seasons & sentiments
December 21, 2011 § Leave a comment
Christmas Eve I will not sleep, eagerly anticipating the first sleepy footsteps of my children tumbling from their beds into the hallway. For now, I want to postpone the unraveling of ribbon and wrapping paper. Let the surprises linger a little longer. I’m not ready. Not yet. I want to rest suspended in anticipation and make-believe.
I know each gift by shape. I worked without lists trying to select items that would find a home in the hands of the right person. Now, I can only wait and wonder if the gift will fit their wishes. If the recipient will feel that sense of joy that comes from feeling appreciated and understood. The silent sound on rounded lips that fills their eyes with glee.
This year, I want to pack away our ornaments, but leave the spirit of the season scattered like pine needles in the corners of our home. To wake each day in celebration of small blessings and with faith in possibility. I want love and kindness to echo like remnants of carols and candlelight to reflect the magic of twinkling lights. This year, I am not ready to undo the tidings of the season.
Dear Santa, stop here last.
reading into words
December 20, 2011 § 3 Comments
Eagerly and forcefully my daughter thrusts herself among the pages of books. Frustration and determination clatter noisily, the air around her sparks with energy. Books stacked haphazardly in the window of her room are silent witnesses to her journey, friends she has accumulated along the way.
She began a quiet companion. When I read aloud, my daughter’s eyes would measure my words as I pulled them from the pages of another’s telling. She would watch my mouth willing the story into the air around us. I would monitor her enthusiasm under my lashes bemused by her posture as she leaned into the author’s spell.
In turn, slowly, I became the audience. I celebrated my daughter’s growth, noting her furrowed brow as she curled over the lines of language, conjuring voices, and breathing life into each page. She has journeyed from listener to storyteller, winding her way around self-doubt with perseverance.
Most recently she set aside fiction gathering a dictionary to her side as she nestled into bed. She fell asleep having carefully bookmarked pages with small toys. In the morning she shared each dogeared word with me like colors, twisting and turning them in the light of day so that I might see them more completely.
I am eager for my daughter to paint her world with words, to see through her lens. I am eager for the reader to become the writer.
love lesson
December 19, 2011 § 2 Comments
My husband and I had a disagreement; an unpleasant exchange that spilled sloppily from our mouths to our children’s ears. Wide-eyed my daughter gauged the exchange, holding her questions and concerns beneath thin layers of surprise and uncertainty.
I gathered my little girl near and said what I needed to hear at an early age: adults can disagree without loving one another less. I reminded her that it is important to try your best to be respectful even when you are angry and to accept responsibility when you hurt another person’s feelings. I watched her measure my words considering their meaning.
My husband and I bring to our marriage unique individual heartaches. We unpack grief or anger in moments of exhaustion or anxiety. Rather than stuff our dirty laundry into the corners of our mind, I try to unfold it; smoothing out wrinkles and carefully claiming each piece of ourselves. It is uncomfortable and challenging, but owning our worst helps us nurture our best.
Tonight my husband echoed my message to our daughter with his own. He apologized for speaking unkindly. The moment had passed, but he stretched his accountability into the present creating an occasion to share a lesson. He reaffirmed my worth by apologizing and his own strength by modeling humility.
I hope my children fall in love and know kindness and compassion, but I also wish them partners that challenge them to grow and a safe place to make mistakes.
gift (verb)
December 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
My husband sings a frustrated chorus of What would you like? every holiday and on each special occasion. There is no simple answer. Last year I wanted warm boots, a long down coat, and a soft robe to ward off the winter chill. They weren’t extravagant gifts, but they made me feel loved. Another time it might be something unique to the occasion; a gift I would look upon with memories, like the silver rattle I gave my husband to announce I was pregnant with our daughter. I rarely tie happiness to things. I may pause over a picture and dwell on a memory; rest my hand on my necklace recalling my husband’s proposal; extract old letters and savor words written in another moment. Small acts of love, little gestures are my greatest joy.
