Inspired by Girl Night, I surprised Morgen with a vintage Christmas tree. I love that we’ll always remember the year we moved because of our little tree. Ahh, sweet sentiments.
Wishing you a Merry Christmas for those of you celebrating! Posting will be light next week (including a super awesome magical night away), unless I change my mind. I do that sometimes all the time.
Get thee to the eggnog!
Markus has reached an age where Christmas means something to him – all magical and twinkly and warm – and I want him to have lasting memories of experiencing that firsthand. So Martin decided to invite him to his own tradition and decorate something for the entire family to embrace – untamed sugary goodness at it's best.
And just like that, the Gingerbread house Party was born.
We have been baking gingerbread for the last two weeks and set to work finding sprinkles, candy canes and powdered sugar to don each house. Old and new, tiny and sweet – all topped off with a marshmallow geometric roof. To add color and impact, red and green gummy decor fit the bill, and we covered cardboard with the intent of placing new houses and foil throughout the advent season. Divy loves having something new to discover daily and we love the idea of skipping big treats in lieu of tiny treasures.
And tonight, as I write from the sunroom – staring at this fun, quirky little house – I marvel at the beauty of parenthood.
The old traditions that slip away to replace new, slightly modified versions.
The black and white memories that become kaleidoscope colored when we recreate them for our own kiddos.
The joy that we experience when we mix new and old, tradition and surprise, past and future.
Because perhaps Bill Keane said it best, “Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future. But today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.”
Happy merry-making, friends!
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Here’s the thing: I love a good advent calendar. I love the idea of drawing out the holiday season as long as one possibly can – trickling the joy, little by little, and so, every year, I get the grand idea that this is The Year of the Advent Calendar. We’re doing it and we’re going to do it right, and we’re filling each day with a great holiday activity like ice-skating on a picturesque pond or hanging outdoor lights in matching wool sweaters or singing carols door-to-door, all rosy cheeked and mittened. You know, Hallmark Movie type stuff.
We have never, not once, not ever done these things. They exist only in my mind, because each year I write down these activities, we skip all of them except for our favorite: watch a Christmas movie with a giant bowl of popcorn.
We’re always good for a movie night, but it wasn’t until this year that we decided this – this(!) will be our tradition. It’s not quite deserving of the Hallmark Channel and it certainly won’t grace the cover of a holiday card but good gracious, do we ever enjoy it. It’s simple and fun and us.
Last week, one of my friends at girl night – a fellow over-apologizer – pointed me to a small piece of advice:
Don’t say I’m sorry when you really mean to say Thank you.
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I’m sorry I’m late accepts fault for things you may or may not have been able to control, not entirely at least. Your child’s last-minute skinned knee. A (real) traffic jam. The weather.
Thanks for your patience acknowledges that you’re late, and that being late isn’t ideal, and that as a result of your late-ness, the other person has (hopefully) granted you patience by waiting.
And that requires a Thank you.
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I’m sorry is an apology for your shortcomings.
Thank you is an acknowledgement of others’ virtues.
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I am very frequently saying ‘Sorry’ when I mean to say ‘Thank you’, and my girlfriend is very frequently, very gently, reminding me to knock it off.
And I also happen to love this guy. In a big way. HUGE. Probably more than I love olives on pizza, which is a WHOLE lot.
Martin is a certified Christmas elf. He lives for snow and carols and gingerbread houses. He’s been Father Christmas-ing since 2012 and is, without a doubt in my mind, the jolliest of souls around. He and December go way back. So he and Divy called on Wednesday to invite me for merry-making at home for the sake of a Christmas tree and it seemed just… perfect. And since Morgen had a pass to come up for the night, today we got to work.
And it has been delightful.
Thanks to Martin and Divy for making our Christmas a bit more intentional – and a lot more magical. Merry (early) Christmas, friends!
And then he’s like, “Just kidding! You don't know how to ski,” and just like that, ripping the duvet to shreds and leaving me cold and sleep-deprived, quite literally. It does not help that the rest of my immediate friend circle have skis that fall under the category of “Normalcy,” so they are handed what is called a “Snow Day,” and I am handed what is called “Snowboard from Your Locked in Feet Day.”
On Saturday, I attempted to run no less than four slopes – locked in my boots – while Divy screamed in sheer delight in his new skis because the runs he was skiing contained huge pockets of snow. Naturally. (Martin’s affinity for skiing cannot be matched; it is absolutely the deepest obsession I’ve come across in our days together, and there have been many, ranging from a mountain bike to a deep rich mug of coffee to the last bite of a tiramisu.)
So, needless to say. It’s been exciting. An entire week looking for skis and clothing is a twisted form of something I can’t yet describe. It’s a blissful torture – the kind where you die from laughing and smiling at the same time.
Let’s be clear: I am not the kind of woman who orchestrates extravagant activities for herself involving skis and boots and poles and look – it’s a skier! As much as I love skiing, the rage I feel when I spend 30 minutes renting up a stress-free “boot” to have my feetgo numb in 22.4 seconds is enough to fuel a small army. So, in the interest of keeping (my) peace, Martin spent an entire evening this week at REI helping mewith a ski season rental of fun, which is of the happiest variety possible. This went on for nearly an hour and then I could handle no more of the fun, so he let me try on the ski clothes he ordered for the rest of the evening while the guilty pit in my stomach says, “Stop! His brain is rotting!” but the frazzled part of my brain says, “Keep on! Your snowboarding is rotten!”
It’s the great battle of will: Saint Martin vs. Me. I’m not yet convinced who’s winning.
