Need a hug?

I was at Walmart the other day. Cart full of groceries and in a hurry. Aggravated because there was only one check out open. I don’t enjoy the self check out. It takes me forever. People huff. Anyway, I was standing there perusing the cover of a People magazine and waiting my time when I realized there was a small drama playing out ahead of me. The lady in front of the couple in front of me didn’t have enough money to buy everything in her cart. She was taking things back from the conveyer belt and handing them to her son. He was probably twelve with huge glasses and a nintendo t-shirt. Skinny arms full of laundry soap and baked beans and toothpaste. My brain immediately started cataloging the cash in my wallet. But, before I could make a move, the man in front of me had his wallet out. “Let me pay,” he said taking a step toward her. She turned and put a hand out towards him. Not to accept, but to stop him. Because he was stepping toward her, her hand ended up in the middle of his chest. Splayed there and stayed. They spent a minute staring into each other’s eyes and then he stepped back in place. Behind him, I quickly stared at my feet. I didn’t want her to see that I saw. Saw the pain and confusion. The resignation. The fear that somehow she might become someone she never intended to be. She paid for what she could, her son handed the rest to the cashier, and me and the man finished our purchases.

When I got to my car, tears started to fall. I wished I knew the lady. Had her phone number. I wanted to call her and tell her I understood. Understood that sometimes things hurt too much for even help to land right.

I understood because the day before, I had been at my vet saying goodbye to our sweet little dog that we have loved for ten years. She was the best. Feisty and tough and funny, but completely incapable of beating cancer. In the examination room, I held her until the vet said she was gone and then the tears began to fall. Our sweet young vet came around the table offering me a hug. Compassion was written all over her face and I knew she meant well, but I said no and backed away holding out my hand just like the Walmart lady. A physical representation of how much I didn’t want her to hug me. I saw the surprise on her face and felt bad. I wasn’t trying to be mean, but I was completely incapable of accepting a hug in that moment. Too many things were too close to the surface. I needed my shell to get out of there. My shell and my sunglasses.

I didn’t want to accept that hug and start ugly crying and not even really know what I was crying about. The loss of my sweet dog? Sure. My sister’s long wait for scan results? Absolutely. The news headlines? Without a doubt. All of that and more. It was easier to just refuse the hug and make my escape. To not upset the poor folks in the lobby.

Thinking about it later, I wondered if Americans aren’t mostly feeling the same way as me and the lady in Walmart. A whole nation of people fragile and hurting and just trying to keep it together. Life certainly seems weird lately. Friends in my circle talk about it a lot. Everyone just seems off. Out of kilter. Worried. It’s like the pandemic happened and we never righted ourselves afterwards. We seem to be a whole nation of little kids waiting and trying to act tough until the grownups show up and fix things. Our bottom lips quivering while we stand in a corner with our arms crossed. Waiting for grocery prices to go back to reasonable, waiting for headlines to be less terrifying and waiting for some sign that things will be better this time next year. Will they?

I read a story about a bunch of college kids the other day at a church service that wanted to be baptized so badly they did it in the beds of pickup trucks. Filled them up with water hoses and got it done. The Walmart man was going to buy the groceries. The vet offered a hug. An election is coming. Some opportunity to choose.

Little signs, but signs I hold onto all the same.

I love you America.

Mitzi used points.

I had the occasion to be having lunch in a Thai restaurant not long ago. One of those places with gleaming dark tables that are placed entirely too close to each other. Fine if the place is empty. A problem if it’s not. Well, it’s a problem for me. I mostly don’t enjoy strangers listening to my conversations. The folks who made my phone notwithstanding. You know how that goes.

Anyway, back to my lunch. I was there with my husband. He’s mostly quiet. Mostly always. We work it out by me talking and him grunting. That’s all I need. I have more than enough words for both of us. This particular day I was glad he was quiet for another reason. I was in heaven. The closeness of the tables were yielding rich, rich fodder for my writer’s heart. The lunching ladies at the table next to us appeared to be operating under the belief they were enclosed in a force field created just for them that kept the rest of the restaurant from hearing their conversation. They were not. I assure you. I could hear everything. And I was listening. Oh boy was I.

