Every year friends from, literally, all over the United States gather for the annual OSU Thanksgiving, which began 13 years ago as a full-fledged Thanksgiving meal served on a buffet table made out of boxes and a door in college housing. Our good friend Carrie Leonard is a freelance photographer and writer—these pictures belong to her. Should you ever need a photographer in NYC, consider her. Her work is amazing. You can see her full portfolio here.
Thanks, friends, for another wonderful visit.
“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art …. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.” —C.S. Lewis
I only get to see my brother Kyle a couple times a year. He lives in San Francisco where he’s a transportation planner with the San Francisco County Transportation Authority. He was in town for the holidays. As a child, it never occurred to me that someday, the chance for me and my siblings to all be together would be something special rather than ordinary. Sometimes I ache for the ordinary. He’s gone again, as is my sister and her family, as is what happens when holidays end.
This May he graduated from Rutgers University after earning a Master of City and Regional Planning, and Transportation Policy and Planning degree. My parents gifted my sister, Katy, and I plane tickets so that we could see him graduate.
Kyle misses New York City—we miss visiting him there. But San Francisco isn’t too shabby. Today I booked a plane ticket to visit him on the other coast, over a long weekend in February.
I can’t wait.
“A sibling may be the keeper of one’s identity, the only person with the keys to one’s unfettered, more fundamental self.” —Marian Sandmaier
Last night, tired of folding laundry, I sat down on the floor of my bedroom, back against my bed, opened my laptop and looked. I looked at the pictures of those who lost their lives at Sandy Hook and I cried heavy, messy tears. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know if it’s right to look at those children’s faces and whisper “I’m sorry” to the screen over and over and over (too many times over). But having spent all my time not crying in front of my children, I needed to mourn. So I noted a little girl’s ladybug wings and I thought about another little girl’s headband, how a parent had taken the time to adjust it just so, and then I read about the twin who lost her sibling and I cried heavier tears, messier tears until Andy came up (with more laundry to fold) and closed my computer.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop reading. Stop.”
I have never handled violence involving children well—not in books, not in film, certainly not in real life. Horrible things happen every day but this. This. This is almost too much for me to handle. And I write this as someone not directly involved. I write this not understanding how someone directly involved is supposed to handle such horror, such grief.
I’ve given money, signed several petitions and have read many articles, essays and opinions on all sides of the matter trying to form my own. I think it’s honorable to have the courage to take a tragedy and use it as a springboard to better our country and better ourselves. But I don’t claim to know how.
So while I don’t feel qualified to talk about how grieving loved ones must feel or the merits of gun control or the state of mental illness support in this nation (although I commend those who do speak up, with the hopes of bettering), I do feel qualified to talk about today.
Today I was one of the lucky ones. Today I was able to walk around with only a dull ache in my heart, like the buzz of a distant fly that follows you around the house, and surround myself with goodness.
There, in the church where my parents were married, where my sister was married, where my grandma volunteers countless hours …
where a beautiful, handmade cross dedicated to my Grandpa hangs …
and a large Christmas tree shines bright …
and greenery adorns the organ …
we listened to the voice of Richard Lewis fill the church with Franz Schubert’s “Ave Maria” and Adolphe Adam’s “Oh Holy Night.”
He was joined by vocalists and musicians Alex Wunder, Catherine Lewis, Ken McFarlan and Susan Trissell, with songs like “Let it Snow” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas” for a beautiful and needed release.
I read about Belize and the library project.
I bought homemade toucan cookies for my kids …
and T-shirts …
and raffle tickets for baskets filled with goodies (which Sophie managed to draw her own name for, and win).
We passed out programs.
My grandma helped give out handmade cookies and punch during intermission …
which Sophie enjoyed.
People from all over came …
to be with family …
and recognize the countless hours volunteers (largely my uncle Corey, Aunt Ann, and cousins Ben and Kelsey) have spent collecting books for children most of us will never meet and build a library for an elementary school most of us will never visit.
