Becky and I have each made a goal to write something on our blogs about every book we read this year. Notice that it's the end of January and I've not written a book note in months, certainly none since I set the goal. I do, though, have a great big stack of books to write about. I'm starting with Miss Spitfire: Reaching Helen Keller because it's due at the library, oh, yesterday. I've been reading a lot of books lately that my kids are also reading. I checked this one out for Haley, but it's easy enough that Jake could read it, too. But in my zeal over a book written in the voice of Annie Sullivan, I forgot that neither one of them likes historical fiction, so it'll be returned tomorrow (only two days overdue! Yay me! So much for that other New Year's Resolution, which was to pay no fines to the library all year long!) having been read only by me.

When I was a kid, one of my favorite series of books was a set of biographies written for children. They were hardbacks, with orange covers (no dust jackets in sight) and a silhouette of the subject's face imprinted in gold on the cover. They told the stories of famous people's childhoods, and oh, how I loved those books. (I am determined to one day find and own a set of them, not the reissued-in-the-80's version, but the orange hardback version.) Although I read about John Adams, George Washington, Mark Twain, and Buffalo Bill, my favorites were the ones about girls (a feminist at heart, even as an eight-year-old): Betsey Ross, Rosa Parks, Martha Washington, Eleanor Roosevelt, Elizabeth Blackwell, Abigail Adams, Pocahontas, Amelia Earhart, Annie Oakley, Clara Barton. I must have checked out the one about the mysterious Jamestown colony ten times. But my ultimate favorite of this series was the book about Helen Keller.

Maybe it was because I was already growing to love language in my own life that made imagining her life before Annie Sullivan---with nearly zero language---so hard to imagine. The images of Helen running wild at the breakfast table, moving from plate to plate and eating what she wanted---a wild boar of a girl---was startling to me, and the image of Helen and Annie at the water pump, when the miraculous break though happened is something that occasionally pops into my head even now, almost thirty years after reading it. I tried to imagine communicating only with hands, or reading braille, and I certainly failed. But I loved their story, Helen and her teacher Annie living their lives together, bound to each other by needs.

At least, I knew Helen needed Annie, but I didn't realize, as a child, that Annie also needed Helen. That is one of the things you learn in Miss Spitfire, just how much Annie Sullivan needed a person to love---someone who could be a sort of home for her. The story takes on an added depth when seen through Annie's eyes---the helplessness of Helen's parents, for example, and the frustration of the entire family at Helen's obvious intelligence, buried in her blindness. Yet, for all the details about Helen's life, this isn't really a book about Helen Keller. It is a book about a woman becoming both a teacher and a sort of surrogate mother---about Annie finding her own little soul to love. She recognized what Helen needed---love, obedience, and language. "Words," she tells Helen's mother, "bridge the gaps between two minds. Words are a miracle." You get to see, in this book, the miracle of Annie's loneliness finally being assuaged.

When I read that quote, I had a sudden glimpse into that childish head of mine, the girl who was happy and peaceful with nothing more than a quiet afternoon with a good book. I think this is why I loved Helen's story: because even then, words were a miracle to me. Even then---especially then---books were my friends. And it's why I enjoyed this book as well. Like bumping into a ghost of my old self. I think that if you like the Helen Keller story, you'll love Miss Spitfire, too. It's well researched (the author based Annie Sullivan's voice, mannerisms, opinions, and ideas on letters written during those early days with the Kellers) and fast paced (I think even my "I don't like history" children would enjoy it if they'd give it a chance). The writing is half way between lyrical and factual. Definitely a book I would recommend to almost anyone. A quick quote to end:

If I'd ever seen a child born, it couldn't compare to what happened at the pump today. Helen opened before my eyes, and whatever it is that makes us human flowed into her as if I'd poured it from my own hands.

Happy reading!

I love winter. Snow is one of my favorite things, and I like the look of the sleeping gardens and naked trees. But usually, winter in Utah frustrates me, especially Utah County where I live. Despite our state's claim to the greatest snow on earth, the valleys aren't covered in snow all winter (although the mountains are!). Instead, we get a few snow storms, and the snow sticks around for a few days before melting. This frustrates me because I want the snow to stick around for months, not days. If it's going to be cold, I want it to be white, too.

