Winter has arrived and we’ve long been ready, considering it’s almost February. Sophie keeps putting tiny little snowflake stickers on the brass handle of our front door in hopes they will somehow help make it snow. She’s so desperate for the chance to make snow angels, build snowmen and throw snowballs (at her brothers, I’m sure). We’ve played in the snow once, but it was only a dusting. I hope for accumulation, for her.
I love when our old, wooden windows look like this. It makes Andy crazy. He talks endlessly about bad windows and bad insulation and energy bills and then spends the evening putting what looks like plastic wrap over our windows and foamy foam stuff in cracks and crevices. But I love the ice. I love its delicate design, when you look at it closely. It makes the inside of the house feel warm and cozy. It makes me grateful for small spaces, warm air coming out of our heater vents (which Sophie likes to sit on every morning) and hot coffee. It makes me happy to be home.
“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.” —Edith Sitwell
We also celebrated Christmas with my mom’s side of the family and my dad’s side of the family. I was so busy chasing the kids around and talking to family I hardly took pictures!
Mangan family Christmas
Gebhart family Christmas
It’s all I’ve got. But I cherished both days—some family members I see hardly ever any more, including my cousin Ben who is teaching in Alaska and my cousin Brett and his family, who live near Cleveland. So I’m thankful we still get together, thankful we have each other in our lives, and thankful my children are able to know the people who have surrounded me my entire life.
“Christmas is a time when you get homesick—even when you’re home.” —Carol Nelson
While Andy’s family was in town we went to Cincinnati Zoo’s Festival of Lights. It was cold, so cold that Andy and Jill—who had forgotten hats—bought new (matching!) ones at the gift shop. James, who refused to wear a hat all summer, is obsessed with this hat now, and wears it on a daily basis.
My camera’s battery died after I took the first picture, so I was unable to take more. Jill snapped this one on her iPhone. I have many fond memories of the Festival of Lights as a child. As a teenager, I’d often go with a group of friends. One such group, when I was in high school, included Andy and his girlfriend at the time—how things change.
At some point, Owen kicked off one of his shoes. Shoes are like gold in our house. They’re expensive and, as such, the boys have one pair each. We retraced our steps. Stopped at lost and found. Left our home phone number with guest services. Nothing. So Owen had a half-frozen foot that night and a new pair of shoes the next day.
Lost shoe aside, it was a nice evening and I’m so glad the kids were able to spend it with “Grandma and Paw Paw in Baltimore,” as they always call Marty and Jill.
“The outdoor Christmas lights, green and red and gold and blue and twinkling, remind me that most people are that way all year round—kind, generous, friendly and with an occasional moment of ecstasy. But Christmas is the only time they dare reveal themselves.” —Harlan Miller
It had been a trying day. It was one of those days in which the tiniest bump or the smallest “no” or the wrong song prompted tears. Every diaper was a “seriously? again?” diaper. No one ate well. No one napped well. A toy no one was playing with became the toy everyone wanted to play with the minute someone picked it up. There was whining. Barking. Screaming. It was too cold to go outside. I was frustrated. And exhausted. I think we all were.
I messaged Andy asking him what time he was going to be home so I could have dinner ready. The kids start melting down around 5:30pm. Andy is usually home by 6pm. If dinner is much later than 6pm, I truly believe the kids believe the world is ending. It’s as if the slightest hunger pains turn them into little crazy people but if I give them a snack, they won’t eat dinner and then they won’t sleep well at night. So we shoot for six o’clock dinners. And Andy responded and said he’d be home at 6pm.
So I made dinner. I held (a crying) Owen the entire time–except when opening and shutting the oven door. James either clung to my leg or rolled around the floor, screaming. Sophie continually begged for “more TV” and “gummies,” both of which I kept saying “no” to.
At 6pm, dinner was done, dished out and on the table. Everything for the boys was cut. They had whole milk in their sippy cups. Sophie had the items she liked cut cut and the items she didn’t like cut not cut on her favorite plate. One percent milk was in her favorite glass. I had made up plates for Andy and me, and poured drinks for each of us. We were ready to eat.
