Category Archives: Family

Maybe Someday….

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Voiles d’Antibes Summer 2023

The south of France has always called to me, even before I met the Frenchman I married. Fifteen years ago, we spent part of our summer in Antibes, just west of Nice. I went to a French immersion program at the Centre International d’Antibes (highly recommend this place!). We fell in love with the old city, the beautiful and rugged Cap d’Antibes, the light, the weather, the food, the Marché Provencal. We made dear friends who we’ve stayed in touch with.

Last summer, we returned to Antibes for the first time. And I felt… at home. Like I was returning to a place that was an essential part of me that I had somehow, strangely, forgotten.

After a day spent at the beach, wandering through narrow streets, exploring the farmer’s market, enjoying an amazing meal at a tiny local restaurant, and then stumbling upon this festive plaza, I knew I had to come back, and keep coming back, to Antibes.This was the moment I turned to my husband and said, we could live here, you know. Part of the year, for now. I love this place.

When you marry someone from another place, there’s always the possibility that someday, you might relocate. It’s always been in the back of our minds: do we stay here? Where do we belong? Should we? Shouldn’t we? We’ve lived with the understood assumption that when we could, we would spend more time in France. Or maybe move there. Or maybe have a home there and here. We just hadn’t ever, said – let’s do it.

We spent much of our school holidays in France this year. The kids went to the same immersion school I went to. I joined them for a week. We explored Antibes and checked out apartments. The more time we spent there, the more sure we were that Antibes is perfect for us. All of us. I love it. Stéphane loves it. The kids, despite being pulled away from friends during the summer and one of them thinking any place that is hot and doesn’t have snow is basically hell, adore Antibes. The Med, the pizza, and the gelatto were all good selling points.

“Maybe someday….” is the phrase of dreams.

We decided that someday is today.

The view from our apartment terrace

A few months ago, we found an apartment that’s perfect for us. It’s on the “debut du Cap” a short walk to the Med, a short walk to the heart of Antibes, close to bus routes, and – bonus – a short walk to where some friends live.

We love it. And in a few days, we will sign the final paperwork and it will be ours.

I feel so incredibly lucky to be able to do this. I can’t quite process that this is real.

For now, it will be a vacation place for us and we’ll rent it out the rest of the year. (After all, mortgage payments are the reality of dreams like this!) We have work, school, and ties to Colorado.

Still, maybe, someday….

2020, You are Exhausting

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I haven’t written for a long time. I’m working on entries about my language vacation, but I’m going to be honest – the state of affairs in my country has me beat down. A lot of my energy has been poured into activism and taking care of my family.

2020 sucks – I don’t think there’s any other way to look at it.

It especially sucks right now in ‘Murica.

It’s election season in the US, and in Trump’s America, that means we are being inundated with even more lies and propaganda than usual. It’s a scary time to be an American: an uncontrolled pandemic, deepening corrosion of our institutions, daily onslaughts of horrors from the White House, a leader who is showing more and clearer signs of veering towards a dictatorship, and a much-needed reckoning on the deep levels of racism and denial running through the veins of this country.

Like many of you, I have struggled for years over how to deal with the Trump supporters in my life.

This is not about politics.

That bears repeating: This is not about politics. This is not about the role of government, or taxes, or potholes and how to fix them. This is not about differing opinions.

This is about Human Decency. Morality. Ethics. Values. Character.

I’ve taken turns being furious, depressed, disgusted, hopeless, and occasionally hopeful that some of them will come around. At times, I’ve viewed them with empathy – as people who have been conned and brainwashed by Fox, Breitbart, and 45’s propaganda. Trump’s followers are rightly compared to a cult. Logic, reasoning, and an appeal to better the better angels of our nature don’t seem to reach them.

I’ve also felt resentful. Resentful that their careless, chest-beating votes have wreaked so much havoc. Resentful that so often the burden is put on those who would never vote for Trump to put in the work to understand why someone could vote for this horrible man. The number of articles that came out trying to help those of us on the political left to understand why people voted for Trump were numerous. I didn’t see the same avalanche of articles and appeals to Trump voters aimed at understanding the people who didn’t vote for him, or imploring them to reach out to us to mend fences. I just saw a whole lot of gloating over “liberal tears.”