But this winter has been different. We've had storm after storm. And it's been cold enough that the snow has piled up and stayed. Right after the storm two weeks ago, the one that dropped about eight inches in my backyard, I took Kaleb outside and taught him how to make snow angels, so now whenever we go outside, he says "make a snow angel?" in his cute pleading voice. The boys have had snowball fights and collected icicles (although I did say no when they wanted to buy icicles from one of the girls in our neighborhood, just a quarter each!). Nathan made a sort of grid with the icicles, poking them into the snow in a pattern of fierce, icy teeth. And Jake got to go skiing this weekend---his first time ever---accompanied by his Uncle Eric who taught him to snow plow and to hold on tight to the tow rope.

Yesterday, we had snow and thunder and wind, and I sat for at least thirty minutes, just watching the wind in my big sycamore tree. It was so stormy and cold that the school buses couldn't get through, so parents swarmed to the schools to pick up their kids. Haley's school made everyone stay in their last class until their parents came, and as I had no idea (I am still wondering how all the other parents found out), she waited there for a half hour before calling me. Then we went and picked up the boys from school, early, so we could avoid another parking-lot traffic jam. The kids---who've never had a snow day---thought this was fairly exciting. Today is sunny and white and cold, and Timp is smeared with white clouds, and another storm is supposed to come tomorrow, and I am feeling grateful for this winter that has really felt like winter.

Now for the recipe. I found this on line somewhere, and when I made this the first time, it just turned out OK---needed a little bit of tweaking. But when I made it last night for dinner, Kendell couldn't stop raving about it. He declared it the rockinest dinner ever, and he told me there was nothing I could do to make it better. LOL. I think such rave reviews require me to share it on my blog!

Mexican Mac 'n Cheese

1 14 1/2 ounce box penne pasta
1/2 cup chopped onion
1/2 cup chopped red sweet pepper
4 tablespoons butter
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoon dried cilantro, crushed
1 teaspoon ground cumin
3  cups milk
1 cup half and half
6 ounces grated cheddar cheese (about 3 handfuls)
2 cups Monterey Jack cheese
1 cup bottled salsa
2/3 cup ripe olives, diced
1 cup frozen corn
Chili powder

While pasta is cooking (I LOVE the Barilla Plus Multigrain pasta, and especially in dishes like this one, the Picky Kids don't notice that it's not white pasta), dice the onion and the pepper. In a large pan, saute onion and pepper in butter till soft. Stir in flour, salt, cilantro, and cumin. Add milk and half-and-half all at once. Cook and stir until mixture is thickened and bubbly. Reduce heat to low. Stir in cheddar cheese and 1 cup of the Monterey Jack cheese; stir until cheese is melted. Pour over drained pasta, diced olives, and corn; stir to combine. (It will seem a little saucy, which is good; it will get thicker when it bakes.) Layer 1/2 of the pasta, all the salsa, and the rest of the pasta; sprinkle with extra cheese and then the chili powder on top of everything. (The cheese and the chili powder melt together into luscious deliciousness.) Bake at 400 degrees, covered, for 20 minutes. Bask in the glow of a well-fed husband. ;)

First off---thank you for your comments on my post yesterday. I think I have a tendency toward gratuitous guilt. And I think you are all right: it is OK for me to find happiness in the things that fill me up. I appreciate your wisdom!

This morning, along with all the LDS world, I am thinking about the death of our prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley. I learned about his death last night when I turned on the news. Kendell was already asleep, so I shook him awake to tell him. Then I told Haley and Jake, in turn, as I tucked them in. In her usual manner, Haley was nonchalant about the whole thing. And, as usual, Jake was bothered by the news. "I will miss him," he told me. Me, too.

