Christmasing

It's the most wonderful time of the year. 

I remember conversing with my mom about Christmas sometime back when I was a newly minted parent. She was imparting to me that holiday's dark secret, kept by all parents alike: Christmas is hard work for parents. This should have been obvious, of course. Though we all talk about the magic of the season like it's a seasonal trait, the way snow belongs to winter and rain belongs to April, in reality it's more like Santa Claus—something that must be made, or at least brought out. The lights don't string themselves, the cookies don't bake themselves, the gifts don't suddenly appear, perfectly thought out and wrapped, ready for Christmas morning.

My parents have always made the magic of Christmas something vibrant and tangible. Traditional foods, decorations, songs, and activities elicit an almost Pavlovian response of Christmas cheer. But making all of that happen is truly hard work, and now that I'm one of them, a parent, that is, I'm fully aware of just how much work. How much back-breaking, spirit crushing work it sometimes is to make getting a tree in cold slushy weather fun, or to find joy in wrapping gifts for the child throwing an unrelated tantrum upstairs, or to go to the store yet again for even more lights because yes, that string you just bought last year is already broken. But the best of times are just an attitude adjustment away, and cold slush can be fun if you decide that it is, so the most important job is to decree the magic in everything that you do. Because no, it's not like snow in winter, it's more like radishes in spring: plant it, nurture it, and watch it grow. (And you can't actually count on snow in winter anymore, either).

We spent this past weekend, or week, really, Christmasing (for the amount of work it takes, it ought to be a verb). We strung lights, inside and out, we swapped normal dishes for santa ones, we stuck a tree in the corner and covered it in trinkets collected from all over the world. We listened to carols, we played carols. We made ornaments to gift to others. Boxes were carted up and down the basement stairs so many times the cat lost count. The dog is over this santa fad, why is her dinner late? And, finally, I sewed new socks and we hung them by the chimney with all the care our tired limbs could muster. We worked, but we also worked at having a good time, because sometimes your best times are just an attitude adjustment away. That's where the music, and the wine, comes in.

Thanksgiving and a backyard tailgate: a photo essay

Halloween 2017: a photo essay

Calvin drew and carved this pumpkin all by himself!

Father's Day

It is important that we appreciate each other. So many little things go by unnoticed every day that are worthy of appreciation, and the truth is that if we mention each of them in the moment, we'd spend our whole lives saying thank you, or I'm sorry, or, in our greatest moments, you're amazing. To some extent, the many thanks that we owe each other are casualties of the greater good, because the many wonderful things we do for each other are expectations of our lives together. We are bonded by a mutual understanding and commitment, and with that comes the expectation of the benefit of the doubt. Forget love means never having to say you're sorry, life commitment means rarely having to say please or thank you.

Only that's not exactly right, is it? So we have these days throughout the year—birthdays, commemoratives, honoraries—that give us an opportunity to appreciate, openly and with all our hearts.

It's the little things. The trash taken out on Fridays, the mail picked up when we remember, all the electronics in the house synched and functioning. 

It's the daily things. The water jug in the refrigerator kept filled, the little boy's teeth brushed, the coffee made in the morning. 

It's the big things. Patience amidst chaos, gentleness amidst anger, calm amidst panic.

We do these things for each other now without offering, the same way that we accept them without thanking, and that's okay, as long from time to time we recognize the life we've built together and take the moment to stand in awe of all its beauty and all its flaws. 

Celebrate

We were looking at photos a few days ago and Jon commented to me that we have "more pictures of that kid in pajamas than anything else." So it is not at all surprising to that while all our friends and acquaintances flooding Facebook with lovely pictures of their families from the weekend in new spring dress clothes, our kid was decorating eggs in . . . can you guess? His pajamas. With bed head to boot. Evidence that we are comfortable and joyous dissidents.

The first day of spring, better known as the spring equinox, was fully a week ago, but mother nature could not have provided a more beautiful sign of the lengthening days than we were graced with yesterday. Brilliant sun and warming temperatures brightened our crafting, decorating, and cooking as we prepared to celebrate with family. Weekends like this are a vital part of recovering from winter. They are the promise that entices us all from quasi-hibernation. I swear I have seen more neighbors in the past week than through all the past three months combined. 

And while much of the nation is also celebrating the end of a marked period of waiting, our own season of patience is just getting started—the bird migration is upon us. Our local friends, the ones that don't abandon us for warmer climes but still disappear mostly from hearing for the darkest months of the year, are starting to rejoin us in a tentative morning symphony. It will swell over the next few months as they become increasingly urgent in their communications, and as they are joined by summer-weathered friends. And the visitors that pass through for the briefest of moments will be on their way in just a few weeks. We actually saw our first Sandhill Cranes on February 28, sparking an impatience for early morning bird hikes.

But today was still a pajama day. A craft rabbits, decorate eggs, and eat chocolates day. A ring in spring with friends and family day.