Before you judge please understand they were talking about really personal things. Things I shut my bedroom door and hide in my closet to talk to my sister about! Seriously.

I’m just going to say the one with flashy diamond rings is married to a man who should be checking his credit card bills a little closer. His wife isn’t traveling solo. The one in the pink sweater set has finally found a girl named Veronica who waxes her in the manner she grew accustomed to the three years she lived in New York. A perfectly precious apartment across the street from Central Park and nether regions waxed as smooth as a new born baby. She shared the number with the girls in case they wanted to switch from that perfectly horrid Angela at the other place. She promised them they would be pleased and reapplied her red lipstick. It matched my cheeks. The one who kept checking her watch and who ate all of her lunch, even though she wasn’t remotely hungry, has decided not to invite April to her next luncheon. I guess I understand. April did blow her nose on one of her host’s beautiful napkins at the table while people were still eating. And she understands they were paper napkins but they were expensive and they were on theme. Who does that? At this point in her story, per my peripheral vision, she rested her forehead onto her open hand while the lady next to her patted her shoulder. Tragedy. In the Thai restaurant. I used my own napkin to wipe a tear before it landed in my food. I felt her trauma.

Sometimes, as a writer, I have to work hard to hear someone’s conversation. I guess I really shouldn’t listen, but y’all are interesting. You give me great ideas that I use to my advantage. But not with these ladies. They did me the favor of talking at full volume. In a loud restaurant. I didn’t miss a word. Not one. Well that is until the topic of a friend’s upcoming wedding came up. It’s going to be in Vail. In the summer. They hate the color palette. Champagne and gold. So dated. Shrimp for dinner sounds good. They are all flying together. It will be so fun to get drunk on the plane together. (Bet that will generate a headline somewhere!) And the condos they rented are walking distance from the shops. One of them is looking for a perfect carving to hang over the new fireplace at the lake house.

But then, something incredible happened. A topic was introduced these ladies didn’t feel was polite to discuss in public. I’m not even kidding. I mean at this point any patron of the restaurant could have blackmailed any of the three with a pretty fair chance of scoring some cash. But, apparently there are some things that are just not to be shared. Mitzy, their dear friend, was taking a different flight than the rest of them because, pink sweater set whispered quietly and emphatically, she bought her ticket with points. “Points!” she repeated fiercely.

Granted, I almost missed that part but, thankfully, I had accidentally dropped my napkin and had to bend over to retrieve it. What? You’ve never dropped your napkin? At least I’m not April. Anyway, back to the ladies, their friend had not used cash and purchased the best seat available to anyone on earth. Instead, she had taken a lesser seat to save money. Three heads landed in three palms and they were all patting each other’s back. A commiserative circle for the ages.

It was at this point that I choked on my soup and my husband looked up at me, grinned and asked if I was ready to leave. I grinned back and said, “No way am I leaving this chair. Ever.” He grinned again and went back to his rice. Turns out he’s learned a few things from me.

There would be a long conversation later. The miles in our truck spent relaying the conversation to each other and laughing until our sides hurt. Taking comfort in the fact that our credit card bills hold no secrets. That we use plain ole’ Bounty napkins and can withstand table nose blowing. That we would never discuss waxing to each other much less in public.

And that we have a heart for Mitzi and her points. She could be one of us. Granted probably much better dressed, but I bet she wouldn’t turn down the free peanuts. Mitzi seems like a practical gal. And she has my eternal respect and gratitude.

She made those three lower their voices and that fact is still making me giggle. A lot. I like giggling and I like stranger’s conversations. Sue me. I’m a writer.

Breaking God’s heart.

I’ve been thinking about God a lot lately.

Not in some kind of deep, formal, liturgical way. No in more of a blue jeans, come over for cake, I’m sorry that that happened to you way.

I feel like I’m getting a vibe from him. That we are speaking the same language. Communicating. Dishing. Commiserating.

Commiserating because it occurred to me the other day that God is, above all, a parent. A parent to all of us. Poor God.