President Hinckley became the prophet in March of 1995, one month before Haley was born. So I have listened to his advice and council for the whole of my parenting experience. I have loved him as a prophet. I think that in addition to everything he has taught us, and all the work he has moved forward with our temples, one of the biggest lessons he's provided is just how important tone is. President Hinckley had a great sense of humor---everyone says that, I know. But the humor, the sense of not taking himself too seriously, brought an ease of acceptance to his messages. He wasn't about fire and brimstone. He was about living the gospel in the reality of today's world.

After I told Jake the news, he asked me if I was sad. I got a little teary-eyed at this question, because while I am sad for myself and for my church---we will all miss this beloved man---I am not sad for him. He lived a good, long life and accomplished so much with his years. He deserves his rest and his reunions.

(I have decided that on Sundays, I want to try to write something a bit more spiritual than my usual offerings, or at least something that has to do with church.)

Today in church, our stake president (who is the leader of a group of congregations) gave a wonderful talk about chasing out the darkness from ourselves. I am still thinking about the things he said (in my mind, I equated the "darkness" he spoke of with depression, something I struggle with), but one spot in particular made me squirm a bit. He talked about a perfect day he'd had recently, and how it was also a perfect day for his wife, who had the house to herself all day. (They have seven or eight children, so I imagine that a day of solitude is a rare thing for her.) During her perfect day, at home with all that lovely solitude, she managed to accomplish several things, like deep-cleaning her house, reorganizing her storage room, and baking some cookies. Kendell glanced over at me and gave me The Look, the one that means "see, there really ARE women devoted to their homes."

Because he knows me well enough to know that if I had a day at home by myself, cleaning my house would be the last thing I would do. When I have solitude, I want to do something creative: writing, or scrapbooking, or sewing. Or I want to read, or sleep, or just think. I think that, when it comes right down to it, I selfishly want to focus on me and my needs during my moments of solitude. I don't want to keep serving others when I'm by myself. Even though I know that if I did use that time to get on top of the housework, my home would be more peaceful---even with that knowledge, I still use my solitude on myself.

My blogging friend Kasandra has a quote on her site---"there are cleaners and then there are readers." I so completely get this quote. I am married to a cleaner; his mom and sisters are cleaners, too. But I am a reader---a reader with a very small desire to even try to enter the world of the cleaners. In my perspective, an immaculate house just isn't that important. Not that I would want to live in a filthy home---I don't, and I wouldn't. But I just don't get very upset if everything isn't perfect.I have several friends whom I consider to be domestic goddesses. You know, the ones whose homes are always clean and who never have to move stuff out of the front seat of their automobiles for someone to sit in the passenger side. I think that I am a domestic acolyte, following my route of minor household duties---dishes and laundry and picking up and vacuuming. But I do these duties only because they need to be done, not because they give me any sort of inner fulfillment like being creative does. Selfishly, I want that inner fulfillment more than I want an immaculate home. It's something I need to work on.

I am finally, finally starting to feel better. It's been a long, hard cold, and as is my body's wont, the cough is lingering. (It'll last until March or so.) I still can't take a good deep breath without dislodging a lung or two, but at least I'm not as exhausted all the time, and my body has stopped aching. I'm on the mend. We've lived on Wendy's and Taco Bell and cold cereal, which my kids are getting really tired of, and I've got a bunch of emails to write, and some other goals I've been wanting to accomplish. But everything non-essential I've just not had the energy for. It's good to have my old self coming back a bit! To wit:

If you know me, you know I'm not into the celebrity thing. I could care less about Paris Hilton or any other socialite who only gets attention because of her daddy's money. I feel for the Brittanys and Lindsays of the entertainment world but I don't really follow their escapades. Don't ever get me started on how I feel about Jennifer Lopez. Heck, I couldn't even walk down Hollywood Boulevard without getting annoyed, remember? I think that movie stars are great---they're creative and inventive---but they're also just people, and the ones I admire are the ones that seem to be in it for the craft, not the money.

