Love.
As I was deciding what to include in this post on Love, the second in my Christmas trio (peace, love, joy), I realized that much of what I wanted to write about could apply to my (to-be-written) Joy post, or would've been swell in the Peace post, depending on how I angled it. These three themes are quite interconnected, no?
So, here's my best shot at describing the unexpected ways I got to see some lovin' this yuletide season.
Last weekend, we had an incredibly packed set of days: 3 work/school holiday parties, dinner in Bethesda, Lessons and Carols, gymnastics (Charlotte), The Nutcracker, cookie exchange party, teaching Sunday school/Christmas pagaent rehearsal (Charlotte will be a thumb-sucking angel, by the way), afternoon football (actually, this was our ONLY down time and I fell asleep before the third quarter--I was exhausted), and the church Christmas potluck/party/Santa visit.
I technically had Friday off work, but I had to go into Bethesda for our nondenominational, nonreligious, in-no-way-affiliated-with-anything-related-to-Christmas employee appreciation and recognition lunch (or, as we call it, "EARL"). Chris was having his own nonreligious work party AT THE SAME TIME, and we realized a week or so prior . . . we could spend the remainder of the afternoon hanging out together and having a couple Christmas cocktails! And . . . WITHOUT THE CHILDREN.
We were so excited. This was going to be the GREATEST FRIDAY AFTERNOON EVER!!!
And then? We received an email from Charlotte and Lorelei's school informing us that their holiday parties would occur on that same Friday afternoon. Perhaps more than is rational, Chris and I were crushed. We never get to do anything with each other that is apart from the kids (or work) that's out of the house. (This is why our sacred Saturday Night Dinners are a kid-free event event at home, complete with candles, good wine, and fancy Chris-prepared food--we do our best to "date" at home. But getting OUT is really nice, too--and incredibly rare.)
So, on Friday, we met after our work parties in Friendship Heights and pretty much pounded a drink apiece and then speed-walked to the car to get to the school. We toyed with the idea of skipping the school parties. They're truly just a matter of us showing up and watching the kids eat junk and then leaving (with the kids) early. Lorelei wouldn't care, but, alas, Charlotte would want us there.
So, we went. Not many parents came, so I'm not sure if that meant we got extra-big gold stars because BOTH of our girls' parents came, or if it was completely unimportant that we came. But as disappointed as Chris and I were for missing an afternoon Christmastime date, we had kids. And you do crap you don't want to do, because you love them. It was important to Charlotte that we were there. So, we were.
Later that night, probably mistakenly, I kept Charlotte up way past her bedtime. I took her to Lessons and Carols at a massive (MASSIVE) church that we had attended when we temporarily lived in Bethesda. We're talking orchestra, brass, powerful organ, hundreds of people singing--it's glorious, and I so wanted to share it with Charlotte. (The last time I had gone, I was pregnant with her.)
Charlotte struggled to behave. I found myself irritated, because I could've just come by myself and stayed for the entire, magnificent performance instead of taking my child out of the sanctuary and to the narthex several times (where, blessedly, other stressed parents and I exchanged sympathetic smiles). Why couldn't she just behave? Why did I bring her? I realized the situation was my fault, and my annoyance shifted to myself. This girl had had a full, busy day and was now up way, way past her bedtime. What did I expect?
The next day, as I was driving Charlotte and myself to The Nutcracker through falling snow and past white, snow-laden farm fields, a beautiful choral piece played in the car.
"Mommy, is this song from Lessons and Carols?" she asked.
I was overjoyed that Charlotte was able to recognize choral music as the same type of music she had heard the night before. "No, they didn't sing this song, but it's pretty, isn't it? And it's a song celebrating Christmas, just like the music you heard last night."
Charlotte pensively considered this.
I went on, "What music did you like best at Lessons and Carols?"
Charlotte immediately lit up. "The bells!" she shouted. The performance had opened with the bell choir walking down the long sanctuary aisle playing "Carol of the Bells." They had definitely caught Charlotte's fancy.
"What else did you like?" I asked.
"Everybody singing SO LOUD," Charlotte said, firmly.
I laughed and realized that maybe it had been worth taking her. Music is such an important part of the Christmas season to me, and I desperately want her to grow up understanding that people make music; it doesn't just come out of a car radio or at through the TV at the end of a Dora the Explorer episode. I think our family piano helps with this, but . . . I wanted her to see what real, live music was about, particularly music expressing the joy and sacredness of Christmas.
