Magical Years

I love Christmas.

Love. it.

The lights, the tree, candles in the window. I love listening to great Christmas music in the house and the cheesy stuff in the car on Lite FM radio. I couldn’t be happier to be living again in a place where winter means piles of snow and dangerously dangling icicles and seeing our breath outside. Driving through falling snow to be with family on Christmas Eve. I fully embrace the Elf on the Shelf and prolonging the belief in Santa just as long as we can, reading the Christmas books that come out just once a year along with the decorations, sitting by the fire, and hot cocoa with lots and lots of marshmallows.  I get on a baking jag and can’t stop.  One day in December I made a double batch of sugar cookies, a double batch of butternut squash soup, and my Mom’s spaghetti sauce. It made me so happy to have delicious things to pull out of the freezer at a moment’s notice.  During the first snow I took the boys to the local garden shop and bought the most fragrant wreath I could find.

Seasons mark the passage of time in a way that is important to me, and holidays punctuate it. I piece together my memories of recent years by knowing where we were for Christmas that year, or who hosted Thanksgiving. As the kids grow older, our traditions become more important to us all. Listening to music, lighting candles at dinner, decorating the tree, making a million bajillion cookies and then giving away most of them. Christmas Eve with all of the cousins, the kiddie table set for eight, and the White Elephant Bingo game they love, singing carols all together and then opening gifts from that enormous pile 20 generous family members manage to bring for each other. Receiving actual presents in the midst of this season is truly an embarrassment of riches.

Matt and I, people who tend to prefer living in a less cluttered, more spare house, happily haul in boxes of decorations from storage in early December. Christmas is everywhere in this house, from the place mats and napkins to the hand towels in the bathroom. There are special throw rugs that come out, and certain photos of siblings (some now grown) with Santa and some of old friends in Christmas frames that are only seen during this season. Every snowfall is magical to me in the month of December and I love watching the beach down the street fill with snow while I wait for the lake to freeze over.  Heavy snow on trees and a sunrise over the frozen tundra of beach make me catch my breath with wonder early in the morning when I take the dog out.

Christmas changes over time, like everything else in life, and I believe we are in an especially magical period. I have no scars from Christmas past that open up each year; it is not a mixed experience for me like I know it is for many others.  We’re surrounded by kind, generous family on both sides, people who genuinely like one another and enjoy spending time together. A couple years ago, I thought we had THE magical Christmas and there could be no other like it. This year I realize I am feeling that way for the third year in a row.

The kids are old enough to anticipate it without being completely bonkers (most of the time). They can be up until midnight having fun with the family on Christmas Eve and sleep until almost 9 on Christmas morning, unlike their younger days when they’d be up at 6am NO MATTER WHAT. Even though Baxter and I had a frank conversation about Santa last summer, he clearly suspended reality for the season, choosing to believe (and therefore not questioning us about it or threatening to “trap” Santa) for a while longer. Both of them were on their best behavior, just in case that Elf they looked for every morning was real.

I don’t have a clue what Christmas with teenagers will be like someday, but I have no doubt it will be wonderful in its own completely unexpected way, just as every stage with these boys has been. However, I am fairly certain that when the kids are all grown up and I wax nostalgic about Christmases with the kids, it’ll be this stretch of their middle childhood that my mind will return to.  I can’t believe my great good fortune and need to preserve these memories by writing them down because I fear that someday I will laugh a self-deprecating laugh, accusing myself of sugar-coating these years with the false glow of nostalgia.

But, no: they really are beautiful.

World AIDS Day: I Remember

He was just a little boy – nearly six years old – when he came to live with my family. Lyle’s age now.

First his father died, in June, and then his mother, about six months later. There was no one in the family who could take in both boys during this traumatic period of grieving the loss of one parent and visiting the other in the hospital, so when his aunt and uncle took in his 2-year old brother after his father’s death, Ray came to us.

