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.
