her able hands

I got a little carried away with the royal icing on the gingerbread house and forgot to leave any of the cookie showing. Lila and I finished it on Saturday, or I should say I finished it and she ate as many pieces of candy as she could stuff into her chubby cheeks and chattered at me non-stop. She stuck one of the peppermint windows on the side wall, but otherwise it was me trying to hurry through the project so we could move on to the next thing.

I love the marshmallow trees (thanks for the idea Alicia) and the glitter pom-pom tree I made. I’ll have to do a few more of those next year in different sizes. The bumpy texture of the small, medium and large pom-poms makes me smile. Sitting at the dining room table with my bottle of Ayleen’s and my bowl of poms, listening to Vince Giraldi while Lila took a rare nap was the most extended meditative moment I’ve had in a dog’s age.

We finished the little bit of holiday shopping we had left yesterday, and picked up our tree—a live Canada Fir—that we’ll plant along the back property line to start our living fence so in a few years we won’t have to look at the development behind us every time we go outside.

That shot’s from last weekend when the snow was just about done, and what little was left Chris and the kids shoveled into empty cat litter bins and built walls for a kickin’ snowball fight. Unfortunately, Lila did not understand that the goal was to make the opponent’s wall come tumbling down. The child lost it and had to be brought inside, lest the neighbors think we practice torture over here in our idyll.

This weekend we hit the 60s and the air smelled like spring. So disconcerting. I wanted to wrap my face up in a knit scarf and taste that metallic, sweaty wool on my tongue. Instead we went out without coats, just fleece pullovers and no hats or gloves. I wondered if Lila will ever know a truly snowy Christmas.

Last night she and Chris untangled the two strands of rainbow lights and then she micro-managed the hanging of the ornaments. I didn’t get a shot of Tyler because he gave up and went back to his Johnny Tremain homework rather than be bossed around by the pip-squeak. Humiliating as hell, that.

Most of our ornaments are handmade by my Aunt Ginny and mom, a few by me. I couldn’t find one whole box of ornaments—the one with the angel for the top of the tree and the glass icicles. We’ve misplaced quite a few things with this move. Looks like we’ll be breaking out the glitter, glue and some cardboard tonight to make a star.

While uploading the photos from the week, I found the one I most needed to see, a message from the garden to stay centered and low to the ground.

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I have some issues with my teeth right now. Some of them are continuations of problems that I put off treatment for—who knew two years could go by so quickly. We have a terrific dentist here in town, so gentle, thorough and communicative which is key for me. I dream about my teeth falling out or crumbling to bits in my mouth often, and if I can’t talk about all of the what-ifs, then I’m just going to sit there in that chair with my head in your lap and my heart in my throat, and it’ll block your view of my teeth.

I had a root canal on a tooth back in the late 80s after a piece of filling fell out without me noticing (likely on a night spent dancing to Paula Abdul at the Blue Lagoon in Yuba City, CA after half a dozen Slippery Nipples chased with a couple of shots of Jager—I’ll bet I puked that filling).

It took another 5 years to get a crown in place, me hugely pregnant with Tyler and enjoying the benefits of my first dental insurance since leaving the comfort of my childhood home. I got the work done at a Park Slope, Brooklyn office with a hurried atmosphere, not feeling very cared for and it shows because the crown’s too small. But my self-care tends to spend a lot of time on the back burner too, as evidenced by the fact that here we are 15 years later and the crown’s still too small. The gum has receded above the tooth and apparently the root canal wasn’t completely successful because there’s a tiny pocket of unfilled canal just above the crown post. It gets infected periodically and throbs, pushing the crown down so when I bite my teeth together, I feel it move back into place.

I dislike dental work so much that I have avoided re-treating the tooth for a decade and a half. Also, our dental insurance isn’t so great and a new crown is more than a month’s payment on the empty house in the boonies. But I can’t put it off anymore. Not after I heard that the bacteria could travel to my brain and cause deeper stupidity or even death. Besides, it’ll be so nice to not have that huge gap between my premolars that always has a piece of lettuce stuck in it when I’m caught off guard by my boss while eating lunch at my desk. Hi there! Big Wide Green Gob Grin!

But that’s not all. I also have quite a few tooth-colored fillings (see hereditary sweet tooth) that have eroded, the enamel chipped off the top of the tooth, fractures and likely another root canal. Oh, and two wisdom teeth have to come out. This all makes me feel so squeamish. Embarrassed. I don’t think about things like boob jobs or tummy tucks or eye lifts. I fantasize about perfect teeth. Fifty thousand dollar teeth. Crest White Strips just don’t have that effect.

I’m attempting to get as much work done as possible before the new year so I can put it on this year’s insurance, but work is so slammed-ass busy it’s hard to keep scheduling time off. So far all of my appointments have been in the wee hours of the morning and I go in a couple of hours late, feeling guilty so I work through lunch and stay the extra half hour at the end of the day until the daycare closes.

Tomorrow at 7:30 am I get 3 fillings repaired, and then schlep to work with my mouth all wonky from Novocain. We watched Rudolph, The Red Nosed Reinedeer last night and all I could think was thank dog that Hermey, the misfit elf with the oversized pliers, doesn’t work at Dr. Martin’s office.

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We’re halfway through Advent and finally, after decades, I feel almost satisfied with the observance of the season. For years I attempted to introduce a more nature based ritual to my family, but it must not have rung true for any of us. I could never turn any of it into an actual tradition. I purchased chocolate Advent calendars, burned the Advent candles for the tabletop wreath, read stories aloud from the Christmas Stories book after well-planned suppers. Tyler grew bored and frustrated after the first few days and sulked until allowed to leave the table.