But all my non-celebrity-admiration withstanding, I was so sad to read about Heath Ledger dying. Ever since I saw him in Ten Things I Hate About You, he's been one of my favorite actors. Him being in a movie was generally enough to get me to at least rent it (or buy, in the case of The Patriot and A Knight's Tale), but I think I continued to like him because of that Ten Things role. In the movie, he's just the sort of boy I would have liked as a teenager, rebellious and fluid in the art of prickly-as-defense-mechanism. In real life, he seemed like the sort of person I'd like to talk to, unencumbered by his fame, funny and creative.

Of course, I really have no idea what he was like in real life. That's why it's odd that I'd pause in my life to think about a person I didn't know. I think what gives me pause is thinking about the future movies he won't ever make, as well as the fact that although he's dead, I could be watching him in Ten Things in a matter of minutes, if I wanted to, and in a way it'd be like he's still alive. And while I'll continue on with my celebrity nonchalance, I can suddenly understand, better, why people idolize them. Not the money, not even the fame, but the strange sort of immortality they achieve.

, a blaring, light-hurts-my-eyes headache, a scratchy throat and one of those coughs that feel like your lungs are turning inside out (aside from the obvious why-are-you-out-and-infecting-everyone-else reason):

You'll come home with a ton of stuff you really didn't need, like sugar-snap peas, and grape tomatoes, and too much orange juice, just because they sound good. And the things on your actual list, things like milk and bread and butter and sour cream? Well, you'll probably forget those things. Even though they're absolutely necessary.

I'm thinking the DH can stop for milk on his way home instead of scatterbrained me heading out again. At least I managed to pick something up for dinner. Well, if prepackaged chicken tacquitos count as dinner. 'Cause that's what we're having at my house.

And with that, I'm back to bed.

Over the past four months, I've sewn two Halloween costumes, five rag quilts, and a ridiculous 17 pair of pajamas. When I was cutting out the PJs (my least-favorite part of sewing), Kendell asked me why I was going to all the effort of sewing them, when it would be cheaper and consume far less time to simply buy them. While I sewed, I thought out my answer. "The kids liked the pajamas I make for them" is the obvious answer, although they also like the ones I've bought for them, too. The first pajamas I made, for Christmas Eve 2005, became Nathan's favorite article of clothing. He'd wear his Christmas PJs until about two minutes before he needed to get dressed to leave for kindergarten, and then put them back on as soon as he got home. He quite literally wore them out. I think he'll remember them for a long time. "I enjoy the process" might be a good answer to Kendell's question, too. I loved the day we all went to Joann together to pick out flannel. I think they'll remember that day, too. And, aside from the cutting-out part, I like sewing them together, watching something form itself out of something previously fairly formless. Or maybe I could have appealed to his practical side: "I have a sewing machine, so I might as well use it." One of my favorite adult-Christmas memories was the Christmas when Kendell gave me my sewing machine. I was pregnant with Kaleb, and I had no idea what was in that big gift. When I opened it, I started crying, no doubt influenced by pregnancy hormones and exhaustion, but also because I could glimpse, in my imagination, everything I'd sew with it.

Honestly, I never really answered Kendell. I think you either get the sewing/quilting thing, or you don't. It's always easier to buy a baby gift than it is to sew a rag quilt, but I take pleasure from shopping for the fabric and selecting different pieces that go together. I like sewing them and I love the moment when I pull the finished quilt from the dryer, shake off the extra fuzzy pieces, and look at it in its finished form. I love working with flannel. I like the process of creating something.  Here are four of the rag quilts I made (forgot to take a picture of one of them; also, you can tell that I've not yet perfected a way of photographing them so you can see the whole quilt AND get it in the right perspective):

Each time I finish a baby quilt, I think "this one is my favorite quilt ever." It makes me happy to work with colors and textures, and maybe that is answer enough.