Do you remember the heart ache you caused your folks? I do. Lots and lots of heart ache. Slammed doors, broken curfews, angry yelling, resolute sullenness of the variety that should be admired. And, that was just when I was a teenager. Don’t even ask for a list of the ways I hurt them when I became a young adult. Yikes. A married mom with kids? I was a jerk. Sure that I knew everything. Haughty and arrogant and hard to be around. But, I think I hurt my parents the most those times I hurt myself. Did things I knew weren’t good for me. Took all of their good advice, threw it away and continued on my self-destructive path.

Why? I don’t know. I wish I did.

What is it in us that makes us do those things? To not look out for ourselves? To continue on paths we know are leading no where fast. To run towards bad even when we fully recognize it.

I was telling my husband the other day I sometimes feel like people I love are blindfolding themselves, climbing into a greased luge, pushing themselves off a steep incline towards a cliff that falls to deep waters where piranhas and alligators are waiting and just at the the moment they are about to go off that cliff they look at me and beg, “Please help me.”

I bet God feels like that too.

I bet he bows his head and rubs his eyes tiredly.

Maybe sometimes he wishes he could just take me by the shoulders and shake me. Ask lovingly and exasperated, “Why? Why do you have to do everything the hard way? Why will you not let me help you? Why don’t you just trust me?” I bet he wishes he could auto-pilot this stubborn girl. Drive my life to only good places.

Instead he gave me choice. A free will. Instead he loves me in spite of myself.

I get that. I spend sleepless nights trying to get other people out of the messes they have created. I cry over them. I do everything I can to help. But, if I’m honest, sometimes I give up. I get frustrated to the point that i quit calling. I quit offering advice or help. I quit believing that anything is ever going to be different. I act like me. But he doesn’t. No matter how stupid I am or all of the creative ways I think of to mess up my life he loves me.

So, honestly, I really do wish I could have him over for cake and apologize for how difficult I am. For not listening. For causing him sorrow. I wish I could clear away my humanity and just follow his lead. I know it’s a life long process. I know I’m not even close to being there. I know it would take an infinity of cake dates to apologize for all of the ways I have hurt his parent’s heart, but I wish I could try.

So, I say a little prayer. I say I’m sorry. I ask for a kinder heart and for a little more wisdom and to surrender even more. I promise I won’t start smoking and I make my bed.

He will get me there.

Bilagaana.

If you have been reading my blog for very long you know I grew up on the Navajo reservation for a good part of my childhood.

My family of seven lived in a tiny, hideous cinder block house that made up what neighborhoods were out there. Forget green lawns and a local playground. We played on butane tanks and cattle guards.

Fun was walking to the trading post, catching horny toads and spending time spinning the chair in my dad’s office. He was an educator. So, he went to the reservation to work. It was an interesting way to grow up. I saw and experienced lots of things that are a part of me now. Good things. And, I learned a lot. You can’t help it. It is a place with lessons to teach.

Growing up there you know what a night sky looks like in the middle of nowhere. Stars that don’t have to compete with anything. As far as the eye can see. Turn in a full circle. They never stop.

You know what a dirt road feels like when you are riding in the back of a pickup. All the bumps and washed out spots. You know what it feels like when your parents stop to pick up a hitch hiker on one of those roads and he climbs into the camper with you. You and your siblings sit with your backs against the metal of the truck and keep a watchful eye on him. Your nose burns with the tangy scent of sweat and liquor, and when he smiles a gentle, watery eyed smile at you you smile back.

You know what it feels like to stand in the middle of a crowd of people and not understand anything they are saying. Their words are a strange mix of clicks and guttural sounds. Not one word makes sense, but you understand the humor in their eyes and the little bits of fry bread they hand you. You understand these people like you.

You understand what it’s like to be chased on the playground and what it’s like to be pushed down so hard that your knees have little pieces of gravel stuck in them. What it feels like to feel someone tugging at your long blonde braid and then to see part of that braid fly over your shoulder and land in the middle of your math paper. From the rubber band to the tip is now laying there separated from the rest of you. You know what it feels like to turn around and see the girl who sits behind you look at you and not like you. You haven’t done anything specifically to her. She just doesn’t like you. You are the thing that doesn’t belong. You are white. You are a bilagaana.