The night before, for the final song at Lessons and Carols, my pooped Charlotte was in my arms, and the entire (huge) congregation and giant choir (along with that orchestra, heralding trumpets, and probably a million-dollar organ) sang the most powerful version of "Joy to World" my 32-year-old ears had ever heard. As I held Charlotte (with her head on my shoulder) and sang, I hoped hoped hoped she was soaking up the music and the specialness of Christmas.
At home that night, not yet knowing that Charlotte had taken away some musical, Christmasy goodness from the performance, I lamented to Chris about how I shouldn't have taken her. I didn't think she had liked it, I had been unable to relax and enjoy the music, and the whole thing had been pretty stressful.
"I just wanted to share it with her," I said. "I wanted her to have that experience. I wanted her to have what I had growing up." You know. Because I love her so. But for some reason, I felt that Charlotte should UNDERSTAND this big fat sacrifice I was making out of love to her, going WAY out of my way to expose her to this music and risking the wild-card factor of an almost-4-year-old at a rather stuffy, formal event. And no, Charlotte did not understand. She didn't. But she benefited, it turned out, from her mama's gesture of love; she just didn't realize it. And that's sort of the way love works, I think. It's unconditional and forgiving but not necessarily understood, appreciated, or reciprocated. But it's there.
Love continued, y'all. On Saturday (my, these posts are long--welcome to Ashley's stream of consciousness), I had 5 dozen lemon ricotta cookies to make for a cookie exchange that night. I toiled all through the morning to make them, sometimes one-handedly as I carried Lorelei. I was still in my pajamas and up to my eyeballs in cookie batter when Chris returned home with Charlotte post-gymnastics. I flew around the kitchen, watching the clock--I had Nutcracker tickets for that afternoon, and time was running out. These cookies were taking far longer than I had expected. I turned on the second oven so cookies could bake twice as fast, and mercifully, Chris got Charlotte fed and to bed for her nap.
"Have you eaten today?" Chris asked me.
"NO!" I shouted. "I don't have time!"
Ever calm, Chris said, "I'm going to MacDonald's to get you lunch. You can tell me what you want, or I can guess, but you're going to eat what I bring home."
"Quarter-pounder with cheese," I muttered.
By the time Chris returned with lunch, I was on the brink of a meltdown. I had about 35 minutes to shower, get presentable, get two more sheets of cookies out of the oven, make a lemon glaze, and glaze all those freaking cookies.
"Screw it," I said. "I'm not going to take Charlotte to the ballet. I don't even know that she'll behave, she'll be operating from about a 20-minute-long nap, which is NOT enough for her, I can't get ready in time, I don't even know where this theater is or where I'm supposed to park, and . . . [panicked breathing] I'm [breath] just [breath] out [breath] of [breath] time. I haven't boxed up the gifts to ship, the foyer is covered in boxes, I haven't ordered the gift cards for the teachers, I haven't prepped for tomorrow's Sunday school, I don't know what to make for tomorrow's potluck, the kitchen looks like a tornado blew through---it's just too much! I don't have enough time!"
Chris held out the hamburger and made me take a bite. And breathe.
Then he gave me a hug. It was particularly nice, because he was wearing a cozy fleece.
"Get in the shower. I will finish the cookies. I will glaze them. They will be ready for your party tonight," he said.
I complied and got ready as fast as I could. As I descended the stairs, he met me at the bottom with a printed map. "This is how you get to the theater. It's simple. See this street? There's a parking garage. Park there. Google estimates 35 minutes to get there. You have time."
I got Charlotte up and dressed, Chris put her into her car seat, and before I knew it . . . we were happily driving to Charlotte's first Nutcracker performance. All because Chris had calmly and lovingly swooped in, handling as many of those small (but boy do they add up), burdensome tasks, so I could spend a snowy afternoon at the ballet with my daughter. I was so grateful. I knew he'd have those cookies glazed by the time I got home, and he did. (I'll write more about The Nutcracker--which Charlotte loved AND behaved for--in my next post. But oh, we had a great time.)
When we returned home, Chris had boxed, addressed, and labeled the three boxes of gifts we had to send to the West Coast. He had selected a recipe for the potluck, already shopped for ingredients, and promised to be in charge of actually making it. All the extra boxes in the foyer were flattened and in the recycling bin. The kitchen was clean. Dishwashers unloaded. Gift cards for the teachers were ordered. Some of the Christmas cards had even been stamped.
Thus, with so many of my to-do list items crossed off my list, I was able to go spend a few hours with some sassy ladies of the neighborhood that night, exchanging cookies, drinking wine, and just hanging out.
