Babygirl did not want to nap today. At the very last second, she found YoungestBoy’s giant, green Hulk Hands and she was attempting to bonk DaycareKid on the head with them. I finally picked her up and carried her stiff, resisting little body to bed where she shrieked and cried until I threatened to put her in her own crib.

Then she was glad to be snuggled next to me. Still, it took her an hour to fall asleep. I fell asleep, too, then. The problem with a lovely nap mid-day is that I can’t wake up. When I do wake up, I can’t get out of bed. And I really, really want to because I want to be awake in my house while she is not. Awake, that is.

I did manage to roll out of the bed and when I came downstairs, it was as if spring had arrived. The sun is shining brightly and the kitchen sinks are empty. The dishwasher is stil warm. And my husband is gone. It’s his day off, but apparently he’s tending to a church crisis of some sort, so he cleaned the kitchen and went to work.

And here I am, blinking in the sunshine. I know winter just started, but spring will be here in approximately twenty minutes. That’s just how it works around here. I even saw some bulbs peeking up from their pot on the porch. I really appreciate living in the Northwest after living in northern Michigan for four years. One year, we didn’t see grass (because the snow didn’t melt) from October to March. That is just too long to live in a winter wonderland.

Oh, I hear Babygirl’s footsteps. Time to go.

Yesterday morning, Babygirl stood on the bathroom counter, chattering away, while I was blearily getting ready. After I shower, I follow the same routine each morning. First, put in contact lenses. Second, brush teeth. Third, put on deodorant. I don’t think. I just keep moving. (Usually because I am late.)

Yesterday morning, apparently Babygirl distracted me (I like to blame other people for my mistakes) and I grabbed the wrong bottle of contact lense solution, the one with bold yellow print that says, “DO NOT PLACE DIRECTLY IN EYE.” Then, I rinsed my lens with it and placed it directly in my eye, at which point my eye spontaneously combusted and I had to pry it open to remove the on-fire lens. Babygirl said, “What happened?”

I was holding my eye open with one hand and frantically splashing water onto it with the other. Babygirl repeated, “What happened?”

I know I said you could recognize me by the circles under my eyes and the Babygirl with a finger plugged into her nose, but as it turns out, you would have spotted me if you just looked for the woman wearing glasses over one flaming red eye.

My husband said from the comfort of the recliner, “I feel like when you’re coming out of anesthesia, and you can’t quite wake up. . . ” That’s how we are, today, my husband and me. Wherever we land, we doze. I have an uncle who suffers from narcolepsy, and today, I feel greater sympathy for him than ever.

My mom didn’t sleep at all last night. She always waits until the last minute, then drags through each holiday in a stupor.

Last night, I made it to bed at 1:00 a.m. At 1:30 a.m., I heard a slamming door and my husband said, “Is that the kids?” and I went downstairs to deliver a stern warning about staying in bed. TwinBoyB couldn’t sleep, had a bad dream, didn’t know what to do with himself. I said, “I don’t care if you sleep at all. Just don’t get out of that bed!”

I told them all last night that they were not allowed out of their rooms before 7:00 a.m. At 7:00 a.m., I heard them spring out of their rooms. They unloaded their stockings and I headed for the shower.

By 9:00 a.m., I had a coffee cake baking in the oven and we started opening gifts. By 9:30 a.m., it was all over but the clean-up. My mom arrived at 10:00 a.m. for brunch–which we didn’t eat until an hour later. Babygirl was absolutely entertaining and happy–she ran, literally, back and forth, laughing her sweet head off.

The twins looked very teenage-like today. They received personal CD players and all day long, they’ve either had headphones on, listening to music, or headphones attached to their new GameBoys.

When I put Babygirl to sleep on my bed, I fell asleep, too, though I tried to rouse myself to get the ever important “Time to Myself.” Alas, it was not to be, and as the day wore on, I grew more and more impatient with everyone. I need solitude, even on busy holidays. By the time Babygirl and I went to her room tonight for the bedtime routine, I was drowsy and crabby.

When we turned on the television (she usually watches a video before bed), a Lawrence Welk Christmas special was on, featuring old clips from decades gone by. Babygirl sat mesmerized, watching kids with wacky haircuts and 1970s fashions. I was utterly amused by a 14-year old girl who rolled her eyes when she was introduced by her dad. She marched over to the piano and plunked out her part of the family song.

Then, Babygirl watched Barney while I kept falling unconscious in the gliding rocker. When I finally left the room and entered my own room, I saw my husband, stretched out diagonally on the bed, face down. If I didn’t know better, I might have checked him for a pulse.