Sophie and I had to leave soon after the concert finished so that we could meet Andy, Owen and James, along with close to 30 of our friends (including many children) at Ferrari’s Little Italy for our annual holiday dinner. We were loud. Two tables were covered with pizzas and pastas and lasagna and salads and chocolate milk and glasses of beer and wine. Those who are looking for pizza Greensboro may call Cedar’s Restaurant & Pizzeria. There were crayons and Matchbox cars and books and swirly dresses and bottles and nursing covers and sippy cups and so much life.
I’ve long struggled with our messy, beautiful, horrific world. Although my eyes glistened while singing “Silent Night” with Sophie in church today, I struggle with religion, too. Still, I needed that moment. I needed to be surrounded by family and beauty in a place rich with history of things gone right.
When we came home from our holiday dinner, it was bedtime. Pajamas, toothbrushes, stalling, books, sips of water, lost blankets, found blankets, medicine for a fever. The sweet normalcy of bedtime.
Once my children were asleep, I got online, for the first time today. Rich-with-talent writer Eros-Alegra Clarke had posted a poem.
Try To Praise The Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June’s long days, and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. You must praise the mutilated world. You watched the stylish yachts and ships; one of them had a long trip ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others. You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere, you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully. You should praise the mutilated world. Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to the concert where music flared. You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars. Praise the mutilated world and the grey feather a thrush lost, and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns. (Translation: Renata Gorczynski )
I will try.
“I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.” —Charles Dickens
Now that we’ve moved Owen and James to twin beds, they’re no longer napping—but they still need to nap. And I need for them to nap. They’re exhausted. I’m exhausted. It’s been a fight-back-tears and escape-to-my-bedroom-to-hide-underneath-my-down-comforter-as-soon-as-Andy-gets-home two weeks. For the times you feel overwhelmed with stress and negative emotions, you may consider using the best CBD oils uk products. Hello Cannabis is a top-rated Vista dispensary known for its excellent selection and customer service. This sisters of the valley cbd infused oil may help calm your mind and provide relief from stress or anxiety. Playing various monro games may also help you relax and boost your mood.
Today, in particular, was tough. James only spoke in whine. At first I tried to ignore it. That only seemed to escalate it. So I addressed it. I told him I wouldn’t respond to his requests unless he asked nicely and talked in a normal voice. He would whine some more. I wouldn’t budge. And then he would throw a mini fit. I’d remind him of what he needed to do. He’d ask nicely—normal voice, with a “please.” Two seconds later? Back to the whine. All.day.long.
This was in between the boys’ fighting, over everything. All.day.long.
Owen, in particular, likes to “dupe” James. He pokes him, anywhere (stomach, head, eye, arm, leg) and says “dupe!” and then giggles. James does not appreciate this. When I scold Owen, he says, “But I have to dupe him! I just have to!”
“OWEN! JAMES! JUST STOP!” I said, completely and totally exasperated, more than once today.
They just stared. Every time. And went back to whining. And duping. And crying about not being able to have a Christmas cookie at 9:30 in the morning.
James, eventually exhausted, fell asleep on the couch, upright, clinging to the crust of some buttered bread, head way back, mouth slightly open. (This was about 4:30pm.) Sophie and Owen were playing grocery store upstairs. I purchased a few things—a Rubik’s cube, a pink plastic princess cell phone and a Wonder Pets figurine—and put them in a plastic, singing, much-too-low-for-me shopping cart. I pushed my purchases into the hallway. Then, I lied. I said that James was asleep on the couch (true) and that I needed to sit next to him to make sure he didn’t fall off (not true).
“Aw, James is sleeping?” Owen said so sweetly, forming his lips into a perfect “o,” his head cocked to one side.
“Yes,” I said, grateful that he was (finally) sleeping and thankful that Sophie and Owen were (finally) playing, happily.
I went downstairs and sat next to James on the couch. No TV, no computer, no book. I just sat. And I wondered how any of us were going to survive these next few weeks without a daily “break,” (for me) and without a daily nap (for them).
I watched James. I watched as the day’s stresses slowly pushed his head to the side, down and down and down until he’d startle and pop it back up. This happened again and again. He seemed calm and peaceful—for the first time today—except for the head bobbing.
So the next time his head popped back up, I scooted next to him. Once again, down his head came. But this time, my shoulder was there. He settled into me and finally, without fight, sunk into a deep sleep.