Last night, I finished my nativity quilt. I think sewing the binding onto the back side of the quilt took longer than anything else, and I know I have much improvement to make on my whip-stitching skill. Right after I cut the final thread, I showed it to Kendell. "Look, honey, it's finished!" I said. In my head were all the reasons I'd wanted to make this quilt: because the fabric is so gorgeous, because it's unusual (how many times do you see Santa-themed fabric at Christmas, or snowmen, but you hardly ever see the nativity), because I love nativities, because I wanted to accomplish the task of finishing an entire quilt, including the binding. And because of Christmases in the future, when some child or other would curl up underneath it with me, and we would read or talk or just rock in the chair by the tree; because I wanted to connect the quilt with Christmas memories. Because maybe one day, when I am gone (in the far, far, far-away future), someone---Haley, or a daughter-in-law, or maybe even a great granddaughter---might want a thing I made with my own hands.

"Hmmm," he said, looking up from the computer. "It's great, but wasn't that a lot of work for something you'll only drag out at Christmas time?"

Men! They just don't get it sometimes. So, I thought I'd share it here instead, in the hopes that some of you will get it! I had my prime lens on my camera, and couldn't get back far enough to fit the whole thing in the frame, and when I stitched the two photos together in Photoshop, they didn't fit together perfectly. But it's a general impression, anyway.

I'm trying to get on top of my house, thus the lack of blogging and email responses! I'm happy to report, though, that all the Christmas stuff is put away, except for my nativity quilt. I'm still working on sewing the binding on---the back part is taking forever! I'll share a photo when I'm finished. Toy room is cleaned and organized, storage room is pristine, and I actually managed to vacuum today! I'm getting there.

I thought I'd share this recipe I made tonight. The original version came from Rachael Ray, but I modified it a little bit and doubled it for my hungry clan + one sleeping-over extra. Despite several children (and one husband) giving the preparations very dubious glances, it was a hit with everyone. (Kaleb tried to put 1/2 pound or so of Parmesan cheese on his!)

Pasta & Meatball Stoup
2 small carrots, peeled and diced into small pieces
1 medium yellow onion, diced into small pieces
2 celery ribs, diced small
1-ish T diced garlic
2 jars spaghetti sauce (my absolute favorite spaghetti sauce is Bertolli Vineyard Marinara with Burgundy Wine)
1/4 cup red cooking wine
3 14-oz cans chicken broth
2 pounds ground beef
1 cup grated Parmesan (I almost always have the fresh stuff around...love it!)
1 cup Italian bread crumbs
2-ish T diced garlic
pepper
salt
2 beaten eggs
2 T parsley flakes
1/2 pound small pasta (shells, macaroni, etc---I have fallen in love with the mini zitti)

Saute the onion, carrot, celery, and garlic in about 2 T olive oil till onion is translucent. Pour in the spaghetti sauce, cooking wine, and chicken broth. Bring to a boil, then let simmer.

In a big bowl, combine beef, Parmesan, bread crumbs, garlic, salt, pepper, eggs, and parsley. Form into small meatballs. Brown the meatballs on all sides. Bring the sauce to a boil. Add the pasta and stir, then slide the meatballs in. Keep boiling until noodles are tender (this took about 12 minutes for me, but I think it will vary depending on the kind of pasta you use). Serve with extra Parmesan cheese on top.

I LOVED the way the meatballs turned out in this recipe---they are tender and delicious! After dinner, Haley was craving brownies. Usually I just make a boxed version, but we were out, so I made my mom's brownie recipe. They are delicious! Plus, the edges don't get hard.

Mom's Brownies
2 cubes butter, softened
2 cups sugar
3/4 cup cocoa
dash salt
4 eggs
1 1/2 cups flour
2 tsp vanilla

Cream the butter and sugar; add the cocoa and mix until smooth. Stir salt into flour. Add 1/2 of the flour, then two eggs, creaming until smooth between each; repeat. Beat in vanilla. Smooth into a 9x13 pan and bake at 350 for about 30 minutes.

(Since several people have emailed and/or commented, wanting to hear the story, here it is. I feel a little but-will-you-still-love-me-in-the-morning ish, so please: I hope you still love me!)

