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Christmas Morning—A Pictorial Essay

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“Christmas is a time when you get homesick—even when you’re home.” —Carol Nelson

Related posts:

  1. Christmas Eve—A Pictorial Essay
  2. Christmas Morning
  3. Rice Cereal—A Pictorial Essay
This entry was written by kara, posted on January 1, 2010 at 11:59 pm, filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.
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    I found this cool folding table from the early 1900s for $20. It was going to be the answer to all our puzzle problems. Lately we’ve been into puzzles (which I love) but they take over our dining room table (which is used daily for other things like homework, meals, crafts, board games and storage for random crap). But this pretty little oak table looked nice shoved up next to the window seat with a piano stool on another side for seating, could be used for puzzles (and games!) and, best of all, could be easily stored when not in use. Two problems: The table allows for the size of most 1,000-piece puzzles (I actually measured prior to purchasing this time!), but you need space to move all the loose pieces around (which I didn’t think about). Also, our cat, who Andy secretly loves but still calls an a**h*** on a regular basis, thinks it’s his throne. Andy really loves it when you yell, “Jupiter, get down!” and Jupiter slowly looks up, untucks a paw and swats six puzzle pieces to the floor before closing his eyes to go back to sleep. morning A poem I wrote is in this month’s issue of Literary Mama, a publication I’ve long loved. You can read the whole thing here: http://www.literarymama.com/poetry/archives/2019/09/cover.html Things I’m thankful for: a husband who always blows out my candles when I forget. I met Greg in junior high and now I have a daughter (shown here, with Andy) almost the same age, middle school, and tonight we celebrated Greg’s birthday, and time is such a crazy thing. Happy birthday, Greg. Thanks for all the moments in all these years that became and will become happy memories. Like tonight. This summer we’ve been (slowly) redoing Sophie’s room, which has been the same for the past 9 years. The old walls had cracked a lot over this time, requiring a lot of patch work, and Andy patiently painted all the moulding and trim (there is a ton in her room). Today we hung the S Sophie’s grandma made for her for her birthday. It’s the perfect welcome to a tween/teen room and it even looks cute in the hallway, when Sophie’s door is closed (which seems to happen more often these days). #older Dad’s tomatoes, backyard basil ... so far no one is hollering at me (too much) for making bruschetta for dinner every other night. You know that feeling of butterflies flitting about when you watch your kids step up to the plate (or anything, really) and bat? I now feel the same watching my dad bat! It’s all love, really. Last night I was thinking how cool it is that I get to watch my blood a generation below and a generation above play baseball. I find such comfort in being sandwiched, bookended by the people in my life in this way. It’s cozy here, whole. These middle years really aren’t that bad after all. When you get the newest Dog Man at a great independent children’s bookstore while wandering the Decatur Book Festival and can’t help but read through dinner (and you’ve practiced patience because you have to share with your brother by taking turns after every chapter) ... I’m so thankful for anything that pulls them away from electronics these days I worry, when they tackle each other over whose turn it is to use the pitchback or brush first but then they go and show off all their sweetness in a long weekend with younger cousins and I’m once again calm — well, until there’s one Gatorade left in the cooler on the ride home. 180,400-some miles. We bought this van used when I was pregnant with the boys. Pretty certain this is the end. I’m not connected to the physical van (my god the damage that’s been done to the interior, the non-working sliding door, the leaking trunk, the fickle air conditioner) but more so all the memories in it. It was the backdrop to so much in a crazy time of our lives. On Friday we put two new tires on it. And fresh oil in it. Also, we’re in Atlanta. (Because of course this is where it decided to die.) And everything is closed until Tuesday. Adulting is hard sometimes. But I’m at my sister-in-law’s house, with cold Chardonnay, and cousins sweetly playing together, and Lizz is making some heavenly smelling three-layered dessert, so there’s definitely more good than bad (and usually it’s that way, if I remind myself to think that way). On this dreary Tuesday remembering this sunny Saturday when James insisted on a Mai Tai in a carved-out pineapple like the grownups. (Nick graciously made him a non-alcoholic one.) I did that thing tonight where I dropped all responsibility while running late-night errands and took myself out to the last showing of the evening of Bernadette and reviews be damned I thoroughly enjoyed it. If you create anything, and you’re a mom, and you’ve crawled into bed and pulled the sheets over your head during daylight hours and before your kids could voice their opinions you strapped them in your van and drove to falling-down mansions for sale and sat in said mansions’ driveways dreaming what you’d do to the place (Porter House I still think about you) I promise you will like it. When the book came out I heard tell some people thought Bernadette was a bad mom. I think she was a fantastic mom. Her relationship with her daughter is enviable and one I work hard for daily. Yesterday I turned down a chance to go to India for a long-enough trip that my kids would have all likely grown 1/16” before I returned. It was really hard but no pity — it was the right decision for many personal reasons and one that will allow more travel in the future. Still, perhaps that’s why I connected a bit more to this movie. Read the book if you haven’t. Maria Semple. I adore it. Hitting grounders to the boys, Sunday night. Io watching. Io found yarn. I can’t think of a better representation for 11, 6th grade, middle school, lockers, braces, than those painted-once-over stripes. Andy’s dad painted those stripes (Did we thank him enough? Why don’t I have a picture?) and when I heard Andy ask Google to play The Steeldrivers’ ‘Where Rainbows Never Die’ as he painted over them ... I’m getting too personal (we both had glossy eyes). I can’t write about Sophie anymore. I can’t even post pictures without her permission. As it should be. So much is changing. She’s had this room since she was 2. It’s time. Andy scraped bits of slime and glitter off the walls before patching and priming. She’ll likely have this new room until she graduates. Confession: I like to complain about the ridiculous 2-mile drive that takes much too long through town to the middle school but I actually love it. She talks. My mom has always said this. Cars are magic that way. Also, this: http://www.pleiadesbee.com/2012/01/an-afternoon-in-sophies-bedroom.html 6th, 4th and 4th! ❤️ I asked Andy if he could do a little yard work tonight. He looked at the situation (we’ve been slacking) and determined we need a machete. No yard work has been done but he and James (who is thrilled with this development) are out shopping for a new machete. This is not at all how I hoped tonight would go. 🤣 Just in case you were wondering, back-to-school clothes shopping with these two is (still) a test in patience. (But I still love them, even when they’re smelling mannequins’ butts.)
    TAP

  • Favorite Essays

    Choosing Compassion in a Culture of Fear

    Seeking the Bigness in the Everyday

    The Love in Trying

    The View from Up High

    Season of Innocence

    The Huffington Post guest post: Apologies to the Parents I Judged Four Years Ago, a TIME's top 10 opinion piece in 2012

    Simple

    Changing Love

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