Still on Team Santa

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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. 

Hold him close

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My son, now over seven, fell off of a stool this afternoon when we were building a gingerbread house.  While he was fine and giggling, I bent down to pick him up.  And I couldn’t lift him.  Try as I might, I couldn’t hoist him up into my arms I once deemed strong.  Instead, I kissed his cheek and pulled him close.
For over seven years, I’ve picked him up and while I knew it was coming to an end (and I have written about that before), here we are:  I cannot pick him up easily or really, at all.  After over seven years of carrying him until my arms hurt, bouncing him and shushing him, holding him cheek to cheek, carrying him in a sling and on my back, carrying him up the stairs and from his bed to mine, this phase has passed.  And with this realization come others, as the Christmas season is upon us.
He and his sister sat for the annual photo with Santa this past weekend and when the photo was printed and given to us, I was struck by the length of his legs.  Did they simply look so long because he had red pants on–pants I did pick for once and he gladly wore?  Eight years ago, his legs were curled as he was tucked in my womb making me so sick I had to miss all Christmas festivities.  How are they so long now?
Tonight, my children sat out their shoes for St. Nicholas and his boots are so big.  I remember when his feet were small and I rubbed them as I held him and he drifted to sleep. Now, his boots are on the hearth and I can imagine them, year by year, getting bigger as I trip over the ones left at the door.  How are his boots so very big? Where are his baby feet?

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Like the Trees, They Grow

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You can hardly see my son there, but there he is, in the trees we planted before he was born.  And I stood in amazement at how high the trees have grown and how big he’s gotten since the last time we stood there.

Today, my son and I visited the backyard of the house we brought him home from the hospital to.  It wasn’t our intention, really, to stop there, but maybe it was someone else’s because we ended up there. Even though we moved from this house four years ago, my son remembers it.

My husband laid the slate patio; he planted the trees.  My son played in his water table here and found frogs and made little houses for them in the leaves here.  He ran from this patio as a toddler and I remember sighing in frustration.  Together, we weeded and roasted marshmallows in an open fire.  We all have memories here but for me, most of mine are about my son, just a toddler when we left.

It’s fitting that we were here today because tomorrow, we make settlement on our new house–my son’s third home.  Maybe he needed to come back to where he started in order to move on to the next thing?  Or maybe I did?

When we left this home, I remember walking from room to room and calling his name.  I had heard from a friend that when you have small children, you should do that so that their souls follow you.  I did it in this home, all by myself, with tears streaming down my face.   My husband thought I was silly and told me that we weren’t leaving our son there; he was going with us, after all.  But in a way, my son’s babyhood was left here in this house and on this patio, shaded by these trees.  And his soul remembers. Continue Reading

His Last Jump

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I may have caught his last jump on camera.

For years, he’s loved this jump house and all others he’s encountered.  He jumped, happily, every time we got this one out of the garage or found one at a fair or arcade.

But today, he jumped for about two minutes with his sister before he came out and told me, quite matter of factly, that he just doesn’t like it anymore and that he’s too big.

His little sister, now two, called for him to come in and jump with her, but he told her that he’s just too old to jump.  No one told him that; he just decided on his own.

It’s a small thing, really, and one of many things that signify that my son, once a boy I could easily carry, is growing older.  He’s too heavy for me to lift now; he’s getting his adult teeth; his hair is getting darker; his hands are taking the shape of a boy, no longer a baby. Continue Reading