I didn’t have a chance to write my letter to Santa this year. All December long, I kept a running list in my head, and, just like the boys, added and subtracted things along the way. I never took pen to paper, partially because there was always something else to do. Decorating our tree, decorating mom’s tree, coordinating teacher presents, Christmas cards, fixing the strands of lights that had gone out, baking, assembling, guessing which Star Wars lego sets were really the ones the boys wanted.
Special Friends
25 years ago, my parents decided to have a small Christmas party in their new house, inviting a small group of their special friends. In some ways, the party has changed very little from its original incarnation. Every year, people subtly begin asking in September whether we have picked a date yet so they can mark it on their calendars. Every year, my mother bests herself with witty turns of phrase on the invitation. Every year, my dad makes sure that everyone’s glass is full at all times. Every year, there is a giant 12 foot tree in the living room. Every year, we take our family picture in front of it right before we open the front door. And every year, we invite only our special friends.
What’s Not in My Christmas Card This Year
Of all of my favorite Christmas activities – and good Lord there are many – doing our Christmas card is high on the list. Normally, I love coming up with pithy holiday puns for the greeting. I relish spending countless hours I don’t actually have looking back through pictures and choosing the ones that capture the personality of the boys, even if their hair isn’t brushed or their clothes don’t match. The pictures that tell the story of us.
But this year I have been uninspired. My heart just hasn’t been in it.
Being thankful…even when it’s hard
Thanksgiving has never been my favorite holiday. Don’t get me wrong – I love sitting around a table with my family and eating. Those are, in fact, my two favorite things in the world.
I don’t have anything against Thanksgiving. I’ve just never been inspired by it. Maybe it’s because we are lucky enough to routinely sit around the table and eat giant meals with our families. Maybe it’s because Thanksgiving has none of the magic and majesty of other holidays. Maybe it’s because Thanksgiving is entirely… contrived. It isn’t about anything except being together. Being thankful. Which is, of course, exactly why some people love it. I get it.
To My Father On His 66th Birthday
Dear Daddy,
Oh how I want to talk to you today. There’s so much I’ve wanted to tell you, so much I want you to know about the last three months. When we were living with mom this summer, I would often come downstairs in the middle of the night and walk into the den, half expecting to find you reading on the sofa. I so wanted to curl up next to you like I did when I was younger. To have you put your arm around my shoulder and hear you say “tell your dear old dad what’s bothering you.”
So You Had a Bad Day…
Of all of life’s pleasures that are wasted on youth, the most overlooked is the luxury to indulge in a bad day.
Children can throw themselves on the floor wailing and moaning over a seemingly inconsequential disappointment. Adolescents can walk around sullen and slam doors, just because they feel like it. Brokenhearted college kids can curl up in the fetal position, play sad songs, put a straw in a bottle of wine, and sleep for 18 hours. Because sometimes it feels good to just wallow.
But wallowing is an extravagance for the young.
‘Twas the night before school
Today is my least favorite day of the year. The day before school starts. The end of summer. The beginning of homework and drudgery.
The end of fun.
Jack has been dreading this day for weeks. He angsts. He frets. He worries about things to come instead of basking in the remaining moments of his freedom. He is, after all, his mother’s child. I do my best to distract him, to cheer him up, to reassure him he will love it once he gets there. But I am pretty sure he can see right through me.
I’m Fine
“I’m fine.” I don’t know how many times I have said that over the last 6 weeks since my father died. My father died. Those words still seem odd to say. Odder still that they flow trippingly off my tongue as if I were simply recounting where we went for summer vacation.
It is a well-established fact that I am a regular crier. I excel at crying. Happy tears, sad tears, exhausted tears, frustrated tears, nostalgic tears. They have all been a part of my weekly repertoire for 38 years. Sappy commercial? Check. Wistful memory of the boys when they were babies? You bet. Random song on the radio? Yup. Hard day? Too tired? Proud parental moment? Bad blisters? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. You name it, I have cried because of it.
Love Never Ends
When I was seven years old, a particularly fierce thunderstorm swept through town one night. One of those southern summer storms that shakes the walls of the house and the nerves of its occupants – especially the little ones. Sensing my palpable fear, my dad quietly took my hand and asked me to come watch the storm with him. I shelved my trepidation and accompanied him to the sun porch on the side of our house that had floor to ceiling windows.
As the storm put on a magnificent display, I sat on my father’s lap and listened to him quietly talk about calculating the distance of the storm by counting the seconds between thunder and lightning, why light travels faster than sound, and the origins of electrical pulses in the sky. Every time I jumped at the sound of a thunder clap, he gently put his hand on my forearm and immediately my heart rate slowed down. When the storm finally ebbed, I realized that I was completely relaxed.