kara

“The best Christmas trees come very close to exceeding nature.” —Andy Rooney

At first, Sophie wasn’t nearly as excited as I imagined she would be, tromping around a cold field, picking out the perfect Christmas tree. So I asked her why. She said “none of them had any stuff on them.” She didn’t realize they wouldn’t be decorated. I wonder what she had envisioned—a field full of beautifully decorated and lit Christmas trees? No wonder she was initially disappointed.

The trip was a near disaster when I realized I forgot her Fiskars. Several days before, when I told her we were going to cut our Christmas tree, she insisted I bring them—so she could help cut it, too. Thankfully, my mom, had a spare pair in her Prius. (I mean, really, who carries spare children’s scissors around? Apparently, my mom. (Thank you.)) Sophie then delighted in cutting our tree (and several others),

“Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree. In the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall.” —Larry Wilde

Several weeks ago we finally got to meet Shruti and Arun’s beautiful new son, Naveen.

We met for Dewey’s pizza and drinks at Aimee and Jon’s house.

Jon played lots of Play-Doh with Rashmi and Sophie.

Sophie and Rashmi loved chasing each other throughout the house.

I have about 12 pictures that look like this—our attempt at capturing all the kids together.

It was a really fun night and I so wish we could all get together more often.

“There is magic in long-distance friendships. They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond being physically together and is often more profound.” —Diana Cortes

Sophie’s a strange bird when it comes to order. Lately, she insists on brushing her teeth before her nap as well as before bed. Which is fine. Except that it takes f.o.r.e.v.e.r. and, if you’re not careful, often results in a meltdown.

The stool has to be on the bath mat, in front of the sink. Her toothbrush and toothpaste have to be on the sink and if anything else is on the sink (aside from soap) she flips out. She has to open the toothpaste herself and she has to try to squirt out the toothpaste herself, even though she knows that for a week now it’s been almost empty and she’s not strong enough to get the remaining paste out. So then she says “a little help please,” (just like that … I would love to know where she learned that phrase), which is my cue to take the toothpaste from her (but not the toothbrush!), and squirt it out for her, while she holds the toothbrush just so. Then I put the toothpaste back on the sink (but I don’t dare put the cap on) and she brushes her teeth, sans water. Then she puts her toothbrush down and puts the lid back on the toothpaste. Then she picks her toothbrush back up and turns the water on. She dips the brush in and out of the water, and in and out of her mouth, until I insist we end this ridiculously long process and go to nap/bed. She says “one more time,” and then she (and only she) turns off the water. She reminds me not to put anything else on the sink and that she wants to be the first one to leave the bathroom.

We go through this, twice a day. Often, with two 7-month-olds screaming downstairs. And if the smallest, most insignificant thing happens out of order, tears ensue, for at least five minutes. People tell me there’s nothing abnormal about this—she’s 2. Seriously?

But then we play Play-Doh. And although she can be bossy with the colors, demanding I use brown even though I want pink (we’re working on that), she could care less about order. In fact, she insists we mix and match and mush the colors together together, creating eyes and spots and dots for snakes (the only thing I’m good at making). And so we do.

Perhaps I should tape a photo of one of her Play-Doh creations to the bathroom mirror. Maybe, just maybe, I might worry a little less.

“Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.” —Flaubert

If I had to show you innocence, I would show you smocking on a dress. A cup of milk. Frost on a jack-o-lantern. A dandelion in a plastic cup. Sidewalk art made with chalk. The way a baby’s lips move while he sleeps. A toddler hanging an ornament on a Christmas tree.

I think of innocence as a gift given to the new, the young. It’s a gift all three of my children are clinging to right know, though they don’t know it. And I know the knowledge that life holds bigger travesties than time-out and hunger for milk is coming.

I was not yet 5, catching lightning bugs with neighborhood friends, when the world became a bigger—and meaner—place to me. Up until that day I considered fireflies magical insects, fairness to be a given, and humans as beings who at least tried to be good. And then I watched as a little boy caught a lightning bug, ripped it apart and wiped the firefly’s softly glowing abdomen across his cheek, like primitive war paint. He laughed about it. No one scolded him. The lightning bug died, not in a Mason jar filled with grass but by the hands of someone who could have—and should have—simply cradled it and then let it fly away.

I was horrified.

Daily I’m amazed at what Sophie knows and yet, grateful for what she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know war. Illness, to her, is on the level of a skinned knee—not, say, cancer. She knows of death, in that two of her favorite dogs—Molly and Droopy—are no longer with us—but she doesn’t really know death, the absolute makes-you-want-to-cry permanence of it. She doesn’t know poverty. She gets upset when we’re out of milk—she has no idea the lengths many human beings go just to get clean water. She loves going places—she has no idea our car could crash. I believe she truly believes all people love her, respect her, are out for her best interest and that the worst people can do is not share their toys or scold or demand baths.

As a mother who holds innocence dear, and is OK with a white lie for the young, I love this season. I love telling my children that a plump, jolly, old Santa dressed in red and tarnished with soot is going to drive a reindeer-driven sleigh to our house on Christmas Eve, land on our roof, come down our chimney, fill our stockings, put presents under our tree, go back up our chimney, and then visit millions of other children’s houses—all in a single night. I love that they believe this.

I know life will slowly chip away at my children’s innocence. Or, something terrible may happen and their innocence may be gone in an instance. I don’t know how it will happen, I don’t know the horrors—and beauty—they’ll witness. And as much as I love their innocence I know it would be a disservice to never reveal life’s truths, both good and bad. They need to know them to grow. They need to know them in order to (I hope) become people who can change them, for the better.

Still, for now, I relish soft, white onesies. Well-worn picture books. Dolls that have been put down for naps. Angel imprints in backyard snow. Squeals of laughter. Hands that smell like clementines. And a plate filled with cookies and carrots, and a glass of milk, left by the fireplace on Christmas Eve.

“The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.” —William Butler Yeats

(recorded while in Baltimore for Thanksgiving)

“The lullaby is the spell whereby the mother attempts to transform herself back from an ogre to a saint.” —James Fenton

“Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk.” —Susan Scarf Merrell

“No day is so bad it can’t be fixed with a nap.” —Carrie Snow

Her self-made princess costume includes a tutu, Amish bonnet, fake jewels, Mardi Gras beads, dinosaur hands and water shoes. She also has a blue, sequin, star-shaped wand, which she runs around the house waving while saying, “magical! magical!”.

Sometimes she mixes it up with a black silk cat tail and sunglasses.

“Just around the corner in every woman’s mind – is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her.” —Wilhela Cushman