O Christmas Tree

Every year at the end of October, it started. We'd be in Walmart, shopping for whatever people shop for in that place. And she'd tell me, "Oh look!! They have their Christmas trees up!" We'd go over to that section, browse the cheap ornaments.

When I was about ten, she bought a 3-foot-tall tree for my bedroom, and we bought ornaments every week. As soon as she felt she could get away with it, she'd pull out the old Christmas records. Elvis, Willie Nelson. Dolly Parton, The Chipmunks. Her eyes always lit up at Christmas, the house was over the top decorated. Not the yard, but inside, so we could enjoy it. It was an Occasion in my home. Not a holiday. Not gifts or obligations. She loved it. And she made me love it.

The tree was decorated on Thanksgiving day. Afterward, I'd sit in the dark and stare at the lights, reveling in the magic of the season. She'd bring me hot cocoa and we'd listen to those old records and sing. On Christmas day, she'd make a tiny cake and decorate it so we could sing happy birthday to Jesus.

We never had a lot of money when I was a kid, but I never knew it. She bought presents, but it wasn't obligation. She loved it. She loved to buy presents for people. There was none of the frustration and anger and rush. She loved to find the right presents. She never asked me what I wanted. She just knew. She made Christmas magical.

She's been gone for so long now. I don't remember her voice. She's just flashes, vague memories, a part of me that I will never stop missing. As much as I try to hold on to her memory, she fades a little more every day. But not today. Not this season. I'm sitting here, looking at her tree. I got it when she died fourteen years ago. It's old. This year, a little piece of a branch fell off. But I can't bear to part with it because it's hers. Over the years I have changed the decorations, but I only to look at it to see in in her house the year I was sixteen, the last Christmas she was alive.

And every year, when I look at my kids on Christmas morning - when I see that I have managed to find exactly what they want without them telling me, when I see their faces shine with the magic of Christmas, I remember my mama, and I smile.

B-L-U-E spells nostalgia

According to the parent/teacher conferences and the report card I had to sign and return last week, six weeks have passed. Six weeks! We're settling into a routine now. J is getting into trouble only occasionally. Yeah, so, more than occasionally. but I have stopped getting the nasty notes every day, and he doesn't pull all of his straws every day. (I don't totally understand this custom, but it's apparently the pinnacle of deviant kindergarten child to have pulled four straws in a day.)

So as I settle into a routine (yes, it has taken me a month and a half to settle into a routine), I feel it's time to relive those milestones of this rapidly passing chapter. I am realizing how much I can learn from this wonderful little boy. He's amazing to me.

He comes home every day just bubbling over with the things he learned that day. He tries to talk in spelling at me. This makes him feel grown up because his dad and I do that when they shouldn't hear what we're saying. But it's really funny, because all he can really spell is names and colors...So I get:

"M-o-m-m-y? Did you, um, see that, um, y-e-l-l-o-w power ranger? I thought it was next to the b-l-u-e one, or um, maybe the g-r-e-e-n one."

Dear, it's in your hand.

"Wow! Thanks, M-o-m-m-y. That's a great job looking!

He's getting so big and confident, and arguing with me about things the teacher says.

It's a hard road in a way. Letting go is very hard for me. I know that everyone goes through this, and it will pass, but now, I'm missing that baby that used to think I was the awesomest thing ever. The one who would take down anyone in the sandbox who disagreed with the infallible Mommy. It had to happen, right? They tell me he will finally think I'm cool again when he's an adult. Just thirteen more years, my friends...I can do that.

Innocence

I don't think anyone could forget that defining moment. When we realized we were not, in fact, safe here. It was the day that America lost its innocence, so to speak. I guess that always happens. Innocence can't last forever. But we all grew up a little that day. We grieved, for the fallen, for the lost illusion of safety, for our future.

My husband was a Marine, stationed in North Carolina. I remember driving to class when I heard the news, the time it took to process. I had no schema for the words being said. Thought it was an accident. Then the deejay said, "Oh. My. God. Another plane!! Another plane has just crashed into the other tower!!" The knee jerk reaction of "what a weird coincidence" was followed by this deep dread. I went into the class, told them. We all went to call our husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, boyfriends...but the phones on base were locked.

After my class was over, I went with a friend to her house to eat takeout. I will never forget sitting there on her floor, mouths dry, food growing cold as we stared at the tv. Watching the plane crash into the second tower over and over and over and over.

Later that night, base was on lock down. In the dark, outside our homes, my neighbors and I sat, waiting, clutching our cordless phones and holding hands, waiting for our Marines. Waiting for something, anything to stop the waiting. Finally the boys started trickling in. 9pm, 10pm, midnight instead of 4:30 - but home. They had no real answers, but I guess what we wanted was them, after all. To touch them and know that they wouldn't be taken from us, not today at least.

Since that day, military wives and children have waited. The longer the war goes, the more routine it becomes, but they still wait for their love. Wait for half their heart. Wait to live a normal life. It's the military. It's what they signed up for, but the families still wait, terror half a heartbeat away for the phone call that says it's not okay this time.

It's like that day, eight years ago, a loop playing over and over. Nothing changing, yet everything is different now. Yes, I still remember September 11. How could any of us forget?