I believe that having hard conversations is important: especially right now about systemic racism. If any of the Trump supporters I know actually wanted to have a good faith discussion about why so many of us could never, ever, ever support him, I’d have it. But that’s not what I’m seeing. Not once, in any of the people I know. They aren’t listening. They’ve surrounded themselves with an impenetrable wall of lies and hate and a sense of victimization.

There’s a statement that’s been circulating widely on many social media platforms, and I’ve seen it and it’s resonated differently with me at different moments. The idea behind it stuck with me and I’ve spent a lot of time pondering what it meant to me in my life:

lose friends over morals

As I often do when I’m trying to understand something, I wrote about it. Here’s what I wrote:

I didn’t want to go here.

I have friends and family who don’t agree with me politically. I find that to be valuable: discussions and ideas that challenge our points of view can help us see things from a different perspective, help us figure out what we believe, and even change how we perceive things. It has always bothered me that discussions on issues and politics are so taboo in this country – we should all be talking to each other.  People are complex, and I’ve never wanted to reduce any person to a single moment, a single statement, a single vote, or a single characteristic. I haven’t wanted to contribute to the increasingly divisive nature of our national state of affairs.

I’ve stayed connected, mainly on social media, with some people who have said things I find deeply disturbing or offensive. I kept the connection because I thought I was honoring a relationship and not reducing it to the simplicity of what we see on social media. I also thought it would be good for me to see those different perspectives.

But here’s the thing: I’m not seeing different perspectives. I am seeing a huge difference in values, in morality, in empathy. I’m seeing hate and intolerance and racism and extremism masked as “I just see things differently.” I’m seeing lies and propaganda, parroting of the extreme right and of dubious news sources, including of course #45, masquerading as “research” and “the truth the MSM hides.” I’m seeing gleeful attacks on any ideas that don’t align with one narrow and increasingly extreme point of view. I’ve been told I should just leave the country – as if the vision and hope I and people like me hold for our country are less valid, less American, than those held by the people who believe Trump is doing great things for this country.

I am seeing the worst of the stereotypes reinforced with every post, and when I have real life conversations. I hate that this is the case – I have sincerely strived to understand why people I know and like could support a man as abhorrent as Trump, and support the increasingly extreme policies and politicians put forth by the GOP. I’m seeing ugliness in people I used to like, and I would rather remember those people fondly than to see what they say, and what they believe, today.

You know what else I’m not seeing? Reason. Kindness. Empathy. A sense of community, a belief that every person in this country, this world, is deserving of dignity. It’s often said that good people would never support Trump, and I’ve balked at that. Because people are complicated. Yet… people who choose to support a terrible human being like Trump, to place him in the highest and most influential office in the land, people who choose propaganda, lies, and conspiracy theories over reality, have revealed what is in their hearts. It pains me to see people I thought I knew enthusiastically support this, or excuse this, or rationalize and normalize this. It’s not about politics. It’s about values and basic decency.

I tend to search for, and find, the best in people. So it pains me to realize this truth: When you see what people choose to show of themselves, time and time again, it’s time to start believing that is who they are.

National Gun Violence Awareness Day – a uniquely US tradition

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A brief interlude from my trip down memory lane….

Yes, you read the title correctly. This is a yearly awareness day we have in this country. Gun violence and the United States are synonymous. American exceptionalism. Only I don’t think this is what we envisioned with that phrase.

It was inevitable. Me, being an activist. I’m following in the great American (and French) tradition of standing up and speaking out.

I recently became a co-lead for my local Moms Demand Action group. We advocate for common sense gun laws and work to increase awareness of the epidemic of gun violence in the United States. For my readers who don’t know about us: no, we aren’t trying to steal your guns. Yes, many Moms are responsible gun owners. And no, it’s not “extreme” or “unpopular” to recognize that universal background checks and mandatory waiting periods would make a difference.

We had to work hard to convince our city to allow a display recognizing victims and survivors of gun violence for this weekend, also known as Wear Orange. In the end, our city council and mayor voted to allow us to display 100 pinwheels to represent the 100 people who die daily in the U.S. of gun violence.