No Andy.
Now, before I go on, I know that he works very hard at his job. I know you can’t expect someone to be home right at 6pm when they say 6pm—sometimes you’re late getting out of the office, sometimes there’s traffic, sometimes you have to stop at the gas station, sometimes your favorite song is playing on the radio when you pull into the driveway and you have to sit there and listen to the entire thing—I get that.
But at this point Owen had thrown his entire plate on the floor and was standing up in his highchair, even though I had strapped him in. James was dripping his milk (seriously, why make a sippy cup if it’s going to drip when turned over?) all over Tucker and laughing. Sophie was upset because at preschool she learned that she shouldn’t eat her snack until everyone had their snack and therefore us eating before Daddy got home was simply not polite. Tucker was barking, either because milk was being dribbled all over him or because I hadn’t had time to feed him dinner yet. And then, I looked at the microwave. 6:00pm changed to 6:01pm.
I was furious. He said he’d be home 6pm and it was now past 6pm. Where was he? (By the way, you are now entering my brain.)
6:02: OK, things happen. Probably just a little bit of traffic. I’m sure he’ll walk in the door any moment.
6:03: If he even stopped for gas I’m going to be so mad. Does he not know how difficult things get around here at this time of night? For once could he just wake up early and get gas before going to work? If I want to shower that’s what I have to do—wake up before anyone else wakes up so I can clean myself, something he gets to do oh so luxuriously every morning while I’m dealing with three hungry kids and a hungry dog and the coffee, which he gets to enjoy so leisurely on his way to work. Does he have any idea how I drink my coffee? Half the time I don’t even know where the mug is because I continually put it down to pick someone up or stop a fight or read a book or change a diaper. My coffee is always cold. I mean, seriously, when is the last time he’s had cold coffee? I’ve recently come across this Toffee Nut Latte recipe and all I can say is ‘I’m obsessed!’.
6:04: Speaking of cold, I’m sure his dinner is cold by now. I probably should put foil over it or put it in the oven or something. That’s what a good housewife would do. Dear God there I go again with “housewife.” I don’t want to be a “good housewife” or a “desperate housewife” or a “real housewife”. I studied journalism in college, not housewifery. Those who like to undergo security training may visit their site here. I should be worried about deadlines not CRAP!!! I have an article due TOMORROW! After today, after all of this I’m going to be up until the middle of the night working because I can’t start my work until he gets home and seriously, where the hell is he???
6:05: Maybe he’s not coming home. Maybe it’s all just too much for him, too. This is bad. Very, very bad.
6:06: Of course he’s coming home. It’s bath night. He knows I can’t handle bath night on my own even though he loves to point out that he has no problem bathing all three on his own. He was probably just talking to someone he works with about something he read on Reddit and lost track of time and isn’t that nice, that he gets to talk to grown people about things he gets to read during his spare time. This is not fair! This is simply not fair.
At 6:07 I heard the front door open. Tucker immediately bounded toward the door and all three kids started gleefully yelling “Daddy! Daddy’s home! Daddy!” Normally this almost makes me melt with joy but on this day, I was furious. Now that the kids were so joyful he would have no idea of the kind of day I had, thinking I was just exaggerating. So I was mad. And ready for a fight. My entire body was tense with anger.
He had the nerve to show up with a dozen white roses.
Not only that, he also picked up some more children’s Tylenol, without my asking. He remembered we were out, knew the boys weren’t feeling well and teething, and so he stopped by the store on the way home so the boys—and we—could have a better night’s sleep.
It was the line. In the grocery. It was long. That was why he was late.
I was so flustered. I was still mad but, looking at the roses, I realized it wasn’t him I was mad at. Not for being seven minutes late. I was mad at the day. Mad that no one was happy and mad that I felt like I had failed my kids that day, because they weren’t happy. I needed to release my frustration not at him, I realized, or even on him, but by him. I could certainly tell him about my day. Vent about it. But he didn’t deserve to be punished for it. He did nothing. Except show up a few minutes late, because he was buying medicine for our kids and roses for me.
