On the Fourth Day of Christmas...

....I got to see through my son's eyes. And how clear was the view.

My mother works as the director of a large assisted living facility here in Cackalackie. This afternoon, said facility hosted a Christmas party complete with Santa, sugar cookies, candy canes, and crafts. It was really adorable, and the kids enjoyed the extra opportunity to visit with the jolly, fat, bearded guy one more time for last minute requests....because as you can imagine, telling him what you want once just wasn't enough for my daughter. Nope, she thought of MORE things she wanted and had to see him just one more time.

Anyway, in attendance at the party were of course, lots of grandkids and their parents, grandparents, and in many cases, great grandparents. Guests ranged in age from 8 month olds just taking their first steps to a few fragile women in their mid-90's who had already taken their last. And once again, I was struck by this circle of life....this return to helplessness and the need for loving care when navigating what seem to be the simplest of tasks.

But what struck me even more than the shared experiences of two generations who are seemingly in stark opposition to one another, was the wonder each inspired in the other. In a room full of people normally overlooked by the more capable, and able-bodied of us, it was the dimpled hands that were quick to reach out and caress the wrinkles of gnarled fingers with awe and abandon. It was the cheurbic faces that buried themselves in the warmth of years-worn, hand-knit sweaters without reservation. Wide eyed babes gazed upon fragile forms held firmly to their wheelchairs with strategically placed pillows and blankets without judgment or fear. And clouded eyes looked with awe upon small forms bouncing with ease through a room full of endless wheelchair obstacles.

And as I watched my 21 month old son crawl his way onto the lap of yet another sweet old woman resting comfortably in her wheelchair, I saw how much they needed each other. How they fed each other.

She lit up at the touch of his pudgy, taut, little fingers. She delighted in his incessant babble, and miniaturized adult gestures, hungry for the touch and attention of someone who was able to look past her frailties and ill-health. She devoured him as he looked with wonder upon her frail form instead of the sorrow that she was used to seeing reflected in the eyes of her children and caregivers.

And he....well, he came alive in the midst of his captive and adoring audience. Performing the best of his adorable "toddlerisms", he egged her on, getting the very attention that I sometimes find myself too tired or too bored to provide.

They needed each other. They fed each other's spirit. And in lives where they often find themselves regarded as burdensome, they alone were able to look upon one another with wonder, admiration, and awe. And I thought to myself how sad and ironic it is that we middle-aged folks, with our 20/20 vision and intellectual acuity miss so much. How sad that so often we are blinded to the wonder of these people not by naivete or failing eyesight, but by our responsibilities and our fear of death. Perhaps it is the innocence of a child, ignorant of life's imminent demise and its often slow and sometimes cruel progression; and the wisdom of age, appreciative of all of youth's possibilities that allow these two generations to see each other so clearly. With so much love and abandon. With an understanding that only those on the cusp of life's beginning and end can muster.

On the Third Day of Christmas...

....I got a son-in-law....or at least the promise of one.

At the dinner table:

Emma: Mommy, did you have fun today with Daddy.

Me: Yes baby, I always have fun with Daddy. That's why I married him.

Emma: Mmm. I'm gonna' marry Nicky 'cause I always have fun with him.

Me: That's sweet baby, but you can't marry your brother.

Emma: Who do I marry then?

Me: When you get older, you marry a boy you fall in love with.

Emma: What's his name?

Me: I don't know sweetheart. You'll have to wait and meet him when you get older.

Emma: Oh. Ok. So I'll ask him when I'm four.

The innocence and naivete of a three-year old pushing the limits of her understanding of all things adult is priceless. So she's going to get married at the ripe old age of four. I just love how her mind works, and I guess this proves that age really is nothing more than a state of mind. A lesson to be taken to heart as my own birthday looms just days away. I forget sometimes that in her brief 3 years, with so much accomplished and so much yet to discover, another year represents opportunity, understanding, and a chance at growth. And I am humbled by her awe and willingness to move forward fearlessly.

(Incidentally, it's noteworthy that this moment comes days before my 34th birthday and my daughter is 3 going on 4. Ok. It's a silly twist on numbers, but I couldn't help but notice.)

Circle of Life

(This post is dedicated to my grandfather, the sweetest man I've ever known.)

No, this is not some sentimental ode to the ridiculously flamboyant singer or the Disney folks for whom he composes songs. It's much simpler than that.