Yes. One hundred. Every day. A rate 25 times that of our peer countries. A number that is growing.

With some help from my family, I set up our group’s display today. Here’s what I wrote about the experience.

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One Hundred Pinwheels

For National Gun Violence Awareness Weekend, our group decided on a display: one hundred pinwheels plus a sign to explain them, placed outside the Lafayette, CO library.

The sign went in easily: its sharp metal spikes digging into the lawn, as strong as the facts it displayed: 100 American lives are lost every day due to gun violence. Firearms are the second leading cause of death for American children and teens. Access to a gun increases the likelihood of death by suicide threefold.

Would people read the sign? Would it reach them? Penetrate the numbness so many of us have developed to the horrors of gun violence in this country?

I went to place the first pinwheel in the ground and it broke apart. So fragile. I stared at the fragmented remains: our display wasn’t going to work. We had one hundred pinwheels and we couldn’t secure them in place.

My dad retrieved the lug nut wrench from my car and used it to drive a hole into the ground, then we followed the shaft of the wrench to place the pinwheel into the newly-made hole. Each pinwheel placement was an effort, shoving a tool not meant for this job into the ground. I glanced at the bin stuffed full of pinwheels. This was going to take forever. I didn’t have time for this; I had a full day of things to do and I needed this to go smoothly.

Body weight on the wrench. Grab a pinwheel, put it in the soil. Repeat.

My kids, eight and seven years old, eyed the box.

“There are so many more,” my daughter said.

“I know. This is taking way longer than I thought it would,” I answered.

And then I realized. I realized what I’d been trying not to think about as I set up this display with my children and my father. Each one of those pinwheels represents a person. A human being. A hole dug into the earth. A life lost, placed into that hole. These pinwheels deserved more than a jab into the ground with a blunt tool and a quick, mindless placement by a mom wanting to get on with her day.

I grew more deliberate as I placed each pinwheel. Each time, thinking: this pinwheel represents a life that will be lost today. And a life that will be lost tomorrow. And then again the next day. Every pinwheel, a life lost, on repeat.

As we finished, rays of sunlight began to shine over the library and onto the display, bathing it in an ethereal early morning light. My kids ran off to play on the grass nearby, unaware of what the display they’d just helped set up really meant. I was happy for their innocence. One hundred lives, lost yesterday. And today. And tomorrow.

We must change. We must do better.

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My Husband is an Immigrant

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My husband is an immigrant.

He went to one of the best high schools in Paris, and then one of the best preparatory schools. He graduated from the top university in France (Ecole Polytechnique) for math, science, and engineering. He came to the US first as a visiting scholar, and then was invited to return for graduate school. Soon, Hewlett Packard snatched him up. That great brain of his helped create some of the first all-in-one printers and some of the first digital cameras. Now, he works for Google.

He came to the US because of the unique opportunities our country offered. Like many immigrants, he stayed because he felt welcomed, challenged, and knew he could have a career here that would surpass what was available to him in France at the time. So here he stayed, collaborating with other immigrants, working alongside American-born engineers.

Would he have followed the same path today? Would our technology industry, strong as it is, be attractive enough to great minds like my husband’s despite the current administrations’ policies and attitudes toward immigrants?

A dear friend who is also married to a French man said to me recently, “Carol, we’re one Freedom Fries incident away from our husbands being the next ‘bad hombres.’” (Mauvais mecs, if you want the French version.)

Remember Freedom Fries? After 9/11? Because I do. I remember the subtle and not so subtle comments and jabs I received about being married to one of “those French guys.” The traitors who didn’t support Bush’s Iraq invasion. The ones who should be thanking us for eternity because they aren’t speaking German right now. The ones who should be rubber-stamping all US policy, not daring to stand against us citing something like principles.

While I don’t purport to sit here in my privileged life and compare rude insults made to my husband and me during those years to the instability and terror immigrants and refugees face now, to the families being threatened and torn apart by the travel ban and ICE knocking on their doors, I will say that I got a glimpse of being the vilified “other”, and while I recognize that for us it was mild, it was still, well, awful. And it was hard not to be scared.

