Stories

Yesterday I walked into the bathroom and noticed Meadow’s toothbrush standing proudly on it’s suctioned cup feet at the very edge of the counter top.  Next to the toothbrush sat her toothpaste, appearing like two friends who had come together to enjoy a morning stroll (or more likely a sit in a park to watch a sunrise, since toothbrushes and toothpaste can’t really walk.)  Anyway, right behind this scene I looked at the sink and noticed a long stream of white paste traveling from the end of the counter top to about half way into the sink–evidence that Meadow’s four year old frame is almost tall enough, but not quite, to have perfect aim into the sink.

I paused and took in the scene for a moment, knowing that all too quickly evidence of their littleness will disappear from our home.

For the first time in months, I am caught up on my work for SummerK.  For the first time in months I feel myself slowing down, breathing, thinking, reflecting.  I opened my journal yesterday and was shocked and a bit saddened to see it had been almost a year since the last time I had written. As cliched as it is, I respect the truthfulness of the statement, where did the time go? 

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was waking up in the middle of the night to change diapers and comfort screaming babies?  It feels like yesterday.  It feels like we’re moving at lightening speed–moving from one season into another.  I could talk all day about the bitter-sweetness of this transition.  This movement from being needed 24/7 to being needed just a little bit less.  No doubt, every mother parent feels this–this holding-on-and-letting-go-struggle.  A tug of war that is less a war and more an unwritten and constantly revised contract between the Parties of Parents and Children. 

As I tug hard against the bitterness of my side of the rope, I see it. I see all the sweetness of these passing days and the gifts today.

I showed Chad the above photo the other day and told him that I think I will treasure it forever.  I won’t treasure it because it’s a piece of perfectly composed art or anything that anyone but maybe he and I will notice someday.  I will treasure it because it will always remind me that when Meadow was four years old, she preferred to sleep in a tent.  This tent is a part of her story and a part of our story.

I love this time of year.  Christmas songs play everywhere we go and twinkly lights dazzle us everywhere we look. There is magic in the simple traditions that form each year.

For the first time this year, our tree came from a box.  I fought the battle hard for years–Chad wanting to get a fake tree and me holding on to my own family tradition of cutting down our tree each year.   Chad finally won the battle last year when we had to actually take our tree down on Christmas Eve because so many needles were littering our floor.  As Chad took our new (puke) fake tree out of the box this year, I did not hide my disapproval.  It smells like a factory, I complained, I miss the Christmas tree smell.  I’m sad we don’t have the memory of cutting down the tree, I whined.

(I can be so adult sometime.)

As we began to decorate the tree the next day, I noticed that our tree had changed from years past. The big red and gold bulbs that had formerly filled our tree had been replaced with ornaments hand-made by the littlest members our family.  One by one, I watched tiny ornaments go up with names and dates of years past.  I saw handprints and fingerprints on various creations that told the story of the years gone by.

My ba-humbug attitude quickly changed to excitement as I told Chad, Our tree tells a story!!
He’s too nice to say, I told you so, but certainly he was thinking it.  We haven’t had to vacuum needles up one time and my patient husband even brought me a gift to take care of that icky factory scent. . .

He’s a good egg.

I’ve been thinking a lot about stories these days.  How we all have one, how we all are writing one.  I’ve been thinking about the stories we are writing for our kids today and reflecting on how the stories we write might help them write their own stories later.  Our tree tells a story and so do our lives.

When I allow my mind the space to see them, I see stories everywhere.  Stories as small as toothpaste spit or as big as milestones like writing the letter “M” for the first time.

I see stories that I want to remember from these quickly passing days. Stories of this unique sister bond. . .

And this sister bond. . .

And the stories of Charlie’s avoidance of the frame. . .

Stories of family. . .

Stories of joy. . .

Of quiet. . .

Silly stories. . .

And subdued stories. . .

I love writing our story.  I love recording it.  Our story is far from a perfect one, but it’s ours just the same.  Some days our story is quite dramatic filled with the moods of parents and children co-existing and playing the tug-of-war of give and take, but other days, when all the stars are aligned, our story is a beautiful as a priceless piece of art.  In reality, the shift is less in the painting and more in the perspective from which we see them. When I slow down enough to see it, there is beauty in all the strokes. . .

And if I can teach them to see it. . .

Their beautiful stories will continue.

Happy Weekend, Friends. . .