• a necklace with the saying "Keep calm and carry on" that I found at an Etsy shop for Haley. This has been her motto lately and I knew she would love it. 
• Nathan's iPod. We agonized long and hard over whether or not we should get this for him. It was expensive (although, being us, we didn't buy it until we found an excellent deal), and seemed excessive. He also had his heart set on it. We did a great job at convincing him that we would not buy it for him. It was the last gift he opened and his face made all that agonizing worth it.
• the quilt I made for Jake. (This will eventually get its own post, it's that big!). I bought the fabric for this over a year ago—I know, mother Fail. As a kid who just simply likes to have a blanket around, he's worn out two quilts this year. Plus I wanted him to have one that I'd made just for him. Even though it was a fairly simple design, and tied instead of quilted (per his request), it still stressed me out a bit. And honestly: he wasn't over-the-top excited when he opened it. But the day after Christmas, he told me how good he'd slept with his new quilt, and again with the sincerity: it told me that my efforts were appreciated.

All of which served to let me see that I have arrived squarely in the middle of that part of life when giving really, really is better than receiving.

My Gift
Although, Haley did give me something pretty awesome! She put this four-photo panel together for me, starting with finding the frame, taking the photos (trust me...three boys are hard to photograph), developing the photos, and assembling it all. I love it. The frame is exactly my taste and the photos are perfect. Even the font she used was just right!

I wasn't sure, starting this post, if I could say what I wanted to express. I don't think I have, exactly. Perhaps this is because I don't have the way to put into words what I felt. But I will keep this words I did manage and use them as a reminder, next year, when I am, frazzled and stressed and sad, my own Amy version of Grinchiness: if I let it, it will come. Christmas will visit my heart, too, even if I am anxious and exhausted, in ways I can never imagine but which are exactly what is needed.

And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.

Fourteen years ago, I went to bed at about this time—a little bit after midnight. I'd been up late that night, after a long day of shopping and doing post-Christmas returns with a sweet little two-year-old who wanted to be carried everywhere that day, working on recovering the bumper pads. Not three hours after I finally went to bed, I woke up in labor. I really didn't want to be in labor, since my due date was still almost three weeks away, but desire almost never matters when it comes to labor, does it? By 5:30 Kendell and I were driving to the hospital for what turned out to be my only pitocin-free delivery.

Tonight, I was up late making two sheet cakes and a double batch of artichoke dip for the December 30th festivities. We're celebrating Jake's 14th birthday with Kendell's entire family because it was the only day they all could get together to celebrate Christmas (one of the dangers of being born so close to Christmas). As I worked I thought about how much has changed since that December 29th in 1997, the last night of my life when i didn't have a son to mother. Of course, every baby you have changes your life dramatically. But they also change it specifically. They each bring themselves into your life—personality, quirks, affections, dislikes and tummy troubles and peaceful moment. Jake was a healing force for me in a way I had anticipated for a long time, but he was also, simply, himself. He brought a sweetness into my life that was nothing other than his own (and equally indescribable). He was my child I knew was coming to me for years before he actually arrived, who made his presence known in small whisperings and nudgings before he ever started taking shape.

I wish I could relive it, somehow—those moments of his birth and right after, when they handed him to me. Out of all my babies, he had the most definitive face, a clear foreshadowing of what he would look like as he grew up. Sometimes I still catch a shadow of what he looked like as a baby. Those moments were some of my life's favorites. Even though I was exhausted I was ecstatic.

(Yes! He really is that much taller than me!)
In the morning he'll turn fourteen. There will be cake. Cake, and presents, and possibly even singing. I will count my lucky stars that I get to have him in my life; I will look backward to the day he was born and forward to what might be to come. And I will hope that he knows: even though I get mad at him for playing too many video games and leaving his cups downstairs and forgetting to put the towels in the dryer when I asked him and not wearing his rubber bands—even though all of the adolescent difficulties are staring us right in the face—even though I yelled at him the other day and might have even sworn—even though all of those mistakes, I love him so, so, so, so much. Him. Even the complicated bits. He gave me my first chance to raise a son and I still, when I stop to think of what that means to me, get a lump in my throat. I love him.

