cocoon

Some conclusions were made on my solo journey from Omaha to Des Moines tonight. I found myself in that dead zone, where the only musical options were unfamiliar Dolly Pardon songs or Delilah's sweet talking. I chose Delilah, and was reminded of that time in seventh grade when my friend Seneca and I called in for an all encompassing dedication to several boys we called out by name, who were in the process of breaking our hearts. We requested Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself For Loving You", and waited anxiously all evening for our request that was never granted. I noticed Delilah has relented to edgier offerings, Maroon 5 for example, which seemed oddly wrong.

Facing the unexpected gift of a kid free week, I pondered my familiar initial feelings of loss and panic and 'missing', before the week had even begun, which is always sprinkled with delicious feelings of excitement and possibilities and sleep, luxurious sleep, and reading and doing whatever I feel like. About 47 minutes into my journey I decided that the former kind of guilt is a wasted emotion, and I cranked up the Eurythmic's "Sweet Dreams" and passionately sang along with Annie. Hold your head up! Movin' on. Keep your head up! Movin' on.

Christmas was lovely and truly fun and happy for me and the kids. Of course we missed Skip, do I need to say that? Despite that empty chair, we had a wonderful time preparing for it and reveling in the actual day. Several friends who know my affinity for short lived crafts and art projects asked if I made any gifts this year. Not really, was my answer, but we did make some fun little things for around the house and Cedahlia and Ronan made gifts for each other, utterly secretly; one with great enthusiasm, and the other with bribes of watching two Batman and Robin original TV series episodes on youtube. Here is his favorite. Inspired by the monagrammed mug tutorial here, I decided to just hand over the special marker and let them do what they wanted for each other.

I love how Cedahlia drew all over his, even a special surprise inside. Ronan drew his most careful capital C, and then a tiny face of a cat, signed his name and BOOM, he was done. I also made several birdcages for teacher and friend gifts, and you can find the tutorial here. I plan on making a huge one, with lots of those delicate little birds, to hang above me in my sunroom/sewing/art/reading /but really we will just call it the 'office' when Skip gets back/ room.

My super talented sister also got me hooked on making scented rice packs, which the lavender ones have been awesome for warming up and putting in with the kids when they go to bed. Although, recently Cedahlia has complained hers smells like pee? And it oddly does, but I'm blaming it on microwaved rice?

On Christmas Eve Day, we found ourselves completely ready for the holidays with nothing but time on our hands. We played outside in the snow, and after the kids fashioned themselves some snowchairs, we brought out hot chocolate and I read them a Junie B. Jones book....but only made it two chapters before my jeans clad booty lost all feeling and stuck to the shovel 'chair' I had settled onto.

                   

I have loved these past couple weeks of holing up in the house by 4:00, and baking and crafting and reading to the kids every night. I expect more of it in the dark, slow months to come, and while I typically dread them, it is my intent to make it as worthwhile as possible. There are pillows to be made, and murals to be painted on Ronan's wall, and books to continue like this one that I love, for how the male author of 100 years ago is able to make me completely relate to the heroine.

While I drove tonight, my thought process went something like this....tomorrow I need to go to the Y, then clean the house and maybe I could even get Ronan's wall painted and for sure I want to sleep in first though, and read my book and I should probably take Toby for a long walk, and also I would love to hit up some Christmas sales and I also need to finish sewing my dress for New Year's and along those lines, I haven't danced in so long....I wish we had Zumba at our Y, and maybe I should check out some dance dvd's from the library and bone up for New Years with Katherine and Georgianne, so I don't resemble Tina Fey in Date Night. Ahh, but who am I kidding? As long as my friend arrives from Florida to find a clean bed and fresh towels at the foot of it, I don't *have* to do anything at all this week. I will probably end up cocooning myself up in a way that is so pleasant and self indulgent, that I will look back at this week with wonder and envy of myself.

littleness

Recently I've taken to sending the kids out to get our mail. Our block has the distinction of collective mailboxes on the corner, an inconvenient remedy to a dog phobic mail carrier a couple years back. This task thrills them, and I watch from our porch as they scurry to the box and negotiate who will put in the key and turn it. Each time I send them, I say "Don't let the mail spill all over!". And each time, they reach on their tippy toes, feeling their way through the box, inevitably spilling the mail I've let pile up for a few days. It makes me smile but a lump also forms in my throat, as I watch their little bodies hunker down, frantically working together to collect the scattered papers and bills and junk mail that have wafted around them.

Because they have developed a great need to be within inches of me at all times,  this one minute respite puts things in perspective for me, and I am reminded of their 'littleness', and I feel more compassion. To borrow a phrase a friend recently shared, I feel as if I am nursing them again, and even the dog sometimes (don't ponder that for too long), as I can't step away for a moment without someone desperately needing attention or a drink or for me to brush their almost seven year old teeth for them(!). It's suffocating at times, and I recall those early baby days, fertively stuffing chips in my mouth, chunks falling on my infant's head in an attempt to nourish myself a bit before they devour me. Only now I stealthily wisk myself into the office/sewing room/getaway to check facebook or lose myself in delicious artsy/foody/crafty blogs before they boing back to me, giant amoeba that we have become. It's the moral equivalent of putting on my oxygen mask before assisting others.

As Christmas approaches, I am always torn with things I wish the kids wanted versus the plastic-y, commercial-y, junk-y things they indeed do want. desperately. Last year "Santa" (ahem) really dropped the ball when he purchased beautiful, well made hand puppets and wooden marble track sets and open ended art supplies. Cedahlia couldn't shake off her disappointment for at least 9 months, and I've had to come to terms with this. Now, we celebrate Jesus here and know that His birth is the true spirit of the holiday for us, do I need to write a disclaimer? I'm not writing a devotional here. If you know me, you know I love Jesus. We also love presents and I am still occasionally struck with that amazing *Christmas-y* feeling. Do you know what I mean? It may be when walking at night on a particularly jazzed up street, with the lights and snowflakes, and anticipation. Or sometimes just watching claymation movies with hot chocolate I remember and briefly feel that chill I used to get as a little girl. I love that magical feeling and I want my kids to experience it too. Life begins to suck pretty quickly, like say around 10 or 11, so for as long as I can bring some sort of magical whimsy to our lives, I am going to do it.

When I was 8, my dad braved the elbowing, viscious crowds to get me a Cabbage Patch Doll. If you don't understand the depths of love this act confirmed, watch this. If I recall correctly, they all came with cool, unusual names. I promptly renamed mine with the sensible choice of 'Maryann Kay'. This same year, Dad also made me my very own dollhouse, which was, and remains, totally awesome. It traveled around with me for over a decade, residing in various storage units before finally being passed on to a very happy 4 year old girl.

This is me as a lovely 8 year old girl of the 80's. When I unpacked the dollhouse in 2006, the toilet still contained tiny bits of toilet paper, as well as brown paper turds.

 

This is how the nuclear family of the 1980's chillaxed amongst their shag carpeting.

She always commands me to leave when she really gets to playing. I understand. I did those voices too.

In my dreams, Cedahlia and Ronan long for faceless dolls made of corn husks, and wooden marbles and play silks that they're supposed to be endlessly entertained by. I know better. This Christmas I plan on blowing their minds with all the glitzed up, plastic nonsense they can handle.