No Quiero Nada

As part of our Advent tradition every year at St. Stephen’s, we erect a Giving Tree in the parish hall. There are different paper cutout ornaments for different age groups at the Canal Street Mission; on the front is a child’s name, and on the back they write something they would like for Christmas. I always try to pick cards for kids that parallel the ages of my own children, the better to imagine the child we’re buying a gift for.

But it’s hard to imagine the five-year-old little girl who wrote on the back of her card, “No quiero nada” – I don’t want anything. I wonder what her life must be like, to make her want to give up on the joy that is Christmas, and it makes me feel so sad. I anguish over what to get her, and then decide that every child needs magic, so I choose some fairy wings and a sparkling musical wand. I wonder if they’ll do the trick.

Maybe, though, just maybe, young Noemi is wise beyond her five years. Perhaps when she wrote “I don’t want anything,” she was really saying “I want for nothing.” It’s possible, that in a life with so little wealth, she’s already discovered that the greatest gifts of all don’t come wrapped in tissue paper. And that idea, that hope, is a gift I’ll carry in my own heart all season long.

God Gave Me a Cookie

Recently, I was reminded of a saying that a friend of mine likes to use: "God gave you a cookie," meaning that something sweet, wonderful, and unexpected has happened to you. It popped into my mind the other day as we drove through the densely wooded area from the Huntsville airport to the south end of town.

Fall colors usually come much earlier in the year here, but the rain in September and a later-than-usual cold snap meant the autumn spectacle was perfectly timed for the day we arrived. I've missed this particular beauty so much in temperate California. The palette was stunning, from green to yellow to gold to orange to magenta to deep red and finally, brown.

The colors don't last long and neither do the leaves, now scattered on the ground like so many million crumbs. But God gave me a cookie. And it was good.

Sweet Home Alabama

Circling for a landing at the airport of the town where I grew up always gives me the same lump in my throat. If you haven't seen it, you would never believe the clay dirt could be so red. I feel like I have this iron-rich soil running through my veins, and I realize it's true: you can take the girl out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the girl.

The older kids have come with me to celebrate Thanksgiving with my grandparents, and my brother and his wife will arrive soon, too. A real family homecoming. Family is what brings me back over and over, but I have to admit the countryside calls to me, too, in a way it never did when I first left for California twenty-five years ago.

The changing seasons, the cotton fields, the magnolias, the biscuits with ham and red-eye gravy, the slower pace of things, and the genteel way of most Southerners -- I miss them all; they're part of what makes me who I am. And while I wouldn't trade the life I have now, it's good to know that whenever you really want to, you can go home again.

For the Love of Chocolate

Claire was allowed to order a hot chocolate when we went out to breakfast on Sunday morning, and the delight on her face lit up the whole dining room. I’m generally a staunch opponent of sugar in all its evil forms, but I lay down my arms when it comes to chocolate. Not just any chocolate, mind you; it has to be credentialed.

Apparently, this is an inherited trait. My grandmother adores the stuff; I think it’s one of the great joys of her slowly turning days. My mother took my father to Angélina on the day they were married in Paris. The hot chocolate there is so thick you can stand a spoon on end in the pot; it's not for the faint-hearted.

Chloé, who hasn’t been to New York but is eager to go, puts Serendipity III (home of the famous Frrrozen Hot Chocolate) as her first stop when she hits the Upper East Side. Claire isn’t so particular about her chocolate yet, but she will be.

I’ve moved on from the liquid form myself, only indulging in the finest, darkest variety, one small piece at a time. Rechiutti is my current obsession, and how convenient, his shop is only a short ferry ride away. At Christmastime, we hand roll our own truffles at home. They’re supposed to be gifts, but most of them never make it out the door.

The history of chocolate is fascinating, with earliest records of cocoa consumption dating back to traces found in Honduran terra cotta pots from 1100 B.C. It wasn’t until the 19^th century that chocolate was eaten in solid form, but aficionados have sure made up for lost time since then. You can read a more in-depth story of chocolate in all its guises in a great online article, The Sweet Lure of Chocolate.

As for me, I have to go now. I’ve got a craving, and it won’t be denied.

Don't Break My Heart

It was bound to start sometime. Last night I went with Chloé and a couple of her friends to see a student production of “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.” The show was great, but it was hard to concentrate on what was going on onstage when the real drama was unfolding in the audience.

We were sitting in our seats before the show when another of Chloé’s friends appeared behind us with a cute curly-haired blond boy in tow. She whispered something in Chloé’s ear and darted away, leaving the boy to sit next to us. He was staring intently at Chloé and she suddenly sits ramrod straight in her seat, looking at a faraway speck on the ceiling.

The tension is thick and it’s painfully obvious what’s happening, but I innocently ask, “What’s going on?” “That guy likes me, Mom, really likes me, and he came tonight just because he new I was going to be here, and I don’t like him back. It’s so embarrassing!” It’s humbling to have the laws of attraction explained to me by a 14-year-old, but then again, I asked.

At intermission, Chloé leaps out of her seat, runs down to front of the theater to talk to the girl who brought the boy over to us, and darts out the side door. The girl comes over to whisper to the boy and he slinks away, hands in pockets. My heart goes out to this kid.

I’m trying so hard not to be a sticky-beaked mother, I’m actually perspiring. I can’t stand it any more, and I say to no one in particular, “You know, in my experience, it’s better to give bad news in person, rather than send a messenger to do it.” All Chloe’s friends nod in fervent agreement, and I feel vindicated.

