Adult Christmas Quotes

The thought of Christmas overwhelms him. He no longer looks forward to the holiday; he wants only to be on the other side of the season. His impatience makes him feel that he is incontrovertibly, finally, an adult.

We’re adults. I might be a little more of an adult if you’re counting years but I bet I have a lower IQ, so that puts us pretty much even.

You cannot make this kind of decision," he said. "Go off with someone you barely know. You're seventeen." "And you're the guy who got drunk on eggnog last Christmas and danced to 'Turn The Beat Around' in Aunt Rachel's wig, so stop acting like you're in charge." "We agreed not to mention that ever again," Jason whispered furiously.

The Smile won Matthew extra time before bed, extra Christmas pudding, extra anything he wanted. Adults were helpless to resist The Smile. Matthew gave his all to this particular smile. Butter melted. Birds sang. People slipped about dazed amid the butter and birdsong.

I was on a mission. I had to learn to comfort myself, to see what others saw in me and believe it. I needed to discover what the hell made me happy other than being in love. Mission impossible. When did figuring out what makes you happy become work? How had I let myself get to this point, where I had to learn me..? It was embarrassing. In my college psychology class, I had studied theories of adult development and learned that our twenties are for experimenting, exploring different jobs, and discovering what fulfills us. My professor warned against graduate school, asserting, "You're not fully formed yet. You don't know if it's what you really want to do with your life because you haven't tried enough things." Oh, no, not me.." And if you rush into something you're unsure about, you might awake midlife with a crisis on your hands," he had lectured it. Hi. Try waking up a whole lot sooner with a pre-thirty predicament worm dangling from your early bird mouth. "Well to begin," Phone Therapist responded, "you have to learn to take care of yourself. To nurture and comfort that little girl inside you, to realize you are quite capable of relying on yourself. I want you to try to remember what brought you comfort when you were younger." Bowls of cereal after school, coated in a pool of orange-blossom honey. Dragging my finger along the edge of a plate of mashed potatoes. I knew I should have thought "tea" or "bath," but I didn't. Did she want me to answer aloud? "Grilled cheese?" I said hesitantly. "Okay, good. What else?" I thought of marionette shows where I'd held my mother's hand and looked at her after a funny part to see if she was delighted, of brisket sandwiches with ketchup, like my dad ordered. Sliding barn doors, baskets of brown eggs, steamed windows, doubled socks, cupcake paper, and rolled sweater collars. Cookouts where the fathers handled the meat, licking wobbly batter off wire beaters, Christmas ornaments in their boxes, peanut butter on apple slices, the sounds and light beneath an overturned canoe, the pine needle path to the ocean near my mother's house, the crunch of snow beneath my red winter boots, bedtime stories. "My parents," I said. Damn. I felt like she made me say the secret word and just won extra points on the Psychology Game Network. It always comes down to our parents in therapy.

He grinned, a very dark and evil grin… the kind of grin that the Grinch had before he stole Christmas.

All of her adult life people have asked Rena why she goes to such dangerous places, and she has always wanted to ask them where the safe place is. The danger is in chemicals and airports and refugee camps and war zones and regions known for sex tourism. The danger also sometimes took their trash out for them. The danger came over for movie night and bought them a popcorn maker for Christmas. The danger hugged her mother and shook her father’s hand.

Children often sang, adults seldom. At what age did the singing stop?

The adult world may seem a cold and empty place, with no fairies and no Father Christmas, no Toyland or Narnia, no Happy Hunting Ground where mourned pets go, and no angels - guardian or garden variety. But there are also no devils, no hellfire, no wicked witches, no ghosts, no haunted houses, no daemonic possession, no bogeymen or ogres. Yes, Teddy and Dolly turn out not to be really alive. But there are warm, live, speaking, thinking, adult bedf ellows to hold, and many of us find it a more rewarding kind of love than the childish affection for stuffed toys, however soft and cuddly they may be.

Imagine for a moment playing by children's rules. If you were at a party and saw someone you liked, you could just go and hold their hand. If they then try to kiss you and you don't like it, you can push them over. If your aunty gives you a Christmas present that you're not too keen on, you can throw it back in her face and burst into tears. You can gallop freely. You can skip. Children have got it right. The tragedy is, none of this is permissible as an adult. Although one thing surely is – and I'll bet you know what I'm going to say – that's right, the galloping. Such fun!

With the music of our singing in the background, I looked at the church candles and thought about the surreal connection between images and memory. The peaceful and joyous candles flickering there during the Christmas ceremony projected warmth, comfort, and familiarity – even though thy emitted the same kind of fiery energy as the flames caused by the war.

It was, without question, one of the best days of her entire adult life. Because of him.

One of the greatest perks in my life is shirking any and all adult responsibility.

Bend over and lift your skirt, i'm going to show you what it's like to spend Christmas on the naughty list

On Christmas morning, Rebecca lost her moral virginity, her sense of humor - and her two best friends. But, other than that, it was a hell of a holiday.

That which interests most people leaves me without any interest at all. This includes a list of things such as: social dancing, riding roller coasters, going to zoos, picnics, movies, planetariums, watching tv, baseball games; going to funerals, weddings, parties, basketball games, auto races, poetry readings, museums, rallies, demonstrations, protests, children’s plays, adult plays … I am not interested in beaches, swimming, skiing, Christmas, New Year’s, the 4th of July, rock music, world history, space exploration, pet dogs, soccer, cathedrals and great works of Art. How can a man who is interested in almost nothing write about anything? Well, I do. I write and I write about what’s left over: a stray dog walking down the street, a wife murdering her husband, the thoughts and feelings of a rapist as he bites into a hamburger sandwich; life in the factory, life in the streets and rooms of the poor and mutilated and the insane, crap like that, I write a lot of crap like that

The sharp thrill of seeing them [killdeer birds] reminded me of childhood happiness, gifts under the Christmas tree, perhaps, a kind of euphoria we adults manage to shut out most of the time. This is why I bird-watch, to recapture what it's like to live in this moment, right now.