So, being on the receiving end of some love? That's pretty awesome, too.
So, here's my best shot at describing the unexpected ways I got to see some lovin' this yuletide season.
Last weekend, we had an incredibly packed set of days: 3 work/school holiday parties, dinner in Bethesda, Lessons and Carols, gymnastics (Charlotte), The Nutcracker, cookie exchange party, teaching Sunday school/Christmas pagaent rehearsal (Charlotte will be a thumb-sucking angel, by the way), afternoon football (actually, this was our ONLY down time and I fell asleep before the third quarter--I was exhausted), and the church Christmas potluck/party/Santa visit.
I technically had Friday off work, but I had to go into Bethesda for our nondenominational, nonreligious, in-no-way-affiliated-with-anything-related-to-Christmas employee appreciation and recognition lunch (or, as we call it, "EARL"). Chris was having his own nonreligious work party AT THE SAME TIME, and we realized a week or so prior . . . we could spend the remainder of the afternoon hanging out together and having a couple Christmas cocktails! And . . . WITHOUT THE CHILDREN.
We were so excited. This was going to be the GREATEST FRIDAY AFTERNOON EVER!!!
And then? We received an email from Charlotte and Lorelei's school informing us that their holiday parties would occur on that same Friday afternoon. Perhaps more than is rational, Chris and I were crushed. We never get to do anything with each other that is apart from the kids (or work) that's out of the house. (This is why our sacred Saturday Night Dinners are a kid-free event event at home, complete with candles, good wine, and fancy Chris-prepared food--we do our best to "date" at home. But getting OUT is really nice, too--and incredibly rare.)
So, on Friday, we met after our work parties in Friendship Heights and pretty much pounded a drink apiece and then speed-walked to the car to get to the school. We toyed with the idea of skipping the school parties. They're truly just a matter of us showing up and watching the kids eat junk and then leaving (with the kids) early. Lorelei wouldn't care, but, alas, Charlotte would want us there.
So, we went. Not many parents came, so I'm not sure if that meant we got extra-big gold stars because BOTH of our girls' parents came, or if it was completely unimportant that we came. But as disappointed as Chris and I were for missing an afternoon Christmastime date, we had kids. And you do crap you don't want to do, because you love them. It was important to Charlotte that we were there. So, we were.
Later that night, probably mistakenly, I kept Charlotte up way past her bedtime. I took her to Lessons and Carols at a massive (MASSIVE) church that we had attended when we temporarily lived in Bethesda. We're talking orchestra, brass, powerful organ, hundreds of people singing--it's glorious, and I so wanted to share it with Charlotte. (The last time I had gone, I was pregnant with her.)
 |
| In Bethesda for dinner before Lessons and Carols. She wouldn't let go of my thumb, which was unfortunate, because my dumb arm is blocking the impossibly adorable black bow on her super duper cute coat. |
Charlotte struggled to behave. I found myself irritated, because I could've just come by myself and stayed for the entire, magnificent performance instead of taking my child out of the sanctuary and to the narthex several times (where, blessedly, other stressed parents and I exchanged sympathetic smiles). Why couldn't she just behave? Why did I bring her? I realized the situation was my fault, and my annoyance shifted to myself. This girl had had a full, busy day and was now up way, way past her bedtime. What did I expect?
The next day, as I was driving Charlotte and myself to The Nutcracker through falling snow and past white, snow-laden farm fields, a beautiful choral piece played in the car.
"Mommy, is this song from Lessons and Carols?" she asked.
I was overjoyed that Charlotte was able to recognize choral music as the same type of music she had heard the night before. "No, they didn't sing this song, but it's pretty, isn't it? And it's a song celebrating Christmas, just like the music you heard last night."
Charlotte pensively considered this.
I went on, "What music did you like best at Lessons and Carols?"
Charlotte immediately lit up. "The bells!" she shouted. The performance had opened with the bell choir walking down the long sanctuary aisle playing "Carol of the Bells." They had definitely caught Charlotte's fancy.
"What else did you like?" I asked.
"Everybody singing SO LOUD," Charlotte said, firmly.
I laughed and realized that maybe it had been worth taking her. Music is such an important part of the Christmas season to me, and I desperately want her to grow up understanding that people make music; it doesn't just come out of a car radio or at through the TV at the end of a Dora the Explorer episode. I think our family piano helps with this, but . . . I wanted her to see what real, live music was about, particularly music expressing the joy and sacredness of Christmas.
