merry and bright

The holidays are upon us, and it is all very, very lovely. I am a little tired and over-sugared, but in a good way--nothing the bright sunshine outside can't cure. My sister and brother-in-law have come all the way from Iowa with my sweet Cindy Lou Who of a niece, Louisa.

She just ate her first bananas with adorable gusto, while five adults hovered, laughing and applauding every time she opened her mouth like a baby bird and swatted at the spoon, before being whisked off to Grandma's house where we will go tomorrow. It is a joy to see the cousins together!

While we were watching the Louisa Banana Show, Frances and Gabriel were busy making a little restaurant in the playroom using the wooden play kitchen that arrived this morning from friends who were ready to pass it on. As you can see, the pizza on offer was cheep for Christmas. Only two dollars a pizza.

This holiday season I'm feeling grateful to be part of a community of giving, noticing how we are the recipients of an easy generosity that is not limited to this particularly lovely season but somehow illuminated by it. The unexpected kitchen, the baby car seat a friend kindly dropped off for Louisa to use during her visit, singing carols and drinking wine with neighbors last night. The holiday cards in the kitchen from friends near and far--many featuring the faces of children who we love dearly--are especially precious in this immaterial age. Watching Frances run across the street with cookies for our neighbor all by herself. It feels so good. It feels like the way life is supposed to be.

Happy holidays to all of you, dear readers. May these days be filled with light where you are, too.

providence

Shortly before Thanksgiving, I had a glass of wine with a new acquaintance, ostensibly to figure out if there was a way I could volunteer with the innovative nonprofit she leads. We had lots in common, including Dallas (where I was born), and her interests and approach to social problems resonated for me in an energizing way. Deciding we'd talk more after the holiday, I wished her a lovely Thanksgiving with her family in Dallas.

She sent me a text a few days later, telling me that her parents had known my parents. They'd gone to the church where my dad first worked out; her dad had a note he'd saved from my dad! That's it up there. I was able to open the attachment for the first time this morning, and it took my breath away. My dad wasn't much of a note-writer; I have precious little in the way of handwritten documents. This is like hidden treasure that I didn't have to lift a single shovelful of dirt to find; it unearthed itself, shiny and perfect, and landed conveniently in my email inbox.

in the bleak midwinter

After the Lower School's holiday concert, I had plans to run errands with Gabriel and knock a few items from my to-do list, which has been buzzing around my head with more intensity than I'd like of late. But then the concert was very long, and Gabriel was very grouchy and hard to maneuver through the school parking lot, and in the end we scrapped it all, stopping at the library (which is not even on my buzzing list!), and eventually coming home to paint.

The concert was, as I expected, very beautiful. The first, second, third, and fourth graders sat in groups on the floor of a gym, forming a wide circle, the center of which became a stage. They played music, danced, read stories they had written, recited poetry, and sang. The grande finale featured the Upper School Chamber Choir singing one of my very favorite Christmas hymns, In the Bleak Midwinter, along with the younger children. (You can listen to a particularly beautiful version here).  Surprisingly, it was not watching the children's faces singing this song--one so beautiful and melancholy, evoking a sense of being humble, stripped bare, with words (by Christina Rossetti) that you would not think to place in the mouths of babes--but the faces of their music teachers, who kneeled before the seated children on the floor, gently conducting and mouthing the words for them with wide, sparkling eyes, that brought tears to my eyes.

All children need adults who kneel before them and look at them with such single-minded focus in their lives. I am very grateful that my daughter has them, and somehow an awareness of our great fortune in that regard brought on a bout of nearly painful awareness of my own (and my children's) fragility. (What can I give him, poor as I am?) Despite the sunshine outside, I carried a bleak midwinter within--earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone--which is why I couldn't bear to drag a grumpy three year old through any more parking lots today. And why instead I retreated home with a much relieved boy for a gentler morning at home, warming ourselves by the fire.

me party

This project caught my eye a few days ago, especially because it involves cutting and painting cardboard, which--and I don't mean to brag--happens to be one of my family's specialties (see here, and here). But coming off a less-than-satisfying interlude decorating the Christmas tree with my children on Sunday, I determined to dive into this simple holiday project with nary an expectation of my kids. Whether or not I had cheerful and willing co-crafters, I was going to make a Christmas tree garland. And I'd like it.

I began by cutting cardboard trees from one of the many Amazon boxes that have been arriving at our door this month, and waited for someone to notice. (Okay, I suppose I secretly did hope for helpers...but I wasn't going to advertise it). My dear son took the bait. Hey, could we paint those trees, Mama? Why...what a good idea, Gabriel!

homeless hair

Today while I was having my biannual haircut I chatted with the hairdresser about cutting our kids' hair. This was my second cut with Kristin but I feel as if we go back way farther than that. She is tall and thin with a bit of Elvira-esque glamour about her: long, straight black hair with a bleached bit on top, witchy black heels, and, in a punk take on the classic beauty mark, a tiny stud sparkling in the piercing just above her upper lip. She tells me I should wear legwarmers. She tells me the burgeoning gray hairs along my part look good. Scissors firmly in hand, she is not even a little intimidated by my unruly hair. In short, she's a keeper. 