It started this morning. The whining that is. Followed by the fighting. And the crying. And the pleas for help. And the throwing of toys. And the mess. You know. Typical Friday...or any other day of the week for that matter.

Anyway, I'd had enough. So, despite my commitment to saving money and healthful living, I decided that in the interest of my own sanity, it was time to pull out the big guns. I buckled the kids in the car and headed out for the one thing that I knew would not only make me feel better (at least temporarily), but would keep the kids quiet and contained for at least 30 blissful minutes. I was in search of comfort food. And in my world, that'd be a big, fat, cheesy hamburger, fries, and a coke.

Now despite everything I despise about our current redneck...uh...I mean southern locale, even I must admit that it has one very important thing going for it. Hardees. How I love me some Hardees. I can't help it. I'm a sucker for a thickburger. And the kids, well, what kid do you know that doesn't love chicken strips, fries, and chocolatey goodness whipped with ice cream and milk?

So, the four of us (we called "Da-dee Dugiss" to join us for this culinary expedition of fried foods) sat blissfully in our collective saturated fat coma, devouring the greasy goodness when an elderly man and a woman appearing to be his daughter sat next to us. And although I struggled to pinpoint it exactly, I couldn't help but notice that the daughter had an all too familiar look on her face. Was it exasperation? Or impatience? Or maybe a desperate weariness? Exhaustion? Boredom? Frustration? Yes, traces of all of those were evident, but there was also definitely a look of concern and love and devotion.

Regardless of the exact emotion, there it was. That look. The very one that I see staring back at me in the mirror so often. The furrowed brow line which, in the complete absence of botulism induced paralysis, now bears deeply grooved lines testifying to sleepless nights and harrowing encounters with hot stove tops or broken drinking glasses under feet. The crow's feet sprawling from the corners of each eye, bearing witness to belly-aching giggles and the beam of a smile brought on by accomplishment. The glassy stare, evidence of that mental asylum of her daydreams where thoughts travel when the boredom and routine of it all becomes too much to bear. It was all there. Written on her face like an E! True Hollywood Story expose, but without the fame, glory, and fortune.

And of course, I immediately assumed that she must have children at home. Small children that repeat the same obvious questions over and over and over. Children who repeatedly put their hands where they've been told not to despite the threat of consequences. Children who push and pull and tug and nag and giggle and delight. Children to whom she has surrendered herself despite feeling that she wasn't yet finished fulfilling her own needs.

And then I heard it.

"Yes Dad. That's coffee. Don't take the lid off. You drink it from this little hole here in the top. Be careful. It's hot. And your sandwich is coming."

"I'm having a sandwich?"

"Yes Dad. You wanted a chicken sandwich."

"But I don't like chicken."

(at this point another middle-aged man shows up at the table who is an obvious relation to the young woman)

"May I join you for lunch?"

"Who are you?"

"This is so-and-so Dad. He's treating us to lunch."

"Oh. ok. Are you having coffee?"

"No, I'm having a coke."

"Are we eating?"

"Yes Dad. We're going to eat. You're having a chicken sandwich."

"But I don't like chicken."

(now taking the lid off of his coffee for the 3rd time in as many minutes)

"No Dad. You leave the lid on and drink through this little hole. But blow on it. It's hot."

"Is this coffee? What are you having?"

At this point, I realized that I had been staring at this woman and her dining companions the entire time when she shot me a friendly, but mind-your-own-business glance. I smiled shyly but knowingly at her as I wiped the ketchup off of Nicky while blowing on his piping hot chicken, and then replaced the lid on his lemonade for the second time. She smiled back.

And there it was.

That silent connection that you sometimes feel with complete strangers.

Empathy.

The, "I'm with you sister," moment that binds two people if just for a second. Not so incidentally, it is the same feeling I have with so many of you blogger chicks out there. And even though our circumstances were totally at odds with one another, her caring for her aging father and I for my young children, we were both acutely aware of how similar our lives were in that moment. And through each other we were each given a glimpse of the circle of our lives. My children and I reminding her of a time when she was small and fumbling and her father guided her through life's daily challenges. And she and her father reminding me that one day my children may be helping me navigate life's little messes, and how I hope that my own care has taught them the kind of patient, loving regard with which I hope to be treated.

And there we were.
This woman and I.
Caught.
Somewhere in the middle of this circle of life.