Tradition!

"A fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, no? But here, in our little village of Anatevka, you might say every one of us is a fiddler on the roof trying to scratch out a pleasant, simple tune without breaking his neck. It isn't easy. You may ask 'Why do we stay up there if it's so dangerous?' Well, we stay because Anatevka is our home. And how do we keep our balance? That I can tell you in one word: tradition! Because of our traditions, we've kept our balance for many, many years. Here in Anatevka, we have traditions for everything... How to sleep, how to eat... how to work... how to wear clothes. For instance, we always keep our heads covered, and always wear a little prayer shawl that shows our constant devotion to God. You may ask, "How did this tradition get started?" I'll tell you! [pause] I don't know. But it's a tradition... and because of our traditions... Every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do."

As is usual for me, Broadway speaks my heart. The above quote is recited by Reb Tevye, the main character from "Fiddler on the Roof" at the very beginning of the musical. The rest of the musical is a journey alongside his family as their traditions are challenged and, ultimately, either changed or preserved by the force of time. It's so funny that I've never been a fan of this musical to the degree that I love others. I've given it its due as a staple to Broadway repertoire and genealogy, but never truly embraced the heart of the story. Pregnancy does some funny things.

My family is at a place where our traditions are being tested. As someone who finds comfort in tradition and runs to tradition for comfort during any given storm, my heart weeps at the challenge and potential changing of these traditions. However, like Tevye, I must learn to keep my balance by embracing the traditions which matter most (like my firm belief in God and His grace), while relinquishing those that are, in actuality, preferences (like waking up in mom and dad's house every Christmas morning). In so developing flexibility, I hope that the new reality that emerges alongside the preserved traditions, as well as those modified traditions, will be a durable and significant beauty and future for our family. As we prepare for our job as mother and father to this new, unharmed, untainted life, I want so much for Nathaniel and I to be able to give him something firm and enduring to which he can and will anchor himself. However, I want to give him the latitude to become who he will and have the freedom to pursue passions with a desire and drive for excellence without unnecessary burden or distraction.

Christmas this year was a year of new patterns in which we fought hard to preserve cherished traditions. With everyone working full time and stretching ourselves thin (as well as stomach bugs and other exhaustion), we managed to sneak in a cookie baking session, albeit at the 11th hour. On Christmas Eve, Nathaniel and I trekked up to Youngsville for cookie baking and dinner prep (Nathaniel worked on his dissertation - I prepared his meal... I guess that tradition is in no danger of changing). Even at the lateness of the hour, our current circumstances pressured us. Mom had to leave to show a house. Nathaniel fixated on writing until after dinner. I needed to sit down and rest as my energy is good, but not endless at 24 weeks gestation. Dad had to check in at work via his laptop. While rolling, icing, and sprinkling our beloved tradition of Knot cookies, time and change were standing at the door.

Later that evening, we welcomed a change to tradition: we celebrated Christmas Eve with our adopted family, Jimmy and Donna Maher and their kids Kim and Jeff and Melissa. We played Apples to Apples, increased volume with Limoncello consumption, made jokes about the implications of the game's outcome, and enjoyed a fireplace's glow. This change to tradition was very welcome, but for those who aren't aware, let me tell you about the Christmas Eve we used to spend. We used to observe a combination of the Hispanic "Noche Buena" and Italian "Seven Fishes." However, my father (the main seafood consumer) developed an allergy to all things pulled from the water. Despite his willingness to still have the food prepared and enjoyed, we all lost our taste for stuffed calamari and other Italian seafood delights if we couldn't enjoy it with him at the helm of the feast. The reverent evening would usually end with Bobby and I drifting to sleep on a hard pew at a midnight mass in a candlelit Catholic church. To move to Chicken Picatta and laughter-filled wondering about what my father meant when he picked "Rubber Gloves" for his round as judge in Apples to Apples is quite a shift - welcome or not.

Thankfully, one tradition remained: My mother, who annually protests that she did not do so, provided us all with new pajamas. Her beautiful grandmother from Panama used to get the entire family new pajamas in which they would sleep Christmas Eve. The next day, the entire family would gather to open presents in fresh, beautiful new pajamas. Aye-aye (a name I've only recently learned I gave to my great grandmother - I thought EVERYONE called her that!?) would ALWAYS claim she did not buy pajamas for the family each year. Yet, at the final moments before bedtime, she would produce some new garment for sleeping for each one. My mother kept this favorite tradition alive and well this year. However, she modified it marginally. Typically, the package of pajamas and the package of pajamas alone are to be opened Christmas Eve. My mother made an exception for her new son in law: She got him the Pumpkin pancake mix and Chai tea he asked me to prepare for him and gave him the foods so that they could be prepared for him on Christmas morning.

In perhaps the biggest change of this Christmas season, I woke up somewhere other than my parents' house on Christmas day. In 31 Christmases, this is the first one I was not in their house. No matter where I have been in the country, I've always come home for Christmas. Sometimes, on a smooth airplane. Other times, in a smoking RV from Miami. But, I've always gotten to their house. Waking up next to my husband was a FINE trade off, but still a change wrought from the pressure of inevitable time and change. This change was followed by another: Christmas Day at OUR house. Mom and Dad trekked down here and made Christmas Day special in our new home. Nathaniel got to play the new Wii game I got him, which worked out well for him. I got to bless my new kitchen with another holiday meal prepared from scratch in the tradition of my Italian and Hispanic grandmothers and aunts. And I got to think fondly of my beloved Nani as I set the table with her china for the second time in as many months. Additionally, I got the unmitigated joy of sharing Christmas with one of the people I love most in the world and consider family without wavering: Matt Webb. Again, our tradition was changed. Our number was diminished. Our location was modified. But the heart of the love and sharing that is at the center of the traditions I love remained the same.

Mom and Dad and I have already spoken and conjectured about how the adaptations we made for this year are not likely permanent. Next year, I will have a little boy who is approximately 8 and a half months on Christmas. While we all think the locations for Christmas Eve/Christmas Day are likely to stay the same, the timbre of a celebration that has children involved will be flavored very differently. The important thing, though, that was preserved this year and will (hopefully) be preserved for years to come is the family's commitment to sharing. To taking time to sit with one another. To passing on the smells and stories and tastes and hopes that have sustained previous generations and may prove comforting, if not beneficial to the next. To loving loudly. To loving completely - even when flawed.

This is the heart of the tradition with which I hope our son learns to balance himself in the precarious world to which he is born.