We are wiped out. And tomorrow, he has to preach again because it’s Sunday. I’m pretty much churched-out, but we’ll be there, right in the front row. You’ll recognize me by the Babygirl on my lap. She’ll have one finger stuck deep into her right nostril. And I’ll have circles under my eyes.

Tonight, we had our first annual Nachos for Christmas Eve Dinner. It was a stroke of pure genius, I think. My husband is not here for Christmas Eve dinner and since I grew up and don’t have to shuttle between my divorced parents’ households anymore, I celebrate Christmas with my loud little family on Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is the time we go to church, to pause for a split second to remember Jesus’ birthday. And there are candles and actual fire and the potential for singed hair and burnt fingers, so it’s also a thrill. And who has time for a fancy dinner? Thus, Nachos for Christmas Eve dinner.

The boys were in our church’s first pageant tonight. TwinBoyA was a King, dressed in shimmmery silver and a black turban and brand new black Nikes. TwinBoyB was the head shepherd and he twirled his staff as he sat on the steps, completely ignoring the restless toddlers and preschoolers dressed as sheep–even though DaycareKid, dressed somehow appropriately as a black sheep, was careening around the stage, while the pacifier-sucking Baby Jesus slept in the arms of his teenage “Mother” Mary.

YoungestBoy was a shepherd, too. When we arrived, the racks of costumes sat waiting for the children to find their own costumes. Each costume hung on a hanger with the child’s name attached. Except YoungestBoy said, “Mine is just in a bag on the hanger.” I questioned him and he explained that he thought the leader told him to put it all in the bag. So, his costume was bunched into a wrinkled ball in a plastic bag, hung on his hanger. He looked cute anyway.

Babygirl watched all this from close proximity to me. She hovers around me as if she is a planet, held into place by some maternal gravity. At one point, she did ask to wear a sheep’s costume, so I pulled the fleece over her head and gave her a sheep hat, but very soon, she was done.

I sat in the front, off-stage, and at the appropriate time, sent two angels out to stand by “Mary” and “Joseph.” Then I tiptoed into the sanctuary to watch the rest of the pageant. There were no speaking parts, only narration and Christmas carols. When the children finished, my husband preached a short sermon and he did a fine job. I hardly ever hear his sermons and I always remember again what a good speaker he is.

Then the end of the sermon came and it was time to light candles and sing “Silent Night.” YoungestBoy was next to me and during the second verse of “Silent Night” I looked down to see him wiggling the little round cardboard paper thingy up his candle, nearly into the flame. I snatched that paper out of his hand and said, “NO!” I thought for sure that it was actually on fire and that I’d have to use my superpowers to quench the flames, but it was not. But it was close! I sternly told him to leave the paper-thingy alone–it’s meant to catch dripping wax.

And so we left with our eyebrows intact, no burns, no scorched hair.

The sight of the baby actress (who played Baby Jesus) in her father’s arms next to me, illuminated by candlelight brought tears to my eyes. Since I’ve become a mother, Christmas and the story of the Baby with His destiny fills my heart with such emotion. I think of the gift of His birth and of the gift of His death, and it is almost too much for me . . . because His mother had to hold him so gently, so loosely, and it must have broken her heart. And all that reminds me that life is a tentative gift, that babies are held in our arms for such a brief, sweet while and then the current of life sweeps them away.

The twins were in bed when I returned downstairs at 8:40 p.m. after putting Babygirl to bed. They are trying valiantly to fall asleep, even though normally they are still chatting at 10:30 p.m. YoungestBoy watched a Christmas special until 9:30 p.m. and now that they are all in bed, I’ll begin the wrapping festivities. My husband is resting–he has to go back and do another Christmas Eve service, starting at 11 p.m. Some years I actually manage to attend that service–I always really enjoy the stillness, the late hour, the candlelight–but tonight I will be home, preparing for tomorrow morning.

And another year will draw to a close and I will wonder how that’s possible when it seems that we just woke up in 2004.

Merry Christmas to all!

It’s that time of year when you are supposed to be cheerily shopping and eating and singing songs about the Babe born so many years ago. Hallelujah, hallelujah! The shepherds of long ago worshipped in awe, the kings brought gifts to the newborn King the angels sang.

And we pause to remember. The children don halos and angel wings and shepherd’s garb and three bigger boys dress like kings. A real baby plays Baby Jesus, though the baby is a girl and she has red hair, when she is swaddled, all you see is her baby lips and closed eyes and fingers at rest, sticking up from the blankets. We sing familiar songs and light candles and feel warm indoors though it’s cold outside.

But my heart is heavy tonight, despite the holly-jolly season. A Christmas newsletter came today from my midwife, the one who attended my birth with Babygirl over two years ago. I was so excited to open it–last year at this time, her Christmas newsletter showed pictures of her, pregnant pictures! She has four girls, the youngest who is about 9, and this pregnancy was a surprise to me. I’m not sure if it was a surprise to her, too, but she is my age and her oldest girl is 17.