After the show, the crowd surges out the door and Chloé is nowhere to be found. We wait in the car. She finally appears, and tells us that she talked to him, and told him that she just want to be friends and that she’s just not interested in boys right now. I feel mixed emotions: sympathy for the cute blond guy, but pride in Chloé for being grown up and doing the right thing.

Next time she goes to the theater, I think I’ll stay home. I don’t think I can handle all the drama. And it’s only just begun.

It's a Scream

Jack is usually the happy-go-lucky, laid-back one of the bunch, but everyone has his limits. For the last couple of days Claire has been home sick with a cough, so the quiet routine of Jack’s normal business hours with his Mama’s undivided attention have been decidedly disrupted.

When the rest of the clan gets home, the tension starts to mount and things can turn on a dime. The escalating high-decibel mirth of their rambunctious play suddenly screeches into high-pitched, bloodcurdling cries for help.

Jack is a little man of few words, but in this impromptu photo he’s clearly saying, “I can’t take it any more!” I can relate. His way of retaliating against all these daytime bombardments of noise is to get up at three a.m. and quietly practice his ABCs. As cute as this is, I have to say, it makes me want to scream.

(painting: The Scream by Edvard Munch, 1893)

Steppin' Out

Contrary to current speculation, you still can dress us up and take us out – it’s just great deal more effort than it used to be. Since outings without children only happen two or three times a year at most, you’d think we’d have time to plan ahead. Think again.

Fifteen minutes before we are supposed to leave for a fabulous 50^th birthday party, we’re looking up “cocktail attire” on the internet because James is afraid that fashions might have drastically changed since the last time we actually went out. He can’t find his shirt, tie, or cuff links (right where they’re supposed to be) and I’m frantically searching for my shoes (they’re in Chloé’s closet). This leaves us about four minutes to shower, get dressed, and get out the door without getting covered in the mac-and-cheese the kids are eating.

In the car on the way, we try to decompress from a kid-packed day and stay awake at the same time. James says, “I can’t believe I used to like going out.” I say, “Yeah, my feet hurt already.” Sheesh. We are way too young to be acting this old. Somehow, in our rush not to be late, we pull into valet parking five minutes early. It’s embarrassing, but we figure if we’re the first to arrive, we can be the first to go home.

The party, held at Bimbo’s 365 Club, is really spectacular, and beautiful 50-year-old Kate looks like she’s turning thirty-seven. I try not to be jealous. We see a lot of family and have a great time enjoying delectable dishes amidst cascades of gorgeous fresh flowers. At 11pm, when the band starts singing “Get Down, Boogie-Oogie-Oogie” we hesitate, fearing that if we get down too far we might have trouble getting back up.

Getting to bed sounds like the most realistic plan. It’s a good thing that we set the clocks back to Standard Time, because we’ll need that extra hour to recuperate from all the excitement. Boogie Wonderland will have to wait until next time we go out. Which may be awhile.

King for a Day

Wynham’s soccer season came to a close yesterday and it couldn’t have ended on a higher note, with a win in triple overtime. Wynham acted as goalie for the final penalty kicks, and they won on the last kick. Talk about pressure; wow! It was an exciting finale, to say the least. I was still trying to savor the thrill of victory on the way home from the game when he said, “Mom, let’s stop on the way home so I can buy a football.” And wait, doesn’t basketball season start in two weeks? No rest for the weary…

Sweet and Low

Jack is up early this morning (long before the sun) and following the usual ritual, James brings him upstairs to snuggle. While I’m sorry to be deprived of the sleep I was enjoying, I wouldn’t trade for anything these quiet little tête-à-têtes before the day cracks open and everything becomes distraction.

He’s particularly chatty today, carrying on a monologue about everything and nothing that I can only sometimes comprehend. As he tries out his ever-growing repertoire of words and inflections, I try not to giggle too much in the hopes that he’ll drift back to sleep.

It happens in an instant. He rests his cheek against my shoulder and nestles his golden downy head under my chin, grasping my clavicle with his dimpled hand. And the silent whisper, sweet and low, of his breath upon my skin moves me with more force than a hurricane ever could.

Happy Days

Wynham and Socco: A Mutual Lovefest

Forever Miss You

Your adorable little mooshed-up face,
That wiggly walk so full of grace,
Trying hard to always please;
Forever miss you, Socrates.
(with love, from Claire)

They Go Together

Anyone who was acquainted with my mother and her dog Socrates knows that they were inseparable. Wherever Marmay went, Socrates went too. So it stands to reason that he’d follow on her heavenly voyage as well, and he took off yesterday in his own noble way.

A sweeter, gentler, more loving and less imposing creature, there never was. We’ve known Socrates (Socco, for short) since he was a puppy and Chloé was not quite one year old, but when he came to live with us ten months ago, he stole our hearts completely. We were pushovers from the moment his white-socked paws crossed our threshold.

He gave us so much joy, and I hope we gave him a measure of the same. He had a special bond with Claire, and James, and Chloé and Wynham, too. It’s not an exaggeration to say we’re feeling quite heartbroken today.

It seems fitting to say goodbye on All Saints Day, because he was truly a saintly little fellow; never barking, always happy to see you, doing a frisky jig to demonstrate his excitement. I can smile when I envision him on the ultimate joyride in Mom’s purple car, eagerly looking out the window and wagging his tail for all it’s worth. We miss you already, Socco, and we know it will be a wonderful journey.

Jack-O'-Lantern