My husband’s father was born in Tunisia, where the overwhelming majority of the population identifies as Muslim. We wondered, during the Freedom Fries years, if we were one terrorist attack away from my husband’s nationality and his father’s birthplace marking him as a threat to the USA. We wonder, now, how many of our enemies are emboldened by #45’s recklessness. How many more of our allies he will offend. How that will play out for us, here, foreign and domestically born.

How far will this vilification of otherness go? What level of inhumane, undignified treatment will we accept as a country? How long will so many dehumanize those who are deemed not “one of us,” not deserving of “belonging”?

Like it or not, immigrants are the reason our tech industry has led the world. Many of our engineers, many of our greatest minds, came from countries now banned. Steve Jobs, founder of Apple; his parents fled Syria. Sergey Brin, co-founder of Google, is a Russian refugee. Immigrants founded a disproportionately high number of companies in this country.

My life with my immigrant husband and our two children is filled with more love, joy, and adventure than I ever imagined I would experience. That, and French fries. He isn’t the “other.” A nameless, faceless, maligned immigrant who shouldn’t be here. He’s a human being, a husband, a father, a hard worker, a brilliant mind, and a now a US citizen who still holds hope for the country he grew to love when he first came here more than 20 years ago. Despite it all. I hope this country doesn’t let us down.

My husband was featured in an article in our local paper. You can read that here:

http://www.dailycamera.com/boulder-business/ci_30823391/boulder-countys-foreign-born-tech-workers-cast-wary

 

Are you still teaching your kids French?

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I suppose the fact that I get asked this question is telling. The short answer is yes, we are. The longer answer is that, well, we’re trying, it’s a lot harder than we thought, but here’s an update:

A lot of the teaching falls on my husband, which is a heavy load to carry. He’s the fluent, native speaker of the house. He continues to speak to them mostly in French. But sometimes he slips. It’s hard for him, and as much as I jump on him when he resorts to English, I get it. He speaks English all day, he lives in English, so making the transition to French with them isn’t easy. The kids tend to answer him in English, and he’s not consistent about rephrasing what they’ve said in French for them to practice, which is a strategy we’ve found to be pretty effective. I get it – it stops the flow of the conversation, it feels like a battle. I’m on the sidelines either jumping in and doing the rephrasing for him which feels helicopter-y, or just letting the kids avoid French, which doesn’t feel good either.

When the kids were home with me more, I tended to do certain things in French: grocery shopping was a French activity. We tried to do some meals in French. I would often read French books or play games with them in French. But it’s gotten more complicated now that our daughter is in first grade – she’s gone 7 and 1/2 hours a day. That’s a long day for a 6-year-old. So when she comes home, she’s not exactly enthused by my, “Let’s play a game in French!” suggestions. Or, if I simply speak to her in French, she gives me a look that I know well – it’s my very own “are you kidding me right now?” look.

My son, the four-year-old, is even more resistant. My attempts with him are met with a wailing: “Awww, not in French!”

In homes where the stay-at-home parent, or the parent who spends more time with the children, speaks the minority language (the language not spoken in the community) the kids make better progress. I know this. But it’s a leap I haven’t made, and don’t necessarily want to. I’ve written before about how I feel like I am a different person in French, not 100% me, and with my kids being authentically and comfortably me is more important than perfection in French. Being a parent presents enough challenges without saddling myself with more. That said, I do still incorporate French when I can, and I still think it’s an important part of what I want to give to our kids.

What we are seeing is passive French speakers; they understand most everything, but their spoken French lags far behind.

However, all is not lost. When we traveled this summer to France, our kids had to speak in French. If they wanted to communicate with their cousins, aunt, uncle, and grandparents, they had to do it. And they did. Especially my 6-year-old, who had a year at a French preschool to help her knowledge and confidence. They came away having improved their French, and since then they’ve resisted less. They seem to be approaching an age where they get it – they see that French has a purpose rather than being one more thing Mommy and Papa make them do.