Her due date was in February and I waited and wondered. Did she have a boy? A girl? So, I happily opened the envelope to discover the news. The first thing I saw was the family picture of her, her husband and her four girls. No baby. Puzzled, I turned to the letter. Her baby, a girl, died prenatally two weeks before her due date, probably from complications of Down’s Syndrome.

Sigh.

And an email came today, an update to a prayer request from yesterday. The subject of the prayer request, a two year old girl who’d had a transplant, had died.

Tonight, the church pianist mentioned that her mother is doing very poorly. She’s probably in her last days.

Monday, my husband performed a funeral.

Tuesday, someone else from church died.

I truly believe that life doesn’t end on this planet. I believe Baby Jesus came so that we would live happily ever after, not necessarily here in this lifetime, but ever after. But for now, hearts break and sorrow falls like snow.

This morning I did not have to get up and be ready by 7:15 a.m. because my DaycareKid’s mom has the day off. When my husband nudged me at 7:18 a.m. and asked if I wanted to shower before Babygirl awoke, I mumbled, “No.” And that’s how I ended up half-asleep in bed until 8:15 a.m. when Babygirl called out.

When I got her up, I decided I’d take the kids and do the grocery store run I didn’t manage last night because the movie I saw (“Ray”) went on and on and on and on and by then the grocery store was closed.

By 10:30 a.m., I was finally showered and ready. Babygirl was dressed with her jacket and shoes on and the phone rang. While I was on the phone, cutting out a coupon for ham, Babygirl came running through the kitchen saying, “I NEED TO PEE!” I could see that she already had peed, judging from the looks of her pants. She rarely has accidents, but when a mom is trying go move the troops out the door, these things happen.

By the time I finished my phone call, changed her clothes, folded a load of laundry, put laundry into the dryer, and fed and watered the cats, it was 11:00 a.m. So much for my quick, first-thing-in-the-morning grocery run. I’d also decided we should buy the twins new shoes since their old shoes are so raggedy.

First, the bank.
Second, the shoe store. We discovered the boys are now wearing men’s shoes, not boys’ shoes. We end up with more expensive shoes than I had hoped for–my boys shoes cost more than I’d ever spend on my own shoes. The experience frustrated me because all the kids kept wandering away from me while I contemplated sizes and prices. Then a helpful sales associate came to help, but freaked out Babygirl (she is generally afraid of people), so then I had to hold Babygirl as I circled the shelves full of shoes. When we left, Babygirl insisted on carrying the bag, which was too heavy for her to lift, so she cried.

She cried the “I need a nap very soon” cry and I aborted my attempt to grocery shop with four children. Instead, we went to a drive-thru and got lunch and came home.

So, I still have some final shopping to do tonight, right after the Christmas pageant practice.

As I sat here typing, YoungestBoy strolled by and said, “Hey, Mom.” I said, “Yes?” He said, “I found a dime in my underpants.” I said, “You did, huh?” He said, “Yes, and now it smells like my butt.”

I never ever thought I’d tell a child to go wash a dime with soap, but I did.

Having kids is nothing like I imagined. Now you know why your mother told you to never put coins in your mouth.

Early last night, while I was spinning around in the kitchen trying to get dinner prepared, the phone rang.

The woman identified herself, “Hi, I’m Military Wife’s mom.” I caught my breath. Her son-in-law, the Military Guy Down the Street, is stationed in Mosul. The woman hurried on to say that her daughter, Military Wife (also a West Point educated soldier herself) was in the hospital with an infection, probably caused by the intravenous line she had during childbirth a month or so ago. She needs continuous antibiotics for a few days to combat the infection.

The woman flew out to care for the month old grandson while Military Mom is in the hospital.

And, she said, Military Guy called yesterday and he’s fine.

Then I breathed again. He’s fine. He wasn’t killed in the attack on the mess tent in Mosul. What a relief to all of us who know this brave little military family.

And yet, someone got a phone call yesterday with horrible news, with the worst ever news. And for those people, my heart aches. It’s odd to feel relief that it was no one we know, yet sorrow for those we didn’t know.

Last night, while my husband was visiting Military Mom in the hospital, my phone rang again. This time, a church man called to let me know that another church man had died a few minutes earlier. My husband had seen the dying man that morning and told me he thought he didn’t have much longer to live. The breathing pattern of a dying person is distinctive and over the years, my husband has become familiar with that labored breathing.

Death doesn’t take a holiday. All the more reason to hold each other tight and thank God for another day.

