As I was very busy with my day job, all the holiday prep, and parties - these on top of all my usual chores and daily tasks, I totally forgot to put up my Christmas tree. Loyal Readers know I always have the tree up on my November birthday. This year, December 20 arrived and the house was not at all Christmasy. And my kids finally noticed.
"Mama, when are we putting up the tree?"
"Soon..."
"Mama, I took out the boxes of Christmas stuff so you can start putting up the tree."
"Thank you. Tomorrow, I'll do it."
"Mama, we need the tree for all these gifts."
"Yes, we do but I'm too tired."
And finally...
"Mama, can we do the tree today?"
"YES!"
And so they did.
And they busied about happily, making lots of noise and mess, chatting about everything and nothing, and I glanced up from my laptop (this time, I was checking emails from their teachers), just to quickly check on how my baby boys were doing.
My eyes went to where I expected them to be - near the bottom of the tree, with chubby hands trying to grasp slippery glass balls, fascinated with glitter on tiny fingers, and their eyes alight with wonder, their toothy grins wide with excitement.
Instead, I had to look up, my old, weary eyes sliding up higher, higher to watch my boys now nearly as tall as the ridiculous pink tree my then-new husband gave me as a first-married-Christmas gift. And our boys were now surrounding it, hanging the little trinkets they made from Christmases past, no longer needing our help to lift them up so they could place a sparkling star on the very top.
They can do it on their own.
And I burst into tears. And my boys looked at me in surprise. And I blubbered out some silly melancholy sentimental nostalgia and they looked at each other awkwardly like teens and tweens do. And I cried harder and they started chuckling and they patted me on the shoulder.
There, there. It's okay, Mama.
Does the heart ever recover from this dizzying mix of joy and sadness, pride and longing? No? Never. And this will be my Christmases forever.
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