Peace.
At the risk of being incredibly cheesy, I've decided to blog through the rest of the yuletide season on three utterly unoriginal yet Christmas-related themes:
So, I begin with peace. No, I dare not go global, though I do lose sleep worrying over children and women in Syria. Really, regarding peace, I cannot write authoritatively on anything other than my own experience.
Here's a confession: I can be quite anxious. If my mind picks out one weird thing to contort and eff up, I can have an entirely sleepless night full of restlessness, nausea, and general misery. All because my brain is lying to me.
So, peace--particularly, mental peace--is something I value, dearly.
Stress, as you can imagine, does not help much. So, once I realized that "making Christmas" was going to require much toil and doing, I vowed to not go postal and instead revamp my expectations. I think I've been reasonably successful, though you should ask Chris for a more accurate assessment.
After an antsy night of no sleep (Friday), I entered Saturday depleted, tired, and kind of peeved. Chris heroically swooped in ways that I shall list in the next post, but he ensured that by Saturday afternoon, I could peacefully take my oldest child to The Nutcracker, worrying not about finding parking, snow (would it continue? would I be able to get home?), or much else. That day actually held many, many activities for our wee family. That night, despite everything, I slept soundly.
On Sunday, the Seahawks shut out New York. That would help ANY Seattle-born fan sleep soundly as playoffs loom. More importantly, after the church Christmas party and potluck, I brought Lorelei home to put her to bed while Chris and Charlotte stayed for the kids' movie and adult gift exchange. A bummer to miss that? Sure. But I put on Christmas music and quickly worked around our home, hustling to clean dishes, prepare lunches, get a load of laundry moving, set out clothes for the girls for the next day, and all that usual household stuff. As I worked, sort of in my own little world, Sarah McLachlan's song, "Winter Night," came on.
Like a dork, I laughed to myself, as this was Chris and my Christmas song. When we had started dating, not too long after the new millennium launched, we had to (tragically!) part for Christmas, since merely dating did not qualify for seeing each other over the most sacred part of the year (for us, anyway). Instead, we pined for one another, letting Sarah's song reflect our youthful longing. A rite of passage for anyone in love, I suppose. A year or two later, I lived in Charlottesville (Virginia) as I attended grad school at the University of Virginia. Chris, who lived right outside DC at the time, had come down during a cold December. Anxious to "show" him Mr. Jefferson's domain, I convinced him to attend a period Christmas party at Monticello (which is pretty much on top of a hill--that, by East Coast standards, I think passed as a "mountain"). Mr. Jefferson's abode was candlelit and open for us commoners to wander through at our leisure, with knowledgeable guides around as needed, so they could, for example, tell me all about the piano-forte in the drawing room. It was simply awesome.
Eventually, we worked our way to one of the many gardens. As we did, an a cappella group from UVa serenaded visitors. Chris and I stopped to listen. Because they were fantastic. They sang through a couple great Christmas songs, and then? Seemingly out of the blue, they started Sarah McLachlan's "Winter's Night"--OUR Christmas song. I think there was a gasp and hand flying to my mouth, as they beautifully performed, in the dark, on that mountain top, one of our most special, meaningful songs. I cried.
So, fast forward oh, say, 8 years. Probably exactly, though I can't prove it. When the notes of "Winter's Night" vibrated through our brilliantly (I admit it) placed speakers, as I commenced the oh so noble task of preparing the girls' lunches for Monday, I did the requisite flashbacks to younger years, as I always do when I hear this song. Then it occurred to me--with the most fantastic, settled-in feeling EVER: I'm no longer a snot-nosed undergrad (or grad student) pining for my guy across miles, in spite of family traditions. Chris IS my family. I never have to spend a Christmas apart from him, ever. Not until one of us leaves this earth.
And that, friends, made me incredibly happy. And SO at peace. I had my dude, whom I loved so. I grinned like the dorkiest of dorks and proceeded to make nutella and sunflower butter sandwiches for the little girls whom our love spawned. Life was good.
Then, as the week! before! Christmas! commenced, I had the task of writing the thank-you-merry-Christmas cards for the girls' teachers (with gift cards, mind you--it freaking pays to be a caregiver of one of our children). Both Charlotte and Lorelei are moving up to the next class beginning January 1, and they have already started the transition processes, per the school's operating procedure. Charlotte is entering pre-k, which is her last stop on her preschool career. This is bittersweet for me. I'm so, so proud. SO PROUD. And oh so wistful. I'll be leaving her on a sprawling college campus somewhere in the blink of an eye. I'm sure of it.