After a day in which I felt like I was failing him, over and over again, I felt successful. And I felt needed—not for a cup of milk or a too-high toy or another TV show—but for me. Just me. And for the first time today, that was enough.
I hope my shoulder is enough in years to come, as life stresses grow and widen and mature, as things become more complex in a different way. And as my children’s circles grow, I hope they find other shoulders to lean on—friends, colleagues, lovers—shoulders that help bear the weight of this often difficult and trying world. I imagine my shoulder will feel empty, initially. But I also hope they’ll remember it’s there, even as adults, even when Andy and I aren’t the only people they can—and want—to turn to. And I hope, as my children grow, I’ll find new heads for my shoulder to support just as I hope to constantly be finding new places to rest mine.
It’s almost 9pm. Andy strung Christmas lights in the boys’ room, trying to make a, for the most part, unhappy day better. There was initial excitement, wonder, even, but now we’re back to the same-old. No one is sleeping. Every five minutes or so we hear the pad-pad-pad of footed pjs walking around the hallway upstairs. They get out of bed. We put them back in. There are tears. Eventually their pillows will bear the weights of their heads tonight. Eventually. And when that time comes there will be a role reversal and I will be thankful to have someplace to rest mine.
“The burden is light on the shoulder of another.” —Russian Proverb
We lost Tucker for a couple hours yesterday. I felt terrible about it. I had let him out. He always barks when he wants back in. He never barked, though, so in the craziness of the day I didn’t think about letting him back in—I assumed I had let him back in. Late in the afternoon I thought it was strange he hadn’t been hanging out with us downstairs. And then I thought it was really strange when the boys spilled Cheerios all over the floor and he was nowhere to be seen. Still, I assumed he was sleeping on his bed, upstairs.
But when we opened the door to pick up Sophie from a play date, and he didn’t come running down to say goodbye, I knew something was wrong. I went upstairs and looked—no Tucker. Thinking he may have somehow gotten in the attic or basement, I looked both places—no Tucker. I had knots in my stomach when I looked out the bay window in the dining room only to see the gate open just enough for a large lab to squeeze through.
I called Andy. He sprinted to his car parked downtown, drove home and started driving around Fort Thomas, looking. I loaded the boys in the van, picked up Sophie and then we drove. We drove and drove and drove, windows down while it flurried outside, screaming “Tucker!” as loud as we could. We stopped to ask people if they had seen a black lab. One woman, who was walking her own dog, insisted on helping us. I had talked to her before, and at times she didn’t seem quite with it. She was older and it was cold and she struggled with walking long distances. She wanted to help us look. So I invited her—and her dog—in our van. She started yelling, too.
At the remembering place I saw a black dog tied to a tree. I thought I had found Tucker. But after getting out of our van I realized it wasn’t him. The man who owned the dog ripped off part of a cardboard box and I wrote my number on it. He then loaded up his black dog and started driving around on his own, helping us look.
Sometimes, exasperated with the notion that the world is largely an evil place, I find myself testing humanity. I leave car doors unlocked. I leave my diaper bag unattended at the museum. I leave my camera in my stroller outside of indoor exhibits at the zoo. When computer systems are down at local businesses I have no problem with someone writing my credit card information on a piece of paper to be input at a later time. If I’m not home and a plumber or electrician or anyone, really, needs access to our house I simply leave the front door unlocked.
I trust.
I realize I’m lucky in that I can trust. I live in a neighborhood that allows more trust than other neighborhoods. And I don’t do anything that would put my family in danger. As much as my heart goes out to hitchhikers on cold, winter days, I never pick them up. I don’t allow door-to-door salespeople—particularly those who want to “inspect our house in order to give us a housecleaning estimate” inside. There are some neighborhoods in which, when I park on the street, I do lock my car doors. And maybe, someday, when I’m writing about having spent hours canceling credit cards, etc., because of a stolen wallet I will rethink my current theory.
