His Last Gift.

The usual calm after the storm had taken over Happy House yesterday.

Children played - fascinated with their newest toys.

Parents closed sleepy eyes and lazily flopped around the house picking at

leftovers. We had a few hours in between festivities.

We all seemed to breathe a collective and appreciative sigh for Christmas. For

each other. For Santa. For the leftovers calling to us from the kitchen.

But, the sun broke through the clouds in mid afternoon and the weather

became, simply put, too nice not to be outside.

Without thinking much about it, I said to the family -

"His last gift

is waiting for us in the back woods.."

And without further ado, the children

raced to that locale.... never asking who "He" is, and never asking what the gift could possibly be. They just took themselves there and the Hubs and I slowly followed.

Dec balanced, listened to a red-tailed hawk and used his new bow and arrow to aim and concentrate.

Nonie pointed her toes, transformed herself into an outdoor ballerina, and performed for restless squirrels and birds happening all around her.

Together, as the setting sun sparkled on the lake in the distance, we all discovered that

His Last Gift was waiting for us in the back woods.

And as I sat on the old stone wall cradling my camera, I lifted my eyes to the sun and marveled that our cup spilleth over on days like today. And, every day, really.

How could we possibly be given more, when we already have so much?

Perhaps a big part of being truly thankful, is taking the time to inventory all that we have for which we could be (and should be) giving thanks.

And how are our children not asking where the gift is right now - do they know that it is them?

And when I opened my eyes - I saw this. My angel. My beautiful Christmas angel.

I believe that our offspring somehow know what I'm just discovering as I sit here on the old stone wall basking in soul-warming Christmas sunshine:

His Last Gift,

is really

His Lasting Gift.

Of course they know this.

Of course I believe in His Last Gift,

and in so much more.

merry everything.

I Sometimes Call You My Mama.

Tonight just might be the night the new babe arrives.

A tad tardy or right on time, depends on how you look at it.

To the hospital they went - after the pageantry and fueled by Sweedish

meatballs. Contractions came and went, then came again.

My hubs shouted out a stream of ridiculously silly baby names to them as they made their way down the path, to the car and onwards to labor and delivery.

And I? I was temporarily gifted their first born.

He stayed with me. Too late to head to the hospital,

but too early to go to sleep. It was time to treat him like a prince.

I tucked him into "his bed in Tar's house" upstairs and promised to stay right with him.

I sat quietly and folded the laundry that I had to clear off "his bed in Tar's house".

He squeezed his lucky reindeer and listened to the glowing owl play music just for him.

When he and I are together like this I often call him a sweet angel boy

because he is. I know he can run his own parents ragged, but for me - especially

on these kind of days, he is a sweet angel boy.

Tonight, early in the night, he half whispered to me, "I love you Tar". And I

didn't ask him to repeat it because my eye contact with him after his soft words met my ears

confirmed that he said what I thought I'd heard. And he meant what he said too.

But while I folded my t-shirt he whispered even more, "I sometimes call you my Mama."

And then he just looked at me with his hershey kiss eyes. And I looked at him for a long time -

And on this night - the night everyone in HIS WORLD had been talking about and planning for, his last night of being the baby in his family, and his first night of being a big brother - on this Silent and Holy Night, he didn't need to utter a single word more.

Because, I knew just what he meant.

So I whispered to him as his eyes slowly closed, "Goodnight my sweet angel boy!"

(Because he is.)

After looking at this picture...

I'm thinking the baby might be scared to come out...

When Everything We Say is Christmas.

We walked up from the lake the other day after decorating the flower boxes at the clubhouse

and a huge hawk flew overhead.

I shouted back to the hubs who was carting Nonie up the hill in the red wagon -

"is that a red-shouldered hawk?"

And before the hubs could reply Declan said (in his most serious bird-watching voice),

"I'm pretty certain that was the partridge from the pear tree."

And then,

He stole a line from the Charlie Brown Christmas movie and tried to convince Nonie

that the Angel who sings in glorious melody to announce Baby Jesus' birth - that

Angel is named Harold. As in Hark the Harold Angel Sings.

And then, there is the great debate going on in our house about the order we light the

Advent Wreath. Purple Purple Pink Purple is my method. However I'm out numbered

3 to 1 in favor of: Purple Purple Purple Pink.

I mean it does seem right that the pink would be Christmas. But I didn't go to 29 years of catholic school to not know how to light an advent wreath.

Christmas has infused itself into the very depths of our family routine. Our conversations

are laced with talk of the little baby Jesus. The brilliant star that lead the shepherds over hill and dale - yup, we made that star and stuck in on our Nativity Scene yesterday after Declan noted its importance in the story and lacking in our Nativity Scene. What is a Nativity Scene without the star?

We talk about silent nights, peace on earth, joy in this world, and how something

as tiny as a baby, can really be a King.

During a time when it seems the whole world is spewing forth Christmas, it is nice

to digest what it means as a family. We take bits and pieces of songs, conversations, stories

dreams and swirl it into our Christmas.

It is this time together, the time it takes to make sense of the lights, the songs, the smells of the season - that always becomes my greatest and most un-wrap-able present.

Right now, and during these days, everywhere we go, everything we do, everyone we see, everything we say is Christmas.

Perfectly Christmas.