Almost Christmas

Tuesday. 2:24 pm. The kids are napping, or at least making a good show of napping; the house is quiet (except for the purr of the washer). There is a bird singing outside in the cold sunshine. Birds in December, singing, make me feel very confused. It is almost Christmas! What is a bluebird doing singing, as if it is spring? I am not yet acclimated to the south.

I love Christmas; the whole thing. I love the tree--the fresh pine smell filling the house, the wonder of taking old ornaments out and sentimentalizing over them, and taking new ones out that were forgotten. I love the tradition of sweeping the house clean of old things, dusting, putting out fresh linens and greens. I love pulling nativity sets out of cardboard boxes that are soft and beginning to come apart at the edges from wear--the old shredded bits of newspaper that really need to be replaced, wrapped around each piece--all of it brings back a part of my childhood that sits very near the happiest part of my soul.

When I was pregnant with Evie this summer, and on bed rest, there were few things I could think on that would help me relax and go to sleep. If I thought about the present--the state of the house, how I was failing the kids by being so ghastly big and on bed rest, the state of my mind and emotions--none of these things were helpful. If I thought about the future--possibly having a preemie; what I was going to do with three... and bigger questions about job and vocation and happiness--that was not helpful either. But, if I closed my eyes and thought about my childhood, I could disappear to a place that was restful and happy.

Summers at our lake place, for example. The feeling of the ice-cold glacier water of Lake Tapps, and the warmth of the dock under your bare skin as climbed out, shivering. A sunset boat ride, wrapped in cast-off sweatshirts and beach towels. The feel of the wind coming so dangerously fast in your face, laying down on the front of the boat and feeling every wave pass under you. The feeling of complete trust, as I knew, no matter how dangerous it felt, that we were safe with my father driving.

And Christmas; there are so many aspects of my childhood Christmas that bring me a simple, deep contentment. The entire living room floor cris-crossed with lights, spending the entire afternoon determining which ones worked and which ones didn't. A tin of popcorn freshly opened for the occasion of decorating the tree. Finding mom's special angel ornaments; putting up the brown nativity scene with my oldest sister. I could go on.

The point: two-fold.
1. For children, there is meaning in even the most menial tradition that is repeated, year after year. Possibly this is the same for adults, but I know (from experience) it is even more so with children.
2. My happy childhood was a blessing... but also a curse. I want to give my children the same sort of childhood that I have... and I do not if, as a parent, I am up to it. I have a temper; I am impatient. My energy is limited, as well as our resources. Am I as happy, now, as I was then? Can the kids tell if I am faking it? And... with such a beautiful childhood, it is easy to become discontent when life now is less than prosaic. Not that I am craving European vacations and a nanny; but the ability to buy artisan cheeses, and have a weekly house-keeper would be nice.

How does this fit in with my annual resolution to be more content?

Oddly, I think the baby has helped in this respect. A year ago--certainly two years ago--I was still harboring this secret fantasy of returning to grad school, finishing a PhD and teaching somewhere. Maybe it was the advent of Kindergarten this year that also helped me realize my children are growing up. I remember a distinct moment in the doctor's office, when I had both older kids in for their yearly check-up--they were being measured against the wall, first one and then the other--and it hit me--we are making progress! They are growing; they are coming along. They are sitting still in the doctor's office; they are answering her questions on their own volition. They are hopping on one foot, taking eye tests, gaining weight and getting taller. Of course I knew this, because I witness these small gains every day. But standing back, seeing it all from a clinical perspective--I was impressed. And I felt like celebrating a bit. We have made progress! Even though half the time I am not sure I am doing the right thing, and the other half of the time I am sure I am doing the wrong thing, we are moving along.

And that baby...
sometimes I am afraid because I love that baby so much. I find she is so dear to me, I often do not like to use her name, but call her the baby, or her newest nickname, Evykins. She has this smile that stops your entire day, clears your mind and makes you say, after a minute or two, "what was I doing?" She is getting new hair now, a bit thicker and coarser, but still has this soft sweet head I love to rub and smell. She has the most lovely baby smell, still, even though she is nearly five months old. We all are in love with our baby; that is one of the truest statements you could make about our family right now. I worry, loving her this much, that something may happen to her. And if that were to happen, I do not know that I would survive it. I suppose I felt this way with the other kids, and still do, in some respect...but it is mingled now with parenting frustrations, attitude issues, etc. The baby is so good, and so sweet-tempered, it is hard to ever feel ill toward her, even when she screams her head off in the car seat because she is lonely, or insists on nursing all night and sleeping in the crook of my arm.

What will be left of me when I am done parenting? What will I have become? I can see, already, small changes, though I have not had the vantage-point experience with myself yet that I had with the children in the doctor's office last year. I cannot see, compared with who I was six years ago, what I have become. Small benchmarks of change, for better or worse: I hit the ground running the morning now. I am more productive in the evenings, practicing and cleaning and doing correspondence. I value quiet times in the afternoon in a way that would have been inexplicable to me before children. I am more compassionate, and slower to judge. I feel more guilt, on a daily basis, for things I have neglected to do or do poorly. I have more compassion when looking back on my younger self--especially my self as a young mom.