Lorelei is also moving to the Sprouts class, which involves actual, real-life lunch boxes and cots for napping. No bottles or pacifiers or any of that baby stuff. This particular milestone has hit me hard. She's the baby of my babies. Sometimes, I probably hold her back, babying her. But like I said, I had the task of writing cards and such for the wonderful six teachers who devoted their days to caring for my children.
By the time I got to Lorelei's lead teacher's card, I was an emotional mess. This actually tends to help my writing, so I went ahead and wrote to her teacher, who also cared so lovingly for Charlotte several years prior. This woman has devoted her career to caring for children like mine. She cared for both of my girls on the days I returned to work after maternity leaves, a wreck and torn. She made it okay. She gave me the greatest gift a working mother could hope for: knowing my baby (babies, it turned out) were in loving, incredibly capable hands. So, I told her all that, in that note. As a mom who has been, since the moment Charlotte drew breath, in the gray area as far as my commitment to working mommyhood, this talented teacher not once but twice played a crucial, crucial role in getting me through some of the most awful, doubtful days working mommyhood threw at me.
When I finished her Christmas card, I felt happy. And at peace. By dumb luck, privilege, or the grace of God, my girls had both exited their infancy from top-notch, stellar care. Not always provided by me but still lovingly given. I just knew that my girls had been well taken care of.
And if you're a working mum, you know that is the holy grail of peace.
So, there you go. Two instances of peace, dropping on me with the happy weight of nostalgia and mommy heart ache (oh, Lorelei! Are you really old enough to leave the crib?!). Right now, I'd even happily nurse either child just to get a little whiff of early infancy back--without the sleep deprivation, please.
Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that this evening ended in a lot of tears. Happy(ish) tears, but a lot of tears. I know Lorelei is ready to move on and up. I'm thrilled for her. I'm proud of her. I rejoice at the lack of bottles I have to prepare or clean. But oh my goodness. When it's your last baby, every damn milestone is a reminder of what will never be again.
It's painful but okay. Practice, methinks, for the day those over-confident feet step onto the school bus on the first day of kindergarten not too many days from now.
The past few days, as trite and cheesy as it sounds, I've manage to see the "it's all good" within the utter chaos of life with an almost 4-year-old and young toddler during the Christmas season. Chris and I have been given such tremendous gifts, both in the sheer existence of Charlotte and Lorelei, and in the goofball, only-we-get-it love we have for each other.
Going to sleep--as it's almost midnight, after all--alongside the one you love? Peace, y'all. And, of course, merry Christmas.
- Peace.
- Love.
- Joy.
So, I begin with peace. No, I dare not go global, though I do lose sleep worrying over children and women in Syria. Really, regarding peace, I cannot write authoritatively on anything other than my own experience.
Here's a confession: I can be quite anxious. If my mind picks out one weird thing to contort and eff up, I can have an entirely sleepless night full of restlessness, nausea, and general misery. All because my brain is lying to me.
So, peace--particularly, mental peace--is something I value, dearly.
Stress, as you can imagine, does not help much. So, once I realized that "making Christmas" was going to require much toil and doing, I vowed to not go postal and instead revamp my expectations. I think I've been reasonably successful, though you should ask Chris for a more accurate assessment.
After an antsy night of no sleep (Friday), I entered Saturday depleted, tired, and kind of peeved. Chris heroically swooped in ways that I shall list in the next post, but he ensured that by Saturday afternoon, I could peacefully take my oldest child to The Nutcracker, worrying not about finding parking, snow (would it continue? would I be able to get home?), or much else. That day actually held many, many activities for our wee family. That night, despite everything, I slept soundly.
On Sunday, the Seahawks shut out New York. That would help ANY Seattle-born fan sleep soundly as playoffs loom. More importantly, after the church Christmas party and potluck, I brought Lorelei home to put her to bed while Chris and Charlotte stayed for the kids' movie and adult gift exchange. A bummer to miss that? Sure. But I put on Christmas music and quickly worked around our home, hustling to clean dishes, prepare lunches, get a load of laundry moving, set out clothes for the girls for the next day, and all that usual household stuff. As I worked, sort of in my own little world, Sarah McLachlan's song, "Winter Night," came on.
Like a dork, I laughed to myself, as this was Chris and my Christmas song. When we had started dating, not too long after the new millennium launched, we had to (tragically!) part for Christmas, since merely dating did not qualify for seeing each other over the most sacred part of the year (for us, anyway). Instead, we pined for one another, letting Sarah's song reflect our youthful longing. A rite of passage for anyone in love, I suppose. A year or two later, I lived in Charlottesville (Virginia) as I attended grad school at the University of Virginia. Chris, who lived right outside DC at the time, had come down during a cold December. Anxious to "show" him Mr. Jefferson's domain, I convinced him to attend a period Christmas party at Monticello (which is pretty much on top of a hill--that, by East Coast standards, I think passed as a "mountain"). Mr. Jefferson's abode was candlelit and open for us commoners to wander through at our leisure, with knowledgeable guides around as needed, so they could, for example, tell me all about the piano-forte in the drawing room. It was simply awesome.