You know what it feels like to run to your dad’s office crying.

You know what it feels like for him to pick you up and put you in his chair that spins. You know what it feels like to cry so hard that you can’t tell him what happened. You know that when you try to tell him he stops you.

You have said in your childhood anguish that a Navajo girl cut your hair. You are wailing. You want to go to live at your grandma’s. “They are all mean!” you say with a sob. And, that is when he stops you.

“Who is mean?” he asks.

“The Navajo girls. They are mean to me.” You are doing your best with your wails to make sure he understands the hurt of it all.

“That’s not true.” he answers in his quiet way.

You stop then and look at him in disbelief.

It is true.

The end of your braid is laying in your hand. To you, it looks like something hurt. It is the greatest tragedy you have ever beheld. The end of life as you knew it. You wipe your arm across your running nose and wait for him to say more.

He asks you one question. “Who was it?”

“I told you!.” you say angrily.

“You said it was the Navajo girls. You said the Navajo girls are mean to you. Is that true? All of them are mean?”

You sit in his spinning chair and look at the hair in your hand. Slowly you start to spin the chair. You need a minute to think. You think about how your friend Charlene walked down the hall with you and held your hand while you were crying. You think about the weekend you spent camping in the mountains with her family. You think about the smell of a campfire on a chilly morning and the sound of goats wandering around outside of camp.

You think about the women in the clearing in the middle of a little gathering of houses. How they try to help your mom learn to make fry bread and how they coo over your little sister. They way they smooth your hair and braid it so tight your head hurts. You stop spinning the chair and you touch the hair in your hand again. You shake your head. Then, you answer your father.

“No, not all of them. Just one mostly. Everyone else is nice.”

Your father reaches out and touches the tip of your nose.

“Exactly.” he says.

He tells you that the little girl who cut your hair has a name and it’s not “the navajo girls” and that is important.

You don’t really understand what he means, but you feel better so you jump out of his chair and run out into the hall where Charlene is waiting. You hug her and then you both go play tether ball.

And, even though you don’t know it, your dad has given you one of the most valuable gifts you have every received.

You learned something important that day.

You still know it today.

Cigarettes and sisters.

I’ve been considering taking up smoking. I’ve read all the brochures. Seen the commercials with the poor lady talking through the hole in her neck. Watched my mother struggle to quit by keeping a full carton among the junk on top of our avocado colored fridge. Frisbees, newspapers, a flyswatter and that shiny white and green box with gold foil. For months until finally, on a Saturday, my dad threw them out with the garbage. I get it. Don’t send me articles. But I’m still considering it. I need something. A little flash that fixes. A crutch. A helper. I am struggling. Are you? Have you thought about buying a carton on the way home. Sitting outside in a lawn chair, putting on some good music and just smoking? For hours. And not even caring what it’s doing to your lungs? If you have come sit by me. I feel you. Life seems hard. Harder than usual. My sisters are sick. Both of them. And those are just the two born with my last name. I have other sisters struggling too. The sisters it took me a minute to find. The ones I chose. Dads are dying. Moms already have. Kids are in trouble. Jobs have disappeared. Eggs are five bucks a carton. It’s a lot. A big lot. And I don’t know what to do. How to help. How to fix anything. So I find myself thinking about cigarettes. Wishing for a five minute trip away from everything. Wishing. But not acting. Every day I drive right by the store I know sells cigarettes. I never find a parking place and walk in and ask the girl named Myra to give me a carton. Sigh. I guess it’s the good Lord keeping me from myself. A cigarette wouldn’t solve anything. Would definitely cause new problems. I talk to him about them though. I tell him how deeply everything hurts right now and I ask for strength to not solve any of these problems by choosing new problems. And it’s hard. That path doesn’t really offer any immediate relief. It causes me to stay in this moment I’m not enjoying. It hurts. Makes me wish my mom was still here. I’d like to ask her if when she was a young mom with five kids under eight if those moments with a cigarette helped. Did those puffs give her the self possession to go back and glue things to a paper and cook dinner and greet my dad with a smile. I really don’t know. I know I hated going to school smelling like smoke. I know I hated going into the store to ask for the cigarettes. I know I still remember her and my dad scrounging for a mix of coins and crumpled dollar bills to buy them. But, I don’t know if they were worth it. Don’t get me wrong. If I could light a cigarette and my sister’s cancer would disappear I’d have already done it. If a cigarette could bring back my sweet friend’s folks I’d be asking for a light from anyone who would listen. But, they won’t. So I don’t. But I want to. I want a flash that fixes. Not this experience of life that is both tragic and magic and getting harder for this aging girl to take.

