The Days of Winter

The Days of Winter

Our Christmas tree with its artificial snow dominates the living room. I sit and admire the ornaments I've just placed on it and snack on cookies and milk. The presents have been tucked underneath. Their bows and wrappings reflect the twinkling Christmas lights.

Stockings dangle from the mantel. When the children come home, they’ll probably try to guess what Santa Claus will bring. I can picture Timmy looking inside his, hoping to find a forgotten gift from the previous year.

I have left out decorations for the children to hang. The star still needs placing at the top and the scented candles on the table are ready to be placed around the room. Perhaps we'll light a candle this evening and enjoy its cinnamon smell.

I nibble at my cookie and breathe in the pine scent. I like the tree-smell better, but the children love to see the flickering images from the candle reflected against the walls.

As I relax, I realize that this moment is why I've been shopping and scurrying about. A time when one can pause and recognize the beauty of the moment, that is why we bustle about, trying so hard to force Christmas joy into a particular shape.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. We’re church-goers. I would never take Christ out of Christmas, but I also believe that the North Pole with its elves and reindeer fits comfortably with the angel of the Lord and the beautiful Christmas story. They both refer to gifts given: a baby child to save the world, a Santa whose jovial goodness brings presents to every child. One is at the spiritual level. the other, concrete. I think they blend well.

I get up to pour some eggnog. I add a red cherry and a green mint leaf to my Christmas glass. Then I laugh at myself, but why not? It's such moments of solitude that allow us to treasure the frantic that comes later.

Thus I take five minutes to kick back. My mind tries to scurry over what I have left to do, but sternly I control it and stare into the fireplace. The radio plays Christmas music. The caroling of children makes me smile. They're singing my favorite, “Joy to the World.”

“Mommy, Mommy, look what Daddy bought,” shouts my younger child, running in and thowing himself at me. I scoop him up, enjoying the sparkle in his eyes.

“What, Timmy?” I ask, as my eyes meet those of Tom and my daughter, Meghan. They’ve been out shopping in the mall, buying gifts for me, I suspect. Apparently it went well. They're both smiling broadly.

“Mommy,” says Timmy, tugging at my sleeve. “Look.”

He holds out mistletoe, and so I kiss his cheek, though I frown slightly at my husband.

Tom laughs, shrugs his shoulders and answers my unspoken thought. “Yes, I told them mistletoe is poisonous, honey, and it’s going to stay right inside that bag. We’re planning on hanging it over the door. Aren’t we, kids?”

The two nod with exuberance. My lecture sputters and remains unsaid. I share a sip of eggnog with Timmy and receive his “Yick” and crinkled-up nose as my reward. Meghan already knows she doesn’t like eggnog. She turns to stare in wonder at the Christmas tree. Silently she begins to add the decorations I have left for them to hang.

Tom takes the glass of eggnog from me and drinks the rest. “Be better with a little adult flavoring,” he says, smiling into my eyes.

Once again the feeling inside me kicks. I’m not pregnant. It isn’t that sort of kick, but the kind that says, Appreciate this moment. Take a picture with your mind. See eight-year-old Meghan in her fuzzy, red sweatshirt with the snowman on the front. Notice her red-ribboned braids, slightly disordered because she’s swallowing up the cat with kisses and hugs.

Poor Snippy, he is so fascinated with the plastic coated wires for the lights and the tinsel dangling down, that he won't leave them alone; yet every time he swats at them to watch them swing, someone takes him away from his fun. Still, he's a good-natured kitty and his purr at finding himself in Meghan's arms is suddenly louder than the radio.

“You’re sure feeling mellow,” Tom says, smiling down at me. “What brings on that goofy, big smile?”

Timmy has already jumped off of my lap to inspect the stockings, just like I’d imagined he would. My five-year-old . . . How did he get so big?

I don’t answer Tom. I smile instead, the goofy, big smile I’ve been wearing all day.

I rise up to go check on the turkey to see how its defrosting is coming along. Unsuspecting, I’m not prepared for Tom’s grab.

Whoosh! He sweeps me into a deep bend and elaborately kisses my lips. One of his hands is holding the mistletoe high above my head.

Of course, I laugh. “Did you get mistletoe for the kids, or for you?” I kid him while Timmy and Meghan hoot.

Outside, snow is falling and dark is settling, though it’s only three-thirty in the afternoon. But it’s winter. Days are always short. That's a reminder to me.

I check the turkey. I heat water for cocoa and get out the card table for a game of Monopoly. Meghan and Timmy cheer when they see me doing so. Tom fixes a fire, helps Megan put on the star, and we settle down for our evening.

The days are short in winter, but after that comes spring, summer, and fall. I plan to savor them all. But I must keep reminding myself of the importance of the moments, for every day in every season is always far too short.

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