Eventually, we worked our way to one of the many gardens. As we did, an a cappella group from UVa serenaded visitors. Chris and I stopped to listen. Because they were fantastic. They sang through a couple great Christmas songs, and then? Seemingly out of the blue, they started Sarah McLachlan's "Winter's Night"--OUR Christmas song. I think there was a gasp and hand flying to my mouth, as they beautifully performed, in the dark, on that mountain top, one of our most special, meaningful songs. I cried.
So, fast forward oh, say, 8 years. Probably exactly, though I can't prove it. When the notes of "Winter's Night" vibrated through our brilliantly (I admit it) placed speakers, as I commenced the oh so noble task of preparing the girls' lunches for Monday, I did the requisite flashbacks to younger years, as I always do when I hear this song. Then it occurred to me--with the most fantastic, settled-in feeling EVER: I'm no longer a snot-nosed undergrad (or grad student) pining for my guy across miles, in spite of family traditions. Chris IS my family. I never have to spend a Christmas apart from him, ever. Not until one of us leaves this earth.
And that, friends, made me incredibly happy. And SO at peace. I had my dude, whom I loved so. I grinned like the dorkiest of dorks and proceeded to make nutella and sunflower butter sandwiches for the little girls whom our love spawned. Life was good.
Then, as the week! before! Christmas! commenced, I had the task of writing the thank-you-merry-Christmas cards for the girls' teachers (with gift cards, mind you--it freaking pays to be a caregiver of one of our children). Both Charlotte and Lorelei are moving up to the next class beginning January 1, and they have already started the transition processes, per the school's operating procedure. Charlotte is entering pre-k, which is her last stop on her preschool career. This is bittersweet for me. I'm so, so proud. SO PROUD. And oh so wistful. I'll be leaving her on a sprawling college campus somewhere in the blink of an eye. I'm sure of it.
Lorelei is also moving to the Sprouts class, which involves actual, real-life lunch boxes and cots for napping. No bottles or pacifiers or any of that baby stuff. This particular milestone has hit me hard. She's the baby of my babies. Sometimes, I probably hold her back, babying her. But like I said, I had the task of writing cards and such for the wonderful six teachers who devoted their days to caring for my children.
By the time I got to Lorelei's lead teacher's card, I was an emotional mess. This actually tends to help my writing, so I went ahead and wrote to her teacher, who also cared so lovingly for Charlotte several years prior. This woman has devoted her career to caring for children like mine. She cared for both of my girls on the days I returned to work after maternity leaves, a wreck and torn. She made it okay. She gave me the greatest gift a working mother could hope for: knowing my baby (babies, it turned out) were in loving, incredibly capable hands. So, I told her all that, in that note. As a mom who has been, since the moment Charlotte drew breath, in the gray area as far as my commitment to working mommyhood, this talented teacher not once but twice played a crucial, crucial role in getting me through some of the most awful, doubtful days working mommyhood threw at me.
When I finished her Christmas card, I felt happy. And at peace. By dumb luck, privilege, or the grace of God, my girls had both exited their infancy from top-notch, stellar care. Not always provided by me but still lovingly given. I just knew that my girls had been well taken care of.
And if you're a working mum, you know that is the holy grail of peace.
So, there you go. Two instances of peace, dropping on me with the happy weight of nostalgia and mommy heart ache (oh, Lorelei! Are you really old enough to leave the crib?!). Right now, I'd even happily nurse either child just to get a little whiff of early infancy back--without the sleep deprivation, please.
Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that this evening ended in a lot of tears. Happy(ish) tears, but a lot of tears. I know Lorelei is ready to move on and up. I'm thrilled for her. I'm proud of her. I rejoice at the lack of bottles I have to prepare or clean. But oh my goodness. When it's your last baby, every damn milestone is a reminder of what will never be again.
It's painful but okay. Practice, methinks, for the day those over-confident feet step onto the school bus on the first day of kindergarten not too many days from now.
The past few days, as trite and cheesy as it sounds, I've manage to see the "it's all good" within the utter chaos of life with an almost 4-year-old and young toddler during the Christmas season. Chris and I have been given such tremendous gifts, both in the sheer existence of Charlotte and Lorelei, and in the goofball, only-we-get-it love we have for each other.
Going to sleep--as it's almost midnight, after all--alongside the one you love? Peace, y'all. And, of course, merry Christmas.
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