12.28.2013
12.24.2013
more than enough
I lie awake at night counting gifts instead of sheep, and know that I have more than enough.
12.22.2013
with care
I'm not sure how to handle it, our chimney-side exchange.
He’s just learning to read, but I’m fairly certain he doesn’t have to sound this one out.
Celia, he says, with a question mark at the end. He whispers her name like he wishes the word could do more than fill the air between us. I hear it with the same hunger.
Her stocking stares up from the storage tote, a silent rebuke of his sisterless state. This should not be our dilemma, what to do with an oversized, monogrammed sock. Our concern should be over what to stuff it with, which shade of lip gloss she'd want, whether she'd hope for polka-dot tights or practical jokes, how the hell to store all those tiny rainbow loom rubber bands. But I wonder what I should do with it - hang it up, throw it away, sleep with it under my pillow, save it for posterity. I find myself feeling indecisive. And feeling vulnerable, the way that loss still strikes unheralded and vicious. I am shocked at the ferocity of my envy, my misery, my missing.
Surely it’s not about her being dead, I tell him, but about how alive her memory remains.
I'm trying to convince myself as much as my son.
I had already written most of this post when the computer pinged to make me aware of a new email message. The note shared several ways the author was reminded of Celia this season, just a short, thoughtful list to show that other people remember her too. I've decided to print it and put it in her stocking. Filling it with good memories may be the best option.
He’s just learning to read, but I’m fairly certain he doesn’t have to sound this one out.
Celia, he says, with a question mark at the end. He whispers her name like he wishes the word could do more than fill the air between us. I hear it with the same hunger.
Her stocking stares up from the storage tote, a silent rebuke of his sisterless state. This should not be our dilemma, what to do with an oversized, monogrammed sock. Our concern should be over what to stuff it with, which shade of lip gloss she'd want, whether she'd hope for polka-dot tights or practical jokes, how the hell to store all those tiny rainbow loom rubber bands. But I wonder what I should do with it - hang it up, throw it away, sleep with it under my pillow, save it for posterity. I find myself feeling indecisive. And feeling vulnerable, the way that loss still strikes unheralded and vicious. I am shocked at the ferocity of my envy, my misery, my missing.
Surely it’s not about her being dead, I tell him, but about how alive her memory remains.
I'm trying to convince myself as much as my son.
I had already written most of this post when the computer pinged to make me aware of a new email message. The note shared several ways the author was reminded of Celia this season, just a short, thoughtful list to show that other people remember her too. I've decided to print it and put it in her stocking. Filling it with good memories may be the best option.
12.19.2013
Peace in the making
Family meals and rudimentary gifts
aluminum space suits and really fast race tracks
a little bit of mischief and maybe even some memories
12.18.2013
All is calm
Except not, really.
Christmas is only a week away, and there's still so much to do. I literally climbed out of the middle of a pile of wrapping paper and ribbon and glitter and gifts in order to write this post.
I could rattle off reasons for the uncalm, but they'd pretty much sound like everyone else's.
Wait. Let me try:
The boys are in the back of the Jeep, bundled and buckled and belting, in unison over each bump: FAAAAST. There are three rumble strips on the way to preschool, and they’ve timed the words in order for their voices to vibrate. The game proves pretty hilarious to everybody in the backseat.
They were in a hurry to get to the holiday party. And I was trying to remember to carry in teacher gifts and classroom snacks, trying to keep track of errand lists and pickup schedules. Everything was calling so loudly, the cookies, the cards, the other cars. The boys.
Everything feels fast this month. Everything is calling loudly. I answer all the calls, except for the one inside, the one that might actually calm the noise that makes it impossible to focus fully on any of the things I'm hearing.
I wrapped all six presents for the boys tonight. Spoiler alert, three of them are books, one for each and one to share. Part of our "quieter and calmer" strategy.
Earlier this week:
The boys are behind Poppy’s four wheeler, bundled haphazardly and unbelted but for big brother's arms. Their delighted squeals stop only because they’re hollering over the hum of the motor, FAAASTER Poppy! Faster, please!!
Eventually I hopped on too. It’s easy to lose all sense of adulthood, to contract the innocent wonder of my children. It may be easier still to lose any sense of advent, though, to rush, to hustle, to hear loud and feel fast. From the back of the sled, I just wanted to yell Slower, please! SLOW down.
It really is busy, December, as slow as I try to make it.
I can hear the quiet voice that's telling me to go to bed now though. And I'm listening.
Christmas is only a week away, and there's still so much to do. I literally climbed out of the middle of a pile of wrapping paper and ribbon and glitter and gifts in order to write this post.
Wait. Let me try:
The boys are in the back of the Jeep, bundled and buckled and belting, in unison over each bump: FAAAAST. There are three rumble strips on the way to preschool, and they’ve timed the words in order for their voices to vibrate. The game proves pretty hilarious to everybody in the backseat.
They were in a hurry to get to the holiday party. And I was trying to remember to carry in teacher gifts and classroom snacks, trying to keep track of errand lists and pickup schedules. Everything was calling so loudly, the cookies, the cards, the other cars. The boys.
I wrapped all six presents for the boys tonight. Spoiler alert, three of them are books, one for each and one to share. Part of our "quieter and calmer" strategy.
The boys are behind Poppy’s four wheeler, bundled haphazardly and unbelted but for big brother's arms. Their delighted squeals stop only because they’re hollering over the hum of the motor, FAAASTER Poppy! Faster, please!!
Eventually I hopped on too. It’s easy to lose all sense of adulthood, to contract the innocent wonder of my children. It may be easier still to lose any sense of advent, though, to rush, to hustle, to hear loud and feel fast. From the back of the sled, I just wanted to yell Slower, please! SLOW down.
It really is busy, December, as slow as I try to make it.
I can hear the quiet voice that's telling me to go to bed now though. And I'm listening.
12.17.2013
In Tollie's words
He would not take off the hat he found, and carried the club around all evening.
Meem golf ball. Meem golf ball club. Meem Buck-Buck hat.
He walked past the dining room, all decorated for dinner, and said, with wide eyes, Nice room.
And then he got stuck under the table with his golf club.
He came in from being pulled on the toboggan behind Poppy's cycle and retold the adventure over and over again. Meem like sled. Poppy go fast. Meem pass cows.
He had a soft pallet on the floor next to Tuck's bed on the couch, but he was not interested. At all. Meem sleep with Datuck.
12.15.2013
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