The hustle, the bustle. I can accurately claim neither, having just emerged from a fireside nap on the hard floor. In our home, we keep a tradition of letting the kids open a shared gift on a day where it feels like Christmas, be it November, December or beyond. This year, the day fell upon
To be fair, I’m not a present purist. When it comes to Christmas, there are few philosophies I stand by universally, except this: the best gifts for the ones you love are the ones they’ll love. What this means, for my own small crew, is that no matter how much I want to dole out
Finally: puzzle season. Candied pecans on the stove, Bing Crosby on the speakers. This is the time of year in which we all share excitement over something. For some, it’s sterile snow falling in sheets. Others, a warm, glistening tree and a tower of packages. Still others, your grandmother’s eggnog recipe. Me? Jigsaw puzzles.
We greeted Christmas by trudging through the icy medical clinic parking lot under a black sky, the gloved hands of two feverish kids holding our own. Dual breathing treatments, Nebulizers, three coloring pages and a mystery Dum-Dum (outcome: root beer). It was anything but magical, but there was a moment spent pacing the carpet tiles
Hey you. I know you’re out there, bustling with everyday stuff on top of non-everyday stuff. Maybe you’ve just shut down your computer and you’re heading out the lobby for the last time in ’17. Maybe you’re headed out the door to drop the kids off at school or daycare, or maybe not at all
It occurs to me that there are many voices whispering into the ears of new(ish) parents, particularly around Christmastime. For one, there is the reality that we are not getting any younger, that these babies are precious and this time is weighty. Make the memory! Seize the day! We have only seventeen Decembers left before
Holiday excitement hit early in these parts. We started our annual Christmas puzzle in October (I know, I know) and have gone through no less than three sacks of flour since. The garden rosemary is dwindling; the cinnamon restocked twice. For two weeks now, I’ve passed the hallway and smiled at the quiet glow of
I haven’t been writing things down. There are so many things I want to write, so many thoughts I’m trying to catch in the kitchen while the potatoes brown, so many ideas that come while I’m rocking the baby. They come and they leave, and I’m left standing in the kitchen as the skillet begins