We’re doing such a good job, I think. We don’t buy lots of toys for our kids. They’re content with what they have, I say. We regularly weed out toys they don’t use or have outgrown and give them away. We are so anti-establishment, I …
I had about five ideas for posts that were about funny things, cute things (Quinlan said to me the other day, “Your boots are UGLY.” And then she must’ve seen the look on my face, and added, “I didn’t say your body was ugly. You are non-ugly.”). But the last couple of days, when I’ve been rocking Cian in his room before bedtime (the child is almost two and still likes to be held before he goes to sleep. Isn’t that awesome?), I’ve found myself in tears like a weirdo, silently sniffling, hoping nobody walks in and notices (and here I go telling you about it. Swift, Leah). See, here’s the thing. I had what I’m fairly certain was an anxiety attack in the car the other night, just driving with the girls in the back seat, preoccupied and worried and scared because I always feel like I’m drowning. Some of you know the drill: heart racing, chest tightening, feeling like I couldn’t breathe. It was fun. Santa Stress, you’ve succeeded.
But there I was, last night, rocking Cian, and thinking about my dad. He’s been gone almost seven years, and yet I sat there, in the glider we’ve had since Saoirse was born, having this surreal moment of disbelief. He can’t be dead, I thought. He can’t be. How can he have missed so much? Look at this, for starters:
Dave’s new job. Our almost-relocation to Connecticut, and last-minute decision to stay here. Our marriage that is so much better and happier and easier than it was when he witnessed it in its fledgling, learning stages.
A novel, written by me. Then an agent. And now a publisher. I can’t even begin to guess what he’d say about that.
Two more grandchildren, each as hilarious as the first one. The older granddaughter he knew as a newborn, now reading chapter books to us like she’s been doing it for years.
A new house. One with a real garage and sensible paint colors and a living room you don’t have to wrap yourself in a blanket to keep warm in.
The marriage of my brother, finally, to a woman Dad knew years ago, finally. His relocation to a place that specializes in bratwurst and cheese, lakes and snow. Dad would’ve liked his visits there. Especially the bratwurst part.
The death of Dave’s dad. The remarriage of Dave’s mom.
The slow demise of my long-held vegetarianism, and all the meals that have risen out of its ashes: stews, chilis, soups. Dad would’ve loved the way I cook for my family now. He’d laugh that I don’t mind it, and that I talk a lot less now about gender roles and the patriarchy and the inherent sexism of societal standards as I’m chopping onions for people I love.
Luca, our husky, turning into an old man. He’s the dog that made me a begrudging dog person, the dog that adored my dad. He’s hanging in there, but uneasily. How odd that he’s still with us, but my father is not.
I used to love this time of year. Cookies and lights and music and love. All of that. It’s still there, but muddled in behind the shopping lists and emails, expectations and budgets. I found a picture recently that David had taken of me in the townhouse we’d rented when we first moved up to PA, before the mortgage and kids and decision to go to one income in a two-income world. I was sitting on the couch handed down to us by my aunt and uncle, surrounded by shopping bags, with a pen in one hand and a list in the other. I was grinning at Dave–I had this big ol’ smile on my face, my posture was relaxed. We’d probably go out for Mexican food that night. I probably had papers to grade later that afternoon. We’d most likely slept in that morning, because back then there was no rush to get out of bed. The gifts I see in the picture had all been hand-purchased, where I could see them and feel them and pay attention to price tags. I didn’t shop online then. There’s a thought for you.
My dad has missed so much. And I can’t help but use his death as a marker in time, a sort of ruler by which to measure my life. I feel like I’m so, so much happier now than I was back then. That anxiety attack I had? That’s the first time I’ve felt like that in probably ten or fifteen years. I feel like a different person than I was when Dad was here. But if he were here, what would he see? What would he notice? Would he see the happiness, and the gratitude, or would that be hidden by complaints, by hurried visits, by days slipping by because, with three little ones and a husband who travels and big responsibilities now outside of the cooking and dishes and child-raising, I haven’t yet learned how to live them?
I used to need to feel like I was in control of everything. I now realize I have no control over anything at all, but the panic of old habits is still there. Maybe in another seven years of missing my dad, I’ll finally complete that 180-degree shift. Hopefully.
But I’m not sure I’m ready to be fourteen years out from him being here. I’m still not quite believing in seven.
