Yesterday, on Christmas morning, my son and I were the only two awake in the quiet hush of a snowy morning. We crawled under blankets in his bed and just talked while we waited for his sister and daddy to wake up. He told me, in the excited way only a child who still believes in Santa can, that he thought he heard reindeer on the roof–a weird scratching, slightly muffled. He thought he heard the banging of a glass against the plate of cookies and the crinkling of presents. He wanted to creep downstairs to see if Santa had arrived but he was too worried what might happen if he caught him in the house.
He rattled on and on, his growing bigger by the day hand in my own. I stared at him, in awe, really, of the gift of him–the gift of a lifetime. And while his face is absolutely taking the shape of the man I’ll once know, I couldn’t help but to notice his waning baby cheeks as he spoke to me in the excited hushed tones of an eight-year-old. I took it all in and it became my prayer, right in the glow of the blue lights his bed is adorned with: “Dear Lord, don’t let me forget.” This might be the last Christmas he believed. This might be the last year his baby cheeks still show. But I will remember. I memorized it; I really did. And in the hustle and bustle of an over scheduled and overwhelming holiday season, I paused and took that moment all in.
It’s what I’ll remember when I’m old and gray and he’s a man. It’s what I’ll remember when his small hands overtake my own. I’ll remember our quiet start to the Christmas morning when he was eight-years-old, holding my hand, when he was still on Team Santa.
Thanks for Mothering the Divide with me as we pause this holiday season to see what really matters.