And I hope that he knows.

Right now, I am wishing I had one of those totally-on-top-of-it personalities. Alas, I do not. I'm feeling panicked about my Santa Claus duties: will the kids like their gifts? Will I have disappointed any of them? Is everything evenly dispersed? And about my culinary traditions: the caramel isn't made yet; I did make a batch of fudge but it turned out so disastrously that it was inedible; I haven't made cookies for Santa yet. And slightly disturbed about the list of things I still have to do that I should have accomplished, somehow, this week, like mailing the Christmas cards (we took the photos back in October! like, before Halloween! why was it so hard to get it printed before yesterday?) (But, I did take some solace in the fact that there were twelve other harried mothers waiting in line at Costco to pick up their Christmas cards, too. At least I'm not the only one.), or finishing the little handmade gifts I was going to make for friends, or going to Temple Square to see the lights.

Plus I can't find Kendell's Christmas present. Like, seriously. I'm afraid I might have thrown it away. I don't know where. it. is.

And all this last-minute franticness is making me feel like once again I've missed the point. I so wanted today to be a peaceful one, when I wasn't in full-out panic mode. Because I wanted to feel the spirit of Christmas. I wanted to savor just being with my kids. I wanted to feel like it was all to celebrate Christ's birth, not to celebrate getting and spending.

But, alas, I didn't manage it. So, once more into the fray. But I'm trying to keep this little fragment of poem (which I just memorized) in my heart as I go, just in case:

Then sped my thoughts to keep
     that first Christmas of all
When the shepherds watching
     by their folds ere the dawn
Heard music in the fields
     and marveling could not tell
Whether it were angels
     or the bright stars singing.
                             (Robert Bridges)

I hope your Christmas eve and Christmas day are full of peace and joy!

I hate getting a new cell phone. I think I'd rather buy a new car than a new cell phone, and if you know me you know that going to a car dealership is my definition of hell. But at least the car salesmen are upfront about their dishonesty. You know they're out to make as much money as they can.

But the cell phone companies? They are all sorts of duplicitous. You need a PhD in finance and/or math to figure out exactly why it's costing you $13,227.92 per month for the family plan with free texting AND the phone is on sale, too! (How is that a sale? And what do people do when the phone isn't on sale?)

But you can't run around forever with the same phone you've had since 1992. It gets a little bit embarrassing. Plus, it eventually stops working right, and you are forced into the T-Mobile store, stomach in knots, fingernails digging into your palms, heart palpitating. Throw in a bored six-year-old and it's a recipe for torture.

That is where I found myself three or four weeks ago: in the cellphone section of hell. During our two-hour-long figure-out-the-cell-phone experience, Kaleb entertained himself by playing with the display cell phones. Once we finally figured out what to do (buy the phone at Costco like I'd originally said; the other hellacious part of this experience is that husbands never learn how to actually listen to their wives), I gathered Kaleb up from where he'd been pushing display-phone buttons.

And then I blinked.

Because every. single. display phone (even the fancy, complicated smart phones) had a photo of Kaleb. As its wallpaper.

But the story doesn't end there. This morning, Kendell's sister sent us a text:

So. Nicole and I are at the mall. We stop in at the T-Mobile store to look at phones, and we find this picture as the wallpaper for one of the phones.

Yep, you guessed it. Kaleb's picture is still on at least one of the display phones.

And I've laughed about it all morning!

A few years ago, we added the tradition of reading the nativity story to our Christmas Eve festivities. We read Luke 2:1-19, because the sentence "And Mary kept these things, and pondered them in her heart" seems like a good stopping point. Plus that's usually all the sitting-still-for-scriptures my excited children can handle.