Being the excellent mother I am, I procrastinated going to visit Santa until December 24th. This isn't the first time I've done this; some years I've procrastinated going to visit Santa until the following year. I was absolutely dreading going out into the throng that is the mall on the day before Christmas, and anticipating at least an hour-long wait. But, Jake had decided a few days earlier that he really, really  wanted a bathrobe, and Nathan really, really wanted to give it to him. I decided that I'd take back the yet-another-toy gift that Nathan was previously going to give Jake, and get him a bathrobe instead. Plus I had a gift certificate at Nordstrom, and Santa was still at the mall, so off we went. Despite my fear of a long line, when we got there it wasn't too bad, just about twenty people in front of us. I put Haley and Jake at the end of the line and then Nathan, Kaleb and I rushed back to Nordstrom.

Well, if you can call carrying a 35-pound 2-year-old through a crowded mall "rushing." By the time I made it to the children's department, I was seriously hot and tired and annoyed already. Nathan stood by the fish tanks in the shoe department with Kaleb and I held up bathrobes for him to choose from. He picked out the forest-green fluffy one, and I walked over to the cash register---and no one was there. There are FOUR cash registers in the children's department, and not a single one of them had a cashier. I started to panic, as I didn't want Haley and Jake to get to the front of the Santa line before I got back. I walked around, searching for a sales person, but none were to be found. (Draining the eggnog in the break room, no doubt, bemoaning the fact that they had to work that day.)

I finally spotted a sales girl at the jewelry counter. Feeling desperate, I ran over and said, "I am in a HUGE hurry, and there's no one in the children's department. Do you think you could ring this up for me?"

She hesitated for a second. "Maybe I can just call someone?" LONG seconds of pondering. "No, I guess I can ring it up for you." My blood pressure started to go down in relief as I pictured her actually hearing the words "in a hurry" and then responding with, well, speed.

And then it went right back up.

Because that sales girl, that blond infuriating sales girl, moseyed. She moseyed on over to the other jewelry counter for a bigger bag, then moseyed on back only after waving hello to the other sales girl. She carefully took the robe off its hanger and then started folding it, only to start over because her folding measurements had gone awry by three-quarters of an inch. She searched under the desk for a box. She fluffed up the silvery tissue paper into designer triangles. And then---then. Then she turned away from me and started talk to another customer.

And I snapped.

Maybe it was the combination of missing-Santa anxiety, guilt over even being at the mall on December 24, the pressure of the gazillion and one things I still had left to do at home, and the fact that this Nordstrom shopping excursion, usually so pleasant and easy, was really starting to feel like shopping at Walmart, but I did something I very rarely do: I turned into my mother.

I banged my not-even-freaking-swiped-yet credit card on the glass counter in a rapid staccato. The sales girl turned away from her other customer. "Listen to me!" I said, very, very loudly, continuing to bang my credit card. "I know I sound like a complete bitch, but I am in a hurry. Do you understand the word 'hurry'? Could you please, please just hurry and ring me up? Part of my brain was thinking "holy cow, Amy, WHAT are you doing?" but the bigger part was bent on breaking that sales girl. I wanted my stuff rang up now.

"Well, you know, everyone is in a hurry today, and it's really busy," she protested. "There is only one other customer!" I said, trying to calm my voice. I decided I'd better stop talking, and she finally rung me up. I ran over and got the boys from the fish tank and we rushed back down the mall.

But, you know, as I was leaving Nordstrom, I watched that sales girl. She actually was hurrying over to the other jewelry counter, no doubt to let the other sales girl know that she'd be in the break room, having a snack and telling all the sales girls from the children's department about the crazy lady she had just rung up. It's good to know, sometimes, that you are someone else's story. But I've got news for her: if she wanted to drown her woes in eggnog, she should have rung me up more quickly, because the children's department girls already drank it all.

(I did make it back, with just moments to spare, before H & J got to the front of the Santa line. Haley was NOT happy about sitting on Santa's lap, but everyone else was excited. Someone had given us a coupon for a free picture, which is good because mine all look like this one, with various kids sort of looking at me but not all four at the same time. We left the mall immediately after visiting Santa!)