I started rustic, woolen nativity sets but never managed to finish one. I have a few mangled mangers made of driftwood from a lake, a river and the ocean; deformed sheep, cows and the three kings. I don’t think I ever made Mary, Joseph or baby Jesus. Only one partial set ever made it to a table.

This year we’ve got an assembled, but undecorated Gingerbread House and a small forest of Marshmallow Trees that I’ll photograph once they’re done. I hope to have enough time this weekend to finish them, but the kids lost interest pretty quickly. I’ve learned to not fight it, to stop trying to force them into a mindfulness that they’re not ready for, not needing. I’m the one who needs it and a huge part of that is practicing letting go of trying to change everyone around me, and slowing down enough to let myself enjoy the unfinished aspects of our life together.

I didn’t want another cheap chocolate grocery store Advent calendar—not that there’s anything wrong with them, I just wanted something more permanent that I can look forward to unpacking on the last day of November and loading up with tiny treats. I knew I wouldn’t manage to make the woolen stocking garland I’ve fantasized about making for the past 20 years.

Instead I did a bunch of internet research and found something that’s good enough at Target.com of all places. I love the colorful fabric depictions of the Incan holy family’s journey, supposedly made by handcrafters in the Andes. Lila’s fascinated with the idea of a tree having little pockets filled with candy—one piece for each of the kids (next year maybe I’ll have it together enough to change out some of the sugar for little token gifts like crystals, ornaments, rubber stamps and that kind of thing).

When she wakes up in the morning my girl starts begging for her Kwistismas twee tweet. Finally hearing that it’s time after supper, she hoists a chair up so she won’t scratch the hardwood floor, maneuvers in an awkward balancing act it over to the wall, hauls herself up and figures out which day is next, and then digs out the two sweets. She then delivers one to her brother.

Last night she was in a remarkably cheerful mood and knocked on his door, slid it back and entered with her hand held out in front of her, “I browt you a kiss, Tyler!” I let her words sink into me, settle in my angsty, twitchy muscles and feel the tingle of all of that simple love. Remind myself that this is Christmas, this little moment of easy exchange between these two growing people.

While I was searching for the perfect pocket calendar, I came across an auction on Ebay for this sweet woven flax Advent calendar made in the 70s in Sweden (the sticker on the back confirms this fact). It has a little bell hanging off the tip at the bottom, and Lila likes to give it a quick jingle before we head out the door and into our busy days in the morning. I love that she does this—it’s like a small prayer.

I’ve been missing my grandfather so much and the round, rosy face of the child ringing the bell reminds me of Gramps and his sparkly eyes when my mom presented him with his holiday tin of Hermits, Swedish Brownies and Butterscotch Brownies (all his mother’s recipes). Gramps was Swedish through and through. Both mom and Aunt Ginny always got so much pleasure from sneaking him some homemade goodies and watching his smoldering ember glow of happiness at being loved so much. The man adored sweets even more than I do if that’s possible. Let me tell you, that’s an awful lot.

Sometimes at the Christmas Eve party at Uncle B’s house he pulled a chair right up to the dessert table, well, as close as he could get with his great belly swaddled in a red sweater resting on his lap. We stayed here by our lonesome last Christmastime so I didn’t have to face the reality of not seeing his ruddy cheeks and jokester’s blue eyes in the crowd of my extended family. We’re going home this year though, and it’s going to be strange. We’ll see Grams, but that’s a whole other blog. No, I don’t mean a separate blog post, I mean a whole other blog.

Lila asked last night if we could make a star for the top of our Christmas tree. I was thinking we should do something new. The angel I made ten years ago back in my other life is a wreck, the fabric stained with tree sap and yellowing from age and too many seasons spent in damp basements. I like that we’re letting go of some of the old things and making new ones to build our own traditions with. Chris doesn’t have a whole lot of holiday attachment, has never asked that we do anything the way his family did. Also, for a long time I didn’t dare to let go of anything that carried over from before, not wanting the season to be unrecognizable to Tyler when here he was having to adjust to this whole new life. But my boy is growing up and out and away. He’s more open to change. He likes the idea of a star. Maybe he’ll help us with the glitter.

We had our first significant snowfall—about six inches. On Sunday the air began to warm and the cushion started to melt away revealing the stones around the edge of the perennial garden. I’m letting myself slow down again on the weekends enough to notice what’s happening here as the seasons change. Spent this past weekend in the kitchen cooking, organizing and gazing out the window.

It’s felt like such a whirlwind since we moved in that I’ve hardly noticed my feet touch the ground. I love looking out and seeing the tiny woods that in summer was a curtain of green socking us in from the rest of the world, but now serves as a thin screen between us and the neighborhood. With so much less light now, it’s grand to look out and see more sky all around, to see the other houses nearby and to not feel so all alone the way we did out there at the old house.

I’m grateful for the winter garden. It gives me permission to lay fallow in at least one aspect of my life. The rest is a rushing forward through space and time at breakneck speed, but the snow-covered mounds whisper quiet truths to me when I stop and listen.

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It got cold and snowy.
My computer is in the unfinished basement.
My basement feels windy, as if it’s outside.
I can hardly stand to sit there and check my email.

I have to come up with cute names for 100 new products.
I’m dealing with copy for two catalogs.
Oh, and sell sheets for the above.
We’re starting up new packaging.
(See 100 new products)
That’s by mid-February.
Work is kicking my arse.

The kids are kicking what’s left of it.
Sleep is my only friend.
Except when I dream about fighting with my kids.
And not meeting my obligations at work.
Then sleep’s a hater, too.

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