As far as I’d seen, most adults tried to pretend they didn’t have parents. Except my shrink, who’d tried to invite me for Christmas dinner last year. As if I wanted to be trapped next to a huge turkey carcass with twenty people I didn’t know. Twenty strangers who all knew exactly who I was.

He stood there tall and dashing, peering down at her with a set of mesmerizing sapphire eyes. It wasn’t the eyes that had her sex-drive squealing into overdrive; it was that…hair. Now, Tarrah had never really been into redheads before, but damn, she sure as hell would be willing to convert.

Gingerbread had always been Helen’s favorite. And that made sense. After all, Christmas was Helen’s favorite time of year.

Someone like me cares about others, but I guess you wouldn't know anything about that.

The only time I'll be caught dancing is in the end zone after scoring a touchdown.

The art of being an adult sometimes was knowing when to keep your mouth shut.

no longer dealing with reasonable, intelligent adults but with temperamental lunatics who had about as much self-control as hormonal teenagers.

They slept that deep sleep reserved for babies and consenting adults who have worn their bodies out with hot sex.

But I did know that nobody ever asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. The real question would have been, "Dear Claudia, what experience would you like on Christmas?" I could have spoken up, "I want to sit on the low stool in Big Mama's kitchen with my lap full of lilacs and listen to Big Papa play his violin for me alone." The lowness of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big Mama's kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of music, and, since it would be good to have all my senses engaged, the taste of peach, perhaps, afterward.

So it is to be another Christmas, then, and another New Year's on my own. Well, it is all right. I have grown used to it, have come almost to prefer it. Those days for most adults, it is generally acknowledged, and perhaps for all but the fewest children are so grim. Along with birthdays and of course Thanksgiving, only worse. Why observe them, then, unless one is for the sake of the children, or the office, or someone else's sake, obliged to. Well, no reason.

One important thing was not to forget what he hoped to achieve in life. Another important thing was not to confuse a romantic picture of himself—as a doctor in Africa, for example—with a real possibility. And he tried not to lose sight of the fact that he was an adult in an adult world, with responsibilities. This was not easy: he would find himself sitting in the sun cutting out paper stars for a Christmas tree at the very moment other men were working to support large families or representing their countries in foreign places. When in moments of difficult truth-seeking he saw this incongruity, he felt sick that he should be saddled with himself, as though he were his own unwanted guest.

I remembered all the Christmases we’d celebrated, always with a huge tree, situated next to the staircase where I now sat. As a child, I’d sat upon that same step, huddled up against the balus- ters, studying the tree, its shape and decorations; enthralled by the magical light and shadows upon the walls around me. Dancing. Over Christmas the only light in the hallway had come from the silver candelabra burning on the hallway table. But on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day night small candles were attached to the branches of the tree, their soft light reflected in the vast chande- lier suspended high above and thrown back across the walls like stars across the universe. I remembered the smell, that mingling of pine and wax and burning logs: the smell of home, the smell of happiness. I’d sat there in my nightgown, listening to the chime of crystal; the laughter, music and voices emanating from another room, an adult world I could only imagine. And always hoping for a glimpse of Mama, as she whooshed across the marble floor, beautiful, resplendent . . . invincible.

I'm mad at the religion I grew up in. I'm mad that Catholic doctrine still swims in my mind, that I think in Bible stories, regard Sundays as sacred, and love when radio stations start playing Christmas carols in October. If "O Holy Night" comes on while I drive past the jack-o-lanterns still out on your porches, I will likely blast it, and get taken in by the comfort of things I grew up with. It's like rewatching "Back to the Future" or "Sixteen Candles" as an adult and being like "wait, I think that scene is actual sexual assault" as nostalgia turns into unsettling recognition.

A modern princess—of England, say, or Monaco— serves the purpose of being an adornment in the fantasy life of the public. Consequently, she receives the kind of education that one might think of giving to a particularly splendid papier-mâché angel before putting it at the top of the Christmas tree: an education whose main goal is proficiency in the arts of looking pretty and standing straight. Our century, whatever virtues it may have, is not an optimal time for princesses. Things were different in the Renaissance. Intelligence had a primary value then. At almost every level of the social order, education was meant to create true amateurs—people who were in love with quality. A gentleman or lady needed to be at least minimally skilled in many arts, because that was considered the fittest way of appreciating the good things in life and honoring the goodness itself. Nor did being well-rounded mean smoothing over your finest points and becoming like the reflection of a smile in a polished teaspoon. Intelligence walked hand in hand with individuality, although having finely sharpened points of view did not, it was felt, require you to poke other people with them. If wit was a rapier, courtesy was the button at the end of the blade.

Most of the messaging and chatting I did was in search of answers to questions I had about how to build my own computer, and the responses I received were so considered and thorough, so generous and kind, they’d be unthinkable today. My panicked query about why a certain chipset for which I’d saved up my allowance didn’t seem to be compatible with the motherboard I’d already gotten for Christmas would elicit a two-thousand-word explanation and note of advice from a professional tenured computer scientist on the other side of the country. Not cribbed from any manual, this response was composed expressly for me, to troubleshoot my problems step-by-step until I’d solved them. I was twelve years old, and my correspondent was an adult stranger far away, yet he treated me like an equal because I’d shown respect for the technology. I attribute this civility, so far removed from our current social-media sniping, to the high bar for entry at the time. After all, the only people on these boards were the people who could be there—who wanted to be there badly enough—who had the proficiency and passion, because the Internet of the 1990s wasn’t just one click away. It took significant effort just to log on.