But when I read the Christmas story on my own, I like to start with Zacharias and Elisabeth in chapter 1 and finish with Simeon at chapter 2 verse 35. That is because these two stories neatly bookend the nativity story with hope. The scriptures don't say specifically that Elisabeth hoped for a child. But I think her response when she discovers her miraculous pregnancy—"the Lord has taken away my reproach"—speaks something of her heart. So much can be pinned on that word reproach. Not having a child felt like a punishment, and would only feel that way if she desired that baby. It speaks to years, I imagine, of Elisabeth hoping and praying and hoping more, of watching other women have baby after baby, and wondering why not me? That looking around and wanting what others seem to have effortlessly: this is a hard, troublesome thing that can chip away at faith. And yet, they were both (because I think Zacharias's questioning of the angel how this miracle might come to pass is just as telling of his desires as Elisabeth's use of "reproach" is) righteous and blameless.

And then, in the temple with the infant Christ, there is Simeon. He was a righteous man who was promised he would see Christ in the flesh before he died—and then waited nearly all his life until this promise happened. And, again, I think his words speak louder than their syllables, because when he comes to the temple that day, and sees the infant Christ, he says "now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." He doesn't want to depart in joy (although he obviously felt it) or in humility (although he must have felt humbled by this great experience) or even in thanksgiving (because think! think how thankful he must have felt). No—now, having seen Christ, he is given the thing he has waited and hoped for for so many decades, and at that moment what he feels, at last, is peace. I imagine Simeon as someone similar to Zacharias and Elisabeth. Living his life, trying to do good and make the right choices, but always wondering: when? why do I have to wait? will it ever happen? was I only imagining? or perhaps I am not righteous enough? Those are not always peaceful emotions. Waiting in hope is a bittersweet thing. And yet, he managed it, because his faith was sure enough that he was able to be in the temple at the right time.

As the scripture continues---this is a sword that pierces my own soul. I love the example that Simeon, Elisabeth, and Zacharais set. They were human and imperfect and yet they also held on to their hope long enough to receive the fulfillment of those hopes. They did not let bitterness overcome sweetness. They went forward without understanding why their hopes were not yet fulfilled. And then the great miracle happened, and I will not say that it is solely the birth of Christ. The fulfillment of their hopes and the receipt of understanding is a great miracle, too, just on the small, intimate level.

This pierces my soul because it is so easy for me to slip into the pool of my own bitterness, where I sink into blackness with all the weight that hope brings. (I am not always sure that Emily D. was right; hope isn't a thing, always, with feathers but with chains that keep you from letting go of the unattainable.) It is easy for me to grow jaded, to be filled with the certainty that the unfulfilled hopes I carry have gone unfulfilled because I am not worthy of their fulfillment. To get lost in comparison—if only I were as good as this person I would be granted this hope. As if the world were one great round of sibling rivalry.

And it pierces me because it reminds me not to give up hoping. And it reminds me that perhaps the hope can be pinned not to the unfulfilled desire itself, but to an understanding. Elisabeth and Simeon, after all their long years of hoping, were each given their desire. I don't think that will happen with all of my own long-longed for wishes. But they were also given understanding. This is the sword that lifts up as it pierces, letting me move forward in faith toward my own future understanding.

Those stories of long-endured hope finally fulfilled? They move me and mean as much as the one of Christ's birth. They help me hold on when hope feels like a burden. And, as bookends to the nativity, they bring me to the remembrance that it all hinges on faith in Christ.

It's December 16---single-digit countdown to Christmas. I've wrapped nearly every present I've purchased. I've had the traditional Santa-Claus-is-not-real-and-all-this-magic-making-occasionally-takes-me-away-from-the-fing-laundry argument with my husband. I have freaked out by losing a Very Important Gift in one of my super-secret hiding spots but then found it again. I have panicked about failing to maintain my "wow, she's crafty" status and set myself an overwhelmingly impossible-to-finish-in-time sewing task. I have had a meltdown in the middle of Victoria's Secret. I've eaten approximately 1,289 Lindt Dark Chocolate Peppermint Truffles (must. eat. as. many. as. possible. They are a limited edition after all.)

I've reached the snarky stage of December.

