Category archives: Family
Ah, Christmas. What other time of year
has more traditions wrapped around it? It seems that as a species, humans
thrive on tradition and as much as we sometimes complain about it, we will
create traditions where there is a hole.
As a child growing up, my Christmases
followed the same rhythm each year. Christmas Eve we went to “the barn,” a live
reenactment of Jesus’s birth in a real barn, sitting on real hay bales next to
sheep and a donkey with members of our church acting out the scenes (I was the
first live baby Jesus). Audience ...
I was a raging
lunatic this morning. Why? My daughter wouldn't get dressed by herself; she wanted help. What an unreasonable request! I literally threw a fit. The more she whined, the more pissed I got. She cried. I
wanted to cry, but not until half an hour later when I realized what a
horrible mother I had been.
“Surely, it wasn't that bad,” you might
say. Yes, it was. If I had been in a mother-of-the-day contest with crack
whores who give their kids Mountain Dew and Fruit Loops for breakfast (no
offense to crack whore moms ...
This morning my daughter climbed into
our bed to snuggle, and a tickle monster attack ensued followed by a game of “pillow”
(in which one person wants to sleep and the other is the moving pillow).
These mornings remind me of my
childhood. My brothers and I jumping onto my parents’ bed, my dad heating up
the griddle for pancakes and bacon. I don’t know if this was rare in my
childhood home or if it happened every weekend, but it is a strong memory. I
can nearly smell the syrup. In my memory, childhood weekends consisted of
Tuesday morning I was up to my ankles in soapy
water by the end of my shower. Odd since the night before the water from my
daughter’s bath went down just fine. Then I remembered she had been playing
with her superball in the tub. She “saw” it bounce out of the tub, but since we
looked everywhere for it Tuesday morning, I began to suspect it was more than a
chunk of soap and my impending baldness that was clogging the drain.
Still optimistic about the soap idea, I waited two
nights until I told my husband the ...
"Let's go. Hurry up. Get a move on. We're going to be late."
My daughter is the epitome of what it is to live in the moment, each moment given the powerful sense of awareness and observation that it deserves. Yet each day, she must contend with my pushing her from moment to moment, a constant "come on!" as if what she is doing has no value. When we leave the house, more often than not she asks if we will be late. I feel sheer joy on the rare occasions when I can say that this time ...