No psychic powers; I just happen to know how several of the big toy companies jack up their January and February sales. They start prior to Christmas with attractive TV ads for certain special toys. The kids, naturally, want what they see and extract Christmas promises for these items from their parents. Now here’s where the genius of the companies’ plan comes in: They undersupply the stores with the toys they’ve gotten the parents to promise. Most parents find those things sold out and are forced to substitute other toys of equal value. The toy manufacturers, of course, make a point of supplying the stores with plenty of these substitutes. Then, after Christmas, the companies start running the ads again for the other, special toys. That juices up the kids to want those toys more than ever. They go running to their parents whining, ‘You promised, you promised,’ and the adults go trudging off to the store to live up dutifully to their words.

Every muscle in his body tensed for action, adrenalin pounding through his tiny veins, he crept down the stairs, keeping to the corners (where he knew they creaked less). He peered around the bottom of the stairwell into the living room, and there he saw a lean, bearded man, clad only in a loincloth and a crown of thorns. When he bent over the Xmas tree, Tony saw that blood flowed freely from his bare hands and feet. Before the cherubic prepubescent could stop himself, the words flew out of his mouth: “You’re not Santa!

People who grew up in major cities may wonder why the hell I would act like it's a big deal to be unaccompanied in New York City at that age. It's populated with both adults and children, it's a functioning metropolis, Kevin McCallister was only ten in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, and that kid saved Christmas. Conversely, people from suburban areas act like my parents sent me wandering around the site of the Baby Jessica well, blindfolded and holding a flaming baton. So pick a side and prepare to judge me either way!

Ask yourself what you’re really trying to get from the other person in this interaction. Be honest. If it’s your parent, do you want your parent to listen to you? Understand you? Regret his or her behavior? Apologize to you? Make amends? If your goal involves empathy or a change of heart on your parent’s part, stop right there and come up with a different goal—one that’s specific and achievable. Remember, you can’t expect immature, emotionally phobic people to be different from how they are. However, you can set a specific goal for the interaction. Identify the specific outcome you want from each interaction and set it as a goal. Here are some examples: “I express myself to my mother even though I’m nervous.” “I tell my parents I’m not coming home for Christmas.” “I ask my father to talk nicely to my children.” Your goal might be just to express your feelings. This is achievable because you can ask others to listen, even though you can’t make them understand. Or your goal might be as simple as reaching an agreement about where the family will have Thanksgiving dinner. The key is to go into the interaction always knowing the end point you wish to arrive at.

Being real takes tremendous courage. We like approval, and we like respect, and to say otherwise is another form of denial. To wish for the admiration of others is normal. The problem is that this admiration can become a drug. Many of you are addicted to this drug, and the destruction to your wealth and financial well-being caused by your addiction is huge. Radical change in the quest for approval, which has involved purchasing stuff with money we don’t have, is required for a money breakthrough. Sara’s breakthrough came with family. Her family was upper-middle-crust and had always given Christmas gifts to every member. With twenty nieces and nephews and six sets of adults to buy for, just on her side, the budget was ridiculous. Sara’s announcement at Thanksgiving that this year Christmas giving was going to be done with the drawing of names, because she and Bob couldn’t afford it, was earth-shattering. Some of you are grinning as if this is no big deal. It was a huge deal in Sara’s family! Gift giving was a tradition! Her mother and two of her sisters-in-law were furious. Very little thanks were given that Thanksgiving, but Sara stood her ground and said, “No more.” Sara

he looked so different, asleep. without his sharp, watchful eyes open, remus's face softened, making him look younger; more fragile. silvery scars caught the grey winter light, the only outward sign of how impossibly strong remus was. how resilient. tough. sirius could remember wanting to be remus, very early on. the rock stars sirius adopted as heroes during those years had all seemed so much more like moony, they had belonged to his world. remus was fierce, and cool, slightly feral - he didn't take shit from anyone, least of all adults. at grimmauld place, in the holidays, sirius would think about his half-blood friend, wonder what he might say when walpurga got in his face. he wouldn't be frightened. he wouldn't give in

We see the old women again. A laugh that is a little too forced and shrill jazz music have made them start. One of them whispers, worried: “Perhaps ... we should go and see ...” “The youngsters don’t like it when we are obviously watching them, and besides, what can we do? It’s us, the adults, with our suspicions who put evil thoughts in their minds.” The other lady (hesitant): “All the same, my dear, we’re meant to be chaperoning them.” We see the ballroom where about twenty couples are holding each other tightly and dancing a sensual tango in the semidarkness. Nadine, the young lady of the house, wearing very modern clothes, notices her mother and her aunt coming over to them, and tells everyone in a playful whisper: “Yikes! The cops are here!

Let me up.” She pushed at his shoulder, which was about as effective as pushing at Goliath’s shoulder when he was at his oats. “Vim, Kit’s awake.” “He might go back to sleep.” The little thread of hope in his voice was almost comical. “He never goes back to sleep.” “I’ll get him.” Vim kissed her nose and lifted away, taking with him warmth and a world of unfulfilled wishes. Sophie was just getting up her nerve to toss the covers aside when Vim came back to the bed, the baby snuffling quietly against his shoulder. “Make room. My Lord Baby is coming aboard for a progress on his royal barge.” “Is he dry?” “The royal wardrobe is quite in order, for now.” Vim climbed on the bed and arranged himself on his side, the baby propped against the pillows between the two adults. “He’ll be hungry soon enough,” Sophie said, taking a little foot and shaking it gently. Kit grinned at her and kicked out gleefully, so she did it again. “He likes a change of scene.” Vim was smiling at the baby as he tickled the child’s belly. Sophie would not have thought to bring the baby to bed with them; she would not have thought to kiss Vim’s nose before she left the bed. She would not have thought she could fall in love with a man because he put aside his lovemaking to tend to a baby, but as she watched Vim smiling at the child, enjoying the child, she realized she’d gotten one stubborn, long-despaired-of wish to come true: she’d fallen in love. She tarried for a few moments, listening to Vim speak nonsense to the child about navigating the treacherous waters of pillows and blankets; then she climbed out of the bed and went to build up the fire. ***

My Christmas was a sum total of the ministrations of adults, usually adults who wanted me to encourage my parents to buy something for me to consume and discard.