It was 1985 and I was fourteen — a time when life revolves around friends and school, and attention to family is maybe not at an all-time low, but on its way down fast. I have memories of this time when Ray lived with us, but they’re vague. I know there was sadness and confusion about how not one but two parents could fall ill within such a short period of time, how a family – brothers – could be torn apart. Memories of reading to him in his room, going to his soccer games, riding with him facing backward in the station wagon on the way to Cape Cod, him singing “We Are the World” over and over and over. Ray did a mean Stevie Wonder impression. I remember his birthday party with us, soon after he arrived, and I remember driving to New Haven so that he could see his little brother, Jason.  Every night when my dad got home from work, Ray hollered, “Beat me up, Bob!” and they had a terrific wrestling session. I remember my father pretending to “beat him up” and telling him it was for all the things he didn’t catch him doing that day. The boy screamed with delight. In retrospect that kind of bonding was probably what got the child through this period intact.

I clearly recall reading and rereading a blurb in the neighborhood newsletter that referred to Ray as my “brother” — in quotes, but still a shock. I recall a phone call with an 8th grade friend where Ray got on the line and droned, “Helloooooo…hellooooo…helloooo…” over and over until I lost my mind. I remember my brother being happy there was a younger kid in the house who danced all over the fragile Christmas ornaments and got into trouble more often than he did. For a little while, we did have a pesky, adorable younger brother. There were visits my parents made to his teacher at school, and counseling appointments I was only barely aware of. Looking back I can only imagine how much my parents did for him; I certainly wasn’t paying attention to that at the time.

I remember Ray’s parents pretty well. His mother Yvonne worked in my father’s office back when I was very young. She had a huge smile and chocolate covered peppermint sticks in a clear plastic container on her desk. She was fun, generous and full of life. Beautiful. His father, George, was quieter, I think. A good, kind man. He and my dad worked together later on. They moved to our town, so we saw them once in a while before they fell ill. After they died, the boys’ grandmother moved into our neighborhood and raised the boys together, getting them through high school and into college. My parents remained involved for years and continue to be in touch with them sporadically from across the country. I haven’t been in touch with them in years.

It wasn’t until many years later that I learned Ray’s parents had suffered from AIDS. In 1985 our town’s small hospital didn’t seem to recognize it for a while. It was early. One died of kidney failure and the other of pneumonia, I believe. Hearing this for the first time in college, I took in the information as a more reasonable explanation than anything I had come up with, but because I hadn’t known it at the time of their deaths, I don’t tend to connect the loss of these wonderful people with AIDS in a strong way.

But this evening I read Kristen Spina’s gorgeous post remembering her father, who also died of this disease far too young. Something in the incredible way she wrote about her loss connected me to my own memories, and impressed upon me the loss those boys suffered when they were too young to grab hold of enough memories of their own parents before they were gone.

December 1st, tomorrow, is World AIDS Day. I will remember Yvonne and George’s beautiful spirits, because I can, in honor of their children.

Dreams

When Matt came to bed last night I woke up just enough to ask, “Where’s Mom?”

“What?” he asked, laughing.

“Where’s Mom?” I repeated, getting annoyed. “It’s 11 o’clock and she’s not home yet!”

Thankfully, he oriented me pretty quickly. “She lives in California and you’re in Chicago…”

He could’ve really messed with my head. I’m not sure I’d have been so kind.

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I don’t know if the major dream I remember began with that confusing, sleepy conversation, but it seems likely.

I had a long, involved dream in which some kind of new opportunity came up for Matt in San Francisco, where we lived for almost 10 years before moving here in 2006.

In the dream we ultimately realized that there were more opportunities for us there (something we do joke about once in a while, as many interesting things for each of us have surfaced in the Bay Area since we left) and that we needed to move back.

I remember being in tears in my dream, overwhelmed with the idea of leaving my beloved Chicago, but making all sorts of practical decisions (such as deciding we’d go back to renting rather than trying to buy a home) at the same time. It seemed at the time that it was something we had to do and I was resigned to it.

When I woke up, I was shocked to find it was a dream and that I was more than a little sad about that.

My Piano

Many of you have read posts here about my maternal grandparents in the past. You might remember how, three-and-a-half years ago, my cousin and I traveled to Massachusetts and spent Spring Break “hoeing out” the large old house that my grandparents had lived in for 50 years. And perhaps you recall that just a year later I dropped everything to be with them when my grandfather had a stroke, and one year after that my mom and I brought the boys there to visit. Then, last October, I spent most of a week there when my grandmother was in the hospital and doing poorly. They both survived those illnesses, but sadly, my grandfather passed away in January of this year. Some of you read my post about that visit (I was there when he died) and maybe the tribute I wrote to him and attempted to read at his funeral (thanks for stepping in, Matt).