I had plans for today, you guys, PLANS. A half a foot of snow was expected this morning, they told us. Refreezing of the wet roads from yesterday. Awful driving conditions, we were warned. So what did this mama think? NO SCHOOL, she thought. Yay! …
I keep telling myself that I’m not going to be one of those people (i.e., every adult with a family in America) who gets stressed out over the holidays. Nooo, I keep thinking. This is the most wonderful time of the year! Carols and jingle bells and balsam-and-cedar-scented candles, dagnabit! I WILL be happy.
But. Too much to do. I’m sullen, overtired, and cranky that we ran out of clean washcloths and I’ve a mountain of laundry to wash. I dried my hair once this week. Once. I won’t tell you how many times I’ve washed it.
No, more than that. Don’t be gross.
Thursday, I dropped SK off at preschool and raced home (not raced, not raced. I mean, I drove the speed limit, Officer. Please put that ticket book away) to throw together some biscotti for a get-together with friends later that afternoon (it’s really book club, but since I haven’t read a single selection since August because I’ve been settling for the likes of Tina Fey’s Bossypants and Mindy Kaling’s book in those last quiet moments before bed at night, well…). I also remembered I had to defrost the chicken and fold the laundry and vacuum the living room and order those gifts and exactly how long does this biscotti take to make?! Are you JOKING ME??
But I made it, with 30 seconds to spare before we had to leave to pick up Saoirse. And the best part, the very best part, was watching Quinn walk around the kitchen, giggling, licking the spatula from the mixer bowl. Oh, don’t give me your lectures about salmonella and why in the world was my toddler walking around with what’s essentially a flat stick near her mouth. I haven’t the time.
She was having a blast. Somehow there was flour in her hair. She kept saying “Nyum! Nyum! Nyum!” It was adorable and sweet and for a moment–just a quick second–time slowed down enough for me to get down on the floor with her, laughing, and have a toddler-sized conversation.
I think she still had the flour in her hair when we left to pick up Saoirse. Ah, well. You know me. I don’t get tense about this kind of stuff.
Oh, here’s the recipe. I got it from some Better Homes & Gardens holiday magazine I picked up at the grocery store a couple of years ago because it had cookies all over the cover and I was hungry. If you’re a fellow coffee fanatic and want to eat something mid-morning as an excuse to have another cup of coffee, well, here you go. And no, I didn’t include more photos. What do you think I am, a food blogger? I’m just trying to be nice. Sheesh.
Christmas Biscotti adapted from Better Homes & Gardens: Christmas Cookies, 2009
1/3 c. butter, softened
2/3 c. sugar
2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. ground nutmeg
¼ tsp. ground cinnamon
¼ tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla
½ tsp. black rum (or rum flavoring, I suppose)
2 c. all-purpose flour
2 tsp. fine orange zest
½ c. pistachios, chopped
½ c. dried cranberries, chopped
½ c. dried apricots, chopped
(Note: I usually go a little more generously on the fruits/nuts, just because I’m crazy like that.)
for powdered sugar icing:
Stir 1 cup confectioner’s sugar with 1-2 tbs. milk in a small bowl until icing is easy to drizzle.
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
In a large bowl, beat butter with an electric mixer on medium to high speed for 30 seconds. Add sugar, baking powder, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt. Beat until combined, scraping bowl as needed. Beat in eggs, vanilla, and rum until combined. Gradually beat in the flour. Stir in orange zest, pistachios, cranberries, and apricots.
Transfer dough to a lightly floured surface; divide dough into three portions. Using well-floured hands, shape each portion into an 8-inch-long loaf. Place loaves 3 to 4 inches apart on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper; flatten loaves slightly to 2 inches wide.
Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until golden and tops are cracked. Cool on cookie sheet on a wire rack for 30 minutes.
Reduce oven temperature to 325 degrees F. Transfer baked loaves to a cutting board. Using a serrated knife, cut each loaf diagonally into ½-inch-thick slices. Place slices, cut sides down, on ungreased cookie sheets. Bake for 8 minutes. Turn slices over; bake for 8 to 10 minutes more or until dry and crisp (but not overly brown). Transfer cookies to wire racks; let cool completely. Drizzle with powdered sugar icing; let icing dry. Eat mass quantities with espresso roast coffee while pretending you’ll save some for friends.