So This Is Christmas

Time passes so quickly, and these pictures are just one of my many futile attempts to slow it down. Or, if that is not possible, at least to remember it. Otherwise, the years they pour on to each other. Impossible to distinguish. Memories of children blend into one another. Babies not yet born appear in scenes they have never witnessed. It all becomes a dreamlike trance. "It was at grandma's house, but not exactly grandma's house."

On Christmas Eve we pulled Gus and Arlo's mattresses on to Sena's bedroom floor, and eventually, after dozens of trips to the bathroom, they slept together, waiting for the arrival of saint they still want believe to be real even after coming to the conclusion that he probably isn't. In the morning, they waited again, this time for the arrival of my parents who wanted to watch as they opened stockings and gifts.

The gifts were dominated by books, blocks, building kits, and dinosaurs. And I hope that their wishes, humble as they were, came true.

Later, we drove across town to my parents' house, and I opened gifts with my siblings, and we ate puffs and scrapple in a house shrouded by fog on disconcertingly warm Christmas day.

I spent the afternoon cooking with my mom: short ribs, roasted Brussel sprouts, rainbow carrots, pearl onions, seedy bread, and mashed potatoes. At six we sat down with my grandfather to give thanks and to fill our bellies.

We had hoped to experience the Christmas full moon, but the fog had other plans, and so the night ended relatively early. I feel asleep exhausted to my core, lamenting another Yuletide seemingly over before it began. Sad to see it go, despite dreading its appearance on the calendar every single year.

My ninety-one year old granddad with his five earthside greatgrands, and one who is still tucked safely inside my sister Claire, ready to join the herd next year.  Another fine example of Arlo giving up. 

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Merry

It's Christmas Eve and I still don't feel the fullness of the holiday spirit. I blame the temperatures and the humidity and the open windows. Christmas is supposed to feel like Northern Europe or Vermont. There is supposed to be snow, despite the fact that I have never actually experienced a white Christmas.

But I ate Christmas cookies for lunch and last night we slept in red footed pajamas. Pajamas that I am still wearing well past noon.

And last night we ate shepherd's pie with friends and we exchanged presents, and the bigs kids all spent the night at my parents' house, and I enjoyed a few childfree hours. And it was merry, and it was fun, and it begged to be repeated in years to come.

But now my house is in disarray and I should go start searing short ribs for tomorrow night's feast, and a bit of panic about gifting blind spots is starting to infect my subconscious. And still I sit, worrying about the magic of Christmas that may have been lost when I let my two oldest children stop believing in Santa. When I started to steer them away from the toys they so thought they wanted, while explaining the concept of landfills and sweatshops.

Tonight we will drive around looking at Christmas lights on the way to my aunt and grandma's house. The tables will be loaded with the sugariest confections you have ever seen. Crab soup will simmer on the stove, while people balance plates of food on their laps in the rooms my mom and her sisters grew up in. Hopefully two small children will fall asleep on the way home. And we will tuck the two older ones away in their beds shortly thereafter. We will quietly pull on presents from hidden corners, and pile them under a tree that is too dry for my liking. I'll wrap the presents that somehow got neglected and I'll stuff stockings and I'll eat the cookies Arlo will leave out for Santa. I might make myself a drink with Tom while I  try to clean up the messes that I simply don't want in my Christmas morning pictures.

And tomorrow, when we wake up so early that it will probably not yet be bright, all the spirit I felt was missing will pour in through those open windows.

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Thanksgiving 2015

In short, it was the most unremarkable of Thanksgivings. A long, shadowed quiet afternoon. Small, scraped helping hands. A blessing said at 5 pm. A game played before heading to sleep. Sweet and easily forgotten. Half formed memories that will blend into other years at the very same tables, with the very same people, eating the very same food.

But one does not need the extraordinary to give thanks.

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This Weekend We

The sea nettles have departed and the sunsets earlier. By some measures, autumn is now upon us. 

I'm ready for routine. For a little structure to our days, but I am hesitant to say good bye to my favorite season.  

As Labor Day approached, I regretted not making plans, felt pangs of jealousy realizing that so many of our friends were off on beach side adventures, that there were no get togethers to be had.  But envy gave way to content, as we settled in to a slow weekend, spending hours on our beach, afternoons jumping of my parents' pier. The kids had a sleep over. We collected a furry friend. 

Any sense of missing out was completely erased when my big sister texted me telling me she was driving up from Florida to surprise my mom, a fact she didn't share with me till a few short hours before leaving, knowing that I am no good at keeping secrets. Since she arrived late Sunday night, I have passed off all cooking duties, and have watched as Sena follows her around at a safe distance, fascinated by her artistic, smart, decidedly crazy aunt who she has had too few hours to get to know. I'm taken back to being ten myself, when I followed Whitney in much the same way, wanting to be a teenager too, to wear wild outfits purchased by the bag full from the thrift store. To sneak off with friends and find trouble every way I turned. I took pride in my flamboyant big sister, despite the fact that she wanted little to do with me then. The patience she pours on Sena as she shows her how to use knitting loom or how to properly cook bacon is an echo of the apologies she proffers late at night while we share a beer on my porch.  "I was evil," she laughs. No, not evil, just older, and yet, not old enough. 

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