Obviously, my grandparents have meant the world to me.

Just two weeks ago, my 89-year old Grandma D.B. (short for Doris Bird, how awesome is that?) left her apartment in Springfield, Mass., the town where she’d lived for more than 50 years, and moved to California. To me, this was a stunning act of bravery. You have to realize that not only had my grandmother never lived outside of Massachusetts and Rhode Island, but she is legally blind. She knew her way around her hometown so well that she could continue to give me driving directions, unseeing. “Honey, at the top of this hill, you’ll see a white picket fence. And there’s an Italian restaurant across the street? Take a left there.”  She is also extremely attached to a great many family members and those of her friends who are still alive. Add to this the fact that my grandfather, her husband of over 60 years, was recently buried there in town, and I honestly don’t know how she did it. But she did. And so there she is in California, soaking up the warm sun and taking tai chi. (I kid you not.)

Although my grandparents were determined to take their upright piano with them to the independent living apartment a few years ago, the new smaller assisted living apartment in California could not accommodate it. And so, as I had mentioned a few years ago that I would love to have the piano should it ever become available, it came to me. The piano arrived this week along with a few sets of towels and a huge box of my grandparents’ beautiful china.

I sat down at the piano last night for the first time and automatically plunked out the “Do-Re-Mi” song from The Sound of Music, which is the only song I know how to play on a piano, thanks to my father sitting down with me at this very piano and teaching me when I was probably about Baxter’s age. There is a big scratch on the piano bench that I made as a small child; a few years back my grandmother found my father’s letter of apology and offer to fix it for them. One box that the movers carried in on Monday held the contents of the piano bench itself. There are ancient books of music, the most contemporary I found being the piano music to Godspell. I found pages from a notebook, a teacher’s scribblings to a student (my aunt?) instructing what to practice that week, and a birthday card my grandfather had given my grandmother. It’s hard to tell if the card is 10 years old or was perhaps the last one he signed for her, but I will send it to her. The piano bench, in and of itself, is a treasure waiting to be discovered.

Tonight as I pulled into the driveway behind my condo building after work, I heard the plink-plink-plink of the piano keys coming through my house. Baxter’s experiments sounded much like my own at his age. I’ll have to teach him “Do-Re-Mi”. Perhaps some of us will take piano lessons. Or maybe I’ll just look at the photo of my grandparents I placed on top of the piano the minute it arrived, trace my finger on the scratch, and remember. Right now, that seems good enough.

What a tremendous gift.

Quotes from the Past

On an organizing spree recently, I came across a brown notebook that looked vaguely familiar. I opened it and there was writing on a few of its small pages. It turns out it was where we wrote funny quotes from Baxter when he was 26-27 months old – “Our first blog,” Matt observed.

In an effort to relieve myself of the responsibility of keeping track of these few pages, I am going to set the quotes down here for our family’s future enjoyment:

Baxter: “What’s that?”

Mommy: “That’s the new necklace I got for Christmas.”

Baxter: “I want to need it!”

Mommy: “Well, this one is my special necklace.”

Baxter: “Mommy share it with Baxter, please!!”

(26 mos.)

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“Look at that Daddy! He’s big enough!” – Baxter, looking at Matt’s hand. (27 mos.)

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“Oh, Mommy is so fancy!” Whispered before falling asleep, holding Mommy’s hand to his cheek. (27 mos.)

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“What is that gee peeking out?” Asked about a singular goose looking around the corner of the page in a book. (27 mos.)

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“Where does the sky come from? Where does the sun come from?” (27 mos.)

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“What means I’m sorry?” (27 mos.)

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“Baxter played with those cars last night with Uncle Dana!” (27 mos.)

One Lucky Mama

It was almost time for Lyle to change into his pajamas this evening when I offered to take him on a short dog walk with me.  We decided to walk just down to the beach and back to get a little fresh air.  As Lyle ran ahead, screeching to a halt as if his shoes had some sort of braking system at each driveway and alleyway, I took in how still the night was.  It had been a chilly and windy day here, necessitating my winter down coat for our earlier walks; I didn’t need it anymore tonight.

