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It’s that time of year. Heaps of stress, never-ending lists, presents that will not wrap themselves no matter how hard I wish it, (plus!) scheduling my annual pilgrimage to church with my mother.
The funny thing is, I love the holidays. I love the twinkly white lights, the tangible greetings from family and friends delivered right to our mailbox, the all Christmas music radio station (Bing Crosby, Vince Guaraldi and last but not least, Jon Bon Jovi’s Please Come Home for Christmas).
I tend to be more thankful at this time of year than at any other.
My kids are out-of-their-minds excited for Christmas; they decorated the house with gusto, happily picked out presents to give to each other and our family members, reminded me that it is tradition to put the tree in the corner of the room—NOT in front of the window. While I know that somewhere in their consciousness lurks the understanding that this holiday is about more than Santa Claus (unlike me, they are semi-regular church-goers), it is not often that that knowledge is exposed.
A case in point: Let’s flashback to five years ago. Nora was an infant and Liam was four years old. Henry was but a twinkle in my husband’s…eye. Overwhelmed by dirty diapers and a dearth of much-needed sleep, I came downstairs with the baby to find an empty house. I searched for Liam, who should have been happily ensconced in front of the TV, for five long minutes. On the brink of insanity, I happened to look outside. At the end of our driveway, stood a small, snow-covered figure with a bucket and a bell. Ripping open the front door, I shouted, “Liam! Get in here, this instant!”
Reluctantly, he trudged back up the hill with his bucket.
“What were you thinking, mister?”
“Nana told me never to pass someone with a bell without giving them money. I rang the bell, but no one stopped.” He was both wet and disappointed.
“Oh, buddy. What were you going to do with the donations?”
“Well, you won’t buy me that Star Wars blaster, so I’m gonna buy it myself.”
Obviously, this prompted a long conversation (alright, I’ll call a spade a spade—it was a lecture) about the Salvation Army, people’s basic needs and our family’s commitment to charitable giving, which has been repeated on multiple occasions over the years and augmented with both planned and random acts of kindness. Still, I wasn’t sure that any of the kids were getting the big picture.
And then between the blank stares and shrugged shoulders, I glimpsed a ray of light.
We were, as usual, running behind schedule. The kids missed the school bus so I dispersed them—Medium first, then Small, and finally, Large.
Liam trudged toward the double doors of the middle school, munching on toast and hefting an enormous backpack. Without warning, he spun around and headed back to the car. I put my window down. “What did you forget?”
“My money.”
I was immediately suspicious. “What are you bringing money to school for?”
He met my skepticism with righteous indignation. “I’m helping buy a turkey for a needy family. Do you think five dollars is enough?”
A buried memory of an e-newsletter burbled to the surface of my mind. I was speechless. Not only had he remembered the food drive without any parental reminders, but he was using his own savings to participate.
It was my tiny miracle.
Happy holidays, everyone.
I’m not sure why I got such a kick out of this sign, but I did. After reading it, I just sat in my car and giggled.
The irony? This place is my local health food store.
Is lard better for you if it is locally made? Discuss…
There’s no escaping the simple truth that some days go better than others. And on those “other” days, I do a lot of counting.
“Who’s screeching? What’s going on? Get up here. Now! 1, 2, 3….”
“He’s using the permanent markers?! I specifically told him…1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…keep it together, Mary, keep it together…”
“That’s it. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You have until 3 to decide. One. Two.”
And then there are the days that I am beyond counting.
“JUST DO IT!” (This does not come out sounding like an inspirational Nike slogan.)
“NO! NO! How many times do I have to tell you?”
I am not proud of those moments when I lose my…cool. (There’s another four-letter word that better describes what I lose. Here’s a hint: starts with S.)
But I was even less proud when my husband laughingly told me to look at the back of our bedroom door.
At some point in the recent past, the kids made and hung signs all over the upstairs—Nora’s room, this way. Enter if you dare. Etc. They were cute. Plus, it occupied them for a full hour.
I hadn’t noticed the sign they made for me:
Great. That’s just great.
Our family is so loud that it’s startling to other people. My boys are unable to speak, much less carry on a conversation, without adding sound effects. The other day, Liam said, “Mom, you shed worse than a cat,” as he picked a long hair off the chair where he was sprawled. “I find your hair everywhere! They’re like little bombs…[Dropping the hair, he makes a whistling noise.]…KAPOW! Everybody, take cover! [Another whistling noise.] Here comes another one!”
My children are loud, energetic—and when I am lucky—empathetic. They are constantly moving, jumping, falling down. They slide on stockinged feet across the hardwood floor, use our furniture as launching pads and trampolines, thunder up and down the stairs fifty times a day. One of our oft ignored house rules is: Keep Your Feet on the Ground. As if they could! My kids are all about headstands on the couch (“The floor is too hard!”) and gymnastics in the house, which has resulted, unsurprisingly, in heel prints on the wall at or above eye level, broken picture frames and sometimes, tears.
Even now, Large is upstairs in the bathroom, presumably having just showered, where he is rhythmically knocking the step-stool against the uneven tile. When I ask, “Why?” He answers, “Why not?”
Sometimes all the bickering, explosions, and shrieks send me right over the edge of reason (“Are you trying to make me CRAZY?”). But, then, when they are absent, such as when all the kids are at their grandparents’ house, it’s eerily quiet. The house feels lonely without them filling it and I’ll wander from room to room with the echoes of their noisy escapades ricocheting inside my head. And in spite of myself, I’ll miss them.
Maybe I should try and remember the missing them part more often.
A couple of months ago, Henry and I had a heart-to-heart about his penchant for scribbling on the walls (scribbling is my term – he would call it “dwawing” as in “Thee Mommy! Wook at my dwawing!”).
My attempts to suppress his creative impulses backfired. Instead, he appears to have experienced an artistic breakthrough. Today, I found this strategically mounted on the underside of the loft in his bedroom where it could not be seen from the doorway:
His composition is pretty good, don’t you think?
OINKtales 
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