We were also able to enroll our daughter in a one week French summer camp here in Boulder, and it was fabulous. She LOVED her teacher and came home every day excited about speaking French, about what she had learned and even wanting to teach her brother:

 

I still teach French at my son’s preschool, and he’s finally getting into it. Up until this year, he chose to play outside rather than come to one of Mom’s French classes. But now he, along with a dozen or so regulars, come faithfully each week. These kids love it – it is so fun to see their enthusiasm! Every day when I pick up my son, a few little faces turn up to me, small hands grab my own, and they eagerly ask, “Are you doing French today?” Most of them can now say a few words in French, and some of them can sing entire songs.

While in France this last summer, my daughter found some of her cousin’s old comic books and fell in love. Her favorite: Picsou (Scrooge McDuck). While she can’t yet read them herself, we kept catching her “reading” to her little brother. So we brought one home, and her Mimi and Papy bought her a subscription for her birthday. She has gone from never wanting to read in French to wanting to read Picsou with Papa most nights.

dsc05547picsou

My son is enjoying teaching his classmates how to count and say “Bonjour” with the right accent. And just this weekend, we were with a group of kids that were asked if they spoke any languages other than English. My kids proudly shot up their hands and said they spoke French.

So while our progress isn’t perfect, and it doesn’t resemble my imagined utopian bilingual home where fluency is achieved in all areas of both languages and our kids are happy and compliant with it all (how delusional was I pre-kiddos!), we are still making progress. Objectives have changed. I now want them to enjoy French, to have enough of a base that they can continue to pursue it with a leg up from where they would have been if we were a monolingual household, and I want them to learn about and embrace their bicultural heritage. I’m going to call us successful thus far, and still working at it.

Paris, je t’aime

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Last summer, we bravely traveled with our 4-year-old and 3-year-old to Iceland and then France. Drumroll … it was fantastic. They proved to be amazing little travelers: movies and a steady stream of snacks, toys, and duct tape (okay, kidding on the last one) kept them, and us, happy on the plane, jet lag didn’t last long, and they met different beds, foods, and activities with enthusiasm for the most part!

Hundreds of articles with tips on how to travel with kids exist and are easy to find. We mostly follow the basics and it works great. The nice thing about visiting a place that you’ve visited before, like Paris for us, is that we didn’t have a huge list of things we had to do or see. We hit the streets with no agenda, really, other than to make sure our kids had a positive experience. We cut the list of what we would normally try to see in half, or more, plugged in a fair amount of downtime, and when the kids were interested in something, we stopped and let them check it out without rushing them. Too much.

Yet we still managed to show them many of the major must-see-on-your-first-visit-to-Paris sites.

Here’s one of my favorite pics:

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Captioned: Whoa.

Here’s us at Notre Dame (which is one of those names that I struggle to pronounce in both French and American English… growing up hearing about the Noder Dame – long a – fighting Irish has left a lasting imprint on my brain)

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HERE IS PARIS, BEFORE KIDS:

Us at Chez Lyon; not the Parisian cuisine one salivates for, but a fun tradition we started on our first visit to Paris together (make sure to appreciate my hubby’s sideburns):

600 and of course, moules et frites at Chez Lyon in Paris

PARIS, NOW:

When asked about their favorite parts of Paris, the kids site these posts and the metro:

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What you can’t hear are the whoops of pure joy.

My husband went to high school here. Seriously.

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Rose gardens at the Parc de Bagatelle:

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These two were doing everything they could to attract the attention of the female peacock between the two of them. Like a good French girl, she feigned indifference and sauntered away.

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We only spent a couple days in Paris… as much as I love Paris, with kids it isn’t the easiest place to be. Especially with Colorado kids, accustomed to large open spaces for free-ranging it, and especially for my two kids, who have two volumes: loud and louder. We spent most of our time in our beloved Bretagne …. more photos to come!

New Digs

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It was never my intention to so thoroughly neglect my blog. It just happened: one week, then one month, then months…. I have felt guilty and the need/desire to blog has always been on my mind, but the longer I neglected it, the easier it was to not come back to it.

One of my excuses: We bought a house and did a huge remodel. Yep, we are sinking roots in Louisville, CO! Just outside Boulder, in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, a place with mild(ish) seasons, gorgeous hiking trails and camping places, fantastic schools, and lots of great friends, new and old.

