Pre-dawn whispers (I stuffed my head under a pillow and went back to sleep).
Presents opened before the eight o’clock hour.
Hot coffee from the Chemex.
Sweet, soft challah French toast eaten continental style by a bad piggie.
Organic, fresh-pressed juice to cut through the sweet.
Beautiful music streaming through the house.
Gentle, quiet focus on a new art.
Category: Family
christmas eve 2012
For the first time, my girl helped braid the challah, her small fingers gently moving the ropes and curling in ends. We used the knife as a chisel and popped chunks of Callebaut in our mouths while we worked.
The challah baked up quick. We left the hot loaf to cool on a wire rack and drove to church, where I sat on the edge of my seat as our pastor hit all the high notes in O Holy Night. Once home I sat in my bent wood chair under my mother’s cable-knit afghan and stared at the lights on the tree.
a world
I made a world for them. When I couldn’t find the perfect bunny house for sale, I glued wood and moss and stone, late into the night. I crafted grass, and a pond, and a path between the two bunny families. I felted rugs and bowls, sewed tiny curtains and pillows. I released my love into each piece, working as they slept, and with every stitch I sent thoughts to my little ones:
I love you.
I believe in you.
I am so happy to be your mommy.
I am so happy to be your mommy.
on coffee
I sit down at the table with a perfect cup of coffee: a preheated mug filled three-quarters of the way with Freedom of Espresso’s organic blend, finished off with really long pours of both white sugar and heavy cream. As I take my first, second, and third sips of the morning, I can feel my mood lift from conscious to maniacally chipper. High on caffeine and eager for conversation, I look over at my seven year-old as she works on her spelling.
“So, Joss, what do you think about coffee,” I ask her.
“I think I’m going to like coffee when I get older, and I’ll probably drink it,” she says, not looking up from her book.
Good answer.
“So, Noah,” I say, turning to my left to look at my five year-old, “do you have any thoughts about coffee?”
Pause.
“Well,” he says with much gravitas, “I did try a Red Bull once.”
I nod my head slowly and furrow my brow a little, matching his tone. Then I take another sip of coffee and watch the morning traffic pass by the front window, and we all think about coffee.
this time, before the snows,
I want to need to remember:
:: a pod of dolphins hunting for their breakfast in the waters across the cove
:: the smell of laundry that has dried in the salty bay air
:: laughing and carrying on with old friends over wine and clams casino
:: a funky haircut that heralds a new season in my life
:: rounded triangles of moonlight reflected off the backs of thousands of waves and minnows
:: linguine con le vongole made by my former chef of a husband using clams dug from the bay with our own big and little hands. so. very. yummy.
:: reading sonnets under blankets after the weather turned much colder
nightgown
The babysitter is in the kitchen. I think she’s sitting at the table, reading the paper and smoking a cigarette, but the door is closed so I am not sure. I am in the next room, the living room. I am smiling. I lovingly arrange my mother’s pink polyester nightgown on my little rocking chair. It’s her favorite nightgown and so when I am lonely for her I take it out of her dresser and I spend time with it. Its sleeves are slippery and so over and over I have to put them back on the arms of the rocking chair, but I don’t mind. The babysitter comes into the room and tries to ask me questions about the nightgown but I don’t speak to her. I am thinking only of my mother. I scoop the nightgown up in my arms and I’m giving her a hug. I push my face into it and I am cuddling her. I drag it around the room by an arm and I’m holding her hand. And we dance together to Kenny Rogers on the radio.