The Christmas Train

Cass and Ollie hail from a long line of train enthusiasts. Besides the hundreds of dollars my dad and I flattened on the tracks in pennies when I was a kid, he also took our entire family cross-country--from Ohio to California--on an Amtrak. And back again. I blame that trip on the fact that my adult brother has a train table in his basement.

In the winter, Cass, Ollie and I spend a lot of time at the Glancy trains at the Detroit Historical Society. The Thursday before Christmas we were there for almost two hours. They didn't want to leave, transfixed. Hands and forehead pressed against the glass, watching the trains circle, levers drop, bridge lift, balloon drift, carousel spin, trolley zip. It's bizarre. In their blood, those trains.

I felt a tradition-fueled obligation to get them their own Lionel to go around the tree. They'd been obsessively admiring other people's tree-circling steam engines for weeks ("Wow, Mom--it has real smoke." "That's a Pensy tank car locomotive." "Look, it has a flat bed!"), plus I'd written them a book for Christmas about the adventures of two brothers who hop aboard a train that takes them to a magical land. We set up Penn Flyer the night before, and you could see the train stretching around the tree from the stairs. Cass shrieked when he saw it--about half way down. Like full-out, let-it-fly scream. I will never forget it.

Train Ornaments and More Baby Jesus

I went to Cass' school today to show the class how to make an ornament. Small rectangular blocks we hardly use. Felt windows. A pushpin smokestack. Button wheels.

I chided myself a few times for volunteering, but seeing his face this morning as we cut and glued together--so proud of me, of our efforts--it was the best Christmas present I could ever ask for. "Look, guys--look what my mom did! Mama, I love you!" So free with love at this age. I know eventually, those outbursts will be replaced with "Stop-mom-get-out-of-here-leave-me-alone"-isms. He'll probably want me to drop him off down the block.

I told the kids that Santa has the biggest Christmas tree in the world, and that it stretches into the clouds, and that he needs every single elf to help him decorate it. That they use all the leftover scraps from the toys to make ornaments. They gasped in unison.

When Cass came home from school, the first thing he wanted to do was hang his train on the tree. And later, snuggling in bed and reading Christmas books, he quizzed me with a rapid-fire barrage of questions about christmas trees and christmas and presents and Baby Jesus. Especially Baby Jesus. So I gave him the story: the inn, the manger, the birth, the angels. He was silent the entire time, just nodding, like he understood everything I wasn't saying. That he is wise enough already to recognize a metaphor and all its nuances and contradictions and realize that while good men kill each other over religion, there is still hope in human kindness. And he said: "Mom, I know! So Baby Jesus is a Super Hero, right?!"

Home Work

Working from a "home office" (my kitchen counter, front room sofa, bed) has its pitfalls: baby shrieks during phone interviews; lack of adult conversation; inability to work until dishes are done;  and deadline days when Ollie refuses to loosen his grip on my leg. But the daily little moments like this--a back rub here, hug there, sneak peeks and book breaks--put it all into thankful perspective. I am so lucky to be doing this.

The First Snowball

 It hits the pane of glass with a dense, walloping doof. He responds with a smirk and a quickening of limbs. Once outside, he packs them small and lopsided, hurling with the giddy, unbridled eagerness of a short stop on the field the first spring day. Sometimes they fall apart midair

I love the way they look when they're freezing: white porcelain skin with no color, drained and concentrated in the form of pinched-pink cheeks, dark lips and eyes that seem to sparkle more than usual. Unwelcome snow creeps into fabric crevices, mittens get heavy and wet before turning stiff like fist-shaped ice packs, and all I can think about is peeling off cold clothing while they stand on heating grates in their socks, and warming their bellies with hot chocolate.

Spotted: Baby Jesus in Frankenmuth!

"MOM! BABY JESUS! THERE IS BABY JESUS!!" was the first thing Cass shrieked when we pulled into the sprawling parking lot of Bronner's in Frankenmuth. And the first of many, many sightings--from street-side nativity scenes to oversized glass ornaments hanging on artificial tree displays--the decibel level of each exclamation exceeded the last. Curiously, Cass could not be more ecstatic about Baby Jesus. And it wasn't until I was done downloading these photos that I realized he is holding the Baby Jesus' hand in this manger scene.

Also during this especially magical outing to the Bavarian Christmas wonderland: Cass begged for (and was allowed to pick out and take home) a wooden nutcracker; told Santa he would like a toy snowflake for Christmas; got his first-ever Pez dispenser from the penny candy store (it wasn't a penny); and encountered a second, roaming Santa, immediately declaring, "His voice sounds very different."

The other day--with a raised eyebrow and a skeptical frown--Cass quizzed me: "Mom, how can Santa see all the boys and girls in the world all at the same time? Can he really do that? How is that even possible?" I'm glad we went to Frankenmuth this year... I can tell that this Santa business is not long for his world. Baby Jesus, on the other hand--Cass is just waiting until He's old enough for a playdate, so they can be best friends.

Masked Funman

My favorite photo right now.

Syruppy Days

Almost every Sunday morning for the past two years, I have made French toast. Standby ingredients: a big loaf of Brioche bread from our beloved local bakery, Avalon; eggs from J&M Farm at Easter Market; a half gallon Calder Dairy milk; and a big jug of Michigan maple syrup. I have grown to love the routine of it: slicing the loaf of bread, cutting the strawberries, pouring the syrup in a little white pitcher, the anticipation of waiting for the griddle to warm while eager bodies dance around my shuffle in the kitchen. I love knowing that they’ll always remember the taste—fluffy, gooey chunks of sweet bread—like syrup-drenched memories of their childhood. The scene is always the same: Ryan’s ipod fills the background, my paper spreads across the floor in the living room, a whisk sticks to the counter beside a carton of empty egg shells.

It’s not even Tuesday before Cass starts asking how many days until we make French toast. He’s big enough now to crack all the eggs, and a couple weeks ago, we worked on his technique—pulling up and apart simultaneously from both ends to avoid pieces of shell in the mixture. We talk about where all the food comes from, while he sprinkles the cinnamon. Today he ate three pieces.

Grandma

This is my grandma. She barely comes up to my shoulder. Her body is hunched, small and frail, but she's  strong. She wound up in the hospital a couple weeks ago with serious case of bronchitis, but she wouldn't stay. They said she shouldn't be alone, so she stayed in my old bedroom. After a day though, she insisted my dad was trying to force her out by keeping the heat too low and she went home.

I pull in her driveway, and she's carrying two giant metal bird feeders from the backyard to the garage, where she intends to fill them with seed. She's wobbling, and they're hitting the sides of her legs so hard I wonder if she'll have bruises. I help her load the seed from a metal trashcan filled all the way to the top. She could feed birds for the next 10 years from that garbage can. And she probably will.

ROC (Ruby, Ollie + Cass)

This past weekend, we went to Ohio for post-Thanksgiving and the amazing Poultry Project chicken coop design competition exhibit in Cleveland. Which meant we saw a lot of Ruby. I love watching them together. And I can't stop taking photos of how sweet they are to one another. If you want to see more, there's plenty more cuteness to click through.