"Mewy Tismas!"

Another Christmas full of family, laughter, joy, warmth, and yummy eats. We are so grateful, especially in these moments, for all of our many blessings. We celebrated with my family on Christmas Eve, and we'll be celebrating with Kurt's family on New Year's Eve. Christmas morning was quiet and cozy with just us three. We marveled at the evidence of Santa's visit, played with new toys, baked (and consumed) chocolate banana bread (with peanut butter on top!), and snuggled while watching The Polar Express. Happy Birthday, Jesus!

Kelsie, Kristopher, Kurt, Madelyn, and me with my Grandpa Bickley--my last living grandparent.

Auntie Kelsie showing Maddie how it's done :)

Papa, Nana, and Madelyn.

Well howdy there, cowgirl! Madelyn feeling her oats in her cowgirl boots and hat. Seriously, could she be cuter?

My fabulous brother and sister.

Madelyn finally "got it" this year with respect to presents and how much fun they are to open and discover. We had a few meltdowns and cases of the "gimme's" and the "mine's," but overall she was grateful and happy and shared well.

Sneaking her second round of dessert off of Nana's plate, little rascal. But I suppose it's all in the name of Christmas :)

Drawing on her new art easel from Santa.

Sporting her new shades and necklace for her dress-up box.

So happy with her veggies and fruits for her play kitchen.

When the Bell Stopped Ringing

WARNING: IF YOU ARE A CHILD OR HAVE A CHILD READING OVER YOUR SHOULDER, DO NOT CONTINUE WITH THIS POST. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRISTMAS, DO NOT CONTINUE READING THIS POST.





I am an eldest child, and growing up, my four best friends were also all eldest children (what are the odds of that, hey?). That probably created a lot of interesting play-date dynamics that I was way too young to understand at the time, but as it relates specifically to this post, it meant that none of us had any older brothers or sisters paving the way for us, telling us what to do and how to think, giving us the "low down" on how life really is, or spoiling any childhood myths and fantasies. Given that we were all in the same boat, each of us depended solely on our parents to draw the line between reality and fiction, and what kind of parent is going to sit their kid down at some arbitrarily determined age and tell them that, after years of elaborate and deliberate lying, Santa Claus doesn't really exist? (If you are that kind of parent, start saving money now for your child's therapy fund...) I was an imaginative and romantically-notioned child anyway, so the story of Santa Claus was absolutely plausible to me; I'm not sure I even thought to question it.

Join me, then, in an ordinary December afternoon in my fifth grade classroom. I imagine we had just finished math or reading and were in the process of putting our workbooks away when my teacher began passing out sheets of paper to each of us and told us that we were going to do a special project. I looked closely at my sheet of paper and noticed that it was handwritten and pretty poorly written at that. In fact, it was nearly illegible with incomplete sentences and slanting lines--a nightmare for a born grammar-snob/language-lover like myself. But I also noticed little candy cane and reindeer drawings in the margins, and the letter itself was addressed "Dear Santa." As it turned out, it was some kid's Christmas letter to Santa (a very young kid, I hoped). Just as I was wondering how this letter mistakenly got into my teacher's pile of papers, my teacher said "Today, class, we have the honor of answering Miss Johnson's Kindergarten class' letters to Santa." Huh. But...I mean...why would...well...why would I need to answer one of Santa's letters for him? I looked around at my classmates to share in a moment of confusion, only...they were all hunched over their desks, already busily at the task of answering Santa's letters as though it was the most normal, mundane task. My confusion was my own.

Well. No need to belabor the obvious. The wondrous, magic-filled story of Santa Claus slowly, painfully melted for me right there in the middle of my fifth grade classroom. I was genuinely devastated, and most humiliatingly, I couldn't talk to anyone about it because evidently EVERYONE already knew. I didn't even want to bring it up with my four best friends or my parents lest I find out I was REALLY the only one who didn't know and further make a fool of myself. It was a bitter Christmas for me that year. Sigh.

But alas. Here I am "elaborately and deliberately" perpetuating the very same story with my own little daughter because despite the disappointment that inevitably lies in her future, I think a little magic and a little fantasy does a child's growing soul good. And I know that at the end of the day, there's another far more important Christmas Story that will never disappoint...

Joy to the World

Perhaps it's the storm outside or the betwinkled Christmas tree or the scented curls of the frosted cranberry candle on the mantle (or most likely a combination of all three), but I'm feeling especially introspective tonight. Lots of things tumbling around in my mind and swelling in my heart, and I'm just going to go ahead and share one of them with you. Makes me think of junior high sleepovers where I would unabashedly share my secrets from the safety of my sleeping bag and the cover of the night only to be back to my reserved, tight-laced self the next morning :)

I have been relishing in random fits of joy lately. Well truthfully, these fits have been occurring for the last two years--ever since Madelyn joined our family. I do not think I ever truly experienced joy before becoming a parent. Is that sad? I don't know. My personality tends toward the grave and somber, and frivolity and contentedness have never come naturally or easily for me. I think I was a happy kid and I certainly experienced wonder and chased adventure. My husband brought loads of desperately needed laughter and light-heartedness into my life, but "joy" was always a bit difficult for me to define. It was dazzlingly unmistakable, however, the first time I snuggled my little girl and has continued to ambush me with its chest-swelling, breath-catching, tear-welling self ever since then. Dancing with my daughter to a gospel rendition of "Lean On Me" (Glee!) next to the Christmas tree? JOY. Hearing her say--with delight---that she wants to do something because it's "just like Mommy?" JOY. Snuggling with her and burying my nose in her curls while she falls peacefully asleep? JOY. Listening to her correctly rattle off the twelve varieties of penguins from a book that we've had for only a few weeks when I swear there's been no coaching? JOY. (AMAZEMENT also accompanied the joy on this last one. Can you tell a Gentoo from a Chinstrap from a Magellanic penguin? Neither can I. But Maddie can! Interest + rapidly dividing neurons = frightenly fast information absorption.) I was trying to figure out the other day what makes these moments so joyful for me. I love Madelyn, of course, but I love many other people too. Lots of other things are cute and touching and amazing, so what's the big deal about these moments? The answer came to me while we were reading Max Lucado's "You Are Special." Punchinello has been made fun of his whole life by the other wooden people, so when he visits the woodcarver, Eli, and Eli tells him that he is special, he asks with genuine exasperation and confusion "Me? Why?" Eli responds, "You are special because you are mine." For me, I think it's as simple as that--she is mine. We are created to belong, and when we connect with those people to whom we belong...JOY.