My 6 year old son said after dinner, “Mom, can I have some dessert?”

I said, “Like what?”

He said, “It starts with C and ends with Ookie.”

Christmas is coming and I’ve reached the stage of “in a week, this will all be over.” That always comforts me. I think I’m done shopping. I sort of have Christmas dinner planned. I probably have to go buy more things to stuff in stockings, but all in all, I’m ready. I hope. My Christmas tree looks more and more ragged as the days go by, thanks to the cats and the toddlers.

I feel the burden of making this The Best Christmas Ever for my children. I want their eyes to shine, I want them to smile and laugh, I want them to remember forever what a great Christmas this was. That’s no easy feat. It’s so much more difficult being a mother than I ever imagined. I didn’t really see past the fog of having a baby to cuddle when I dreamed of motherhood. I didn’t see this distant Christmas when the entire event depended on me.

Today, I rounded up the twins and we did a music lesson, which involved listening to a few songs and using our hands to beat out the rhythm. Babygirl and DaycareKid sat right on the floor with us, slapping their knees in glee. When we finished that, we moved on to a craft–creating igloos from sugar cubes and royal icing. The igloos are half-finished now. They have to dry so the boys can finish constructing the walls without collapsing them.

I left the boys sitting at the table, frosting and sugar cubes all around, while I went upstairs to put the babies to bed. Babygirl has been falling asleep in fifteen minutes or less these days, even though she cries when I tell her we’re going to sleep. Today, just as she was settling down, one of my boys knocked at the door. TwinBoyA said, “The neighbor boys are here.” I said, “Tell them to go home.”

Just as Babygirl was settling down a few minutes later, another knock at the door. This time it was YoungestBoy, “Mom, can the neighbor boys stay?” I said, “Yes, but they have to be very, very quiet.”

Then, a while later, just as Babygirl was settling down, another knock at the door. YoungestBoy again, reporting, “Mom, I was putting frosting around my igloo for snow and it collapsed.” I told him to fix it.

Then, just as Babygirl was settling down again, another knock at the door. This time it was the neighbor boy. “Mrs. X, my mom is here with something for you.” I said, “Tell her I can’t come downstairs. I am trying to get the baby to sleep.”

As Babygirl finally settled down, I thought about how rude that was of me. But I didn’t want to disrupt the nap any more than it had already been disrupted.

Still, Babygirl wouldn’t settle down. Finally, I said, “Babygirl! GO TO SLEEP!” And then I gave a hearty pirate yell, “ARRRRRRG!”

Right after that, she went to sleep. I’d been upstairs with her for almost an hour and a half.

When I came downstairs, I found a humongous platter of cookies, courtesy of the neighbor boys’ mom. That explains why I have no appetite for dinner.

So, my house is a wreck. Half-built and much-licked sugarcube igloos sit on the kitchen table. But isn’t it festive? I wonder what’s for dinner? Yesterday, I completely forgot to feed YoungestBoy lunch and my husband told him at 3:00 p.m., “That’s okay! Today is National Cookies for Lunch Day!”

Half an hour until dinner time. Where’s Alice when I need her?

Saturday, I found myself standing in a non-moving check-out line at Toys R Us. I always pick the line that doesn’t move. It’s a gift, really. The clerk had no gift receipt tape in her register.

So, as I stood, now blocked by the crowd, unable to move to another line, holding my two pathetic items (half-off), I stare off into the distance and realize that I am staring at myself in a mirrored window.

I hardly recognized myself. When did I turn into a middle-aged woman? How did my hair get so dark? Why do the circles under my eyes look so pronounced when I used concealer and foundation? Where are my lips? I remember when I was 28 and a friend of mine who was over forty told me that her lips had no color anymore. I thought that was odd, but here I am, on the brink of forty with colorless lips.

I’m beginning to see a disconnect between what I look like and how I feel. I don’t feel like that pale, weary, frazzled woman. My grandmother is 98, almost 99 now and I’m guessing that she feels the same way. Our souls stay so much the same while our bodies morph into someone we don’t recognize.

It’s funny because I see my husband as the same man I first eyed nearly twenty years ago. Sometimes I consciously note his balding head and the gray on the sides and the wrinkled spot right above his ears, but mostly, I see him without really seeing his outer shell. He looks the same to me, even though he is twenty years older.

Madeline L’Engle points out that when we are in the midst of creating something, we become entirely unself-conscious, in the way that children are unself-conscious. Children do not ponder the shape of their noses or the symmetry of their faces. They have the gift of unawareness of their appearances. I wonder if the older you become, the more childlike and therefore, the more unself-conscious you can become.

With unself-consciousness comes freedom to really develop the person you are when your looks don’t matter. . . which, if you are me, is most of the time.