The beach lured us in, sunlight glowing on the rising waves.  The air was still and we watched a dozen seagulls coasting over the water, waiting to see one diving for a fish. We talked about different types of shells we found and I showed him that there were huge shadows over the lake because the sun was setting behind us, behind the buildings at the end of our street. But where the sun was bright, the light on the water, the sand, and my boy was beautiful.

The scene reminded me of one of my favorite Mother’s Days, when we lived in San Francisco, a few months before Lyle was born.  I woke up in our apartment that day to breakfast in bed brought in by Matt and Baxter (probably from Arizmendi Bakery), and we looked out our bedroom window at a clear, sunny spring day.  On a fogless day like that we could see the ocean about 30 blocks away from our bed, and suddenly being there was all I wanted.  And so the three of us headed out to play at Ocean Beach after breakfast and it was a glorious morning. My sense memory of the clear California sunlight and that blue, blue water is very strong. I felt lucky to be in it.

3-year old Baxter patting unborn Lyle on Mother’s Day 2004

As I thought about that long ago morning, I was overwhelmed with the realization that I was standing on a beach in Chicago this time, talking to that once unborn child, six years later on the eve of Mother’s Day, when suddenly it started to rain. Hard, and from out of nowhere.  ”Lyle!” I said, delighted, “the sun is shining and it’s raining! We should look for a –” I turned as I said it and there in front of us was suddenly forming the most incredible rainbow I’ve seen in my life.  It extended over Lake Michigan in a perfect arc, both ends resting atop the water right in front of us and appearing to be close enough that we could reach out, grab it and take it home in our pockets to admire later.  As the colors became brighter and stronger, there emerged a slightly lighter second rainbow – a double rainbow! – above it.  I looked around but we were the only ones on the beach to witness this wonder so close up. If I’d had my camera with me you would have thought I’d photoshopped it in, it was that unbelievable.  I searched for an image similar to it and it was somewhat like this one without the landforms behind it and a little brighter and closer.

We stood there in amazement. I told my boy that seeing a rainbow like this will bring us great luck and we talked about how special it was to have seen it together. We stood back on the sidewalk before it faded and carefully made our own visual memories of it so we’d never forget it.  I know we never will.

I now have another amazing Mother’s Day memory from another beach in a different city with my second child to add to my cache. I felt like the luckiest person in the whole world.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Lyle’s rendering: to help him remember

Gratitude.

I think -  or at least I am hopeful – that my readers get a sense of my overwhelming gratitude for my life from this blog on a regular basis.  This Thanksgiving it truly abounds.

I’m filled with gratitude about these past few months, when I’ve had the privilege of having successful, fulfilling work experiences and also being with my family so much more.  I’m able to plan for and cook dinners for my family, know when the kids’ gym days are, and remember who has what quiz on which day.  I’m able to practice music with the boys every day and run to the grocery store when they’re at school.  Some years in the recent past I couldn’t even remember what Baxter’s room number was at school, let alone when he had art class.

I want to take a moment to reflect on the fact that my grandparents are well enough to be together in their own home on this Thanksgiving; every day is a gift.  I’m so grateful that at Christmas we’ll be able to see my wonderful family in California, and that our nearby family is incredibly supportive and loving.  I’m grateful for the relationships my kids have with their cousins and the ones I have with mine.

I’m so thankful that Lyle, who can be what my grandmother refers to as a “reluctant dragon”, has started school and is happily engaged there, leaving the house every day with a smile and a “smooch” and usually a few nose kisses.  I love that he’s willing to stretch himself to learn to play the violin, and accept the bumps along the road in the process.  I’m thankful every day for his snuggles and the sparkle in his eyes – yes, even when it’s the littlest bit defiant.  And I’m grateful that he and his brother are so close and have a great time playing together.

My gratitude also knows no bounds for Baxter, whose zest for life has been enormous from the minute he was born, diving into the world with both arms straight ahead like Superman (yes – he did).  Even his teacher used the word “enthusiastic” at least twice in his conference last week.  The fact that his glass is not just half-full, but more like 99% full much of the time brings joy to all of us.  And I will add that I’m thankful his categorizing and memorizing brain has begun to shift from the world of Pokemon to the world of Greek mythology: a welcome respite for us.

