A Few Words on Gratitude

I believe it's time to discard the pumpkins when they catch their first snow. But, a certain little man refused to go to bed last night, so before we move those pumpkins to the compost bin and ourselves onto the Christmas season, humor me as I take a few minutes to write what I meant to post last night.

During the Thanksgiving season, I can't help but notice all the preparations happening around me (or by me and the members of my own household): the stocked carts of groceries; the composing of wish lists and lines of souls, braver than I, lined up outside of stores on the eve of Black Friday; cars being serviced and prepped for snow (okay, I haven't seen this done at our house, but I have thought about it). Thanksgiving, at times, also allows us to delight in abundance as we stuff ourselves with too much turkey and multiple desserts that look too good to pass us, and give thanks for those "scrapbook moments" - the new baby, that award at work, or family traveling from far and wide to be in the same room at once.

But, last night, during our last few hours of November, I found myself curled up on the couch with a sleepless boy and and ball of yarn, thinking about pizza sauce. Yes, pizza sauce. Monday night, I had planned on making a dish we call Tamale Pie. But somewhere along the way, I got this crazy notion that I might take a shower. I took both kids and a small pile of toys into the bathroom and told them they could play while I showered. I thought things were going swimmingly. In fact, if I had the ability to whistle what-so-ever, I would have been, right out of the shower and across the bathroom floor until I opened the closet door. Where I found Audrey, sprawled out on a pile of clothes, as if she had just raked them up into a huge jumping pile. Every shelf on Jason's side of the closet was clear, knocked to the floor. Ties, hats, shorts, and out-grown baby clothes that I had organized by size (well, somewhat) amassed from one corner to another. I was still refolding and sorting the mess when Jason let me know he was on his way home and asked about my plans for dinner. I told him that I planned to start making it after I finished reordering the closet. He offered to stop off for pizza on his drive home.

By the time he got home, that side of the closet was more organized than it's been in months (or since I began using those shelves for baby clothes storage). Jason dropped the pizza box onto the counter and I opened it to start plating dinner. That's when I saw the container of pizza sauce. The pizza usually comes with a container of garlic sauce, which I don't like. But I do like to eat my crusts and breadsticks with pizza sauce. Jason prefers cheese sauce. But there it was in the corner of the box, the garlic sauce swapped out for pizza sauce - a little moment of thoughtfulness. You won't see a picture of pizza sauce in my scrapbook (if I ever got around to finishing or beginning a scrapbook, that is), but perhaps, you should. Those little containers, and the thoughtfulness they stand for, make me smile every time. It's not quite the same as the blessing of a new baby. I'll grant you that. When everyone goes around the Thanksgiving table saying what they're thankful for, you're not going to get the same reaction from "pizza sauce" as you would for saying, "Aunt Rita being able to travel 1000 miles to be with us." (That is, if you have an Aunt Rita, if not, you might be better off saying pizza sauce, the looks you get will be just as odd). But sometimes, while calming a restless baby or preparing to enter a season known for joyous chaos, it's just as good to remember the little blessings. After all, what is life but a sum of all its little parts? So here's to pizza sauce and a season of Thanks followed by one of Joy. And, here's to you, and those little things that make you smile (even if it's the garlic sauce).

On the Cusp

Gratitude. I think I could blog about it everyday, and find myself looking at the world, eyes renewed and spirit strengthened. (With a better immune system, to boot. I read in a local paper that according to research by Psychology professor, Robert Emmons, gratitude tends to improve your immune system because optimism boosts your immune system and gratitude breeds optimism. Just one more thing to be grateful for, not too shabby). I have a feeling that I will be revisiting the subject of gratitude frequently in the next month. I also feel that we are on the cusp of so many things as we move into this next month, this little family of mine.

Today was a one of those days spent rushing: multiple doctors appointments, a few errands, more time in the car than we would like - all reminders that we are moving forward (always more quickly than I seem able to take in) and that this new December season is about to unfold. Several times gratitude found me in the small or touchable - sending off finished projects in fabrics that made me smile; a nurse's laugh that reminded me of a dear friend; and pride at the complicated directions Audrey is now able to carry out by herself coupled with the thankfulness that her hands still feel so small in mine.