When I was growing up, one of my favorite parts of Christmas was getting out the nativity. In our neighborhood, about a block away from our house, a woman ran this little ceramics shop, and one year she helped the women in our ward (LDS congregation) make nativities. My mom didn't just make the basic Mary/Joseph/Jesus set, though; she kept going and made the wise men, the shepherds, the sheep, the cow, two camels, and a pair of lamps. Hers is painted in rich colors, then antiqued, and she put jewels on the wise men's hats. I loved all the pieces, but the best part was the baby Jesus and his manger; he came out of the manger, and there was an imprint of his body left in the blankets. (Once, when I was at my friend Kristen's house and admiring her made-at-church nativity, I discovered that their baby Jesus was glued into his manger and I still remember how much that bothered me.) I would lift him out of his manger and cradle him in my hands and be filled with a feeling that was unique from all my other Christmas feelings. The spirit  instead of the anticipation/desire thing. (A photo-of-a-layout that's about my mom's nativity, thus the not-so-nice photo!)

So, a couple of years after I was married, when my mom offered to make me my own nativity, I was thrilled. I decided to go with a white-and-gold version, just because I wanted to have a different feel from my childhood nativity. She gave it to me on Christmas Day, 1996. And every year since then, I've looked forward to getting out my own nativity. It started my collection of nativities, which now fills my entire front room, but the original has always been my favorite.

This year, when I got out the decorations, I just had a feeling: something is going to get broken this year. I didn't even get out my little village, because it's down at Kaleb's level. I thought it would all be OK, and that I was overreacting. But I made sure to tell all of my kids, very sternly, that there was to be NO ROUGH-HOUSING in the front room. No balls, no playing puppy, no running around, nothing. My kids love the nativities too, so they promised that none of that would happen.

Fast forward a few weeks, to the afternoon Kendell and I went to see I am Legend (excellent movie, by the way, despite what the critics said) with his department at work. I went shopping after the movie, and my phone rang. It was Jakey, in tears; what I could understand between his sobs was "ball," "Chris," "nativity" and "broken." "You broke my nativity?" I shrieked, right there in the jewelry department at JC Penny. "Which one?" "The wh-wh-wh-white one."

I took a deep breath. I reminded myself that people are always more important than things. I didn't yell after that first shriek. I told him I would talk to him about it when I got home, and finished my shopping in an angry sort of fuzz. I cried all the way home, feeling silly for being so upset about an object. Really, if it had been any other nativity, I would have been upset but not sick-upset. Not bawl-all-the-way-home upset. I kept thinking: every single Christmas from now on, I'll remember my broken nativity and feel this feeling all over again. As well as feeling the absence, the not-having that results from a break.

I came in to find my shattered Mary:

This was actually better than I had expected; I thought the whole set was broken. Still, what is a nativity without a Mary? Pointless. I got the whole story: Despite the no-friends-over-when-Haley's-babysitting rule, she'd given Jake permission to have his friend Chris over. And despite my stay-out-of-the-front-room-with-your-rough-and-tumble-boy activities, they'd decided to play catch. In my room full of fragile, breakable nativities.

Jacob was heartsick. He knows that the nativity is important to me. Groundings were handed out---to Haley for breaking the first rule, to Jake for disobeying my no-balls rule. And my shattered Mary simply lay there on the table, all during the Christmas season, shattered and sad.

It's one of the things that have helped me procrastinate putting away Christmas: what do I do with my Mary? Just throw her away? And why keep the rest of the pieces, when there's no point to a nativity without a Mary? I felt a little shattered myself. On Saturday, I decided to at least try, and I managed to glue my Mary back together. She looks a little bit haggard and worse-for-wear, and there is a small piece I never could find.  The seams are fairly visible. But I am at least able to put it away and move on. I almost sort of...well, "like" isn't the right word. But I can commiserate with my broken Mary. There is something in motherhood that is destructive anyway, that breaks you and puts you back together with a few pieces missing, definitely worse for the wear. But also, still, remarkably: peaceful. Able to carry on with the job at hand. Able to push on. Mary's OK. And hopefully, each year at Christmas-time when I get out my nativities, what I will remember is not that horrible feeling in the car on the way home, but this realization: going on anyway is what we mothers do.