And really. Who wants to bottle up her snark? Bottling it up is the worse thing that you can do. Bottled snark causes cancer, acne, and wrinkles. Better out than in I always say! So instead of keeping it all in the eternal loop that's been going and going and going in my head all day (the 4.5 hours of sleep I got last night? probably not helping my Snarky Stage), I am here to share them, the questions I always answer yes to:

1. Do drivers of SVUs that are so long they trap me in the McDonald's drive thru when they've pulled up into that little "wait here while we fix your order" spot bug me?
2. Do I feel guilty for the voice in my head that judges said SVU drivers for their negative environmental impact?
3. Am I internally rolling my eyes when someone asks me for a happy, uplifting book with no sex, swearing, violence, or anything depressing that will change their life forever?
4. Does my laundry room look like the overflow from an episode of Hoarders?
5. Am I terrified to balance the checkbook?
6. Do I go over and over the Christmas list because I'm paranoid one or another kid will think he or she was treated unfairly?
7. Do I have a secret affection for "Sexy and I Know It?" (Well, only because it's got a beat and you can dance to it.)
8. Have I completely failed in the exercise-and-eat-healthy department lately?
9. Does my back hurt? And my ITB even when I'm just walking up the stairs? (the answer to that question also includes the letters W., T, and F., BTW.)
10. Did I harangue my husband in the middle of WalMart last night?
11. Did I screech like a fishwife at not just one but every. single. one. of my kids this week?
12. Did I completely forget that I was supposed to bring donuts to Kaleb's class yesterday to celebrate his Half Birthday? And then take some giant steps backward in my non-self-flagellation goals once I realized what I'd done?
13. Does my kitchen table look like...well, something no one's invented a simile for, it is that messy?
14. Did I spend too much money at Lands' End, the Gap, Amazon, and Aeropostale? (but! Also! did I get amazing & incredible bargains!?!)
15. Did I really eat three more Lindt truffles while I wrote this blog post?

What question do you always answer yes to?

Yesterday I accomplished the following:

• confirmed with my neighbor that she would be the perfect tutor for Haley, whose pre-calc teacher is just not cutting it
• put in a massive Lands End order  (they had a great deal on their flannel sheets and it snowballed from there)
• drove the carpool to school
• returned extraneous Legos to Target
• worked at the library
• went to the gym
• got weighed for our "biggest looser" competition at work (gained 1 pound)
• went home, ate lunch, wrapped six Christmas presents
• ran to the grocery store
• went to the fabric store
• picked Haley up from school
• took her through the McDonald's drive through because she was starving
• corrected the grammar of the boy working at the McDonald's drive through (I'm so ashamed!) (but my inner snark (I.S.) took over when he said "frozen strawberry lemonade? We don't got that anymore?" "You mean you don't have that anymore?" slipped right out of my mouth while I.S. was in control.)
• ran to the mall to return some things
• bought two tree-scented candles at Bath & Bodyworks
• picked up the carpool
• balanced the checkbook
• went to Costco with Kendell
• fixed dinner
• went to Haley's choir concert

Note that nowhere in that list did I actually tell Haley that she needed to go to the tutor's house. Sometime while I was balancing the checkbook, she (my neighbor) ran over to my house---leaving her two little boys home by themselves for a second---to check on Haley. I feel awful that she was sitting at home, waiting for Haley to show up.

I hate it when I don't manage to keep aloft all the balls I'm juggling.

Tonight I made two loaves of banana bread, one for my neighbor and one for us. I'm thinking of it as redemption bread: an offering to show my regret at being a complete and utter loser of a friend. Making it, I remembered that I've never shared this recipe on my blog, and it is a good one. The addition of buttermilk to the standard banana bread recipe makes the loaf delicately delicious. And! for good measure, I'm sharing another recipe, this one for lemon bread which is what I originally set out to make. I couldn't, though, because that trip I took yesterday? to the grocery store? Well. I did write a shopping list, and on that list was "lemon extract."

I just left the list in the car.

Sometime between yesterday and today, I set myself the goal of blogging every day until Christmas. I don't know why this goal seems so pressing and important—but there I was, snuggled down in my flannel sheets, just on that delicious edge of consciousness when you know sleep is about to overtake you and there is absolutely nothing in the world that could stop you from slipping under:

except remembering that I hadn't blogged yet.