Anyway, we’re all back on the slopes on skis this week, and it feels good. I’m back at the shack, after skiing away for hours until it’s time to head home around four to put on my Mom hat. In the mean time, here are a few snapshots of our exit from 2019 (thank you, iPhone), loosely titled “Snow Day (Week) Guide for Us”:
I’m a layer girl through and through, so a classic parka is my go-to closet workhorse. Worn under or over, zippered or not, this (warmer than warm) colorful version is the best, most versatile Martin found for me after years of searching for “the one.”
When you know, you know.
Finally: Ski Season.
Candied walnuts on the stove, Bing Crosby on the speakers. This is the time of year in which we all share excitement over something. For some, it’s puzzle season. Others, a warm, glistening tree and a tower of packages. Still others, your grandmother’s eggnog recipe.
Me? Ski Season.
I’m not entirely sure when the tradition started, only that it was sometime after Markus could prove enough self control to keep from shoving the snowflake enigmas into his mouth. Since then, my general rule is this: if the winter clouds are out, so then, are the snow pants.
Wishing you a warm holiday full of eggnog (too soon?), elastic pants and your mother’s clam dip.
p.s. I’ll be offline until Monday. You should be, too. Quit reading this and go eat something.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends! Thanksgiving is my all-time favorite holiday (I’m quite certain the bulk of carbs play a role in this decision), and in an effort to remember this day, I wanted to write down my very, very favorite Thanksgiving traditions. Join me in reminiscing?
1. Board games. I could host a board game party any night of the week, but Thanksgiving is the one day a year that my friends/family humor me and play along. Bonus? Both my mother and my sisters love to laugh, so when we play CatchPhrase, oh, it’s a time.
2. Beige food. My family always gathers in time for an inordinate amount of food, and I laugh every year at the color-coordinated shade of beige that exists: mashed potatoes, stuffing, turkey, white frozen marshmallow salad, gravy and rolls. And before you call blaspheme, I’ll note that Martin made this Tiramisu for his Thanksgiving select occasion, so we’re not entirely neutral. Entirely.
3. Road trips. Our families live a few hours apart, so when I pack up the boys on most holidays and spend a few hours road tripping to whatever destination we’re headed that year. It’s my favorite time with them – tunes on the speakers and (most of the time!) snow falling outside. Magical.
4. Leftovers. Every year I can remember, I’ve snacked on a leftover turkey and mayonnaise sandwich on white bread. It’s a pretty gross combination, but I loved it as a kid and it makes me so nostalgic for childhood family get-togethers, so I still indulge (with a bit of salt and pepper now that I’m older!).
5. Movie marathons. We’re not a big football family, but we love The Home Alone marathon that plays every year (Morgen and I can recite that entire movie). After eating and games, we snuggle up on couches and tune into whatever holiday movie is looping at the moment – and usually stay there until it plays… oh, three times. It’s a beautiful study in laziness, and I look forward to it every year.
What do you do on Thanksgiving?
I’ll be up East visiting my parents through the Holiday, but will catch you here on Friday for the first in a looong series of gift guides! We’re going to have a beautiful season, friends. Promise.
Fall, then.
We finished out the last bash of biking, gave ourselves one last hurrah of mountain mayhem. Martin saved a post-it note for himself, Sharpied on a smiley face and left it under my mouse. Spent the rest of this evening enjoying it along with Skip on a leash, the smiley dogs tail thumping and thrashing close behind.
Dinner at Sawadee? he asks.
I texted to say yes, had felt the right answer was yes.
This morning, leftovers from dinner in a box.
My 10-year-old self loved many a fall days – air slick with freedom, elbows slick from apple juices. An entire universe whirling by from the banana seat of my lustrous pink Schwinn.
Cricket symphonies. Picnic feasts. Chlorinated hair.
And with the flip of an unseen calendar, I became an teenage girl.
Years later as a newly single 40-something-year-old, I’d tell of how I grew teary at the sight of the Grand Canyon. I wipe my eyes with the hem of my tee. I know, right? is what I say, and that my tears are of wonder, as you have to see it in person.
Right, he says, ignoring my sweaty head.
Thus returning to the era of living life far away from the observation deck, perfectly excited. Why hike when you can… bike?
One of the secret tricks to habit formation is to pair a new habit with an already-established one. Want to finish a touring trip with your buddies one winter day? Martin will tackle it while he's running up the hill pushing me on my mountain bike warm-ups. Ready to try your hand at 5 affirmations? Say ’em in the shower.
Likewise, start small by attaching a short outdoor adventure to a routine you’re sure you won’t skip out on. If you know you’ve got to make a grocery run every week, tack on an extra hour to ride our bike there with a trail bag. Never want to miss a Sunday bike ride? Martin makes a picnic lunch to enjoy afterward.
He will always stuff a backpack with water, bug spray (and/or sunscreen), band-aids and a spare change of clothes for emergencies. This way, the next time we drive by a farmer’s market or a new-to-me part of the woods, we’ll have everything he needs for an impromptu adventure.
A bit of research is guaranteed to churn up a handful of activities in the area, so no need to go at it alone here. He checks the local community calendar often for outdoor-friendly events: a free pass at a nearby nature preserve, a short tour of the Capitol, day camps at the zoo. While education is of utmost importance, it’s always nice to have a helping hand to guide us along the way.
We have read James & the Giant Peach together, Markus and I, over breakfast oatmeal and on the back deck for lunch. When he was little, Markus would run laps around the kitchen island while we lost ourselves in silkworms and sharks. I was just his age when I read it, and I remember fixating on the part where poor James drops the bag of magic, how everything else would have been different had he not tripped over the stump. How the story hinged on that one mistake, how unfortunate it was, how he’d lived through so many injustices already, and here, one more.
I had failed to see the adventure in everything after, the wonder of life going on anyway. Of our story surprising us, growing our own small plans into a giant peach or otherwise.
I do not fail to see that anymore.
