There are things that are not just things to me: things that are loaded with memories, or feelings. Things that are saturated with meaning, both personal and profound. There are tattered books whose pages smell of my childhood and whose words ring out in my father's voice whenever they're read. There are knick-nacks from high school, college and beyond that hold parts of my former selves - memories of people and places far away and yet close to my heart. And there are things from my more recent past, too, like the beautiful, crocheted bedspreads and doilies that Paulo's Madrinha made for us with so much love and such matchless skill before age and illness stole her memories and her voice. There are the tiny Christmas bows that adorned the "Christmas fern" Paulo and I decorated on our first Christmas together, reminders of those early moments when our future was just beginning. And there are tiny sweaters and embroidered bibs that once fit around my children's infant selves, now so impossibly small and fragile against their giant and growing bodies. These things are more monuments to the hurried passage of time than simple things at all.
Two years ago Ellie was newly diagnosed, and we spent the fall taking her to her first autism program in Nashua each day. The people were lovely and gentle with us, but it was a hard adjustment. Before the Christmas break, they planned a party for her 'class'. We would miss the party itself as she found the filled classroom too overwhelming, but there were goodies and trinkets to take home. In fact, they prepared by helping the children make ornaments while we, the parents, sat in a training seminar to learn how to be our children's therapists at home. Ellie often hated these separations, as she could not yet communicate with others and being away from me often prompted panic. After the hour-long seminar I often returned to find her in tears, which made the exercise doubly hard. After the ornament-making class, she was once again in tears. When I picked her up they cheerfully handed me the paper snowflake pictured above, painstakingly cut out and decorated by the staff with "Ellie" printed clearly on the back. I don't know if she even helped to spread the glitter, but I rather doubt it.
The juxtaposition between this and the ornaments my other little ones had made at 2 was almost too painful at the time. I found myself almost repelled by it and everything it represented: an open-ended question about where this sweet child's future lay, and how many Christmases before she might be able to make even a rudimentary drawing for herself. I knew the gesture was intended to be sweet, but in truth it tasted bitter - a stand-in for what my daughter couldn't do. I almost threw it out. Almost.
Two years later it hangs on my tree. I can still feel those feelings when I see it, but they are tempered by time. Now it hangs quietly while the little girl who couldn't spread glitter on it's face two years ago recites from one of her favorite books in the next room, her sweet voice ringing out the lines with confidence: "My mother is a Dall sheep and she loves me sooooooo much!" Lexi's voice layers with Ellie's as she reads to her brother, and Spencer, who couldn't sit still long enough to listen last year, sits next to her in rapt attention, laughing at the funny parts. The blue snowflake is a humbling reminder of how wonderfully far we've come.
This year we are sick with colds and the house looks like a bomb went off. Legos litter the diningroom table and the floor, and blankets and stuffed animals have been trailed around the house and left in odd places. Books lie open on the couches and end tables, and the coffee table has been completely obscured by a mountian of animal figures. Tissue boxes abound and presents still need wrapping. Our Christmas cards hit the mail without letters or even notes, and our annual peppermint-bark batches are coming down to the wire. With a little luck they'll all be packaged in time. And in spite of the chaos, the sickness, and the busyness, I am feeling tremendously blessed. Each trial and struggle and fear has silvered the edges of my hair, wrinkled my face, and darkened the circles under my eyes, but when I look at my life, my family, and my friends I can feel nothing but joy. Who has been given more than I have? None of this would fit beneath a tree, and yet it is all I could ask for and more.
My name is Leah, and I am soooo blessed.
I hope that your holiday is filled with warmth and love and blessings, too, and that the new year brings you all the gifts you need.
(PS sorry about the ridiculous spacing. TypePad is messing with me for Christmas!)
