jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

Last night my nearly-18-year-old came into my bedroom, as usual. Every night both dogs get fulsome wishes for a peaceful and restful night along with a good dose of cuddling, and then the child I built with my own body will give me a peck on the forehead and a quick “Love you, good night.” This is better than a lot of parents get, and I take it gratefully. This time my son first laid down on the floor with Dog #2, giving him his full course of affection. Then, when he came to snuggle up with Dog #1 at the foot of the bed, the back-to-school of it all seemed to overtake him and then he was asleep.

I was close to sleep myself, and I hovered in indecision. My son had no blanket or pillow. He was head down with his feet near the pillows. That can’t be comfortable. And yet he’s a teenager and I have seen him sleep in ludicrously uncomfortable places and positions. I let him lie.

It’s been a long time since my son crashed in my bed with me, and this time was certainly by accident. I know my night owl husband probably popped in at some point and then withdrew to the guest room. He is noisy and I am a light sleeper, so this isn’t uncommon regardless of where the kids are.

At some point in the wee hours my son was talking in his dreams, fretfully. I patted his back like I did when he was a baby, like I do for the dogs now when they whimper in their sleep, and he went silent.

For the most part we will never know when we are doing the ‘last’ of anything. Other than a clear recall of the ‘last’ time I carried both my sons up the stairs together – one on each hip – all others elude me now. This, I know, might be another. I hope my son’s life is blessed enough that we don’t have occasion for me to need to watch over him in the night. So if this is how the last of the nighttime mothering goes, with my son wholly unaware it even happened, I will hold on to this surprise offering and tuck it away.

Letters for Santa

Reindeers of Santa,

I hope that your elves are feeling well.

Love,

Elliot

Dear Santa,

I hope that I get my computer.

I hope that I’m on the good list.

I hope you have a safe trip.

Love,

Alden

The boys are in Kentucky getting a jump on the holiday with the in-laws. I stayed behind for work and will head up in a few days.

I’ve lit the trees and a candle. I’ve got a pot pie in the oven and I’m drinking a beer. This Christmas, so far, has been the best I can remember in a long while. NO JINXES. Last year the kids found their gifts and Alden will still sometimes say, “Remember when we found our presents and you cried?” I call his sweet face going from thrilled to horrified when he took in my reaction. Not this year.

Gratitude is a program that always runs in my background. I could make you a list of the thorns in my side, but I try to be in my right mind by the time I go to bed at night. I’ve found it’s really helpful to literally run away from my problems on a treadmill. My feet race, my mind races, and at the end I feel purged. The beer also helps. When my kids fall asleep at night I indulge myself by petting their heads, kissing little cheeks, often I go in for the full-body snuggle. They’re so used to it that they rarely stir; once in a while I get a slurred, “I love you Mommy” from Elliot. Most evenings of their lives have gone that way. I don’t know what it does for them, but it snaps me into the right frame of mind.

They’re not with me tonight. Instead I think about them, what I might change about them if I could, and it’s really nothing. I think about how fortunate I am to have a husband who sincerely and enthusiastically wanted to be a parent as much as I did, and who approaches the whole thing with the same fierce love. Our mothers are with us, approve of us and support us. That is not something everyone can take for granted.

Some day I hope my kids read this. They’re ultimately my most important audience. They will know about this journal some day, and they’re always in my mind as I write. I want us all to remember this time of great privilege and pleasure and love.

I’m in my cousin’s basement watching my two goofy boys play on iPads while the adults get ready to head out for the family celebrations. They don’t have a care in the world today. They’re well-nourished and healthy. They have zero doubt that they’re surrounded by love. They don’t even understand that there are any other options.

We have enough family that wants us that we have two different houses to visit today. I am looking forward to seeing every single person. The important social research agency of Facebook tells me that many, many people don’t have this good luck.

The back half of 2104 has been pretty hard, and just a few days ago I told Damon we should be proud if we can just drag our carcasses over the finish line. Still. We exist in such a state of privilege. I had some serious injuries this year, but also doctors and physical therapists who cared, were thoughtful, and got me back on my feet. Work has been hard, but I have excellent coworkers and I do still have a job. Alden was diagnosed with a sensory processing disorder. Now I have the gift of understanding him better and we can afford the out-of-pocket therapy he needs. Getting the boys into the right school this year was excruciating, much more so than I expected, and yet now that it’s done the results have been no less than life changing. Some things just suck. We lost two cats this year, one suddenly and shockingly just two weeks ago. I don’t have distance from much of these things yet. I recall very clearly the pain of a stress fracture in my leg that added a layer of unpleasantness over many of my days. I can still get choked up remembering the sleepless anxiety of not knowing what Alden needs, of finding a school that both wanted and welcomed him (which his old school very much did) but also could teach him in a way that worked for him. Some day it will all fade away. Today I’m grateful to remember because I can still savor the relief of those things abating.

Somehow I am in possession of a 5-year-old and a 7-year-old. That sounds so old. No one says “Wow” anymore when I say my kids’ ages. And yet, they still are so tiny to me. They still wake me up on the blistered edge of dawn, although now I get Alden saying, “I hate to wake you up Mommy. I’m really sorry, but I can’t make my robot dog work.” (Please note that it is a stretch to say that he hates to wake me up.)

We’re still in the time of life when a kiddie birthday party in the backyard is a Pinterest-y good time. We put up a pinata and a bounce house and had just a small gang of buddies over. (Please note that 7 is probably the oldest age eligible for a bounce house. At least boys. At least my boys. They managed to take it over on its side two times.)

Elliot has a few more years of kiddie-ness.

I know that soon, at least for Alden, these days of noise makers and party hats will soon give way to laser tag and… Whatever else big boys do. Wrestling matches? Sports… Fighting? Definitely uncharted territory. This seemed like the right year to get that birthday cake off the life list.

I love to cook, but I don’t bake. I don’t have the precision. My goal was never a fondant masterpiece. Fondant takes terrible anyway, and that breaks the first rule of being a cake. I also don’t make cakes form scratch. Maybe I could have, but a box mix tastes 85% as good to me. What I wanted was something that looked cool, that spoke to who the boys are.

I did four cake trials. I baked so much cake that one got baked, iced, and thrown right in the trash. One we ate. One went to my office. I can’t even remember what happened to the other one. I did it all late at night so the boys didn’t get a sneak peek. I’m really happy with the outcome.

Alden and Elliot both are crazy for doughnuts. Turns out I cannot make a cake this shape via creative use of a bundt pan, but I can make one with a silicone mold from the As Seen On TV store. It’s even got a sort of trough in the middle for cream filling. Pictured here is the carrot cake. We also had a version in chocolate. My boys can agree on many things, but cake flavors is not one of them. Elliot, weirdly, won’t eat anything chocolate. I’m having him tested, but until we can cure this abnormality we make allowances.

For the grown ups we did a bloody Mary bar (highly recommended!) and a cheese plate. I was riding high on my cake success, so I threw in a cheese ball for the kids.

If you are ever looking to delight people at a party with very minimal effort, Great Ball of Cheese is the cookbook you want.