Searching for Christmas. Day 12.

It’s late. 9:45 and I just got home. I’m exhausted. It has been a very long day. There was a band concert that needed to be attended. One of the grandson’s had to dress like a Christmas Tree. (How do you even do that?) A dozen pecan pie balls needed to be dipped in chocolate, sprinkled with candy and packaged into a cute little Santa Claus tin. Daddy had to be gone for work. At 8:30 the oldest grandson realized he was starving and macaroni and cheese had to be made. It didn’t taste right and is in the fridge right now for mom or dad’s lunch. Five teacher’s gifts needed to be bought. Care had to be given to make sure the gifts fit according to the questionnaires that were thoughtfully e-mailed to the teachers. Clothes needed to be laid out and made ready for another event at school tomorrow and homework needed to be completed. Little grandson is still not sleeping through the night and, in desperation, cereal has been introduced. Do you know how big of a mess a barely eating baby can make with rice cereal? Big. Really big. Big enough that his grandpa announced, “I’m out.” and left for home. I’m pretty sure that rice cereal ended up on the front door knob. Somewhere nobody was. Wait, I take that back. Amazon deliveries arrived that need to be wrapped before company arrives tomorrow. That’s how the cereal got there. There’s a big Christmas concert and a college graduation coming up. Still three more days of work until vacation. The car’s oil needs to be changed. Because of all of the activities, the boys were up past their bedtime and got overtired. Both of them were crying. One of them because he didn’t like the lotion or the bedtime book or the world. One of them because he was just ready to be held. At this point, mom was vacuuming under the couch and mumbling about folding laundry. And it was at this point that grandma went home. “I love you guys, but I’m exhausted.” I’m going to guess mom is still in her living room rocking the baby and going through a mental checklist of everything that didn’t get done. Tomorrow morning she will do it all again. If you spot one of these exhausted moms tomorrow buy them a coffee. Something in a holiday cup. Or, if you can, babysit their kids so they can go to dinner with their mom and talk about Taylor Swift and that guy she’s dating. Eat chips and tacos and talk about what cookies to make for Christmas. What a Christmas gift that would be! The kind that would cause you to be instantly forgiven if you skipped out when rice cereal was dripping from the ceiling and in both of the baby’s eyebrows. Thanks Grandpa. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed. I really am exhausted. It is the most wonderful time of the year. And the busiest.   

Searching for Christmas. Day 11.

Yesterday, I came home after a very long day and sat down at my computer. I wrote a blog for all of you that was very important to me. It took me a couple of hours and I was just about to publish it when my computer glitched. Suddenly, all of my words were gone. I looked for them. I did. I asked my husband, brilliant computer engineer that he is, for help. No luck. It was just gone. I spent the next couple of hours trying to recreate it. That was a big mistake. Finally, in frustration, I closed my computer and went to bed. This morning I got up and completely erased my attempts to recreate what I had written. It wasn’t right and never will be. I might try again in a few weeks when I can’t remember just enough of what I’d written to frustrate me. And maybe i won’t. So, if you’ve been following this Advent blog, I hope you will forgive me for the lateness of this post and that all you get today is a picture of my work space last night. I will go about my day realizing, yet again, how much you miss the words you’ve written when they are lost to you. 

Searching for Christmas. Day 10.