I don’t know how he knew but he did. I smelled the roses and although still frustrated, still exhausted, I calmed. They instantly calmed me.
“Where did you get the flowers, Mommy?” Sophie asked.
“Daddy gave them to me,” I said. “Aren’t they pretty?”
“They’re beeeaaauuutiful,” she said.
And they were.
They’re in a vase, slightly wilted now, next to the antique clock my parents gave to us on our wedding day. The statistics aren’t so great for couples with multiples. And things aren’t necessarily carefree for us right now. We have three children under 4. We both work during the day—and it’s work I love, caring for my children. I’m grateful I’m able to do it—even if it does make me a housewife. But we also both freelance at night. And pick up toys at night and do laundry at night and scrub toilets at night and take out the garbage at night because there’s no other time to do it. Just like every other parent of toddlers I know. And it’s exhausting. But short-lived.
The skin on Sophie’s wrists and ankles are peeping out of her shirts and pants. James matched colors correctly the other day. Owen has started to talk in sentences. My husband, who in our early dating years rarely surprised me, showed up with a dozen roses. And instead of taking out my bad day on him, as I was ready—and am prone—to do, I kissed him which was great, as we know dating is a really important part of living for young people, if you want to improve your dating skills then you can practice with a virtual girlfriend like rubymain online.
We all grow.
And as long as we keep picking up that little brass key and winding our wedding clock, the hands will continue to go around and around, with a tick tick tick I find so comforting now—in fact, without it, I think our house is too quiet. Just as I imagine my dinner table will seem, 20 years from now. But with a little work, and a lot of love, I believe there will still be someone sitting across from me, in part, thanks to the simplicity of roses and in part, thanks to the simplicity of some things being left unsaid.
“I worship this tenacity And the beautiful struggle we’re in Love will not elude us Love is simple.” —K.D. Lang/David Piltch
Ever since Sophie helped me decorate for a family birthday a couple years ago, she’s been obsessed with decorating the house. Lacking streamers, balloons and our birthday banner, she improvises with her dress-up clothes and, occasionally, toys.
This is creative, yes, and she enjoys it. But she decorates everything. Furniture, doorknobs, light fixtures … The little plastic monkeys from the popular barrel game hang all over the gate blocking the stairs. The old couches have been cleaned and restored by a sofa cleaning santa monica company.
Puppets are placed precariously on the rocking chair. Disney princess figurines are lined up the arms of chairs. Adding smooth, elegant surfaces from a trusted marble slab supplier can help bring a bit of balance to all the playful touches.
Every time we paint a room she gets upset with us, because we never paint it pink or purple or red or better yet, red with glitter. She was downright mad when she realized our kitchen was going to be green. So I guess this is also her way of making up for it, by littering the house with butterfly wings, animal masks, purses and baseball hats.
But it does create problems. (1) The boys love to take down her decorations. This does not go over well. (2) I certainly don’t try to keep a clean house—in terms of toys—throughout the day. But her “decorations” are everywhere. You have to constantly watch where you step and what you touch, for fear of toppling a tower of decorations that took a long time to create. (3) She’s much more enthusiastic about decorating than she is about putting everything away. Statements that include ridiculous things like “but it’s just too heavy!” as she laboriously lifts a scarf are all too common.
Sometimes I wonder what our house would look like if she were given full responsibility of decorating. I imagine it would make my head hurt—but I also imagine it would be a lot more interesting.
“I deeply believe that a beautiful decor can have a beneficial influence on our lives.” —Albert Hadley
Christmas evening my parents and brother joined us for a delicious meal, which my in-laws cooked for everyone. It was our last evening to see Kyle, so I was grateful for the time together.