I might be a little more of an adult if you’re counting years but I bet I have a lower IQ, so that puts us pretty much even.

School Code of Conduct. Everything you need to know about how to behave at school—and how not to behave—is right here in this book.” A bunch of teachers came around and started handing out a copy to each student in the gym. “When you receive yours, open up to page one and follow along with me,” Stricker said. Then she started reading… really… slowly. “‘Section One: Hills Village Middle School Dress Code…’” When I got my copy, I flipped all the way to the back of the book. There were sixteen sections and twenty-six pages total. In other words, we were going to be lucky to get out of this assembly by Christmas. “‘… All students are expected to dress appropriately for an academic environment. No student shall wear clothing of a size more than two beyond his or her normal size….’” HELP! That’s what I was thinking about then. Middle school had just started, and they were already trying to bore us to death. Please, somebody stop Mrs. Stricker before she kills again! Leo took out a pen and started drawing something on the inside of the back cover. Stricker turned to the next page and kept reading. “‘Section Two: Prohibited Items. No student shall bring to school any electronic equipment not intended for class purposes. This includes cell phones, iPods, cameras, laptop computers….’” The whole thing went on and on. And on. And on. By the time we got to Section 6 (“Grounds for Expulsion”), my brain was turning into guacamole, and I’m pretty sure my ears were bleeding too. People always talk about how great it is to get older. All I saw were more rules and more adults telling me what I could and couldn’t do, in the name of what’s “good for me.” Yeah, well, asparagus is good for me, but it still makes me want to throw up. As far as I could tell, this little green book in my hands was just one long list of all the ways I could—and probably would—get into trouble between now and the end of the school year. Meanwhile, Leo was drawing away like the maniac he is. Every time Stricker mentioned another rule, he scribbled something else on the page in front of him. Finally, he turned it around and showed me what he was working on.

Serge,” said Coleman. “Are we shopping?” “No, I just love coming to the mall at Christmas, digging how stores tap into the whole holiday spirit, especially the bookstores with their special bargain displays.” “Displays?” asked Coleman. “Big ones near the front,” said Serge. “If you want to show someone you put absolutely zero thought into their gift, you buy a giant picture book about steam locomotives, ceramic thimbles, or Scotland.” “But why are we wearing elf suits?” “To spread good cheer.” “What for?” “Because of the War on Christmas.” “Who started the war?” asked Coleman. “Ironically, the very people who coined the term and claim others started the war. They’re upset that people of different faiths, along with the coexistence crowd who respect those faiths, are saying ‘Season’s Greetings’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ But nobody’s stopping anyone from saying ‘Merry Christmas.’ ” “And they’re still mad?” Serge shrugged. “It’s the new holiness: Tolerance can’t be tolerated. So they hijack the birth of Jesus as a weapon to start quarrels and order people around. Christmas should be about the innocence of children—and adults reverting to children to rediscover their innocence. That’s why we’re in elf suits. We’re taking Christmas back!

You know kid…it’s not that every adult stops dreaming because they want to…it’s because…once we grow up, we realize that the world’s like the big bad wolf from the Little Red Riding Hood…it stinks big time and is ever-ready to gobble up any stragglers. It’s this race we sign up for from the moment we are born…if we lose, we get thrown out pretty bad.

Denni whispered, brushing at her tears. “So very proud. He couldn’t have done it better himself.” Unable to speak, Trey nodded his head and gave his mom a warm hug.  He took her hand, and they joined the group of adults and kids feasting on the after-program sweets. Many of those in attendance had brought in punch, cider, and trays of cookies to share after the program. Cass finally noticed Trey was missing as the crowd began to disperse and people gathered up their coats, tired children, and leftover treats. Cadence helped the little girl put on her coat, took her hand and started toward the door. Cass planted her feet and refused to budge. “We can’t leave. Trey’s lost.” “Oh, he’s not lost, sweetie-pie. He had to go take care of something important and he’ll meet us

I have trouble with time in many ways: * I can’t judge time -How much time will this take? How much time has passed? * I can’t grasp time - “That’s next month? Oh, I have plenty of time.” * I waste time - “Gee, why did I spend all that time on that when I have all these other important things to do?” * I feel short of time - I’m always concerned that I don’t have enough time and it’s racing away from me. I have to do all these to-do’s and I have more to do than I can possibly get done. *I can’t locate myself in time - This is hard to describe, but if you have ADD, you might know what I mean: “This is December; Christmas must be coming? How far off is it? Is there something after that? What’s happening next year? Is there anything I need to be doing to prepare for it?” * I can’t remember time - My brain records whatever is happening but doesn’t attach the date to it. Was that last year, or three years ago? Was it in 1984 or 1994? Maybe because I’m not located in the time, as above?

So what’s your name?” the stranger asked. Tarrah pulled his shirt away from her head and held out her hand. “Tarrah. Tarrah Reid.” He slipped his hand into hers, his cheeks stiffening as he held back a smile. Tarrah sighed, knowing exactly what he was thinking. She was completely aware of the fact that she held the name of a famous Hollywood actress. The association actually helped with her “Christmas floozy” persona during the holidays, so she’d never really minded.

Create an “Inner Child” Map. Adults have a different way of viewing things compared to a child, and this activity is a kind of bridge between how you think now as an adult and your inner child. Adults usually prefer to create organizers or charts in order to plan or understand something. This time you will be creating an organizer, more specifically called a semantic map, that can help you discover your inner child. To create an “inner child” map, you can get a picture of yourself as a child, probably around the age of 7 or 8. If you do not have any pictures, then you can simply draw yourself when you were in that age. Place the picture or the drawing at the center of a piece of paper, with enough room for scribbles all around it. Then, begin recalling as much as you can all of the phrases or words that you can associate with this child version of you. Brainstorm on everything, such as your favorite color back then, the gifts that you wanted for Christmas, your nickname, your favorite movie, the book that you kept reading over and over again with a flashlight under your blanket, an imaginary friend, or the silly urban legends that you used to believe in. Once you have finished your “inner child map” you are so much closer to discovering him or her, if you haven’t already.

