We strung up white Christmas lights outside the house tonight. There's ivy wrapped all the way around the front, from on top of the garages into the walkway, covering the two columns by the goldfish pond and extending up to our front door. Luckily, neither Dave nor I fell into said pond, although that would have made for interesting blog fodder. The lights look very pretty nestled in the greenery, although if you look at them while simultaneously smelling the aroma of garlic sauteeing in my kitchen, it kind of feels like you're at an Olive Garden. (Wow...this is a nice place...sorry, family in-joke there.)
There are pretty white twinkle lights lining the outside of my house, so it must be Christmas. It sure doesn't feel like it. I'm sure part of the problem was being outside at dusk in December, hanging Christmas lights in nothing but a light sweatshirt. (OK, so I was wearing pants, too. This is a family blog, after all.) To me, having grown up in the Northeast, early December brings back memories of freezing my then-skinny little tail off in a polyester-blend marching band uniform during EMBA (Eastern Marching Band Association) finals. If you've never had to pull your bottom lip off of a freezing woodwind instrument, you don't know the true meaning of winter. My two front teeth? Bah, humbug. All I wanted for Christmas was Chapstick.
I remember how hard we practiced for those finals my senior year of high school. My brother and I had jobs at a deli across the street from school, so after a full day of classes, we'd go straight to work, grab a sandwich for dinner, and then head directly to band practice. It was 9 pm by the time we'd finish, and bone-numbingly cold on the field. Mom would always pick us up and have the heat absolutely blasting so that we could thaw out on the way home. She always said the same thing, "My poor frozen snow bunnies!" And dinner was always ready on the table when we got there.
We had neat holiday traditions, like setting up the vintage nativity set, and singing carols around the piano. What I miss most, though, is baking cookies with my mom. We'd make chocolate chip cookies and snowball meltaways, but my favorite to make with her was butter cookies from a press, decorated with red and green sugar. I didn't like making them for the taste- I'd rather have bread and butter, which probably has less butter in it than a cookie. What I got a kick of was hearing my sweet and ladylike mother try to think of new ways to damn the cookie press to everlasting hellfire. If the dough got too warm, the cookies came out like blobs. We made a lot of camels that looked like amoebas. Leave it in the fridge too long, though, and it turned into a block of cement. It would have been easier to thread a camel through the eye of a needle than it was to push that batter through the camel-shaped extruder disk. Come to think of it, it would have been easier yet to just buy some cookie cutters and a rolling pin. D'oh! (Dough!)
I do get to bake cookies with a helper again this year. No, don't call Child Protective Services, I'm not letting Seph get anywhere near a hot stove! Actually, Seph and I are leaving for Boulder on Friday (Daddy and the ferocious pets will be guarding the house), and my Niece #1, R, and I are going to show her oven who's boss. That's assuming, of course, that the two toddlers (my scrumptious niecelet #2 is almost exactly Seph's age) are not trying to kill each other or dismantle the Christmas tree. My niece even has her own "Santa's Little Helper" apron to wear, from cookie-baking sessions with Grandma.
I found the apron while cleaning out my dad's house in October. I didn't know how to feel when I saw it again- I'd seen it in pictures,but had never been around when R and my mom baked together. I was happy to have it, and excited to give it to her. I was jealous and sad, that not only would I never bake with her again, but that my daughter would never have the chance to, either. Mostly, though, I was afraid- that R would be sad and missing her Grandma even more. And I'm afraid that baking with Aunt Deb instead will be a weak substitute.
That's actually how I've been feeling the past few weeks- like I'm a weak substitute for the person we all adored and depended upon. Mom instructed me in her farewell letter to keep the family and the traditions going. She's been a tough act to follow. I'm trying to be the nurturer, the listener, the fixer of problems, the axle that kept the wheel of our family turning. I want to be the heart, the home, and the rock that everyone can lean on. But late at night, a night that is barely chilly but that should be icy and full of music and smell like butter and burnt sugar...all I really want to be is a snow bunny again.
I'm beyond overjoyed to be seeing my family again soon. I know that while life ends, love does not, and that the best way to honor my mother's memory is to celebrate the holiday that she adored so much. I'm traveling prepared: I have my Chapstick, my mother's apron, and her recipe for butter cookies. I've also decided to improve upon the family tradition- with a camel-shaped cookie cutter.
