1m2aSandbox

Maddie’s had several loose teeth for many months now, but after losing one tooth last year the rest have stubbornly insisted on hanging in there ad infinitum. Three or four seem to be hanging by a thread, but have hung there, waving in the wind and taunting us, seemingly untouchable.

It’s gotten so that Maddie has trouble eating most foods; if we get her a taco I have to tear it up into tiny bits because biting into anything is too painful. Maddie occasionally takes a stab at trying to pull one, but for the most part suffers along in relative silence.

Until Wednesday night.

I am a creature of habit. I delight in things being the same; I find comfort in knowing what’s coming up next, in wrapping familiarity around myself in a new situation. I know this is not unique to me, but it is somewhat unique for someone who spent most of her pre-kids life living the life of a gypsy, moving from town to town and show to show.

And I loved moving on as much as I loved my traditions: moving on always afforded me a fresh start, both literally – if you move every six weeks, you never need to deep-clean your apartment – and figuratively – get in a fight with your neighbor? Wait a few weeks, then put them in your rear-view mirror and don’t look back!

But one thing that moving around a lot forced me to do was take a long hard look at my “traditions” – the supposed deal-breakers I needed for any major holiday or celebration. I remember well the first Easter I was away from my family: I was nineteen, and when I walked into the theatre the Friday before and a well-meaning Jewish friend called out cheerily, “Happy Good Friday!” I burst into tears.

Sunday night Cora came downstairs after bedtime complaining, “Mommy, I can’t get to sleep!”

I was expecting this a bit; after a week off school, Cora’s mornings weren’t starting quite so early any more, and Sunday morning she’d slept until I woke her up at 9 a.m. to go to church. So I wasn’t surprised that at 7:30 p.m., her school-night bedtime, she wasn’t quite sleepy.

“Head on back upstairs and I’ll be up in a minute to give you another snuggle,” I said, sending her on her way. Often the girls will need one last cuddle from me, and when they hear they’ll get it they relax so much in their beds they fall asleep. Cora scampered happily up the stairs and I delayed following her for fifteen minutes while I finished watching my recorded show.

When I finally made it to Cora’s room, she was so silent I felt sure she’d fallen asleep. I slid into her bed and snuggled smugly against her, breathing in her baby-ness that I can still faintly smell.

Every year Christmas seems to get here sooner, and my lists seem to get longer: my to-do list, my shopping list, my list of gift recipients, are joined this year by my list of Things to Do for the School Winter Party list, to name just one. The holidays start sooner, but are on us before we know it.

And I am in quite a dilemma every year: one of my love languages is Gifts, so Christmas for me is license to give a ton of gifts to people without seeming over the top or excessive. On the other hand, I’m uncomfortable with what Christmas has become around here, and I keep wanting to dig down through the wrapping paper and tinsel and myriad of children’s shows about Christmas that spend an entire half-hour celebrating Christmas without once mentioning Jesus, and find the heart of Christmas again.

Last week I volunteered in Maddie’s class to talk about art; it’s a monthly district-wide program, and I very much look forward to it each time. In both Cora’s class and Maddie’s class, we have the most interesting discussions. I love seeing how children look at art.

And we have the most, um, enlightening discussions.

I love to bake. I confess it. When I was working in theatre, I’d bake furiously on Monday (my day off), then return to the green room Tuesday night with a tray of brownies/cupcakes/cookies/whatever, just to get them out of the house. Even now, when I don’t eat sweets (yes, it’s true. I mean, really, really true) I still love to bake.

So calling this the Most Wonderful Time of the Year would be an understatement for me. When the holidays arrive I’m in a tizzy; it’s as if I’ve been given complete license to go crazy and use fourteen sticks of butter in one session. Which I have done before.

Early November I get out my Hospitality spiral (don’t judge) and flip to a fresh, clean page. There I make a list of aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall the foods I’m going to make this holiday season, followed by a nifty little spread sheet of baking items – butter, chocolate, eggs, etc. – so I know how much I’ll need total. Then around Thanksgiving I get to baking: just a bit at a time, the recipes are done and pans of brownies or trays of cookies are in the freezer. Everything comes out in early December when I assemble long-distance Christmas boxes for friends and family, which breaks the floodgates and we begin consuming. Heartily.

So that’s my holiday baking ritual – but wait. I left out one essential step.

Ordering from the King Arthur Flour catalog.

Cora has done a fantastic job adjusting to kindergarten, but the plain truth is that it’s just darn hard. Seven hours a day can wear an adult down, but throw a five-year-old in that situation and make her navigate new friendships and scary bigger kids at the same time, and it’s a miracle all kindergarteners aren’t in therapy.

So most days I can tell how Cora’s doing just by how she hangs out with me as we wait for second grade to be dismissed from school: she’ll often run and fling herself at me, and then happily let me sweep her up in my arms and snuggle, and if she clings extra hard, burrows extra deep, or begins burying her face in my hair then I know it’s been a darn hard day.

Yesterday was such a day, and we only avoided an entire afternoon of tears because of Maddie’s generous sacrifice.

I’ll explain.

Every Saturday Maddie goes to horseback riding lessons, and the countryside commute before and after has become one of my favorite times of the week. As we drive out to the stable Maddie visibly relaxes, and the country air and quiet roads are almost a truth serum for the girl; a couple miles into the drive she starts talking and usually doesn’t stop until we’re there. The topic’s never the same – just whatever’s on her heart.

This past Saturday Maddie seemed to be thinking a lot about the future.

“Mom,” she began, “I’m not sure I know what I want to be when I grow up. Is that bad?”

This from a seven-year-old.

Yesterday morning the girls scootered to school and after parking their rides at the bike rack, walked to the school door hand in hand, smiling and chatting with each other about the upcoming day. A teacher passing by looked at them in disbelief and said, "Wow! They how sweet! They look like they actually like each other!"

I smiled smugly and walked my perfect children into school.

After school the girls were models of familial harmony, playing together amicably on the blacktop, scootering side by side all the way home, compromising on every big decision: Who gets to step into the street first to cross it? Which piece of candy from whose candy jar for a treat? And as I watched them, I began to form my next blog in my head, about what a sweet spot we're in right now and how well they get along.

And then we fell apart.

A few weeks ago the girls were bored on a glorious sunny day. I could see their need to be outside, so I told them I’d give them each a dollar if they would wash the family mini-van.

My kids will do a lot for a dollar.

The girls were quite excited, and looking at the three cars in our garage or driveway, they sensed a bit more cash to be had. So they wrote up an ad and set it outside in the alley for passersby to see. When this produced no new clients, they went straight for a sure thing: grandma.

The girls offered to wash my mom’s car, and she kindly agreed and dug eight quarters out of her bag. After an afternoon of elbow grease and soapy buckets and bickering and fun, the girls each had two dollars in quarters to show for their efforts.

Which is when the real work began.

With Maddie entering her third year in public school, our family has seen its fair share of school field trips. Accepting the fact that my child would be hurtling down the highway at around 70 miles an hour without a seatbelt was difficult when she was in kindergarten, but I have grown to understand that I cannot control everything and must just let. Some. Things. Go.

That’s not to say I haven’t been along on those field trips – I’ve followed behind the buses and spent the day hanging out with my child and her classmates at the zoo/arboretum/pumpkin patch many times. Over the course of the past two years I’ve been asked to be an official chaperone, but was never able to because Cora wasn’t in school and children not enrolled at the school couldn’t ride the bus. So Cora and I would follow along, have a great time at the zoo/arboretum/pumpkin patch, then happily get in our quiet car at the end of the day and putter contentedly home.

But now Cora’s in kindergarten.