I’m beyond thankful for Matt, who keeps me laughing and graces us with the lovely sounds of his guitar as he learns to play.  I love that he comes home at night and manages to correct some of the things I tend to let go with the kids and that he always cleans up the kitchen in the evening after I’ve made dinner.  I’m grateful for his hard work at his job,  his patience with me and my quirks, and his wrestling with the kids.

And last but surely not least, I’m grateful for all of you, Wonderfriends, whether you are a member of my family, an old friend, new friend, or someone I know well but haven’t met in person yet.  Thank you for your support, for coming back here again and again, and for the laughs.

I hope each and every one of you will have a wonderful Thanksgiving tomorrow – a chance to enjoy a good meal and conversation with people you love, and to think about all that you are grateful for in your lives.

The Libertyville Four

Once upon a time, lo those many years ago, there were four boys growing up in the Chicago suburbs.  We’ll refer to them as The Libertyville Four.  They are pictured here in high school, although they went much farther back, with two of them having become best friends as long ago as second grade.

These particular guys had a lot in common: all of them very bright and curious, good students, interested in music and theater, able to debate the details of anything you put in front of them – whether they knew anything about it or not – until late into the night over bad coffee at the local Denny’s.  And handsome: just look at them!  They suffered the usual teenage angst and had their ups and downs, as you’d expect.  They even formed their own band, the Satan Alex Choir, which perhaps none of us needs to hear (*ducking*).

But something about these friendships?  Well, they held.  They stuck.

Over the years, these four guys – having gone to colleges near and far – got married, each in turn, and settled down in one big city after another, eventually having children of their own.  One is in Seattle, another in St. Paul, a third in Brooklyn, and – of course – the fourth is now here in Chicago.  They stood up for each other in their weddings, but these were the only times the four were in one place at the same time in all the years since high school.  And as anyone who has ever been married or for that matter attended a wedding knows, that meant there was always one who could not exactly relax and hang out all weekend.  That’s not to say that the guys’ families haven’t gotten together whenever possible, and that we haven’t all known each other well over the years, we just hadn’t all been together in the same place.

Fast forward 18 years from the Senior Prom to 2009.  One of the wives has a family cabin in Wisconsin and her parents generously allowed The Libertyville Four and all of their wives and children to spend a weekend in it.  This was not just any cabin – it had more than enough room for all of us, and the amenities were beyond compare. A lake in the backyard complete with more rafts than you can imagine, a motor boat, a hot tub on the deck.  You name it, that cabin had it.

And this was not just any weekend.  It was a time to reconnect, to get to know each other’s children better, and to talk, and talk, and then talk some more.  To put the kids to bed and sit around exhausted for a while and then get our second wind and make the most of the nights together.  Try to imagine four couples who adore each other, who could split up in any combination at any moment and be able to talk, laugh and simply enjoy each other’s company for hours.

And then imagine seven young children, ours being the eldest, who form bonds immediately and get along swimmingly for 4 days.  Toddlers who are proficient in sign language sitting in a circle playing with trucks.  Preschoolers playing “bunnies” and Lincoln Logs, and an 8-year old who entertains them all by reading to them, feeding them breakfast, and playing whatever they want.

In the end, The Libertyville Four has become The Libertyville Fifteen.

Thank you, Matt, Alex, Kevin, and Ryan, for choosing such compatible wives and passing on your fabulous qualities to all of our beautiful children. I feel so lucky to have every single one of you and your families in my life.

And may we never have to wait another 18 years to all be together.  Love to you all.

Always the Sand

Sand in my toes and the back of my knees and falling out of every article of clothing.  Sand lining the drawers of the old wooden dresser in our room so that each supposedly clean item leaves a dusting of sand across the floor when it’s removed in the morning.

Sand adhering to my cheeks and nose as I turn and lie face down on a towel, feeling that perhaps the sun has overstayed its welcome on my face.  I brush it off again when I sit up to watch the kids playing in the lake with their cousins, aunt, uncle, grandparents.  Kids sitting in crashing waves with their Oma, riding new boogie boards in the small waves made just a bit bigger by the occasional motor boat or jet ski, and sifting through sand for treasures.  Sand lining the ice cream containers staying cold in the cooler of ice and sand surrounding the bottle of white wine we attempt to chill in the stream that runs into the lake nearby.

