scribblechic

The last day of school on the eve of Christmas vacation is always a messy culmination of anticipated joy. Teacher gifts and classroom parties, last minute errands and spontaneous gatherings; a chaos of intentions and accidents, I scavenge stolen moments for misplaced time before we collide into quieter pursuits collectively. It is a rhythm as predictable as the months of the year and yet today arrived dauntingly premature.

In all the enthusiasm of our new addition I had not calculated the debt of time I could not balance, absences and compromises accumulating as evidence of failure. My teacher gifts were lackluster and impersonal, generically uniform and in sharp contrast to the lengthy list of rare souls who shadow my children’s school days. Holiday cards were patiently and intentionally addressed only to be stuffed beneath the congested procrastination of my kitchen drawer with stamps yet unadhered. The tree stands naked in want of ornaments that guard memories of years past in anticipation of years to come, an unintentional watermark of where we have settled in comfort against the grain.

And then I missed my daughter’s holiday party.

Despite every effort to restructure my afternoon, I could not coordinate a way to divide myself between commitments and I canceled the task I most wanted to honor out of obligation to my other child. It was an impossible choice based on logic in defiance of want made easier by the presumed acquiescence of my daughter’s silent approval. I didn’t see her brave face in our frantic morning goodbye and so I misread her hasty hug for feisty independence.

It would be so easy to stack what did not happen today, what cannot possibly be fixed tomorrow, into a guard against joy. Sometimes our first choice does not provide a second chance, but then again some days the broken places of our best efforts invites grace.

Tonight I am dwelling on a casual exchange that might not have occurred had my daughter not needed comfort and had my day had ended inside her classroom rather than outside the festivities at the perimeter of dismissal routines. In a moment of tender confession my daughter declared  to a well-loved, long trusted aide that our home is not perfect and that’s perfectly ok.

It was the validation I most needed to hear today and the gift I could not possibly have formed into a wish. The measure of home against the impossible standards of the holidays. Forgiveness and acceptance in a child’s love.

Curled beneath the blanket my mother knit, the sounds of my family sorting through individual distractions interrupting the silence, I am content. Old toys and new projects, quiet interests and easy company are hallmarks of our weekends. Holidays are similar in their simplicity; well-loved decorations will nestle corners of our home in nostalgia and familiar meals will draw us around our child-weathered table in good company.

Our traditions are informal, inviting opportunity and chance to interrupt the stillness while holding our place at home with a promise to return.

This morning we ventured outside our routines, gathering new memories along familiar streets. Shuffling between store windows and street performers, we settled into the magic of a musical. Both children, too grown to be so easily lost under the spell of make-believe, leaned into the performance allowing themselves to be tricked into a story. Returning home to the comforts of less grand endeavors, I thought of days past and marveled at the inequality of time.

Traditions slow the minute hand least I move too quickly through my days. Just as the trees have emptied their leaves beneath the burden of shortened days, I too have drawn myself further into the season; giving thanks for time shared and conjuring magic with a celebratory spirit. Stretching the days across fleeting years.