This week my mother sent a collection of gifts in the mail, cluttering our doorstep with happy surprises; ornaments and sweets, tiny tokens of the holiday season. When the boxes arrived today, I found myself as eager as my children to uncover the treasure nestled inside. My mother stretched each gift from an act of generosity into scattered causes of celebration. This, delayed anticipation and whimsical gifts of sentiment, is my Christmas wish this year. I want to fill our home with a sense of celebration and togetherness.
My daughter said to me today: If the Grinch is real and he takes all of our stuff on Christmas Eve, we will be okay. The most important thing is that we have each other. She sealed her words with a hug and kiss before wrapping another of her toys in her doll’s quilt and labeling it with scrap paper for Daddy in a sea of tiny hearts on waves of hugs and kisses. My daughter’s awareness and my mother’s kindness cannot be purchased or wrapped with ribbon. Thinking ahead to Christmas day I know my greatest gifts rest in moments with my husband and children not in pretty packages beneath the tree.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more? – Dr. Seuss
today & yesterdays
December 16, 2011 § 4 Comments
I try to teach my children to stand tall; acknowledge their strengths, celebrate accomplishments, honor effort. I tuck my own accomplishments away and hold them tightly inside my heart contradicting my words with my actions. I was taught as a child that celebrating self was prideful and conceited, so I curl myself into something smaller hiding moments of joy. Today I am stretching my spirit and acknowledging a small milestone.
One year ago I sat down in the company of all my doubts and hopes to set aside words in a publicly, private space. I began a new chapter in my story sharing thoughts with no one in particular, but opening myself up to a new experience. I created time for myself to do something I love; days of reflection, moments of frustrations, daydreams, and celebrations gathered for safe-keeping.
Rather than let today pass quietly, I am marking the calendar with gratitude for a year of scribbled yesterdays.
before we say goodbye
December 15, 2011 § 1 Comment
My husband and I try to honor a handful of well-intentioned rules we made as newlyweds. Among them is a simple promise to say something nice before we say goodbye. Some days it is a rote I love you. and other days it is an intentional sharing. On days we disagree or accidentally hurt one another’s feelings we are more conscious in our efforts. The gesture is forced by an unspoken awareness that each time we part we may not see one another again.
This act of love has been a part of our lives together for so long I cannot draw into consciousness its source. It could be our son’s premature birth made us mindful of the fragility of life and our blessings. It could be the experience of witnessing the tragic loss of 9/11 in the media as a young married couple with an infant child. Certainly unexpected tragedies in our friends’ lives have kept our eyes open to loss and mindful of the blessing of time. However it began, our parting words are a priority.
Last night, we learned a family in our community lost a loved one. I looked at my children and realized that in another house there were children learning they would not see a parent again. In a sudden, tragic accident another family woke up today without the opportunity to say I love you. In the face of such tragedy it is easy to say that loss makes you appreciate that which we have, but I challenge myself to identify how I express my gratitude for my blessings.
If I were not home tonight to read bedtime books and kiss my children good-night, if I couldn’t share in the events of the day with my husband, if I couldn’t call my mother to share a funny anecdote about my children… would my family know they were loved? Would my heart and mind be at peace with our last goodbye?
In place of resolutions to improve myself, I am contemplating how I might extend my goals to encompass how I love. Brainstorming new ideas, critiquing old behaviors, and lingering over impulsive acts. I don’t have a perfect answer, but I am resting in this moment and trying to consider what I say, how I act, and those I love.
dear sweet boy
December 14, 2011 § Leave a comment
I wish there were a way to gather you close and reassure you that this too shall pass. Unkindness and ignorance draw you deeper into yourself, but the gifts that others cannot yet see will create a life bigger than this moment. You will know love because you give love; you will know success because you do not let others define your boundaries; you will find peace because you know how to look within to find it. Of course, none of this lessens your struggles.