Sand strewn across our bed up in the room that’s been ours for three summers now, as I read a book to Lyle.  It’s a funny book, not from our library, but belonging to the house, and it reminds me of all the random books I fell in love with in the vacation houses of my childhood.  I read this book on our bed next to my freshly scrubbed child even though I remain in my swimsuit and beach shirt, both filled with itchy, scratchy sand, because it is the only way he will calm down and go to bed.  He wants his mama to read the story and no amount of explanation changes that.  With nearly every page turn, another child appears in my room and by the time I am halfway through, all four children are cuddled around me as close as they can be, arms and legs flung out over each other, laughing at the story, exuding sweet shampoo and soap after a long day outside, no longer covered in sunscreen and bug spray.

Sand in every suitcase and beach bag as we unpack today, here in our own sandy house in this sandy neighborhood, over here on our side of the lake in its different time zone, sun rising over the lake rather than setting there.

A thousand images of kids playing together both in our cameras and our hearts, and knowing that they will grow and change year after year and we will come together again each summer and measure the changes as we revel in the laughter, the negotiations, and the quiet conversations.

And the sand.  Always the sand.

Roots and Wings

On my 38th birthday, I drove a rented dark blue mini-van through rainy New England.  The van carried four generations of my family: my boys, my mother, my maternal grandparents, myself.  From western Massachusetts to southern Connecticut, my mother and I shifted our attention constantly from the youngest child, still in need of a great deal of attention, to my elderly grandparents who were quieter about their needs but also required much consideration.  As we listened to the gleeful joke-telling in the second and third rows, I watched my grandfather, nearly 90 years old, attempt to drink from a Starbucks cup for the first time.  At first quite taken with the small lid opening, he soon tired of the learning curve that prevented him from sipping his hot cocoa successfully.  I handed him tissues and wet wipes constantly as I drove through the dense woods and over reservoirs, trying in vain to protect his trench coat from complete ruin without driving off the winding roads.

There is so much to say about the short but very sweet trip we took earlier this week.

I’d like to write about seeing my kids with my own grandparents, and all that the boys learned from spending a few days with a much older generation.  Things like slowing down and being patient, and the value of some of the attention being placed on other people – ones who are neither fast nor physically strong anymore but who continue to be vibrant, funny, curious and loving, and how much those things count.  About meeting my cousin’s new baby and giving my grandparents a chance to be in a room with all five of their great-grandchildren at the same time.  About my mom reading bedtime stories to my boys in a big hotel bed and then laughing ourselves silly in our own adjoining room until nearly midnight, once the boys were asleep.  Visiting with my wonderful, timeless uncles and my cousin’s family, and being out in the country in homes that boasted acreage and vegetable gardens, chickens and goats and sheep and a horse.  Watching my city boys cluck and flap happily among the free range chickens, collect a dozen eggs from the hen house, and ride their cousins’ horse out in the yard.

There is so much to say about it all.  And yet this evening, after a couple of days back at home, I lay next to Baxter while he drifted off to sleep holding my arm tightly around himself as if he would never let me go, and what I was really left wanting to say was how marvelous it is that we can have a truly miserable day together like we did today, full of back-talk and short fuses and attitude, and yet we can still lie down together at the end of it all, warm and snuggled and loving, and I can smile into his hair, letting it all go, and say, “We’ll try again tomorrow, okay?” and mean it.

And in my heart, I know it is all part of the same story, and it’s about roots and wings.  Where I was earlier this week?  Those were my roots, and by extension also my children’s, and without those roots we wouldn’t be who we are. Not by a long-shot.  Forgiving each other after a lousy day at home, my mom and my grandparents and the boys and me all together on my birthday, uncles and aunts we don’t see often, being back among the familiar hills and trees of the place where I grew up, second cousins playing together, a new baby passed from lap to lap, and Baxter on that horse waving to his nearly blind great-grandmother who was nevertheless watching from the window, so as not to miss a moment of his ride, waving and cheering him on.  It’s all connected.

All of it.