We’ve just finished one of those insanely busy December weekends – we celebrated Saint Nicholas Day, my oldest daughter was in three play performances, we went to see Santa at the Legion AND it was my husband’s birthday yesterday, so we had company over last night, too. Oh, and we’re all getting over the flu, just to keep things interesting.
I did not cook anything this weekend. Not one thing, aside from one of those flourless chocolate cakes last night. I forgot to put the sugar in it. Let’s not talk about that.
We also made these angel ornaments at some point:
Saint Nicholas obligingly brought the whole family the kit and the kids were pretty gung-ho on making them and the craft session went really well with the exception of the one kid who spent the entire time crying hysterically in her room. So that was pretty festive.
I was pretty annoyed at the crying kid – way to ruin all of our fun, buddy. And she is, I thought with deep irritation, old enough to know better. Then it was time for her last performance as Holly Hobby, and she put on her heavy boots and heavy parka and thick mitts and heavy toque over her hair – in two braids, for once, because of the demands of her art – as she sniffled and headed off red-eyed to the school gym. The Baby and I were sitting in the audience because it was our turn to watch (her dad and brother had gone the night before), and suddenly there was this tiny little child in a long prairie dress, her face hidden by a big white Holly Hobby bonnet, this tiny little child on a stage surrounded by people so much older and taller than her.
Oh, I marveled. She’s still just a little girl.
Afterward, after the relieved excitement of the final performance, I took her to the Hardware Store in town at her request. The kids’ school has this elf mail thing this week, where for a dollar you can send packages around the school to friends, and she wanted to go pick out a package for a friend. Instead of heading towards the expected aisles – the aisle with toys or the aisle with art supplies, she immediately started rifling through a basket of mittens near the front counter.
Mittens? I asked.
Her friend – not her best friend, just a friend – has one pair of gloves, she told me, and they’re thin and have holes in them and they get wet at recess. She had decided to use her Christmas money given to her by her great-grandpa to send her friend good thick mittens through the school’s elf mail.
She is not an angel, but she’s doing her very best and standing there with her in our small town store, I suddenly found myself having to fight back fierce, proud tears. Oh, I marveled. My girl.
So now I’m going to get off the computer and spend the rest of the day making gingersnaps and bread and pea soup with The Baby, these warm winter foods that will make the house smell welcoming when my older kids come back from school this afternoon, the sort of foods that say warmth and winter and home. I’d better get to it – childhood is pretty fleeting.