Your peers are not yet mature enough to appreciate your strengths. Your interests are fascinating, but even your father and I struggle to comprehend your theories. Some seem so far-fetched, we sometimes lose sight of your ability to embrace the impossible with an imagination unhindered by the suffocating constraints of can’t. I hope you continue to reach for the stars; when others place roadblocks, build ladders.
Here’s another secret: teachers are people. They begin each school year with a group of new faces and planned course material. You challenge your teachers each day to step outside their own perceptions drawing them into that same place of impossible possibility. Much like peers that do not understand, teachers too are trying to learn as they go. Mistakes are inevitable, patience is mandatory.
You already know your father and I are imperfect. We get frustrated, sad, overwhelmed too. Each night we sit beside you going through the motions of homework mindful of your challenges but insistent that you can do anything. The very hurdles that sometimes make you fall also teach you how to fly.
Your sister is your greatest friend, don’t roll your eyes. In Second Grade two classmates were pushing you and mocking you on the playground. Before I could speak your sister ran ahead and blocked you with her smaller form. She guards you when others are unkind; walks beside you trying to keep up; sometimes she gestures you ahead navigating the road ahead from behind. If you reach out your hand, you will find your sister’s waiting.
Life is not easy. I cannot promise you kindness from strangers, I can only remind you that your worth is not measured by others. Happiness is not something you can be given or I would wipe away all your heartache. Instead, I can promise you a shoulder to cry on and a place to sort your thoughts while you find your way. If you look up, you will see those that love you are always within reach.
Love, Mom
how many sleeps
December 13, 2011 § Leave a comment
My daughter measures time in dreams. As we near winter break and Christmas festivities the days seem to pass at an excruciatingly slow pace; refrains of How many sleeps? pepper the waking hours with unbridled eagerness. Anticipation taunts our patience with promises of lazy days unbound by the restrictions of school day routines as we slip into winter coats and begrudgingly go through the motions of our days.
Eyes cast to the calendar I am longing for leisurely mornings of cocoa and coffee, lounging languidly in pajamas. Spontaneous baking and late night movies. Gathering friends near and embarking on journeys unplanned in search of happy distractions. I am eager for the sound of my children’s laughter in the middle of the day and extra hours to enjoy their thoughts. I am ready for the gift of time.
within reach
December 12, 2011 § Leave a comment
This holiday I hung my children’s advent calendars lower on their doors, a gesture of trust and an act of faith. I heightened temptation placing tiny indulgences just within reach. I simultaneously raised the bar for good behavior.
Silly or trite, this one act is a metaphor for greater lessons. Each day I try to guide my children towards a future filled with opportunities where risk and ethics challenge them to make choices that will reward them with meaningful relationships, personal success, and emotional fulfillment. They must be able to navigate around danger mindfully, without living in fear of a mistake; secure in their own boundaries but not limited to the sidelines.
I watched bemused as my children noted the lowering of the candy and stood taller with heightened pride. The treats were always within reach, I just eliminated the need for a chair with trust.
dear santa
December 11, 2011 § Leave a comment
Last night I found my daughter curled over a piece of paper carefully composing a letter to Santa. A heartfelt Christmas wish in her careful print, punctuated with hope. Dear Santa, I would like a puppy. Our home has been empty without our four-legged friend and the vacancy has broadened into loneliness.
My daughter wakes each day eager for a playmate. Afternoon school dismissals are met with abrupt greetings followed by anxious pleas for playdates. She is the perfect candidate for a canine companion, but it is a gift I cannot give; a wish I fear will invite disappointment to accompany our Christmas morning.
I understand disappointment is a difficult and necessary experience to foster gratitude for greater blessings. Still, my heart is heavy for my daughter’s foreseeable disappointment. I repeat a gentle chorus hoping the words resonate in time: If you have everything you wish for, there is nothing left to dream of. May her dreams be greater than a singular moment of joy and her disappointments inspire paths toward possibilities.