No way I could resist this:

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Or this:

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Louisville is a slice of classic small town Americana charm with a dash of liberal “republic of Boulder” and a good layer of whatever-you-want frosting. Music? Art? Sports? Beer? Parades with dogs and cute kids? A fire station that gives your kids a tour if you pop in to say hi? Summer Street Faires that draw names like the Gin Blossoms and Los Lobos? Free horse and carriage rides around downtown? Fine Dining? Fantastic burger? It’s all right here, in my adopted home town.

I hope to never move again – this is it for me. No more packing, no more boxes, no more house shopping, done. I told my husband: we aren’t leaving here until we’re too old to get up the stairs. His response: “Then we’ll just get one of those electric carts to slide us up and down. We never have to leave!” We love, love, love our new house, and Louisville, and my husband is working for Google and, well, Google is GOOGLE. Best company to work for, hands down.

This, of course, was before we realized that Trump becoming president of the USA wasn’t an impossible joke, but a frighteningly real prospect. That could be such a disaster that a move to the EU would be a real consideration. Seriously, ‘Merica, WTF?

As for the remodel, I became an HGTV junkie and my daughter kept begging to come to the house when they were “breaking stuff” so she could see it. As it goes with remodels, things are never as easy as they initially seem they will be, but long story short: we are in and our house looks fabulous. We even have a guest room, a true guest room, for the first time ever! The theme (a room with a theme!) is, of course, Paris. Here’s a photo:

Paris room

My husband and I have a running joke about how in every American movie with even one scene in Paris, the Parisian apartment or hotel room always, always, always has a view of the Eiffel Tower. We watch for it and see who can be the first to call it out: VOILA, TOUR EIFFEL ! HA HA HA! So here it is: Our room with a view!

One of the pillows has this lovely Audrey Hepburn quote from Sabrina (where, ironically, she has a view not the Tour Eiffel but of Montmarte): “Paris is always a good idea.”

Agreed, Audrey, agreed.

New home, new desk, new year, new plans… more to come. I won’t promise to be fast with my next post, but I will say this: when I’m not writing about A French American Life, I’m living it, and that’s the point of it all anyway, right?

 

 

Solidarité

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Like so many, I am deeply saddened by the events in Paris. I could delve into my thoughts on the politics of the situations we as a changed, evolving world face today, the ideology of how to improve things, my own pessimism regarding our ability to ever bring peace to this kind of fight, or the grief that those who have lost must feel so acutely. Thankfully, none of our loved ones were hurt. To talk of my own grief for a country I love seems self-centered at a time when so many are so personally affected.

So instead, I’ll talk about why I love France. It’s in part the obvious: the beauty – both natural and man made, that exists throughout the country. The fabulous food. But it goes much beyond this. While listening to NPR today, I heard a guest comment that we (Americans) have certain things we admire about other countries. We admire the Germans for the machines they make – their cars. The Swiss for their watches. But when it comes to the French, we love the way they live. We idealize it, bien sûr. We also poke fun at it (another strike? Geez!). Yet it is the French way of life, the joie de vivre, the bon appetit, the je ne sais quoi that we so admire and wish to emulate. For the French celebrate life. Art. Family. Food. History. French culture is a celebration the things that make being human great. The essence of humanity.

So I continue to celebrate France. France, Paris, Je t’aime pour toujours.

 

Best. Summer. Ever.

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It has been a whirlwind summer for us. First a trip to Iceland, then France to visit family and celebrate a milestone birthday, then off to San Diego for a couple weeks of French Immersion camp (for the kids) and soaking up the sun at the beach (for me), then Disneyland, followed by stops through Arizona to visit family in southern Arizona and family on the ranch in eastern Arizona. We just capped it off with a week on Oahu to celebrate the wedding of two dear friends.

Wow, is this really my life?

I’ve seriously neglected my blog and you, my dear readers. Here are a few photos from Iceland, and more to come. Soon. I promise.

Evening in Reykjavik

Evening in Reykjavik

Hmmm. We did not partake, but I'm still curious about how Mexican food and Icelandic food would be combined...

