Growing up, my father marched our family down many a hiking trail. I was always convinced that the love for the outdoors had skipped a generation. Or has it?
My son has really gotten carried away with St. Patrick’s Day, a holiday I never really celebrated as a kid. What I remember most was the fear of getting pinched for not wearing green. Or the fear being harassed for wearing green while not Irish. Could this be a sign of his innate Irishness?
I’m trying to cut down on all the frenzied rigamarole of the holiday season. I let Steve decorate the tree, I didn’t volunteer to bring any graham crackers for the first grade gingerbread houses, and I tried to cut down on the number of presents this year. But one self-imposed ritual I refuse to give up is the photo Christmas card.
The Thanksgiving turkey was always accompanied by candied sweet potatoes. This very American dish seemed strangely appropriate for a family of Taiwanese immigrants, as the island’s early settlers survived on the hardy orange tuber when rice was scarce and expensive.
The old people were clapping their hands, Big Brother was air drumming, tapping his feet and beating on the back of the chair in front of him.
Remember that kid who was always picked last for the team, and then everyone else groaned when she had to be on their side? Yup. That was me. And I don’t want my kids to ever be in my gym shoes.
We didn’t actually have any moon cakes. Oh well.
A two-year old wonders “Why is my hair different from everyone else in our family?”