The true beauty of Christmas is revealed when we adore the season, not like some weary adult, but like a bubbly little child.

Advent Season by Stewart Stafford A house bedecked in verdant wonderment, With lights that mirror the starry firmament, Where the Christmas Star did once shine, To guide worshippers to the Divine. The wreath on the door is a welcome portal, For any passing cheerful mortal, Wishing to enjoy warm company, And mountains of gravy-drowned turkey. Nostrils fill with cooking scents, That waft through the house with excitement A feast to consume on the 25th, After the Man in Red has paid a visit. Children orchestrate great noise, And sit and play with gifted toys, While adults watch and reminisce, On childhoods past and favourite gifts. The Wheel of Time turns, Festivities End, And the year itself begins again. In Time's juvenile crawl, Or adult speed, Life zips forward, and history repeats. © Stewart Stafford, 2020. All rights reserved.

The spell was on the very fist page: a calling for the lost to be found. We wanted our diaries found. So Holly suggested we try it. At first it was like a recipe: gathering moss and branches, raiding our cupboards for olive oil, slipping saints medals out of our nanas' wallets, rooting through the Christmas boxes in the attic, looking for silver string. It was silly and secret and made us feel like kids making mud pies. None of us took it seriously, not even Holly.

If your goal involves empathy or a change of heart on your parent’s part, stop right there and come up with a different goal—one that’s specific and achievable. Remember, you can’t expect immature, emotionally phobic people to be different from how they are. However, you can set a specific goal for the interaction. Identify the specific outcome you want from each interaction and set it as a goal. Here are some examples: “I express myself to my mother even though I’m nervous.” “I tell my parents I’m not coming home for Christmas.” “I ask my father to talk nicely to my children.” Your goal might be just to express your feelings. This is achievable because you can ask others to listen, even though you can’t make them understand. Or your goal might be as simple as reaching an agreement about where the family will have Thanksgiving dinner. The key is to go into the interaction always knowing the end point you wish to arrive at.

Since Esmond had died, she'd been wary about 'dating'. Having not done it for so long she was unsure what was expected. Two adults, well past their teenage years, could behave as promiscuously as they chose, only she wanted to have love in the mix of seduction, not just a cheap thrill. Was that asking too much?

It’s quite freeing, knowing you’re the only person who’s going to clean the toilet rather than seething about the fact that there’s another adult in the house who isn’t going to lift a bloody finger.

But Larson was also more than even his combined, prolific creative output. While he was known for leaving parties to go home and fix songs, he would also charm the ladies, attend New York’s most exclusive nightclub, and obsessively follow the New York Mets. He was the man who called his friends in the middle of the day to play Frisbee, sent cards on every possible occasion, and hosted generous holiday meals. An awkward introvert who wanted to be a star. A self-confident composer who knew how good his work was - and how terrified he was of never being able to make a living from it. A broke waiter who produced some of the most advanced demo recordings of his day. A ladies’ man who became one of the gay community’s most important straight allies in the 1990s, as his work spread a message of tolerance around the world. A man who composed fun, catchy songs but rarely listened to music for pleasure as an adult. A performer who wanted to be Billy Joel but wrote lyrics like Harry Chapin. A driven creative who took as few shifts as possible to focus on his music, turning poverty into creativity: a simple 4th of July party meant a hand-coloured collage for an invitation, and Larson’s annual Peasant Feast pot-luck meals at Christmas were the season’s highlight for all attending. A passionate progressive who would be endlessly disappointed that RENT could still cause controversy after so many years.

Getting It Right" Your ankles make me want to party, want to sit and beg and roll over under a pair of riding boots with your ankles hidden inside, sweating beneath the black tooled leather; they make me wish it was my birthday so I could blow out their candles, have them hung over my shoulders like two bags full of money. Your ankles are two monster-truck engines but smaller and lighter and sexier than a saucer with warm milk licking the outside edge; they make me want to sing, make me want to take them home and feed them pasta, I want to punish them for being bad and then hold them all night long and say I’m sorry, sugar, darling, it will never happen again, not in a million years. Your thighs make me quiet. Make me want to be hurled into the air like a cannonball and pulled down again like someone being pulled into a van. Your thighs are two boats burned out of redwood trees. I want to go sailing. Your thighs, the long breath of them under the blue denim of your high-end jeans, could starve me to death, could make me cry and cry. Your ass is a shopping mall at Christmas, a holy place, a hill I fell in love with once when I was falling in love with hills. Your ass is a string quartet, the northern lights tucked tightly into bed between a high-count-of-cotton sheets. Your back is the back of a river full of fish; I have my tackle and tackle box. You only have to say the word. Your back, a letter I have been writing for fifteen years, a smooth stone, a moan someone makes when his hair is pulled, your back like a warm tongue at rest, a tongue with a tab of acid on top; your spine is an alphabet, a ladder of celestial proportions. I am navigating the North and South of it. Your armpits are beehives, they make me want to spin wool, want to pour a glass of whiskey, your armpits dripping their honey, their heat, their inexhaustible love-making dark. I am bright yellow for them. I am always thinking about them, resting at your side or high in the air when I’m pulling off your shirt. Your arms of blue and ice with the blood running to make them believe in God. Your shoulders make me want to raise an arm and burn down the Capitol. They sing to each other underneath your turquoise slope-neck blouse. Each is a separate bowl of rice steaming and covered in soy sauce. Your neck is a skyscraper of erotic adult videos, a swan and a ballet and a throaty elevator made of light. Your neck is a scrim of wet silk that guides the dead into the hours of Heaven. It makes me want to die, your mouth, which is the mouth of everything worth saying. It’s abalone and coral reef. Your mouth, which opens like the legs of astronauts who disconnect their safety lines and ride their stars into the billion and one voting districts of the Milky Way. Darling, you’re my President; I want to get this right! Matthew Dickman, The New Yorker: Poems | August 29, 2011 Issue

Interestingly, the reward system that is activated in the brain when you receive a reward is the same system that is activated when you anticipate a reward. This is one reason the anticipation of an experience can often feel better than the attainment of it. As a child, thinking about Christmas morning can be better than opening the gifts. As an adult, daydreaming about an upcoming vacation can be more enjoyable than actually being on vacation. Scientists refer to this as the difference between “wanting” and “liking.

