally get to wrap it all up on January 1.

When I was a kid, I asked my dad about shaving and why he did it. He said it was something that grownups do and that I’d understood when I got a little older. At nine years of age, it was an answer I got a lot. Still, I was enamored with the idea of being a grownup and wanted to do whatever I could to expedite the process. Besides that, there was just something about shaving that intrigued me. Maybe it was the grating of metal against skin, the sound it made as it scrubbed against his stubble, or the dramatic change that his face underwent…whatever it was, it was cool. So, when my dad shot down my request to shave along with him, I was heartbroken. Too young? No way, man…I was ready to go. So, one day while he was at work I slipped into the bathroom, found his razor, and prepared to take my first step into adulthood. I knew that he used shaving cream, but it was set high up on a shelf and I couldn’t reach it. Who needed it anyway? I took the razor and in one quick, broad stroke I drug it down my cheek. It took off all the fine little hairs I had cultivated throughout my life up to that point along with a big piece of my skin. There was blood everywhere and, judging by the reaction of my older sister, it looked like a scene out of a horror movie. I got patched up, no stitches needed, and waited for my father to get home. I waited stoically for my fate. He had told me I was too young and, even though I never actually asked to see his razor, I was pretty sure it was off limits. When he got home from work, I could hear him and my mom talking about it in the kitchen and it didn’t sound good. I stood bravely at the door of my bedroom expecting the worst. He rounded the corner of the hall and stopped short of where I was standing and just looked at me for a second before saying, “Did it hurt?” I agreed that it had, in fact, hurt. He smiled and said,“Guess you won’t do it again, huh?” I shook my head. “Good…lesson learned, then. Come here, kiddo.” He picked me up and gave me a brief hug, checked out the wound up close, and then set me down. “Come on, tough guy, let’s go eat some dinner.”

980 A.D., Danish held lands, Northern England.

My son got married this weekend. It was the culmination of months and months of stress, some family bickering, and a lot of planning hours that, in the end, didn’t really pan out the way anyone thought it would. That’s not a criticism, it’s just a fact. Weddings, like the marriages that follow, are lot like combat. Planning is critical…you absolutely must have a plan. But all the details fly out the window when the bullets start flying. Helmuth Von Moltke the Elder, a Prussian Chief of Staff before World War II, said it best when he stated,