In the parking lot was an older gentleman with three bouquets of flowers. He was waiting patiently for a woman dressed in fancy Christmas attire except for a pair of light blue house shoes. We followed them in and joined the rest of the crowd waiting for the doors to open. We were a mixed bag of church clothes and ugly sweaters. Slacks and jeans. People were greeting each other and talking about how hard the cast had worked to get ready. Lots of smiles and hugs. I took my grandson over to the drink cart and the lady made him a coke and gave it to him wrapped in a thick white napkin. He thanked her in his serious, I wanna get this right, voice. Finally, a lady wearing a Christmas headband found our name on the list and led us up two stairs and down a long ramp to our seats. My grandson was handsome in his Christmas sweater and my husband was unusually festive in his Santa hat. He grows his beard out every year at this time so he fits the part. I tried to take a picture, but silliness ensued and I ended up with two pictures of my grandson’s tonsils. We sat in the crowd of people waiting for the production to start. I eavesdropped on several conversations around me and made polite conversation with the older woman next to me. She instantly wanted to know if I was a local. Where I lived. Who I belonged to. I explained that we were visitors. This immediately made me more interesting and slightly less so. We finished up our polite chatter and she turned back to all of the familiar faces surrounding her. These were people that knew each other. The children in the cast were discussed and catalogued by who their parents were and when those parents graduated. I smiled as I listened to them all talk. I belonged to a little town just like this. I just wasn’t there. No matter. I was ready for the next two hours of speeches from the director and presents given to community sponsors. I was ready for the six little girls dressed in glitter that danced to Run Rudolph Run. I was ready for the corny jokes and the bad acting. I was ready for the look of sweet awe when the “real” Santa Claus snuck into the audience as beautiful music played and handed out old fashioned peppermints. Right from his velvet gloves into my grandson’s cupped hands. I was ready to sing along with the audience and to laugh hysterically when one of the actors had wrapping paper stuck on his shoe when he came on stage. Heck, I was even ready to wait an extra long time for the next act to start when we heard a crash behind the curtain and it was obvious something had tipped over or malfunctioned. And, I was so ready to hold my grandson’s hand as we walked back to our car. He was singing Jingle Bells and when I asked him what his favorite part was he answered, “My favorite was all of it.” Me too kiddo. Me too. If you see a sign advertising a local production this season go see it. If there’s a line to donate a little extra to the local theatre program do that too. Buy their cookies and programs and whatever else they’re selling. Because what they are really selling is community. Connection. Christmas spirit. All the lovely things about small towns this time of year.

Searching for Christmas. Day 9.