Hmmm. We did not partake, but I’m still curious about how Mexican food and Icelandic food would be combined…

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Strokkur

Gullfoss Falls

Gullfoss Falls

The Blue Lagoon

The Blue Lagoon

We were there for the annual Viking Festival and popped in to check it out. It was actually quite fun, and the kids loved getting to try out a bow and arrow and play some traditional viking games.

We were there for the annual Viking Festival and popped in to check it out. It was actually quite fun, and the kids loved getting to try out a bow and arrow and play some traditional Viking games.

Iceland Air, you are awesome.

Iceland Air, you are awesome.

Le Père Noël does what?

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Like many Americans, I grew up with Santa Claus. As December progressed, the floor under our tree would fill with presents from and to all family members – parents, grandparents, kids, cousins, aunts, uncles. Then, on Christmas morning, we would wake early – usually at 5:00, unable to sleep, checking the clocks every minute, watching the minutes slowly tick by until the clock finally hit 7:00, when we were allowed to wake everyone in the house and get the day started. Christmas morning, our stockings would be stuffed and there would be new toys from Santa, waiting for us by the tree. We spent the morning opening gifts, from Santa and from each other.

Best year ever: Santa brought my brother the Millennium Falcon and a few Star Wars figurines. He brought me an enormous Strawberry Shortcake dollhouse. We were both in heaven. My parents remember that being the year that they were up most of the night putting those things together (I seem to recall some loud banging noises accompanied by the occasional muttered curse), and that there were a few hundred decal stickers between the two big gifts. But they remember it all with a smile and are happy to hear us reminisce about that year.

Our kids enjoying a warm fire and the Christmas tree

Our kids enjoying a warm fire and the Christmas tree

On one of my first Christmases with my husband, we shopped together for our niece and nephew, his brother’s kids who live in France. It was so exciting for me, because at the time they were the only children in our family. But when my husband slapped the tags on the gifts, inscribed with “de la part du Pére Noël,” he had a huge smile on his face and I got squinty-eyed.

“But, those are from us. Not Santa.”

“Yeah, but, I thought…” He looked confused.

It turns out that in my husband’s family, like many French families, all presents under the tree magically appear on Christmas morning. And they are all from Santa.

I reasoned that we so rarely see our niece and nephew and I wanted them to know the gifts were from us. I wanted them to know we were thinking of them. He reasoned that this is the way it’s done, chez lui.

I felt so weird about it. For one, I believe that receiving gifts from people other than Santa gives children a valuable lesson in being grateful and thanking those people. That learning to give gifts as a child is a valuable lesson as well. I also felt that we were stepping on my in-laws toes. After all, isn’t it the right of the parents to play Santa? I’ve looked forward to that since long before I had kids. I don’t want anyone else coming in and taking over Santa’s role in our home, and I didn’t want to do that to anyone else. My mom once pointed out that she believed the way the tree was filled with presents from and to everyone, not just Santa, made the transition into realizing that Santa wasn’t quite so real (part of me will always hold onto that magic) easier for us as kids.

For my husband, the magic of Christmas was, in part, the overnight filling of the tree. And the fun for adults is playing Santa to everyone.

A minor clash in the grand scheme of things, really. Today, we send the gifts from us, not Santa. The gifts that come from France are from the kids’ Aunt and Uncle, and from their Mimi and Papy – so perhaps traditions in France are changing? Many French people I know still label everything “from Santa.” I’m grateful that our family does not. Because, even though our kids don’t get much time with the French side of their family, they know that they are being thought of. As the kiddos rip through the paper wrapping, I make sure to grab it and say, “This is from….” So they know.

We’ve embraced many of each other’s Christmas traditions and are forging our way into creating traditions unique to our family. We continue to play with the menus for Christmas Eve and Christmas day. Maybe we will forever. For years my parents, who live in southern Arizona, hosted a Christmas Eve mexican dinner with tamales, chimichangas, and margaritas for family and close friends. I miss those, but it’s time for us to start hosting. For my husband and me, a house full of loved ones, good food, twinkling lights on the tree, and lots of hugs make for a great day. Presents fill the space under our tree and tonight, Santa will come with a few more for everyone. Beyond that, we’re still winging it.

Merry Christmas and Joyeux Noël to all!