Sophie “reading” to Kyle
Kyle brought our children gifts, including a “band in a box” for Sophie. I told him I would remember that when he has kids. (To be fair, though, the kids loved it and, in fact, put on a performance this evening.)
After we put the boys to bed, Lizz, Grandma and Sophie worked on making the icing for the Uhl family Christmas cookies—a Uhl Christmas tradition.
Paw Paw, upon learning we forgot to buy nonpareils (thankfully we found a store that was open that sold them).
I love this picture. Sophie is having so much fun with her grandma and aunt Lizzie.
Sophie and Daddy
cookies!
Sophie thought Santa should have chocolate milk this year.
So much joy.
Note to Santa (Dear Santa, I hope you really, really give me a scooter. Love, Sophie. p.s. The boys might want books, cars and the thing that Grandma and Owen are playing with.), plus cookies, chocolate milk and carrots for the reindeer.
Sophie contributed to our holiday decorations with preschool projects.
berries
Andy and I both put Sophie to bed that night. She was so incredibly excited. It took me back, to the sleepless nights, the listening for bells, my dad reading “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas,” all of it. I loved it.
“Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart … filled it, too, with melody that would last forever.” —Bess Streeter Aldrich
We tried to visit Santa earlier in December, but the wait was too long. So we left.We didn’t get back to Santa until December 23—when the wait was three hours. Thankfully we were able to give Santa’s elves our cell phone number. So we spent three hours lunching at Dewey’s, visiting Joseph-Beth Booksellers and shopping at Trader Joe’s. The elves texted us when they were ready for us (times have changed).
Sophie had a lot of questions about Santa this year. She wanted to know how he stayed awake all night. (“Doesn’t he get tired?”) And where he went for a new coat when his got old. And where did he use the bathroom? (I told her I’m sure people didn’t mind if he used theirs—that we wouldn’t mind if he used ours.) One afternoon I found her in our fireplace, banging on its walls and ceiling. Our fireplace is a non-venting gas one, so there’s no opening to the chimney. She was quite upset by this. “Magic,” I said. The response satisfied her.
She was so excited to meet Santa this year. And this worried me. The first two years she cried when we sat her on his lap. Last year, she so wanted to tell him she wanted a butterfly net. And she did, but only barely, while clinging to me.
It reminded me of the summer, when all she wanted to do was go down the orange, curvy tunnel slide at the park. The entire walk there she would say how brave she was going to be, that this was the day she was going to do it. And for many weeks, she didn’t go through with it, even though she tried. She sat at the top of that slide, scooted around on her bottom and walked, defeated, the other direction. And the entire walk home she talked about how next time, she was going to do it. It broke my heart, but I knew it was something she had to do on her time, when she was ready. And, eventually, she did.
But the slide is available always. Santa, only once a year. My mom suggested a picture. We had Sophie draw a picture for Santa and on it we wrote him a note: “Dear Santa, I want a scooter. Love, Sophie.” It was a brilliant idea. If she freaked and cried or couldn’t speak, he’d have the note. She would know that he knew she wanted a scooter.
I watched her in line, head titled down, mouth set. I knew she was nervous. But I also knew she was trying—so hard—to be brave. It’s been a long time since I’ve had butterflies in my stomach but I had them all the time when I was kid. I imagined her, having them. Standing there, waiting, waiting, waiting.
We happened to be there during a snow time. It actually snowed, inside the mall. There was music and Santa came out to wave hello to children. I knew how nervous she was when she hardly acknowledged the snow—head tilted down, mouth set. She wanted to see Santa, but she wanted it all to be over with it. I felt for her, so much then.
We all agreed ahead of time on a plan—everyone would go up to see Santa together. The boys would sit on his lap (which they loved, can’t you tell?) and Sophie would stand next to him (and that she did, at a distance). She gave him the letter. She asked for the scooter. He told her to always wear a helmet (for which we were thankful). And she did.not.cry.
I was so proud of her. I hope she was just as proud of herself.
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus.” —Francis Pharcellus Church