We weren't the only ones rushing today. Jason joined me at the doctor's office to find it a mess of double-bookings, late-running appointments, and missing staff members (off delivering babies). We were there for an ultrasound to find out if our little guy was breach, as he seemed to be last week (after 95% of all babies have already turned, according to my doctor). Our ultrasound tech was rushing more than any of the others - fast hands, fast pictures, fast words. In the midst of all of this rushing was our little guy, who it seems is content to run on his own clock against all "normal" schedules and waited to turn head down until this week when he was good and ready. And again, I found gratitude, for his reminder that sometimes (even as everyone tries to rush you) it is best to take your time.

What better time for this reminder than now, as we sit on The Cusp. New Month. New Baby. New Holiday. So as I find myself shuffling multiple to-do lists, lists that I have no hope of completing unless I grow another head and multiple sets of arms, I'm remembering to move at my own pace. And as I fail to cross the items off, to be grateful that I'm choosing to move at my own pace and copy the example of my son.


For those of you who (like me) get a little overwhelmed during the Christmas season at the thought of the lines, the gift-choosing and hunting, and the rushing, here are a couple ideas that I love, and that seem perfectly in sinc with the philosophy of taking your time (and possibly saving you some money):

A lady didn't have the money to send gifts to all of her family members for their individual birthdays one year, which began this tradition: once a year (at a random time each year to surprise them) she sends a party box to her sister's family with everything they need to have a family celebration. The picture above is a similar take on this idea. I can never seem to get my act together to get gifts sent to the children of some dear friends for their birthdays. So last year, I decided that it was better late than never and mailed off a box for Thanksgiving with a note of how thankful we were for each of them and their family. The gift contained felt crowns like the one I made Audrey for her birthday for the kids to wear to play or to celebrate their special days. This year's box is filled with aprons and a cookbook so they can get in the kitchen with their parents to help create all the goodies that make holidays throughout the year that much more delicious.


I ran across this idea this week in the paper. A lady felt that all the "stuff" her niece and nephew have only added to their stress (due to lack of space to store it all) instead of bringing them joy. Rather than add to the stress by giving them more stuff, she has decided to give them her time. For their birthdays, each child is given the number of activities that corresponds with their age to do with her. Most of these activities are simple: baking cookies, having a slumber party at her house, etc. But what a wonderful thing to teach her niece and nephew, that they are so valuable, they are worthy of her giving her most important asset: her time.

I know I'm not alone in the to-do list shuffle, the carpool hustle, or the Christmas bustle. And while I know that all some of you want for Christmas is a second head and multiple sets of arms, I'm going to wish you something else - a mindset that allows you to slow down, scrap the list, and take your time. So here's to hanging out on the cusp for just a little while, before we take December's plunge.

A Focus on Gratitude Day 5

So thankful for this little one's perspective:



:: No matter how special, a stocking is still just a "boot" (and all good things - the nice stockings, the china - should be used on ordinary days, just because).

:: That any ordinary thing (even a rubber band) can be made special if given a special place.

:: And most things (discarded turtlenecks, anyone?) can be repurposed.

We have squeezed in a couple special days for Christmas decorating this week. We have learned to search the Christmas tree for any missing item, as all things seem ornament-worthy (toilet paper rolls, television remotes) to our little one. As with all new tasks undertaken as a family, we have walked away from decorating with a few three-year-old taught lessons and one big reminder that, perhaps, we shouldn't take ourselves or our tree too seriously - that forgetting our fussy grown-up selves is what the holidays (and maybe everyday) should be about.

A Focus on Gratitude Day 4

The woman you see in the photograph is my grandmother. The man beside her is Clif. I could have easily lived out my life without ever meeting him, but as happenstance (or World War II, which ever you prefer to call it) would have it, we did meet. Clif enlisted in the Army at the same time as my grandfather. They became good friends. Clif was a cook and often snuck my grandfather more (or better) food at the end of the day. Both men survived the war, got married, and started families. They would occasionally meet up with their wives after the war.

Years later, Clif nursed his wife through rheumatoid arthritis before losing her much sooner than he would have liked. Meanwhile, my grandmother was busy caring for my grandfather, ravaged by and quickly lost to lung cancer. Occasionally, my grandmother and Clif would see each other at the Army reunions. Living about 35 miles apart, sometimes they would carpool.