Do you want to build a snowman?’ ‘I thought you’d never ask!’ I bend over to grab a handful of snow and lob it at him. ‘If you can’t be a big kid at Christmas, when can you?’ ‘I’m glad you’re coming round to my way of thinking.’ He tilts his head to the side. ‘Too many people absorbed the lie that when you grow up you have to stop liking fun things and start liking adult things, but the happiest people are those who embrace things they love without shame.

Dusk had fallen on December 1, 1955, when Rosa Parks, a tailor’s assistant, finished her long day’s work in a large department store in Montgomery, the capital of Alabama and the first capital of the Confederacy. While heading for the bus stop across Court Square, which had once been a center of slave auctions, she observed the dangling Christmas lights and a bright banner reading “Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men.” After paying her bus fare she settled down in a row between the “whites only” section and the rear seats, according to the custom that blacks could sit in the middle section if the back was filled. When a white man boarded the bus, the driver ordered Rosa Parks and three other black passengers to the rear so that the man could sit. The three other blacks stood up; Parks did not budge. Then the threats, the summoning of the police, the arrest, the quick conviction, incarceration. Through it all Rosa Parks felt little fear. She had had enough. “The time had just come when I had been pushed as far as I could stand to be pushed,” she said later. “I had decided that I would have to know once and for all what rights I had as a human being and a citizen.” Besides, her feet hurt. The time had come … Rosa Parks’s was a heroic act of defiance, an individual act of leadership. But it was not wholly spontaneous, nor did she act alone. Long active in the civil rights effort, she had taken part in an integration workshop in Tennessee at the Highlander Folk School, an important training center for southern community activists and labor organizers. There Parks “found out for the first time in my adult life that this could be a unified society.” There she had gained strength “to persevere in my work for freedom.” Later she had served for years as a leader in the Montgomery and Alabama NAACP. Her bus arrest was by no means her first brush with authority; indeed, a decade earlier this same driver had ejected her for refusing to enter through the back door. Rosa Parks’s support group quickly mobilized. E. D. Nixon, long a militant leader of the local NAACP and the regional Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, rushed to the jail to bail her out. Nixon had been waiting for just such a test case to challenge the constitutionality of the bus segregation law. Three Montgomery women had been arrested for similar “crimes” in the past year, but the city, in order to avoid just such a challenge, had not pursued the charge. With Rosa Parks the city blundered, and from Nixon’s point of view, she was the ideal victim—no one commanded more respect in the black community.

It's surreal just how much children are attuned to emotions that adults pretend to be oblivious of. They're the ones who deserve the title of hero, living bravely, taking chances, leaping before looking, letting their emotions through - the definition of living out loud.

Don't the humans want a white New Year's? We can make that happen." I slid my hand off her leg and around her lower back, leaning in to kiss her neck. "It's a white Christmas." She laughed, looking out the window, the gentle rush of traffic in the background just beyond our private street the only indication that the city outside of our little world had moved on with its day. "And I think we've already done that. Well... a white Boxing Day, at least." "Hm." I leaned in and kissed her neck. "I think we can do better." "Devin..." "Yes, darling?" I let a hand wander, feeling the goose bumps down her arm. We can't spend all day in... bed." "I have a few ideas that won't require a bed." "You're incorrigible," she said, turning red as she tried to hide her smile. "Fine. Let's have a snow day.

When things don’t go their way, they have no guilt causing stress. This is true even while on vacation or on days like birthdays, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. No day is sacred to them. Any occasion is open game for them to ruin with an adult temper tantrum.

In a very important way, such a child-centered event was a new thing. Before the nineteenth century children were merely dependents--miniature adults who occupied the bottom of the hierarchy within the family, along with the servants. But perhaps that was exactly the point, because in another way this was a very old thing. Making children the center of joyous attention marked an inversion of the social hierarchy, which meant that a part of the structure of an older Christmas ritual was being precisely preserved: People in positions of social and economic authority were offering gifts to their dependents. The ritual of social inversion was still there, but now it was based on age and family status alone. Age had replaced social class as the axis along which gifts were given at Christmas. The children of a single household had replaced a larger group of the poor and powerless as the symbolic objects of charity and benevolence.

somewhere in your house—maybe on a little evergreen tree at a time far removed from Christmas. Get one of those adult coloring books with whimsical patterns. Paint your nails an offbeat color; you can paint your toenails if you don’t want to share such personal expression with the world. Draw something fun on the driveway with chalk, such as the giant chalk game of Chutes and Ladders one study participant reported creating. Blow bubbles on a break. None of this is life-changing of course, but when things are different, seeing these fancies can nudge us out of the mindless state that tends to characterize day-to-day life. Hours always march into the past, but at least they can carry a little whimsy with them as they whistle on their way.