The night before, for the final song at Lessons and Carols, my pooped Charlotte was in my arms, and the entire (huge) congregation and giant choir (along with that orchestra, heralding trumpets, and probably a million-dollar organ) sang the most powerful version of "Joy to World" my 32-year-old ears had ever heard. As I held Charlotte (with her head on my shoulder) and sang, I hoped hoped hoped she was soaking up the music and the specialness of Christmas.
At home that night, not yet knowing that Charlotte had taken away some musical, Christmasy goodness from the performance, I lamented to Chris about how I shouldn't have taken her. I didn't think she had liked it, I had been unable to relax and enjoy the music, and the whole thing had been pretty stressful.
"I just wanted to share it with her," I said. "I wanted her to have that experience. I wanted her to have what I had growing up." You know. Because I love her so. But for some reason, I felt that Charlotte should UNDERSTAND this big fat sacrifice I was making out of love to her, going WAY out of my way to expose her to this music and risking the wild-card factor of an almost-4-year-old at a rather stuffy, formal event. And no, Charlotte did not understand. She didn't. But she benefited, it turned out, from her mama's gesture of love; she just didn't realize it. And that's sort of the way love works, I think. It's unconditional and forgiving but not necessarily understood, appreciated, or reciprocated. But it's there.
Love continued, y'all. On Saturday (my, these posts are long--welcome to Ashley's stream of consciousness), I had 5 dozen lemon ricotta cookies to make for a cookie exchange that night. I toiled all through the morning to make them, sometimes one-handedly as I carried Lorelei. I was still in my pajamas and up to my eyeballs in cookie batter when Chris returned home with Charlotte post-gymnastics. I flew around the kitchen, watching the clock--I had Nutcracker tickets for that afternoon, and time was running out. These cookies were taking far longer than I had expected. I turned on the second oven so cookies could bake twice as fast, and mercifully, Chris got Charlotte fed and to bed for her nap.
"Have you eaten today?" Chris asked me.
"NO!" I shouted. "I don't have time!"
Ever calm, Chris said, "I'm going to MacDonald's to get you lunch. You can tell me what you want, or I can guess, but you're going to eat what I bring home."
"Quarter-pounder with cheese," I muttered.
By the time Chris returned with lunch, I was on the brink of a meltdown. I had about 35 minutes to shower, get presentable, get two more sheets of cookies out of the oven, make a lemon glaze, and glaze all those freaking cookies.
"Screw it," I said. "I'm not going to take Charlotte to the ballet. I don't even know that she'll behave, she'll be operating from about a 20-minute-long nap, which is NOT enough for her, I can't get ready in time, I don't even know where this theater is or where I'm supposed to park, and . . . [panicked breathing] I'm [breath] just [breath] out [breath] of [breath] time. I haven't boxed up the gifts to ship, the foyer is covered in boxes, I haven't ordered the gift cards for the teachers, I haven't prepped for tomorrow's Sunday school, I don't know what to make for tomorrow's potluck, the kitchen looks like a tornado blew through---it's just too much! I don't have enough time!"
Chris held out the hamburger and made me take a bite. And breathe.
Then he gave me a hug. It was particularly nice, because he was wearing a cozy fleece.
"Get in the shower. I will finish the cookies. I will glaze them. They will be ready for your party tonight," he said.
I complied and got ready as fast as I could. As I descended the stairs, he met me at the bottom with a printed map. "This is how you get to the theater. It's simple. See this street? There's a parking garage. Park there. Google estimates 35 minutes to get there. You have time."
I got Charlotte up and dressed, Chris put her into her car seat, and before I knew it . . . we were happily driving to Charlotte's first Nutcracker performance. All because Chris had calmly and lovingly swooped in, handling as many of those small (but boy do they add up), burdensome tasks, so I could spend a snowy afternoon at the ballet with my daughter. I was so grateful. I knew he'd have those cookies glazed by the time I got home, and he did. (I'll write more about The Nutcracker--which Charlotte loved AND behaved for--in my next post. But oh, we had a great time.)
When we returned home, Chris had boxed, addressed, and labeled the three boxes of gifts we had to send to the West Coast. He had selected a recipe for the potluck, already shopped for ingredients, and promised to be in charge of actually making it. All the extra boxes in the foyer were flattened and in the recycling bin. The kitchen was clean. Dishwashers unloaded. Gift cards for the teachers were ordered. Some of the Christmas cards had even been stamped.
Thus, with so many of my to-do list items crossed off my list, I was able to go spend a few hours with some sassy ladies of the neighborhood that night, exchanging cookies, drinking wine, and just hanging out.
So, being on the receiving end of some love? That's pretty awesome, too.
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