Both were lonely. Both knew the heartache of caring for a sick spouse. By this time, they each knew that the other was not in prime health and neither wanted to put the other through the hardship of being that sort of caretaker again. But after some debate, and courtship, they married.

Clif was my grandmother's husband the last seven years of her life. Together they traveled the three hours (one-way) to attend my big sporting events and high school graduation. Clif became the constant at her side, through vacations, holidays, and her battle with melanoma. And while I can't imagine the switch of celebrating life's moments cozily with a sole daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter to the additional, ahem, circus of three lively step-daughters and their spouses, a step-son, and seven more grandkids, Clif handled it all in stride (also, perhaps, with the assistance of turning off his hearing aids from time to time).

As a high-schooler, you warrant your grandmother certain privacies. You don't ask about her love life. You don't make her talk about loneliness. But even a self-absorbed teenager picks up on the life lived between the lines. She notices when the spark returns to her grandma's voice; the frequent relaxed laughter; how someone sitting by your side, never leaving the room, is a stronger painkiller than any medicine.

By the time Jason and I married, Clif was revisiting his role as a full-fledged caretaker. My wedding was the one big event my grandmother wrote on her calendar that year, and with Clif escorting her the three hours each way, and every step down the aisle, she made it. And for one year more. As happenstance (or an irrefusable job offer from a Fortune 500 company, which ever you prefer to call it) would have it, we moved two hours from them. Many Saturdays were spent in their family room, me hand-in-hand with grandma on the couch while Clif waited on her. And just as he fed my grandfather decades before, Clif fed her, cooking whatever he could get her to eat, keeping her warm - nourishing her. Jason and I would often marvel at the two of them on our drive home. Occasionally, one of us would have to repeat ourselves so that Clif could hear us. But somehow, he always heard my grandmother, whose voice by then was only a whisper. He always heard her voice. He always knew what she needed. He never left the room.

My grandmother died that summer, but I continued to send cards to Clif, who wrote back. When Jason and I would visit (visits becoming a little harder as we moved farther away) Clif would tell us stories about serving with my grandfather or trips he had taken with my grandmother. After a particularly good story, he would slap his knee and scrunch his face into one of the best heartfelt laughs I've had the pleasure to witness. He let Audrey rearrange the framed pictures on his coffee tables and crawl all over him. He greeted us at the door with homemade ice cream or cake. He could talk to you about sports, or factory life, or historical events (past and present). He could tell you how to grow tomatoes or bake a ham, which was great because my grandfather once blew up a ham, not realizing that in order to bake a canned ham, one must first take the ham out of the can before placing it in the hot oven. (I feel privileged to have had them both: the seasoned chef and the ham grenadier).

On Saturday, Clif passed away. He was 86. His life was full. His heart was virtuous. He spoke the truth as only a man in his eighties can. And as I think back on the parts of his life I knew, the phrase "well done" surfaces repeatedly in my head. Much of the last eight months have centered on me preparing once again for motherhood - this time to mother a boy. A handful of men come to mind when I think of examples of the man I would like to teach my son to become. Clif is one of those men. And I am so grateful for the man he was: a man I could have easily never met, yet can't imagine having lived without.


*Tomorrow, I will spend most of my day in the car to go say goodbye to my friend. I doubt I find the time to log on here. But I will see you soon. Until then, be well.

A Focus on Gratitude Day 3

:: As the weather gets wetter and colder, the yarn gets warmer and softer.

:: As the days get more hectic, the stolen moments for creating - fewer and shorter - feel that much more special.

:: As I wonder if this project will go as planned, or end up too small with one sleeve longer than the other, there is also the wonderful daydream that everything will turn out just perfect. (As well as the comforting knowledge that 3-year-olds don't care one way or the other).

:: As we inch toward the holidays (yes, I'm aware we're no longer inching - please humor me), there is much to look forward to: hugs from family and friends to keep us warm; planned moments with those we love to create special memories; the daydream of a perfect holiday; and the reality that an imperfect holiday suits everyone just fine - and often lends itself to better memories.

A Focus on Gratitude Day 2

The first childhood house I remember living in was across the street from two sisters: retired teachers and good cooks who taught my sisters and I how to make egg noodles and angel food cakes, who stood even the littlest among us over their kitchen counter with cookie cutters to shape doughnuts to be fried and dusted with cinnamon and sugar, and who brought out the ice cream scoops for root beer floats in the summer. They nourished my sisters and I, with their time, their attention, and the passing on of their talents.