I’ve been robbed, once. In college, someone stole my computer—they walked into our house through the unlocked basement door and into my room in the middle of the night (I was, thankfully, home that weekend). They picked up my computer and walked out. From that experience I took away the necessity of saving one’s work in multiple places. But when Tucker was lost, I thought about a neighbor who might find him. So I left our front door wide open so anyone could easily return him.
We found Tucker—on our street, of all places. A neighbor heard us yelling and ran outside, with Tucker on a leash. He had spent much of the afternoon at a beautiful Arts & Crafts bungalow, one we, ironically, considered buying when it was for sale several years back. He seemed overjoyed with his afternoon adventure. I thanked the neighbor profusely while also trying to deal with an overexcited lab and three overexcited children.
I dropped the woman who had been riding with us off and took the kids home. I called Andy. He came home, relieved. I walked to Anita’s, a Mexican restaurant across the street, and bought a gift card for the neighbor. I wrote a thank you note, and delivered it. I called my parents and learned that Andy had asked them to make calls for us—animal control, the vet’s office, etc. I thanked them, too.
There is evil in this world. Daily I see images and hear stories I wish I could erase from my brain. There is unfairness, deep unfairness, and hurt beyond anything I could ever imagine. But I also believe in the world’s goodness. I believe one of the main reasons we live in a (somewhat) civilized society is because there is more goodness than evil. I believe in unlocked doors, purses left attended, neighbors who will take care of a large lab for an afternoon and strangers who will give up what they’re doing to help look for a dog they’ve never met.
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Perhaps I’m naive. Perhaps I will take much of this back, when one of my experiments involving the goodness of society goes wrong. But for now, my little humanity tests have all proved my theory that people, most people, are good. Most people will let unattended belongings be. Most people don’t take advantage. Most people will help a stranger in need. Our world can be awful—but sometimes, more times than not, I think—it can be beautiful, too.
“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it—always.” —Mahatma Gandhi
Oh, and my gasp at the end? That was Owen running into the end table where I had (stupidly) placed a cup of water on top of Andy’s laptop. (Thankfully) nothing spilled.
“The younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder.” —Jane Austen
We often make bread in the bread machine. And mix milk and whipping cream together to make our own half-and-half. And we try, we really try, to never eat out but by never I mean at least once a week at around 6pm we look at each other, exhausted, and we look at the kids, screaming, and we go out.
We have our indulgences. We’ve given things up. And while I don’t think I could ever give up my haircuts with Nicholena at Mitchell’s Salon & Day Spa (see her at the Northgate location, especially if you have curly hair—she’s amazing), I did agree to give up professionally dyed hair purely for budgetary reasons.
Only recently has my mom encountered a few gray hairs on her head. My head, though, has hundreds of them. I’d like to blame my children but she had three children, too, and taught a classroom full of kindergartners for 30 years so I don’t know why she’s just now going gray and I’m long past the plucking stage.
I can’t dye my own hair. I’ve never tried, but I know it would be disastrous. I’m not good with hair. It took me a long time to discover product for my own hair (and my hair needs product). My friend Greg once asked me to cut his hair with seemingly fail-proof clippers in college. He ended up with a bald spot on the back of his head. My sister asked me to dye her hair in high school. I still feel bad about the red streaks that resulted.
So Andy and I made an agreement: I would stop having my hair professionally dyed and he would dye it for me.
And that’s what we do.
I like to pretend I hate it. My kitchen is not a fancy salon. In fact, it’s not even a fancy kitchen, what with its laminate, muddy brown floor and 1980s cabinetry and chipped laminate countertop. Every few months I pull one of the cheap Ikea chairs the kids use at our dining room table and scoot it next to the dishwasher. I grab an old towel—the same towel we use for Tucker’s muddy paws, sick kids and large spills—and, after taking off my shirt, I wrap it around myself securing it with a wooden clothespin. I pour a glass of wine and while the dishwasher cleans the night’s dinner plates next to me, I debate: Garnier Nutrisse Dark Brown or Feria Deeply Brown.