The Nativity scenes were particularly ridiculous. The classic art depicting the infant—themes now repeated on Christmas cards and in the crèche scenes displayed in churches and on suburban coffee tables—portrays a rather mature baby, very white, radiantly clean as no baby is ever clean, arms outstretched to reassure the nervous adults around him, intelligent, without need, halo glowing, conscious with an adult consciousness. Superbaby. This infant clearly never pooped his diapers. He looks ready to take up the prime ministership. Why did it make me angry? Because when we lose his personality, we lose Jesus. It’s a little ironic that in a sophisticated visual age

Normalcy?” I ask, louder than is probably necessary, surprising myself with the unusual amount of animated expression in my voice. “A regular human being? Jesus, what the fuck is there in that? What does that even mean? Credit card debt, a mortgage, a nagging spouse and bratty kids and a minivan and a fucking family pet? A nine-to-five job that you hate, and that’ll kill you before you ever see your fabled 401k? Cocktail parties and parent-teacher conferences and suburban cul-de-sacs? Monogamous sex, and the obligatory midlife crisis? Potpourri? Wall fixtures? Christmas cards? A welcome mat and a mailbox with your name stenciled on it in fancy lettering? Shitty diapers and foreign nannies and Goodnight Moon? Cramming your face with potato chips while watching primetime television? Antidepressants and crash diets, Coach purses and Italian sunglasses? Boxed wine and light beer and mentholated cigarettes? Pediatrician visits and orthodontist bills and college funds? Book clubs, PTA meetings, labor unions, special interest groups, yoga class, the fucking neighborhood watch? Dinner table gossip and conspiracy theories? How about old age, menopause, saggy tits, and rocking chairs on the porch? Or better yet, leukemia, dementia, emphysema, adult Depends, feeding tubes, oxygen tanks, false teeth, cirrhosis, kidney failure, heart disease, osteoporosis, and dying days spent having your ass wiped by STNAs in a stuffy nursing home reeking of death and disinfectant? Is that the kind of normalcy you lust for so much? All of that—is that worth the title of regular human being? Is it, Helen? Is it?

As for adults, the more we grow, the more we seem to hide ourselves, our emotions—and it’s considered an act of maturity. Seems to me it’s more of an act of cowardice. The truly brave are those who can love and live with the fearless heart of a child.

Christmas time, when it has come round—apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that—as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.

I did not know why I destroyed those dolls. But I did know that nobody ever asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. The real question would have been, “Dear Claudia, what experience would you like on Christmas?” I could have spoken up, “I want to sit on the low stool in Big Mama’s kitchen with my lap full of lilacs and listen to Big Papa play his violin for me alone.” The lowness of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big Mama’s kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of the music, and, since it would be good to have all of my senses engaged, the taste of a peach, perhaps, afterward.

Gary asked me to consider what happens when any of us - no matter what age we are - go home to visit our parents at Christmas. It doesn't matter how wise and insightful adult life has made us. "Two days with your parents at Christmas and you'll all just be swatted back to the deepest level of the family pathology.

As a child, thinking about Christmas morning can be better than opening the gifts. As an adult, daydreaming about an upcoming vacation can be more enjoyable than actually being on vacation. Scientists refer to this as the difference between “wanting” and “liking.

Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day.

Wrong. The children have ruined Christmas for the adults.’ Agatha looked at him, puzzled. ‘How do you explain that?’ ‘They’ve come to expect to get exactly what they want. I know all this from friends of mine with children. Something new comes out in July, say. They clamour for it. No use saying, “Wait till Christmas.” They have to have it right away because it’ll be old hat by Christmas. They don’t want surprises. They want what they demand. So there are no shining faces under the Christmas tree, radiant with surprise and gratitude. Only complaints like, “Why did you buy me this computer game? It’s months old.” Greedy children and disappointed parents, that’s Christmas.

We all come to understand at some point in our lives that there is no Santa Claus. But the reason Santa Claus remains an integral part of Christmas celebrations is not for the sake of small children. It is because grown-ups who were once children themselves continue to hold the truth of Santa Claus in their hearts even after they become adults, and they live in that belief.

It was entirely possible for two grown adults to enjoy a platonic relationship even if one of the two once used a rudimentary computer program to see what their future children would look like and had developed a mild but more recent obsession with his forearms.

His ex-wife and sort-of friend sighed. “Noah, you make it sound like she’s a porn star. I met Cat. She seemed like a reasonably responsible adult, more so than that babysitter you hired a few years ago who broke into our box of wine and passed out on the couch while our five-year-old watched The Shining.

Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. The real question would have been, “Dear Claudia, what experience would you like on Christmas?

We were told to clothe ourselves with humility and tender mercies. When Jesus told His disciples to follow Him, the cross is certainly in view. We are to take up the cross daily and follow Him. But we do not just follow Him to the cross—we must also follow Him to the manger. We must become little children. We must be born again—not understanding this as a Gnostic experience of being zapped by a mystic and numinous light—but rather because we are way too adult, too full of ourselves, and self-important. The new birth is the birth of humility. What do you have right after a birth, including the new birth? A baby, which is what we are invited to become. A little child.

Anyone, at any age, should look up to the sky on Christmas Eve night and hope they’ll see something magical.’ ‘Again.’ He points to himself. ‘Adult.’ I roll my eyes. ‘That makes you need to believe in Christmas magic even more. With all the stresses and worries and strains of adulthood, we need it more than kids do. We need to believe that our dreams can still come true and that anything can happen at this time of year.

Me and Winder had fun, Mama! I know how to kill a pig, boil a pig, and scrape the hair off a pig.” Aletta winced, grateful she’d missed those particular lessons. She reached for a brush and began running it through his dark hair, making a mental note to give him a haircut soon. “Jake taught me,” he continued. “But we held the knife together because it was my first time. He says next time maybe I can do it by myself.” “Jake?” She paused, her grip tightening on the brush. Had Andrew overheard them downstairs just now? He nodded. “You know . . . the soldier.” “Andrew, you’re to call him Captain Winston. Either that or ‘sir.’ You know children aren’t to address adults by their Christian names.” “But he said I could. Today when we were eatin’ lunch.” “And I’m saying that you can’t. Is that understood?” He looked at her for a moment then gave a begrudging nod. “He showed me how to build a fire too. And how to sharpen a knife. He knows how to do lots of fun stuff.” Grateful for the Captain’s attentiveness to her son, Aletta also felt a possessiveness rising inside her. Warren should still be here. Should be the one teaching him all those things. Not a total stranger. And yet Captain Winston was hardly a total stranger.

