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.