In our talk about kid haircuts, she told me with exasperation that her four year old has homeless hair. "I always say to her, why is your hair so homeless?" She might have meant that her daughter's hair looks unwashed and uncombed, as if she's been sleeping in the streets for weeks. But if that were it, Kristin might have asked her why her hair looks like a homeless person's hair. The expression made me laugh so hard because I think Kristin was complaining about an innate quality common to many little heads of hair, including Frances's (though as she gets older it--along with the rest of her--seems to respond to social pressures and expectations). It's that wispy, weird, perpetual ragamuffin look, the baby fine hair that slips out of every ponytail holder and barrette and in certain weather looks as if its owner may have stuck a fork in a socket. Different parts of it seem to grow at different rates, and it tends towards mullet no matter how you trim it. I think homeless hair refuses to bend to convention. It doesn't act like it lives in a house; it acts like it lives in the wilderness and like a wild animal, cannot under any circumstances be controlled.

giveaway winners

Erin Stephens-Marner, Milena Smith, and Christen Coscia all get a lovely CD from The Good Ms. Padgett! Congratulations.

Would the winning ladies please send me (meaganhowell@gmail.com) an email with address so I can send you a package?

(This is the cover of her forthcoming album; if you make it to one of her shows with Elizabeth Mitchell you might hear some of the delightful stories from it live!)

the book nook

My grandmother consoled my mother, who was steeling herself to leave a place she loved for a place she was deeply wary of (Fort Lauderdale, where a church community was waiting for my dad to become its new minister), with these words: home is wherever your family is. I can get with that sentiment (however ineffective I suspect it may have been, comfort-wise, at that moment). It prioritizes relationships over any particular address or possession. A place, even a great one like Providence, can't be home if your family isn't there with you.

The house we now live in would make a good test case for my grandmother. It was in foreclosure when we bought it nearly three years ago. When we came to see the house, it was grim: the bank set the heat just barely warm enough to prevent the pipes from bursting, and had painted every wall the same dirty off-white color. Hardly anything grew in the yard, and in the dirt just in front of the big kitchen window lay a curious pile of stones that had been painted bright yellow.

don't give up!

Gabriel and I made some of our favorite cookies on Friday, and I just munched through three of them, happy to be home after a quick jaunt to Lancaster to see my mother's latest directorial triumph. More on our weekend soon, but first: I am sorry that many of you have had trouble posting comments in order to enter The Good Ms. Padgett's delightful CD giveaway. My technical limitations are being exposed in a serious way. Suffice it to say I'm working on it, and in the meantime...don't give up!

If the comments section isn't being nice to you, don't bother with it. Just like Homemade Time & The Good Ms. Padgett on Facebook, and leave a comment on the Homemade Time Facebook page so I'll be sure to know you've entered. I'll announce the three winners at the end of the week.

Enjoy this last little bit of weekend, everyone.

good songs

Years ago, it was my turn to help out in Frances's cooperative preschool class. The only problem was she was sick that morning, and had to stay home with her baby brother and my mother, who had graciously agreed to babysit. Frances was sorely disappointed but I was secretly relieved, because cooping with that kid was never easy. At the tender age of three, she harbored an intractable fear that if I helped out other children I would become their mother and she'd be left out in the cold. If I had those suspicions, I'd probably scream whenever my mother bent over another child's shoes, too. But just because I could understand her distress didn't mean I liked dealing with it.

Despite the challenges of being in the classroom with Frances, I really did miss her that morning, most especially because we had a guest visit during circle time. A warm and lovely woman wearing bright red pants joined us with her guitar and sang and told stories. I particularly remember her reading a version of The Little Red Hen and singing an impossibly catchy refrain in the voice of the title character, who asks for help but is turned down time and time again by her lazy friends. The hen's song - anthem, really - stayed with me. I sang it for Frances and Gabriel and Mike at dinner. We all loved it. It entered into our family repertoire, where it has resided ever since.

Fast forward nearly three years. I have returned to the cooperative preschool, this time with Gabriel, and guess who I met there? Yes indeed, the singing/storytelling lady! Her name is Anna Padgett. She is a parent at the school, as well as a fantastic musician and dedicated kindergarten teacher. Here is a picture of her:

Well, it is a very nice artist's rendition of Anna, and you can find some actual photos on The Good Ms. Padgett's (her children's music name) Facebook page. The picture above is the cover art from her first eponymous album which is full of zany and sweet songs for babies and their adoring, long-suffering parents. There's something about these songs that transported me right back to being exhausted and crazy in love with my tiny babies. You need a good song and good laugh when you've got a baby. Well, you always need those things, but you really need them with a napless eight month old who looks good in hats, eats her feet, and proudly identifies her nose (all are the topics of songs on this album). Gabriel, who sometimes channels a baby named Tofu with an absurd sense of humor, really loves to listen to these songs. So do I.

Anna happens to be married to Miggy Littleton, who is another fine musician and the brother of Daniel Littleton, who is another fine musician who happens to be married to Elizabeth Mitchell. (Readers of this blog know how much I love her music). Anna and Miggy have been playing some tour dates with Elizabeth Mitchell this fall; maybe you've seen them? And the Littleton's father was a much-loved tutor at St. John's, where Mike teaches, and I think at this point you are beginning to see how satisfying the connections are for me!

Soon The Good Ms. Padgett will release a new storytelling and singing album, The Little Red Hen, but before that happens she has graciously agreed to give away three CDs (of her first album) to Homemade Time readers. It would make an awesome gift for new parents, or for old-timers like me who like to get all nostalgic and hug and squeeze their big kids too much.

If you'd like to participate in this first-ever real-deal giveaway on Homemade Time, here's what to do:

1. Like The Good Ms Padgett and Homemade Time on Facebook.

2. Leave a comment here, so I know you've entered.

Spread the word to your music-loving friends! And local readers: Anna will be playing this Friday (tomorrow, Dec 2nd) at the Leeward Market in Eastport around 6:30 pm. We're planning on being there, and hope to see some of you there too.