Something about moving home as an adult made the space feel even smaller than it had while growing up.

The Princess was anxious that her sons should also see something of the real world beyond boarding schools and palaces. As she said in a speech on Aids: ‘I am only too aware of the temptation of avoiding harsh reality; not just for myself but for my own children too. Am I doing them a favour if I hide suffering and unpleasantness from them until the last possible minute? The last minutes which I choose for them may be too late. I can only face them with a choice based on what I know. The rest is up to them.’ She felt this was especially important for William, the future King. As she once said: ‘Through learning what I do, and his father to a certain extent, he has got an insight into what’s coming his way. He’s not hidden upstairs with the governess.’ Over the years she has taken both boys on visits to hostels for the homeless and to see seriously ill people in hospital. When she took William on a secret visit to the Passage day centre for the homeless in Central London, accompanied by Cardinal Basil Hume, her pride was evident as she introduced him to what many would consider the flotsam and jetsam of society. ‘He loves it and that really rattles people,’ she proudly told friends. The Catholic Primate of All England was equally effusive. ‘What an extraordinary child,’ he told her. ‘He has such dignity at such a young age.’ This upbringing helped William cope when a group of mentally handicapped children joined fellow school pupils for a Christmas party. Diana watched with delight as the future King gallantly helped these deprived youngsters join in the fun. ‘I was so thrilled and proud. A lot of adults couldn’t handle it,’ she told friends. Again during one Ascot week, a time of Champagne, smoked salmon and fashionable frivolity for High society, the Princess took her boys to the Refuge night shelter for down-and-outs. William played chess while Harry joined in a card school. Two hours later the boys were on their way back to Kensington Palace, a little older and a little wiser. ‘They have a knowledge,’ she once said. ‘They may never use it, but the seed is there, and I hope it will grow because knowledge is power. I want them to have an understanding of people’s emotions, people’s insecurities, people’s distress and people’s hopes and dreams.’ Her quiet endeavors gradually won back many of the doubters who had come to see her as a threat to the monarchy, or as a talentless and embittered woman seeking to make trouble, especially by upstaging or embarrassing her husband and his family. The sight of the woman who was still then technically the future Queen, unadorned and virtually unaccompanied, mixing with society’s poorest and most distressed or most threatened, confounded many of her critics.

Christmas is ever a return to this place. Adults visit it with their children every December the twenty-fifth—indeed you don’t really know Christmas until you’ve watched it with grown up eyes.” Hope

It’s people who let you down, not animals, Liv thought bitterly. People like Shane’s dad, and her own father. Their dad had announced last Christmas that he was leaving the family and moving in with another woman, and Liv had felt her trust in people tottering ever since. Maybe it happens to everyone when they get to be thirteen, she thought. You realize not every adult is worth your respect, let alone your love.

The handblown glass pickle ornaments from Lauscha in Germany can date back as far as 1847, and are treasured by families everywhere. The first child to spy the ornament on the tree Christmas morning gets an extra gift from Santa, and the first adult enjoys good luck all the year through.

Like an old sneaker, Riverbend was chewed up, worn out, and falling apart at the seams. The town didn’t even smell right.

Hannah remained silent as they pulled out of the hospital’s parking lot. With a sinking feeling, Hannah realized she was going to have to endure the laughter and joy of Christmas all day. She knew she had to try and be pleasant for her parent’s and her friends’ sake, but in her mind there was a dark hole where she disappeared like Alice in Wonderland. She’d found that hole during rehab and went there whenever she needed to escape the pain.

Well, if this is what being an adult feels like, give me back my juice box and crayons any day.

She remembered dating. She remembered feeling excited and reveling in the unknown. Dating was like hopscotch for giants. An adult game that made the heart jump instead of the feet. A game she used to enjoy.

The jolly old elf’s nose was red, but not from cold — rather, from the brutality of a dozen boxes of Kleenex. Mucus flowed freely down his cheeks, and mixed with tears of agony. She folded her arms, pursed her lips, and declared: “You’re not going out this week.

She sighed and stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Turning around, she nearly tripped over some of the help. “Man, you little bastards are everywhere, aren’t you?” she mumbled to herself.

I’m a holiday Christian at best and I’d never given much thought to demons. They were an adult version of the boogieman hiding in every kid’s closet.

But I did know that nobody ever asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. The real question would have been, "Dear Claudia, what experience would you like on Christmas?" I could have spoken up, "I want to sit on the low stool in Big Mama's kitchen with my lap full of lilacs and listen to Big Papa play his violin for me alone." The lowness of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big Mama's kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of the music, and, since it would be good to have all of my senses engaged, the taste of a peach, perhaps, afterward.

This is one reason the anticipation of an experience can often feel better than the attainment of it. As a child, thinking about Christmas morning can be better than opening the gifts. As an adult, daydreaming about an upcoming vacation can be more enjoyable than actually being on vacation. Scientists refer to this as the difference between “wanting” and “liking.

His breathing is harsh, rapid and shallow, and I do what every adult does in a situation like this – look around for a better adult. An older adult. An adult who might know what to do. A more adult adult.

it struck me yet again how marvelous children are. They accept everyone openly and with trust. It’s only after adults begin to cram outdated ideas into their glorious loving minds do we witness the birth of hate and mistrust.

Aleksander Lavrov n'est pas le genre de type à se faire des amis, mais plutôt à les repousser.

Santa is a symbol of hope, a sign that things will always get better. Christmas is something to look forward to. A joyous end to the year – a celebration of a good year or good riddance to a bad year, but always a moment to measure your life by, whether adult or child.

For the next two months I kept Action Park at an emotional distance, the way a kid thinks about Christmas in September or an adult thinks about that STD test they should probably get after a long weekend in Miami.