Every year I choose a book for my daughter to read on Christmas Eve. This tradition started because my parents, being sane, allowed us to open all of our family gifts on Christmas Eve and only Santa gifts were opened Christmas morning. My husband’s family did not practice this reasonable tradition. They were of the opinion that the tree should stay bare until Christmas morning. Only then would all manner of presents appear. This made no sense to me when I married into the family and still does not to this very day. However, I am an occasionally wise woman who knows which hills are worth dying on. That one was not. If you ever spend a Christmas morning with my husband and see how his eyes light up when he sees the tree loaded down on Christmas morning you will agree that I chose wisely. So, we settled into the tradition of Christmas pjs, a book and a box of chocolate covered cherries being acceptable Christmas Eve fodder. Gradually, this expanded to include a game too. Some people don’t like to read after all. And, somewhere along the way, we started including a puzzle. Some people don’t like to read or play games after all. Then movies entered the rotation. Some people need a little time alone on Christmas Eve with Jimmy Stewart after all. So, through the years, the rule has expanded and been modified until many, many presents are opened on Christmas Eve. My husband complains every year and I smirk (just a little) in victory every year. But, the book and pjs always make an appearance. In fact, now that my daughter has married and has kids I have started making sure they have matching family pjs. You don’t know true Christmas joy until you see your 6’7″ son in law in pajamas that match his toddler’s. Wonderfully awkward pictures have been taken that have been banned from any public forum. Please use your imagination. But my daughter’s book is always the focal point for me. It’s the focal point because I love that I raised a reader. When I was a kid, instead of giving us money for doing chores my parents would pay us for every book we read. Summertime meant a long list of books on the fridge with dollar amounts out to the side. At the bottom was your possible total if you read them all. I always did. So, when I had my daughter, I was kinda determined she would be a reader. Picking her Christmas Eve book played right into that. I have spent countless hours in book stores trying to find the perfect book for her every Christmas. When she was little I wanted the most beautiful story books. The ones with the incredible illustrations and a story line that made your heart hurt just a little with their truth. (Christmas Day in the Morning by Pearl S. Buck) As she got older, I wanted books that would become dear friends. Books she would want to reread every year. (The legend of Holly Claus by Brittney Ryan) Now that she’s a mom with zero time for herself, I look for books that I hope will say something just to her. The her that existed before the husband and kids. This year I thought I had picked a winner. I was looking forward to her greedily reading the book jacket and then sneaking off the first chance she got. I pictured her kids asleep early and her snuggled under her Christmas comforter reading until the early hours of Christmas morning. Not sure if you’ve noticed but I can be a little idealistic! (When I read this to my husband he will laugh hysterically at this point.) Anyway, these were my dreams. So, today, when I arrived at my daughter’s house and she handed me a book to peruse I felt a warm glow of motherly satisfaction. At least I was feeling that way until I really paid attention to the book I was holding. Then the satisfaction took a hit. I happened to know that that very same book was safely tucked under the tree in the Christmas Eve box containing four pairs of matching pajamas, 7 books (it’s hard to choose for the little ones!), two games and two puzzles. Again with the choosing. I considered, briefly, getting the book out of the previously mentioned box and scouring Amazon for a replacement. I considered stealing this new copy and trying to convince my daughter she was losing her mind and had never purchased it. I considered all the things. And then, I accepted defeat. Out of all the books in the world we had chosen the same one. That was cool right? Maybe it was a sign that it was time for a change. Out with the old and in with the new. A different kind of Christmas. Honestly, I was a little tired anyway. Because of my husband’s desire for a big surprise every Christmas morning, I basically haven’t had any closet, attic or shed space for the entire month of December for decades. Maybe we should just upend the whole Christmas thing altogether. Just throw presents under the tree unwrapped! Let people buy for themselves and wrap their own gifts. Let my daughter pick her own Christmas Eve book in the years to come. That sounds….awful. Besides, I have big plans this year. I’m going to introduce the idea that some people don’t like to read or play games or work puzzles or watch movies–some people like playing electronics on Christmas Eve. Imagine how many gifts I can rescue for Christmas Eve that way! On another note, my daughter and I are starting a Christmas book club. We both have our copies you just need to get yours.

Searching for Christmas. Day 8

For me, it’s the little hand in his front pocket. It’s such a grown up stance. One part who he’ll be and one part who he is. I could have stayed in those toy aisles all day with him. We looked at every single toy. I took pictures for him of the things he really wanted and sent his parents pictures of the aisle numbers where the most important things were. I stopped all my grown up stuff and just entered into his little world for an hour or so. I let him push every button and pull every lever. I never once said, “We look with our eyes not with our hands.” I just put my grown up self on the shelf and just hung out with him. I don’t remember if I ever did that with my own kids. I think I was always in a hurry. I’m sure I was. There was always an agenda as a parent, but as a grandparent things are a little different. The only agenda is to be there. To show up. To soak it in. My husband and I joke sometimes about moving to Florida. We’re pretty sure there’s a little pink bungalow there with our name on it. White fence out front and a little Pomeranian peeking through the front curtains. Maybe two bicycles under the car port. The one with a basket is mine. We could go down to the beach with our neighbors everyday to watch the sunset and eat fried shrimp for dinner at four in the afternoon. But, we’d miss it all. Days like this day. He held my hand through most of the store and was enamored with the Legos. He knew just what he wanted to get his daddy for Christmas. And his little brother. He’s kind of a big deal. Don’t get me wrong, the next time I am making his sandwich wrong or his little brother is screaming as I’m trying to zip him into his swaddle I’m sure a beach scene will flash in front of my eyes. Maybe even a couple of umbrella drinks. But ask me if I would want to miss seeing his face when his family opens the presents he picked himself and the answer is absolutely not. Actually, I’m hoping if he gets this one particular toy we saw he’ll let me play too. Turns out you get to be a kid again when someone calls you Grandma. Especially at Christmas. Thanks buddy.