They became adopted grandmothers of sorts, since real grandparents lived much farther away than across the street. As with real grandmothers, holidays and traditions became something we shared. Each Easter we would cross the street (and later, when we moved, drive down the road) to their house for an egg hunt and Easter baskets. Most years, I would find a jar of Maraschino cherries tucked inside my Easter basket (because, in the true nature of grandmothers, they had studied each of us and catalogued away the things that we loved). I ate the cherries straight from the jar, using one of my parents' long-stemmed teaspoons to fish them out as the jar emptied.

I've related this story to Jason once or twice (I tend to repeat myself on accident) over a shared banana split or milkshake. He is also a fan of the Maraschino, and we often find one of us generously handing over the lone cherry dessert-topper (or, on our smarter days, asking the server for a second). On Monday he called to tell me he was stopping by the store on his way home from work. When he came though the door with his shopping bag, he informed me he had brought me a surprise. He handed me the jar of Maraschino cherries above, saying that he remembered that I used to get them in my Easter basket from the ladies across the street. How blessed I am to have delicious childhood memories. And even more so to have the gift of a thoughtful husband who listens to even the smallest of my stories, stores away the important details, and through a simple gift brings my childhood back to me.

A Focus on Gratitude

I realized this morning that I have seven posts (with a Week in Review thrown in for good measure) until Thanksgiving. While I had to count the days twice to believe that Thanksgiving is barely a week away, this month has already been filled with gratitude and reminders of the small (and large) blessings that stand as pushpins in the map of my life. It seems natural to use these posts before Thanksgiving to share the small things that make me smile, brighten my days, and remind me that gratitude can be a daily practice: the blessing are just waiting to be recognized.



A Practice in Gratitude: Day 1



My faults are dependable running hamsters persistently moving their transparent wheels. They must be exhausted (not to mention exhausting), yet those boys have stamina (yes, I'm sure making my faults male hamsters is some form of projection). So it's nice to take a moment when one of those faults miraculously pays off, and give those typically harped-at hamsters a rare pat on the back.

I have been meaning to get the Halloween decorations picked up for weeks. Other than the homemade bats, which got moved to the front door to welcome trick-or-treaters and stowed away a week later when they kept hitting the adults trying to enter the house, the Halloween decorations have not moved. So last night, thanks to my procrastination or regular tardiness (pick a fault, any fault), the Halloween candles that line the kitchen windowsill and fireplace were still there, just waiting to be lit.

Even unexpectedly, possibly more so when unexpected, candlelit rooms cast a bit of magic to an ordinary evening. Last night we found ourselves greeted with a power outage and a little bit of magic as we finally lit the Halloween candles and huddled in the glow between two rooms, just being. Right as we were discussing whether to venture out in search for food or bring out the fondue pot and wing dinner our version of camp-fire style, the lights came back on. And dinner, and life, and my over-worked hamsters went on just as before but dusted with candlelight.

Warmth

Today was one of those good but full days where all of the important things got done (air filter replacement bought - check; car filled with gas - check; birthday cards written and mailed - check; big fun had by the little one - double check), just not in the time frame I had originally thought. As Audrey and I pulled into the driveway at ten til eight, having not had dinner and still in need of a bath and bedtime books (I know, not one of my better shows of time management), all I could think about was how much my back wanted to melt into the couch, or the bathtub, or some distant warm island cabana. But, the couch - and definitely the cabana - being a long ways off, I opted for dinner, instead, and bath time, and one last book. Then, I tucked my one-of-a-kind into bed underneath these two blankets that are also one-of-a-kind, made just for Audrey before we even knew who she would be: a girl strong enough to wear me out in the best of ways, yet fragile enough to need a couple extra layers on a cold night. And I reached for my camera, knowing that it was way past her bedtime, but thinking that, perhaps, these tired moments might be the most important to capture, to remind me later that when my back ached the most and my eyelids were heavy, I was not alone but had the loving hands of Pat, Rose, and Beth (who put so much time and energy into creating these blankets) helping to put my little one to bed - keeping her warm all those winter nights. Thank you ladies! Now, I'm finally off to melt into some warm blankets of my own. Good night.