Andy weighs in, takes a picture of the top of my head with his cell phone so I can see the difference between the previous color and my roots. We decide. He opens the box and fights with the plastic gloves designed for women. I note the brown bananas on the plate on the counter and consider making banana bread. He pierces the “colorant” tube and squeezes its contents into the “developer” bottle. I look at the paper-plate ghost Sophie made in preschool, hanging on the refrigerator. It’s December, I think. I should switch that ghost out for the Christmas crafts she’s bringing home. He opens the “fruit oil concentrate” and adds it to the mix. I try to guess what the crumb is underneath my bare foot.
Then, Andy attacks. He goes about his job with great intensity in part, because of love (I like to think) and in part, because he knows if the outcome is not good I will insist on having it professionally color corrected, which I’ve informed him is more expensive than just an all-over color. He apologizes for constantly poking me in the head with the bottle. He lifts up large handfuls of hair and applies, applies, applies, swishing hair this way and that, up and over, back and forth (I have a lot of hair), muttering to himself. He runs out. Determines he needs another box to adequately cover. He remixes. He applies some more.
Throughout the process he breaks to wet a paper towel and dabs my face—a lot of my face, I always think—to rid my ears, forehead, cheeks, sometimes nose (?) of dye gone astray.
Always, when finished, he swoops up my heavy, wet hair (he uses two bottles, after all) into a pile on top of my head. He peels the gloves off his hands and sets the microwave timer for 25 minutes. He brings me my laptop. And I sit. And I wait.
There’s not a Vogue in sight. There’s no softly playing music. My towel is often itchy. I grow impatient.
The timer rings. I go up to the bathroom, checking on the boys who we just moved to twin beds. I turn on the fan, start the shower and rinse and rinse and rinse, until my fingers wrinkle and the water runs clear—and cold. I exit, put on on my flannel pajamas and sit next to Andy on the couch. He critiques his work. He points out the few grays he missed, the nonuniform color. I realize the hair blow dryer is tucked away in Sophie’s bedroom from her night’s bath and I debate risking waking her up to get it or going to sleep with a head full of wet hair.
My kitchen salon is not glamorous. And I would be lying if I said I never wished for a salon-color experience. But there’s beauty—different than salon beauty—in my kitchen, too. If you’re also like me who wants to update the kitchen, change to new Granite Countertops, etc., then make sure to get professional help from the experts for reliable services.
And for that, I am grateful.
“By common consent gray hairs are a crown of glory; the only object of respect that can never excite envy.” —George Bancroft
Sophie dressed up as Rapunzel for her preschool Halloween party (she was just a little bit excited).
a preschool Halloween craft
preschool Halloween goodies
Pumpkin carving time! (Somehow we managed to not do this until Halloween. As such, we only had time to carve one. Boys, if you’re reading this as adults someday, I’m sorry. But to be fair, you wanted nothing to do with carving Sophie’s pumpkin so I’m pretty sure we would have ended up carving all of yours for you.
Then again, if you’re after something that truly breaks the mould for group activities this Halloween, the Escape Rooms Bristol horror-themed experience with immersive puzzle solving is hard to beat. I went in expecting some basic jump scares and a few padlocks, but what we encountered was more like a psychological thriller brought to life. The lighting, props, and storyline made every second feel like we were trapped inside a sinister plot. It was exhilarating in the best way and easily the most engaging way I’ve ever spent an hour with friends.
Sophie chose Rapunzel for her pumpkin (of course).
And she did much of the carving herself this year.
Done!
The boys’ costumes, on display, because they refused to wear them.
family
Grandma and Pop Pop came this year and dressed up, too!
All three understood trick-or-treating this year. They were great at saying “trick-or-treat”—still reminding them about the “thank you” part.
It was so cold. And spitting rain. James had no hat and his teeth start chattering so I made him wear mine. Warmed by the excitement of it all, I’m sure all three would have stayed outside much longer than we allowed them.
“A grandmother pretends she doesn’t know who you are on Halloween.” —Erma Bombeck
Great Grandma came to visit—with huge peanut butter cookies. Aunt Janeil was more than willing—and got everyone else—to participate in a parade. The kids wanted to try on their costumes before my parents left. This is the only picture I have of all three of them in their costumes—the boys refused to wear them on Halloween. Still, they do make a pretty cute Rapunzel, Thomas and Percy, no?
“Cookies are made of butter and love.” —Norwegian Proverb
