What will we remember of this season, this year, this month? The toys under the tree, or the laughter over the table with friends? The way the cookies smell of cloves and cinnamon or buttercream?
Here's what I want to remember from this year--
Raphael, who is now three and a half, has awoken to the magic of the season. He is a Christmas boy, and I imagine one day, he'll be the one with his house finely lit, complete with yard ornaments of wise men and a manger. A very hip and jive version of Clark Griswald. Tastful, not tacky. And oh the magic! It will be there, in his eyes, years from now, as they round and sparkle with the wonder of it all. His sensitive ears tune into the music we play in our home, the Jawbone speaker blaring from its perch on the shelves over the TV, and Pandora chimes all the vintage Christmas favorites. And "Jingle Bells" is his favorite. His language is still choppy, and I need to lean into his words for meaning, but the joy is expressed through his chocolate brown eyes, and his dimples when he smiles with a gap in his front teeth. Words? Who needs words when you have so much joy spilling from those deep soulful eyes? When the song comes on, he lights up and sings along with it, at the top of his voice, and mah-mah-mahing his way through the words when he doesn't remember them (as we all do, honestly). And his new favorite song, "Let it Snow!" has been claimed, and he does reclaim it each and every time it's on, declaring "It's my song, Mama!" How did he learn the words for that? Who of us in this house have ever claimed a song like this? None, but our dear Raphael. Our sweet little man whose ears are so finely tuned, and heart so mildly forged, that he owns a song as if it has been stirred and baked from the ovens of his own toasty-warm heart? His heart sings. For me, this is part of the season's magic I inhale like perfume.
The days have been long this winter. Spiked with a surprise snowfall that shut down the city, and our efforts to sled at the park were greeted with dismal grass that had frosted over, winter has arrived. The days have been frozen, chilly, and the fog as thick as soup. After homeschool the boys romp outside, and I warm their Ramen for lunch (we be po' this year, just another year of living as starving college kids, again...still, and goodness knows there's no nutrition in that Ramen, but when I add some frozen peas, I feel better about it, and they feel full), and sometimes some hot cocoa with mini marshmallows in their matching orange mugs, or blueberry tea, to warm their cold little fingers when they come in from the biting chill of outdoors.
My Blueberry Tea Recipe
-boiling water
-frozen blueberries
-lemon or orange slices, whatever is in the fridge that day
-honey to taste
Stir with small Austrian coffee spoons, and serve with a Russian Tea Cakes or iced sugar cookies. Make sure holiday music is blaring, it adds sparkle to the flavor.
Last weekend was chock full of joy for us. Friday night as soon as Aaron came home from work, we changed and prissed up for a company party with Tia Kissy in Portland. This is our third year going and the food and music, not to mention the company of amazing social workers serving severely abused children in the state of Oregon, we had a great time there, and were able to even get a sitter which in our book qualifies as a real date. The next day we had our dear friends the Votrobecks out, and they brought a lasagna dinner, then we decorated about 100 sugar cookies, making sure they took home their share. And Sunday, our beloved friends-dare I call them just friends, for they feel more like family-the Coomalas came out for the day. How indulged! Sarah and I prepared the lunch while the men tinkered in our dieing car--long story, epically long, and not very interesting at that, but the synopsis could be this: if our car was a horse, we'd have shot it three years ago. But Jon, bless him, was such a help for Aaron to help fix our car so it would work, and Sarah and I were able to catch up, decorate gingerbread/"ninja"bread men, AND put three boys down for a nap while the guys worked out in the cold! Superstars, that's what. It felt like family, to settle in, hang out, drink tea, and share time. I loved every moment, and was so sad when they had to go home that late afternoon, but so grateful for the memory. That night we were indulged by our sweet friends the Grice who came caroling with their four beautiful children, bringing delicious chewy molasses cookies with song. Raphael, who was in the tub and wasn't about to miss the moment, rushed down stairs, shiny wet from his bath and not wearing a stitch, to offer a very merry Christmas streak to them as they loaded up for the next house on their list.
These days I have grown lonely in the kitchen, and it seems only proper that the boys help me in the Christmas cooking. For both sugar and gingerbread cookies, the boys have helped me. How deeply does it tickle me when I get out the cinnamon, and rather than reach for a measuring spoon, they offer their cupped fingers, to measure as I do, because they have learned what a teaspoon looks like in the palm of the hand? Many days I have put Raph down for a nap and as Andres rests in his room I have tiptoed to his door to peek in.
"If you pick up your toys, you can come downstairs and make (insert any sugary Christmas treat) with me."
He responds with an eager hustle of effort, and none too quietly stumbles down stairs to wash his hands and begin the baking with me, standing on a chair at my side, his cupped hand extended as I pull down the nutmeg from cabinet. He does it all these days: crack eggs, pour milk into the measuring cup (some things must be measured out properly, after all), work the Cuisinart mixer...he's a wonder boy, that one. Both boys helped cut sugar cookies and gingerbread men, so mature and on-task in the kitchen. I'm so blessed to have such great helpers!
What will I remember of this year as I'm gray and old so long from now?
Not the fact that we're broke, and stressed, and strained, and choked so full of humanity and struggle that we can't sleep at night. Not that we find ourselves growing into an age that suddenly slows us down via energy or effort. Not the Ramen and Cup-o-Soups that we call food, or the meager stash of dollar store toys high in our bedroom closet that we call stocking-stuffers, or the mess and filth of our rental that's a far cry from the magic of a Dickens' Christmas setting, not even the great void of family that I had when I was little, specifically my own family, especially now. None of that will stand out when I wrap myself up tight in that shawl so many years from now, lost in my nostalgia of Christmases Past.
What I hope to remember is what warms me now: the song in my son's voice as he blares "his song" from the depths of his lungs, the way Andres hops out of bed to hunt down the Elf every morning, the smell of cookies in the oven, and the laughter, story-telling, merry-making, and sounds of small boys who will one day be men. And even then, even then, I will lean into them to see their then-large grown, manly hands cradle a teaspoon of cinnamon.
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