Communing

The other week Alex and I finally admitted to ourselves that our DVD storage situation was in need of some serious help. After checking out IKEA together, I said I'd return later in the week to pick up a new storage shelf. I knew it would be a close call as far as getting it in the car, especially with car seats, but I was determined to buy it, get it home, and get the project done. After some pushing, pulling, and general disregard for my children, I got the box in the car. As I got into the front seat, I had a very satisfied grin on my face thinking, "Ha! I knew I could get what I wanted!" I suddenly knew exactly how my mom felt whenever she hauled us to an antique store or flea market and miraculously managed to stuff us and a variety of furniture back into the car. One time she took us to a flea market on a Sunday (those darn flea markets!), but when we--dying of heat, seat belt-less in back amongst a bed, dresser, and dining chairs--asked if we could stop for a drink, she said, "No! It's Sunday!" What I didn't know during these trips, couldn't know until I was the mom, is that the driver's seat is always really roomy, no matter what's getting hauled home. Don't tell my boys; I want to get away with it too.

Growing up, I got to enjoy the tradition of a cinnamon ring every Christmas morning. The dough would be prepared the night before, and, while we kids enjoyed our Santa gifts, my mom would roll it out, sprinkle on the cinnamon and sugar, roll it up, and let it rise. By the time we were through opening gifts, it was ready to be baked, glazed, and eaten. It is one of my very favorite things, and the connection to my mom makes it even more sweet. The first Christmas I made one without my mom, my grief and a tile counter combined for a small nervous breakdown. Time and better countertops have made my annual cinnamon ring ritual better. I love knowing that my kids will grow up with the same Christmas morning view I had: a jammie-clad mommy rolling out dough in the kitchen.

When I visit my dad, I try to stop at the cemetary at least once. I did so this last Christmas. I stopped at Sweet Briar Cove, as usual, to pick up a bouquet of flowers. Her good friends own and work in the shop, so I don't have to explain how not to put in a lot of frou-frou stuff and pastel colors. I also get to show-off my family and hope that in this interaction my boys feel like they're meeting part of my mom. It had snowed quite a bit, so my intention was to just dash out of the car alone.

Hamilton: "Where are you going, Mommy?"
Me: "I'm going to put these flowers down in a place we can remember Grandma Lu Ann."
Hamilton: "Can I come too?"
Me (looking at the deep snow across the cemetary): "No, bud. It's too snowy. I'll be right back."
Hamilton (insistent but not at all grouchy): "But I want to come too."

After I looked at Alex, both of us understanding that this was what I wanted too, I took Hamilton out of the car, and I held him and the bright Gerber daisies as I trudged through the snow to her grave. Once there, I put him down and tried to explain things, that you could miss, think about, and maybe even talk to Grandma Lu Ann here. Hamilton soon shouts into the air, "Hi Grandma Lu Ann! I love you! I miss you!" While my heart is still trying not to burst from that sincere cry, Hamilton then directs me, "Now you. Say, 'I love you my mommy!"

And so I did.