This thing that has been swirling around in my head has nothing to do with Christmas. Mostly. It has to do with memory, though, which seems to me is a main component to the Christmas spirit. Here is the memory:

It's May or June, and I am pissed. I'm 18, and I'm like a puzzle: torn into bits but finally starting to put myself together for real. This new structure I am forming is taking a different shape, both figuratively and literally, and my friends aren't altogether fond of it. I'm no longer needed. Actually, I'm sort of embarrassing, and that is the thing that's got me pissed: My second-best friend, whom I've forgiven for puking on my favorite steel-toed boots, covered for with her mom, and held secrets for that I've still never told anyone, bought tickets for the Depeche Mode concert—but not one for me. As she was going with my used-to-be boyfriend, this is an obvious message: she's not sleeping with him (unless that is a secret she never told) but he is her new best friend, no "second" about it.

As I had in the past when I was angry, I hopped in my car and turned on some music. Angry driving is best done accompanied by The Cult, of course, preferably "Wild Flower" as loud as possible. Only, in this brave new world I've entered, my mom, instead of my best friend, is in the car with me. There are many perks to having your mom around—not having to worry about finding quarters under the floor mats to use as gas money is a big one—but loud punk music is not one of them. As I watched her hand reach for the dial and actually turn down my music, I realized just how far I had come in my transformation: angry music might never soothe again.

I think this memory has been so vivid because I've had the chance to hang out with Haley more than usual lately. Sometimes when we're driving around, and she's got her radio station on, I can remember nearly exactly how it felt to drive around aimlessly with your friend, how the world seemed full of possibility that could surprise you at the very next corner (because, back then, it was and it did). How you knew your friend understood what you needed, wanted, thought, and felt because you assumed she needed, wanted, thought, and felt the same things. How the perfect song on the radio would feel like karma and angels and all the planets aligning to create that very perfect moment. Only a best friend can bring that sort of joy.

Except, I can't remember it at all, really, that joy. So much has happened since I was last that girl in the passenger seat next to my best friend driving nowhere important. My perspective has skewed and knowledge slid across my vision in nearly-transparent layers that block me from feeling that wild hopefulness. As the mother (instead of the best friend) I know what perils hide in those limitless possibilities and how the loss of a best friend, second- or otherwise, is a wound that is some ways worse than any other—how that friend, by holding your dreams, your thoughts, your desires and despairs and secrets in the cup of her hand also cradles power, too. Sharp, wounding power. All she has to do is drop them or, worse, scatter them with her breath.

I suppose mothers hold our daughters' hopes, despairs and secrets, too. We could wield them like a power if we wanted. But while we lack the ability to create the experiences that best friends do, we have something more gentle and perhaps more enduring. We put gas in the car and slushies in the cup holders and a permanence into their world. We might turn down the radio but we aren't going anywhere.

I find myself at this unexpected crossroads. Well, I am not there yet, exactly, but I can see it coming up ahead. Haley, my daughter, my girl who nearly shares my birthday but is not myself reborn (she is so much stronger than that), is nearly grown. What will our relationship feel like as she speeds out into the world without me in the passenger seat? I hope I can continue being the permanent thing in her world. I hope that, whatever betrayals she experiences, they don't come from me; that I can be the place she comes home to.

Last year I wrote this post at Write. Click. Scrapbook. about my Christmas Eve notebook tradition.

The gist of the idea is this: every year, after I've played Santa, I take a midnight shot of the Christmas tree with its pile of gifts, and then I write in my Christmas Eve notebook. Here is where I focus on my emotional responses to what the holidays have brought so far, and what I am anticipating for the next day. We all work so hard to make sure Christmas is perfect for our kids! This little moment is the thing I do for me to help me feel peaceful and centered and refreshed.

Since that WCS post was done on Christmas Eve day last year, I had a couple of people ask me to remind them to do it this year. SO!

Here's your reminder. You don't have to make an altered notebook like I did. You just have to get a notebook that is dedicated to the experience, set aside some time on Christmas Eve, and write down what you are experiencing this year.

Happy writing!